A Separation and a Little Stranger.
Mr. Abbot appeared to gather new strength after the events related in the
previous chapter, in spite of his own predictions and the fears of others
that he was dying.
The mild September weather and the quiet happiness which pervaded his home
seemed to have a beneficial effect upon him. But as the weather grew
colder, as the chill October winds began to sweep over the mountains, a
decided change came. Just as daylight was fading one evening, and the dull
gray of a coming storm began to settle down upon the mountains, he
breathed his last, peacefully, quietly and willingly, and thus all earthly
sorrow was at an end for him; he had gone where all wrongs would be
righted, where mystery or shame would no longer envelop him.
They buried him, as he desired, beneath the great plumy pine tree that
grew near their cottage, and where Virgie's great happiness had come to
her, and then Sir William felt that he had a right to take his wife away
to a more congenial atmosphere.
He had disposed of his claim some time before, for since he had no longer
any need of an excuse for remaining there, he had given up all pretense of
business and devoted himself exclusively to the care of the invalid and to
making Virgie's duties as light as possible.
The cottage and its furniture were sold; Chi Lu was presented with Sir
William's own neat little cabin with all its contents, besides being
otherwise handsomely remunerated for all his kindness and faithfulness and
then the baronet took his bride directly to San Francisco, which they
decided to make their headquarters for the winter, intending early in the
spring to sail for England.
Sir William had written home long before this of his marriage. But the
news had not been cordially received by the members of his household.
His stately mother had replied in a brief, dignified manner, which did not
fail to convey her displeasure at the step he had taken, while his widowed
sister, who, with her two children, were greatly dependent on her brother,
did not hesitate to express her indignation at his rashness and
inconsideration of their feelings, at least, in marrying so "out of his
own element."
The young baronet, of course, kept all this to himself. He had known well
enough that his marriage would be displeasing to his family, who had long
had other views for him, but he trusted that, when he should present his
bride to them, every objection would disappear like dew before the sun,
and she would be received with open arms and be loved for her own sweet
sake.
At all events he was his own master, and he was not a man to tamely submit
to unreasonable prejudices; and if his mother and sister refused to
receive his wife with becoming courtesy and respect, as the mistress of
Heathdale, it would only be the worse for them.
He did not begin to suspect, however, the bitterness which they
experienced when they received the startling information that he had
married a girl from the wilds of the far West. His union had followed so
closely upon his betrothal that he had no opportunity to communicate plans
beforehand, and thus the news had fallen like a thunderbolt upon them.
"He has ruined his life!" cried Lady Linton, his sister, in a white rage,
after reading the letter. "To think of it!—he has married a perfect
savage from the wilds of America! A pretty mistress for dear old
Heathdale, truly. I will never receive her, <i>never!</i>"
"You know what William is, Miriam, and it will not be wise for you to
offend him. He will never tolerate any display of arrogance or discourtesy
to his wife," returned the dowager Lady Heath, more quietly, yet looking
the picture of despair over the <i>mesalliance</i>.
"I cannot help it; it is an abominable insult to all his friends, and
never to tell us anything about it until the die was cast!"
"But he explains why he could not; the marriage was hastened on account of
the father's critical condition replied Lady Heath.
"Oh, I believe it was all a cunning plan to entrap him and secure the girl
a title and position," groaned Lady Linton. "How will Sadie feel; what
<i>will</i> she say?"
"I do not know as she has any right to say anything," answered the dowager,
with some dignity, for she loved her son and could not bear to have any
one assail him, no matter how much she might blame him herself. "William
has never committed himself to her in any way; that plan has been more
ours than his."
She was fully as unreconciled as her daughter; still she was capable of
looking at matters as they really were.
"Oh, I cannot have it so, mamma; do not let us say anything about the
affair at present," pleaded her daughter. "William says it will be some
time before he returns, as he wishes to show his wife something of the
world first. Doubtless," she continued, with increasing bitterness, "he
desires to polish off some of the rough edges before he presents her to
us; so let us suppress the fact of his marriage until the time is set for
their coming; it will be hard enough even then to acknowledge the plebeian
union."
Lady Heath demurred at first at this proposal, but she finally yielded the
point, and nothing was said regarding the baronet's sudden marriage, and
this was the beginning of a plot to ruin the life of a beautiful young
wife, and to bring years of misery upon a noble man.
* * * * *
Virgie found it very pleasant in some respects, though sad in others, to
return to San Francisco, her former home.
She had left the city nearly six years ago, when she was an undeveloped
girl; she returned to it in the full glory of beautiful womanhood, and
owing to her many changes which had occurred there, as well as in her own
personal appearance and position, no one appeared to recognize her as the
daughter of the unfortunate man who had figured so conspicuously in a
terrible scandal there, and then suddenly disappeared covering his tracks
so successfully that no one, either friend or foe, knew whither he had
gone.
The young wife was very happy in spite of her recent bereavement; her
husband was kindness and nobility personified, and left nothing undone
that could contribute in any degree to her pleasure, or prevent her from
brooding upon her father's death.
They had a cozy and elegant suite of rooms at the Baldwin Hotel, which Sir
William had engaged for the winter, and from this point they made many
excursions sometimes being away several weeks at a time, traveling, then
returning to rest, after which they would start afresh again.
The fond husband was determined that Virgie should see everything that was
worth seeing in her own country before he took her to their home in
England.
They frequented the opera and theater, attended concerts and lectures, and
Sir William was both surprised and delighted to notice how readily Virgie
adapted herself to the requirements of society and etiquette,
notwithstanding the seclusion of the last half-dozen years.
About the middle of March they started for the East, intending to take the
trip leisurely and visit points of interest along their route.
They arrived in New York early in May, and were intending to sail for
England the last of the month.
But Virgie, although not really ill, was far from well when they reached
the great metropolis, and her husband insisted that she must have medical
advice.
He called in a skillful physician, who, upon being told what their plans
were, immediately and emphatically vetoed further travel for the present.
"It will be simply impossible for Mrs. Heath to undertake a sea voyage at
present," he asserted.
"But the trip occupies eight days—" Sir William began.
"If it occupied only three it would make no difference it will not be safe
for her to attempt to cross the ocean under three months," Dr. Knox said,
with an air of decision which admitted of no further argument.
Sir William was disappointed, yet he was too fond and careful of his
beautiful wife to rebel against this verdict.
A week or two passed and Virgie appeared to be improving, when, one
morning, there came a cablegram from Heathdale, announcing that the
dowager Lady Heath was alarmingly ill, and imploring the baronet's
immediate return if he desired to see her alive.
The message threw the young husband into a distressing state of mind.
It seemed like harshest cruelty to obey the summons and leave his wife
alone in that strange city. And yet the alternative of remaining and
allowing his mother to die without seeing him once more, seemed almost
equally unkind.
He sought Dr. Knox again in his extremity and explained his desperate
situation.
"I could not answer for the consequences if you take your wife; it will be
a fearful risk for Mrs. Heath to go. She <i>might</i> endure the voyage safely,
but the probabilities are that she would not," the physician gravely told
him. "But," he added, kindly, "I sympathize with you—I appreciate your
dilemma, and, if <i>you</i> must go, I advise you to leave her in my charge and
I promise faithfully to give her every attention during your enforced
absence."
This seemed the only thing to be done and Sir William finally decided to
return to his home alone.
Virgie herself urged him to go, though her heart was almost breaking at
the thought of the separation, for it <i>might</i> be that she would never see
him again.
Still she was brave—she put aside her own feelings out of regard for the
duty which he owed his mother, and there was a possibility that he could
return to her in the course of two or three weeks.
"Do not feel unduly anxious for me, Will," she said to him, on the evening
before he was to sail, "I know that Dr. Knox will do all for me that you
can wish. I will either write or send some message to you by every
steamer, and I am going to trust that everything will be well."
"But it is agony to me to leave you—oh! my darling, if your heart fails
you in the least, if you say you prefer to have me stay, I will not go
even now," he said, his own courage failing him and having more than half
a mind to renounce his intended voyage even at that late hour.
"No, dear, I know that it is your duty to go," Virgie answered, gently. "I
should never forgive myself, if your mother should die, for keeping you
from her at such a time."
"But if—I should lose you, too," he was going to say, but checked himself
and concluded, "but if you should be neglected and unhappy?"
"I shall not be, Will; you have provided against the former contingency
most generously, and the latter I can regulate myself. I will not be
unhappy, for I know that you are doing right and that you will return to
me the moment that you are at liberty to do so."
"Indeed I shall," he answered, as he gathered her close to his breast and
rained passionate kisses upon her lovely face.
But his heart was very heavy notwithstanding her apparent cheerfulness.
A superstitious dread seemed to have seized him, warning him that some
fearful calamity would follow this separation. He was not given to such
unreasonable imaginings, and he reproached himself for indulging in them;
but he could not shake them off nevertheless.
Morning came and with it the hour of departure and the last farewells.
Virgie wore a brave and even smiling face through all. She had resolved
that she would not unman him at the last moment.
She watched at her window until he drove away, waving her handkerchief and
throwing him a kiss as he passed from sight, then the pent-up grief of her
heart found vent in a wild burst of tears such as she had not shed since
the hour of her father's death.
But she would not indulge it long.
She had every comfort. Her rooms were cheerful and elegant; a motherly,
middle-aged woman had been engaged to remain with her as companion and
nurse during her husband's absence; she had an abundance of money at her
command, and Dr. Knox had promised to look in upon her every day. Surely
she had nothing to complain of, save the enforced separation from her dear
one, and that would not be for long, she trusted.
The ninth day after the departure of Sir William there came a cablegram,
telling of his safe arrival at Liverpool, and this, at his request, she
immediately responded to, telling him that all was well with her.
The next steamer, she knew, would bring her a letter and after that she
would hear from him every few days.
Sir William found his mother alive, but in a very low state; "she might
rally, she might not," they told him; and, with a sigh of resignation, he
could only wait and try to patiently adapt himself to circumstances.
Thus four weeks went by, and then, early one June morning, a message went
flying through the depths of the ocean, telling that a tiny little maiden,
with eyes and hair like her father's, but bidding fair to become the
counterpart of her mother in form and features had come to Virgie the
morning previous, and "all was well."
The fervent "thank God!" accompanied with something very like a sob, which
burst from Sir William Heath's lips as he read this message, told how
intense had been his anxiety during the weeks of his absence from his
darling, and how great his relief at those favorable tidings.
He returned a message of love and congratulation, and when, a little
later, there came a letter to the happy young mother, it begged that their
little one should be called "Virgie May," the latter name being that of a
dear sister of whom Sir Will had been very fond, and who had died several
years previous.
And thus the little heiress of Heathdale was christened by her mother.