Much surprise was expressed, and a good deal of interest manifested,
when it was known that the handsome house up-town which had recently
been bought by a stranger it was said, and elegantly furnished, was the
property of Mrs. Bellenger, who, not long after her return from
Deerwood, took possession of it, and made it also the home of Walter
Marshall. The latter was now courted and admired as a most "delightful
young man," and probably the principal heir of the rich old lady, who
did not hesitate to show how greatly she preferred him to her other
grandson, William. Even Mrs. Reeves was especially gracious to him now,
saying she believed him quite as good a match as Mr. Bellenger, who was
welcome to Jessie Graham if he wanted her. And it would seem that he
did, for almost every evening found him at her side, while Walter
frequently met them in the street, or heard of them at various places of
amusement.
Still Jessie was very kind to him whenever he called upon her, unless
William chanced to be present, and then she seemed to take delight in
annoying him, by devoting herself almost entirely to one whom he at last
believed was really his rival. This opinion he expressed one day to his
grandmother, who had come to the same conclusion, and who as gently as
possible repeated to him all that Ellen had told her. It was the first
intimation Walter had received that William Bellenger had pretended to
care for his cousin, and it affected him deeply.
"The wretch!" he exclaimed. "He won Ellen's love only to cast it from
him at his will, for he never thought of making her his wife."
Then, as his own gloomy future arose before him, he groaned aloud, for
he never knew before how dear Jessie was to him.
"It may not be so," his grandmother said, laying her hand upon his head.
"I cannot quite think Jessie would prefer him to you, and she has known
you always, too. Suppose you talk with her upon the subject. It will not
make the matter worse."
"Grandmother," said Walter, "I have promised never to speak of love to
Jessie Graham until I am freed from the taint my father's misfortune has
fastened upon my name, and as there is no hope that this will ever be, I
must live on and see her given to another. Were my rival anybody but
William, I could bear it better, for I want Jessie to be happy, and I
believe him to be--a villain, and I would far rather that Jessie would
die than be his bride."
Walter was very much excited, and as the atmosphere of the room seemed
oppressive, he seized his hat and rushed out into the street, meeting by
the way William and Jessie. They were walking very slowly, and
apparently so absorbed with themselves, that neither observed him till
just as he was passing, when Jessie looked up and called after him:
"Are you never coming to see me again?"
"I don't know,--perhaps not," was the cool answer, and Walter hastened
on, while William, who never let an opportunity pass for a sly
insinuation against his cousin, asked Jessie if she had not observed how
consequential Walter had grown since his grandmother took him up and
pushed him into society. "Everybody is laughing about it," said he, "but
that is the way with people of his class. They cannot bear prosperity."
"I think Walter has too much good sense," Jessie replied, "to be lifted
up by the attentions of those who used to slight him, but who notice him
now just because Mrs. Bellenger likes him. There's Mrs. Reeves, for
instance,--it's perfectly sickening to hear her talk about 'dear Mr.
Marshall,' when she used to speak of him as 'that poor young man in Mr.
Graham's employ.' Charlotte always liked him."
This last was not very agreeable to Will, for in case he failed to
secure Jessie, Charlotte was his next choice.
Money he must have, and soon too, for there was a heavy burden on his
mind, and unless that burden was lifted disgrace was sure to follow.
Twice recently he had written to his father for money and received the
same answer:
"I have nothing for you; go to your grandmother, who has plenty."
Once he had asked Mrs. Bellenger for a hundred dollars; but she had said
that "a young man in perfect health ought to have some occupation, and
as he had none he had no right to live as expensively as he did."
Several times he had borrowed of Walter, making an excuse that he had
forgotten his purse, or "that the old man's remittances had not come,"
but never remembering to pay or mention it again. In this state of
affairs it was quite natural that he should be looking about for
something to ease his mind and fill his pocket at the same time. A rich
wife could do this, and as Jessie and Charlotte both were rich, one of
them must come to the rescue. Jessie's remark about Charlotte disturbed
him, and as he had not of late paid her much attention, he resolved to
call upon her as soon as he had seen Jessie to her own door.
Meanwhile Walter had gone to his office, where he found upon the desk a
letter in his grandfather's handwriting, and hastily breaking the seal,
he read, that he must come quickly if he would see his cousin alive. The
letter inclosed a note for Jessie, and Walter was requested to give it
to her so that she might come with him.
"Poor Ellen talks of Jessie and Mrs. Bellenger all the time," the deacon
wrote, "and perhaps your grandmother would not mind coming too. She
seemed to take kindly to the child."
Not a word was said of William, for Ellen would not allow her mother to
send for him.
"It would only make him feel badly," she said, "and I would save him
from unnecessary pain." So she hushed her longing to see him again and
asked only for Jessie.
"I will go to-morrow morning," Walter thought, and as Mr. Graham was
absent for a day or two he was thinking of taking the note to Jessie
himself, when William came suddenly upon him.
"Well, old fellow," said he, "what's up now? Your face is long as a
gravestone."
"Ellen is dying," returned Walter, "and they have sent for me."
"Ellen dying!" and the man, who a moment before had spoken so jeeringly,
staggered into a chair as if smitten by a heavy blow.
"I did not suppose he cared so much for her," thought Walter, and in a
kinder tone he told what he knew, and passing William the note intended
for Jessie, he bade him take it to her that night, and tell her to meet
him at the depot in the morning. "And William," said Walter, fixing his
eye earnestly upon his cousin, "what message shall I take to Ellen for
you? or will you go too?"
For a moment William hesitated, while his better nature battled with his
worse, urging him to give up the game at which he was playing, and
comfort the dying girl he had so cruelly deceived, and acknowledge to
the world how dear she was to him; then, as another frightful thought
intruded itself upon him, he murmured, "I can't, I can't," and with that
resolution he sealed his future destiny. "No, I cannot go," he said, and
thrusting the note into his pocket went out into the open air, a harder
man, if possible, than he had been before. "Jessie must not go to
Deerwood if I can prevent it," he thought to himself. "Nellie may tell
her all, and that would be fatal to my plans."
So he resolved not to call at Mr. Graham's that night, and in case an
explanation should afterward be necessary, he would say that he had sent
the note by a boy, who, of course, had neglected to deliver it.
Accordingly the next morning Walter and his grandmother waited
impatiently for Jessie at the depot, and then, when they found she was
not coming, took their seats in the cars with heavy hearts, for both
knew how terrible would be the disappointment to Ellen, who loved Jessie
Graham better almost than herself.
----
"Where's Jessie? Didn't I hear her voice in the other room?" the sick
girl asked, when, one after the other, Mrs. Bellenger and Walter bent
over her pillow and kissed her wasted face.
"She isn't here," said Walter, and the color faded from Ellen's face as
she replied:
"Isn't here? Where is she, Walter?"
He answered that he did not see her himself, but had sent the message by
William, and at the mention of his name the blood came surging back to
the pallid cheeks.
"William would carry the note, I know," she said, "and why does she stay
away when I want so much to see her before I die?" And turning her face
to the wall, she wept silently over her friend's apparent neglect.
"Walter," said Mrs. Bellenger, drawing him aside, "it may be possible
there is some mistake, and Jessie does not know. Suppose you telegraph
to her father and be sure."
Walter immediately acted upon this suggestion, and that evening as
Jessie sat listlessly drumming her piano, wondering why Walter seemed so
changed, and wishing somebody would come, she received the telegram, and
with feverish impatience waited for the morning, when she set off for
Deerwood, where she was hailed with rapture by Ellen, who could now only
whisper her delight and press the hands of her early friend.
"Why didn't you come with Walter?" she asked, and Jessie replied:
"How could I, when I knew nothing of his coming?"
"Didn't William give you a note?" asked Walter, who was standing near,
and upon Jessie's replying that she had neither seen nor heard from
William, a sudden suspicion crossed his mind that the message had
purposely been withheld.
No such thought, however, intruded itself upon Ellen; the neglect was
not intentional, she was sure; and in her joy at having Jessie with her
at last, she forgot her earlier disappointment. Earnestly and lovingly
she looked up into Jessie's bright, glowing face, and, pushing back her
short black curls, whispered:
"Darling Jessie, I am glad you are so beautiful, so good."
And Jessie, listening to these oft-repeated words did not dream of the
pure, unselfish love which prompted them.
If Jessie were beautiful and good, she would make the life of William
Bellenger happier than if she were otherwise; and this was all that
Ellen asked or wished.
Hidden away in a little rosewood box, which Jessie had given her, was a
blurred and blotted letter, which she had written at intervals, as her
failing strength would permit. It was her farewell to William, and she
would trust it to no messenger but Jessie.
"Tell them all to go out," she said, as the shadows stretched farther
and farther across the floor, and she knew it was growing late. "Tell
them to leave us together once more, just as we used to be."
Her request was granted, and then laying her hand upon her pillow, she
said:
"Lie down beside me, Jessie, and put your arms around my neck while I
tell you how I love you. It wasn't my way to talk much, Jessie, and when
you used to say so often that I was very dear to you, I only kissed you
back, and did not tell you how full my heart was of love. Dear Jessie,
don't cry. What makes you? Are you sorry I am going to die?"
A passionate hug was Jessie's answer, and Ellen continued:
"It's right, darling, that I should go, for neither of us could be quite
happy in knowing that another shared the love we coveted for ourselves.
Forgive me, Jessie, I never meant to interfere, and when I'm dead, you
won't let it cast a shadow between you that he loved me a little, too."
"I do not understand you," said Jessie, "I love nobody but father,--no
man, I mean.
"Oh, Jessie, don't profess to be ignorant of my meaning," said Ellen.
"It may be wrong for me to speak of it, but at the very last, I cannot
forbear telling you how willingly I gave William up to you."
"_William!_" Jessie exclaimed. "I never loved William Bellenger,--never
_could_ love him. What do you mean!"
There was no color in Ellen's face, and she trembled in every limb, as
she answered, faintly:
"You wouldn't tell me a lie when I am dying?"
"No, darling, no," and passing her arm around the sick girl, Jessie
raised her up, and continued, "explain to me, will you? for I do not
comprehend."
Then as briefly as possible Nellie told the story of her love, and how
William had said that Jessie stood between them.
"If it is not so," she gasped, "if he has deceived me, don't tell me. I
could not endure losing faith in him. Don't, don't," she continued,
entreatingly, as Jessie cried indignantly:
"It is false,--false as his own black heart! There is no understanding
between our parents. I never thought of loving him. I hate him now, the
monster. And you are dying for me, Nellie, but he killed you, the
wretch!"
Jessie paused, for there was something in Nellie's face which awed her
into silence. It was as white as ashes, and Jessie never forgot its
grieved, heart-broken expression, or the spasmodic quivering of the
lips, which uttered no complaint against the perfidious man, but
whispered faintly:
"Bring me my little box, and bring the candle, too."
Both were brought, and taking out the letter so deeply freighted with
her love, the sick girl held it in the blaze, watching it as it
blackened and charred, and dropped upon the floor.
"With that I burned up my very heart," she said, and a cold smile curled
her lips. "The pain is over now. I do not feel it any more."
Then, taking a pencil and a tiny sheet of note paper from the box, she
wrote:
"Heaven forgive you, William. Pray for pardon at my grave. You have much
need to pray."
Passing it to Jessie, she said:
"Give this to William when I am dead; and now draw the covering closer
over me, for I am growing cold and sleepy."
Jessie folded the blanket about her shoulders and chest, and then sat
down beside her, while the family, hearing no sound, stole softly across
the threshold into the room where the May moonshine lay; where the
candle burned dimly on the table, and where the light of a young life
flickered and faded with each tick of the tall old clock, which in the
kitchen without could be distinctly heard measuring off the time.
Fainter and fainter, dimmer and dimmer, grew the light, until at last,
as the swinging pendulum beat the hour of midnight, it went out forever,
and the moon-beams fell on the golden hair and white face of the
beautiful dead.