AN UPPER ROOM IN THE HOTEL.
Mrs. Ernest while bustling about in her kitchen saw her visitor
approaching, and with broom in hand came out to welcome him. He was no
stranger here, and few ever came who received a warmer greeting.
"How bright and fresh you look from your early morning ride," was the
good lady's salutation, and throwing down a piece of carpet on the damp
ground stood patting Rover and chatting merrily all the while as Willie
crept into the house.
"I suppose _I_ am not to feel at all flattered by this early call, for
already something tells me that Phebe is the object of your visit," she
laughingly said, while following him into the house; "so I will turn you
over to Mr. Ernest with all the indignation I can muster," and patting
him on the shoulder she cheerily invited him to the study.
The occupant of the quiet room was stretched in an attitude of languid
repose upon the sofa as they entered, but probably in deep meditation.
When, however, he discovered who had intruded into his season of
reveries, he arose with a face all beaming with smiles, and took the
little extended hand in his own and placing an arm about his visitor
lifted him with ease into a chair close by.
"Now, Ella, you may go and give Rover that plate of chicken bones you
saved for 'some hungry dog,' for he above all others deserves it."
Here was a happy home.
"There was always sunshine at the parsonage," Willie would say. If
clouds ever came they were so effectually concealed that they never fell
upon another. The brightest spot on earth--the place more to be coveted
than palaces or posts of honor--is the peaceful, happy home, the nucleus
around which fond hearts are gathered, where the compact of love remains
unbroken only as death comes and steals away a link of the golden chain
that binds fond hearts together.
"Is not Phebe here?" Willie asked after a few moments conversation.
"O no; she did not remain with us many hours; but she is not far away,"
replied Mr. Ernest, pleasantly. "I will tell you about her. There is a
lady boarding at the hotel, an invalid, I believe, who has come to our
village, as gossip tells us, after health,--happiness, rather, as I
believe, for she seems very sad at times. I have called on her often,
and at one visit she expressed an earnest wish for some one to read to
her. I thought of Phebe at once, and when she came to us yesterday
morning and told her story, of which, we were not wholly ignorant, I
thought nothing could have been more _apropos_, and so I went over there
with her. The lady seemed much pleased, and I have no doubt Phebe will
be very happy there."
"I think I must have seen her when I was coming," interrupted Willie. "A
lady passed me in the hotel carriage who had a sad, pensive look; I am
sure it was she."
"I have no doubt you are right, for she rides out every day. I wonder,
however, that Phebe does not take the opportunity to run over here for a
moment."
But she did not.
Willie stayed longer than he first intended, hoping to see her again,
but finally started for the store on his errand, passing the place where
_she_ had found her new home without even catching a glimpse of her,
although he sought diligently to do so. Had he known that she was then
engaged in penning a long sisterly letter to him he would not have been
so thoroughly wretched all that day and the next.
It was some consolation, however, that Fanny seemed so much interested
in her now that she was away. She was minute in her inquires on his
return, yet did not appear _quite_ pleased when told that Phebe was
_only_ to read to her new mistress.
"Worse and worse," was her exclamation, "she was good for nothing
before, what will she be now?"
"We shall see," was Willie's quick reply.
But he was thinking how much he would enjoy being there to listen as she
read. He was not mistaken in regard to his conclusions about the lady in
the carriage. It was Mrs. Gaylord, in whom Phebe had found a friend and
protector. She had taken rooms at the hotel only a short time before,
having no other company than a young mulatto girl about Phebe's age, who
seemed devoted to her mistress, and mild and affable to all, yet she
answered very few of the questions that were put to her by the
inquisitive.
"They had come from Virginny, and would go back dare when Missus had got
nuff of dis 'ere norf," was about the extent of the knowledge obtained
from "Tiny" on any occasion.
Three weeks passed away and Phebe had not once seen "dear Willie." Mr.
Ernest had told her of his frequent visits to the parsonage, and of the
pleasure that would beam in his blue eyes as he received her letters
from him; but no amount of persuasion could prevail upon him to make a
visit to the hotel, which was much to Phebe's disappointment. She was
always busy now. When she was tired of reading or the lady of listening,
she was engaged with her needle.
"Young people are inclined to home-sickness if not employed," Mrs.
Gaylord would say, pleasantly, and so Phebe was seldom idle.
During these seasons of occupation they had talked much. Phebe had told
her all she knew about her early history, and her listener had many
times laughed heartily at the recital, but not a word had she ever
spoken of her own life. There was a dark cloud resting upon her, it was
evident, for her companion had often looked up suddenly from her book to
see the tears falling silently from the calm eyes, who would brush them
hurriedly away as she said "go on"; and Phebe obeyed. At one time she
smiled when detected, and drying her eyes she said, mildly--
"What is jealousy, little one? You have just been reading about it. What
is _your_ definition of the word?"
"Willie would say 'an unjust suspicion; a sense of imaginary wrong
without proof';" answered Phebe, hesitatingly.
She laughed now.
"O you little novice! How far you are behind the times. That definition
might have done for your grandmother, but it will never do for these
modern days. I will tell you, child, what it is, or what it means now.
It is a wail of despair which the heart gives over the loss of its
dearest treasure. The anguish of its desolation when the fire of love
burns low; the cry of woe when it sees the vacant chair in its most
secret chamber, and desolation looks with hungry eyes out from among the
shadows of its former trysting place! Does the poor heart murmur? Does
it put on the sackcloth and the sprinkling of ashes? Love is not dead,
but straying, _straying_! This is jealousy. The vacation of one heart
for--for--well, child, _you_ know nothing about it, and may you long
remain in ignorance."
She bowed her head and wept long and bitterly.
Phebe moved the ottoman on which she was sitting close by the side of
the agitated lady and laid her head upon her knee. A bond of sympathy
drew them together. A chord had been touched to which the heart of each
vibrated in unison. Desolation was creeping among the shadows in the
secret chamber of both hearts, and the feeble wail of woe which came
from the lonely hearth-stones mingled in low, solemn cadence, and they
two were united by these bonds of sympathy. A soft, white hand nestled
lovingly among the braids of the young girl's hair as the bowed head
still rested its heavy weight on the lady's rich dress, and from that
moment a sweet confidence took possession of them both.
Ah! there is nothing so invigorating and comforting in this ever
changing life as the sweet assurance of reciprocal affection in the
hour of despondency and gloom. A mother's kiss, a father's fond caress,
soon dries the tear and soothes the pain of childhood, and can it be
that their power grows less towards the children of accumulated years?
"Did I speak bitterly just now; my child?" the lady asked, after a long
silence. "I hope I did not frighten you."
Phebe looked up into the sad face that was beaming now with a full glory
of consolation as she answered:
"O no; I was not frightened. Even in my short life I have seen sorrow,
and know well what it means. Ever since we have been together I have
believed that something troubled you, and it has made me--"
"Made you what, my child?"
"Made me love you, O may I do this? Will you let little Phebe creep into
your heart and find a resting place there? O Mrs. Gaylord, I am so
lonely! Nobody but Willie--and he is lost to me now."
The large eyes were gazing with their far-off, mysterious look, which
Willie had so often watched with a tremor of apprehension in his heart;
but there were no tears in them. The wail was from the secret chamber,
and the lady recognized it.
[Illustration: "O, MRS. GAYLORD, I AM SO LONELY."]
"Yes, dear," was her answering refrain. "You shall nestle cosily in this
poor quivering heart if you desire it. I was once a lonely orphan like
yourself, and I pined for a love I could not find. It is dreadful--this
chilling desolation of life. At twenty I married, and was alone no
longer. My yearning heart was satisfied, not because of the luxury that
surrounded me, or the honors with which I was crowned as the bride of
the rich young southerner. No, no. Sweeter by far than all of this was
the assurance that I was loved. That was many years ago, when my face
was fair and my cheeks covered with bloom. It is over now, and with my
youth and beauty went the love which was more precious than all. _His_
hair has lost its glossy hue and his step its elastic bound; but for
these my heart has suffered no reaction, yet it bears to-day the scars
of _many_ wounds. Some are not yet healed, and memory often rends them
anew until the tears _will_ come trickling through the torn fissures.
But I must not grieve you, my child. The world calls me happy, for it
penetrates not the covering that my proud spirit has thrown over all,
and I am willing it should be deceived. I came to this quiet village to
gain strength to endure; when I have accomplished my object I shall
return to my Virginia home. It is a bright spot to the looker on, full
of plenty and repose for one whose soul has power to take them in; and
to this home, my sweet comforter, I would take you."
Phebe started.
"Smother that refusal in those bewitching eyes, for I shall take none of
it," she laughed. "You have just pleaded for my love. What good under
the sun will it do you when hundreds of miles are piled up between us?
No, no. We need each other. The days we have been together have made you
a necessity to me. Do not answer me now," she continued, gently placing
her white hand over the lips of her companion, as she saw them move for
utterance. "Take a few more days to think of it. We have plenty of time.
Talk to me now about this Willie, of whom you have spoken. You did not
tell me that you loved him, but is it not so, my child?"
"Yes, I love him more and better than any one else. He is a poor
cripple, four years older than I, and we have been together every day
since his father brought me to him. His mother loved us both, and when
she was about to die, she gave him to me, and told me never to forget or
forsake him. How can I leave him to go with you? He has been such a dear
brother to me for so many years; _you_ would love him, too, I am sure,
if you knew him as well as I."
"How your cheeks glow, little enthusiast! Now let me ask, is your hero
drawn by a dog usually?"
"Yes. I was sure you must have seen him during some of your rides for he
has come to the village often since I have been here."
"I have met him only twice, but even these faint glimpses into his
peaceful face takes away my wonder at your heart's bestowal. It was pity
that caused me to notice him and long for another beam from the liquid
eyes, and now that I know who he is I can but feel hurt that you have
not invited him to our rooms. It would do me good I know to study that
character and learn resignation from its teachings."
"May I? O--you do not know how much I thank you! I will go this very day
to the parsonage, with your permission, to tell him. He may be there,
when it is cooler, to hear from me; and _if_ I could meet him!"
"Did I not say that it was _my_ wish to study him for sake of the good
it might do me?" and she kissed the glowing cheek of the young girl with
a passion unusual to her. "Then go at once if you hope to see him, but
hasten back for I am too selfish to permit you to remain long away. It
is lonely, darling, and I cannot understand how I ever lived without
you."
"You are so good!" and Phebe pressed the soft caressing hand to her
trembling lips.
Nothing is more sweet than to be guided into this realm of thought by
the precious foretaste of the love that awaited her when the end should
be reached. She had gone out into the darkness expecting nothing but
chilliness and gloom, but instead she was walking "by the side of still
waters" and there was freshness and beauty all along the way. Still a
portentous cloud was floating in the clear blue of her gilded sky, for
how could she ever leave Willie to go with Mrs. Gaylord to her southern
home? The weeks were rapidly passing, and when the hot summer days had
all flitted away there would come a change, and her life had received so
many already! "Where would the next one take her?" As she stepped in
front of the mirror for a moment a smile of satisfaction stole over her
young face. The new hat Mrs. Gaylord had purchased for her was very
becoming, as that lady had asserted, and she thought how it would please
Willie to see her looking so well. He had often lamented during the last
two years that it was not in his power to procure these little luxuries,
and she went on her way with a happy heart.
[Illustration]