“It is not much the world can give,
With all its subtle art;
And gold and gems are not the thing
To satisfy the heart.
But gentle words and a loving heart,
And hands to clasp my own,
Are better than the fairest flowers
Or stars that ever shone.”
For the next few days there was great bustle and excitement at
Blackheath Hall over the expected departure of Jess.
“She might as well begin her preparations at once,” Lawyer Abbot had
said, as he left, “for I feel sure there will be no doubt as to the
Trevalyn family receiving her. I will write at once, and have a reply
to that effect in the course of two or three days. In the meantime,
Jess can make her preparations to be ready to start on the next
northern-bound express after I have heard from my old friend.”
Accordingly, Mrs. Bryson went at once to the nearest town and purchased
all that was needful for the journey, opening her purse-strings so far
as to procure a creditable outfit for the girl. She was determined that
Jess should not look like a veritable dowdy before the New York people,
whom Lawyer Abbot assured her were millionaires.
But, alas for hopes which are perched too high! Quite as soon as the
mail could bring it, a reply was received from Lawyer Trevalyn, saying
that his wife and daughter, Queenie, were away from home, and would not
return for a month, possibly not for six weeks, later; and at that time
he would be more than pleased to receive as his guest the young girl of
whom his friend had written to him.
Jess’ disappointment was intense when the lawyer brought the letter
over to Blackheath Hall and made known its contents to them.
“I ought to have known how it would be,” sobbed Jess, throwing herself
downward, face forward, on the carpet, and weeping as though her heart
would break.
“My dear child, don’t do that!” exclaimed Mr. Abbot, nervously. “You
try my nerves terribly--you do, indeed. Stop that crying, and we will
see if we cannot discover some loophole out of the difficulty. I have
it!” he cried, in the next breath. “I wonder that it did not occur to
me before. I have a brother, a farmer, living at the junction of the
roads a little over a hundred miles north of here. He has a daughter,
Lucy, and you can go there, if you like, and pass the time until the
Trevalyns, of New York, are home, and ready to receive you. It will
be exchanging one farm, as it were, for another. Still, it will be a
little change.”
Jess dried her eyes at once.
“I don’t like a farm,” she declared, ruefully. “Still, anything will be
better than humdrum life at Blackheath Hall.”
“I need not accompany you there, my dear child, as I would have done
had you gone on to New York. I can simply place you in charge of the
conductor, whom I know quite well. My letter, explaining matters, will
have arrived a few hours in advance, and they will be down to the
station to meet you. Will that arrangement meet with your approval,
little Jess?”
“Yes, sir,” responded the girl, quickly, smiling up at him like a rift
of April sunshine through her tears.
“I am glad that we have found a way out of the dilemma,” he said,
heaving a sigh of relief, for the care of Jess, who was so suddenly
thrust upon his guardianship, was a sore trial to him.
The next morning, bright and early, saw Jess taking her departure from
Blackheath Hall.
“There is no one here who will miss me much--except the birds and
squirrels about the place, and the stray dogs,” and a very bitter
little smile crept up about her mouth, to note how much Mrs. Bryson
and all the servants were making of her now, after neglecting her so
pitifully during all the long years of the past in which she roamed
about as uncared-for as the stray dogs that crept there when the
wildness of the night forced them to seek shelter.
Jess had left no one behind her who loved her, or whom she loved.
As the train moved away from the station, the girl’s new life began.
Surely, the strangest fate that any young girl was ever to know. Who
shall say after that that the hand of fate does not guide us along the
path which destiny has marked out for us to follow at the time of our
birth?
Jess paid strict heed to Mrs. Bryson’s warning to keep her veil drawn
carefully over her face; but through its heavy folds she could see
the green fields and silvery streams, the villas and towns, as the
lightning express whirled by them, and she was lost in wonder at the
great world that lay beyond Blackheath Hall.
In her wildest imagination, she had never pictured the world so wide
as this. The hours flew by as quickly as the miles did, it seemed to
her, and her daydreaming came to a sudden end by the appearance of the
conductor, who began gathering up her bag and parcels.
“This is your station, miss,” he said. “I am going to place you in
charge of Mr. Abbot’s brother-in-law, a Mr. Caldwell, who telegraphed
me to the station below that he was already at the station to meet you.”
It was like a dream to Jess, she was so little used to traveling, and
was so bewildered, of being bustled out of the train, and led toward
a portly, old gentleman, who was advancing in all haste to meet the
conductor and herself.
“Is this the little girl, Jess, whom my brother-in-law placed in your
charge, conductor?” she heard him ask, in a hale, hearty voice.
She was too dazed to hear the reply.
The next instant she was standing alone with the old gentleman on the
platform of the station, the train having suddenly dashed away and
hidden itself behind a curve in the road.
“Come right this way to the carriage, my dear,” he said, wondering why
the girl trembled so, and why her little hands were as cold as ice on
this glorious October day.
“See, there is the carriage, and there is my daughter, Lucy,” he
said, and glancing in the direction in which he was pointing, Jess
saw a roomy, old vehicle, and in the front seat, holding the reins
over a restless horse, a young girl of about her own age--a buxom,
rosy-cheeked girl, whom she liked immensely--on sight.
The girl handed the lines to her father, and sprang out of the carriage
to meet the newcomer, saying:
“We received uncle’s letter only this morning. I am Lucy Caldwell;
and you are Jess--Jess what?” she queried, in the same breath. “Uncle
forgot to tell us that. But, dear me, I must not stand talking. Jump
right into the back seat, and we can talk away to our hearts’ content
as we ride home. We haven’t far to go, and we wouldn’t have thought
about hitching up if it hadn’t been for your trunk.”
Miss Lucy had been so busy rattling on in her voluble fashion that she
did not notice the flush that stained her companion’s face from neck
to brow as she questioned her concerning her name, which poor Jess had
none to give. Nor did she note that her query remained unanswered.
“I am so glad to have a girl companion of my age,” declared Lucy,
settling herself back among the cushions. “Ma has settled it that you
are to share my room with me. I hope you won’t object to that?” she
rattled on, adding:
“We have a spare room, as uncle knew, but he did not know that there
was one in it just now; not a visitor, oh, no, though he is ever so
much nicer than any visitor that comes here. To make a long story
short, he was one of the passengers who was on that train which met
with the terrible accident a few weeks ago, and was brought to us to
care for, more dead than alive. He progressed wonderfully, however,
and is nearly well now. I shall feel very sorry when he goes,” she
added, her voice dropping to a low key and faltering ever so slightly.
“His name is Moore, and, oh, he is so nice. See,” she cried, as they
neared the farmhouse, “there he stands at the gate, waiting for us, and
to see what you are like, most probably, for he heard uncle’s letter
read aloud at the breakfast table, and he, who has seemed so little
interested in anything, immediately took the liveliest kind of an
interest in your coming.”
Jess’ eye followed the direction in which Lucy’s finger pointed, and
beheld a picture which was to be engraven on her memory while life
lasted; and this is what she saw:
A tall, graceful figure leaning against the gatepost, his folded arms
resting upon it, his face, pale through illness, turned expectantly in
the direction in which they were advancing.
“Odd,” he was muttering, between his compressed, mustached lips, “that
this girl, above all others, is coming here.
“I suppose she is like the rest of her sex, false and fickle as she
is fair. It is well that I gave the name of Moore to these quiet farm
people, when consciousness after the railway accident returned to me,
in order that the affair might not get into the New York newspapers.
“Unknown to her, I will study this girl, whom I was going down to
Greenville to see; ay, study her at my leisure, and find her--like all
the rest.” And he heaved a sigh which told plainly that he was bored
with life, its failures and regrets.
“I suppose it is fate that I am to meet this girl whom my uncle was
so desirous that I should wed that he cuts me off in case I refuse to
comply with his insane wishes; otherwise, I would have fallen a victim
to Ray Challoner’s bullet, which came near enough to plowing my heart,
or to death in this railroad wreck, from which I was saved, by almost
a miracle. It would seem that my time has not yet come. It is strange,
when life has no gladness left in it for a man, that he should still be
compelled to live on. When I lost all hope of calling Queenie Trevalyn
my bride, I lost all that was dear in this world to me. I have hated
all womankind because of her falsity ever since. Even the farmer’s
daughter, Miss Lucy, bores me terribly with her many kindnesses.”