An existence, if even a dull one, in a large and busy city full of life,
when contrasted in the mind of a romantic young lady of eighteen summers
with an enforced captivity in an isolated cottage by the sea-shore,
grows to possess charms and an excitement which, until so considered,
may have remained totally unappreciated.
Could anything be more depressing than the knowledge that this latter
condition must be endured with no other companion than a hypochondriacal
papa, whose ailings so monopolized his time and attention that a
daughter's happiness sunk into insignificance? Little wonder that she
should melt into tears at so undesirable a prospect, that she should
pity herself and her luckless fate, and that, when fully realizing the
depths of loneliness into which she was to be precipitated for five
long, weary months, she should jump at the dismal conclusion that her
doll was stuffed with the most inferior variety of saw-dust and wish
with lachrymose sincerity that she were dead and buried and out of this
world of sorrow. Papa might then wish that he had been more considerate.
Perhaps; but at that particular moment he was contemplatively
assimilating his fish, and that process admitted of no consideration
whatever beyond that of the fish itself. So when his daughter raised her
tearful eyes to his saffron countenance across the board she found no
signs in it of the sympathy she felt so much need of. What could she
expect, anyway? Dr. Nevercure had been consulted, and this time felt
that something desperate must be done. His patient had persistently
refused to pronounce himself in any degree benefited by the long course
of physic which he had prescribed, and in fact had become an elephant
upon his professional hands; and thus, as a last resort, he had
recommended an entire change of air and perfect quiet, with a periodical
harmless dose for the sake of appearances. Nevercure must be obeyed; the
patient himself, since it seemed to be his delight to fancy himself an
invalid, must naturally be supposed to find a pleasure in the remedies
for his sufferings, and therefore evinced no regret whatever at the
leaden prospects, but, on the contrary, made a most exasperating
exhibition of saintly resignation, very galling to the young lady, who
considered herself the only one really injured.
"And when must we go?" she asked, continuing a series of questions which
her sudden burst of tears had interrupted.
"Friday morning," replied Mr. Moreley curtly.
"Friday morning! And this is Tuesday night! Why, papa, I--"
"Mabel, I said Friday morning. My arrangements are made, and I will not
hear another word about it."
And he didn't. Mabel left the table as soon as decorum would permit, and
betook herself up-stairs to her own sanctum to nurse her grief in
solitude.
She sat long by the open window, pondering over her hapless lot, her
chin upon her hand, her dark eyes far away in thought,--sad thought,
judging from their expression,--the wind playing in her light, wavy
hair, her full red lips parted slightly, showing the interest which her
theme awakened, and the fresh bloom upon her cheeks now going, now
coming, following in some subtile way the quick movements of her mind.
An hour slid by, and then she started from her revery with a sudden
thought. The sadness in her eyes gave way to mirth and a twinkle of fun;
the color came faster, the lips broke into a most roguish smile.
"I'll do it!" she whispered. "I _will_!" she added, with convincing
emphasis and a countenance brimming over with mischief.
It was a foolish project,--a most insane and inexcusable one. It had,
however, the spice of romance, and it might afford her some amusement
and a little excitement during the coming months of misery. It was
suggested by some demon of mischief, and was all the more attractive
coming from such a source. It came about naturally enough, too. On the
morning of that same day her particular intimate, Anna Desbrough, and
she had fallen upon the college catalogue which Anna's brother Tom had
sent for to guide him in his preparatory studies. The names of the
students had proved interesting reading-matter, and the two girls had
speculated as to the probable appearance of this one and that, and had
even gone so far as to select the one whom they thought they would
prefer among those mentioned. They had indulged in a vast deal of
imaginative nonsense, and had finally thrown the book aside and returned
to more rational topics; but the recollection of the morning's pastime
had not quite faded from Mabel's mind. The name was still fresh in her
memory,--Mortimer Granville Dudley: how grand! how musical!
"I will!" she had exclaimed, with determination; and, being a young lady
of her word, she hastily collected pen, ink, and paper to carry out her
threat.
"MY DEAR MR. DUDLEY," she wrote (she had hesitated long between
"Mr. Dudley" and plain "Mort," with the result shown), "how long
ago it seems since those days when we were playmates together! I
hardly think it probable, though, that you can have forgotten me.
My position would certainly be a very awkward one if you had. But,
remembering as I do so well those happy times, and particularly
your juvenile vows of constancy at the moment of our parting, I
cannot believe that I am mistaken in trusting in their sincerity
and truth.
"By a mere accident I heard the other day of your whereabouts, and,
as I for one still feel the same interest in my playmate that I
used to, I resolved, I think I may say courageously, to discover
whether he still gave promise of fulfilling all the hopes I then
entertained for him.
"I wonder if some of our early experiences are still as fresh in
your mind as they are in mine! Do you remember that day you made me
stand guard while you 'blew' old Jones's eggs in retaliation for
his having turned informer against you? I think it was the time he
told about your having promoted a fight between two dogs. And do
you remember the day on the skating-pond when you broke through the
ice and frightened me into fits by disappearing three times below
the surface, while all the time you were standing, as you afterward
confessed, on solid bottom? I thought then I should never forgive
you for causing me in that unguarded moment to betray my feelings.
And then the telegraph scheme by which we communicated that time I
had the measles. It all seems to have occurred in some other world,
looking back at it now; and yet what happy times those were! I
believe I could go on forever with these reminiscences; but perhaps
they are not as sweet to you as they are to me; perhaps I am only
boring you with them. It would be a great disappointment to me,
though, to know that you never looked back with a sigh to those
days and never gave a thought to your once so devoted playmate.
"I am going to a place called Stillton this summer. I dare say you
never heard of it: it is in Maine; and I must confess I anticipate
a very stupid time there. Perhaps I shall have nothing else to do
but reflect upon the days of my early youth. Am I _quite_
forgotten?
"Your playmate of old,
"JANE JENNINGS.
"BOSTON, June 10, 188-."
The _nom de plume_ was borrowed from Mabel's faithful servant,--nurse in
earlier days, a description of maid now,--and was a safe one, as old
Jane proper was never known to receive letters, and, moreover, could not
have deciphered her own name on the envelope had one arrived for her.
The conflict on the following morning as to whether it should be sent or
destroyed, the tremble of the little hand that finally dropped it
irrevocably into the iron post-box, the vain reproaches and unanswered
longings for its return, the subsequent prayers that it might by some
providential interference be intercepted or miscarry, all followed in
due course, as well as later a revulsion of feeling and an anxious
watching for the mails, hope deferred, and sickness of heart.
Friday came. The journey, miserable as was its object, was accomplished,
and Stillton, in all its tomb-like silence and drowsy do-nothingness,
with its few glaring white houses and its one dusty road, offering no
apology or explanation whatever for its purposeless existence, at last
was reached, and Farmer Galusha Krinklebottom, in accordance with Dr.
Nevercure's arrangements, met the jaded travellers at the station in his
rickety shay, prepared to take them over to the cottage.
"'Tain't more'n three mile," he said consolingly. "The roads ain't none
too good this season, an' Kittie--that's _her_" (pointing to his
mare)--"don't feel over-skittish; she's nigh onter fourteen year, an'
right smart, too, fur her age, but sorter broken-winded latterly; but I
guess we'll make it afore dark.--Go 'long, Kittie!"
The ancient mare started off. Her fore-legs were stiff and jointless,
her hip-bones painfully prominent, her ribs sadly bare, and her nose
hung dejectedly toward the ground; but she still possessed some
mechanical power of locomotion, and the "shay" began to squeak and
rattle in her wake. Galusha was proud of his native hamlet. "That
there's our meetin'-house," he said, but its whitewash and green blinds
did not seem to excite the travellers' admiration. "An' that longish
house yonder's Pincus's."
"Pincus's?" asked Mabel, with a yawn.
"Pincus Sass's, mum. 'Tis the hotel, mum. That's him in the door.
Hulloa, Pincus!" he shouted, shooting a line of tobacco-juice over the
dash-board.
"Haow, Galusha!" came in nasal accents from the door-way. "Who ye got in
the phayton?"
"The folks as has took the cottage yonder!" called back Galusha.
"Humph! I'll be dummed!" was Pincus's audible comment as the shay
rattled on.
"Yonder's the store," presently added Galusha, pointing with his two
feet of whip-stock to a place placarded with patent-medicine
advertisements, and apparently the rendezvous for all the
tobacco-chewers of the neighborhood.
"And the post-office?" asked Mabel timidly.
"In the store, mum. Barton Bump's our pos'master. Some'at of a man,
Barton is. He was 'p'inted by the Pres'dent 'imself. Barton fit in the
war, yer see, an' I 'spect Gen'ral Grant took a powerful shine to him.
He made him pos'master fust thing."
The greatness of Barton Bump did not seem to impress the party as much
as Galusha anticipated. "Git 'long, Kittie!" he said, retiring into
himself and seeking solace in a fresh mouthful of tobacco. He couldn't
contain himself long, though. He soon exclaimed, "So you's the folks as
has took the cottage yonder. Well, I want t' know!" He paused again to
chew awhile, and then continued, "Yer ain't bin much hereabouts, I
reckon?" Another reflective cud. "Well, 'tain't so durned 'citin' here,
maybe, as 't might be up to Bosting, but we 'casion'lly gets up reels
an' sich for the young folks an' 'joys erselves.--Go 'long, Kittie!--You
heard tell, I reckon, on Farmer Manton, lives down 'longside this here
cottage of yourn. No? Well, I want t' know. He's 'sider'ble of a man in
these parts, Manton is. His gals is great on's on flare-ups, an'
powerful smart gals they be, too.--Go 'long, Kittie Krinklebottom!--But
durn me if he ain't got the cussedest boy as ever stepped! He don't do
nothin' but mope about an' ac' silly. He didn't never do no chores about
the yard nor nothin', an' one fine day he come to Manton an' says,
'Dad,' says he, 'I want to go to college,' says he. Well, the old man
was that cumflusticated an' took aback that says he, 'John,' says he,
'yer ain't no durned use on the farm,' says he, 'an', if yer got the
notion, go, an' God bless yer!' An' John went,--that's nigh onter four
year ago,--an' he ain't got ter be perfessor nor nothin' yet. I guess as
he's cracked; an' one day says I, kinder kind-like, 'Farmer Manton,'
says I, 'John's not right,' says I. 'Galusha,' says he, kinder hot, 'you
mind yer own business,' says he. 'I ain't father to no idjots.' An' I
ain't said no more sence."
Galusha laughed long and heartily over this reminiscence, while Kittie
jogged on along the road to the sea. Presently they turned a sharp bend
in the road; a pretty little Queen-Anne cottage came in sight, backing
upon a thick wood and overlooking the ocean, and Galusha, reining in the
mare, just as though she would not have come to a halt unassisted,
exclaimed, "Here yer be!"
It required, of course, three or four days for Mabel to become
accustomed to her new surroundings. There was the prettily-furnished
house to make acquaintance with, while she wondered all the time what
ever induced its owner to plant it so utterly out of the world; there
was the little forest of pines to explore, and its most romantic nooks
to be discovered; and there was the sea, a thing of never-failing
beauty, to gaze upon from the rocky cliffs, as it dashed itself in fine
spray against their base, or from the broad crescent beach beyond, as it
rolled its crested billows up the sandy slope. Yes, all these things
were very pleasant,--far more delightful than she had anticipated. She
thought during those first few days that she would like to live on there
forever, until the novelty wore off and her father's ailings crushed out
the new life which the change had given birth to and kept him locked in
his own den with his miseries; and even then nature began to pall as a
constant and sole companion, and her mind turned with ever-increasing
anxiety to the one event which could possibly break this spell of
monotony. Had her letter _in fact_ miscarried? or could it be that the
favored recipient had treated it with cold contempt, ruthlessly
destroyed it or cast it into the wastepaper-basket? Many were the
painful, blush-provoking thoughts that each terrible possibility
suggested. She had long since decided that she had been a little fool,
and that of course Seniors in college had better things to do than to
answer silly girls' more silly letters, when one day on her regular
visit to Barton Bump's store she overheard the following:
"It's bin a-kickin' round this here store three days, an' I ain't goin'
ter be bothered no longer. Hiram, jes' you stick the dratted thing in
one o' them 'ficial en-_vell_ups, an' 'dress it to Wash'ton, D.C."
"Ain't ye goin' to advertise it, dad?"
"'Tain't no good advertisin' it, Hiram. There ain't nobody as calls
herself Jennings in the hull county, an' I know it."
But Mabel interrupted him. "Miss Jane Jennings, is it? Why, that letter
is for me!" she exclaimed eagerly.
"Fur you, miss?" asked Barton, glancing at her suspiciously over his
spectacles. "Ain't your name Moreley?"
"Yes," she answered, in some embarrassment, "but--but Jane Jennings is
our servant, you know. Give me the letter. I will take it to her."
Barton hesitated. He hadn't had any communication with the government
for some time, and liked to remind them in the capital now and then of
his existence. "Well," he said finally, and with reluctance, "ef you're
sartin', why, here ye be." And Mabel took it, and bore it away with a
palpitating heart, quite forgetting to purchase the supplies which the
cook had commissioned her to bring home for dinner.
In the most secluded spot in the dark pine wood she broke the seal and
read as follows:
"MY LONG-LOST JENNIE,--Remember my charming little playmate?
Remember the one object that makes my childhood a bright picture
to look back upon? Of course I do, with all the pleasure in the
recollection that her presence used to inspire in those happy days.
Remember the diabolical exploit with Jones's eggs? Distinctly. And
the telegraph system? I believe I could go through the alphabet
now. And I remember, too, that day on the skating-pond, with
contrition, however, and a prayer that my heartlessness may be
forgiven. How can I ever have been unkind to my faithful Jennie?
Nor have I forgotten--how could I?--our tender parting. You said
that you could never forget me, and now your letter proves that you
were sincere; and I hope my answer may convince you that when I
told you of my never-failing constancy I spoke the truth.
"It is a delightful surprise to me to have heard from you at last.
The years that I have been thinking and dreaming of you and wishing
for news of you are over, and now I have at last found the idol of
my boyish admiration.
"But you must have changed as well as I in all this time. I should
like very much to have a likeness of you as you are now, to compare
with that which is indelibly stamped on my memory. Won't you send
me one?
"It surprises me that in recalling those experiences of ours you
should have omitted the one that is most vivid and most delightful
to me. Can it be that you have forgotten the little house we built
under the old chestnut-tree, where you prepared the supper on your
best doll's china for the weary hunter who used to return laden
with green apples, currants, strawberries, and other wild beasts,
the spoils of his chase? How generous and self-sacrificing you used
to be with the slender provisions, and anxious lest the foot-sore
huntsman should not get enough to sustain his toilsome existence!
What an example you were of domesticity! and I cannot believe that
you are anything else to-day but the same good pattern for
womanhood.
"Do let me hear from you soon again. Although I have existed so
long in ignorance even as to whether you were still alive, the
knowledge now that you are so, and that you have still a corner in
your memory, if not in your heart, for me, has revived all my old
feelings and keeps me in constant hope of further news of you.
"As ever, your affectionate playmate,
"MORT."
Notwithstanding all the hopes and fears of the past few days, there was
the reply, after all, and Mabel, after reading it through three times,
concluded that "Mort" must be "splendid," and that this sort of sport
was far ahead of anything she had yet attempted. It combined, so she
argued, all the spice of a heavy flirtation with the advantage of a
strict incognito, and, with judicious management, she thought that it
might be carried on in perfect safety for some time to come.
Mr. Moreley was worse than usual that evening; dinner, without the
articles which Mabel should have brought from the village, was not a
success, and such a catastrophe always aggravated his disease. Having
learned who was to blame for it, it was many days before he could
forgive or forget his daughter's inhuman treatment of her much-suffering
papa, so that she was left even more than usual to her own devices, and
spent a deal of her time either with novels or her writing-case in the
romantic corners of the pine wood or on the rocks and along the beach by
the sea.
Dudley's letter had been answered one afternoon, when the late sun was
throwing long shadows and touching the distant sails upon the ocean with
a shade of delicate pink, when a gentle breeze was only rippling the
surface of the water and the waves were only murmuring soft music upon
the sand; and if but half of the tender emotion which these surroundings
gave birth to were transferred to her paper, Dudley, if his heart were
at all as he had represented it, must have found in her reply an ample
reward for his strange constancy. Circumstances, at any rate, went to
show that it had been very welcome and pleasing to its recipient, for it
was scarcely three days later that a second missive for Miss Jane
Jennings reached the Stillton office and was duly claimed by Mabel
before any possible accident could throw it into other hands. She had
perused it with marked pleasure; it had contained many fresh allusions
to "childhood's happy hour," many additional and very original accounts
of doings in their fancied youth, several frank compliments, and a
reiterated and very urgent request for a photograph. She had allowed
several days to pass in considering what notice to take of this somewhat
impudent demand. At one time she almost concluded to let Mr. Dudley drop
altogether. What right had he to call upon her for her likeness? At
another she was quite as firmly resolved to send him one. The whispered
vanity which told her that he would not be disappointed in it was not
easily resisted. At last, however, a simple middle course--an easy way
out of the difficulty--suggested itself, and, as it promised, too, to
throw another puzzling veil of mystery over her identity, she seized it
eagerly, and that very afternoon put it into execution. Seated on the
rocks that overlooked the sea, gathering thoughts in long gazes toward
the distant horizon, and allowing imagination to roam as freely as could
her eyes over the unbounded ocean, she wrote her answer. After touching
upon the episodes of their earlier days which his last letter had
brought to light, and adding the details of a few more experiences which
her fertile mind suggested, she turned to the subject of the photograph.
"I wish it were better," she wrote. "It is a shockingly poor likeness, I
know, but may serve as a reminder of your little playmate, if not as a
perfect representation of her." She sealed the envelope, enclosing the
picture, and, seeing Galusha Krinklebottom drive by just at the moment,
hailed him, and sent photograph, letter, and all in his care to the
mails.
It is strange how, even after bitter experience, many of us persist in
putting the cart before the horse,--doing the deed before taking the
proper consideration of its consequences. When the letter had gone, and
not before, Mabel fully realized that she had done something positively
wicked and unpardonable. Her terrible sin kept her awake all that night
and preyed upon her mind for days afterward. "I hardly know the girl,"
she pleaded in self-excuse to her injured conscience. "What of that?"
exclaimed the voice sternly. "I don't like her, anyhow," she added,
almost in tears. "What of that?" persisted the voice angrily. Oh, well,
it was done and could not be undone now. It was mean, perhaps, to send
him another girl's picture, but, considering that the whole world
acknowledged that Mabel Moreley was far the better-looking of the two,
did not this sacrifice of vanity palliate the offence? It seemed, after
all, a very remote possibility that any harm could come to the other
girl through this freak of hers. She could not, of course, have sent her
own picture, and this was the only one in her collection that had seemed
at all passable: so, eventually, the iniquity of the proceeding faded
before these convincing arguments, and she soon found herself much more
interested in looking forward to the receipt of the likeness which he
could not fail to send in return than with reproaches over a hasty piece
of folly.
The reply arrived in due course, and with it the photograph of a
handsome face, with fine, bold eyes, a prominent nose, an expressive
mouth, and a moustache in the springtime of its existence. It was
captivating, but, after her own deception, she was naturally in doubt as
to who the true owner of that very attractive physiognomy might be. If
indeed it were Dudley, her random shot had hit the mark. To her
imagination he had always been handsome; whether he were so in reality
had never before seemed at all a matter of importance; but now, with a
picture before her from which a lasting impression might be derived, it
became necessary either to accept it or reject it. Should this face,
then, be hereafter regarded as that of her playmate in his maturer
years? After careful scrutiny she decided that it should, and from that
time, when it was not in her hands undergoing admiration, it lay in
secure repose among the treasured notes, faded flowers, and
sweet-smelling rose-leaves in her writing-case. Not many days later she
felt impelled to acknowledge its receipt, and, taking her materials in
this precious box to a shaded corner of the pine wood, spread them out
before her and was soon deep in her pleasant task. She was necessarily
obliged to draw heavily upon imagination in tracing the points in the
photograph which she asserted recalled vividly his youthful countenance,
and, when at last she had finished, lay back exhausted by the effort,
and soon fell into a condition of dreaminess bordering closely on sleep.
Suddenly, however, the sound of approaching footsteps aroused her, and
before she had time to gather together all her sacred belongings, the
figure of a tall man, in a slouch hat and with an unprepossessingly
cadaverous cast of features, appeared from behind the rocks, which until
then had hidden them from each other's view. He stopped short on
discovering her, raised his hat in some confusion, muttered something in
apology for his intrusion, and was just planning a hasty retreat, when
she asked, with some nervousness, "Do you wish to see my father?"
"No," he answered, with equal embarrassment. "I--I was going down to the
beach. I forgot for the moment that--that this place was occupied: this
is a short cut for me. I hope you will excuse my trespassing. I live
just back of here," he went on, in an explanatory way, as she made no
reply. "My name is Manton."
"Oh!" Mabel exclaimed, remembering Galusha Krinklebottom's story of the
young man who was "not right," and concluding that this must be he. "I
am sure there can be no objection to your taking this way to the beach,
Mr. Manton," she answered, smiling sweetly, in the hope of averting a
possible outbreak of lunacy.
He thanked her with a grave, formal bow, and started to pass on, when
his eye fell upon the recently-arrived photograph as it lay on a rock by
her side. He stopped, and looked quickly from it to her face and then
back at the picture.
Mabel's face grew scarlet. Could it be that he recognized it? Was her
secret discovered? Or was this merely a madman's strange idiosyncrasy?
"We have a mutual friend, I think," he said, rather bluntly, though in a
gentle tone.
"Indeed?" asked Mabel nervously.
"That must be Mort Dudley," he went on, half to himself, and still
gazing at the photograph.
("Then it _must_ be his own likeness!" inwardly exclaimed Mabel.)
"I beg your pardon if I am mistaken," Manton added apologetically; "the
picture caught my eye and reminded me very strongly of a college
classmate of mine."
"Then you know Mr. Dudley?" she asked, deeply interested, and forgetful
now of the stranger's reputed mental unsoundness.
"Yes, indeed," he replied, looking at the photograph more closely. "This
is his class-picture. I have one like it. It is an excellent likeness of
him; don't you think so?"
Mabel said that she thought it was, and blushed again as she said it.
Manton concluded from this that there must be something thicker than
mere friendship between Dudley and his new acquaintance, and an awkward
silence ensued.
"Yes," continued Manton presently, "Dudley was the warmest friend I had
at college. I hadn't many," he added, in a tone that struck Mabel as
being somewhat sad. "I hadn't time to make many friends, or even
acquaintances. The work was rather harder for me than for most of the
men, I think; but Dudley, from the very first, helped me when he could,
and I think was the only cheering influence I met with during the entire
course. He was always so full of life and so jolly, and at the same time
sympathetic, and never depressed and in the blues, as I frequently was.
I never could understand why he was so good a friend to me, unless
perhaps because there may be a force of attraction between two
extremes."
"Yes; I should not fancy you at all like him," Mabel said, trying to
impress him with her intimate knowledge of Dudley's nature.
"No, not at all. In the first place, he has been so differently brought
up: he has travelled, seen a great deal of the world, and profited by
this experience, and I don't believe has ever had to take a thought of
dollars and cents: thus he is naturally liberal both in his ideas and
with his money. I am not,--not because I don't wish to be, but because I
cannot be. Secondly, he is another animal physically,--an athlete born;
while I have never engaged in any sport, know nothing of such matters,
nor could I learn them. And then there is such a vast difference
mentally between us: his mind is as quick and nimble as his muscles,
while mine is much like a muddy stream, I'm afraid,--opaque and
sluggish. Yes, I have often wondered over his friendship for me."
"I think you are detracting from your own virtues in order to flatter
his," said Mabel, smiling, but rejoicing inwardly over the happy
selection she had made in the college catalogue.
Manton protested that he had said no more than the truth, and continued
to sound the praises of his friend until the hour for Mabel's luncheon
arrived, when he departed for his solitary stroll upon the beach,
delighted, though by no means as much so as Mabel was, at having found a
friend of Dudley's.
After this it happened, if not by actual design, at any rate with
suspicious frequency, that Manton took the short cut to the beach and
that Mabel read her books and wrote her letters in the pine wood. One
day when they met thus, and after their acquaintance had grown to be
some three weeks old, Manton found the young lady (whom he had never
regarded in any other light than that of Dudley's betrothed) very
abstracted and apparently little inclined to lend the customary willing
ear to his tales of their mutual friend. This troubled him sorely. That
there had been some lovers' quarrel he could not doubt, and it pained
him to think that any cloud should have arisen to darken the brightness
of his friend's existence.
"Have you heard from Mort to-day?" he asked suddenly, in his blunt
fashion.
After a moment's hesitation, Mabel acknowledged that she had, but
further than that she vouchsafed him no information, and he soon
concluded to continue his journey to the beach, his presence seeming
only to add to Miss Moreley's nervousness and evident irritation.
What was she to do? How could she save herself now? Why indeed had she
done this foolish thing? She took the letter from her pocket to read it
once more, hoping that some suggestion might spring from it, some
possible means for her escape be brought to light.
"Miraculous as it may appear to you," he wrote, dating his letter from
Newport, "I have met the image of my early playmate! It was at a
garden-party, yesterday. At first it seemed impossible that two such
faces could exist. I was on the point of rushing to her, clasping her in
my arms, and hailing her with all the warmth that would only be natural
upon discovering my long-lost Jennie, but some prudent voice suggested
asking for an introduction first. I did so. To my astonishment, the name
was not Jennings at all, but Bathersea, and her acknowledgement of my
impressive bow and more expressive smile was as chilly as a winter
morning. I took occasion to introduce my name into the conversation,
fearing that she might have misunderstood it. No light of intelligence
beamed from her lovely eyes. I referred to my college days (and I
suspect she took me for a Freshman), I hinted at Stillton, I even
suggested that we had met as babies; but she only said that her
recollection did not extend to that early period, and left me--for what?
it is humiliating, but I will acknowledge it--for another fellow. This
at last convinced me that she could not be my Jennie. Her resemblance to
the photograph, however, was perfect,--really startling. In justice I
must add that she was lovely. It is the face that has captivated me, not
the girl; she rather snubbed me,--but that face! I never saw half so
much beauty in one face before."
It was bad enough that he should have actually met the girl whose
picture she had been cowardly enough to send in place of her own, but
what followed literally chilled the blood in her veins. He was coming!
Coming to Stillton! Coming to find her! Was actually on the way at that
moment to claim her acquaintance,--perhaps to show her letters and
reveal all her deceit to that inexorable papa of hers should she
disclaim all knowledge of him, or to make matters even more difficult to
explain should she confess the truth of their relations. "Heavens!" she
exclaimed, in fright. "What shall I do? what shall I do?" Her time for
action was fast growing short. The afternoon was rapidly advancing. Ah,
might not Manton be her saviour? But how explain to Manton her deceit
toward him during all this time of their acquaintance? No, she could not
tell him: he would not understand. Could she not boldly confront him,
implore him to forgive and forget her thoughtless foolishness, beg him
to spare her, to leave her before this terrible secret should reach her
father's ears and bring everlasting woe and disgrace upon her? This
seemed to call for even more courage than was required to face the awful
alternative. Should she, then, confess all to the father whose ire she
so greatly feared?--go to him now with tears of repentance and cast
herself at his feet, praying for mercy and for protection? There was the
cliff, with its terrifying height and its sharp, ugly crags: she would
almost rather throw herself into the swashing, roaring waves at its base
than tell the tale of her folly. Yet--oh, what _was_ she to do? Quick!
Time was flying on its swiftest wings. He might be there at any moment.
Oh, would no one save her?
While she was still hoping and praying and despairing, no conclusion
reached, no aiding hand outstretched for her deliverance, the day
advanced toward its end; the sun sank lower and still lower upon the
ridge of those long, darkly-wooded hills to the westward, shed its last
red rays upon the ocean, reflected its dying brilliancy upon the fleecy
clouds above, and soon left nothing but a fading twilight to show men
their way about the world. To a man seeking unknown objects in a
hitherto unexplored vicinity this condition of affairs is unpropitious;
but Dudley, having tied his hired steed to a neighboring fence,
concluded nevertheless not to be daunted, and proceeded on foot in
search of the "new-fangled, sorter yaller-and-red, p'inted-roofed
house," where the village postmaster had told him the lady whom he
sought resided. It was not difficult to find: it was the only thing for
miles around that laid any claims to "new-fangledness," and he
recognized it at a glance. From behind the hedge that bordered the place
he scrutinized each window. No smiling face appeared to welcome him. He
scanned the lawn, the shrubbery, the dark shade beneath the trees: no
girlish figure could be seen to answer to the one he carried in his
mind.
"Perhaps my letter hasn't reached her," was his disappointed soliloquy.
Then followed a few moments of silent thought. Suddenly he pulled
himself together, put on a bold front, stalked manfully up to the porch,
and rang the bell determinedly. When a man in brass buttons appeared to
answer his summons, Dudley felt decidedly more reassured, and his
previous fears of being greeted with a countryman's heavy boot were
agreeably dispelled.
"Is Miss Jennings in?" he asked, feeling for his card-case.