THE OLD TREE'S REVELATIONS.
Meanwhile, strange feelings filled the heart, and troublesome thoughts
the head, of Madeline Payne.
She looked about her sorrowfully. The leafy wood seemed one of her
oldest, truest friends. Since her mother's death, she had lived, save
for the faithful regard of old Hagar, an unloved life. In the only
home she knew, she felt herself an object of dislike, and met only
cold neglect, or rude repulsion. So she had made a friend of the shady
wood, and welcomed back the birds, in early Springtime, with joyful
anticipation of Summer rest under green branches, lulled and soothed
by their songs.
Wandering here, the acquaintance between herself and Lucian Davlin
had begun. Here six long, bright weeks of the Springtime had passed,
each day finding them lingering longer among the leafy shadows, and
drawing closer about them both the cords of a destiny sad for one,
fatal for each.
Standing with hands clasped loosely before her, eyes down dropped, and
foot tapping the mossy turf, Madeline presented a picture of youth and
loveliness such as is rarely seen even in a beauty-abounding land. A
form of medium height which would, in later years, develop much of
stately grace; a complexion of lily-like fairness; and eyes as deep
and brown, as tender and childlike, as if their owner were gazing,
ever and always, as infants gaze who see only great, grand wonders,
and never a woe or fear.
With a wee, small mouth, matching the eyes in expression, the face was
one to strike a casual observer as lovely--as childishly sweet,
perhaps. Yet there was something more than childishness in the broad
brow, and firm chin. The little white hands were shapely and strong,
and the dainty feet pressed down the daisies softly yet firmly, with
quiet but steady movement.
Many a man has been mistaken in baby mouth, and sweetly-smiling eyes.
And whoso should mistake Madeline Payne, in the time to come, for
"just a child and nothing more," would reckon unwisely, and mayhap
learn this truth too late.
Madeline sat down upon a fallen tree, where she had so often talked
with her lover. She looked up into the wide spreading branches
overhead. There was the crooked bough where she had, often and often,
in past days, sought refuge when troubled by her father's harshness,
or haunted by dreams of the mother she had hardly known. It looked
cool and inviting, as if she could think to better purpose shrouded by
the whispering leaves. She stepped upon the fallen trunk, and
springing upward, caught a bending limb, and was soon seated cosily
aloft, smiling at the thought of what Lucian would say could he see
her there. Long she pondered, silent, motionless. Finally, stirring
herself and shaking lightly an overhanging friendly branch she
exclaimed:
"That will be best! I'll stay here for the present. I'll tell
step-papa that I love Lucian, and will never marry his friend, Amos
Adams, the old fright! I'll try and be very calm, and as dutiful as
maybe. Then, if he turns me out, very well. If he shuts me up--" Her
eyes flashed and she laughed; but there was little of mirth in the
laughter--"Why, then, I _would_ lead him a life, I think! Yes, I'll
bid Lucian good-by, for a little while, and I'll try and not miss him
too much, for--Oh!"
She had been very busy with her own half-spoken thoughts, else she
must have sooner discovered their approach, for now they were almost
underneath her, and they were no less personages than her step-father,
John Arthur, and her would-be suitor, Amos Adams.
Madeline was about to make known her presence, but her ear caught the
fragment of a sentence in which her name held prominent place. Acting
upon impulse, she remained a silent, unsuspected listener.
And so began in her heart and life that drama of pain and passion, sin
and mystery, that should close round, and harden and blight, the
darkening future of Madeline Payne.
A more marked contrast than the two men presented could scarcely be
imagined.
[Illustration: "Madeline presented a picture of youth and
loveliness."--page 17.]
John Arthur might have been, evidently had been, a handsome man, years
ago. But it did not seem possible that, even in his palmiest days,
Amos Adams could have been called anything save a fright. He was much
below the medium height. His head was sunken between his shoulders,
and thrust forward, and each feature of his ugly face seemed at war
with every other; while the glance of his greenish gray eye was such
as would cause a right-minded person involuntarily to cross himself
and utter, with perfect propriety, the Pharisee's prayer.
"The mischief fly away with you, man," said Mr. Arthur, seating
himself upon the fallen tree, and striking at the ground fiercely with
his cane; "what is my dead wife to you? Madeline makes my life a
burden by these same queries. It's none of your business why the
departed Mrs. Arthur left her property to me during my life, and tied
it up so as to make me only nominal master--mine to use but not sell,
not one acre, not a tree or stone; all must go intact to Miss
Madeline, curse her, at my death."
"Um-m, yes. Does the girl know anything of this?"
"If she did, your chances would be slim," said the other, scornfully.
"No; I have taken good care that she should not. She has a vixenish
temper, if she should get waked up to imagine herself 'wronged,' or
any such school-girl nonsense. I shall not live many years--this heart
disease is gaining on me fast; and if the girl is your wife, in case
of my death the fortune is as good as yours, you know. I want to have
peace while I do live; and for this reason, I say, I will give you my
step-daughter in marriage, and you shall give me the note you hold
against me for that old debt, the payment of which would compel me to
live like a beggar for the remainder of my days, and the sum of ten
thousand dollars."
"It's making a wife a rather expensive luxury," quoth old Amos,
seating himself; "but the girl's a beauty--no disputing that point;
and--"
"Of course she is," broke in Arthur, impatiently; "worth that, and
more, to whoever wants her, which, fortunately for you, I don't; she
is only a kill-joy to me. If you want the girl, take her, and be
blessed--I'll give away the bride with all the pleasure in the
world--and 'live happy ever after.'"
[Illustration: "What is my dead wife to you?"--page 20.]
There was not much room for argument between these two. It was simply
a question of exchange, and when old Amos had decided that he was not
paying too dearly for so fair a piece of flesh and blood, they came to
terms without more ado, and being agreed that "it's always best to
strike while the iron is hot," Mr. Arthur suggested that his friend
return with him, accept a seat at his hospitable board, and hear
himself announced formally to Miss Madeline, as her future lord and
master. John Arthur had ever exacted and received passive obedience
from his step-daughter. He had little fear of rebellion now. How could
she rebel? Was she not dependent upon his bounty for her daily bread,
even?
Old Amos troubled his ugly head little if any on this point. He
recognized no higher potentate than gold. He had bought him a wife; he
had but to pay the price and take possession of the property.
* * * * *
Madeline Payne sat long on her leafy perch, thinking fast and hard,
the expressions of her face changing rapidly as she revolved, in her
mind, different phases of the situation. Surprise gave place to
contempt, as she eyed the departing plotters from her green
hiding-place. Contempt merged into amusement, as she thought of the
wonderful contrast between the two wooers who had proffered their
respective suits, in a manner so very different, beneath that
self-same tree. A look of fixed resolve settled down upon her
countenance at last, and uncurling herself, she dropped lightly upon
the ground.
[Illustration: "Slowly she turned away and very thoughtful was her
face."--page 24]
Madeline had made up her mind. That it would be useless to say aught
of Lucian, she now knew too well. That she could never defy her
father's commands, and still dwell beneath her father's roof, she also
knew. She hesitated no longer. Fate, stronger than she, had decided
for her, she reasoned. Her mind once made up, she gave in it no place
to fears or misgivings. The strength of will and the spirit of
rebellion, that were dormant in her nature, began to stir into life,
roused by the injustice that would rob her of her own. She not only
had a way of escape, but that way her own inclinations lured her. With
never a fear, never a thought of the days to come, she turned from her
mockery of a home, from her parent, unnatural, unloving, and unloved,
to an unknown, untried world, which was all embodied in one
word--Lucian.
The past held for her many dark shadows; the future held all that she
craved of joy and love--Lucian.
In her outraged heart there was no room for grief. She had heard her
dead mother scorned, and by him who, more than all others, should have
cherished her memory and honored her name. She had heard herself
bartered away, as a parcel of goods, and her very life weighed in the
balance as a most objectionable thing. Her happiness was scoffed at;
her wishes ignored as if without existence, and contrary to all
nature; even her liberty was menaced.
Slowly she turned away, and very thoughtful was her face as she went,
but fixed in its purpose as fate itself: and fearless still as if life
had no dark places, no storm clouds, no despair.
Oh! they were lovely, innocent eyes; and oh! it was a sweet, sweet
mouth! But the eyes never wavered, and the mouth had no trace of
weakness in its dainty curves. You have reckoned without your host,
John Arthur. It is no commonplace school-girl with whom you have to
deal. Madeline Payne possesses a nature all untried, yet strong for
good or evil. Intense in love or hate, fearless to do and dare, she
will meet the fate you bring upon her--but woe to those who have
compassed her downfall! If your hand has shaped the destiny of her
life, she will no less overrule your future and, from afar--perhaps
unrecognized, unseen--mete out to you measure for measure!
The grand old tree is sighing out a farewell. The sunlight is casting
fantastic shadows where her foot, but a moment since, rested. The
leaves glisten and whisper strange things. The golden buttercups laugh
up in the sun's face, as if there were no drama of loving and hating,
sin and atonement, daily enacted on their green, motherly bosom. And
Madeline Payne has put her childhood behind her, and turned her face
to the darkness beyond.