THE STORY.
Mrs. Dering and Ernestine were alone; Ernestine had asked for the story
of her own, or rather her mother's life, and now lay with her face
turned away, while Mrs. Dering held her hand in that loving clasp, and
began telling it quietly:
"We were all living in Virginia at the time, dear. Papa Dering lived
with his uncle Ridley. Uncle Walter Dering lived in Staunton, and your
mama's home and mine, also in the city, were only a little way apart,
and we saw a great deal of each other. Florence Granger was her name,
and she was the most beautiful girl that I have ever seen, except the
little daughter here, who is going to be her mother's very image. She
was lovable in every way, but possessed a restless, impatient,
dissatisfied spirit, that brought her much unhappiness. She constantly
yearned for some kind of life that would give her eager, uncontrollable
spirits free play; she hated the restraints of home, and frequently
threw out dark hints to me of what she would do sometimes, when the
right moment presented itself. I often begged her to give up such
restless longings, and be happy at home; for she certainly had a lovely
one, and might have been the happiest of girls; but she would kiss me
and laugh, and call me 'dear little proper Bess,' and really be so happy
and gay for a time that I would lose my fears, and think her threats all
lively fun. About this time, papa and I became engaged, and I, confiding
to him a secret that I had discovered, that his brother Walter loved
Florence, he said that Walter had confessed it to him but that he
despaired of ever gaining her heart, and that he dreaded the depressing
effect of discouragement on his health, for Walter was very delicate. So
I promised to do all I could towards helping him, and finding out the
true state of Florence's heart towards him, and I did so quite
successfully, though it has always been a source of bitterest regret to
me. I found, with very little trouble that she had no thought or feeling
of love for him, and one day, when she was thoughtlessly laughing at him
for something, I told her, in a hasty moment, how he loved her, and how
the disappointment might kill him. I never can forget how surprised and
grieved she looked, nor how bitterly I regretted my hastiness, for a
more tender-hearted girl never lived, and it was impossible to guess,
how, in a generous, impulsive moment, she might sacrifice herself. That
night she stayed with me, and both Walter and papa called; and I saw in
an instant, that in her generous pity, she was going to do a work that
could never be undone. Poor Walter was nearly beside himself with joy
and encouragement. She sang for him, and oh, how many times have I gone
back to that night, when you have been singing to me, with your mother's
voice, dear. She promised to ride with him next day, and as papa watched
them, he said to me in great relief: 'She loves him, and they will be
happy;' and I could only say 'I hope so, truly,' and pray that I might
be forgiven for what I had done; for I knew she did not love him.
"In a few days, she came rushing to me in a perfect passion of stormy,
bitter tears, and frightened me greatly with her fierce vehemence. She
declared that she hated him, that she could not endure the sight of him,
and yet, not half an hour before, she had promised to marry him, and
now, if I did not say something to comfort her, she would do something
dreadful, sure. I was perfectly at a loss what to say or do, and
trembled for the end of it all, but I knew the only way to quiet her
would be to appeal to her pity and tenderness, so I talked and talked
for a great while about him, how he loved her, how the disappointment
now would surely kill him, how happy we would be as sisters when
married, and how we would all go to Europe if papa inherited uncle
Congreve's estate; and so finally won her over to a more pleasing view
of the case. In the weeks that followed, I had the same thing to do
many, many times, and found it more difficult to accomplish each time.
She was wildly rebellious, and in an unguarded moment, let fall her
passion for stage life, and then confided to me all her former plans,
hopes, and aspirations. She had been in correspondence with members of
the profession and had many secret plans laid for carrying out her
ideas. She showed me several letters from Clarence Clare, then a famous
actor, and I did not dream, could not even realize then, how far matters
had gone. She was to have joined his troupe when he reached Staunton,
left her home and gone out into the world under an assumed name, to
taste and know its bitterness, when it was all too late. I was in an
agony of fear, and besought her to give it up and think, before she lost
herself to home and friends, but she told me I need not worry, she had
written to him that morning that she was to be married, and could not
fulfill her plans with him, and that I could rest in peace, for she was
going to be a really good girl now, and settle down as properly as I
could wish. I believed her, and was entirely deceived by the quiet,
contented aspect that marked her from that day, and was overjoyed at the
happiness that seemed to come to her as the day of our double marriage
drew near. She spent much of her time with Walter, and the rest almost
entirely with me, and we had hours of delightful chatter of when we
would be sisters indeed, and always live together, for papa and Walter
were devoted brothers.
"It all comes back to me now, so terribly clear, how the day before our
wedding came, and Florence was in such a state of ecstatic happiness;
she left me in the evening with the warmest, tenderest kisses and
embraces, and said she would be on hand early in the morning, for we
were to be married at ten o'clock. While we were at breakfast next
morning, her maid came over in great haste, to know if she was with me,
that she wasn't at home, and evidently had not been, as her room was
untouched. It seemed for a moment that I could not move, so great was
the terror that possessed me; then I jumped up, snatched a hat and ran
all the way to her home, without once thinking of amazed observers. She
was gone. There was a little note left for me, and no word for any one
else; she had gone with Clarence Clare, who had arrived the day before,
and, perhaps, even as I stood there reading her hurried words, she was
being married, or was already his wife. I can never tell you of the
tempest of grief that fell upon two homes, or how we ever got through
that wretched day. Papa came to me for just a few minutes, then hurried
off to stay with Walter who had not spoken, or betrayed any signs of
consciousness since the word of Florence's desertion reached him. We
knew from that day that he could not live, and though he was never ill,
he died slowly, lingering with us only about six months, and his last
words were to papa and me, spoken just before he died: 'If she ever
comes back, tell her I forgave her, that I loved her to the last, and
prayed God every hour that she might be happy.'
"A little while after, papa and I were married, and moved to Richmond.
He received nothing from Uncle Congreve, you know, so we both had to go
to work, and we were very happy, for papa was brave, strong and
honorable, and he prospered; so that in a little while we had a cosy
home of our own, and envied no one their riches.
"Mr. and Mrs. Granger, your grandparents, were very proud, and left
Staunton, rather than stay where their daughter had disgraced them, and
we never knew where they went to, or whether they are still living or
not. Two years went by, and in that time I sent many a loving, anxious
thought to Florence, where ever she was, and wondered if we were ever to
meet again; and one night my answer came to me. It was a bitter night,
snowing hard and blowing fiercely. Papa and I, were sitting in our cosy,
warm room, and Bea was sleeping, rosy and sweet, in her little crib,
when there came the feeblest kind of a ring at the door-bell, and papa
went to the door. In just a second he called me, and I hurried there, to
find him holding a basket, with a queer bundle in it, and looking
amazed out into the night; then he set it down suddenly, and hurried
out. I had not collected my thoughts, when he came in again with a
fainting figure in his arms; a woman with a face uncovered, and we both
recognized her in an instant. She was nearly dead with exposure, and it
was a long time before she was able to speak a word, but we doctored her
strongly, got her into a hot bed, and after a while she opened her eyes,
and knew us. When she could talk, she told us how unhappy she had been;
how, after submitting to her husband's neglect and the trials of stage
life, for over a year, she had left him, and as soon as her baby was
born, began looking for us. She was very feeble, and after leaving her
burden on the steps, fainted in the snow before reaching the gate."
Here Ernestine, who had lain motionless all the while, gave a quick sob,
and shivered from head to foot, and bending down to kiss her tenderly,
Mrs. Dering went on:
"She died with us, dear, in just a few days after, and with her last
breath, gave you to me; and ever since I took you, a tiny, little babe
from her arms, you have been just as dear to me as though God had sent
you to me, my very own."
Ernestine was shivering violently, and as Mrs. Dering finished, hid her
face deeper in the pillow with a pitiful heart-broken moan, that was
hard to hear, and Mrs. Dering said softly:
"Here, darling, in this box are some things that were to belong to you,
in case you ever knew the truth, though with her last breath, your
mother besought us to keep it from you, if we could, and we have tried,
that being one reason why we afterwards left Virginia for New York
State. But God knows best; it is right for you to know, or it would not
have been so. The ring in the box is the one given by Walter to your
mother, and she wished you, if you ever knew the story, to wear it."
Some time after Mrs. Dering left the room, Ernestine slowly turned her
head, looked at the box, and with trembling fingers lifted the cover.
The first thing that met her eyes, was a picture, an exquisite face
painted on porcelain, and she uttered a smothered cry as she looked at
the face of her mother, of whom she was the living image. There was the
same brown eyes, with their slender arches; the same fine straight nose,
and wilful, determined mouth, and the same halo of sunny hair, covering
the proud little head. But Ernestine, looking at it then, thought of the
sweet, true, dear woman, she had always called mother, and threw it down
with a bitter cry of pain. There was also a tiny note, written in a
beautiful dashing hand, and after a while she read it slowly.
"BESS DARLING:
"You have always been my good angel, and I could cry if I
wasn't so happy, to think how I am going to disappoint you after
all. But you mustn't mind, only think how happy I am going to
be, for Clarence loves me! I will be his wife when you read
this, and oh Bess I cannot help but be happy then. Tell Walter
he must not care, he never would have been happy with me,
because I could not love him. I hope you will not feel badly
when you get this; have a gay wedding, and think how happy I am.
I expect it is wrong to run off this way, but I've always done
things wrong, I always will, but it might have been different,
if my mother had loved home more, society less, and been as true
and good to me as a mother, as you have been as a friend.
"FLORENCE."
There were many little trinkets, beside the diamond ring, which
Ernestine declared she could never wear; and in a tiny little box, with
"My Baby," written on the top, were four round bits of gold, each a five
dollar piece.
It really seemed as though the girls could never recover from the shock.
Their faces were pale and tear-stained for many days; and only Olive,
whose self-control was greatest, could venture into Ernestine's
presence, without bursting into tears, and having to beat a hasty
retreat. Every fault that she had ever possessed, they lost sight of
now; they only thought how they all loved her, how happy and sweet she
had always been about home, how lovely she was, and how dreadful it
would be if they were to lose her. For Mrs. Dering had told them some
things that she had not told Ernestine, among them these:
"You have many times noticed how much more careful and anxious I have
been of Ernestine's health than of yours. That was because I knew that
God had given me my girls well and strong, and poor little Ernestine
came, burdened with the fatal seeds of her mother's disease,
consumption. I have known always, for the doctor told me, that she would
become its victim sooner or later; and that if she lived to womanhood,
he would be surprised. I also saw in early childhood, that she had
inherited her mother's restless, eager, dissatisfied disposition, though
the difference in her home life has modified it greatly; and knowing the
weakness that would assail her if she lived, I have battled against it,
and prayed that she might ever be spared a trial, or that a greater
strength would be hers, than had been her mother's. As she has grown
older, I have been grieved and troubled, beyond expression, to watch the
growth of that spirit, and of a selfishness, that must have been her
father's, as not an atom of it belonged to her mother, and many times I
would have been discouraged utterly, if I had not had the faith that God
would do all things for the best, and that all He wanted was for me to
do all in my power, and trust the rest to Him."
As the days went by, Ernestine did not seem to grow any better, and
friends hearing she was ill, began making kindly visits of sympathy, and
were greatly surprised to find her so terribly altered by the brief
illness. At first she refused to see any one; but Mrs. Dering asked if
she could not, as they would think it strange, and she immediately
assented.
It was indeed sad to look at her face, changed so suddenly from its
laughing, exquisite beauty to such a pallid, hollow-eyed, heart-broken
look, and every one pitied, and wondered, and privately talked it over.
Miss Strong, who had industriously circulated the report of her visit,
with many additions and wonderfully sly, meaning looks, now felt called
upon to supply the public with a reason, so she told her dearest friend
that Ernestine Dering had had a foolish little love affair, and broken
her heart over it; and before twenty-four hours, the whole of Canfield
had heard from, or told their dearest friend, the same thing; while Mrs.
Dane, and a few other sensible ladies, were indignantly denying it, with
what success, persons who deny rash stories, can guess.
"I declare," cried Kat one day in desperation, "I can't bear to go up
stairs. I just dream about how sad she looks, and I can't keep from
crying just to think that she really isn't our sister any more
than--than Susie Darrow or any of the other girls. Oh, Kittie, just
suppose we were ever to find out that we were not sisters, or belonged
to somebody else, or something dreadful!"
Kittie gave a long, expressive shiver, and hugged her "fac-simile" by
way of satisfaction, for such a dreadful thought.
"How often we have wondered where she got her lovely hair and eyes," she
said slowly. "And how many times we fretted because mama watched her so,
and seemed to humor her, where she never did us. I expect we have made
mama unhappy lots of times by acting jealous that way."
"Like as not," answered Kat remorsefully. "It's all dreadful, every bit
of it. I'd give worlds if it had never happened."
They all tried, by every way in their power, to win Ernestine back to
something of her old self; but it seemed impossible. She spent hours and
hours by herself, just sitting with her hands folded, looking out of the
window with no sign of life or interest in her colorless face, and
rarely speaking. Just brooding, brooding, and nursing her grief, until
the doctor said she must go away, take a complete change, and then she
would come back herself again. He accepted the lover-story, as indeed,
most every one did, for surely the general behavior and symptoms were
much the same, and then, besides, what _could_ the reason be if it
wasn't that?
Ernestine was perfectly indifferent about a visit anywhere. She was
selfish in her grief, as in everything else, and took no interest in all
their plans for her, expressing no satisfaction at the decision that
Bea should go with her, and saying that she did not care when or where
they went.
One afternoon, Kittie went up stairs and found her writing something and
crying bitterly over it. She so seldom cried, that Kittie was alarmed,
but Ernestine said it was only because she was nervous; then put her
writing away, and took her old, listless attitude in the chair by the
window.
That night Olive heard something; she was sure that she did, and started
up in bed for a moment to listen, but everything was perfectly still, so
in a moment she lay down again, but could not get to sleep until long
after the whistle had blown for the midnight train that went through to
the city.
Next morning Ernestine did not come to breakfast, but it was nothing
unusual, so Kittie fixed a tempting waiter and took it up stairs.
In a few minutes she called "mama," in a frightened way, and Mrs. Dering
instantly sprang up, followed by the girls, and ran up stairs.
Since her sickness, Ernestine had slept alone, and Bea had gone over
with Olive; so now, as they hurried in, they saw her untumbled bed, with
just the slight pressure made where she had lain down, as though gone to
bed for the night; everything else was unchanged. Mrs. Dering sank
trembling into a chair, and pointed to a paper lying on the table.
Olive reached it, and read aloud in a frightened, awe-struck voice:
"DARLING MAMA:
"I'm going away; I can't stay, and oh please don't look for me;
for I could not come back. It seems as though my heart was
broken, and it nearly made me crazy to think that I was all
alone in the world, except a wicked, cruel father. Oh, I never
knew how much I loved you all, until I found that I was
nothing--neither daughter nor sister. I have taken the twenty
dollars in gold, and fifteen dollars that I saved from my
teaching, and I will go some where and work for my living. I
know it will grieve you, and that is all that has kept me from
going before; but I could not stand it any longer; something
made me go. Oh, please forgive me, and do not look for me. I
love you all so much, and it nearly broke my heart to look at
the girls, and think they were all sisters, and you their own
mama, while I was nothing. Don't grieve for me, please, but do
love me.
"ERNESTINE."