A VISITOR TO BREAKFAST.
The old gentleman, who had regarded this scene in anxious silence, now
moved forward and confronted his unwelcome visitor.
“Madam, this is your second visit here,” he said; “what new trouble is
to fall upon us?”
“He-he!” laughed the woman, hysterical with fright, “I only came to
inquire after the interesting young lady, who has made my neck burn with
her fingers. Her welcome was a warmer one than yours.”
“What is your business here?” persisted the old man.
“Nothing, nothing. I came down to the Island for amusement, and thought
I’d just call and see how things went on in the old place. You don’t
seem glad to see me. But I got used to that long ago. Nice little
fellow, isn’t it?”
She pointed her finger at Eddie, who, shrinking away as if from a
basilisk, began to cry.
The old man turned his eyes that way. In the confusion and anxieties of
the morning, he had hardly looked on the child. Now the glance brought
an entire change in his countenance. A faint color mounted to his
forehead, and stepping forward, he took the boy suddenly from his
mother.
“Don’t let her touch him. Oh! don’t let her touch him!” pleaded the
lady.
“Not for the universe!” said the old man. “I know what her touch is to
innocent things like this. Have no fear. She shall be driven hence,
leper as she is.”
“Leper! Ah! that’s a new name,” half snarled, half jeered the woman. “I
thought you had run yourself out abusing me. But this is something
uncommon! Leper! that is a name in your Protestant Bible, I suppose.”
“If you have business here, speak; if not, go out from under my roof; I
cannot breathe while it shelters you. Go, I say. You have driven my poor
child mad again. The sight of you is worse than death to us all.”
“Now this is hospitality, this is gratitude. Well, well, I am ready to
go. Shall I carry the little boy for you, ma’am?”
“No,” replied the widow, breathless with apprehension; “give Edward to
me, sir. I must return home. My people do not know that he is found.”
“Oh! don’t be frightened. I a’n’t after your precious treasure. Keep him
to yourself, for what I care. He isn’t mine a bit more than he’s yours,
so we won’t quarrel about him.”
The witch gave the strings of her bonnet a sharp jerk as she spoke, tied
them in a hard knot under her chin, and fluttered from the room, leaving
an unpleasant laugh floating behind.
When she disappeared, moving downward to the water, the old man spoke
again:
“I will carry the boy home for you. Don’t be frightened. She is a wicked
woman, but her day is over; she can insult nothing more!”
“Who is she?” inquired the widow, so anxiously that her question seemed
abrupt.
“An evil woman, who has led an evil life,” he answered.
“Do not mention her. Drive her from the house. I charge you, never let
that woman enter the presence of my child again,” interposed the old
lady, who entered the room that instant.
“She never shall, mother, she never shall,” answered the husband. “Be
pacified. She will not attempt to return.”
“She, who haunted my child into a madhouse, comes again like a fiend
that will not be satisfied. Poor, poor Elsie, she will not speak to me.
There she sits in a corner of her room, singing over that one word
‘alone, alone.’ Husband, husband, it is breaking my heart.”
“Be patient, wife. The woman has gone. Elsie will recover from this wild
fit—do be patient!” he replied, soothingly.
“I will go to her. I will sit down by her side, and weep while she
sings. I am old and weak. What else can I do but weep for my child.”
The old lady went out, making this mournful plaint, and her husband,
with a troubled face, and slow, sad step, bore little Edward homeward.
As he walked, the good man became composed; the little form pressed to
his bosom gave bloom and life to his feelings; a glow of enthusiasm
stole through his veins; and without knowing it, the old man grew strong
in the young life given to his embrace.
The widow walked thoughtfully by his side. Her brow was clouded, her
look troubled. She glanced back now and then, apprehensive that the evil
woman might follow her and the child.
The house, which they entered, was a graceful contrast to the one they
had left. Verandas of light iron work ran around one wing and across the
front; passion-flowers and other rare hot-house vines crept in and out
through this network, like colored embroidery on a lace ground: the
whole dwelling was light, cool, and exceedingly pleasant. The fragrance
of cape jessamines and heliotrope stole out through this tangled veil of
flowers; and hid away among the vines were cages full of singing-birds,
sending out gushes of song to greet the early morning.
The old gentleman did not notice these things, but placed the child
gently upon his feet in the veranda, and turned away. His heart was full
of apprehension regarding his daughter. The half-subdued madness had
returned upon her, their old enemy had appeared again. The fear of long,
long years was entirely broken up. Why should that wily serpent have
crept into his Eden a second time? Filled with these thoughts, the old
man bade his neighbor a gentle good morning and went away.
Mrs. Oakley entered her dwelling, weary, and filled with a vague terror
by the scene she had witnessed. The night’s watch had left her garments
in disarray. The dark-brown hair was partly unbraided, and fell in waves
half-way to her shoulders; her bonnet was pushed back, and her pale face
stained with tears.
A small breakfast-room opened upon the veranda, its French windows
clouded with lace, and its adornments cool and simple. A breakfast-table
had been spread in expectation of her coming, and with its service of
pure white china and frosted silver stood before these misty windows,
through which a network of vines and blossoms was softly visible.
A person, who sat in this room, saw Mrs. Oakley as she entered, and
arose as if to go forth and meet her. But a glance at her pale face
checked him, and seating himself, he saw her pass to her chamber.
The gentleman sat alone some time, dreamily watching the humming-birds,
as they flashed in and out through the blooming screen of flowers,
shaking the dew in glittering drops upon the sunshine, and humming
softly to the bells they robbed of honey. A smile was upon the
stranger’s lips. He seemed waiting in tranquil mood for some anticipated
joy. At last Mrs. Oakley came in, leading her boy by the hand. A robe of
spotted muslin had displaced her half-mourning dress, lilac ribbons
knotted it together down the front and brightened the folds upon her
bosom. Her beautiful tresses lay coiled in one heavy braid around her
head. Nothing could have been more simple than her appearance. But her
face was pale, and a look of fatigue hung upon it.
She evidently expected to find the breakfast-room empty, and entered it
with downcast eyes. An exclamation from the child, and a joyful leap
forward, made her look up. A wave of crimson rushed over her face; she
smiled half gladly, half shyly, and held out her hand.
“When did you come? Have you waited long?” she said.
It was a commonplace welcome in words; but her voice grew sweet with
suppressed tenderness, as she uttered it.
“I have been waiting and dreaming here this half hour,” answered her
guest, taking Eddie in his arms; “I did not expect to find you from home
so early.”
“Oh, it was Eddie’s fault, he ran away and was lost all night.”
“Lost! how? Where did you find him?”
There was no reason why the young widow should not have answered this
question. But there was a feeling of sadness connected with the scenes
she had witnessed that night, which checked her, and she merely replied
that a neighbor had found the boy and taken him home.
“And oh,” interposed Eddie, “she was such a tall, black lady, with eyes
all fire, and such hot lips.”
“You did not like her then, my little man?” inquired the visitor.
“Yes, I did. She loved me, oh, so much. You don’t know how hard she
kissed me, and hugged me till it stopped my breath.
“I don’t wonder,” replied the stranger. “Who could help loving you
dearly?” and his fine face flushed crimson, as he pressed a kiss on the
rosy mouth of the child.
“Come,” said Mrs. Oakley, blushing also, but smiling amid the pleasant
confusion. “We shall all have an appetite for breakfast.”
And with the timid bashfulness of a girl, she sat down to do the honors
of her new home to one whose gaze she had learned to tremble under.