Produced by Wendy Crockett
THE OLD STONE HOUSE
by ANNE MARCH
(CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON)
"He that goeth on his way weeping, and beareth forth good seed, shall
doubtless come again with joy and bring his sheaves with him."
--_Psalms cxxvi_.
CONTENTS
I.--THE FIVE COUSINS
II.--LIFE AT THE OLD STONE HOUSE
III.--THE EDITOR'S SANCTUM
IV.--HUGH
V.--FOURTH OF JULY
VI.--SUNDAY
VII.--THE PICNIC
VIII.--RIGHT AT LAST
IX.--THE LAST DAY OF SUMMER
X.--THE HOME-COMING
XI.--CONCLUSION
CHAPTER I.
THE FIVE COUSINS.
Aunt Faith sat alone on the piazza, and sad thoughts crowded into her
heart. It was her birthday,--the first day of June,--and she could
look back over more than half a century, with that mournful retrospect
which birthdays are apt to bring. Aunt Faith had seen trouble, and had
met affliction face to face. When she was still a bride, her husband
died suddenly and left her lonely forever; then, one by one, her
brothers and sisters had been taken, and she was made sole guardian of
their orphan children,--a flock of tender little lambs,--to be
nourished and protected from the cold and the rain, the snare and the
pitfalls, the tempter and the ravening wolf ever prowling around the
fold. Hugh and Sibyl, Tom and Grace, and, last of all, wild little
Bessie from the southern hill-country,--this was her charge. Hugh and
Sibyl Warrington were the children of an elder brother; Tom and Grace
Morris the children of a sister, and Bessie Darrell the only child of
Aunt Faith's youngest sister, who had been the pet of all her family.
For ten long years Aunt Faith had watched over this little band of
orphans, and her heart and hands had been full of care. Children will
be children, and the best mother has her hours of trouble over her
wayward darlings; how much more an aunt, who, without the delicate
maternal instinct as a guide, feels the responsibility to be doubly
heavy!
And now, after years of schooling and training, Aunt Faith and her
children were all together at home in the old stone house by the
lake-shore, to spend a summer of freedom away from books and rules.
Hugh was to leave her in the autumn to enter upon business life with a
cousin in New York city, and Sibyl had been invited to spend the
winter in Washington with a distant relative; Grace was to enter
boarding-school in December, and Tom,--well, no one knew exactly what
was to be done with Tom, but that something must be done, and that
speedily, every one was persuaded. There remained only Bessie, "and
she is more wilful than all the rest," thought Aunt Faith; "she seems
to be without a guiding principle; she is like a mariner at sea
without a compass, sailing wherever the wind carries her. She is
good-hearted and unselfish; but when I have said that I have said all.
Careless and almost reckless, gay and almost wild, thoughtless and
almost frivolous, she seems to grow out of my control day by day and
hour by hour. I have tried hard to influence her. I believe she loves
me; but there must be something wrong in my system, for now, at the
end of ten years, I begin to fear that she is no better, if indeed,
she is as good as she was when she first came to me, a child of six
years. I must be greatly to blame; I must have erred in my duty. And
yet, I have labored so earnestly!" Another tear stole down Aunt
Faith's cheek as she thought of the heavy responsibility resting upon
her life. "Shall I be able to answer to my brothers and sisters for
all these little souls?" she mused. "There is Hugh also. Can I dare to
think he is a true Christian? He is not an acknowledged soldier of the
Cross; and, in spite of all the care and instruction that have been
lavished upon him, what more can I truthfully say than that he is
generous and brave? Can I disguise from myself his faults, his
tendencies towards free-thinking, his gay idea of life,--ideas, which,
in a great city, will surely lead him astray? No; I cannot! And yet he
is the child of many prayers. How well I remember his mother! how
earnestly she prayed for the little boy! Have I faithfully filled her
place? If she had lived, would not her son have grown into a better
man, a better Christian?" Here Aunt Faith again broke down, and buried
her face in her hands. Hugh was her darling; and, although he was now
twenty years of age, and so tall and strong that he could easily carry
his aunt in his arms, to her he was still the curly-haired boy,
Fitzhugh Warrington, whom the dying mother gave to Aunt Faith for her
own. "There is Sibyl, also," she thought, as she glanced towards the
garden, where her niece sat reading under the arbor; "she is at the
other extreme, as unlike her brother as snow is unlike fire. Sibyl
never does wrong. I believe I have never had cause to punish her, even
in childhood. But she is so cold, so impassive; I can never get down
as far as her heart; I am never sure that she loves me." Aunt Faith
sighed heavily. Sibyl's coldness was harder for her to bear than
Hugh's waywardness.
Then her thoughts turned towards the younger children. "Grace is too
young to cause me much anxiety; but still I seem to have made no more
impression upon her religious nature than I could have done upon a
running brook; and as for Tom,--" Here Aunt Faith's musings were
rudely interrupted by a shout and a howl. Through the hall behind her
came a galloping procession. First, "Turk," the great Newfoundland
dog, harnessed to a rattling wagon, in which sat "Grip," the mongrel,
muffled in a shawl, his melancholy countenance encircled with a white
ruffled cap; then came Tom, as driver, and behind him "Pete" the
terrier, fastened by a long string, and dragging Miss Estella Camilla
Wales, in her little go-cart, very much against his will. "Miss
Estella Camilla Wales" was Grace's favorite doll, and no sooner did
she behold the danger of her pet, than she sprang from the
sitting-room sofa and gave chase. But Tom flourished his whip, old
Turk galloped down the garden-walk with the whole train at his heels,
and Miss Wales was whirled across the street before Grace could reach
the gate.
"Tom, Tom Morris! stop this minute, you wicked boy! You'll break
Estella's nose!" she cried, as they pursued the cavalcade toward the
grove opposite the house. Here Pete, excited by the uproar, began
barking furiously, and running around in a circle with a speed which
soon brought Estella to the ground, besides tying up Tom's legs in a
complicated manner with the cord which served as a connecting link
between the team in front and the team behind. Old Turk, after taking
a survey of the scene, gently laid himself down, harness and all, and
wagged his ponderous tail; while poor Grip, in his efforts to free
himself from the shawl, managed to pull his cap over his eyes, and
howled in blind dismay. In the midst of the confusion, Grace rescued
Miss Wales from her perilous position, and, finding her classic nose
still unbroken, laid her carefully in the crotch of a tree, and
prepared for revenge. In his desire to secure the obedience of his
dog-team, Tom had fastened them securely, by long cords, to his belt;
Pete had already managed to wind his tether tightly around Tom's legs,
and Grace incited Turk to rebellion, so that he, too, began to gambol
about in his elephantine way, and Tom was soon tangled in another net.
"I say, Grace, let the dogs alone, will you!" he said angrily, as he
vainly tried to disentangle himself. "Here, Turk! lie down sir! Where
in the world is my knife? Pete Trone, you are in for a switching,
young man, as soon as these cords are cut!" During this time Grip had
been pulling at his night-cap with all the strength of his paws; but
as he only succeeded in drawing it farther over his nose, he finally
gave up in despair, and, hearing Grace's voice, patiently sat up on
his hind legs, with fore-paws in the air, begging to be released. He
looked so ridiculous that both Tom and his sister burst into a fit of
laughter. Good humor was restored, the tangles cut, and the procession
returned homeward, Grip released from his cap, but still wearing his
trailing shawl.
When they reached the gate Tom stopped, and calling the dogs in a
line, he began an address: "Turk, Grip, and Pete Trone, Esquires, you
have all behaved very badly, and deserve condign punishment!" At these
words, uttered in a harsh voice, Pete Trone gave a short bark, and
Grip instantly sat up on his hind legs, as if to beg for mercy. "None
of that, gentlemen, if you please!" continued Tom; "special pleading
is not allowed before this jury. Turk, Grip, and Pete Trone, Esquires,
you are hereby sentenced to walk around the--garden on the top of the
fence. Up, all of you! jump!" said Tom, picking up a switch. Now,
indeed, all the culprits knew what was before them. That fence was a
well-known penance,--for when they did anything wrong this was their
punishment. Old Turk felt the touch of the switch first, and mounted
heavily to his perch, his great legs curved inward to keep a footing
on the narrow top; then came Pete, and, last of all, Grip, who, being
a heavy-bodied cur, crouched himself down as low as he could, and
crawled along with extreme caution. The fence was high, with a flat,
horizontal top about four inches wide. It ran around three sides of
the garden, and often, as Aunt Faith sat at her work in the
sitting-room, the melancholy procession of dogs passed the window on
this fence-top, followed by Tom with his switch. But Aunt Faith never
interfered. She knew that Tom was a kind master, who never ill-treated
or tormented any creature. Tom was a large-hearted boy, and, although
full of mischief, was never cruel or heartless; he found no pleasure
in ill-treating a dog or a cat, nor would he suffer other boys to do
so in his presence. Many a battle had he fought with boys of mean and
cruel natures, to rescue a bird, or some other helpless creature. "It
is only cowards," he would say, "who like to torment birds, cats, and
dogs. They know the poor things can't fight them back again."
Old Turk,--a giant in size among dogs,--had been in the family for
many years; Grip was rescued from the canal, where some cruel boys had
thrown him, by Tom himself; and Pete Trone, Esquire, was bought with
Tom's first five-dollar bill, and soon proved himself a terrier of
manifold accomplishments,--the brightest and most mischievous member
of the trio. All the dogs had been carefully trained by Tom. They
could fetch and carry, lie down when they were bid, sit up on their
hind legs, and do many other tricks. Aunt Faith used to say, that if
Tom would only learn his lessons half as well as he made his dogs
learn theirs, there would be no more imperfect marks in his weekly
reports.
In the meantime, the dogs had turned the corner of the fence, and were
slowly advancing towards the house; while Grace, carrying Estella,
came up the garden-walk. "Halt!" said Tom, and the three dogs stopped
instantly; Turk, not daring to turn his head to see what was the
matter, for fear of losing his balance, blinked out of the corner of
his eye, as much as to say, "I wouldn't turn round if I could." "Pete
Trone," said Tom gravely, "it is evident that this punishment is not
severe enough for you; a dog that has time to wag his tail and yawn,
cannot be in much anxiety to keep his position on the fence. Pete
Trone, Esquire, for the rest of the way you shall wear Grip's cap." So
the terrier's black face was encircled with the white frill, and, this
accomplished, the march was resumed, and the three dogs disappeared
behind the house.
"Aunt Faith," said Grace, as she reached the piazza, "that wicked Tom
put Estella Camilla Wales in her wagon, and made Pete draw her all
over. It's a wonder her nose wasn't broken and her eyes knocked out.
If they had been, that would have been the end of her, like the last
ten dolls I have had."
"Not ten, surely, my dear?"
"Yes, Aunt Faith, ten whole dolls! Polly he painted black to make her
like the Queen of Sheba; he made Babes in the Woods of Beauty and
Jane, and it rained on them all night; Isabella and Arabella I found
on the clothes-line all broken to pieces, and he said they were only
dancing on a tight rope; he sent Rose and Lily,--the paper-dolls, you
know,--up in the air tied to the tail of his kite; the rag-baby he
took for a scarecrow over his garden; and surely, Aunt Faith, you have
not forgotten how he made Jeff Davis on the apple-tree, out of my dear
china Josephine, or how he blew up Julia Rubber with his cannon last
Fourth of July, when I lent her to him for the Goddess of Liberty?"
"Well, Gem, I did not realize that you had suffered so much. Take good
care of Estella, and perhaps Santa Claus will make up your losses."
Grace, or Gem, as she was called from the three initials of her names,
Grace Evans Morris,--G. E. M.,--ran off into the house to look up
Estella, leaving Aunt Faith once more alone.
On a rustic seat in the arbor sat Sibyl Warrington reading. Her golden
hair was coiled in close braids around her well-shaped head, her firm
erect figure was arrayed in a simple dress of silver gray, and
everything about her, from the neat little collar to the trim boot,
pleased the eye unconsciously without attracting the attention. Sibyl
Warrington knew what was becoming to her peculiar style of beauty, and
nothing could induce her to depart from her inflexible rules. Fashion
might decree a tower of frizzed curls, and Sibyl would calmly watch
the elaborate structure raised on the heads of all her friends, but
her own locks, in the meanwhile, remained plainly folded back from her
white forehead with quaker-like smoothness. Fashion might turn her
attention to the back of the head, and forthwith waterfalls and
chignons would appear at her behest, but Sibyl, while congratulating
her friends upon the wonders they achieved, would still wind her thick
golden braids in a classical coil, so that her head in profile brought
up to the beholder's mind a vision of an antique statue. Rare was her
taste; no clashing colors or absurd puffs and furbelows were ever
allowed to disfigure her graceful form, and thus her appearance always
charmed the artistic eye, although many of her schoolmates called her
"odd" and "quakerish." Sibyl had already obtained her little triumphs.
An artist of world-wide fame had asked permission to paint her head in
profile, as a study, and whenever she appeared at a party the
strangers present were sure to inquire who she was, and follow her
movements with admiring glances, although there were many eyes equally
bright, and many forms equally graceful in the gay circle of Westerton
society. But in spite of her beauty, Sibyl was not a general favorite;
she had no intimate friends among her girl companions, and she never
tried to draw around her a circle of admirers. She had no ambition to
be "popular," as it is called, and she did not accept all the
invitations that came to her as most young girls do; for, as she said,
"occasionally it is better to be missed." Thus, in a small way, Miss
Warrington was something of a diplomatist, and it was evident to Aunt
Faith that her niece looked beyond her present sphere, and cherished a
hidden ambition to shine in the highest circles of the queen cities of
America,--Boston, New York, and Washington. With this inward aim,
Sibyl Warrington held herself somewhat aloof from the young gentlemen
of Westerton; there were, however, two whom she seemed to favor in her
gentle way, and Aunt Faith watched with some anxiety the progress of
events. Graham Marr was a young collegian, the only child of a widowed
mother who lived in Westerton during the summer months. He had a
certain kind of fragile beauty, but his listless manner and drawling
voice rendered him disagreeable to Aunt Faith, who preferred manly
strength and vivacity even though accompanied by a shade of bluntness.
But Sibyl always received Graham Marr with one of her bright smiles,
and she would listen to his poetry hour after hour; for Graham wrote
verses, and liked nothing better than reclining in an easy chair and
reading them aloud.
"What Sibyl can see in Gra-a-m'ma, I cannot imagine," Bessie would
sometimes say; "he is a lazy white-headed egotist; a good judge of
lace and ribbons, but mortally afraid of a dog, and as to powder, the
very sight of a gun makes him faint."
But Aunt Faith had heard of the fortune which would come to Graham
Marr at the death of an uncle, and she could not but fear that Sibyl
had heard of it also. The grandfather, displeased with his sons, had
left a mill tying up his estate for the grandchildren, who were not to
receive it until all of the first generation were dead. Only one son
now remained, an infirm old man of seventy, and at his death the
hoarded treasure would be divided among the heirs, two girls living in
North Carolina, and Graham Marr, who was just twenty-one. Sibyl was
eighteen, and self-possessed beyond her years; could it be that she
really found anything to like in Graham Marr? Aunt Faith could not
tell. As she sat on the piazza, looking down into the garden, the gate
opened and a young man entered,--the Rev. John Leslie, a clergyman who
had recently come to Westerton to take charge of a new church in the
suburbs, a struggling little missionary chapel, where it required a
large faith to see light ahead in the daily toil and slow results. Mr.
Leslie caught the shimmer of Sibyl's gray dress under the arbor, and
turning off to the right through a box-bordered path, he made his way
to her side and seated himself on the bench. Aunt Faith could not hear
their conversation, for the old-fashioned garden was large and wide,
but now and then she caught the tones of the young man's earnest
voice, although Sibyl's replies were inaudible, for she possessed that
excellent thing in woman, a clear, low voice.
John Leslie was poor. He had only his salary, and that was but scanty.
Energetic and enthusiastic, he loved his work, and his whole soul was
in it. He was no plodding laborer, who had taken the field because it
happened to be nearest to him; he was no loiterer, who had entered the
field because he thought it would give him a larger chance for
idleness than the close-drawn ranks of business life. He had felt the
inward call which is given to but few, and he obeyed it instantly. To
him the world was literally a harvest field, and he, one of the hard
working laborers; he had no worldly ambition; he looked upon life with
the eyes or a true Christian; his little chapel was as much to him as
a large city church, influential and wealthy, could have been, as he
loved his small and somewhat uninteresting congregation with his whole
heart. Older men called him an enthusiast. Would that the world held
more enthusiasts like him; men who have forsaken all to follow Him,
men to whom the whole world and its riches are as nothing compared to
the souls waiting to hear the tidings of salvation. For even in
Christian America, there are in all our streets souls who have not
heard the tidings. It is their own fault, do you say? They can come to
our churches at any time. Nay, my friend; we must go out into the
highways and hedges and force them to come in with kindly sympathy and
brotherly aid.
John Leslie was the other friend whom Sibyl Warrington had selected
from the large circle of Westerton society. Did she really like him?
Aunt Faith could not decide this either, but she noticed the
increasing interest in the young clergyman's manner, as he came and
went to and from the old stone house. Free from guile as Nathanael of
old, John Leslie felt an increasing attachment to the beautiful Miss
Warrington, who came occasionally to his little church, and seemed,
whenever he spoke on the subject, so truly interested in the work of
his life; he talked with her about his Sunday School, and her
suggestions had been of service to him; for Sibyl possessed a talent
for organization, and a ready tact quite unusual for one so young. And
in this work she was no hypocrite; she enjoyed her conversations with
Mr. Leslie, and looked forward to his visits with real pleasure. What
wonder that he thought her a true child of God, an earnest Christian,
a fellow-laborer in the vineyard? Sometimes, when Aunt Faith was
present and heard Mr. Leslie's conversation, her old heart glowed
within her breast, and she felt herself carried back to the ancient
days when the young converts went about the world with ardent
enthusiasm, preaching the new gospel to every creature in spite of
perils by land and sea, perils of torture, and perils of death itself.
Then she would look at Sibyl. Sometimes the girl's cheek glowed with
an answering enthusiasm, and for the time being, Aunt Faith would
think that her heart was touched, and her soul uplifted by the earnest
love of God which shone out from John Leslie's words. But the next
day, perhaps, a letter from her cousin in Washington would come, and
Sibyl's face would light up over the descriptions of some great ball,
and her thoughts turn towards the approaching winter with double
interest.
A mist came with the twilight, and a slight chill in the air soon
brought Sibyl to the shelter of the piazza; she never trifled with her
health, her good looks were of serious importance to her, and she
never hazarded them for the sake of such sentiment as sitting in an
arbor when the dew was falling, or loitering in the moonlight when the
air was chilly.
"Good-evening, Mrs. Sheldon," said Mr. Leslie as they approached,
holding out his hand in cordial greeting; "we have come up to the
shelter of your pleasant piazza to finish our conversation in safety."
"I hope there was no danger," replied Aunt Faith with a smile; "a hot
argument, for instance."
"Oh, no; on the contrary the danger, if there was any, came from the
opposite direction. I was afraid the dew might dampen Miss
Warrington's dress."
"And her enthusiasm also," said Aunt Faith, with a shade of merriment
in her pleasant voice.
"Certainly not her enthusiasm," replied the young clergyman gravely;
"I think it would take more than dew-drops to dampen such enthusiasm
as hers." As he spoke, his eyes were turned full towards Sibyl's face,
but he met no answering glance; Sibyl was occupied in spreading out
the folds of her skirt to counteract any possible injury from the
dampness. "He does not doubt her sincerity in the least," thought Aunt
Faith; "perhaps, after all, his influence will be strong enough to
cure her one fault, the one blemish of her character, the tendency
towards worldliness which I have noticed in her since early
childhood."
"We were speaking of Margaret Brown, Mrs. Sheldon," said Mr. Leslie
when they were all seated on the piazza; "that girl has made a brave
battle with fate, and I have been trying to help her. Miss Warrington
has also been much interested in her; no doubt she has told you
Margaret's history?"
"No," replied Aunt Faith, "I have heard nothing of her." Sibyl
colored, and Mr. Leslie looked surprised; a slight shade rested on his
frank face a moment, but soon vanished in the interest of the story.
"Margaret Brown is a poor working girl about twenty years of age, Mrs.
Sheldon; an orphan with a younger sister and two younger brothers to
support, and nothing but her two busy hands to depend upon. She is a
sewing-girl and a skilful workwoman, so that by incessant labor over
her machine, day after day, she is able to keep her little family
together, and, more than all, to send them to school. She realizes the
disadvantages of her own ignorance, and she feels a noble ambition to
educate those orphan children. Her faith is great; it is like the
faith of the primitive Christians who lived so near the times of the
Lord Jesus, that, in their prayers, they asked for what they needed
with childish confidence. It was her great faith which first drew me
towards her; she was a regular attendant at the chapel service, and in
the course of my visits, I went to see her in the little home she has
made in the third story of a lodging house at South End. It was
Saturday, and I saw the three children, already showing evidences of
improved education in their words and looks, while, busily sewing on
her machine, sat the sister-mother, pale and careworn, but happy in
the success of her plan. It seemed to me a great load for one pair of
shoulders, and I said so. The children had gone into another room, and
as I spoke, rashly perhaps, the overworked girl burst into tears. 'Oh,
sir,' she said, 'it is the wish of my life to give them a good
schooling, and I don't mind the work. But sometimes it is _so_ hard!
If it was not for the prayers, I could not get through another day.'
"'Your prayers are a comfort to you,' I asked.
"'They are more than that, sir,' she replied earnestly; 'they are life
itself. Every morning I kneel down and just put the whole day into the
Lord's hands, asking Him to give us bread, and help us all,--me in my
work and the children in their lessons. And while I'm asking, some way
a kind of peace comes over me, and although I may know there is not a
crumb in the closet, or a cent in my purse, I always get up with a
light heart. The Bible is true, indeed, sir; I can't read it myself,
but my little sister, she reads to me evenings. It says, 'the Lord
will provide.' He does; He has. So far, me and mine have not suffered,
although I can never see my way a week ahead.'"
"Mr. Leslie," said Aunt Faith, "I must try and help Margaret; please
give me her address."
"Miss Warrington has it; I think she has already been there," replied
Mr. Leslie. At this moment a form approached the house through the
dusk of evening, a step sounded up the walk, and Graham Marr appeared.
"Ah, good evening, ladies!" he said, in his languid voice. "Mr.
Leslie, I believe! Your servant, sir. Miss Warrington, I have brought
that new poem from the French; I am sure you will like it."
"Thank you," said Sibyl, smiling. "Pray be seated, Mr. Marr."
But the enthusiasm died away, the conversation languished, and Mr.
Leslie soon rose to take leave. Then Sibyl stepped forward, and
accompanied him part way down the garden-walk, pausing for a few
moments earnest conversation before he said "good night."
"Now what made her do that?" thought Aunt Faith, as she tried to keep
up a conversation with the languid Mr. Marr; "does she like Mr. Leslie
better than she is willing to acknowledge?"
But Sibyl returned to her place on the piazza, and soon entered into
an animated discussion of the last volume of poems, in which Aunt
Faith's old-fashioned ideas found little to interest them.
"Well, young people," she said pleasantly, after half an hour of
patient listening, "I _am_ afraid I do not appreciate modern poetry.
I am behind the times, I suppose; but I really like to understand what
a poet means, and, now-a-days, that is almost impossible."
"The mystery of poetry is its highest charm," said Graham Marr; "true
poetry is always unintelligible."
"Then I fear I am not poetical, Mr. Marr. But I am, as you see, frank
enough to acknowledge my deficiencies, and, if you will excuse me, I
will go into the sitting-room and finish some work that lies in my
basket."
Want of courtesy was not one of Graham's faults; indeed, he prided
himself upon his polished manners; so he accompanied Aunt Faith within
doors, placed an arm-chair by the table, drew up a footstool for her
comfort, and even lingered a moment to admire the shaded worsteds in
her basket, before he returned to the piazza and Sibyl. Once back in
the moonlight, however, the poetical conversation soon began again,
and the murmur of the two voices came faintly to Aunt Faith's ear as
she sat by the table, while the light breeze brought up from the
garden the fragrance of the flowers, always strongest after nightfall.
Back of the old stone house on the north side, the ground sloped down
towards the lake; first grassy terrace and bank, then a large
vegetable and fruit garden, terminating in a pasture and grove. The
stable and carriage-house stood off to the left, and the place was
somewhat carelessly kept, more like a farm than a residence; but an
air of cosy comfort pervaded the whole, and the grounds seemed to be
as full of chickens and ducks, cats and dogs, doves and sparrows,
horses and cows, as the house was full of canary and mocking-birds,
gold-fish, kittens, and plants, besides a large aquarium. Up from the
back pasture, at this moment, two shadowy forms were stealing. As they
drew nearer, sharp eyes might have discovered that they were two
persons on horseback coming up from the road which ran east and west
across the foot of the pasture. At the garden-fence they stopped, the
gentleman dismounted and lifted the lady to the ground. It was Bessie
Darrell and her cousin Hugh Warrington.
"Hush, Hugh; don't make me laugh so! we shall be discovered," she
said, as she gathered up her long skirt.
"But it is such a good joke!" said Hugh, mounting his horse again.
"Think of the fun we've had! And you ride like a little witch."
"We can go again to-morrow night, can't we, Hugh?"
"I suppose so; if you can get away unobserved."
"Of course I can. Oh, it is such fun! I like it better than anything
I ever did, Hugh; and you are a dear good fellow to teach me."
"Teach you!" exclaimed Hugh, with a laugh; "that's good! Why, you took
to it as a duck takes to water. What a glorious gallop we have had! By
the way, Bessie, Gideon Fish would look well on horseback!"
"Or Graham Marr," said Bessie laughing. "I do believe he is on the
piazza with Sibyl this very moment."
"If he is, I propose we extinguish him. Out, little candle," said
Hugh, striking a dramatic attitude.
"You won't be gone long, Hugh?"
"No; the man will be waiting at the road."
"Then I will run upstairs, lock up my riding skirt, and come down and
wait for you."
Bessie went through the garden and up to her room, while Hugh, riding
one horse and leading the other, crossed the pasture and the grove,
and gave them to a man who was waiting near the fence: he led them
down the narrow road towards the west, for the old stone house was in
the east suburb of Westerton, more than two miles from the business
portion of the town.
Bessie Darrell was sixteen,--a tall, slender maiden, with irregular
features, brown complexion, dark eyes, and a quantity of dark, curling
hair which defied all restraint, whether of comb, net, or ribbon. Her
eyes were bright and her expression merry, but beyond this there was
little beauty in her face. A quick student, Bessie always stood at the
head of her classes for scholarship, and at the foot as regards
demeanor. Twice had she been expelled for daring escapades in defiance
of rule, and Aunt Faith's heart had ached with anxiety, when the
truant returned home in disgrace. But her merry vivacity had made home
so pleasant, that the seasons of penance were, as Tom said, "the
jolliest of the year," and Gem openly hoped that Bessie would soon be
expelled again. Poor Aunt Faith sometimes thought there must be a
tinge of gypsy blood in Bessie's ancestors on the Darrell side of the
house, for in no other way could she account for her niece's taste for
wild rambles and adventure. "Bessie, my child," she said one evening
during the previous year, when she had happened to discover her
wayward niece returning from a solitary drive with Sultan, one of the
carriage horses, in Hugh's high buggy, "if you are fond of driving,
you shall go when you please. I will hire a low basket phaeton for
your especial use, and I shall be glad to go with you when you wish."
"Oh, Auntie! if I can go when I please, there is no fun in it," said
Bessie, laughing.
"Then I am to conclude, my dear, that the fun, as you call it,
consists in deceiving me," said Aunt Faith, gravely.
"Oh no, Auntie; not you especially, but all the world, you know. 'It's
against the rule!' That sentence has always been my greatest
temptation. I do so long to try all those forbidden things; if I had
been Eve, and if the forbidden fruit had been a delicious peach
instead of a commonplace apple, I should certainly have taken it. Now
there was Miss Sykes at Corry Institute; she was always saying, 'Young
ladies, it is against the rule to go into the garret. Three bad marks
to any one who even opens the door.' That was enough for me; I slipped
off my shoes and climbed up the stairs, while a crowd of girls stood
in the hall to see what happened. I opened the door and went in, and
after a moment I stepped right through the lath and plastering and
hurt myself severely. Of course I got the bad marks, and a big bill
for lath and plastering in addition to my lame leg, and the whole
thing was Miss Sykes' fault."
"You deliberately disobeyed her rule, Bessie."
"Why have such a goose of a rule, then? Why didn't she say right out
that we must not go into the garret because there was no flooring
there? Then we would have understood the whole thing. For my part, I
don't believe in piling temptation in people's way like that."
"My dear child, we cannot always know. We must all sometimes be
content to give up our wills to the guidance of a Wiser Hand,--be
content simply to _trust_."
"I don't think that time will ever come to me, Aunt Faith; Hugh says
the human mind is sufficient for itself."
Aunt Faith sighed, and laid her hand gently on the young girl's dark
curls. "My child," she said in a low voice, "I cannot bring myself to
pray that you may learn the lesson of trust, for it is a very hard
one. But I fear it will come to you, as, sooner or later, it comes to
almost all of us."
"Dear Aunt Faith," said the impulsive Bessie, throwing her arms around
her aunt's neck, "of all your children, not one loves you more truly
than I do!"
"I believe you do, my child," said Aunt Faith, returning the caress.
Arrayed in her ordinary dress, Bessie Darrell went down the back
stairs and seated herself on the porch steps. In a few moments Hugh
joined her. "Do you feel tired?" he asked.
"Tired! No, indeed. Horseback riding never tired me. You will take me
again to-morrow night?"
"I think it is you that takes me, Brownie. Is Marr there?"
"Yes; quoting poetry like everything. I heard him out of the
front-hall window; something about 'a rosy cloud,' I believe."
"Are they sitting directly under the hall window?" asked Hugh.
"Yes; in two arm-chairs, side by side."
"Let us go up and have a look at them," said Hugh. So up they stole,
and took their places at the upper window.
The old stone house was two stories high, with wings on each side,
which projected out beyond the main building; the space enclosed by
stone walls on three sides was floored with stone, and lofty stone
pillars ran up to the overhanging room. There was no intersection at
the second story, so that the view of the piazza from the upper
windows was uninterrupted. It was a pleasant piazza, fronting towards
the south, overlooking the old-fashioned garden with its little
box-bordered paths, and entirely cut off from the lake winds, which
are apt to have an easterly sharpness in them. On this piazza sat
Sibyl and Graham Marr, and the two listeners above caught fragments of
their poetical conversation. "I say, Bessie, do you know what a
'lambent waif' is?" whispered Hugh. "What a calf that Marr is! How can
Sibyl listen to him? He has not common sense."
"I believe he is to have uncommon cents, sometime," said Bessie,
punning atrociously. "However, if my knowledge of Sibyl is worth
anything, I should say she really prefers Mr. Leslie."
"What, the minister!" exclaimed Hugh; "I am surprised. Not that I
object at all, but ministers' wives sometimes have a hard life."
"Gideon Fish says, that ministers' wives ought to be the happiest
women on earth, because their husbands are always at home, brightening
the domestic shrine with their presence," quoted Bessie, with a
dramatic tone.
"That is a fish-story; I know it by the sound. I say, Bessie, wouldn't
it be fine fun to throw the great red blanket down on their heads in
the middle of the next verse?"
As Bessie highly approved of this suggestion, the two conspirators
crept away softly to find their blanket. But it was safely packed away
in the bottom of a chest, and some search was necessary to bring it to
the surface; in the midst of which, Tom and Gem appeared on the scene,
curious to know what was going on.
"Run away, children, and shut the door after you!" said Hugh, coming
up from the chest with a red face.
"No, Mr. Fitz!" replied Tom, deliberately seating himself on a box;
"not one step do I go until I know what you're up to--some fun, I
know. Come, Bessie; tell us, that's a good fellow."
"We shall have to tell them, Hugh," said Bessie, "or they might spoil
the whole thing." So the plan was hastily explained.
"Come along, Gem," said Tom, in great glee.
"All right, Bessie, we won't spoil your fun."
The two children ran off down the back stairs and out upon the terrace
behind the house. "Don't you say one word, Gem Morris," said Tom in an
excited whisper, "but I'm going to be in this game, if I know myself.
The blanket's very well, but the dogs are better, and Graham Marr is
terribly afraid of 'em. I never liked him since he called me 'my lad,'
and this will be a good chance to pay him off." So saying, Tom started
towards the carriage-house, closely followed by Gem; for, as Hugh
said, they always hunted in couples, and whether they played or
quarrelled, they were always together.
Opening a side door of the carriage-house, Tom called out Pete and
Grip; Turk had a kennel of his own, and sleepily obeyed his master's
summons.
"Now Gem," said Tom, "I shall go round to the big barberry-bush, and
when the blanket comes down I shall send the dogs at it. They won't
hurt anybody,--they never do,--but they'll make believe to be awful
savage, and Grip will bark like mad. You'd better slip round into the
parlor and look through the blinds; it's dark there." Gem obeyed
softly, and Tom disappeared around the corner of the house, followed
by the dogs, who understood from their master's low order, that a
secret reconnaissance was to be made, and moved stealthily behind him
single file, big Turk first, then Pete Trone, Esq., and last of all
plebeian Grip, his tail fairly sweeping the ground in the excess of
his caution.
On the piazza all was peaceful and romantic. No thought of coming
danger clouded the poet's fancies, as he repeated a stanza composed
the previous evening by the light of the moon. "I never write by
gas-light, Miss Warrington," he said, "but I keep pencil and paper at
hand to transcribe the poetical thoughts that come to me in the
moonlight. Here is a verse that floated into my mind when the moon was
at its highest splendor last night:--
'Shine out, Oh moon! in the wide sky,--
The creamy cloud,--the dreamy light--
My heart is seething in the night.
Shine out, Oh moon! and let me die.'"
"I think we'd better let him, don't you?" whispered Hugh to Bessie at
the upper window. She assented, and down went the great blanket on the
heads of the two below, enveloping them in sudden darkness. At the
same instant the three dogs plunged forward and pawed at the dark
mass; Grip barking furiously, and Pete nosing underneath as if he was
in search of a rat-hole. The noise brought Aunt Faith to the door.
"What is it?" she said in alarm, gazing at the struggling blanket with
her near-sighted eyes.
"Nothing, Aunt Faith, but some of the children's nonsense," answered
Sibyl, extricating herself, and stepping out from the stifling
covering. "Mr. Marr, I hope you are not alarmed or hurt."
"Not in the least,--oh!--oh!--" gasped poor Graham, crawling out of
the blanket. "Those dogs!--oh!--get out!--get down, sir!"
"They will not hurt you," said Sibyl, coming to the rescue. "Grip, be
quiet! Pete get down, sir! You are not going, Mr. Marr?"
"I think,--yes,--I think I will," said the discomfited poet; "it is
getting late. I was on the point of making my adieu when,--when the
children played their little joke. Ha!--ha!--really, a very good joke.
Quite amusing! Good-evening, ladies! Really,--quite amusing!"
When Graham had gone, Aunt Faith stepped out on the piazza. "Tom," she
said, in a severe tone, "I am ashamed of you! Such pranks are only fit
for a child!" But no answer came from the silent garden.
"Grace, you are there somewhere! come out and show yourself," said
Aunt Faith. But still no reply. Then she called the dogs, but they,
too, had mysteriously disappeared.
"Sibyl," she said, going back into the sitting room, "I am very sorry
the children were so rude. I am afraid Mr. Marr will feel seriously
offended."
"Oh, as to that, Aunt Faith, it is a matter of small consequence what
he feels. But I see Pete has torn off part of the trimming of my
skirt; I will mend it before I go to bed. Good-night,--" and Sibyl
kissed her aunt in her gentle way, and went off to her room in the
wing.
"I don't believe she cares for the calf after all," whispered Hugh to
Bessie, as, after watching this scene from the top of the stairs, they
separated for the night.
A few minutes later, when Aunt Faith went up to her room, all her
children seemed to be unusually sound asleep; the lights were all out,
and Tom's snores came through his half-opened door with astonishing
regularity.
"It's of no use, my dears," called out Aunt Faith, standing at the
door of her room; "I know you are all wide awake, and know you were
all in that blanket-and-dog affair." A burst of stifled laughter
greeted this announcement, and, when Aunt Faith got safely in her own
room and closed the door, she laughed too.