A less vain man than Mr. Wyllys would have been flattered by the
effect produced upon the spiritless, faded creature, the mocking
shadow of the old blithesome Jessie, by half an hour's talk with
himself. A less patient man would have been chagrined by the
discovery that his enumeration of the varied and substantial
benefits that would accrue to her from the proposed visit to Mrs.
Baxter, and the delicate skill with which he contrived to keep
before her all the while the prospect of his society and
guardianship, weighed but as thistle-down with the obtuse "love-sick
girl," in comparison with the circumstance that Hamilton was Roy
Fordham's home.
Orrin was surprised, and not agreeably, when her own words forced
this astounding fact upon him.
"It will be the next best thing!" she said, dreamily, a happy
smile touching her lips and kindling up her eyes. "I have heard
him talk so much of the place and the people, that it will be
like revisiting half-remembered scenes--renewing former
acquaintanceships. You will show me all his favorite haunts, let
me see the friends he values most highly--won't you? The ocean is
narrower and quieter when I think of taking the walks and drives he
likes best--which he has described to me over and over; of mingling
with those who were his daily associates--who knew him before I did.
Though I don't like very well to think of _that_"--interrupting
herself with a laugh. "I feel as if nobody had the right. It seems
to me that I cannot recollect when I did _not_ know him."
She mused silently for some minutes--the tender light still
trembling over her face. It was as if she had forgotten his
presence, until a sudden thought turned her to him with an abrupt
query.
"Mrs. Baxter knows nothing of--has heard no rumors?" in shy anxiety
that appeared overstrained to one who had heard the loving soliloquy
Orrin was prompt to decide was in very bad taste, even when the
unconsidered listener was in the confidence of both parties.
"Of your engagement?" he said, with grave directness. "Hamilton is
in profound ignorance on that subject. Roy knows how to keep his own
counsel, and knowing it was his wish that your betrothal should
remain secret, for the present, I have mentioned it to no one. You
need be under no embarrassment on that score."
"Thank you."
Jessie was silent again, but the pause was filled with soberer
thoughts. She began to fear lest she had been talking nonsense--been
indiscreet and unmaidenly. Orrin kindly overlooked the lapse into
selfish sentimentality, but she was ashamed that she had given him
occasion for exercising forbearance on this subject. He noted, and
with satisfaction, that she treated him to no more love rhapsodies
that night; did not voluntarily name Roy in the ensuing dialogue.
"I am happy to learn that Mrs. Baxter is warm-hearted and sincere,"
she said, at the close of a searching catechism upon that lady's
characteristics. "I was prepossessed in her favor, less by her
letter, than because she loved my mother. My sister has been a dear
and careful parent to me. You have seen what my father's fond
indulgence is. But the core of my heart has ached for my mother--my
own beautiful mother--ever since she died. I was not quite five
years old, yet I recollect her as if I had kissed her for the last
time, yesterday. My father had this oriel built to please her. I
remember seeing her nowhere else until she was carried up to her
death-bed. Her easy chair stood there"--pointing--"and her
writing-desk beside it. When I could, by standing on tip-toe, just
get my chin upon the window-sill, she would make me measure with a
bit of ribbon how much the jessamine had grown in a week. She
planted these vines and tended them as if they had been her
children. She said to me, more than once or twice, that she hoped I
would be like my name-flower when I grew up--brave, sweet,
faithful--telling how one had for fifty years curtained the porch of
the house in which she was born, and how dearly she loved it. She
made me her companion, and, in some sort, her confidante by the time
I could talk plainly, and very proud I was of the distinction. She
used to take me upon her lap, or hold me closely in her arms as she
lay on her lounge in the twilight, and repeat stories of her
Southern home; sing ballads so sweetly sad that I could not help
crying quietly while I listened--very quietly, for fear she should
hear me, and stop."
It was twilight by this time. The mountain-crown was dusky as the
plain; the elm-trees in the church-yard were swaying in the bleak
wind that bowed the garden-shrubbery, and swept the long grass above
neglected graves into brown waves. The naked, snake-like sprays of
the creepers tapped monotonously against the window-panes. Orrin had
healthy nerves, but as he looked through the glooming air at the
shaft, standing like a sheeted ghost at the head of Mr. Kirke's
second wife, and heard in the stillness of the place and hour, the
sobbing sighs of the pine boughs, he wished Jessie had chosen some
other hour and spot for her weird reminiscence than the November
gloaming and this haunted recess.
She was leaning back in her chair, her hands crossed, her face
upraised to the sky:
"I have a perfect picture of her before me, at this moment," she
went on, presently. "She had large, soft eyes, and very dark hair.
She was always pale, and she never laughed. But her smile was my
reward when I was good, as her kiss was the cure for every hurt.
Nobody else can ever tell me such wonderful tales. Some were in
prose, many in verse, more beautiful to my apprehension than any
poetry I have read since. This was on her well days--my white days!
when the writing-desk would, if I requested, be supplanted by the
color-box and pencils, and we passed whole hours together--she and
I--she sketching or painting to illustrate anecdote and fairy story,
I perched in my high chair at her side, looking on in rapt delight.
I believe that I was a troublesome child--noisy, wayward,
passionate--to everybody else in the house. I kept away from her of
my own accord in my stormy or sulky fits. The earliest lesson taught
me by my father was, that 'poor, sick mamma must not be disturbed.'
I suppose it was on account of her feeble health that he always
heard my prayers, put me to bed at night, and nursed me in my infant
sicknesses. It was he who came to my crib in the dim light of one
terrible January morning, and told me that she was in Heaven. I did
not understand exactly what that meant, but I gathered that it was
something very dreadful from the sight of his emotion. I have never
seen him weep except that once. I had sprung from my pillow to sob
out my childish grief in his arms. He pressed me to his bosom until
I could scarcely breathe, and said, over and over, in a strange
undertone that terrified me more than did the drip of the hot tears
over my face--'Ginevra's baby! Ginevra's baby!' Baby though I was,
the scene is graven upon my memory for life."
The wind shook the casement, and the bare sprays tapped more
impatiently upon the glass, as the spirit of the dead mother might
have signalled her child to let her in.
"Mrs. Baxter will never weary of talking with you upon a theme so
dear to you both," said Orrin, shaking off the superstitious fancy.
Jessie was aroused to livelier speech by the suggestion.
"You have heard her speak of my mother, then?"
"Yes, but before I suspected the identity of the 'Ginevra' who was
her adopted sister, with your father's wife. By a singular
mischance, she never named him to me until one day last week, when
she asked if I knew him--and you."
He had equivocated so adroitly as to bar cross-examination, he
hoped, but Jessie's curiosity was not easily parried.
"Was that before or after she wrote to me?"
"Probably afterward, for she told me that the sight of a keepsake
given her by your mother had set her to thinking of their early and
close intimacy, and that she had 'obeyed the impulse which bade her
make inquiries about you, and ask you to visit her.' Those were her
words, as nearly as I can recall them. She expresses herself
warmly--but not, I honestly believe, more warmly than she feels."
"I would not go to Hamilton had you recalled to her mind the fact of
my existence. If love for her lost friend did not prompt her to seek
me out, I would not owe my recognition to the recommendation of
another. No! not to yours!"
Had he not read aright her sturdy pride, her jealousy for her
mother's memory and her father's dignity? With what wise pre-vision
he had detected the danger, and, by his caution to Mrs. Baxter,
averted it!
Eunice, the beryl-eyed, also had her confidential talk with Mr.
Wyllys that night.
"Father," she said, after supper, as he tarried, for an instant, in
the dining-room. "I should like to speak with Mr. Wyllys for ten
minutes when Jessie is not by. Can you contrive to call her out of
the parlor, by and by?"
"Certainly, my daughter," he replied, without curiosity or
hesitation.
Jessie was his pride and darling--very beautiful and gifted in his
eyes. He lavished upon her the wealth of a heart that had never
known its own depth until he met her mother. The first Mrs. Kirke
was the daughter of one of his college-professors, a little older
than himself, very amiable, very discreet, and the best housekeeper
in the parish. He owed much to her exemplary management since,
relieved from cares domestic and pecuniary, he could devote much
time, bring unjaded energies, and a free mind to the prosecution of
the studies he loved so well. Without in the least entering into his
enthusiasm in scholastic research, she laid down as one of the rules
of her orderly household, that his study was forbidden ground to
heedless or intrusive feet; guarded him when he had entered the
sanctum, and shut the door between him and the living, active
world--as vigilantly as she would have watched and defended hid
treasure. He was "about his business," in her phrase, and to her
just, practical ideas of duty and life it was but right that people
should be allowed to follow their lawful and allotted callings
without molestation. She did not particularly enjoy her husband's
sermons, but he found her bread, butter, and cake always to his
taste. He was an accomplished linguist, and would have been glad to
have one under his own roof, with whom he could converse in Italian,
German, or French. She had, as his correct ear continually reminded
him, but an imperfect acquaintance with her vernacular, according to
classical standards. But her coffee was fragrant, clear, and strong;
while a whiff of her Young Hyson was as the scent of a zephyr that
had wandered over acres of flowering tea-plants, and made the
wishy-washy, or over-boiled decoctions of other housewives seem but
weedy and rank abominations. If the refined and sensitive young
pastor kept within his own breast many thoughts, dreams, and regrets
he would fain have shared with a congenial mate, it should have been
a compensation that the shirt-front covering the sealed repository
of these was snowy and glossy as a bran-new tomb-stone; that the
heels of his socks were always run before they went on his feet, and
that in the years of their wedded life he never found "a button
off." Mr. Kirke believed fully all his parishioners said when they
assured him that he had a pattern wife, and that he ought to take
good care of her, since he would never find another like her. She
worked steadily and diligently--she was never "fussy"--up to the day
on which Eunice's little brother was born. "Overdid herself," said
doctor and gossips, while her husband blamed himself bitterly for
not having taken thought to spare her who had served him to the
death. The death that came so swiftly and easily, she had time for
neither parting word nor kiss.
"I am tired, I believe," she murmured to the nurse. Unused to
complain, she said it deprecatingly even in mortal weakness. "Do you
think that I might just take a little nap? If Mr. Kirke should want
for anything, don't hesitate to wake me at once." With that she
turned her face to the wall and died--"fell asleep," said her
head-stone. Her baby was buried with her.
This was Eunice's mother. Four years after the decease, the widower
met Ginevra Lanneau at a watering-place whither he had gone for
health, and she for distraction from certain troublesome memories.
Whatever may have been her faults and weaknesses; whatever the
motives for her marriage and the causes of her subsequent invalidism
and melancholy, this good man had worshipped her with entireness of
devotion; had mourned her with an intensity of anguish that bleached
his locks; bent his stately form toward the earth that had swallowed
up his idol; deafened him to the calls of ambition that urged him to
leave a seclusion endeared to him as her home and burial-place.
But for all this, Eunice was his right hand, in Parsonage and in
parish. He "really would have no excuse for a third marriage," was a
common saying in the neighborhood--"with such a daughter to keep his
house and 'do for him.'" If the spirit of the mother were permitted
to watch her child's daily walk and conversation, it must have
heightened her beatitude to be thus assured that "Mr. Kirke" was not
likely, while Eunice lived, "to want for anything." Her father's
trust in her discretion was implicit, and when she unblushingly
asked him to "contrive" to secure for her a _tete-a-tete_ with a
young and attractive man, he made no demur, formed no conjectures.
Nor did he doubt that the matter of her communication to Mr. Wyllys
was, in some way, essential to Jessie's weal. The first and abiding
thought with both was "the child," he had yet made up his mind to
part with for a little while.
Eunice was sewing by the shaded parlor lamp. Wyllys, while he talked
to both sisters, looked quite as often at her as at Jessie. He was
in the mood for enjoying himself, and his surroundings were
propitious. He had had an excellent supper. Eunice had inherited her
mother's taste and skill in the domestic department. Her dainty
cookery would have done credit to a salaried _chef_, said Mr.
Wyllys, than whom there were few better judges of all that pertained
to the gratifications of the flesh. A wood fire burned busily and
gayly upon the castellated fire-dogs of shining brass that flashed
back the illumination from a hundred curves and points. There was a
breath of tea-roses and mignonette in the air, for the shelf running
around the inside of the oriel was filled with plants; crimson
curtains had taken the place of muslin, at the other windows. A
November gale--"a dry storm"--was rising without. It was pleasant,
while hearkening to its blustering, to bethink himself that he had
not to breast it in a tramp back to the hotel, he having accepted
Mr. Kirke's invitation to sleep at the parsonage. The recollection
of his disagreeable journey, now that he was rested, warmed, and
filled, was another element in his present content. The
old-fashioned parlor with its quaint and massive furniture, were
more to his liking than the polish and glow of the modern "suite of
rooms," every prosperous mechanic's wife now regards as one of the
necessaries of life. From his leisurely and approving survey of the
apartment, his eyes came back to dwell longest upon Eunice.
She wore a brown merino, that made no noise when she moved, and fell
in classic folds about her as she sat in her straight-backed chair.
A knot of blue ribbon joined a crimped ruffle above the high-necked
dress, and frills of the same material were at her wrists. The
light, strained through the ground-glass shade, made her skin seem
fair and fresh as that of a little child, while it did not blur the
clear chiselling of her features. Her hands were shapely, her
motions replete with quiet grace. The high-bred lady, stainless in
deed as single in motive, spoke in the fearless, tranquil eyes and
composed demeanor.
"She rests me!" said the connoisseur in womanly loveliness, to his
appreciative self. "If I were obliged to marry either, I am not sure
she would not suit me better than this restless gypsy, who keeps one
perpetually upon the _qui vive_ by her sharp interrogations, her
repartee, and variable moods. To secure the perfection of comfort, a
man should be able to flirt with one all day, and come home at
evening to recover from his dazed feverishness in the cool
semi-twilight of the other's presence. I must find out, some day, if
she has ever been in love. I think not. There is a dewy firmness in
the texture of her heart that seldom outlasts the fires of even a
mild passion--such a timid flame as the pastor's daughter might
conscientiously feel for some pious under-shepherd or amorous
evangelist."
At this precise instant, Jessie, who had been flitting restlessly
about the room, picking dead leaves from the geraniums, and
seed-vessels from verbenas and mignonette, tossing them, one at a
time, into the fire, and pensively watching the blaze feed upon
them; parting the curtains to press her face against the glass "to
see whether it rained," stopping once in a while to lean on her
sister's chair and address a question to her or Orrin--obeyed her
father's summons to his study. The two left at the fireside,
followed her to the door with their eyes, then these met. Eunice
answered the questioning of Orrin's.
"She is over-excited to-night. But there is a nervous restlessness
about her of late that makes me anxious. I hope much for her from
the proposed change of air and scene."
She laid aside her work, neatly folded; put scissors and thimble in
their cases, and the cases into her work-box, and calmly confronted
her companion.
"Mr. Wyllys, I wish to say a word to you respecting my sister's
antecedents before she goes to Mrs. Baxter."
Without a symptom of surprise, he bowed, and exchanged his seat for
one near the stand by which she sat. In this one action, he accepted
her confidence, and put his services at her disposal should she
desire them.
"From the descriptions of this lady, given by yourself and my
father, I infer that she is affectionate and voluble. She will be
likely to impart to Jessie all she knows of her mother's history,
and question her concerning her own childish recollections. I have
thought it best that you should hear the truth upon a subject that
is rarely alluded to in our family. My father talked freely of it
with Mr. Fordham before giving his sanction to his engagement with
Jessie; but he has not spoken of it to me in many years--never to my
sister. Should a garbled version of a story which is sad enough in
itself, reach her ears, it would distress and bewilder her if there
were no one near who could correct the mis-statement. My stepmother
never recovered the natural tone of her health and spirits after my
sister's birth. Her malady took the form of a gentle melancholy,
indifference to domestic and neighborhood interests, varied at times
by fits of wild weeping, so violent that she was confined to her
couch with headache and debility for several days after each. She
talked rationally when drawn into conversation, expressing herself
upon every topic discussed with clearness and intelligence; but the
spring of action was gone. She never complained of bodily pain; made
no unreasonable demands upon the time and patience of those about
her. Nor did she require to be humored and amused as is the way of
most sufferers from confirmed hysteria. She read much and wrote
more, burning her manuscripts, however, as fast as they were
finished. She drew, too, rapidly and well, and upon these
occupations expended what little energy of mind and body remained to
her after the illness that had nearly cost her her life. We guarded
her from intrusion and uncharitable remark as far as we could. My
nurse, an elderly widow, was then alive, and was our housekeeper,
her daughter being our only other servant. How the report
originated, I cannot say--probably from some indiscreet remark let
fall by this daughter, who has now a home of her own some miles
away--but within the year, a rumor has been brought to me that
Jessie's mother died a lunatic. It is possible Mrs. Baxter has
likewise heard such. If she has, and should be so imprudent as to
repeat it to you, so unfeeling as to hint it to the daughter of that
unhappy lady, may I rely upon you to tell my sister the exact truth?
My stepmother lived and died a sane woman--as sane as I am this
moment. Jessie is impressible and ardent. Her love for her mother is
a passion. It would nearly kill her if this slander were retailed to
her."
She had made her little speech; summed up the case, and offered her
appeal with such simplicity, such deft moderation, as challenged the
lawyer's admiration. His reply was directly to the purpose.
"You may depend upon me, Miss Kirke. I hope, with you, that I shall
never be called upon to fulfil the trust with which you have honored
me. I am confident that Mrs. Baxter is ignorant of the particulars
of her cousin's ill-health. She has spoken to me with apparent
frankness of her early life--of her marriage, and the seclusion that
followed it."
"For which she blames my father!" interrupted Eunice, red
indignation staining her fair face. "Because he would not subject
his wife to the indifferent or pitying observation of those who had
been the associates of her brilliant girlhood; because he indulged
her longing for solitude and quiet; guarded her sedulously and
tenderly from all that could tax and jar upon her tortured
nerves--he fell under their ban! He gave me some letters to examine
and file--or burn, if I thought fit--ten years ago. Among them I
found one from Mrs. Baxter--one from another cousin of Ginevra
Lanneau. They were written to him, just after her death. Both
reproached him--Mrs. Baxter (then Miss Jane Lanneau) gently, the
other harshly, for separating his young wife from her friends and
'immersing her in a savage solitude, where, cut off from all
congenial associations, a nature so refined as hers could not but
pine itself to death.' I do not quote from Mrs. Baxter. If she had
upbraided the best of men and most loving of husbands in these
terms, Jessie should never enter her house, unless under my
protest."
"You are right. But, believe me, she will be safe and happy in Mrs.
Baxter's care. Her goodness of heart is undeniable; her impulses are
amiable, and she is, moreover, a woman of sound principles and
genuine piety. She is vain, but never unkind or censorious. She
always reminds me of the pretty _bas bleu_ immortalized by the
'Spectator'--or is it the 'Tattler'? 'When'--says the essayist--'she
would look languishing, there is a fine thing to be said at the same
time that spoils all. Thus, the unhappy Merab, although a wit and a
beauty, hath not the credit of being either, and all because she
would be both.' Our Hamilton Merab has sterling traits,
nevertheless, and is incapable of using the language you have
quoted. No one but a vulgar idiot could apply it to Mr. Kirke. The
writer had, I take it, never seen him. You have every reason to be
proud of your father, Miss Eunice. He is that best work of the
Creator--a Christian gentleman,--I say it without reverence,--a
prince of the blood royal."
The golden lights glanced up from the dark wells of her eyes; her
smile was grateful and exultant.
"Thank you! I know you mean what you say, and it is but the truth."
Neither spoke for a brief space. The soughing of the pine-tree was
annoyingly continuous to Orrin's ear; the fire-flashes were silent.
He tried to forget the vexing sound in remarking that Eunice's bent
profile showed against the dark wood of the high, carved mantel,
clear and fine as a cameo cutting, but it would be heard.
"You were very young at the time of your step-mother's death to be
your father's assistant and co-adviser," he said, to prevent an
awkward break in their talk. "I am surprised at the accuracy of your
recollections."
"I was fifteen. The elder daughter of a family early learns to
assume and to bear domestic cares; is more mature at the same age
than are those who come after her. I remember my own mother, who
died eleven years earlier than did Jessie's. I was thirty last
month."
She picked up her sewing without a flutter or a blush, and Orrin,
not daring to offer her the flimsy compliment of incredulity he
would have paid another woman who had volunteered a confession
disparaging to her personal charms, was still casting about in his
mind for words that should praise, yet not offend, when his
opportunity was lost through Jessie's return to the room.