"We leave them at the portal
Of earthly happiness;
We pray the power immortal
May hover o'er to bless;
And strew their future pathway
With flowers of peace and love,
Till death shall call their spirits
To Eden realms above."
When "Summer Home" rose complete in its beautiful architectural design,
with its wealth of foliage and flowers all in wildest, richest
profusion, a young bride walked under the trailing vines which overhung
the marble-supported terrace, and a manly form at her side opened the
hall door and ushered her into the magnificent drawing-rooms. It was
Florence Lindenwood.
Then a carriage came rolling up the long avenue of cedars, conveying
Major Howard, his sister, Edith, and Sylva, with the lap-dog and pet
canaries in her care, to the newly-completed mansion. What a regal home
they entered, and how proud and happy were their beaming faces!
The day was passed with a social group of friends, among whom Ned
Williams, his sister Ellen, and young Willie Danforth, were the most
lively and mirthful. At night-fall the hermit appeared, and was warmly
received. He sat down by aunt Mary, and conversed calmly, as was his
wont.
Florence glanced about the apartment in search of her husband, wondering
that he did not come forward to welcome his uncle, but he had
disappeared. She flew up stairs to their apartment, and beheld him
sitting before a table, apparently absorbed in the contents of some
volume. Stepping softly forward, she leaned over his shoulder. He was
reading her journal.
"Thief!" she exclaimed, covering the page with her little white hands,
"where did you find this?"
"It attracted my notice this morning when I was packing your books for
removal," returned he. "I did not know I was so well loved before,
Florence," he added, with a provoking smile.
"Look out that I do not cease to love you altogether," said she, shaking
her tiny finger playfully in his face, "if you steal into my private
affairs in this way. But come below now," she continued, taking his
hand; "uncle Ralph has arrived and waits to see you."
They descended to the parlor, and after the pleasant evening was passed
and the guests severally departed, the hermit presented to his nephew
the fortune left him by his long-deceased father. It was much larger
than Edgar had ever supposed. He amply remunerated the care and
protection of his kind guardian, and besought him to forsake the
forest-hut and dwell beneath his grateful roof. But the recluse waived
the entreaties of the young, happy couple.
He "could not desert his home in the cedars. It was the spot where the
most placid years of his life had been passed. He would frequently visit
the abode of Edgar, and also that of his lately-recovered sister, but
still chose to retain the wild-wood habitation as a retreat when
melancholy moods rendered him unfit for all society, and he could only
find consolation in the lone solitude of nature."
So, with a fervent blessing on their bright young heads, he departed on
his solitary way to the distant forest.
And the starry night stole on, while all was quiet and peaceful above
and around the mansion of "Summer Home."
THE LAST CHAPTER.
"Let's part in friendship,
And say good-night."
Shadowy-vested romance, that whilom roamed the grassy paths and
flower-strewn ways of Wimbledon, is wrapping the heavy folds of her
dew-moistened mantle around her, and stealing silently away. Yet for a
moment let her turn a parting glance toward the motley groups which have
companioned her midnight rambles, and are seen passing in the distance
with their eyes fixed steadily on her receding form.
Foremost in the crowding phalanx we mark the firm, upright figure of Mr.
Salsify Mumbles, and his commanding aspect and majestic tread assure us
that he has "risen in his profession" to the airy summit of his most
ambitious aspirations. We fancy another story has crowned his mansion,
and a second piazza stretched its snowy palings around its painted
walls. Beside him is his amiable wife, with the sweet baby Goslina, in a
robe of dimity, pressed close to her affectionate shoulder, quackling
softly as they pass along.
Close behind is Mary Madeline and her tender spouse, a hand of each
given to their hopeful son, who, ever and anon, turns his mites of eyes
up to his parents' faces and utters a piercing squeal.
Then Miss Martha Pinkerton comes primly on, with Mrs. Stanhope at her
side, who turns often with a friendly glance toward a happy-seeming
couple that walk apart, as if their chief enjoyment was in each other's
society.
"You have rescued and redeemed me," whispered a manly voice in the ear
of the graceful figure which leaned so confidingly on his arm.
"Let us forget the past and be happy," said his companion, lifting her
clear eyes to his eloquent face.
Their forms faded from our vision, and the pleasant reverie into which
we were sinking to weave fair garlands, to crown their future years, was
rudely broken by a ranting bustle and confusion. Philanthropy was
sweeping past.
Mrs. Pimble, in nankin bloomers, with pert Susey clinging to the hem of
her brief skirt, stalked on with angry stride, vociferating at the top
of her voice.
Mrs. Lawson towered indignantly at her side, joining in wrathful
denunciations of the tyrant man; and fair, persecuted Dr. Simcoe's
assenting voice was faintly heard amid the fiendish shrieks of those
pestiferous younglings, Simcoe's children.
We knew by their ireful aspects some dreadful peril had menaced the
cause of Woman's Rights, and while we gazed, their clamor increased to
furious yells of rage and defiance, and a dark, descending cloud hung
threateningly over their wrathful heads as they passed along.
On their vanishing shadows Mr. Pimble clappered his heelless slippers,
with the long skirts of his palm-figured wrapper streaming on the air
behind him; like the grim ghost of manhood pursuing its flying
aggressors.
Then Florence, like a beam of light, danced past on the arm of Edgar,
and a merry, laughing group followed quickly in their rear, among which
we recognized the tall, portly form of Major Howard, smiling benignly on
the happy faces around him.
But we looked in vain for the thin, bowed figure of his grief-stricken
sister. There were two willow-shaded graves in the grass-grown
church-yard, and o'er them bent the spectre-like form of the Hermit of
the Cedars, his gray locks moistened by the falling night-dews, and his
pale face turned upward to the midnight stars with an expression of
mournful resignation.
As the clock in the ivy-hung steeple tower rang forth its echoing chimes
on the odorous air, we cast one glance toward the swiftly-vanishing
groups, and silently turned away.
Cold and bitter on our long-wrapped senses strike the harsh, blunt-edged
realities of every-day existence. The multiplied images which but
yesterday peopled our brain and thronged on our notice, have "departed
thence, to return no more."
The last sound of their multitudinous voices has died in the distance,
and Wimbledon is to us as if it had never been.
SCRAGGIEWOOD;
A
TALE OF AMERICAN LIFE.
CHAPTER I.
"Sweetly wild
Were the scenes that charmed me when a child;
Rocks, gray rocks, with their caverns dark,
Leaping rills, like the diamond spark;
Torrent voices thundering by,
When the pride of the vernal floods swelled high,
And a quiet roof, like the hanging-nest,
'Mid cliffs, by the feathery foliage drest."
October's harvest-moon hung in the blue ether. Brightly fell her golden
beams on the tall, old forest trees, that pointed spar-like toward the
starry heaven, and down, through their interlacing branches, upon gray,
mossy rocks and uprooted trunks, over which wild vines wreathed in
untrained exuberance; and dim, star-eyed flowers reared their slender
heads among the rank undergrowth of bush and shrub.
And here, in this primeval wildness, her silver beams revealed a low,
thatched cottage standing in a narrow opening. Its walls were built of
rough stones, piled one upon another in a rude, unartistical manner; and
the heavy turf roof, which projected far over the sides, was sunken and
overgrown with moss and lichens.
From this rough dwelling proceeded tones of mirth and hilarity. How
strangely they sounded in the lone solitude of nature! Through an open
window might be seen a group, seated round a small table, consisting of
two young men, and an old woman in a high starched cap, with a huge pair
of iron-bowed spectacles mounted on her Roman nose. A child was sleeping
on a pallet in a corner of the room, and one of the young men passed the
candle a moment over the low cot, and, gazing intently on the sleeper,
asked in a lively, careless tone,
"Sacri, Aunt Patty! is that your baby, or the fair spirit that unrolls
the destinies of mortals to your inspired vision?"
"She is neither one nor t'other," answered the old woman. "Now please to
hold that candle up here close to my eyes."
"But I want to know who that is asleep there; for I've a notion she is
more concerned in my destiny than anything you'll find in that old
teacup."
"Heaven forbid!" exclaimed the woman musingly, as she continued to peer,
with a mystic expression of countenance, into a small and apparently
empty teacup, which she turned slowly round and round in her skinny
hand, muttering at intervals in an ominous undertone.
"Well, Aunt Patty, out with it!" said the youth at length, tired of her
long silence. "Isn't it clear yet? Here's another bit of silver; toss
that in, and stir up again;" and he threw a shining half-eagle down on
the table. The woman's face brightened as she clutched it eagerly.
"Come, now let's hear," continued the young man, "what's to be Mr.
Lawrence Hardin's destiny."
"May be, if you saw all I see in this cup, you would not be so eager to
know its contents," said the crone in a boding voice.
"What! Whew, old woman! croaking of evil when I've twice crossed your
palm with silver! This is too bad."
"But don't you know the decrees of fate are unalterable?" said the
woman, solemnly.
"O, law, yes! but I didn't know an old cracked saucer was so
formidable."
"It is no saucer, sir; it is a cup, and your destiny is in it."
"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the other young man; "pretty well wound up,
Hardin, if your destiny is contained in a teacup."
"Hush!" exclaimed the crone in an angry tone. "More than his or yours,
you noisy chatterer! The whole world's, I may say, is in the cup."
"In the _pot_, you mean," said the youth, knocking with his bamboo
stick on the side of a small, black teapot, that stood at the old
woman's right hand.
"Well, yes; in the pot, I should say, perhaps," added she in a softened
tone.
"The world's destiny is in a teapot, and Aunt Patty Belcher pours it
forth at her pleasure; that's it;" and here they all joined in a hearty
laugh.
"That will do," said Hardin at length; "now read off, good Dame Belcher.
Sumpter is digesting his fortune. Give me a more palatable one than
his."
The old woman rubbed her long, peaked nose violently, and then raising
her eyes slowly to the young man's face, said, "Thou art ambitious,
Lawrence Hardin!"
"Wrong there, most reverend sorceress!" exclaimed the one called
Sumpter.
"Now, hark ye!" exclaimed the old crone; "I won't be interrupted. I
guess I know my own cups."
"Be quiet, be quiet, Jack!" said Hardin. "Why will you be so
presumptuous as to gainsay a prophet's assertions! Go on, Aunt Patty; he
will not disturb you again."
"Well, I tell you again," said the woman, casting a disdainful glance on
Sumpter, who had withdrawn to a chair at the foot of the cot-bed, and
was regarding attentively the tiny form lying there wrapped in tranquil
sleep, "I tell you _again_, you are ambitious. You want to be thought
great. You want to be first. You thirst for power for the sake of bowing
others to your will. You have rich parents _now_, and are surrounded by
all that heart could wish; but, mind ye, there's a dark cloud in the
rear. It threatens tempest and desolation. Soon your parents will be
dead, and you hurrying from your rich, splendid home to seek your
fortune in a distant country. You will seem to prosper for a while, and
then it blackens again. You can see yourself," she added, holding the
cup before the young man's face, "that black clump in the bottom."
"I see only a few tea-grounds your turnings and shakings have settled
together," remarked he, carelessly.
"Destiny placed them as they are, young men," said the hag, solemnly.
"May be so," he added; "but tell me, how long shall I live? Shall I be
successful in love, and will my lady be handsome?"
"Thou wilt live longer than thou wilt wish; ay, drag on many years when
thou wouldst fain be sleeping in the earth's cold bed! Thou wilt
love,--thou wilt marry, and thy lady will be beautiful as the day-star."
"Enough, enough!" exclaimed the youth, starting to his feet. "Do you
hear, Jack? Is not mine a brave fortune? I shall love, marry, and my
wife will be a goddess of beauty."
"Yes," said the crone; "but mark, she will not love you."
"Whew! How is that? Not love me? And wherefore not, old woman?"
"Because she will love another," repeated the hag in a low, but firm,
decided tone.
"But you are spoiling your fair pictures, Aunt Patty," said Hardin.
"Destiny is destiny," said she with a solemn look.
"Ay, yes; I forgot!" he exclaimed, laughing gayly. "Come, Sumpter, let's
be off. I am afraid our good seeress will discover you and I fighting a
duel in that ominous cup, or brewing a tempest in her teapot."
"Ha, ha, ha! it is not impossible," ejaculated Sumpter. "Now I believe
she did say I would go out of the world in a terrible uproar, shooting
somebody or getting shot myself. Which was it, dame?"
"Time will tell you soon enough, young man," returned the woman, in an
angry, scornful tone.
"O, don't be cross, good Aunt Patty!" he said, noticing her dark looks;
"don't mind my balderdash. Here's another piece of silver for you. Now,
good-night, and long live Scraggiewood and the seeress, Madam Belcher!"
"Good-night, young men, and God bless ye, I say!" exclaimed the crone,
her eye brightening at sight of the silver.
"Just tell me the name of the little sleeper," said Sumpter, lingering a
moment, while Hardin turned the carriage which had brought them to the
forest-cottage.
"What do you want to know her name for?" asked Aunt Patty.
"O, because she resembles a sister I lost," returned Sumpter after a
brief hesitation.
"Well, it is my niece, Annie Evalyn."
"Ah! she lives with you?"
"Yes; ever since she was born a'most. Her father and mother died when
she was a baby."
"Hillo, Sumpter!" said Hardin, from without, "trying to coax a prettier
sequel to your fortune? Come on!"
Sumpter hurried forth, and the carriage rattled away over the rough road
of Scraggiewood.
CHAPTER II.
"A holy smile was on her lip,
Whenever sleep was there;
She slept as sleep the blossoms hushed
Amid the silent air."
The sun was peeping through the crevices of the rock-built cottage when
old Dame Belcher, the fortune-teller, awoke on the following morning.
"Well, about time for me to be stirring these old bones," she murmured.
"Good fees last night;" and here she drew a leather bag from beneath her
pillow, and chuckled over its contents; "these little siller pieces will
buy plenty of ribbons and gewgaws for hinny, so she can flaunt with the
best of them at Parson Grey's school. She was asleep here last night
when the young city chaps came, and don't know a word about their visit;
I carried her off in my arms to her own little cot, after they were
gone, and I'll creep into her room a moment now to see if she still
sleeps."
Thus saying, the old woman slipped on her clothes, and, crossing a rude
entry, lightly lifted a latch and entered a small, poor, though very
tidy apartment. A broken table, propped against the rough, unplastered
wall, contained a bouquet of wild flowers tastefully arranged, and
placed in a bowl of clear water, some writing materials, and a few books
piled neatly together. A fragrant woodbine formed a beautiful
lattice-work over the rough-cut hole in the wall which answered for a
window. Two chairs covered with faded chintz, and a small cot-bed
dressed in white, completed the furnishing. On this latter, breathing
softly in her quiet sleep, lay a lovely child, on whose fair, open brow
eleven summers might have shed their roses. The old woman approached,
and with her wrinkled palms smoothed away the heavy masses of chestnut
hair that curled around her childish face.
"Bless it, how it sleeps this morning!" she said, in a low whisper; "but
it must not have its little hands up here;" and she parted the tiny
fingers that were locked above the graceful head, and laid them softly
on the sleeper's breast. "I may as well go, while she sleeps so quietly,
and gather a dish of the crimson berries she loves so well, for her
breakfast; they will be nice with a dish of old Crummie's sweet milk;"
and, pinning a green blanket over her head, the old woman went forth on
her errand.
Meantime the child awoke, and, seeing the sunbeams stealing through the
net-work of vines, and streaming so warm and bright over the rough,
stone floor, started quickly from her couch, and, robing herself in a
pink muslin frock, issued from her room, carolling a happy morning song.
She sat down on a bench before the door of the cottage, and in a few
moments her aunt appeared, bearing in one hand a white bowl filled with
purple berries, and in the other a bucket of milk, all warm and frothing
to the brim.
"O, then you are up, hinny!" she said, on seeing the child; "just look
at what aunty has got for your breakfast. Now, you come in and pick over
the berries with your little, nice, quick fingers, and I'll spread the
table, strain the milk, and bake a bit of oaten cake, and we'll have a
meal fit for a king."
The child obeyed readily, and soon the humble tenants of the rocky
cottage were seated at their simple repast.
"I've some good news to tell you, Annie," said the woman, as she cut
open a light, oaten cake, and spread a slice of rich, yellow butter over
its smoking surface.
"What is it, aunty?" asked the child.
"There was two gentlemen here last night, after you fell asleep on my
bed here, and they gave me lots o' siller for reading their fortunes.
I've got it all here in the leather bag for you, hinny; 'twill buy
plenty of gay ribbons to tie your pretty hair."
"O, I would not use it for that, aunty!" said Annie, quickly.
"What then, child?"
"For something useful."
"And what so useful as to make my Annie look gayest of all the village
lasses?"
"Why, that's no use at all, aunty; I shan't have one more pretty thought
in my head for having a gay ribbon on my hair. Use it, aunty, please, to
buy me some new books, so I can enter the highest class in school when
George Wild does. Mr. Grey says I can read and cipher as well as he,
though I am not so old by two years."
"Well, well, hinny, it shall be as you wish; just like your father,--all
for books and learning,--though your mother leaned that way too. Yes, of
all our family she was always called the lady; and lady she was, indeed,
as fine as the richest of them; but poverty, Annie,--O, 'tis a sad thing
to be poor!"
"We are not poor, aunty," said the child, pouring the sweet milk over
her berries; "only see what nice things we have! this rich milk old
Crummie gives us, and this golden butter, and these light, sweet cakes!
O, aunty! if you would only--only"--and she paused.
"Only what, child?" asked the fond old woman.
"But you won't be angry if I say it?" said the child, a conscious blush
suffusing her lovely features.
"Angry with my darling! no."
"Only not tell any more fortunes, aunty; then we should be so happy."
"Not tell any more fortunes! What ails the child? Why, that's the way
half our living comes; and an easy way to earn it, too; much easier than
to sit and spin on the little linen wheel from morning till night."
"Easier, but not so honorable, is it, aunty?"
"Honorable! Yes, child; what put it into your pretty, curly head that it
was not honorable to read future events and take fees for it?"
"Why, sometimes the girls and boys at school laugh and scorn at me, and
call me the old witch's brat, or the young Scraggiewood seeress, or some
such name," said the child, in a tone of sorrowful regret; "and I've
often wished you would not tell fortunes any more. Learn me how to use
the small wheel, aunty, and all the hours when I'm out of school, I'll
spin fast as I can. I know we could get a very good living without your
telling fortunes; don't you think so, aunty?"
"Why, child, I never thought a word about it," said the old woman,
gazing on the beautiful face upturned to hers, and grown so earnest in
its pleading.
"But you will think to-day, while I'm at school, won't you, aunty? I see
George coming for me, now;" and, moving her chair from the table, she
sprang for her satchel and sun-bonnet as her little play-fellow came
over the stile, calling her name.
"You must have on your shoes this morning, hinny," said her aunt; "there
was a heavy dew last night, and the path is wet."
"Yes," said George, "have them on, Annie, for I want you to go with me
by the brook to get some pretty eglantines I saw last night, nearly
bloomed; they are all out this morning, I know."
Annie was soon equipped, and, with a hearty blessing from Aunt Patty,
they took their way hand in hand toward the village school.
CHAPTER III.
"On sped the seasons, and the forest child
Was rounded to the symmetry of youth;
While o'er her features stole, serenely wild,
The trembling sanctity of woman's truth,
Her modesty and simpleness and grace;
Yet those who deeper scan the human face,
Amid the trial hour of fear or ruth,
Might clearly read upon its Heaven-writ scroll,
That high and firm resolve that nerved the Roman soul."
Through three bright summers had George Wild led Annie Evalyn over the
rough forest path to the village school. They were the only children
residing in Scraggiewood, and, therefore almost constantly together. How
they roamed through the dim old woods in search of moss and wild
flowers, and, in the autumn time, to gather the brown nuts of the
chestnut and beech trees; how many favorite nooks and dells they had, in
which to rest from their ramblings, and talk and tell each other of
their thoughts and dreamings of the life to come! But George would often
say he could not understand all Annie's wild words; he thought her
whimsical and visionary, and it pained him to find her ambitious and
aspiring as her years increased; he would fain have her always a child,
rapt in the enjoyment of the present hour, content and satisfied with
his companionship and aunt Patty's purple berries and oaten cakes,
believing the heaven that closed round Scraggiewood bounded the
universe; for something whispered to his heart, if she went forth into
the wide world, she would not return to him; and he loved her as well as
his indolent nature was capable of loving, and indeed would do a great
deal for her sake. She possessed more power to rouse him to action than
any other person, and she loved him, too, very well,--but very coolly,
very calmly, with a love that sought the good of its object at the
expense of self entirely, for she could bear to think of parting with
him forever, and putting the world's width between them, so he was
benefited and his usefulness increased by the proceeding. And he had
always been her companion and protector. Next to her aunty she ought to
love him; but his mind was not of a cast with hers; he could not
appreciate her dreamy thoughts and aspirations. He was content to fold
his arms, and be floated through life by the tide of circumstances, the
thing he was; but she could not be so; she must trim her sails and stem
the current; within her breast was a spirit that would not be lulled to
slumber, but impelled her incessantly to action; there was a quenchless
thirst for knowledge, unappeased, and it must be slaked.
Mr. Grey, the kind village pastor, who had become deeply interested in
his young pupil during her attendance at the village school, offered to
take her under his charge, and afford her the privilege of pursuing a
course of study with his own daughter, Netta, with whom Annie had formed
a close friendship at school. Aunt Patty said she should be lost without
her "hinny," and George Wild remonstrated half angrily with her, for
going off to leave him alone; but all to no effect--Annie must go.
"But why won't you go with me, George?" she asked, turning her liquid
blue eyes upon his sullen face. "Don't you want to gain knowledge, and
fame, and honor, in the great world, and perhaps some day behold
multitudes bowing in reverence at your feet?"
"No, I want nothing of all this. I've knowledge enough now, and so have
you, if you would only think so. And, as for fame and honor, I believe
I'm happier without them, for I've often heard it remarked, 'increase of
knowledge is increase of misery.'"
"Well, it is not the misery of ignorance," said Annie, proudly. "I am
astonished to hear such sentiments from you, George Wild. I had thought
you possessed a nobler, braver heart than to sit down here beneath the
oaks of Scraggiewood, and waste the best years of your life in sloth and
inaction."
"Why, I've not been sitting alone, have I, Annie?" he asked with an
insinuating smile.
"But you will sit here alone henceforth, if you choose to continue this
indolent life; childhood does not last forever; my child-life is over,
and I am going to work now, hard and earnest."
"For what?"
"_For something noble_; to gain some lofty end."
"Well, I hope you'll succeed in your high-wrought schemes; but for my
part, I see no use in fretting and toiling through this life, to secure
some transitory fame and honor. Better pass its hours away as easily and
quietly as we can."
"We should not live shrunk away in ourselves, but strive to do something
for the benefit and happiness of our species."
"O, well, Annie! if to render others happy is your wish and aim, you
have but to remain here in your humble cottage home, and I'll promise
you you'll do that."
"Why, George," said she, noticing his rueful countenance, "what makes
you look so woe-begone? As if I were about to fly to the ends of the
earth, when I'm only going two little miles to Parson Grey's Rectory,
and promise to walk to Scraggiewood every Saturday evening with you."
"But I feel as if I was going to lose you, Annie, for all that; the
times that are past will never return."
"No; but there may be brighter ones ahead," she answered, hopefully.
George shook his head. None of her lofty aspirations found response in
his bosom; the present moment occupied his thoughts. So the common wants
of life were supplied, and he free from pain and anxiety, he was
content, nor wished or thought of aught beyond. The great world of the
future he never longed to scan, nor penetrate its misty-veiled depths,
and leave a name for lofty deeds and noble actions, that should vibrate
on the ear of time when he was no more.
And thus drifted asunder on the great ocean of life the barks that had
floated on calmly side by side through a few years of quiet pleasure.
They might never spread their sails together again; wider and wider
would the distance grow between them; higher and higher would swell the
waves as they sped on their separate courses; the one light and buoyant
with her freight of noble hopes and dauntless steersman at the helm, the
other without sail or ballast, drifted about at the mercy of winds and
waves.
CHAPTER IV.
"A gentle heritage is mine,
A life of quiet pleasure;
My heaviest cares are but to twine
Fresh votive garlands for the shrine
Where 'bides my bosom's treasure.
I am not merry, nor yet sad,
My thoughts are more serene than glad."
It was a lovely spot, that peaceful vicarage. Tall elms shaded the
sloping roof, and roses and jessamines poured their rich perfume on the
morning and evening air. Here two years of calm, tranquil enjoyment
glided over Annie Evalyn, as she, with unremitting assiduity, pursued
the path of science under the guidance of the good parson. Each day
fresh joys were opening before her, in the forms of newly-discovered
truths. Her faculties developed so rapidly as to astonish her tutor,
wise as he was in experience, and well-taught in ancient and modern
lore.
"Annie," said he, one evening, as they sat together in the family
parlor, "what do you intend to do with all this store of knowledge you
are treasuring up with such eager application?"
She looked up quickly in his face, and a flush for a moment passed over
her usually pale features.
"I know what you would say," he added; "that you think no one can have
_too much_ knowledge--is it not?"
"Do you think one can?" she asked.
"Perhaps not too much well-regulated knowledge; knowledge adapted to an
efficient end and purpose."
Again Annie turned her dark blue, expressive eye full upon his face.
"I mean to put my little store of learning to good use," she said,
thoughtfully.
"Well, so I supposed, Annie. What do you intend to do?"
"Something great and good," she answered, her eye kindling with the
lofty thought within.
"And could you accomplish but one, which should it be?"
"Will not a great thing be a good one also?" she inquired.
He shook his head.
"That does not necessarily follow," he said; "that which is great may
not be good, but remember, Annie, what is _good_ will surely be
_great_."
"I shall consider your words, dear sir," said Annie. "I am much indebted
to you for the privileges your kindness has afforded me, and hope some
day to be able to make a grateful recompense."
"What I do is done freely, my child, and from a sense of duty. Do not
speak of recompense. Has not the companionship you have afforded my
little Netta, to say nothing of myself and sister Rachel, amply repaid
the small trouble your instruction has caused?"
"But you forget in all this I am as much or more the recipient as the
giver. If Netta has found me a tolerable companion, I have found her a
charming one; and all yours and aunt Rachel's teachings--ah! I fear I'm
much the debtor after all," she said, shaking her head, doubtfully, and
smiling in her listener's face with artless simplicity and gratitude.
"No, no, not a debtor, Annie," he said, stroking her bright curls; "I
cannot admit that. Let the benefits be mutual, if you will, nothing
more. I see Netta in the garden gathering flowers. She is a good little
girl, and loves you dearly, though she has none of the brilliancies that
characterize your mind. I do not intend to flatter; go now and join your
friend. I expect a party of western people to visit me to-morrow, and
have some preparations to make for their reception."
Annie bowed, and glided down the gravelled path of the garden. In a
shady bower she found Netta, arranging a bouquet of laurel leaves and
snow-white jessamines.
"O!" she exclaimed, looking up as Annie approached; "there you are, sis.
Now I'll twine you a wreath of these fragrant flowers."
"And I'll twine one for you, Netta," said Annie. "Of what shall it be?"
"Simple primroses or violets; these will best adorn my lowly brow; but
Annie, bright Annie Evalyn, shall wear naught but the proud laurel and
queenly jessamine;" and, giving a twirl to her pretty wreath, she tossed
it over her friend's high, marble-like brow, bestowing a playful kiss on
either cheek as she did so.
"Does it sit lightly, Annie?" she asked.
"Yes, Netta, and now bend in turn to receive my wreath of innocence, not
more pure and lovely than the brow on which it rests."
Netta knelt, and the garland was thrown over her flaxen curls. Thus
adorned, the lovely maidens strolled up the avenue, arm in arm, and made
their way to the study-room, as it was called; a large, airy chamber
fronting the east, situated in a retired portion of the house, to be
removed from noise and intrusion.
"Now you shan't study or write to-night, for who knows when we may have
another quiet evening together? These western friends of father's are
coming to-morrow, and our time and attention will be occupied with them.
I want to hear you talk to-night, Annie. Tell me some of your eloquent
thoughts, your glowing fancies. I'm your poor, little, foolish Netta,
you know."
"You are my dear, dear friend," said Annie, throwing her arms
impulsively round the slender, graceful neck, and kissing the soft young
cheek. "I'm feeling sad and gloomy this evening, and fear I cannot
entertain you with conversation or lively chit-chat."
"Tell me what makes you sad."
"I don't know. Are you never sad without knowing the cause of your
gloomy feelings?"
"No, I think not."
"Well, I am. Often a shadow seems thrown across my spirit's heaven, but
I cannot tell whence it comes; the substance which casts the shade is
invisible. Who are these friends of your father's that are to visit us?"
"O, they are a wealthy family with whom father became acquainted in the
circuit of his travels last season."
"Their name?"
"Prague, Dr. Prague, wife and daughter; also two young children, for
whom they are seeking a governess here in the east, as good teachers are
obtained with difficulty in their section of the country."
"Ah!" said Annie, in a tone of voice so peculiar that Netta turned
involuntarily toward her.
"O, Annie, Annie!" she exclaimed, and threw her arms round her friend's
neck.
"What has so suddenly alarmed you?" asked Annie, endeavoring to soothe
her.
"You won't go off with these strangers and leave us, will you, dear
Annie?"
"Why, who is a visionary now, Netta?" she asked, laughing merrily; "what
put the thought of my going away into this pretty head, lying here all
feverish with excited visions? Pshaw, Netta, you are a whimsie!"
"Then you won't go?" she said, her face brightening. "No thought of
becoming the governess this western family are seeking, and going away
with them, has entered your brain?"
"Why should there, Netta?"
"But would you say nay should you receive the offer?"
"I can tell better when the moment arrives. But there, Netta, don't
cloud that fair brow again. I feel well assured no such moment will
come."
"I'm not so sure, Annie."
"Well, well, let us kiss, and retire to be ready to receive the visitors
on the morrow."
And with a sisterly embrace they sought their private apartments.
CHAPTER V.
"O, show me a place like the wild-wood home,
Where the air is fragrant and free,
And the first pure breathings of morning come
In a gush of melody.
When day steals away, with a young bride's blush,
To the soft green couch of night,
And the moon throws o'er, with a holy hush,
Her curtain of gossamer light."
Alone Annie Evalyn was walking in the summer twilight over the rough
road toward Scraggiewood.
Near two months had elapsed since she last visited her Aunt Patty at the
rock-built cottage, and she pictured in her mind, as she walked on, the
surprise and good-natured chiding which would mark her old aunt's
reception. She gazed upward at the tall forest trees swaying to and fro
in the light evening breeze, and far into its dim, mazy depths, where
gray rocks lay clad in soft, green moss, and gnarled, uprooted trunks
overgrown with clinging vines, and pale, delicate flowers springing
beautiful from their decay. She listened to the murmuring of the brook
in its rocky bed, and a thousand memories of other years rushed on her
soul. The strange, fast-coming fancies that thronged her brain when she
in early childhood roamed those dark, solemn woods, or sat at night on
the lowly cottage stile, gazing on the wild, grotesque shadows cast by
the moonbeams from the huge, forest trees; or how she listened to the
solemn hootings of the lonesome owl, the monotonous cuckoo, and sudden
whippoorwill; or laughed at the glowworm's light in the dark swamps, and
asked her aunty if they were not a group of stars come down to play
bo-peep in the meadows.
And then she thought of George Wild, her early playfellow. He was away
now, in a distant part of the country, whither he had been sent by his
father to learn the carpenter's trade. He had come to bid her good-by
with tears in his eyes, not so much at parting from _her_, she fancied,
as from dread of the active life before him. It would be hard to tell
whether Annie felt most pity or contempt for his weakness. He was the
only friend of her early childhood, and, _as_ such, she had still a
warm, tender feeling at her heart for him; and, had he possessed a
becoming energy and manliness of character, this childish feeling might
have deepened into strong, enduring affection as years advanced. But
Annie Evalyn could never love George Wild as he _was_; and thus she
thought as she brushed away a tear that had unconsciously started during
her meditations, and found herself at the door of her aunt's cottage.
She bounded over the threshold and into the old lady's arms, bestowing a
shower of kisses ere poor Aunt Patty could sufficiently collect herself
and recover from the surprise to return her darling's lavish caresses.
"Ah, yes, you naughty little witch! here you are at last, pretending to
be mighty glad to see your old aunty, though for two long months you've
never come near her. But, bless it, how pretty it grows! and how red its
cheeks are, and how bright its eyes!" she exclaimed, brushing away the
curling locks and gazing into her darling's face.
"But you'll forgive me, aunty, won't you?" said Annie, coaxingly.
"Indeed, I meant to have come long before; but if you only knew how much
I have had to occupy my time,--so many things to learn, and such hard,
hard lessons."
"O, yes! always at your books, studying life away."
"Why, aunty! you just exclaimed how fresh and blooming I was grown, and
I've something so nice to tell you. There are some wealthy people from
the west visiting at Parson Grey's, and they were in search of a
governess for their little children. Would you think it, aunty, their
choice has fallen upon me? and I am to accompany them on their return
home. They have a daughter about my own age, sweet Kate Prague. She will
be a fine companion--I love her so dearly now."
Aunt Patty dropped her arms by her side, and remained silent after Annie
had ceased speaking.
"What is the matter, aunty?" asked she, eagerly.
"And so you, young, silly thing, are going to leave your friends and go
off with these strangers, that will treat you nobody knows how. Annie!
Annie! does Parson Grey approve of this?"
"Yes, aunty; he thinks it will be a fine opportunity for me to see
something of the world, and learn the arts and graces of polite
society."
"Ah! but these great, rich folks are often unkind and overbearing, and
oppress and treat with slight and scorn their dependents."
"O, Mr. Grey knows this family well, and recommends them in the highest
terms."
"Well, for all that, I can't bear the thought of losing you. So young
and ignorant."
"Ignorant, aunty? Why, Dr. Prague himself says I know twice as much as
his daughter Kate."
"Ah! book-learnin' enough; but I will tell you, Annie, a little
experience is better than all your books."
"Well, how am I to obtain experience but by mingling in the world, and
learning its manners and customs?"
"Ah, dear! I fear you will find this world, you are so anxious to see
and know, is a hard, rough place."
"Well, aunty, don't dishearten me at the outset. See what a nice box of
honey I've brought you from Aunt Rachel Grey. Some of it will be
delightful on your light batter cakes, with a slice of old Crummie's
yellow butter. I must go out and bid the dear old creature good-by. How
I used to love to drive her to the brook for water!"
"Ah, those were happy days for me, Annie!" said the old woman,
sorrowfully. "I shall never see the like again."
"Don't say so, aunty," said Annie, her own heart experiencing a thrill
of anguish at the prospect of leaving her old forest-home, and kind,
loving protector. "I shall return some day, may be rich and famous, and
_good_, too, I hope; for Parson Grey says 'tis better to be good than
great."
"God grant all your bright visions may be realized, Annie!" said the
aunt fervently.
"Now, while you prepare our evening meal, I'll run out and look at some
of my old haunts," said Annie, forcing back a tear, and trying to assume
a cheerful countenance.
So she wandered forth, while the grief-stricken woman spread the simple
board; but she could not relish the clear, dripping honey-comb sent by
the kind Aunt Rachel, and long after Annie slept in her little cot-bed,
did the old lady kneel over her sleeping form, weeping and praying for
her darling child. Annie spent the ensuing day with her aunt at the
cottage, and toward evening took a tearful leave, and bade adieu to
Scraggiewood.
CHAPTER VI.
"And there was envy in her look,
And envy in her tone,
As if her spirit might not brook,
A rival near the throne."
"But don't you see, Dr. Prague, it won't do at all to admit her into
society on the same footing with our Catherine? For my part I don't see
how you could, for a moment, harbor so low an idea."
In a far away period of time, the present honorable Mrs. Dr. Prague
had--shall we write it?--cut shoe-strings in her father's shop, and why
should not she be a competent judge of the low and common, since
experience is regarded as the "best teacher" in _almost_ all matters
beneath the sun?
"I say," she reiterated, finding her remark elicited no response from
her worthy husband, "Annie Evalyn is not to be compared to our
Catherine."
"I'm aware of that," was the answer in a dry tone.
"And don't you notice how the minx tries to put on the lady?"
"Not at all, madam; why should she strive to assume what is her natural
garb?"
"Now really, Hippe, you are getting incorrigible."
"Hippe" was a term of endearment, Mrs. Dr. Prague was accustomed to
apply to her husband when she wished to be very killing and
condescending, his Christian name being Hippocrates.
To this winning speech, however, the insensate Dr. vouchsafed no reply;
so his lovely wife tacked about and said, "Well, Dr., to come to the
point, this governess is a dangerous rival for your daughter."
"I know it," responded the good man, cutting up an orange, and passing a
silver plate containing several slices to his fair lady; "here, Mrs.
Prague, do regale yourself on this luscious fruit. It is the finest I
have tasted this season."
"Dr. Prague, when I am discussing matters of importance, I do not wish
to be insulted by such frivolities."
"Indeed, madam," said the doctor, withdrawing the plate, and proceeding
leisurely to the gratification of his own palate.
There was a silence of some minutes, and then the lady, after fidgeting
and arranging the folds of her brocade silk, resumed the conversation by
saying, in a huffy tone, "May I inquire what you intend to do about it,
sir?"
"Begging your pardon, madam," said the doctor, looking up from his
orange, "of what were you speaking?"
The lady frowned frightfully at this fresh instance of his inattention
to her discourse.
"I only wished to know if you thought of marrying Frank Sheldon to Annie
Evalyn, in preference to your own daughter," she exclaimed, in a biting,
sarcastic tone. The _matter_ but not the _manner_ of this speech seemed
to rouse the doctor's attention.
"Frank Sheldon! Frank Sheldon!" he said quickly; "has he arrived from
his travels then?"
"No, but he _will_ arrive some time."
"O, yes, I trust so! But speaking of Annie,--_our_ Annie you know, for
I'm proud that we have such a treasure beneath our roof----"
"Dr. Prague! are you mad? A paltry governess a treasure! I consider it a
shame and disgrace to our house, that a poor, low, dependent, is allowed
an equality in the family, and admitted through our influence to the
first classes in society. And I'm not the only one that marks the
shocking impropriety. My son-in-law, Lawrence Hardin, is possessed of a
discerning eye. He sees Kate loses wherever that girl is admitted."
This speech was accompanied by immoderate vehemence, and energetic
gestures, but it failed to produce the slightest effect upon the
phlegmatic doctor, who, having finished his orange, settled himself
comfortably in his easy-chair, and took a cigar and the morning paper to
assist his digestion.
"Thirteen increase from last week. I declare, our city is growing
sickly," he said, as his wife closed her oratorical harangue; "but,
speaking of Annie again, she has a poetical gem in one of our popular
magazines this week, which I find accompanied by a complimentary note
from the editor. She writes under a _nom de plume_, but I discovered
her. Have you read any of her writings, Mrs. Prague?"
"_Her_ writings! the bold, impertinent hussy! No, nor do I wish to. But
if I'm to be entertained with this sort of conversation, I'll go down to
my son-in-law, Esq. Hardin's; and there I'm sure to pass an agreeable
day. Nothing low ever tarnishes his discourse."
"Do so, madam," said the imperturbable husband; "undoubtedly they will
appreciate the honor of your presence."
And with a disdainful toss the lady flouted out of the room, leaving the
good doctor to the undisturbed enjoyment of his cigar and papers.
Annie Evalyn had been nine months an inmate of Dr. Prague's mansion,
when the preceding scene was enacted. Some of that experience which Aunt
Patty had pronounced "better than book learnin'," had fallen to her
share. So far from her beauty and accomplishments winning friends and
good-will, they had only seemed to provoke the sneers and invidious
remarks of those who envied her superior attractions. She had seen the
contemptuous curl of the lip, and heard the epithet, "low-born
creature." She had bitterly learned that genius and beauty are not the
current coins of society; and she sometimes thought the old adage,
"Knowledge is power," would read truer, "Money is power." But though she
had dark hours, her young heart's courage had not failed. Still the
unalterable purpose was firm, to be active, to be striving for fame,
honor and good repute. Latterly she had turned her attention to literary
subjects, and produced several pieces that received warm commendation
from the press.
Annie had been but a few weeks in her new residence, ere her quick eye
discerned that Mrs. Prague looked upon her with envy and jealousy, and
she endeavored to conciliate the lady's esteem by gentleness and
condescension; but all efforts were vain. She persisted in her coldness
and perversity. This was so unpleasant to Annie that she several times
signified her readiness to leave when her presence was no longer
desired; but the old doctor, who was her most zealous advocate, declared
he should go distracted if she left them. Kate cried and the children
howled in terror at the prospect of such a calamity. Mrs. Prague looked
lofty and said, "Miss Evalyn was a trusty governess, and they might
increase her salary if she thought it insufficient."
"Double it, if she says so," said the doctor; "but money can't reward
services like hers. How could you pay the sun for illuminating your
drawing-rooms, Mrs. Prague?"
And Mrs. Prague darted an angry glance, and said she would go down to
her son-in-law's.
CHAPTER VII.
"To love's sweet tones my heart shall never thrill;
Nor, as the tardy years their circles roll,
Shall they the ardor of its pulses chill."
Reclining on a silken sofa, in a luxurious apartment, was a lady in the
prime of youth and beauty. She was robed in a white, wrought-muslin
gown, and her glossy ringlets lay in dark relief on its snowy folds. She
was reading at intervals from a small gilt volume, but with a wandering
listlessness of manner, as though it were a weary effort to fix her
attention upon its contents.
This was the wife of Lawrence Hardin, Esq., one of the most wealthy,
influential men in that part of the country. He arrived there from the
east a few years before, bringing a large fortune, which he came in
possession of by the sudden death of his parents. He embarked largely in
speculations, and was very successful; in consequence of which, the
mercantile class in their most critical junctures looked up to him as a
superior and safeguard. He soon grew to be a man of great power and
influence, and in the full tide of prosperity bore away the beautiful
Marion Prague, the reigning belle of the city, as his bride. There was a
rumor afloat that the match afforded the fair lady but meagre
satisfaction, and that her taste and wishes were not much consulted in
the matter; but the angry importunities of her proud, self-willed mother
at length induced her to marry a man she did not love. But this idle
report was hushed after their marriage, and the devotion of the young
couple loudly descanted on in fashionable circles throughout the city;
for was not Hardin all attention, and how could she avoid loving so fine
a fellow? So the world called it a nice match, and passed on. Let us
pause for a glance behind the scenes.
A slight tap at the door of that elegant boudoir, and then it swung
softly on its gilded hinges, and a gentleman, richly dressed, with
shining hat, dark broadcloth over-coat, and a light bamboo stick in his
neatly-gloved hand, entered and approached the couch on which the lady
reclined. He was rather above the medium height, of commanding figure,
with jetty hair and mustaches and deep-set, piercing black eyes. Laying
aside hat and gloves, he sat down by the sofa, and commenced playfully
poking the long, wavy ringlets that lay on the crimson damask pillow
with the gold tip of his tiny walking-cane. She had resumed her book on
his first appearance, and continued to peruse its pages. She did not
look toward him, or speak, and it was evident, from a slightly-clouded
brow, that his presence rather annoyed than pleased her.
This was Lawrence Hardin and lady in the privacy of their own apartment.
"Why don't you speak to me, Marion?" he asked, at length.
No answer, and the brow grew darker. He bent over her, and endeavored to
take the book from her hand. She tightened her grasp for a moment to
resist his efforts, and then, suddenly relaxing her hold, turned toward
the wall.
He gazed on her several moments with a mingled expression of anger and
wounded tenderness, and then turned away.
Half an hour later the young wife met her husband in the breakfast-room,
and presided with benign and gracious dignity over his well-laid table;
inquired "if Esq. Hardin found the chocolate and sardines to his
relish;" and he extolled Mrs. Hardin's excellent superintendence of
domestic affairs; said business in his office would detain him from her
till the dinner hour, and, expressing a hope that she might pass the
morning agreeably, bowed himself out of the presence of his lovely wife,
who replied to his civilities courteously, and even smiled brightly at
his parting nod at the hall door. And the servants in attendance saw and
listened; and reported, and enlarged on the "wonderful love" and
happiness of their young master and mistress. So this _nice match_ was
noised abroad over the whole city, and a hundred families envied the
domestic felicity of Esq. Hardin and wife. O, the endless masquerade of
life!
Several weeks later the unloved husband entered his young lady's
apartment. She stood before the dressing-table, arranging her hair for
the evening. She cast a brief glance toward him, and then proceeded
quietly with her toilet. The chilling indifference wounded him acutely,
and he addressed her rather hastily: "Marion, do you think I shall
always have patience?"
"I don't know, I'm sure," she answered, carelessly; "but of what do you
complain? Do I not perform the duties of your mansion in a manner to
satisfy your fastidious tastes?"
"Don't mock or trifle," he said, bitterly. "I'm not a machine, or an
automaton, and I want something more than my servants, my drawing-room
and table well attended, to satisfy my heart."
"You knew I did not love you when you married me."
"Yes, but I did _not_ know that you hated me."
"Nor did I."
"And what have I done since to incur your detestation?"
"Nothing."
"Well, then, will you treat me with a little less of this freezing
coldness and scorn when we are alone together?"
Tears started in those beautiful eyes, and he advanced to embrace her,
but she motioned him away. No, they were not there for him. She
struggled a few moments, and then, uncovering her face, said calmly:
"Sit down, Lawrence; I will endeavor to comply with your wishes."
He drew a damask fauteuil opposite the one on which she was reclining,
and sank among its downy cushions. The rays of the setting sun streamed
into the richly-furnished apartment and fell upon the two occupants.
"What news in the city, to-day?" inquired Marion, at length.
"Nothing particularly interesting, I believe," he answered. "I was at
your father's to-night; they are making preparations for a large party
next week, given in honor of Frank Sheldon's arrival."
Some noise in the street at this moment attracted his attention, and he
rose to look forth. When he turned again, he beheld his wife lying on
the carpet pale and cold as marble.
CHAPTER VIII.
"Strange scenes will often follow on abrupt surprise."
Annie Evalyn was alone in her apartment. A servant had just left a small
package, and she was now occupied with its contents. First was a letter
from the good parson, full of fatherly advice and admonition; then one
from Netta, a sheet written full, in a neat, delicate hand, describing a
visit to Aunt Patty's cottage, and a score of messages enumerated which
the old lady had desired transmitted to her "dear hinny," as she still
called Annie. "Tell her I don't tell fortunes now, for I know she will
like to hear that; because once I remember she said, 'I wouldn't tell
fortunes, aunty, for I don't think it is respectable.' So tell her I
earn a good living by spinning on my little wheel, and try to be happy
thinking she is so. But, sometimes, when the wind howls through the deep
woods, I can't help feeling lonesome, and think, if Annie were only here
to sing some of her pretty songs, how cheery the old walls would look!
And tell her, if she should ever grow tired and heart-sick in the midst
of the world's fashions and splendors, the old thatched roof in
Scraggiewood will joy to shelter her; and the old heart here will warm
and love her into life and happiness again."
Annie felt the tears come as she read, for she had often of late
experienced a longing wish for a gentle friend in whom to confide and
trust.
Now Netta spoke of their home at the vicarage. "It was lonesome yet,"
she said, "and the old study had never worn a cheerful aspect since its
good genius departed. Father and Aunt Rachel spoke of bright-faced Annie
every day; but most of all _she_ missed the dear, loving companion when
she retired to her chamber at night." And then she wrote, "Your old
friend George Wild, has returned quite a changed being, I assure you. I
think you must have infused some of your energy and action into his
nature, for he has become an active business man. He works at his trade
in the village, and I see him frequently. We have long, cosey chats
about you, Annie." Annie laughed as she read.
"Dear little Netta!" she exclaimed, "I see through it all; it is clear
as day. But I'm willing you should use my name, darling, to subserve
your timidity. I'll answer this sweet letter this morning. I'm alone,
and now is a good time."
She looked about for her writing-materials, and suddenly remembered she
had left them in the school-room the evening previous. As she lightly
descended the stairs, the bell rang, and the hall door being open, she
came in full view of a gentleman standing on the marble steps e'er she
was aware, and in another moment he was at her side, exclaiming,
"Astonishing! Is it possible? Can this be Kate Prague?"
Annie blushed as she perceived his mistake, and hastened to rectify it.
"I am not Miss Prague," she said, "but a member of the family at
present. I think I have the honor of addressing Mr. Sheldon." He bowed
gracefully.
"The ladies are gone out for a short drive this morning. Will you be
pleased to wait their return in the drawing-room?"
He accepted the invitation and entered the apartment, offering, as he
did so, an apology for his mistake, which she acknowledged with another
rising blush.
"I think Dr. Prague received intelligence last evening that you would
not arrive till next week," she remarked, as they were seated in the
parlor. "Had they expected you sooner, I'm sure they would have been at
home to receive you."
"I did send a letter to that effect," he said; "but the improved
facilities of travelling have enabled me to reach the city sooner than I
anticipated."
A silence ensued. Annie felt ill at ease. She had received many hints of
the lofty, aristocratic notions of Frank Sheldon. She knew him to be
wealthy, and the prospective lover of Kate Prague; that is, Kate had
informed her that "Marion had been first designed for him; but by some
means that plan failed, and then mother married her to Hardin, and
Sheldon was left for her. She supposed she should marry him some time,
though she did not care a fig for him, he was so grave, and always
talking on literary subjects which she could not understand and
therefore mortally abhorred."
All this passed quickly through Annie's mind, and, rising, she said she
"thought the ladies would soon return; perhaps he could amuse himself
with the contents of the centre-table a brief while."
"O, yes!" he said politely. "I can ever pass time agreeably with books
and paintings." She courtesied and retired to her own apartment. "What a
vision of loveliness!" he mentally exclaimed when left alone. "I wonder
if Kate Prague is half so beautiful. Who can this lady be?"
A carriage now rattled up to the door, and the ladies came bundling into
the apartment. He suddenly recollected he was there unannounced, but
what could he do?
"Bless me! Mercy! Why, Mr. Sheldon here, and nobody to receive him! What
must he think?" exclaimed Mrs. Prague, in a tone of astonishment.
"I'm most concerned, my good madam," said he, advancing, for what you
must think to find me so unceremoniously ensconced in your
drawing-room."
"Don't say a word about that," was the answer. "Was not this once your
home? I hope you will still regard it in that light. Kate, come forward;
here is Mr. Sheldon. I declare, what a delightful surprise!" The old
doctor now entered, and burst into a torrent of welcome on beholding
Sheldon.
"How did you get here, my boy," he asked, "to steal upon us so slyly,
when I received a letter only yesterday saying you would not reach us
before next week?"
Sheldon explained briefly. When he mentioned that a young lady had
escorted him to the parlor, and invited him to await the family's
return, a visible frown lowered over Mrs. Prague's before smiling
countenance, and she and Catherine soon excused themselves to prepare
for dinner.
CHAPTER IX.
"But, ah! if thou hadst loved me--had I been
All to thy dreams that to mine own thou art."
On a dim, gray morning in early winter, Lawrence Hardin sat by the couch
of his wife, her thin, wasted hand lying unconsciously in his, and her
quick, heavy breathings moving the dark locks of his hair, as he bent
low over her sleeping form. Three months had passed since that fainting
scene, and the young wife had encountered a long, severe stroke of
illness. The husband watched incessantly by her bed-side, for he would
not suffer her wild, fevered ravings to be heard by other ears than his
own.
It was all revealed to him. He knew he had married a woman whose heart
was another's, and that she had been compelled to the step by the
threats and vehemence of her mother.
O, how the strong man writhed in his agony! To know Marion did not love
him, was enough to endure; but to know she loved another, ah! that was
madness. His passions were roused to fury, yet not on _her_ should they
wreak their vengeance. No; on the man that had stolen her love from him,
or rather the man on whom she had bestowed her love, Frank Sheldon. On
his devoted head should the vengeance fall.
Thus he resolved, but kept his fell design buried in his own breast,
and, by an engaging exterior, sought to lure his victim into his toils.
Sheldon was a brave, generous fellow. Left early an orphan, he had been
reared in the family of Dr. Prague, who was instituted guardian of the
large fortune left by his parents. He was endowed by nature with fine
intellectual abilities, and an exquisite taste for the grand and
beautiful in nature and art, and, during three years' travel in foreign
parts, had so improved upon these natural advantages, as to stand
acknowledged one of the most elegant and accomplished young men of his
country. But it often happens that such high-wrought natures are but
poorly versed in the plodding concerns of this nether world. And thus it
was with him. Alive to every lofty feeling and generous impulse, he
fancied others like himself. Low cunning and artifice were unknown to
his bosom, and consequently he would fall the easier victim to Hardin's
scheme of revenge.
And now there came another fact to this base man's knowledge. Sheldon
had not only robbed him of Marion's affections, but had won and slighted
Kate Prague, to fall in love with Annie Evalyn. Worse still, the passion
was mutual. That _he_ saw and knew long before the parties themselves
had acknowledged the growing love in the still depths of their own
beating hearts, much more given voice to the feeling in words.
Love is so blind, and shy, and unbelieving, the poets tell us. Had
Sheldon's love met no response, then Hardin's revenge had been in part
gratified; but now it was only whetted to a keener edge, for he saw, or
fancied he saw, not only his rival's happiness, but the sister of the
woman he loved pining from an unrequited affection.
As he revolved these dark thoughts in his vile breast, the hand he held
moved suddenly, and the sleeper murmured in her dreams. He bent his ear
eagerly to catch the sound, but it was gone. He smoothed the damp, dark
locks away from the pale brow, and gazed on her thin, attenuated
features--yet more beautiful, they seemed to him, than in the ruddy glow
of health. O that she would open her eyes and gaze up tenderly into his!
And when she was able to sit in a soft-cushioned chair, robed in a snowy
dressing-gown, and propped with pillows, receiving his attentions with
such a pretty shyness and distrust; or a few weeks later, when, still
more recovered, leaning so coyly on his arm to wander over her splendid
mansion again, and looking so timidly in his face, as if, now her secret
was known, she had no right to claim or expect tenderness from him;--all
this reserve made her so much dearer, and he thought, if she would but
give him one little look of love, he would even forget his meditated
revenge on Sheldon.
But, ah! he looked in vain for lurking love in those cold, beautiful
eyes. There was submission,--there was gratitude; but what were those?
Again the fashionable world said, "Esq. Hardin and lady are more devoted
than ever;" and they congratulated Mrs. Dr. Prague on the _nice match_
she had secured for her daughter Marion. And the haughty, vain mother
exulted, for she was a superficial observer of human nature, and could
not, or _would_ not, see the wasting woe that was preying on her
daughter's health and beauty.
It was a gay season at the doctor's mansion. Sheldon's arrival was the
signal for a round of entertainments among the élite of the city; for,
be it known, there were others than good Mrs. Prague anxious to secure
so eligible a match for their daughters, as the handsome, rich and
gifted Frank Sheldon. A manoeuvring mother! reader, hast ever seen
one? And if so, dost know of another so contemptible thing in the whole
broad realm of the low, sordid and despicable?
The good old doctor, with his usual obstinacy, insisted that Annie
Evalyn should make one of all the parties of amusement; and, in truth,
Sheldon was quite as anxious to secure her society as was the doctor to
"set her forward," as Mrs. Prague expressed it. That lady was
exceedingly vexed and mortified at the turn matters were taking; but
Kate, partaking largely of her father's easy nature, seemed as merry and
well-pleased as though Sheldon had fallen in love with her, instead of
Annie Evalyn; for it began to be whispered in the upper circles that
"Dr. Prague's pretty governess had captivated the fascinating Sheldon."
Many ugly grimaces distorted the proper faces of marriageable daughters;
and captious, ill-natured remarks were indulged in by disappointed
maidens, who had beggared their fathers' pockets to purchase silks and
satins, jewels and diamonds, to carry by storm the heart of the elegant,
accomplished Frank Sheldon.
Alas for human hopes and expectations! And what a perverse, capricious,
wilful little fellow is this god of love, whom we all worship and make
offerings to in one form or another! Why, he never goes where he should;
that is, you may hang him a dome, with golden draperies, stud the walls
with pearls and rubies, put a divinity there, beautiful as the fabled
houris, and robed in eastern magnificence, with discretion's self to
open the portal and invite his entrance; still, he goes not in. A
humming-bird around a rose has caught his vagrant eye, and he is off to
follow its roamings from flower to flower. Was ever such an improvident,
self-willed creature as this boy, Cupid?
CHAPTER X.
"It is an era strange, yet sweet,
Which every woman's heart hath known,
When first her bosom learns to beat
To the soft music of a tone;
That era, when she first begins
To know what love alone can teach,
That there are hidden depths within
Which friendship never yet could reach."
Annie Evalyn was alone in her room, a second time, sitting down to
answer her friend Netta's letter. It was the first leisure she had known
in several weeks, and she would hardly have commanded it now, but that
Sheldon was gone to conclude an extensive land contract, into which he
was entering with Lawrence Hardin; allured by flattering representations
of the immense emolument sure to result from these speculations, when
emigration should raise to an untold value the worth of those extensive
tracts, then lying wild and uncultivated through those western
countries.
Dr. Prague had also advised him to the course, regarding it as the
easiest method of keeping good the fortune of Sheldon, whose choice of
literature as a profession tended rather to diminish than increase his
coffers. And so he embarked his all with Hardin; and all thought him
sure to succeed in the enterprise, with so far-seeing and judicious a
partner to counsel and direct.
We return to Annie. She had opened her portfolio, and placed before her
a pure, virgin page. Twirling the enamelled top from her inkstand, and
fastening a gold pen to a pearl-wrought handle, she commenced her task.
"I scarcely know what to say, dear Netta; there are so many thoughts
crowded on my brain for utterance, that I can scarcely decide what
it is best to say, and what leave unsaid. One thing I feel sure of,
that whatever is imparted in confidence, will remain safe in your
trusty bosom; and O, how blessed am I, in the possession of such a
friend! Would you were here beside me this evening, your arm clasped
tenderly about my neck, your dear, earnest eyes looking in mine.
But, alas! we are far asunder. Your sweet letter brought many vivid
pictures before my mind of the happy hours passed in that study
room, and, still further back, that childhood in the rocky cottage
of Scraggiewood. Tell aunty, I still love to call her as in my
childish days, and hope the time is not very far distant when I may
run into her arms for a hearty kissing.
"But, Netta, I know you are all eagerness to hear what I'm doing
here; how I speed on my aspiring way, and what is my progress toward
the temple of fame it was e'er my proudest wish to enter.
"Alas, Netta! I'm ashamed to say the indefatigable Annie Evalyn has
relapsed her energies, has faltered in her pursuit of glory, and
surrendered herself to the enjoyment of the passing hour. And yet I
was never so happy as now; no, never in my life. To love and to be
loved; dear sis, do you know what it is? If not, no words of mine
can tell you. Frank Sheldon has never told me his heart was mine,
but it is a poor love that needs words to express it, I fancy. He is
rich, handsome and honored; yet it is not for these I love him, but
because his tastes and feelings are in unison with mine.
"But, Netta, I have to endure some ill will, and cold looks, which
detract from my happiness. A share of that experience aunty declared
'better than books,' has been taught my hopeful nature, and often do
I think of your kind father's tender admonitions.
"Adieu, dearest; I've told my tale in brief. I need not say, guard
it well.
"You have seen some of my simple productions in the magazines, and
are pleased to think well of them, for which I thank you kindly. I'm
writing none at present. With love to all, I am,
"Truly,
"ANNIE."
The letter was folded and directed as she heard a voice in the hall
calling her name. It was Sheldon's; and a bright smile irradiated her
features, as, throwing aside the writing materials, she prepared to go
down. He met her on the stairs.
"I couldn't find you anywhere," he said, "and the parlors were dark and
cold as midnight. Where have you been and how occupied all the while
I've been away winding up that tiresome contract with Hardin?"
"In my room, writing a letter to a friend," she answered, with a
pleasant smile, as he was leading her through the several parlors, to
fix on one exactly suited to his taste.
"Writing?" said he, reproachfully; "O, Annie!"
"Why, what of that?" she asked.
"O, nothing, I suppose; but I can't endure to think you can sit down,
cold and calm, when I'm away, and indite your thoughts on paper. I can
neither read, write, nor think, without you, Annie."
She blushed at these words.
"Come," he continued, drawing her close to his side; "I need not tell
you I love you, Annie, for that you know already; but you can render me
very happy, by speaking one little word in answer to a question I want
to ask."
Still blushing and turning away her eyes, and he gazing so eloquently
upon her downcast features.
"Will you speak it, Annie?"
"Let me hear the question," she said.
He inclined his head and whispered in her ear. She placed her hand in
his, and he looked most happily answered as he wound his arm round her
waist and pressed the little hand close to his heart.
There was a band of wandering musicians playing in the street, and he
led her to the casement. She leaned lightly against his shoulder, and
thus they stood there listening to the music. It was rough enough, and
could hardly have pleased at any other time; but it sounded like the
symphonies of angels to them now. O, what divine strains! But the melody
was all in their own hearts. The screeching wheels of a dirt cart would
have failed to strike a dissonance upon their ears; for all nature
rolled on in linked harmony to them; they fancied they were very near
heaven, and so they were; they thought they could not be much happier if
they were really there, and it is doubtful if they could.
Thus wrapped in their new-found happiness, let us leave with prophetic
good-night.
CHAPTER XI.
"So fails, so languishes, grows dim and dies,
All that this world is proud of. From their spheres
The stars of human glory are cast down.
Perish the roses and the flowers of kings,
Princes and emperors, and the crowns and palms
Of all the mighty, withered and consumed.
Nor is power long given to lowliest innocence
Long to protect her own."
"Hardin, don't you remember the old fortune-telling hag that used to
keep office in a heap of rocks in that deuced rough hole called
Scraggiewood?" asked a gay, reckless-looking young man, as he lighted a
cigar, and settled himself in a comfortable armchair with feet elevated
on the fender.
"Indeed I do," responded Hardin, quickly. "You and I made her a visit
one evening, you know, and she drew forth rather ominous fortunes for
both of us from her teapot of destiny. Ha, ha! what was it the hag told
me, Sumpter?"
"That you would be a wicked fellow, marry a lovely woman, who wouldn't
care a picayune for you, and live after you wished you were dead, I
believe, or something to that import, wasn't it?"
"Well, I reckon 'twas some talk of this sort; but what brought this
incident to your mind now, Jack?"
"It was recalled by sight of that young lady at your father-in-law's.
Don't you remember, that night we were at the rock den in Scraggiewood,
there was a child, a little girl, sleeping on a pallet in the room?"
"Yes, perfectly."
"Well, that child and this young lady are one and the same."
"It cannot be!" exclaimed Hardin, quickly.
"It is so, I'm positive. But stop; what is this girl's name?"
"Annie Evalyn."
"Exactly. I asked the old crone that night what was her child's name,
and she told me the one you have just repeated."
"Is it possible?" ejaculated Hardin in a ruminating manner.
"It is easy to convince your doubts. Just engage her in conversation and
allude to her early life. She'll betray herself, my word for it. Besides
I've heard of her since you left the east. She had a beau there at
Scraggiewood, one George Wild; and after picking up some education at a
country parson's, came west as governess in a wealthy family. These
several things have recurred to my memory since beholding her at Dr.
Prague's last evening; for, depend upon it, this fine lady, who
captivates all hearts, is the old Scraggiewood witch's daughter."
After this speech from Sumpter a silence ensued. Hardin was revolving in
his mind whether to divulge his plan of revenge to his companion, and
enlist him as a co-worker to assist in the completion of his schemes. He
saw this accidental information would aid in furthering his plans. How
should he use it? He rose and paced the floor.
"Jack," he said at length, giving him a slap on the shoulder, "can I
trust you?"
"Always, Hardin," was the ready response. "I am yours to command."
Another pause, and Hardin continued to pace the floor with nervous,
uneven steps. At length, as he passed the large, oval window, he caught
a glimpse of his wife walking in the conservatory. Approaching, he
tapped slightly on the glass to arrest her attention. She turned, and a
frown gathered on her features as she met his earnest, affectionate
gaze. O, Marion! why couldn't you have smiled then? What might not one
genial look from your sweet eyes have averted?
Hardin turned away, his heart cold and callous.
"Fool am I to hesitate!" he muttered; "who cares for me, and whom should
I care for?"
Drawing a chair close to Sumpter's, they conferred in whispers for the
space of an hour. Then both arose.
"Now make yourself presentable, Jack," said Hardin, "and we'll proceed
forthwith to put our scheme afoot."
"I shall be ready in due season," was the answer.
There was a select company assembled at Dr. Prague's mansion, enjoying
the evening in music and conversation. Annie had just sung a song that
elicited much applause, and Sheldon had contrived to draw her aside to
whisper some word of tenderness in her ear.
"Frank," said she, "I feel strangely to-night."
"Why, Annie, are you not happy?"
"Yes, but I tremble; I'm frightened. I feel as if some awful danger were
impending."
As she Spoke thus, the door opened, and Esq. Hardin, and his friend, Mr.
Sumpter, were announced. They mingled with the company and soon
approached the group in which Sheldon and Annie had chosen a place.
Hardin presented his friend to the several ladies and gentlemen
composing the circle, and passed on, leaving Sumpter sitting opposite
Annie. Glancing casually toward him, she found his gaze riveted on her
face.
"May I ask, miss," he said, "if you are not from the eastern country?"
She replied in the affirmative.
"Well, I thought I could not be so much mistaken. How are you contented
away out here?"
"Very well, sir," she answered.
"Ay, indeed. I've heard say old loves were hard to forget; but I suppose
new ones will obliterate them if anything will."
By this time the attention of the group was drawn to them.
"Do you ever hear from your old Aunt Patty, now?" he continued, in the
same bold, familiar manner.
Annie was startled to hear these words from one who was a stranger to
her; but as so many eyes were on them, she thought best to answer
courteously, and said, "I do sir, frequently."
"Does she live there in the old rock heap at Scraggiewood, and tell
fortunes and bewitch sitting hens yet?"
"Sir!" exclaimed Sheldon, "how dare you thus insult a lady in company?"
"O, be cool, my good fellow! I never yet heard it was an insult to
inquire after one's honest relations, and I've done nothing more, as
this lady I'm sure will admit. I can perhaps give you some information
respecting your former lover, George Wild, Miss Evalyn," he continued;
"he is good and true yet."
A scream from Annie arrested his words. She had fainted. Sheldon bore
her from the room amidst a buzz of voices, in which Sumpter's was
loudest, declaring he "did not mean to embarrass the young lady. He did
not know but what they were all acquainted with her early history."
Sheldon did not rejoin the company, and during the remainder of the
evening Sumpter disseminated an exaggerated account of Annie's low birth
and disgraceful parentage among the guests. The tale found too many
willing ears; and Annie was pronounced a vile, artful deceiver, by those
who envied her talents and beauty.
CHAPTER XII.
"Alas, the joys that fortune brings
Are trifling and decay!
And those who prize the paltry things,
More trifling still than they.
And what is friendship but a name,
A charm that lulls to sleep;
A shade that follows wealth and fame,
But leaves the wretch to weep?"
When Annie Evalyn recovered consciousness, Sheldon was bending over her,
bathing her temples with cologne. As the memory of the recent scene
rushed over her, her cheeks flushed, and she glanced timidly in his
face. It was cold--stern, she fancied.
"Annie," said he, in a measured tone, "you are better now. I will leave
you for to-night, and to-morrow shall hope for an explanation of what, I
must confess, seems strange and mysterious to me at present.
Good-night!" and he turned to leave the room.
"Good-night!" she faintly articulated, her eyes following his retreating
figure till the door closed and excluded him from view. "Yes, and a long
good-night too, Frank Sheldon!" she continued, when she was alone; "if
you can thus coldly turn from me,--thus lightly suspect me of artifice
and deceit. O, my God, what a blow! and to fall at such a moment, when I
believed myself almost at the pinnacle of happiness! Surely, the
arch-fiend directed the hand. Such words to be spoken in a fashionable
circle; and they'll all accredit it, for they have,--Heaven knows
why!--long been seeking something to my dispraise. And besides, I cannot
contradict the man's words, for are they not too true? and yet, O must
I be blamed for my humble parentage? O aunty, aunty, I'll not cast a
single reflection! You say you've left off fortune-telling for _my_
sake--but it is too late now; and perhaps you'll need resort to it again
to support your poor, unfortunate Annie. I'm going to you, aunty; the
rough roof of old Scraggiewood will be above me in a few weeks. Would I
had never wandered from beneath its homely shelter! Truly, the world
_is_ a hard, cold place, aunty, as you forewarned; but I could not
believe it then."
Annie rose and proceeded mechanically to place a few necessary articles
of clothing in a small satchel; this done, she sat down by the window to
wait till all was quiet below. The rich clothing, the wages and presents
she had received during her two years' residence beneath that roof,--she
would leave them all behind; they were bestowed when she was deemed a
worthy object, and _now_ they would consider it was a vile, artful
deceiver that had sought to ingratiate herself into their favor to
accomplish her own low, selfish designs. She was a fool for going abroad
in the great world; a fool to think she could ever become respected
and loved. _Love!_ There was no such thing! Had not Frank Sheldon,
thirty-six hours after he vowed to love her forever, turned coldly away
at a moment when she most needed his comforting attentions? And, as she
thus thought, a groan of agony escaped her breast. There came a light
tap on the door, and Kate entered hurriedly.
"O, Annie, Annie!" she exclaimed, embracing the suffering girl warmly,
"I don't believe a word that man said, nor does father either. He says
if you are Satan's daughter, you are better and prettier, and wiser,
than the best of them. As for Frank, he has not spoken since the company
left, and I believe he is struck dumb. I was going to follow him when he
brought you out, but mother prevented me."
"She is enraged at me, of course," said Annie.
"O, she is hasty, you know!" returned Kate. "I dare say all will be
right in a day or two; so dry your eyes and go to sleep, and wake up as
merry as if that ugly Mr. Sumpter had never come here with his impudent
stories. For my part, I wonder Lawrence should bring such a monster into
genteel society;" and with a kiss they parted.
Annie sat motionless another hour, and then, cautiously opening the
door, listened breathlessly a few moments. All was still; and, taking
her satchel, she glided noiselessly down the stairs and into the street.
Her heart sank within her as the cold wind struck her cheek; but she
moved rapidly forward, eager to place a distance between her and the
scene of her abasement. Soon she was on the broad, rough prairie road,
over which a waning moon cast pale, sickly beams. By daylight she
reached a settler's cabin, and learned that a stage-coach would pass
there in a few moments, bound eastward. She requested the privilege of
waiting its arrival, which was readily granted, and also such
refreshments placed before her as the cabin afforded; but she could not
eat. The coach soon appeared, and she rejoiced to find herself the only
passenger. The door was closed, and the hard, jolting vehicle rumbled on
its way. And here was Annie Evalyn, the beautiful, the gifted, the
admired Annie Evalyn of yesterday, flying like a guilty outcast from the
scenes amid which she had been so happy.
Great was the surprise at Dr. Prague's mansion, on the following
morning, when Annie's flight became known. No token was left by which a
clue to her course might be discovered. Sheldon carried himself like a
crazy one. The old doctor bustled about, and said he would search the
world over to bring her back. Kate cried, and the children loudly
bewailed the loss of their dear governess. Mrs. Prague seemed the only
calm and rational one in the household; she declared herself glad to get
rid of the baggage, and considered her flight proof positive of her
guilt.
This view seemed rather plausible certainly. If innocent, why did she
not remain and boldly refute the tale Sumpter had told?
When the news of her flight was made known to Esquire Hardin, he laughed
heartily, and called up Sumpter to join him. The latter expressed
himself "sorry if he had unwittingly been the cause of an unpleasant
occurrence in Dr. Prague's family."
"What, the deuce!" said Hardin, "do you suppose they wish to harbor a
young witch?"
"Why, no,--but this gentleman, Mr. Sheldon."
"Give yourself no uneasiness in regard to me, sir!" said Sheldon,
sternly. "I will manage and control my own affairs."
"Bravely spoken, Frank!" remarked Hardin, "Now let us adjourn to the
dinner-saloon and drink a merry bout over fortunate denouement."
CHAPTER XIII.
"It was a bitter pain
That pierced her gentle heart;
For barbed by malice was the dart,
And sped by treachery's deadliest art,
The shaft ne'er sped in vain."
The wild winds wailed wofully over the lonesome prairie, smiting sadly
upon poor Annie's heavy heart as she sat in the hard, jolting coach,
which, owing to the bad state of the roads, made but sorry progress. It
was already dark, and the driver said they had yet ten miles to ride in
order to reach the nearest post town. They entered a dense timber land,
and the wheels struck deep into a loose, gravelly sand, so the poor
horses could scarcely drag on at a slow walk. The coachman hallooed and
cracked his whip about their ears, but all to no effect; the animals
were worn down by a hard day's travel; and Annie, annoyed by his
boisterous vociferations, at last put her head out the window and begged
him not to beat the jaded animals, but let them proceed at their own
pace.
"All one to me, miss," was the answer; "did it to please you; thought
you mought be a hungry, or mebbe sort o' tired, a settin' in there all
alone so. Whoa, Johnny! take it easy since it is the lady's wish. We
shall be just as well off a hundred years hence, I dare say, and supper
will be sweeter, the longer delayed."
With this philosophical reflection, he relapsed into silence, and for
two hours they continued to drag through the heavy sand, with nothing to
relieve the monotony, save the shrill bark of the wolf, far in the deep
forest, answered by the deep growl of the bear, or piercing cry of the
ferocious catamount.
Annie shivered with nervous terror at these wild, savage sounds; and
when at last, as they reached the open prairie, and struck a harder
bottom, the horses mended their paces, she felt sensibly relieved. At
length they entered a small, new town, and drew up before a large,
awkward building. The steps were lowered and Annie alighted, and soon
found herself in a long, dingy apartment, with a bright pine-wood fire
blazing and crackling in a huge, yawning fire-place at its farthest
extremity. She was chilled, and sat down before the glowing hearth to
warm her benumbed fingers. Presently a tall woman, in a short-sleeved
frock and large deer-skin moccasins, strode into the room, and with a
deep, ungainly courtesy asked, "What the lady would be thinking to take
for a bit of supper?"
Annie answered she would take a biscuit and cup of tea, if she pleased,
and then retire to her apartment, as she was much fatigued.
"And won't you have a chunk o' venison, or cold 'possum, to make your
biscuit relish, miss?" asked the woman.
"No, I thank you," said Annie; "I don't feel much hungry to-night."
"Why, I reckoned you must be well-nigh starved, a ridin' all day long,
and nothing to lay your jaws to; but, howsomever, you know your own
wants best."
The woman went out, and soon returned with Annie's supper spread on a
pine board. Annie could hardly repress a smile at sight of the novel
tea-table. Her meal was quickly despatched, and she again signified her
wish to retire. It was a rough, dismal apartment into which she was
ushered, but, tired and jaded, she threw herself on the hard couch, and,
despite the trouble at her heart, slept soundly till morning.
On rising, her first thought was to examine her little stock of money,
and she found it amounted to only seventeen dollars and a half, out of
which she must pay her coach and tavern fare. It was evident that she
must seek some employment to assist in defraying her travelling
expenses. The question was, whether she should remain where she was, or
go on as far as her scanty means would carry her. She went out to make
some inquiries of the woman who had waited on her the night previous.
"Get some work to do, miss!" said she in a tone of surprise. "What can
you do? Can you cut fodder, or cradle rye, or catch 'possums?"
Annie smiled, and said, "No, but I can teach school, do sewing, or
housework."
"Wall, I don't know; you look a mighty fine lady to be asking for work;
but then it is none o' my business to be pryin' into other folks'
concerns. We are new settlers here, and have to get along as close as we
can. I don't reckon you'll find anybody rich enough to hire ye in these
diggins. You'll do better along further east, where folks are richer and
more 'fined."
Matters looked unpromising, and Annie concluded to follow the woman's
suggestion, and travel on as far as the small funds would carry her. But
in the two years she had been at the west, the facilities for travelling
had improved, and prices were also reduced, so that her little purse
carried her much further on her route than she had expected. When it
finally gave out, she with great joy found she was but fifty miles from
her destination, and with a courageous heart resolved to perform the
remainder of the journey on foot.
Accordingly, she set forward. The weather was fine, and she did not
doubt her ability to accomplish the distance in two days, at farthest.
Every mile passed inspired her with fresh courage, for was she not so
much nearer a heart that loved her? O, how she longed to be clasped to
that warm, beating bosom, and weep her sorrows forth to one she knew
would pity, sympathize, and strive to heal!
CHAPTER XIV.
"Do you come with the heart of your childhood back,
The free, the pure, the kind?
Thus murmured the trees in the homeward track,
As they played at the sport of the wind."
The autumn evening stole calmly, sweetly on. Again October's harvest
moon rode through the liquid ether, and poured her silvery beams over
the wild, old forest of Scraggiewood, as we saw it long ago when Annie
Evalyn's years were calm and golden-hued as Luna's gentle rays. She was
coming now to the low, cottage home. With weary, languid step, she
threaded the old, familiar path, and it seemed to have grown rougher,
and the forest looked wilder and darker than in the days gone by. Poor
Annie! the darkness and gloom were in thy weary, world-tossed heart.
That heart beat wildly as she drew nearer the wished-for spot. What if
she should see no light gleaming through the aperture in the rocky
walls? What if the door should be fallen away, and no aunty there to
welcome the wanderer's return? She quickened her pace, and a few moments
banished all fears. The cottage came in view, and a bright light
streamed through the rough-cut window. Now Annie clasped her hands, and
thanked God that her journey was well-nigh ended. She saw her aunt
bending over the embers on the hearth, as she paused a moment on the
threshold. Then, entering softly, she stole to the side of the old lady,
and, passing an arm round her neck, whispered in a low, trembling tone:
"Here's Annie, come home to love and you, dear aunty."
The old woman sprang so suddenly from her kneeling posture as nearly to
throw the slender form upon the floor, and gazed wildly in the speaker's
face.
"Why aunty, don't you know me?"
"Bless me, it is her voice! but how could she rise up here on my
hearth-stone to-night, like a witch or fairy?"
"No, aunty; I am no witch or fairy that has risen on your hearth. I
walked all the way through the dim old forest to reach you, and it looks
just as it used to, only darker and more frightful."
"Come here, darling, 'tis you! I know that voice. O how many times I've
dreamed I heard it in the long, lonesome nights!" and she wept, laughed,
and kissed her recovered child in a perfect abandonment of joy. "And so
you have come home at last to see your old aunty? I've had awful
feelings about you lately, hinney, and boding dreams; and ofttimes I've
been sorry I let you go into the evil world; 'for if it should use her
hard, would it not break both our hearts?' I said to myself. 'But, then,
Annie is so pretty and good, and has got so much book-learnin' and so
many accomplishments,' something would say. 'Ay, that's the mischief of
it. Such things always make bad folks envy those that possess them, and
Annie is so tender-hearted and shrinking, I'm afeard, I'm afeard for
her.'"
Annie sunk her head on her aunt's shoulder while she was speaking thus,
and the tears, she had been striving to suppress since her entrance,
began to roll over her cheeks thick and fast. The excitement and anxiety
of the journey had in a measure diverted her mind from the events which
caused it; but now that she had gained the wished-for haven, her aunty's
words brought the past before her vision; that mortifying
humiliation--all she had enjoyed, all she had hoped for, and O, all she
had lost!--rushed upon her recollection, and she sobbed aloud.
"O, mercy, mercy, it is as I feared!" exclaimed the old woman, in an
agonized tone; "something has hurt my darling, and now I mark how pale
and thin she is grown. Annie, Annie, tell your aunty what's the matter."
Annie made a strong effort to calm her emotion.
"I am fatigued and overcome," she said.
"Ah! it is something more than that, child--I can tell; but you shall
rest till to-morrow. I'll make you a nice cup of tea, and then you shall
lie in your little cot-bed once more. I've always kept it dressed white
and clean, and often been in there nights before I laid my old bones
down to rest, and wished I could see my darling there, breathing long
and sweet, as she used to, in happy dreams."
Annie was glad to retire, for she was indeed fatigued. Her aunt tucked
the counterpane snugly around her, and hung a shawl before the window,
"for hinney looked too pale and slender to bear the cold air now," she
said. Then she insisted on sitting by the cot till her darling slept;
but Annie begged she would not.
"Go to bed, aunty, and get a good sleep, so as to be rested and fresh to
hear a long tale of my adventures to-morrow," and the kind old soul,
after kissing the white brow, bade Annie good-night, and sought her
pillow.
It was long ere Annie slept, and when at last she did so, hideous shapes
and direful omens floated through her dreams. Once she awoke, when all
was dark and still, to find a burning fever on her cheek, and dull,
throbbing pain in her temples. At peep of dawn the old woman rose and
stole into the apartment. She wanted to see her little pet sleeping in
her cot-bed, as she used to years before. There she lay, her arms thrown
above her head as when a child, and the rich chestnut curls lying in
dark relief on the snowy pillow. But the deep, sweet respirations, and
the healthful glow of childhood were not there. A blue circle surrounded
the closed lids, and a fever-flush burned in the centre of each cheek.
The aunt saw her darling was ill. She took one thin, hot hand in hers,
and felt the pulse fluttering fast and wild. The sleeper woke and
started up, turning her eyes quickly round the apartment.
"Don't you know where you are, Annie?" asked the aunt. "This is your old
room at Scraggiewood, and I'm your aunty."
"O, yes! I remember now; but I think I'm sick, my poor head aches and
throbs so badly. You used to cure all my pains, aunty."
"I hope I can cure you now, hinney. I'll go and prepare you a cooling
drink of herbs. You must be very quiet, and I trust you will be well in
a few days."
Annie submitted patiently. A week passed by ere she was able to make her
aunt fully acquainted with her woful tale. The poor woman seemed as much
afflicted as Annie, but she strove by every means in her power to soothe
and comfort the suffering heart. Netta Gray had been married to George
Wild a few weeks before her return, and was now absent on a visiting
tour, and Annie's health continued feeble. It could hardly be otherwise
with a mind so heavy and depressed. For several months she remained in
seclusion at the lowly cot in Scraggiewood.
CHAPTER XV.
"For the weak heart that vainly yearned
For human love its life to cheer,
Baffled and bleeding has returned,
To stifle down its crying here."
* * *
"Thou shalt go forth in prouder might
And firmer strength e'er long."
Up to the clear blue sky, when the sun was gone down on the silent
earth, clad in the pure white snow-mantle, and away over the tops of the
forest-pines, at the diamond stars hung in the far-off heaven, gazed
Annie Evalyn through that long, dreary winter, from the window of that
rude hut in the solitary depths of Scraggiewood. How she mourned o'er
her shattered idols, all fallen and wasted on their shrines! What a blow
had been dealt her sensitive nature! "O, it was so bitter cruel!" she
thought; "and what had she done that she should suffer thus?"
In vain her aunt tried to soothe and solace, by telling her time would
bring better hopes. Parson Grey would sometimes drop in of a Saturday
evening to coax and encourage his former pupil, and bring some nice
tit-bit to tempt Annie's delicate relish.
"You will regain your health and spirits when the spring opens, my
child," he would say. "Netta will come home, and we shall have you over
to the Parsonage, and all will seem like old times again. Then you must
resume that pen of yours, Annie, and let it write down those speaking
thoughts that lie in your inventive brain. You know my old doctrine; it
is a glorious thing to do good, and you can exert a happy and extensive
influence upon society. I know you will not abuse the noble faculties
given you by the great Creator."
"Ah, he does not know all!" Annie would think. "I once was vain enough
to suppose I possessed faculties and powers to act a brave part in life;
but they've been bruised and broken in the very outset. I've no energy,
no aspirations; because there's nothing in the future to beckon me on.
Wherever I turn is desolation; and I despise my weakness as much as I
lament my misfortune. But I'll no more of a world that has dealt me my
death-blow. Here, in this solitude of nature, let me die and sink to
oblivion."
Thus she ruminated, while the shadowy wintry days sped on; and reason,
weak and powerless in the headlong tide of passion that swept and swayed
in her breast, was buffeted and submerged in the furious waves; and yet,
when the storm had spent its fury, should it not arise clear and
brilliant, and over the subsiding tumult be heard to utter a calm, proud
jubilate of triumph and redemption?
Spring came at last. The snows disappeared; buds swelled on the tall
trees, and burst forth into canopies of leafy-green, and the feathered
songsters came hieing from southern bowers, with wings of light and
songs of gladness. Annie began to brighten; slowly, and almost
imperceptibly at first, and without her own knowledge or consent. Those
faculties she had fancied killed were only stunned.
When she found herself, one sunny April day, at her little, rude table,
inditing her beautiful thoughts on paper, she grew angry at her folly,
as she termed it, and tore the sheet. "And was she again seeking what
had once blasted her happiness? Let the desolation of the past deter her
from all intercourse with the heartless world again."
But the sunny gleams from the beauty-fraught robes of the spring-queen
had fallen on the chilled fountains, and they began to melt and flow
again. And their music _would_ be heard. As the brook down in the forest
seemed to send sweeter, more joyous echoings on the ear after its winter
sleep, so Annie's soul poured softer, holier strains of melody from its
deep well-spring of chastened, purified feeling. Yet the struggle was
not all over. Some tears, some regrets, some rebellious thoughts, yet
lingered. The wildest storm oft passes the soonest by; but traces of its
effects may remain to the end of time.
Netta returned from her travels, and the two friends, so long parted,
sat together in the old study again, and with clasped hands poured out
their hearts to each other.
Annie could not avoid saying, "My life-happiness is wrecked, Netta!" as
she completed a rehearsal of her misfortunes, "O, that I had been less
confident and aspiring! Then I had not suffered thus."
"Do not speak thus, Annie!" returned Netta, tenderly. "Your happiness is
not lost. With a mind so brilliant as yours, you must not yield to
despondency. I will do all in my power to render your life pleasant, and
so will George. He says your influence made him all he is. You rebuked
his slothful habits and urged him to activity. He felt the truth of your
words, though it wounded him deeply to have them come from you. I know
all, Annie. George loved you once, but I've forgiven him, and love you
all the better for having made me so good a husband." Here Netta laughed
and kissed her friend's cheek.
Annie returned the caress. "If I've unwittingly done you any good,
Netta," she said, "it is no greater pleasure to have done it than to
hear it acknowledged so prettily."
"But don't you think it very singular you have never received your
property from Dr. Prague?" asked Netta, turning the conversation back to
her friend's affairs. "I should have thought it but common honesty in
them to have forwarded your clothes and wages."
"O, why should they trouble themselves to give a thought to so vile and
artful a wretch?" responded Annie, bitterly.
"There, there, Annie, hush!" said Netta. "Vengeance will overtake them
for thus treating worth and innocence. And Sheldon, have you never heard
from him?"
"Never!" answered Annie, and a tear fell as she spoke.
"Not once!" said Netta. "He who could thus shamefully neglect one, so
lovely and beautiful, is not worthy of one precious drop from these
eyes."
"And yet he seemed so noble and good, it is hard to cast blame on his
conduct. O, Netta, I cannot forget him!" she exclaimed, bursting into
tears.
Ah, the love was there yet!--a little chastened and subdued, yet wanting
but a kindly touch to rouse it to all its early strength and power. A
bitter chastisement had tamed, but not conquered or expelled, the coy
truant from her breast. Should it aye sleep on, or one day know an
awakening?
CHAPTER XVI.
"Go on, go on: you think me quite a fool;
Woman, my eyes are open."
In their sumptuous drawing-room, before a sparkling grate, sat Dr.
Prague and his amiable lady, in genial after-dinner mood; he burly, and
easy-natured, enjoying his oranges; she, majestic and oratorical in her
rustling brocades.
"Doctor," said she, after a brief silence, "I wish to call your
attention to an important subject."
"Ah! what may it be?" he inquired, in a careless tone.
"Why, our Catherine's approaching union with Mr. Sumpter."
"Is the girl going to marry Sumpter? I don't like it, madam, I don't
like it;" and the usually placid doctor displayed considerable
impatience in his tone and manner.
"Why not? he is a wealthy, accomplished gentleman."
"Humph! a conceited, tricksy villain, you mean."
"Dr. Prague, is he not the friend and partner of my son-in-law, Esq.
Hardin?"
"What of it?"
"Why, a good deal of it, I should say. Is not Esq. Hardin one of the
first men in the city? I made the match between him and Marion, and I'm
proud of the alliance. You cannot say that it was not a wise and
judicious one."
"Whew! I don't know. Marion as melancholy as a mummy, and a child that
shrieks in terror whenever its father approaches. Perhaps a wise match,
but far enough from a happy one, I should say."
"The world calls it a nice match."
"Indeed."
At this point of the conversation Kate entered the room.
"Come hither, child," said her father; "do you love this Mr. Sumpter?"