THE WANDERER
In Uncle Joshua’s home there were sad, troubled faces and anxious hearts,
as the husband and daughter watched by the wife and mother, whose life on
earth was well-nigh ended. From her mother’s family Mrs. Middleton had
inherited the seeds of consumption, which had fastened upon her.
Day by day, they watched her, and when at last she left them it seemed so
much like falling away to sleep that Mr. Middleton, who sat by her, knew
not the exact moment which made him a lonely widower. The next afternoon
sympathizing friends and neighbors assembled to pay the last tribute of
respect to Mrs. Middleton, and many an eye overflowed, and more than one
heart ached as the gray-haired old man bent sadly above the coffin, which
contained the wife of his early love. But he mourned not as one without
hope, for her end had been peace, and when upon her face his tears fell he
felt assured that again beyond the dark river of death he should meet her.
The night succeeding the burial Mr. Middleton’s family, overcome with
fatigue and grief, retired early to their rooms, but Fanny could not
sleep, and between ten and eleven she arose and throwing on her dressing
gown nervously walked up and down her sleeping room. It was a little over
a year after her marriage. Through the closed shutters the rays of a
bright September moon were stealing, and attracted by the beauty of the
night, Fanny opened the blinds and the room was filled with a flood of
soft, pale light. From the window where she stood she could distinguish
the little graveyard, with its cypress and willow trees, and its white
monument gleaming through the silvery moonlight, and near that monument
was a dark spot, the grave of her beloved mother. "If all nights were as
lovely as this," thought she, "it would not seem half so dreary to sleep
in the cold dark grave," and then Fanny fell into a fit of musing of the
night that would surely come when she would first be left alone in the
shadowy graveyard.
In the midst of her reverie her attention was attracted by a slight female
figure, which from some quarters had approached unperceived, and now upon
the newly-made grave was bowing itself in apparent weeping. The size and
form of the girl were so much like Luce that Fanny concluded it must be
she, at the same time wondering how, with her superstitious ideas, she
ventured alone near a grave in the night time. In a moment, however, she
saw that Tiger, the watch dog, was with her, and at the same instant the
sound of a suppressed sob fell on her ear. "Poor Luce," said she, "I did
not think she loved my mother so well. I will go to her and mingle my
tears with hers."
In a short time Fanny was in the open air, and on her way to the
graveyard. As she approached her mother’s grave, she said gently, "Luce,
Luce, why are you out so late?"
The person addressed partially raised her head and answered hurriedly,
"Oh, Fanny, Fanny, do not be frightened and leave me; I am not dead, and
never was buried in that grave, as you suppose, but I am here tonight a
living, repentant woman," and throwing back her bonnet, the thin, white
face of Julia Middleton was in the bright moonlight perfectly
distinguishable to Fanny, who at first recoiled in fear and leaned for
support against the marble pillar near which she was standing.
She, however, soon recovered her self-command and glancing at the object
on the grave, saw that she was caressing Tiger, who seemed trying various
ways to evince his joy at finding one whom he had long missed, for he had
ever been Julia’s favorite. Their fiery natures accorded well! Again Julia
spoke, "Fanny, dear Fanny. In an adjoining state I heard of mother’s
illness and hastened to see her, but I am too late. Now, do not think me a
phantom, for see, Tiger recognizes me and welcomes me home, and will not
you?"
An instant Fanny wavered, then with a half-fearful, half-joyful cry she
went forward, and by the grave of the mother that day lowered to the dust,
the sisters met in a long, fervent embrace.
Into the best chamber of their father’s house Fanny led the weeping,
repentant girl, and gently removing her bonnet and shawl, bade her lie
down on the nicely-cushioned lounge, while she went for her father. As she
was leaving the room Julia arose and laid her small, bony hand on Fanny’s
shoulder. It had rested there before, for in the graveyard, with their
buried mother between them, Julia’s arms had encircled her sister’s neck;
but the first excitement was over, and now involuntarily Fanny shrank from
that touch, for in spite of all her courage, she could not help
associating Julia with the grass-grown grave, and the large white
monument.
"What is it, Julia?" she said calmly. "Do you wish to see father?"
"Oh, yes, yes," answered Julia, "but not him, the other one—at least not
tonight. You understand."
"I do," said Fanny, and she glided down the stairs toward her father’s
room. He was awake, for ere her hand touched the doorknob, his sonorous
"Who’s thar?" fell on her ear. This somewhat disconcerted her, for she had
intended stopping near his door, to devise the best means by which to
break the intelligence. But "Who’s thar?" was again repeated, and entering
the room she said softly, "It’s I, father."
"Why, sure enough," said he, and then as the light from her lamp fell on
her features, he exclaimed, "why, how white you be! What’s the matter?
Who’s upstairs? Is George sick?"
"No, George is not sick," said Fanny, "but—," and then as well as she
could she told him all she knew.
Uncle Joshua’s nervous system was unstrung, and his physical health
impaired by long nights of watching with his wife, and now when this fresh
shock came upon him, he fell back half-fainting upon his pillow. Then
rousing himself, he said, "Alive and come back! I don’t desarve this. But
where is she? I will go to her."
Fanny directed him where to find her, and then returned to Julia, whither
her father soon followed. Uncle Joshua was not prepared for the change in
his daughter. He did not even think of her as he saw her last, wasted by
sickness, but in imagination he beheld her as she was in her days of
health and dazzling beauty, when with diabolical cunning she had brought
Dr. Lacey to her feet. Now, however, her face was thin, white and haggard,
for such a life as she had lived had never conduced to the beauty and
health of any one. Her eyes, sunken in their sockets, and swollen with
recent weeping, looked frightfully large and wild, and to complete the
metamorphosis, her beautiful, glossy hair was now cut short on her neck,
and pushed far back from a brow, across which lay more than one premature
wrinkle.
The sight of her for a time unsettled the old man’s reason. Taking her in
his arms he alternately cried and laughed over her, saying, "I knew you’d
come. I expected it. I’ve waited for you."
Julia’s altered appearance troubled him, and drawing her head down upon
his bosom, and laying his hand on her thin, white face, he said, "Poor
child, what has changed you so, and whar have you been; and who did I buy
that big stun for if ’twasn’t for you?"
"Not tonight, dear father," answered Julia. "Let me rest tonight and
tomorrow I will tell you all."