THE
WIFE’S SECRET.
BY
MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS.
AUTHOR OF “THE REJECTED WIFE,” “FASHION AND FAMINE,” “THE OLD
HOMESTEAD,” “MARY DERWENT,” “THE HEIRESS,” “THE GULF BETWEEN THEM,”
ETC., ETC.
If fame is won by woman, she must yield
The richest glory of her being up,
Drain her full heart, fling off its golden shield,
And give her holiest love to fill the cup,
Which, like a brimming goblet, rich with wine,
She poureth out upon the world’s broad shrine.
In after years, such thoughts as live and burn,
Are sacred ashes in her funeral urn.
PHILADELPHIA:
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,
306 CHESTNUT STREET.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, by
EDWARD STEPHENS.
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, in
and for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.
This Book has been dramatized by the author, and copyright of the drama
secured.
DEDICATION.
TO
JOHN NEAL, OF PORTLAND, MAINE,
ONE OF THE MOST
VALUED FRIENDS THAT I EVER HAD,
OR EXPECT TO HAVE,
THIS
VOLUME IS GRATEFULLY DEDICATED.
ANN S. STEPHENS.
WASHINGTON CITY, FEB. 29TH, 1864.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
UP THE RIVER 25
CHAPTER II.
A COUNTRY RIDE 31
CHAPTER III.
AUNT HETTY 38
CHAPTER IV.
MIDNIGHT IN THE STONE MANSION 46
CHAPTER V.
GILLIAN AND HER UNCLE 49
CHAPTER VI.
OLD TIMES AND THEIR ROMANCE 55
CHAPTER VII.
THE CLOVE ROAD 66
CHAPTER VIII.
DOWN THE PRECIPICE 74
CHAPTER IX.
THE PACKAGE OF LETTERS 81
CHAPTER X.
THE SISTERS AWAY FROM HOME 87
CHAPTER XI.
END OF UNCLE DANIEL’S STORY 93
CHAPTER XII.
THE NIGHT VISIT OF AUNT HETTY 98
CHAPTER XIII.
THE GILDED TEMPTATION 102
CHAPTER XIV.
THE AUTHORESS AT HOME 110
CHAPTER XV.
MRS. RANSOM’S UNEXPECTED VISITORS 122
CHAPTER XVI.
SANCTIMONIOUS RESPECTABILITY 136
CHAPTER XVII.
THAT STRANGE MAN IN THE STREET 145
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE TWO OLD WOMEN 152
CHAPTER XIX.
THE BLOOMINGDALE COTTAGE 163
CHAPTER XX.
AT THE OLD HOMESTEAD IN ROCKLAND COUNTY 171
CHAPTER XXI.
DINAH’S TOILET IN THE GARRET 179
CHAPTER XXII.
MARTHA’S TRIP TO NEW YORK WITH HER MAID DINAH 187
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE DOUBLE PROPOSAL 199
CHAPTER XXIV.
MICHAEL HURST CHANGES HIS LODGINGS 220
CHAPTER XXV.
GILLIAN’S CONFESSION 226
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE SUNSHINE AND SHADOWS OF LOVE 239
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE OLD CHEST OF DRAWERS 251
CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE UNWILLING ACCOMPLICE 260
CHAPTER XXIX.
OPENING OF THE BALL 269
CHAPTER XXX.
THE FIRST WALTZ 279
CHAPTER XXXI.
THE MASTER OF THE FESTIVAL 289
CHAPTER XXXII.
MARTHA HART’S FIRST POLKA 300
CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE MARRIAGE CERTIFICATE 317
CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE UNCERTAIN WITNESS 326
CHAPTER XXXV.
AUNT HETTY’S EVIDENCE 335
CHAPTER XXXVI.
FAMILY CONSULTATIONS 341
CHAPTER XXXVII.
MRS. RANSOM’S RETURN 349
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE WESTERN CLEARING 364
CHAPTER XXXIX.
THE BODY IN THE WOODS 383
CHAPTER XL.
THE DESERTED CABIN 407
CHAPTER XLI.
THE TRIAL AND EXECUTION 421
CHAPTER XLII.
THE BLACKSMITH’S SHOP 439
CHAPTER XLIII.
AUTHORSHIP 444
CHAPTER XLIV.
THE REUNION 473
THE WIFE’S SECRET.
CHAPTER I.
UP THE RIVER.
A steamer was making its way very quietly up the Hudson. She was a small
affair, mostly devoted to freight, and ran to one of those river towns
which are of little note in themselves, but form an outlet for the
products of many a rich hill-side and valley lying back of that noble
stream.
It made a pretty object on the river, because the season was autumn,
when every thing that lives and moves through the hazy atmosphere takes
some form of beauty. It was soon after the first frosts; the forests
were heavy with a sumptuous richness of leaves, and their gorgeous tints
were reflected in the water, till the currents that were in shadow
seemed running with liquid jewels.
So the steamer moved on with the breath of that soft Indian summer
sighing across its deck, so quietly, that the shadows through which it
passed deepened without being broken, and the sunshine laughed around it
as it does when the water-birds are frolicking, turning the foam to
pearls and the spray to diamonds.
Two persons sat upon the deck—a man of fifty, wrapped in a
travelling-cloak of foreign make, and a young girl of seventeen, also
muffled in a cloth mantle lined with fur, in which she shivered as you
see a poor Italian grayhound under all its pretty housings when winter
begins to threaten us with cold.
Yet the girl was tall and fair, with that charming type of loveliness
which makes an American woman a model all over the world—so delicate, so
bright, and, alas! so evanescent is her beauty. Her air was foreign. The
wonder with which she gazed abroad upon the hills, clothed in their
autumnal foliage, bespoke her a stranger to the land; but her gray eyes,
the abundance of rich auburn hair that fell in waves from under her hood
of blue silk, and the energy of mind that spoke in every sweet feature
was truly American, as the gorgeous foliage upon the hill-sides.
But there she sat upon the deck shivering in her furs, though the wind
came laden with the breath of dying fern-leaves, and to one accustomed
to our climate would have seemed balmy and fragrant rather than cold.
“Papa, do you hear me?”
The gentleman started and looked around with a nervous sort of terror in
his eyes. Her voice had drawn his thoughts back from the long-ago with a
pang, but he answered gently and smiling—
“Well, Gillian?”
The girl had spoken in Italian, and her voice rendered even that sweet
language more melodious by its rich tones. Her father answered in
English, and in that tongue she spoke the second time—
“Father, why have we come to this country? Is it to live here forever?”
“It is your native land, Gillian. Look abroad and tell me if Italy is
more beautiful?”
“It is strange, gorgeous, oppressively gorgeous, father; but those grand
old trees drink up all the warmth. I am chilled and lonely here.”
“It is my fault, Gillian. A daughter of America should not be chilled by
a wind like this. I have done wrong to keep you away from home till you
have forgotten your native land.”
“Not quite, papa. I remember it a little: the spot which I recollect is
not like these hills, but a broken country, scattered with houses, with
one at the foot of a rugged hill, which seemed to be my home. I only
recollect it at one time, and in one way. The door was open; a glow of
sunset fell upon the sill, crossing softly along the room in which I sat
playing. I remember the very dress I wore. It had a pink tint, and was
protected by a little white apron, rounded at the corners and frilled
all round; in that apron I held some flowers, a handful of green apples,
and a doll’s tea-set, huddled together.”
The girl paused, smiling: then she suddenly added, with a half-forced
laugh, for there was something in her father’s eyes that made her
hesitate—
“These are trivial things to remember so long, but somehow they will
always come up, clear as a picture, when I think of this land. I could
almost promise to recognize the very pattern of my dress on the moment,
if it were before me; as for the toys, nothing has ever seemed so pretty
to me since.”
“And is this all? Have you no remembrance of the house or its inmates?”
asked the father, in a low voice.
“Of the house? Oh, yes! it was of stone; rough, heavy stone, with wings
and a porch, over which some vine crept, and sent its masses down like a
curtain. In front was a great tree, maple I should think——”
“No, walnut!”
“Oh, walnut, was it? Very well, I know that it seemed a tall tree,
through which the sunset shimmered like gold. Beyond that, on the right,
sloping down a hill, lay an orchard, from which I had stolen the green
apples in my apron.”
“And this is all?”
“How can you think so, father? Would that make a complete picture? No!
no! In the centre of the room stood a lady—a tall, beautiful
lady—combing her hair. I think, papa, but am not quite certain, that I
had torn away her comb while she was striving to take the green apples
from my apron; for I have a feeling that she was angry with me, and that
I had conquered in something. Was I a very wilful, naughty child, papa?”
“I am afraid you were not the only wilful one in those days, Gillian,”
said the father, sadly. “But go on; this is a new revelation to me; why,
child, you were but little more than two years old then. But the—the
lady?”
“She stood before the looking-glass, holding her hair up with one hand.
It was bright and heavy, sweeping down over her arm in waves; the
color—yes! father—the color was like mine; and I never thought of it
till now. But the lady herself was tall and, and—indeed she was so like
myself, when I dress my hair before the glass, that it must have been
all a dream. Only, papa, did I ever wear a dress like that pink calico,
with a white vine running over it? And, if you ever knew such a lady,
did she wear a dress of very dark crimson, sprinkled with tiny leaves of
a brighter red?”
“Yes! Gillian, yes! She wore a dress like that—an India silk, rare in
those days.”
“And the lady herself? Was she a real, human being? Did I ever know her?
Could this picture be in reality my old home?”
“You will know in a little time, Gillian.”
“And the lady—shall I see her?”
A cloud came over Mr. Bentley’s face, and he turned away without
answering. But his daughter was not one to be put readily from any
purpose. She drew close to his side, and resting one hand on his arm,
bent lovingly toward him.
“Was this lady my mother?” she said, almost in a whisper.
He answered, in the same low voice, “Yes! Gillian. The lady was your
mother.”
He raised the hand which still lay upon his knee in saying this, wrung
it with a violence she had never witnessed before, and, arising
suddenly, went down to the little cabin, waving her back as she
attempted to follow.
Gillian looked after him, surprised and almost terrified. What had she
said or done, to arouse so much emotion? Was it wrong for a child to
inquire regarding the mother, who had died almost before her
remembrance? These thoughts disturbed her greatly, and, joined to the
loneliness around, left her sad.
After a little, Mr. Bentley returned and resumed the conversation of his
own accord.
“We are going,” he said, “to the house which rests so marvellously in
your memory, Gillian. It is now inhabited by your mother’s brother—a
plain, simple farmer, who has held possession ever since I went abroad.”
“My mother’s brother, papa? Her own brother, and my uncle? I never knew
before that we had relatives in this country. What is he like? Is he
married? Has he any children—daughters? Indeed I hope so. How strange it
will seem to have relatives!”
Mr. Bentley smiled gravely at this ardent outburst, and answered her
questions one after another.
“Your uncle Hart, I have just said, is an honest, hardy, frank farmer,
who has earned his own bread with toil and energy all his life. He has
been married, and is a widower, with one child, who keeps the house.
This is all I can tell you before you have an opportunity of judging for
yourself.”
“And will that be soon, papa? I am getting very tired of this little
craft. It seemed pretty enough at a distance, but really it is not
particularly comfortable.”
“Well, have a little patience, and your pilgrimage is ended. You see
where the hills overtop each other at our left. No, not there, but
farther up stream. Well, between those hills is a valley, through which
a road passes into the country. There our water-travel ends, and
to-night we shall sleep in the old homestead.”
“How mournfully you speak, papa! This visit home seems to give you no
pleasure! And yet you were so determined on it!”
“I am far beyond the age of ardent feelings, Gillian. Few things excite
me to pleasure, now.”
“But pain! Oh, papa, if age takes away all capacities for pleasure, and
leaves the powers of pain untouched, I pray God to take me early from
the earth,” cried the young girl, with tears in her eyes; and taking her
father’s hand, she kissed it tenderly.
Mr. Bentley drew his hand away, not angrily, but as one who shrinks from
any unusual display of sentiment. His action was not that of a cold man,
but of one who shielded deep feelings from a sudden assault.
“I did not say this, Gillian. All seasons of life have their blessings,
if we only learn to use them. But see how quietly we are drawing towards
the hills. In a little time we shall be on shore.”
Gillian started up and went into the cabin, a little excited and eager
to leave the vessel. New scenes were before her, and at her age novelty
had a vivid charm, come in what form it might.