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JESSAMINE.
* * * * *
POPULAR NOVELS.
By Marion Harland.
I.--ALONE.
II.--HIDDEN PATH.
III.--MOSS SIDE.
IV.--NEMESIS.
V.--MIRIAM.
VI.--THE EMPTY HEART.
VII.--HELEN GARDNER.
VIII.--SUNNYBANK.
IX.--HUSBANDS AND HOMES.
X.--RUBY'S HUSBAND.
XI.--PHEMIE'S TEMPTATION.
XII.--AT LAST.
XIII.--TRUE AS STEEL. (_New._)
XIV.--JESSAMINE. (_Just ready._)
"The Novels of Marion Harland are of surpassing excellence.
By intrinsic power of character-drawing
and descriptive facility, they hold
the reader's attention with the
most intense interest
and fascination."
All published uniform with this volume. Price $1.50 each, and sent
_free_ by mail, on receipt of price, by
G. W. CARLETON & CO.,
New York.
* * * * *
JESSAMINE.
A Novel.
by
MARION HARLAND,
Author of
"Alone," "Hidden Path," "Nemesis," "Moss Side," "Miriam," "Empty
Heart," "Helen Gardner," "Sunnybank," "Husbands and Homes,"
"Ruby's Husband," "Phemie's Temptation," "At Last,"
"True as Steel," etc.
New York:
G. W. Carleton & Co., Publishers.
London: S. Low, Son & Co.
M.DCCC.LXXIII.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by
M. Virginia Terhune,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
Stereotyped at the
Women's Printing House,
56, 58 and 60 Park Street,
New York.
At Wisdom's gate Suspicion sleeps,
And deems no ill where no ill seems.
MILTON.
To
_Mrs. MARGARET J. PRESTON_,
OF LEXINGTON, VIRGINIA,
This Volume
is
_AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED_,
NOT ONLY AS A TRIBUTE TO HER PERSONAL WORTH AND TALENTS,
BUT AS ANOTHER SEAL SET UPON THE DEAR AND SAD MEMORY
WE HOLD IN COMMON, AND WHICH CANNOT FAIL OF
RENEWAL IN WRITING OR READING OF
"ROY FORDHAM."
MARION HARLAND.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I 11
CHAPTER II 24
CHAPTER III 37
CHAPTER IV 53
CHAPTER V 64
CHAPTER VI 78
CHAPTER VII 92
CHAPTER VIII 108
CHAPTER IX 129
CHAPTER X 145
CHAPTER XI 160
CHAPTER XII 170
CHAPTER XIII 185
CHAPTER XIV 202
CHAPTER XV 217
CHAPTER XVI 228
CHAPTER XVII 241
CHAPTER XVIII 254
CHAPTER XIX 270
CHAPTER XX 283
CHAPTER XXI 299
CHAPTER XXII 316
CHAPTER XXIII 325
CHAPTER XXIV 336
CHAPTER XXV 349
CHAPTER XXVI 364
CHAPTER XXVII 375
Jessamine.
CHAPTER I.
A young girl lay upon a lounge in the recess of an oriel-window. If
disease held her there, it had not altered the contour of the smooth
cheek, or made shallow the dimples in wrist and elbow of the arm
supporting her head; had not unbent the spirited bow of the mouth,
or dimmed the glad light of the gray eyes. Most people called these
black, deceived by the shadow of the jetty lashes. They were wide
open, now, and the light of a sunny mid-day streamed in upon her
face through the window, yet the upper part of the irid was darkened
by the heavy fringe that matched in line the well-defined brows. Her
hair, also black, with purple reflections glancing from every coil
and fold, was braided into a coronal, and about the heavy plait
knotted at the back of the head was twisted a half-wreath of yellow
jessamine. Her skin was dark and clear, but she had usually little
color; her forehead was not remarkable for breadth or height; the
nose was a nondescript, and the mouth rather piquant than pretty,
with suggestions of wilfulness in the full, lower lip, and the
slight, downward lines at the corners. Her dress was white muslin,
with no ornament beyond the gold clasp of her girdle, and a spray of
jessamine at her throat.
The casement was canopied with the vine from which this last had
been plucked. Hundreds of bright bells were swinging lazily in the
warm breeze, and were tossed into livelier motion and perfume by the
kisses of brown-coated bees and vivid humming-birds. Heightening the
glow of the tropical creeper, while they relieved the eye of the
spectator, drooped still, lilac clusters of wisteria, and these the
girl put aside with impatient fingers when she raised herself upon
her elbow to obtain a better view of the outer scene. A
flower-garden, lively with Spring blossoms, opened through a wicket
in the white fence into a church-yard--green and level on the
roadside--green likewise, but swelling into long ranks of unequal
and motionless billows behind the building. This was an ancient
structure, as was shown by the latticed windows with rounded tops,
and the quaint base of the steeple that yet tapered gracefully into
a shimmering point against the pale noon of the sky. But loving eyes
had watched it, and reverent hands guarded it against decay. The
brick walls were sound, the masonry of gray stone about windows and
doors smooth and solid with cement made hard as the stone by years
and weather. The sward was shaven evenly, and the two great elms at
the entrance to the rural sanctuary were the pride of the region. A
double row of these trees bordered the road for a hundred yards in
either direction, and now offered shade and coolness to an orderly
herd of horses tethered beneath them. A few handsome equipages were
there, two or three stately family carriages and several jaunty
buggies, but most of the vehicles which the animals were attached,
bore the stamp of rusticity, hard usage, and infrequent ablutions,
while the preponderance of roadsters and ponderous draught-horses
over blooded stock, betokened that in this, as in other agricultural
districts, the beautiful was held in subordination to the useful.
The little church, thanks to the taste of the present pastor and the
economical proclivities of past generations, had escaped the
vulgarizing influence of "a good coat of paint." Slow circles of
lichens, hoary and russet, had toned down the original ruddiness of
the bricks, and green mosses dotted the slated roof. It stood on the
edge of a cup-like valley, surrounded by mountains. So near was the
lofty chain on the north-east, that the rising sun sent the shadow
of the Anak of the range--"Old Windbeam," across the graveyard to
the foot of the sacred walls; so remote on the west that the Day-god
looked his last upon the fertile pastures, winding streams, and
peaceful homesteads, over hills round and blue with distance.
The watcher in the oriel-window saw neither flowers nor elms;
noticed the throng of patient dumb horses and motley collection of
carriages as little as she did the mountains, near and far. Every
feature was stirred with exultant wistfulness, and her eyes never
moved from a certain window of the church from which the inner
shutters had been folded back. The house was densely packed with
living beings--she could see through this--galleries and aisles, as
well as pews, and dimly, in the dusky interior, she discerned an
upright and animated figure--the orator of the occasion. Into the
heat and hush of high noon--heat fragrant with waves of odor from
resinous woods, and clover-fields, and garden-borders--a hush to
which the tinkling bells of browsing kine in the meadows, and the
hum of bird and bee close by, brought a deeper lull instead of
interruption--flowed a voice sonorous and sweet; now calm in
argument or narrative--now, breaking into short, abrupt bursts of
impassioned declamation; anon, rising with earnest, majestic
measures, most musical of all, that brought words with the varied
inflections, to the rapt listener. Smiles and tears came to her with
the hearing; light that was glory to the eyes; softness that was
tenderness, not sorrow, to the sensitive mouth.
When the speaker's tones were drowned by the storm of applause that
shook the church, and the mass of human heads swayed to and fro as
did the cedars in Old Windbeam's crown on gusty Winter nights, the
girl fell back upon her cushions and fairly sobbed with excitement.
"My hero! my king!"
A slight bustle in the hall distracted her attention, and warned her
of the necessity of self-control. A man's voice questioned, and a
woman's--provincial and drawling--replied, and steps approached the
parlor.
"Here's a gentleman wants Mr. Fordham, Miss Jessie," said an
ungainly country girl, opening the door.
A tall figure bowed upon the threshold.
"I am an intruder, I fear," he said, taking in at once the facts of
the young lady's inability to rise from her sofa, and the confusion
that burned in her dark cheek at the unexpected apparition. "But
they told me at the hotel below that I should find Mr. Fordham here.
He is my cousin."
The glow remained in all its brightness, but it was painful no
longer, as she held out her hand.
"Then you are Mr. Wyllys?" smiling cordially. "You are very
welcome."
She waved him to a chair near her lounge with an air of proud, but
unconscious, grace, that did not escape the visitor.
"I am sorry you did not arrive in season to participate in the
celebration of our Centennial. You know, I suppose, that Mr. Fordham
is the orator of the day?"
Warily observant, with eyes that habitually looked careless, and
were never off guard, Mr. Wyllys remarked the smile and glance
through the window at the church, which accompanied this bit of
information, but his reply evinced no knowledge of aught beyond what
was conveyed by her words.
"I should be ashamed to confess it, but I was not aware until this
moment that any public celebration was going on, unless it were a
religious service in the church--a saint's day or other solemn
festival. Is this, then, the Anniversary of a notable event in the
history of your lovely valley?"
There was a tincture of commiseration for his ignorance mingled with
her surprise at the question that must have diverted the stranger if
his sense of humor was keen. Her answer was grave as befitted the
importance of the subject.
"The founder of this colony among the hills was a direct descendant
of the Scotch Covenanters--one David Dundee, from whom the
settlement took its name. He emigrated with a large family of sturdy
boys and girls, and his report of the rich lands and genial climate
of his new home drew after him many others--all from his native
land--most of them his former friends and neighbors. They cleared
away forests, built houses, dug, and ploughed, and reaped, and
worshipped GOD after the fashion of their fathers, having, within
fifteen years after David Dundee's establishment of himself and
household here, erected the substantial church you see over there.
At the time of the breaking out of the French and Indian war, there
was not a more prosperous and happy community in the State. In
response to the call to arms, the bravest and best of the young and
middle-aged men formed themselves into a company and marched away to
fight as zealously and conscientiously as they had felled the woods
and tilled the ground. A mere handful--and most of these infirm from
age and disease--remained with the women and children, upon whom
devolved much and heavy labor if they would retain plenty and
comfort in their homes. They were literally hewers of wood and
drawers of water; they sowed the fields and gardens, and gathered in
the crops with their own hands--these heroic great-grandmothers of
ours!--herded their cattle and repaired their houses, besides
performing the ordinary tasks of housewives. And--one and all--they
learned and practised the use of fire-arms, kept muskets beside
cradles and kneading-troughs, and when they met for worship on
Sabbath, mothers carried their babies on the left arm, a gun upon
the right. One day, late in April--perhaps as fair and sweet a day
as this--news came to this secluded hamlet that a large body of
'the enemy'--chiefly Indians and half-breeds--was approaching.
Providentially, old David Dundee was at home on a furlough of three
days--he asked no more--that he might rally somewhat after the
amputation of his left arm in hospital. He had the church bell rung
(it was a present from a Scottish lord, and it hangs still in the
steeple), and after a brief consultation upon the green in front of
the 'kirk,' with the wisest of his neighbors--a council of war from
which women were not excluded--he collected the entire population
into the church, first allowing them one hour in which to bury or
otherwise secrete their valuables. The feebler women and the
children were sent, for safety, into the cellar, which extends under
the whole building; the lower parts of the windows were barricaded
with feather-beds and mattresses, with loop-holes through which guns
could be thrust, and these stout-hearted matrons and young girls
volunteered to defend. The men were mustered in the galleries. A
sentinel from the bell-tower soon gave warning that the foe was in
sight. From their loop-holes the colonists saw their houses and
barns fired, their horses and other stock maimed and butchered,
gardens, fields, and orchards wantonly laid waste; but not a woman
wept or a man swore or groaned in the crowded church. On they came,
flushed with success, ravening for human blood. David Dundee spoke
twice before the uproar without made hearing, even of his stentorian
voice, impossible. 'Haud your fire 'till ye hear me gie the word!'
he said, when his small army looked to him for orders, as savages
and half-breeds rushed forward to surround the building. A minute
later--'The Lord have maircy upon their souls, for we'll hae nane
upon their bodies! _Fire!_'
"The fight was a fierce one, and lasted until nightfall."
"'Then,' says the chronicler of the story--'seeing that the enemy
had withdrawn a little space, we thanked the GOD of battles, and
took some refreshment; then set about caring for our wounded and
preparing for the renewed attack we believed the savages were about
to make. Finding the hurt of our leader, David Dundee, to be mortal,
and that our ammunition was well-nigh exhausted, and being, in
consequence, sore distraught in spirit, we gave ourselves anew to
prayer--_then, stood to our arms_!'
"Wasn't that grand!" the girl interrupted herself to say--her wide
eyes all alight with fire and dew.
"Glorious! One likes to remember that upon such a foundation as your
Dundee and his followers our Republic was built," assented the
listener. "And, then?"
"And, then,"--taking up the words with singleness of interpretation
and a grave simplicity that nearly provoked the auditor to a
smile--"the darkness closed down and hid the foe from their sight.
With the dawn came a glad surprise. The invaders had retreated,
bearing their dead and wounded with them. The garrison had lost but
twenty in all--five of them being women. They were buried in the
graveyard over there--with the exception of the rugged old
chieftain, who was interred directly under the pulpit. All this
happened a hundred years ago. When Mr. Fordham was here, last
summer, the committee having the centennial anniversary in charge,
requested him to deliver the oration."
"I am somewhat surprised that he has never mentioned this new
distinction to me, although I knew his modesty to be equal to his
ability," said the visitor.
The black brows were knit and the lip curled.
"It is 'no distinction' to him to deliver an historical address to a
crowd of yeomen, you may think--and rightly! His consent to do this
is a proof of his kindness of heart and willingness to oblige his
friends. I understand as well as you do, that our pride in the one
event that has made our valley memorable in the history of our
country, may seem overstrained to absurdity in the eyes of others.
But there are some in Mr. Fordham's audience who appreciate his
talents, and all admire. Listen!" her forehead smoothing as the
applause broke forth again.
Mr. Wyllys was too well-bred to recall to her mind what she should
have learned from his frank avowal of ignorance of her cherished
tradition,--namely--that the "one event" had been, in that hurrying
modern age, forgotten by the world outside the noble amphitheatre of
hills. The country girl had told the story well; her face had been
an engaging study while she talked, and there was novel refreshment
in her naive belief that the tale must interest him as much as it
did herself. Otherwise, he might have found the recital a bore.
"You misunderstood me if you imagined that I intended to sneer--did
me an injustice you will not repeat when you are better acquainted
with me. The highest honor that can be awarded the American citizen
is the opportunity to serve the people. And my cousin--any
man--might well be proud of the compliment conveyed in the
invitation to be speaker on an occasion like this. The theme should
be, of itself, inspiration. I am disposed to quarrel with him for
excluding me from the number of his hearers. His reserve on the
subject of the appreciation that meets his worth and talents
everywhere is sometimes trying to the temper of those who know how
to value these, and the reputation they have won for him."
"He is singularly modest. But that is a characteristic of true
merit," said the young lady, laconically. "You came down from
Hamilton to-day?"
"I did!" with a slight shrug of the shoulder and a comic lifting of
the eyebrows. "Actually arising at four o'clock to take the train. I
saw the sun rise, for the first time in twenty years. Your home is
very beautiful, Miss Kirke."
"We think so. I ought to, for I was born here and have known no
other. But I am not Miss Kirke--only Miss Jessie. My elder sister is
in the church. When she comes home, she will play the hostess better
than I do."
"Excuse me for saying that you are scarcely a competent judge on
that point."
She met the gallantry with the half-petulant expression and gesture
that had answered his allusion to his cousin's "new distinction."
"I did not say that to provoke flattery. Apart from the truth that
my sister is my superior in nearly everything that goes to make up
the dignified lady, she is, just now, in better physical trim than I
can boast. I sprained my foot a week ago," smiling, and blushing so
brightly as to arouse the spectator's curiosity--"and I am forbidden
to use it, as yet."
She turned her face to the window as the crash of a brass band
proclaimed that the oration was at an end. While she beat time on
the sill to the patriotic strains the visitor inspected the room and
its appointments.
It was a square parlor, low-browed and spacious, and wainscoated
with oak. Venerable portraits adorned the walls, and the furniture
belonged to the era when mahogany was plentiful and upholstery
expensive, if one might judge from the disproportion in the quantity
of polished wood and that of cushions. A modern piano was there,
however, and the carpet was new and handsome. The lounge on which
Jessie lay was evidently the workmanship of a neighborhood
carpenter, but was far more comfortable than the stately sofas at
opposite ends of the apartment, being broad and deeply cushioned,
and covered with a pretty chintz pattern. An old china bowl, full of
pond-lilies, was upon the centre-table; tall vases of the same
material and antique style stood on the mantel, and a precious
cabinet of carved wood--Mr. Wyllys wondered if the owners knew how
precious--was in a far corner. The most conspicuous ornament of the
room was a large picture that hung over the mantel. It was a
portrait of the second daughter of the house, taken several years
before, for it represented a girl of sixteen, kneeling beside a
forest spring. She had just filled a leaf-cup with water, and, in
the act of raising it to her lips, glanced at the spectator with a
smile of saucy triumph,--a face so radiant with roguish glee as to
win the gravest to an answering gleam. The likeness was striking
still, and the painting excellent. The figure was spirited, the
attitude one of negligent grace, and the accessories to the
principal object were well brought in. A vista in the woods revealed
the craggy front of Windbeam, and about the old beech, shading the
spring, clung a jessamine in full flower.
Mr. Wyllys got up to take a nearer view of the picture, and Jessie
looked around.
"That is one of my father's treasures," she said, without a tinge of
embarrassment or affectation at seeing him intent upon the scrutiny
of her portrait. "It was painted by H----" pronouncing a celebrated
name. "He spent a summer in this neighborhood, four years since. He
was with us on a picnic to the wishing-well--every county has a
wishing-well, hasn't it?--and there made the first sketch of that
picture."
"A neat way of informing me that he was struck with her attitude and
face, and asked the favor of reproducing them upon canvas!"
reflected the guest.
"It is a masterpiece!" he said aloud.
He marvelled, inwardly, at the paternal devotion or extravagance
that had tempted the master of the unpretending manse to make
himself the owner of what he knew must be a costly work of art.
Jessie answered as if he had spoken.
"Mr. H---- gave it to my father, who had been attentive to him
during a severe illness."
She scanned the new-comer narrowly while his regards were engaged by
the painting, never dreaming that he was quite conscious of the
scrutiny, and prolonged his examination purposely that she might
have time and opportunity for hers. He stood fire bravely, for his
mien of easy composure did not vary by so much as the nervous twitch
of a muscle; his attitude was one of serious attention; his eyes did
not leave the picture.
A tall, lithe figure, with a willowy bend of the shoulders, slight,
but perceptible, especially when he spoke, or listened to her; fair,
almost sandy hair; blue eyes; a pale, and by no means handsome face,
inasmuch as the forehead was narrow, the cheeks thin, the mouth
large, and the luxuriant beard had a reddish tendency in the
mustache, and where it neared the under lip,--each of these
particulars and the _tout ensemble_ awoke in Jessie's mind
disappointment, which found vent in a little sigh and a droop of the
corners of the mouth as she withdrew her eyes.
Then, silence abode between them for awhile. The music of the band
had ceased, and whatever were the concluding exercises of the
celebration in the church, they were inaudible in the great parlor,
where cool shadows slept in the corners, and the scent of
pond-lilies and jessamine steeped the air into languorous stillness.
It would have seemed like a dream to a romantic or imaginative man,
and the glory of the place and hour been the figure among the
pillows on the couch, her dark cheeks stained red as with rich wine;
the sultry yellow of the blossoms in her hair and upon her bosom
making more black her wealth of hair, more clear her olive skin, the
while, forgetful that she was not alone, she watched with parted
lips and eager, love-full eyes, for the coming of her lord.
We shall have abundant proof, hereafter, that Mr. Wyllys was the
reverse of romantic, and that his imagination never misled his
judgment, but esthetic's was a favorite study with him, and his
taste being good, he decided within his calm and patronizing self
that the hour spent in the "best room" of the Dundee parsonage was
not utterly wasted.
He had had a study in color--and of more kinds than that which met
the eye--if nothing else.