But Bill's entreaties were all in vain, and his distress was at its height, when fortunately his thoughts were diverted in another channel. At a sudden turn of the road a gust of wind lifted the old palmleaf from his woolly head, and carried it far away. "Now, dear Mars'r," said Bill, laying his hand on that of Mr. Delafield, "you'll sartin let 'em breathe while I picks up my hat, 'case you see how'll you look gwine into town wid a bareheaded nigger. In de Lord's name, stop," he continued, as he saw in his master no signs of relenting.
Glancing over his shoulder Mr. Delafield saw the hat away over the fields, and quietly taking a bill from his pocket and placing it in the negro's hand, he replied: "That will buy you five such hats."
"Yes, but de hosses, lor' a mighty, de hosses!" exclaimed Bill almost frantically. "Don't you see Ferd is gwine to gin out?"
Mr. Delafield feared so, too, and more to himself than to his servant, he said, "perhaps the cars will be behind time, they usually are."
Without considering the consequences, Bill answered, "No, they won't; case I hear how they hired a tarin' Yankee for an engine, and he drives all afore him—gits ahead of de time and all dat."
The next minute he repented a speech whose disastrous effects he foresaw, and he was about to deny it as a fabrication of his own brain, when his master, who really saw signs of lagging in the nervous, fiery Ferd, said, "Bill, you have a peculiar whistle with which you spur up the horses—make it now; Ferd has run himself almost down."
"De Lord have massy on us," groaned Bill, wiping away a tear; then, as Mr. Delafield repeated his order, he said, in a whining tone, "Can't, mars'r, nohow; case you see my throat is dreffle sore, ridin' barheaded so in the breeze which you kicks up—can't, nohow."
"But you must," persisted Mr. Delafield.
Bill still refused, until at last, as they approached the town, they heard a heavy, rumbling sound. It was the roll of cars in the distance, and starting up, Mr. Delafield seized the negro by the shoulder and in thunder tones called out, "Whistle!"
"Lord, mars'r, I will, I will," gasped Bill, terrified at the fiery gleam of his master's eye, and from his mouth there issued a most unearthly sound, which, mingled with the shriek of the fast coming engine, urged on the jaded horses to one more desperate effort.
A few more mad plunges and they reached the dépôt, covered with foam and frothing at the mouth, just as the train was moving slowly away. With one pitying farewell glance at his dying grays, Mr. Delafield exclaimed, "Cut the harness instantly," and then with a bound sprung up. on the platform, which he reached just as Bill called after him in mournful accents, "Ferd's dead, mars'r, Ferd is," while, mingled with the roar of the machinery he caught the faint echo of something about "t'other half bucket of water!"
But little cared he for that. Rosa Lee was to be overtaken, and to accomplish this, he would willingly have sacrificed every horse of which he was owner, even were they twice as valuable as the dappled grays.
So, wishing him a successful journey, and leaving him on the same seat with a Yankee pedler, who saw him when he came up and "guessed he was after a runaway nigger," we return for a moment to Bill, who with tears streaming from his eyes, watched the struggles of Fred until the noble animal was dead, bringing him water which he vainly coaxed him to drink, while the bystanders, who crowded around, asked him innumerable questions as to why they drove so fast and where his master was going.
To the first Bill could not reply, but to the last he promptly answered, as he patted the remains of the departed Ferdinand, "Gwine to the devil, in course! Whar you spect a white man to go, what treats hosses in dis kind of style, won't let 'em hev all the water dey wants and drives 'em till dey draps dead in der tracks."
The story of the half bucket was duly rehearsed, Bill firmly believing that if Ferd had drank it, he would undoubtedly have lived "dis minit and been as spry as a cricket." "But now he's dead and Fred, too," continued the negro, as the latter ceased to move. "Sich another span of hosses, thar ain't in all Georgy," and laying his black face upon the neck of the insensible Ferd, the negro cried like a child.
"There is one comfort, at least, my boy," said a gentlemanly looking man, who stood near and who knew Mr. Delafield, "your horses didn't suffer, for they were too much excited."
This in a measure consoled Bill, who, wiping his eyes, asked what he was to do with them, saying he "never could dig thar grave."
"My negroes shall do it for you," answered the stranger, and in a short time several stalwart men were busy in an adjacent field making a grave for the dappled grays, which they carefully buried, while on a stump, with his head resting on his knees, sat Bill as chief mourner.
"I wish I knew a pra'r," he whispered to himself, "for if ever hosses 'sarved it they do;" but the rude African had never prayed since he was a little child, and thinking himself too old to begin now, he rose up from the stump, just as his companions, having finished their task, were beginning to ridicule his bare head, telling him he must have an unkind master, judging from his own appearance and the sad fates of the horses, while one of them advised him to run away.
This was touching Bill in a tender point, for though he had loved the horses much, he loved his master more, and he would not hear him censured; accordingly he retorted petulantly that thar warn't a better master in all Georgy than mars'r Dick, nor a richer one neither,—and 'twan't nobody's business if he killed five hundred horses—he could afford it—'twan't as though he was poor and owned nothin' but a few low trash like the "'Gusty niggers!"
This insinuation the "'Gusty niggers," chose to resent as an insult, and a regular negro fight ensued, in which Bill, being the weaker party, came off rather badly beaten, his face being scratched in several places, while his pants received a huge rent, which in no wise tended to improve his personal appearance. Matters being at last amicably adjusted, the victorious party returned home, while Bill, who had frequently been in Augusta with his master, wended his way to a hatter's shop, where he soon made himself the owner of a second-hand beaver, which at his request was ornamented by a weed of crape as a badge of mourning for his favorite steeds. Then seeing that the carriage was safely stowed away, he started on foot for home, stopping at the negro quarters of almost every plantation to relate his wonderful adventures. As he was perfectly trusty and faithful, he was always allowed to carry a pass by his good-natured master and thus he found no difficulty in his journey, which he took quite leisurely, never reaching Sunny Bank until the close of the second day after the one on which he had left it.
In the meantime Mr. Delafield, with closely knit brows and compressed lip, his usual look when he was in deep thought, sat musing of the time when Rosa Lee would be his wife, while at his side the Yankee pedler, with his basket of essence carefully stowed under the seat, was casting curious glances at his companion, whose history he was desirous of knowing. But there was something in Mr. Delafield's appearance which forbade familiarity, so for once the loquacious Yankee was silent.
They were now about half way between Augusta and Charleston and going at great speed, when suddenly at a short curve there was a violent commotion—the passengers were pitched forward and backward, while the engine plunged down a steep embankment, throwing the train from the track and dragging after it the baggage car, which in some way became detached from the rest. The new "Yankee engineer" was a darling, reckless fellow, who at the North had been discharged for carelessness, and had come to try his fortune at the South. Fortunately no one was seriously hurt except Mr. Delafield, whose injuries were simply mental, as he knew this accident would probably detain them for many hours. In a perfect storm of excitement he stalked up and down the track, asking the conductor every few minutes how long it would probably be before they could go on, and at last growing so dark in his face that the Yankee, after looking over his essence basket and finding but few of his bottles broken, ventured to say, "Now, Squire, don't git mad at a feller for askin' a sassy question, but I raley du want to know if there ain't a little atom of black blood in you?"
"Very likely," answered Mr. Delafield; while the Yankee, now that the ice was broken, continued to ply him with questions, which, though very annoying to the haughty Southerner, tended to relieve in a measure the tediousness of waiting.
The sun had long been set and the stars were shining brightly ere they were able to proceed, and it was after midnight when they at last reached Charleston. Driving immediately to the landing, Mr. Delafield to his great joy found that the steamer bound for New York still lay at the wharf and would not start until morning. But was Rosa Lee on board? That was a question which puzzled him, and as there was no way of satisfying himself until morning, he sat down in one of the state-rooms and rather impatiently awaited the dawn of day.
* * * * * *
The hurry—the confusion—and the excitement of starting was over. We were out upon the deep blue sea, and from the window of my state-room I watched the distant shore as it slowly receded from view, and felt that I was leaving the land of sunlight and of flowers. Notwithstanding the fatiguing journey of the previous day, I was better this morning than I had been for many months before, for I had slept quietly through the night.
An hour or two after breakfast Charlie came to me with a very peculiar expression on his face and asked me to go upon deck, saying the fresh breeze would do me good. I consented willingly, and throwing on my shawl and a simple Leghorn flat which had been of much service to me at Cedar Grove, and which Mr. Delafield had often said was very becoming, I went out with Charlie, who led me to the rear of the boat, where he said we were not so liable to be disturbed. Seating me upon a small settee he asked to be excused for a few moments, saying I should not be long alone. The motion of the boat produced a slight dizziness in my head, and leaning my elbow upon the arm of the settee I shaded my eyes with my hand and sat lost in thought until I heard the sound of a footstep.
"It was Charlie," I said, so I did not look up, even when he sat down by my side and wound his arm around me, wrapping my shawl closer together, oh, so gently! "Charlie is very tender of me since my sickness," I thought, and much I loved that he should thus caress me. It thrilled me strangely, bringing back to my mind the night when I sat in the vine-wreathed arbor, where I should never sit again.
For a moment there was perfect silence and I could hear the beating of Charlie's heart. Then leaning forward and removing my hand from my eyes, he pressed a kiss upon my lips and whispered as he did so, "My own Rose!"
Once, when I was apparently dying, the sound of that voice had called me back to life, and now with a cry of joy I sprang to my feet and turning round, stood face to face with Richard Delafield, who, stretching his arms towards me, said, "Come to my bosom, Rose. Henceforth it is your resting-place."
The shock was too much for me in my weak state. A faintness stole over me, and if I obeyed his command, it was because I could not help it!
When I returned to consciousness, Richard's arms were around me, and my head was resting upon his bosom, while he whispered to me words which I leave to the imagination, as I dare not give them to the world, lest he (Uncle Dick I call him) should be angry in his way, and I have learned to be a very little afraid of him since that morning when on board the steamer Delphine we sat and talked together of the past.
Wonderingly I listened while he told me how long he had loved me—how once he had thought to tell me of his love, but the manner in which I answered his leading question disheartened him, for he feared his affection was not returned—how it had filled his heart with bitter grief when he saw me about to marry another—how his sister had deceived him or he should have spoken to me then—and how in a moment of temptation when he stood over my pillow he had asked that I might die, for he would far rather that death should be his rival than a fellow man. Then as he thought how near I had been to the dark valley he shudderingly drew me closer to his side and told me how he had wondered at Dr. Clayton's leaving me so abruptly, and how sometimes when a ray of hope was beginning to dawn upon him, it had been chilled by my manner, which he now understood.
"You cannot conceive," said he in conclusion, "what my feelings were yester morn when I bade you adieu, nor yet can you comprehend the overwhelming delight I experienced when I read that letter and felt that you would at last be mine."
When he had ceased to speak I took up the story and told him of all my own feelings, and that nothing would ever have induced me to think for a moment of becoming Dr. Clayton's wife, but the belief that he was engaged to Ada, a story which I told him his sister affirmed when I went to her for counsel.
"And so Angeline played a double part," said he, sighing deeply; "I never thought she could be guilty of so much deception, though I have always known she was averse to my marrying any one."
Of Ada he said that never for a moment had he been engaged to her. "She is to me like a sister," said he, "and though I know she has many faults, I am greatly attached to her, for we have lived together many years. She was committed to my care by her father and I shall always be faithful to my trust. And if, dear Rose, in the future, circumstances should render it necessary for her to live with us, shall you object? She cannot harm you now."
He had talked to me much of his love, but, not a word before had he said of my sharing his home at Sunny Bank, so I rather coquettishly answered, "You talk of my living with you as a settled matter, and still you have not asked me if I would."
A shadow for a moment darkened his face, and then with a very quizzical expression he made me a formal offer of himself and fortune, asking me pointedly if I would accept it—and—and, well, of course, I did what my readers knew I would do when I first told them of the dark man at the theater—I said yes, and promised to return with him to Sunny Bank as soon as my health would permit, which he was positive would be in a very few weeks, for he should be my daily physician, and "love, he said, would work miracles."
Thus you see we were engaged—Richard and I!
The sun had set on Ceder Grove, and together on the broad, airy piazza sat Mrs. Lansing and Ada, rather impatiently waiting for Richard, whom they had not seen since he left them so abruptly in the morning. Greatly relieved at the absence of one whom she had in a measure dreaded as a rival, Ada began to hope that the conquest of her guardian would now be a comparatively easy matter, and as she knew the effect which a pretty face and a becoming dress had upon him, she had spent a great deal of time upon this evening's toilet, and looked unusually young and handsome in her pale blue tissue, with her soft curls falling over her white uncovered neck.
That day she had talked a long time with Mrs. Lansing, who had not only expressed her willingness to receive her as a sister, but had also promised to do whatever she could to forward the matter. Believing Mrs. Lansing to have far more influence over her brother than she really had, Ada began to entertain hopes of soon becoming a bride, and when she thought no one could see her, actually wrote upon a card, "Mr. and Mrs. E. Delafield," just to see how it would look! It looked well, she thought, and smoothing from her brow a frown which had been caused by her finding among her waving tresses a long white hair, she went down to the piazza to await Richard's coming.
"He has not been here since morning, and I am sure he'll come to-night. You know he has latterly been a most constant visitor," remarked Mrs. Lansing.
"Yes, but possibly the attraction which kept him so much here is gone," faintly suggested Ada.
"Fie!" returned Mrs. Lansing, with a toss of her head. "I know Richard better than that, and though he may at one time have felt a slight interest in Miss Lee, I am positive 'tis nothing serious, or lasting. Only think of it, Richard Delafield marry my governess, a poor schoolmistress! What would his fashionable acquaintance in Augusta and Charleston say, setting aside our friends in New Orleans!"
And on the proud woman's face there was a sneer at the very idea of her brother's thus disgracing himself.
"Hark! I do believe he's coming," said Ada, as she heard approaching footsteps, and she had just time to adjust her skirts gracefully when there stood before her, not Mr. Delafield, but the servant to whom had been intrusted the note for Mrs. Lansing.
This the negro had entirely forgotten until it was recalled to his mind by the continued absence of his master, whose return they had confidently expected before night. Taking the note from his hand, Mrs. Lansing hastily glanced at its contents, and then, with an exclamation of surprise, handed it to Ada, who turned deathly pale as she saw her new-born hopes crushed at once and forever; and if now she clasped her hand upon her side, the action, was not feigned, for a pain, which blistering could not heal, was indeed there—the pain of wounded pride at seeing a humble, obscure girl preferred to herself. For several minutes not a word was spoken, and then Mrs. Lansing, who knew it would not be politic to quarrel with her brother, said, "I am astonished at Richard's proceedings, but I suppose there is no help for it, and we may as well make the best of it. Miss Lee ain't the worst girl in the world. She had many friends in the village—was well educated, and with a few lessons from us on some points of etiquette she may do very well."
"Us," angrily retorted Ada. "When I teach Dick Delafield's wife etiquette I shall be older than I am now."
"And that you would not care to be;" said Mrs. Lansing, a little sarcastically.
She was a woman, who, if essential to her own interest, could turn with every breeze, and though she was not pleased with her brother's choice, she did not deem it advisable to provoke his anger by quarreling about it, for when once roused, but few could cope with his resolute, determined spirit. Then too, Rosa Lee was yielding and generous, and would not object even if her husband should bestow half his fortune upon his sister; so after all it might be better to have her the mistress of Sunny Bank than one like Ada, who was more selfish and wanted everything for herself. Thus Mrs. Lansing reasoned, coming at last to feel quite amiably disposed towards Rosa Lee, whom she fully intended to manage in her own way, and she was about making up her mind to write a kind, sisterly letter to said Rosa, when her attention was attracted by a loud sobbing, and looking round she saw Ada weeping violently.
As well as she could love any one, Ada had loved her guardian, and the knowledge that he was now lost to her, overcame her for a time, and covering her face with her hands, she cried aloud. Mrs. Lansing had never really loved in her life, so she could not appreciate the feeling, and she made no effort to soothe the weeping girl who that night wet her pillow with bitter tears, and who next morning looked weary, pale and old, as she languidly took her seat at the breakfast table. Still Ada was not one to love very deeply, and as on this occasion her pride was touched rather than her heart, she ere long grew calm, and with Mrs. Lansing wisely resolved to make the best of it. Then, too, there arose the very natural desire to conceal from Richard that she had ever cared for him, and to do this she thought she must pretend to be pleased with his choice. Accordingly when Mrs. Lansing wrote to her brother, Ada inclosed a gilt-edged note, in which she congratulated him upon his intended marriage, telling him she had foreseen it from the first and ended by sending her love to "Rose." Thus, because she thought it would be for her interest, did Mrs. Lansing deem it best to change her tactics, while Ada was too proud to evince any open hostility, though in her heart she hated the future bride and lamented the fatality which had decreed that she should be rivaled by "both of those Lee girls."
Over the New England hills the hazy light of a most glorious Indian Summer was shining, while the forest trees, in their gorgeous array of crimson and gold, lifted their tall heads as proudly as if they heard not in the distance the voice of coming sorrows, and the sighing of winter winds. The birds had flown to their southern home where I fondly hoped to meet them, for I was to be a bride—Richard's bride—and the day for my bridal had come. We had been everywhere—Richard and I—all over the old Meadow Brook farm, sacred to me for the many hallowed associations which clustered around it, and very, very dear to him because it was my childhood's home. So he told me when we stood for the last time beneath the spreading grapevine, and I pointed out to him the place where years before I had lain in the long green grass and wept over the fickleness of one who was naught to me now, save a near friend.
Together we had sat in the old brown schoolhouse,—he in the big armchair, and I—but no matter where I sat when I told him of the little romping girl with yellow hair, who had there first learned to con the alphabet and to trace on the gaily colored maps the boundary lines of Georgia, little dreaming that her home would one day be there. Then when I showed him the bench where I had lain when the faintness came over me, he wound his arm closer around me,—though wherefore I do not know. Together too, we had gone over the old farmhouse, he lingering longest in the room where I was born, and when he thought I didn't see him, gathering a withered leaf from the rose bush which grew beneath the window, and which I told him I had planted when a little girl.
Every woman, young and old, in the neighborhood and in the village had seen him, either face to face or from behind the folds of a muslin curtain, some calling him "black and ugly," while others pronounced him "splendid," and all I believe united in saying that, "Rosa Lee had done wonders, considering she had no great amount of beauty to do it with!"
Once, when a remark like this came to Richard's ear he smiled quietly and said, "Rosa Lee is beautiful to me, for though her face may lack perfect regularity of features and brilliancy of complexion, she has beauty of a higher order, a beauty of the mind, which is seen in her laughing blue eyes and sunny smile."
Thus you see, my reader, that Richard thought I was handsome, while strange as it may seem there were others who said so too, and even I was sensible of a thrill of pride, such as I suppose conscious beauties feel, when I stood up before the mirror and saw how well I looked in my bridal dress of satin and lace—his gift, but not the same which he had purchased for me some months before. At first I had proposed wearing the one intended for Dr. Clayton's bride, but Richard would not suffer it, so I gave it to Lizzy, who, as soon as John Thompson was of age, which would be in January, would probably have need of it! This same John was to be our groomsman and much he amused Richard by telling him of the tall, hateful boy who had once been a terror to a little schoolma'am thirteen years of age, who now, with a heightened bloom upon her cheek and a strange light in her eye, stood waiting the summons to the parlor below. It came at last, and as I laid my hand on Richard's arm he imprinted a kiss upon my lips, "the last," he said, "he should ever give to Rosa Lee."
Of what came next I have only a faint remembrance. There was a rustling of satin upon the narrow staircase, down which Lizzie and I went a little in advance of Richard and John Thompson, the latter of whom said something in a low tone about hoops and the space they occupied! this remark shocked me inexpressibly, but Richard didn't seem to mind it at all. As we passed the front door, the cool night wind (for it was evening) blew over my face, reminding me of the South, it was so soft and balmy. When we entered the parlor, I was conscious of a goodly number of eyes fixed upon me, and as I crossed over to a vacant spot under the looking-glass I heard more than one say in a whisper, "Isn't she pretty?" meaning Lizzie, I suppose! Then a man, whom I recognized as the new Episcopal clergyman (I believe I've never said that Richard was an Episcopalian) stood up before us and said something about "You Richard—and You Rose," after which Richard placed a ring upon my finger, squeezing my hand a very little as he did so. Then, followed a short prayer, in which I fancied the minister made a mistake in our names, inasmuch as he spoke of Isaac and Rebecca instead of Richard and Rose! This being done I glanced at the bridegroom. There was no scowl upon his forehead now, and I could see the light shining out all over his face as he bent down and gently whispered "my wife!"
This dispelled the clouds at once, and as guest after guest crowded around, offering their congratulations, while Charlie and John Thompson vied with each other in repeating my new name, I began to realize that I was no longer Rosa Lee, but Mrs. Richard Delafield.
For a few days we lingered at my mother's fireside, and then, with the fall of the first snowflake, we left for our southern home; Richard promising my mother, who was loth to give me up, that when the summer birds came hack and roses were blooming again by the door, he would bring his Rose to breathe once more the air of her native hills. We stopped at New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore and Washington, and it was not until the holidays were passed that we landed at last at Charleston and took the cars for W—— which we reached about dark.
With a loud cry of joy, Bill, who was waiting for us, welcomed back his master, and then almost crushing my fingers in his big black hand, said, with a sly wink, which he meant should be very expressive, "I know, now what mars'r kill dem hosses for!" at the same time making some apology for the really sorry looking animals he was compelled to drive in the place of the deceased Ferdinand and Frederic. As we drove through the town I could not help contrasting my present feelings with those of the year before, when I thought I was leaving it forever. Then, weary, sick and wretched, I had looked through blinding tears towards Sunny Bank, which was now my home, while at my side, with his arm around me, was its owner—my husband.
"You tremble, Rose," said he, as we drew near the house, and he bade me be calmer, saying the meeting between myself and his sister would soon be over.
But it was not that which I dreaded. It was the presentation to his servants, to whom I bore the formidable relation of mistress, and for whose good opinion I cared far more than I did for that of the haughty Mrs. Lansing. Something like this I said to Richard, who assured me that his household would love me because I was his wife, if for no other reason, and thus I found it to be. As we drove into the yard, we were surprised at seeing the house brilliantly lighted, while through the open windows forms of many persons were seen moving to and fro.
In a displeased tone of voice Richard said, "It is Angeline's work, and I do not like it, for you need rest, and are too much fatigued to see any one to-night, but I suppose it cannot be avoided. Ho, Bill," he called to the driver, "who is here?"
"Some de quality," answered Bill, adding that "Miss Angeline done 'vite 'em to see de bride."
"She might at least have consulted my wishes," said Richard, while my heart sank within me at being obliged to meet strangers in my jaded condition.
Mrs. Lansing, it seems, had in her mind a new piano for Lina, their present one being rather old-fashioned, and as the surest means of procuring one she thought to please her brother by noticing his bride. So, in her zeal, she rather overdid the matter, inviting to Sunny Bank many of the villagers, some of whom were friendly to me and some were not; though all, I believe, felt curious to see how the "Plebeian Yankee" (thus Ada termed me) would demean herself as the wife of a southern planter.
Dusky faces, with white shining eyes, peered round the corner of the building as the carriage stopped before the door, and more than one whisper reached me. "Dat's she—de new Miss, dat mars'r's liftin' so keerfully."
Upon the piazza stood Mrs. Lansing, her face wreathed in smiles, while at her side, in flowing white muslin, were Ada and Lina, the former of whom sprang gaily down the steps, and with well feigned joy threw herself into the arms of her guardian, who, after kissing her affectionately, presented her to me, saying, "Will Ada be a sister to my wife?"
"Anything, for your sake," answered Ada, with rather more emphasis on your than was quite pleasing me.
Mrs. Lansing came next, and there was something of hauteur in her manner as she advanced, for much as she desired to please her brother, she was not yet fully prepared to meet me as an equal. But Richard knew the avenue to her heart, and as he placed my hand in hers, he said, "For the sake of Jessie you will love my bride, I am sure."
It was enough; Jessie was forgotten by many who had wept bitterly when first they heard the sad news of her death, but in the mother's heart there was an aching void, and as if the gentle, blue-eyed child were pleading for me from her little grave, the proud woman's eyes were moist with tears as she said, "Yes, for Jessie's sake do I l——" she paused, for with that sacred name upon her lips even the could not utter a falsehood and say, "I love you," so she qualified it, and after a moment continued, "I will learn to love you, Rose, for such I know would be our angel Jessie's wish."
From Lina I expected no demonstration. She was too selfish, too listless to care for any one, so when she coolly shook my hand and called me Mrs. Delafield, I was quite satisfied, particularly as the next moment Halbert caught me round the neck, shouting out a noisy, but genuine welcome to his "Aunt Rose," and telling me "he was mighty glad I'd come back to stay for good."
"You have quite a party," said Richard to his sister as we entered the spacious hall, I shrinking behind him so as to hide myself from the curious eyes which I knew were scanning my dusty traveling dress.
"Only a few friends, who I thought would be glad to meet Miss Lee—I beg pardon—your wife," she hastily added, as she saw the gathering frown upon his brow.
With a look in his eye which made her quail, he said, "Never make that mistake again, Angeline." (And she never did!) "Rose is too much exhausted to appear in the parlor to-night," he continued, as we entered my room—our room—the pleasant, tasteful apartment, which I once thought had been fitted up for Ada. "You ought to have had more tact than to invite company on the first night of my arrival—when you must have known how weary Rose would be. She don't look like herself, so pale and wayworn," he continued, himself removing my bonnet and tenderly stroking my aching head.
Nothing would please Ada better than to present me just as I was, pale and jaded, with dark rims beneath my eyes, induced by the severe headache from which I was really suffering. It would show her own charms to greater advantage, she thought, as she glanced at an opposite mirror and saw the contrast between us.
"Oh, Richard," she said pleadingly, "pray don't object to her going down; it wouldn't be polite, and then they are all dying to see her."
"Why then didn't they, some of them, improve the opportunity when she was here before, and on show every day," said Richard, moodily.
And Ada, forgetting herself, answered in a low tone, "Why, that's plain enough, Mrs. Richard Delafield is a very different personage from Miss Lee, gov"——
"Ada!" sternly interposed my husband, "never a remark like that in my presence."
"Why, Uncle Dick," said Ada, smothering her anger and winding her white arms around his neck, "how you frighten me. I didn't mean anything, only I do want Rose to go down, so much, can't you, dear?" and she turned toward me.
With her, I felt that it would hardly be polite to refuse, so I replied that "after a cup of tea and half an hour's rest, I would try to do so."
Supper was brought to our room, the servant almost touching her knees to the floor, so low was her obeisance to the "New Miss." As I have once before remarked, my head was aching dreadfully, and as I looked at the soft, downy pillows which lay piled upon the snowy bed in the adjoining room, I thought how much rather I would throw myself among them than join the gay company below. But it could not be, and with something like tears in the sound of my voice, I asked Richard to send up my trunks.
Closely inspecting me for a moment, he answered, "There is no necessity for you to dress. You look well enough just as you are, and you must not fatigue yourself any more. I shall get you excused in a little while, and sometime after you are thoroughly rested, Angeline shall give a large party at her own house, where you'll have an opportunity to display all the 'fixin's,'" and he laughed, thinking, I suppose, he had said something smart.
My dress was a dark blue merino, trimmed on the basque and sleeves with black velvet. It fitted neatly, and was, I knew, unusually becoming; so after arranging my curls and donning a clean linen collar, I took my husband's arm and went down to the drawing-room, where I found about forty people assembled. With a few of them I was already acquainted, while the majority were only known to me by sight; for though I had often seen them at Cedar Grove, they had not thought it worth their while to notice a mere governess. Now, however, as Ada had said, matters were changed, and Richard Delafield's wife could not be slighted with impunity. Consequently I was for a time overwhelmed with compliments and attention; some with whom I had never before spoken, expressing their delight at seeing me back again, while others said that a bride was just what was wanting to give éclat to the winter gaieties.
Close to my side kept Ada, assuming a kind of patronizing manner and answering for me whenever she thought the conversation beyond my depth. Of course she threw me quite in the shade, and in a measure she had her reward, for she, as well as I, heard a lady, a stranger in W——, say, "How much more beautiful Miss Montrose is than the bride. I wonder Mr. Delafield did not prefer her."
There was a look of exultation on Ada's face as her eyes met mine, but it passed away as we heard the answer made by Miss Porter, a lady whom Ada thought exceedingly aristocratic. "Yes," said she, "Miss Montrose is rather pretty, but she is fading fast, and I suppose Mr. Delafield preferred the freshness of youth to the decay of beauty, and for my part, I approve his choice, and think her a very pretty little creature."
I glanced at my husband—he, too, heard the remark and it pleased him, I knew, while Ada crossed over to the opposite side of the room and I saw her no more, for Richard soon asked for me to be excused; a request which the company readily granted, saying, "I must of course be tired."
It was late when Richard came up to our room, and I saw in a moment that something was the matter, for his face wore the dark, hard look it sometimes did when he was disturbed. I did not then ask the cause of his annoyance, but afterwards I learned that the moment the guests were gone, Ada, whose feelings were a good deal ruffled, not only at the attention I had received, but also at the remark of Miss Porter, commenced censuring my husband for having suffered me to appear in the drawing-room in my traveling dress. "'Twas an insult to the company," she said, "and they could excuse it on no other grounds save the supposition that I was entirely ignorant of etiquette in any form. I didn't blame her so much," said she, "for I suppose she didn't know any better, but I was astonished at you."
Ada had quite forgotten herself, or else she misunderstood the man with whom she had to deal. Very quietly he listened, but the storm was gathering within, and when she had finished, it burst upon her with a vengeance; he bidding her never again, either in his presence or the presence of any one, say aught disparagingly of his wife. "Her actions shall not be questioned by you," said he, "and you shall treat her with deference, for in every respect she is your superior, save that of age, and there, I admit, you have the advantage."
This decided the matter at once, for Ada was afraid of him, and though she could not conceal her dislike from me, she was in his presence always kind, considerate and sometimes even affectionate in her demeanor towards me, coming at last to call him "Uncle Dick," in imitation of Albert, and me "Aunt Rose," particularly if there were any strangers present.
The morning following my arrival I was formally presented to the servants, who received me with many demonstrations of joy, the older portion "bressin' de Lord they had lived to see Mars'r Richard look so happy and peart like as he did with the new Miss." Only one eyed me at all askance, and that was Aunt Hagar, the housekeeper, who saw in me a rival—one who would henceforth wear jingling at her belt the huge bunch of keys, which for so long a time had been to her a badge of honor. Then, too, the old lady, like my other new relatives, had some fears "that Miss Rose didn't 'long to the quality, and that Mars'r Richard had done histed hisself down a peg or so by marryin' one who was brought up in de free states, whar dar warn't nary nigger to fotch 'em a drink of water or fan when de sun was roastin' hot."
With a look of injured dignity, which made the steeple of a turban on her head tremble, she undid from her waist the bunch of keys, and offering them to me, said, "I 'spects these are yourn now."
I drew back, for to me there was nothing pleasing in the idea of being disturbed every time a lump of sugar, a piece of coal, or a pan of flour was wanted, so I said, "If my husband is willing I'd rather you'd keep them yourself, as I know you are trusty."
Hagar's face brightened perceptibly and I am induced to think she forgot in a measure my misfortune in having been born in a free state! At all events I have not now a more devoted servant than Hagar, who declares me to be a "perfect lady," and who has more than once ventured the treasonable remark, that "if all de Free State folks is like Miss Rose, she'll be boun' she'd like to live thar!" Regularly each morning she comes to me and asks "what Miss would like for dinner," and regularly each morning "Miss" answers, "Dear me, Hagar, I don't know; get what you like;" feeling confident the while that the program is already made out and that any material suggestion from me would be superfluous. So much for mistress and slave.
With his usual generosity, my husband made all of the negroes presents in honor of his marriage; offering for Bill's acceptance a silver watch, which he had purchased for him in Charleston. Taking the timepiece in his hand, Bill examined it attentively, held it to his ear, put it in his pocket, looked at the key, and then handing it back to his master, said, "no 'fense, mars'r, but if you please thar's somethin' I'd like better."
"Very, well, what is it?" asked Richard; and Bill answered, "Why, you see, Mars'r, how dem hosses, Fred and Ferd, has never had proper 'spect showed to thar memory. To be sure, I wars a weed on my hat and I 'fused to jine in de dance t'odder night, but that's nothin'. Ferd had too high blood in him to keer for an ole nigger's mournin', and what I wants is for you to paint de stable black, and that I reckons will show 'em proper 'tentions. What do you say, Miss Rose?"
As the horses had fallen in my cause, I readily espoused Bill's project for the novelty of the thing, if nothing else; and should any one of my readers visit Sunny Bank, which I wish they may, they will see the stables wearing a hue as dark as Bill himself, who has now a pair of iron-grays, which he calls "Richard" and "Rose," notwithstanding that both are of the masculine gender. These, particularly the latter, are the pride of Bill's heart, and when the year of mourning has expired, he intends, he says, to have the stable painted "yaller," that being the color of a young girl who has lately made sad havoc with his affections!
Here I may as well say that Mrs. Lansing managed until she procured the desired piano, which came in company with another, a much nicer one, on the front of which was inscribed "Rose, from her husband." In return for her brother's gift, Mrs. Lansing made a large party, where I had an opportunity of wearing my bridal dress, together with a costly set of diamonds, which I found upon my table, when I went up to make my toilet. It did not need the simple word "Richard" on a bit of paper to tell me whence they came, and the tears started to my eyes when I thought how kind he was, while I was conscious of a glow of pride, when I saw little Rosa Lee flashing with diamonds, which encircled her arms and neck, and shone among the curls of her hair. Bertha, my tasteful waiting maid—for I am getting quite southernized—pronounced me beautiful, as she gave the finishing stroke to my toilet, while one, for whose judgment I cared still more, and who all the time had been conning his evening paper, apparently oblivious to the presence of white satin, point lace, orange flowers and diamonds, responded, "Yes, Bertha, your young mistress is beautiful."
Dress does make a vast deal of difference in one's looks, and if that night two-thirds of the three hundred particular friends whose hands I shook pronounced me "beautiful, handsome, charming, lovely," and all that, it was owing chiefly, I think, to the fitness of my robes and the brilliancy of my diamonds. These last were the subject of much remark, they being the finest which had ever been worn in W——, Ada very good-naturedly saying, "she hoped my good fortune wouldn't quite turn my head!"
Mrs. Lansing's party was followed by many more, and ere I was aware of it Mrs. Richard Delafield was quite a belle—what she said, what she did, and what she wore being pronounced au fait by the fashionables of W——. Upon all this Ada looked jealously; never allowing an opportunity to pass without speaking slightingly of me, though always careful that Richard should not know of it. In his presence she was vastly kind, sitting at my feet, calling me "Aunty," and treating me as if I had been twenty years her senior. At first she spent much more of her time at Sunny Bank than was at all agreeable to me, and I was not sorry when a little incident occurred which in a measure tended to keep her away. She had always been in the habit of treating my husband with a great show of affection, and now that he was, as she said, "an old married man," she seemed to think it no matter how much she caressed him. Even I dared not seat myself upon his knee as coolly as she would, and her temerity troubled me, particularly as I knew it was annoying to him. This I must have manifested in some way, for one morning when, as usual, she entered our room without knocking and perched herself on Richard's knee, he pushed her off, saying, half in earnest, half in jest, "Don't act so foolish, Ada, you make me sick, for now that I have Rose to pet me, I can easily dispense with your caresses, which are rather too much of a good thing."
Ada was angry, and, with a little hateful laugh, she said, turning to me, "jealous, I suppose, and have read your better-half a lecture on propriety. When I marry, I trust I shall have faith enough in my husband's love for me not to care even if he does chance to look at some one else."
I knew Richard would vindicate my cause, so I remained silent while he answered, "You do Rose injustice, for never have we exchanged a word concerning the manner you have assumed towards me, and which I should suppose your own sense of propriety would condemn. Were you my wife, 'twould be different."
"Your wife," interrupted Ada, with bitter scorn, "I am not your wife, thank fortune, neither did I ever aspire to be, and I have yet to see the man whom I would for a moment think of marrying."
There was not the slightest cause for this speech, but Ada was angry; and, as if to exasperate her still more, Richard coolly asked, "Didn't you think of marrying Herbert Langley when you engaged yourself to him?"
He had heard the whole story at Meadow Brook, but this was the first time he had hinted it to Ada, Who turned very pale and without another word left the room, going back to Cedar Grove, where for three weeks she pouted and cried alternately. At the end of that time, however, she concluded it better to "make up:" so she wrote a note to us both, asking my pardon for her rudeness and begging my husband to forgive her for the many falsehoods she had told concerning her engagement with Herbert, which she now frankly confessed. Of course we forgave her, and as she was not one who remembered anything long, she soon began to visit us as of old, though she no longer sat on my husband's knee, or wound her arms around his neck. His rebuke did her good, and she profited by it, while the fact that he was fully aware of the deception she had practised tended to humble her, and on rainy days, when Richard was necessarily away from home, I found her quite an agreeable companion.
Thus the winter and spring passed away, and my mother's letters began to grow urgent for my return, but for various reasons Richard did not think it advisable for me to undertake so long a journey, and as Sunny Bank was all the world to me, I very cheerfully consented to wait until another season ere I visited my New England home. About this time I was again seized with my olden desire for authorship, induced in a measure by my knowing how much Mrs. Lansing reverenced anything which savored of a book-writer. To be an authoress, then, and make her proud to own me as her sister, was a subject over which I grew pale and "nervous," Richard said, while the negroes called me "fidgety" and wondered "what done ailded Miss Rose." At last, after many wakeful nights and restless days, after sick headaches, nervous headaches, and all kind of headaches, the plan was marked out for a story. I would be the heroine myself and give to the world as much of my history as I thought proper, and if I failed—if no railroad, steamboat, or stagecoach passenger ever pointed me out as "the woman who wrote that book," or if my publishers "respectfully declined" another bearing my signature, I thought I should still have the satisfaction of knowing I had tried to benefit the world, and I felt almost sure that in Meadow Brook at least there were people stupid enough to buy my book and possibly to like it, just because little Rosa Lee, who used to climb fences and hunt hen's eggs with them in her childish days, had written it. So, one sunny morning in June, when my husband had left me to be gone for two weeks, I shut myself up in my room, donned a loose wrapper, tucked back my curls, opened my writing desk, took out a quire of foolscap, and had just written "MEADOW BROOK," when the bell rang and Bertha announced "a lady in the parlor." With a deep sigh, as I thought how "WE writers disliked to be disturbed," I arranged my curls, resumed my cambric morning gown, and went down to receive my visitor, telling her that I was very well, that the weather was very warm, that I expected to be very lonely without my husband, that her bonnet was very pretty, that I didn't think negroes as annoying and hateful as she did, after which she took her leave; and I went back to my room, this time locking the door and writing the first chapter of my book before the bell rang for dinner.
To Bertha I imparted my secret, reading to her each page as I wrote it, and though she was not, perhaps, the most appreciating auditor one could have, she was certainly the most attentive and approving. It is true she objected to my describing myself as such a homely child. "Jest tell de trufe and done wid it," she said; whereupon I assured her that I had told the truth, and then she suggested that in order to make amends for my ugliness I should represent myself as having been "peart like and smart." So, if the reader thinks I have made myself too precocious, the fault is chargeable to Bertha, for I did it to please her!
For two weeks I wrote, scarcely allowing myself a moment's rest, and Bertha, when she saw how it wore upon me, began at last to expostulate. "Thar wasn't no 'casion," she said, "to kill myself, when thar was heaps 'o niggers kickin' round under foot, and if miss 'sisted on writin' a book, why didn't she make some dem lazy critters do it for her!"
At the end of two weeks Richard returned, asking me as he looked in my face "what was the matter, and how I had spent my time?"
Before I could answer, Bertha, who was quite incensed against my book, said, "She's done writin' a spellin' book, or something and sits up 'most all night. I tell her how 'twill kill her, but she pay no 'tention!"
The secret was out, and with many blushes I plead guilty, and producing my manuscript, watched Richard while he read it. Over the first chapter, where he thought I was going to die, he cried—or that is, tears came to his eyes; the third he skipped partially, the next entirely, and the next and the next (I hope the reader has not done likewise); but when he found Dr. Clayton he read every word, his forehead tying itself up in knots, which, however, cleared away the moment he came upon himself at the theater, though I believe he didn't feel much complimented by my description of his personal appearance!
There, just as he was introduced, the story ended, and fortunate was it for me that it did so, for he declared I should not write another word after I got through with him; and I promised that I wouldn't, mentally resolving that it should be some time before I reached that point. This then, my reader, is the reason why I said no more of him, when first I presented him to your notice, but left him for a while in mystery. I knew Richard was anxious to hear what did become of himself, and I fancied that if I wrote considerable before I said anything very definite of him, he would be more likely to let me finish the book, as he would not wish me to waste so much paper for nothing! And the sequel proved that I was right. Regularly each day I wrote, Richard always stopping me the moment he thought I was tired, and invariably breaking me off in the wrong place, so if there should be any parts of my story which do not join together smoothly, you may know it was there that Richard took my pen from my hand, or hid the inkstand.
Towards the middle of August, invitations came for us to attend a large wedding in Charleston. I was exceedingly anxious to go, having heard much of the bride, who was a distant relative of my husband, and though both he and Mrs. Lansing raised every conceivable objection to my leaving home, I adroitly put aside all their arguments, and ere Richard fully realized that he had been coaxed into doing something he had fully determined not to do, we were rattling along in a dusty Charleston omnibus towards one of the largest hotels, where rooms had been engaged for us. The morning after our arrival, I went into the public parlor, and as I seated myself at the piano I saw just across the room, near an open window, a quiet, intelligent-looking lady, apparently twenty-six or twenty-seven years of age, and near her sporting upon the carpet, was a beautiful little girl, with flowing curls and soft dark eyes, which instantly riveted my attention, they were so like something I had seen before.
At the sound of the music she came to my side, listening attentively, and when I had finished, she laid one white chubby hand on my lap and the other on the keys, saying, "Please play again, Rose like to hear you."
"And so your name is Rose?" I answered, "Rose what?"
"Rose Lee Clayton, and that's my new ma," she replied, pointing towards the lady, whose usually pale cheek was for an instant suffused with a blush such as brides only wear.
I knew now why I had felt interested in the child. It was the father which I saw looking at me through the eyes of brown, and taking the little creature in my arms, I was about to question her of her sire, when an increasing glow on the lady's cheek and a footstep in the hall told me he was coming!
The next moment he stood before me, Dr. Clayton! his face perfectly unruffled and wearing an expression of content, at least, if not perfect happiness. I was conscious of a faintness stealing over me, but by a strong effort, I shook it off, and rising to my feet, I offered him my hand, which he pressed, saying, "This is indeed a surprise, Rose—I beg your pardon, Mrs. Delafield, I suppose?"
I nodded in the affirmative, and was about to say something more, when another footstep approached, and my husband's tall figure darkened the doorway. For an instant they both turned pale, and Dr. Clayton grasped the piano nervously; but the shock soon passed away, and then as friend meets friend after a brief separation, so met these two men, who but the year before had watched together over my pillow, praying, the one that I might live, and the other that I might die.
Wonderingly the little girl looked up into her father's face, and pulling the skirt of my dress, said, "Who is the lady, pa? with the pretty curls so much like mine?"
Never before, I believe, did I like Dr. Clayton as I did at that moment when I saw the deep tenderness which broke over his features as he took his daughter in his arms, and pressing his lips to her forehead, answered, "It is Rosa Lee, my child, the lady for whom you were named."
"Don't you love her, pa? I do," she asked, stretching her little fat arms towards me.
I glanced at my husband—his brow was dark as midnight. I looked at Dr. Clayton, there was a slight quivering of his lips, while his wife was pale as a water lily, and then I burst into a merry laugh, in which the gentlemen soon joined, though it would have puzzled us all to have told at what we were laughing.
After a few words of explanation as to why we were there, Dr. Clayton suddenly remembered himself, and leading me towards the lady, introduced her as "My wife, Mrs. Clayton." She had been living in Florida with a cousin, at whose house they were married, about two weeks before, and they were now on their way to Boston, stopping for a few days in Charleston to see the city. I found her a very quiet, sensible woman, but as different from Dell Thompson, or Rosa Lee, as a person well could be, and I was wondering to myself how it was possible for a man to love so many people of opposite temperaments, when she said something about New England, and I asked if she were ever there.
"Oh, yes," she answered, "I was born there, in Wilbraham, Mass. I was living with the grandmother of the first Mrs. Clayton at the time of her death."
In a moment it all came to me; Dell had told me of Mabel Warrener, who had inherited her grandmother's fortune, and now she sat there before me, Mrs. Clayton 2d. Surely the freaks of fortune are wonderful! Naturally refined and intelligent, Mabel had employed a part of her money in giving herself a good education, graduating at Mount Holyoke Female Seminary, and going thence back to her home in Wilbraham, which she had fitted up with much taste, and where she was living when Dr. Clayton met her on his return from Georgia. Of her then he only thought as of a pleasant, agreeable woman; but when time, absence, and my marriage had softened the keenness of his disappointment, he often found his thoughts wandering towards the fair Mabel, who, upon inquiry, he learned had gone to Florida. Rose needed a mother, and he needed a wife; so, after an interchange of letters, he one morning started with his little girl for the "land of flowers," where neither sickness, nor death, nor yet a Richard Delafield; came between him and his bride. They seemed very happy, for after a little Dr. Clayton recovered his equanimity, and appeared perfectly natural.
Not a word, however, did he say of the past, or in any way allude to Georgia, except once when he asked me if I did not think Rose resembled Jessie in a measure. I had thought of the same thing, though Rosa's eyes were darker and her hair more of a chestnut brown. She was a sweet little creature, and if anything could have reconciled me to being the wife of Dr. Clayton, it would have been the fact that she was my daughter. But as I contrasted the two men, as my eye fell on Dr. Clayton's handsome face and curly locks, and then rested on the dark features and raven hair of Richard, I felt that in him there was more of the true, the noble man, and my heart warmly approved me for the choice I had made.
Nearly all the morning we sat there talking on indifferent subjects, and when dinner was over, Mrs. Clayton came to my room, staying a long time, and gaining fast in my good opinion, when I saw how kind and friendly she was. She had heard the whole story, for she told me so, holding little Rose upon her lap and smoothing her silken curls.
"We cannot all love the same person," she said in conclusion; "and I am so glad you refused him, for otherwise he would not have been my husband;" and her quiet eyes lighted up with a look of happiness which plainer than words could express told me that she had brought to Dr. Clayton no divided affections.
At the making of my toilet for the wedding she was present, aiding Bertha greatly by her own tasteful suggestions, and when at last I was dressed with perfect childish simplicity, she ran for her husband "to come and see if I didn't look pretty."
"Mrs. Delafield was always pretty to me," was the doctor's answer, and that was all he said.
They were to leave early next morning before I would be up, and so when the carriage was announced, we went to bid them good-by.
"May I kiss your wife?" asked the doctor of my husband, as he held my hand.
"Certainly, sir," answered Richard, "an even exchange is always fair," and instead of once, he kissed the blushing Mabel twice, which of course gave Dr. Clayton liberty to do the same by me.
Suddenly remembering something which I had left in my room, I went up for it, and on my way back glanced into the parlor, occupied by Dr. Clayton. He was seated upon the sofa by the side of his wife, around whose waist his arm was affectionately thrown, while partly on his lap and partly upon that of her stepmother was little Rose, her long eyelashes drooping sleepily over her eyes of brown. It was a beautiful tableau, and whenever I think of Dr. Clayton now, it is as I last saw him, happy and contented, for he has not only won a most excellent wife, but also secured that $10,000 after all!
DEAR READER,
Just one year ago to-night the orange wreath and bridal veil were twined among my curls, and with a loving heart I stood up before the man of God and took upon myself the vows, which made me Richard's forever. The orange flowers are faded now, and the bridal veil looks soiled and worn; but the sunlight of happiness which shone upon, me when first he called me his wife has grown brighter and brighter as each day has unfolded to me some new virtue which I knew not that he possessed when he became my husband.
No shadow, however slight, has ever fallen between us, for though he has a fiery temper and an indomitable will, they are both under perfect control, and so much confidence have I in his love for me, that should I ever in any way come in collision with his temper or his will, I have faith to believe I could bend the one and subdue the other. Every comfort and luxury which affection can dictate or money procure has been gathered around me, until my home seems to me a second paradise.
The fervid heat of summer has passed, and the hazy light which betokens the fall of the leaf has come. On the northern hills, they say, the November snows have already fallen, but we are still basking in the soft sunlight of a most glorious autumn; and as I write, the south wind comes in through the open window, whispering to me of the fading flowers, whose perfume it gathered as it floated along. Just opposite me, in a willow chair, with her head hurled in a towering turban of royal purple, sits Juno, a middle-aged woman, nodding to the breeze, which occasionally brushes past her so fast that she lazily opens her eyes, and with her long-heeled foot gives a jog to the rosewood crib, wherein lies sleeping a little tiny thing which was left here five weeks ago to-day. Oh, how odd and funny it seemed when Richard first laid on my arm a little bundle of cambric and lace, and whispered in my ear, "Would you like to see our baby?" She is a great pet, and should this book never reach so far as Georgia, Mrs. Lansing, I am sure, will like me all the same, for her words and manner have been very kind since the morning when I said to Richard, "We will call our baby Jessie."
So Jessie was she baptized, Mrs. Lansing's tears falling like rain on the face of the unconscious child, which she folded to her bosom as tenderly as if it had indeed been her own lost Jessie come back to her again. Upon Ada the arrival of the stranger produced a novel effect, overwhelming her with such a load of modesty that she kept out of Richard's way nearly two weeks, and never once came to see me until I was sitting up in my merino morning gown, which she had embroidered for me herself. Ada has a very nice sense of propriety!
But little more remains for me to say, and that I must say briefly. I am determined to finish my story, and as my husband for the first time since my illness has left me alone for an hour or two, I am improving the opportunity, having first bribed Bertha to bring me my writing materials, by promising her a dress which she has long coveted.
The royal purple turban by the window has become somewhat displaced by the strong west wind, and now wide-awake, begins to grumble at "Miss Rosy's impudence in 'xertin' herself to write trash which is of no kind o' count, and which no human will ever read."
I hope her prediction is a false one, for I have lately conceived the idea of devoting the entire proceeds of this book to the benefit of "Rosa Lee," who, of course, has no part in the $10,000 which her father has married!
There is a rustling in the crib—the baby is waking, and at my request Juno brings her to me, saying as she lays her on my lap, "She's the berry pictur' of t'other Jessie," and as her soft blue eyes unclose and my hand rests on her curly hair which begins to look golden in the sunlight, I too, think the same, and with a throbbing heart I pray the Father to save her from the early death which came to our lost darling—"Jessie, the angel of the Pines."
ROSE DELAFIELD.
FINIS.