MR. GREY AND MAGDALEN.
Mr. Grey had heard from his sister that Magdalen came from Millbank,
where she had lived in the Irving family until the finding of the will,
and for a few moments he had felt as if he could not have her there at
Beechwood, recalling by her presence what he would so gladly have
forgotten. Why was it that the Irvings, or some one connected with them,
were always crossing his path. Surely he had been sufficiently punished
for poor Jessie’s death. His most implacable enemy could have asked no
greater sorrow for him than he had experienced for years, save at times
when in foreign scenes he forgot in part the horror and the burden which
since his return to America had pressed heavier than before.
“The girl is a lady and very handsome too, though of a far different
style from Alice. I hope you will try to like her, Arthur,” his sister
had said to him, as she saw a shadow on his face and felt that in some
way he was displeased.
“Of course I can have nothing against the girl,” Mr. Grey replied,
“though there are reasons why any thing connected with the Irvings
should be distasteful to me, and I would rather Miss Lennox had come
from some other family.”
He left his sister then, and went to his own room, where on the wall was
still hanging that little pencil sketch of the graveyard in Belvidere,
and the barefoot girl standing in the grass with the basket of flowers
on her arm. That Miss Lennox was the original of that picture, Mr. Grey
did not doubt. She had told him that her name was Magdalen, and that she
had always lived at Millbank, so there could be no mistake. He had
scarcely thought of that incident for years, but it came back to him now
and struck him as very strange that this same barefoot girl should have
come there as companion to his daughter.
“Should she ever enter this room, and there’s no knowing where Alice may
take her, she will see this picture and recognize it at once, and wonder
where I found it and possibly recognize me as the stranger who talked
with her in the graveyard. It is better out of sight,” he said, as he
took the drawing from the wall and laid it away in the drawer where the
lock of golden hair was, and the faded bouquet which the “wretch of a
Jim Bartlett” once had the credit of stealing. And all this time the man
trod softly, as if fearful of being heard and called for, and he looked
often toward the door which opened into the adjoining room. But
everything was still; the _Burden_ was sleeping at last, lulled into
quiet by the sweet music of “Allie’s” voice and the touch of “Allie’s”
hands.
Having put the picture away, Mr. Grey made himself ready for dinner, and
then going down to the parlor, he stood before the grate, waiting for
his daughter and Miss Lennox. The door was open into the hall, and he
saw them as they came, with their arms interlaced, and Magdalen’s head
bent towards Alice, who was smiling up at her.
“Strong friendship at once,” he thought, feeling for a moment vexed that
his high-bred daughter, should so soon have fallen in love with her
hired companion.
But this emotion of pride passed away forever with Mr. Grey’s first full
inspection of Magdalen Lennox, whose brilliant beauty startled and
surprised him, and whose bright, restless eyes confounded and bewildered
him, carrying him back to the Schodick hills, and the orchard where the
apple blossoms were growing. But not there could he find the solution of
the strange feeling which swept over him and kept him silent, even after
Alice had introduced her friend.
“Miss Lennox, father,” Alice said, a second time, and then he came to
himself, and said, “Excuse me, Miss Lennox, something about you, as you
came in, sent me off into the fields of memory, in quest of some one who
must have been like you. You are very welcome to Beechwood, and I am
glad to see you here.”
With a courtly grace he offered her his arm, and led her to the
dining-room, followed by Alice and his sister, both of whom were
delighted to see him take so kindly to a stranger.
To Mrs. Seymour it showed an acknowledgment on his part of her good
taste and judgment in selecting so fitting a person for Alice’s
companion, and a willingness to follow her advice, and make the best of
it, even if Miss Lennox was connected with the Irvings. _She_ knew
something of Jessie’s story. She saw her once in Schodick, and she had
done what she could to separate her brother from her, but she did not
know of the tragic ending, and she gave no thought to the poor, drowned
woman, who, all through the formal dinner, was so constantly in
Magdalen’s mind. She had at once identified Mr. Grey with the stranger
in Belvidere, though he seemed older than she had thought him then.
Still, there was no mistaking him, and when his sister casually
addressed him as “Arthur,” it came over her, with a great shock, that
this man was none other than the “Arthur Grey” who had been poor
Jessie’s ruin, and whom Roger hated so cordially. There could be no
mistake; she was positive that she was right in her conclusions, and
felt for a moment as if she were smothering. What strange fatality was
it which had brought her into the very household of the man she had
hated, for Roger’s sake, and longed to see that she might tell him so.
She _had_ seen him, at last! he was there, at her side, speaking to her
so kindly, and making her feel so much at home, that she could _not_
hate him, and before dinner was over she had ceased to wonder at
Jessie’s infatuation, or to blame her for listening to him. He was very
polite to her, but seemed to be studying her face as intently as Alice
had done at first, and once, when she poised her head upon one side,
while her eyes flashed suddenly upon him, and then were quickly
withdrawn, the blood came rushing to his face and crept up under his
hair, for he knew now of whom that motion reminded him. He had thought
it so charming once, and the eyes which shone upon him as Magdalen’s did
had been so beautiful, and soft, and liquid, and given no sign of the
fierce wildness with which they had many a time glared on him since.
“It is only a resemblance, but I would rather it did not exist,” he
thought, as he met that look again, and shivered as if he was cold.
Dinner being over they returned to the parlor, where, at Alice’s
request, Magdalen seated herself at the piano. Her homesickness was
passing away, and she no longer felt that a nightmare was oppressing
her, but rather that she should find at Beechwood peace and quiet and a
home, and she sang with her whole soul, and did not hear the sound
outside, which caught Alice’s attention so quickly, and took her from
the room. She knew, however, when Alice went out, and a moment after was
conscious of some confusion by the door, and heard Alice’s voice, first
in expostulation and entreaty, then calling hurriedly for her father to
come. Then Mr. Grey went out, and Mrs. Seymour was left alone with
Magdalen, who finished her song and left the piano, wondering what it
was which had taken both Mr. Grey and Alice so suddenly from the room,
and kept them away for half an hour or more. Indeed, Mr. Grey did not
return at all, and when, at last, Alice came back, she was very white,
and said something to her aunt, which sounded like, “It was the music,
which affected her, I think.”
Was there a mystery at Beechwood, Magdalen thought; a something hidden
from view, and was it this which made Alice look so sad even while she
tried to smile, and appear gay and cheerful, by way of entertaining her
new friend?
They had the parlor to themselves ere long, for Mrs. Seymour went out,
and then Alice took her seat on the couch, where Magdalen was sitting,
and nestled close to her, as a child nestles to its mother when it is
tired and wants to be soothed.
Passing her arm around the slender waist, Magdalen drew the curly head
down on her bosom, and gently smoothed the chestnut hair, and passed her
hand caressingly across the forehead, where the blue veins showed so
plainly.
Magdalen was not given to sudden friendships, and she could not account
for the love and tenderness she felt growing so fast within her for this
young girl, who lay encircled in her arms, and who she knew at last was
crying, for she felt the hot tears dropping on her hand. She could not
offer sympathy in words, for she did not know what to say, but she
stooped and kissed the flushed cheek wet with tears. Alice understood
her, and the silent crying became a low, piteous sobbing, which told how
keenly her heart was wrung.
“Pray excuse me, for giving way so foolishly,” Alice said at last, as
she lifted up her head. “I was ill so long in Europe, and the voyage
home was rough and stormy, and I kept my berth the entire two weeks we
were out at sea, so that by the time New York was reached I could not
stand alone. I am better now; home scenes and mountain air have done me
good, but—but—oh, Miss Lennox, I cannot tell you now of the shadow which
has cast a gloom over my whole life. Why, I have seen the time when my
beautiful home had scarcely a charm for me, and in my wickedness I
accused God of dealing too harshly with me. But He has been so good to
me, who do not deserve kindness from Him. When I knew you were coming I
went away among the hills and prayed that I might like you,—that your
presence would do me good,—and I am certain the prayer was answered. I
do like you. I feel a firm conviction that in some way you are destined
to do us all an untold good. You do not seem like a stranger, but rather
like a familiar friend, or I should not be talking to you as I am. Have
you sisters, Miss Lennox?”
The moment which Magdalen dreaded had come, when she was to be
questioned by Alice with regard to her family, and she resolved to be
perfectly frank, and keep nothing back which it was proper for her to
tell.
“I have no sisters that I am aware of,” she said. “I was adopted, when a
little baby, by Mr. Roger Irving, who lived at Millbank, and was himself
a boy then. The circumstances of my adoption were very peculiar, and
such as precluded the possibility of my knowing anything of my family
friends, if I had any. I have never known a sister’s love or a
brother’s, or a father’s or mother’s, though I have been as kindly and
tenderly cared for as if I had been the petted child of fond parents,
and only an adverse turn in the wheel of fortune sent me from the home I
loved so much.”
She paused here, and Alice rejoined, “Mr. Irving? Millbank? Why, both
are familiar names to me, and have been since I was a little girl at
school in New Haven and knew Mr. Franklin Irving. And _you_,—why, yes,—”
and Alice’s manner grew more and more excited, “you are the very
Magdalen Frank used to tell me about and of whom I was sometimes
jealous. You know Frank,” she continued, misconstruing the expression of
Magdalen’s face.
“Yes, I know Frank,” Magdalen replied, “and I, too, have heard a great
deal of _you_, and was jealous of you at one time, I believe.”
“You had no cause,” Alice replied, thinking of the “Piccola Sentinella,”
rather than of New Haven; “I liked Mr. Irving very much as a boy, and
when we met him abroad I was very glad to see him and rather encouraged
his visits than otherwise, but father disliked him thoroughly, or seemed
to, and treated him so cavalierly that I wondered he could come to us at
all. But he did, and then father took me away, and I saw Mr. Irving no
more till he called upon me in New York. I was sick then and did not go
out, but I heard of a Miss Lennox who was with the Irvings and said to
be very beautiful, and that was you.”
“I was with the Irvings,” Magdalen replied, and Alice continued: “I
fancied, then, that Mr. Irving would eventually marry you and speculated
a good deal upon the matter. It seems so funny that _you_ are _here_! I
do not understand it at all, or why you should leave Millbank. Mr. Frank
Irving is the heir now, is he not?”
Magdalen hesitated a moment, and then thinking it better to do so, told
briefly of her life at Millbank until that luckless day when she
discovered the will.
“After that Roger went to Schodick,” she said, “and I—I might have
stayed there, but I did not like Mrs. Irving’s manner towards me when
she became the mistress, and I could not be dependent upon Frank, and so
I came away.”
Alice knew that Magdalen was withholding something from her, and with a
woman’s wit guessed that it concerned Frank; but she would not question
her, and turned the conversation into another channel, and talked of the
books she had read and the authors she liked best.
It was comparatively early when Magdalen went up to her room, a door of
which communicated with Alice’s. This the latter desired should stand
open.
“I like to feel that some one is near me when I wake in the night, as I
often do,” Alice said, and then she added, “I shall be obliged to leave
you for a time, but do you go straight to bed. I know you must be tired.
I shall come in so softly that you will not hear me. Good-night.”
She kissed Magdalen and then went from the room and down the hall toward
the door, which Magdalen had heard open and shut so many times. Magdalen
_was_ very tired, and was soon sleeping so soundly that she did not hear
Alice when she came back, but she dreamed there were angels with her
clad in white, and with a start she woke to find the moonlight streaming
into her chamber, and making it so light that she could see distinctly
the young girl in the adjoining room was kneeling by the bed, her hands
clasped together and her upturned face bathed in the silvery light,
which made it like the face of an angel. She was praying softly, and in
the deep stillness of the night every whisper was audible to Magdalen,
who heard her asking Heaven for strength to bear the _burden_ patiently,
and never to get tired and weary and wish it somewhere else. Then the
nature of the prayer changed, and Magdalen knew that Alice was thanking
Heaven for sending her to Beechwood. “And if anywhere in the world there
are still living the friends she has never known, oh, Father, let her
find them, especially her mother,—it is so terrible to have no mother.”
That was what Alice said, and Magdalen’s tears fell like rain to hear
this young girl pleading for her as she had never pleaded for herself.
She had prayed, it is true. She always prayed both morning and at night,
but they were mere formal prayers, and not at all like Alice’s. Hers
were earnest, hers were heartfelt, and Magdalen knew that she was
speaking to a real, living presence; that the Saviour to whom she talked
was there with her in the moonlit room as really as if she saw him
bodily. Alice’s was a living faith, which brought Heaven down to her
side, and Magdalen felt that there _were_ indeed angels abiding round
about her, and that Alice was one of them.