CHANGING CLOUDS.
Reader, did you ever stand and watch the waving crimson curtains hanging
in the western sky on some calm summer eve while they were trying to
shut out the glorious sunset from view? As you wondered at their
changing beauties, did you remember that the objects of so much gorgeous
display were only cold, damp, gray clouds, unsightly in themselves,
without attraction, and that it was only the reflection of a hidden
power upon which you were gazing with so much rapture? So it is in our
lives, and a chill, sombre day we would have of it did not some power
behind the throne cast a few golden rays upon the clouds of gray.
"The problem cannot be solved!" thought Mrs. Gaylord, as she settled
down in her old life, with Lily as her companion, after the fashion of
former days. Lily was no longer without friends, home or clothing, as
the extra large trunk in the store-room with those of Mrs. Gaylord's
amply proved.
Mrs. Hopkins did not fail to express her indignation in very
characteristic style when the conclusion was fully reached that the
"girl" would return to her former life and associations. "The foolish
thing!" she exclaimed. "One more ride, I imagine, will finish the whole
matter. I don't see why she cannot be satisfied with well enough.
She'll find out her mistake when it's too late. One thing I am decided
upon. She mustn't come here again when thrown off by those who pretend
to be her friends. I won't have anything more to do with her."
All this was said to Willie that evening after his return from the
village. "She might have stayed here and worked to pay her way as she
ought to do. She's no better than I am, and should be made to keep where
she belongs. But that silly woman likes her pretty face and enjoys her
reading, and so will dress her up and spoil her for the sake of
gratifying her own wishes for a little time, and by and by will send her
back, I suppose, for me to wait upon. But she'll find herself mistaken.
I won't do it!"
"It seems to me, Sister, that you are making yourself unnecessarily
unhappy," replied Willie very mildly, when Fanny had stopped for a
moment to get her breath. "I do not think that 'Phebe' will ever trouble
you again. She shall never know of this conversation, however, for I
believe when you think it calmly over you will be sorry. It does not
seem to have been any fault of Mrs. Gaylord's that she had her
unpleasant ride, and I cannot think her foolish in the choice she has
made."
Mr. Hopkins coming in put an end to the conversation. He inquired kindly
if "Phebe" had concluded to remain at the hotel?
"Mrs. Gaylord claims her on the old contract, I believe," replied
Willie.
"Sensible to the last," he supplemented. And Fanny went on with her
work.
All this time clouds were shifting in other portions of our historical
firmament, and bright rays from behind the curtain were falling
elsewhere on damp, gray lives. Mrs. Belmont had reached Philadelphia,
and was not very agreeably or graciously received, though her relative
knew nothing of her residence in Washington, or of the public life she
had been leading. Lillian had been careful to throw upon her mother's
actions regarding her the brightest colors possible; still enough had
been known of the incidents of the last few years to cast a shadow over
the present reception, and the lady felt its chilliness.
Anna Pierson, too, was watching the summer sky with its chill, gray
clouds, and wondering why the misty folds sometimes crimsoned with a
far-off beauty. Her dead had been buried, and frequent news of the
absent brother told of safety. As the days flew by, there came reports
of exchange of prisoners, of furloughs and release from hospital
treatment and restraints. These, it must be, were the bright reflections
that gilded her western sky as she carefully watched it. Ellen St.
Clair's letters were frequent, and usually contained very cheering
reports. "George was getting better, could sit up a little, and was as
impatient and peevish as a naughty child." Still the October haze would
paint the leaves before the exiles could be expected at the widow's
cottage.
"It is terribly dreary here," Ellen wrote one day while the September
rains were falling; "and I have petitioned for a removal to other
quarters, and next week George is to be taken to Washington, where I
shall be permitted to follow. He has fully recanted his Southern faith,
and very marked honors are being showered on him. It is somewhat
grateful to my feelings to be the sister of so noted a personage at this
time. Can you realize it? I have stood in the presence of the chief
magistrate himself. Yes, it is true. In one of his visits at the
hospitals yesterday he was officially escorted to our rooms by a little
negro about two feet high, and I--well, I did almost fall in love with
him. No one must ever call him ugly in my presence. I think him
decidedly good-looking. When he said at parting, 'Miss St. Clair, take
extra good care of your brother--and yourself,' the work was done; I am
his friend for ever more!"
George St. Clair bore his short transfer remarkably well, and upon
arriving in the city was placed in the ward of convalescents, where his
spirits soon revived, notwithstanding the hard shots that were so often
thrown with unerring aim at his well-established prejudices. Here were a
few highly educated and popular men, some of high rank in the army, and
our soldier found himself in very congenial society.
Then there came another letter to the widow's cottage, saying: "I am
most ignobly discharged. 'Do not need a nurse any more,' etc., etc. So
you will greet your disconsolate daughter immediately after a little
sight-seeing."
It was true. All that was now required was patience while the old
strength slowly returned, and Toby was fully capable of attending to his
master's necessities. The second morning after the new arrival dawned
cold and rainy. The poor torn back fretted in such an atmosphere and was
very painful. Not feeling able to join the others in the morning meal,
George St. Clair returned to his bed, and was lying moodily watching his
companions, when a lady entered, and walked directly up to a
noble-looking officer with whom he had been much pleased the day before,
but whose name he had not learned, as all addressed him as "Colonel."
There was something strangely familiar about that walk and movement of
the head and shoulders, and, as he had nothing better to do, gazed at
her, wishing all the time that she would turn a little, that he might
have a view of her face, but she was busily engaged, and seemed in no
hurry to gratify our hero. All apparently had met her before, for each
received a word of greeting, as he judged, although too far away to hear
more than the murmuring of voices. Then the Colonel monopolized her
attention, and after a moments talk both turned abruptly in the
direction where he was reclining.
"Then he has been telling her of me!"
They moved forward. "Coming to see the 'Rebel,' no doubt. Who can she
be?" That walk! That form! They neared him. A veil had partially covered
her face, but now it was thrown back as she sprang forward with a cry of
surprise and joy. "George St. Clair! My brother!"
With an impulse unusual to the young lady of Rosedale, she clasped her
arms about his neck and kissed his forehead with a sisterly
demonstration.
"I did not know,--I had not heard that you were here! How glad I am to
meet you."
"Lillian! I never was so astonished! You in such a place as this! The
delicate, frail, 'Lily-Bell?' Let me take your hand; It cannot be!"
She had stepped back from him as he spoke, and now a low rippling laugh
floated away from her parted lips.
"Well, well! am I of no account?" exclaimed her companion, joining in
the laugh. "This may be very interesting to the parties immediately
concerned, but to look mutely on is another thing."
Lillian shook her finger at him menacingly.
"Yes, George, you remember I told you of my husband. I have found him;
Colonel Hamilton! Two brave soldiers who have bled for their country's
weal. You will be brothers? Let me perform the ceremony of uniting
hands,--the hearts will be sure to come together."
"Surprises thicken! Why did you not tell me during our long chat last
evening, that you were the thief who robbed me of my coveted 'Lily
Bell?' All this, and yet the world moves on! The war is developing and
unraveling! What will come next?"
"Not to be known as there are no headings to the chapters!" Then there
was a long talk, and many little items of news imparted that brought the
deepening color to more than one cheek.
"It would, without doubt, be a little unpleasant for me to return to my
Southern home just at present," said St. Clair, when the conversation
lagged. "And I am told from headquarters that I shall not be able for
active service for months yet; so I propose to go farther north where my
parents are, and, perhaps, burrow for the winter. It will be pretty cold
for Confederate blood, but it is about the best I can do."
"A capital idea! Get acquainted with us low fellows,--I think you will
like us when you know us better."
"Have you seen Ellen?" He had turned to Lillian now.
"Ellen? Is she here?"
"Out sight-seeing somewhere. She is to return to her temporary home in a
day or two."
All this time, Mrs. Hamilton had not spoken of her mother,--not inquired
for her. She had met and recognized her; but where was she now? For
weeks she had watched for the familiar face; had looked everywhere for
the flutter of the gray silk; and thus far it had been in vain. "Where
was she? Would she come no more?" A great disappointment had found its
way into the happy heart, where love had for so many years been weeping,
but where all tears were now wiped away in a blissful reunion. Lillian
loved her mother. She had been petted and fondled by her through all her
childhood's days; but the memory of the bitter curse would creep in
among her joys, dragging after it the cold, dark shadows that for a time
would exclude the warmth.
Mrs. Hamilton called upon Ellen St. Clair at her lodgings, where new
interests were brought out, and many little feminine secrets unveiled,
which tangled themselves together in a very perplexing sort of way. The
story of Lily Gaylord's disappearance, and her father's "unjust censure
of Mrs. Belmont" was duly discussed and commented upon.
"An adopted daughter, you said, of the lady?" queried Lillian.
"Yes, and George said from the first that she resembled you in many
ways. Her eyes certainly were as large and dreamy. 'Beautiful,' as Grace
would say, 'as those of my Lily-Bell.' It was a stormy night on the sea,
and, as every one declared, no small boat could keep up any length of
time, and as nothing could be heard from her, it was concluded she must
be lost," Ellen went on to say.
"Dreadful! A young girl of----?"
"Of sixteen, I believe."
Lillian started. "Sixteen! How strange!--and my mother was with her--and
unattended!"
"You seem excited; well we all were shocked! It was so inexplicable.
Such a mystery! But it was soon forgotten in the greater interests of
the war. You know one is not missed when so many are being lost."
It was Ellen who had said this, but her visitor sat motionless, her
large eyes dilated as though striving to penetrate some dark
uncertainty.
"I cannot but think how strange it is for you to be here--and with a
_husband_! Why did you never tell us?"
"It was only one of my secrets, dear Ellen," was the hesitating reply.
"But I am detaining you. We are a very busy people in Washington, and
you are to leave here soon?"
"In three days."
Ellen went as she intended. It was a long, tiresome journey to take
alone, but her heart had become brave. There was a pleasant reunion at
the widow's home on the evening of her arrival. George was better, and
the hearts of the parents beat with a steady pulsation once more.
Bertha and the children were well, as late letters from the dear old
home had assured them, and now Ellen had safely returned.
"George will write a few words every day and mail it once a week," was
the glad response to the inquiry as to how they were to hear from him.
"And in a month, the physician says, he will probably be able to travel
a short distance each day, and will get to his chair at our table before
it is very cold. He has ordered me to engage rooms for us all at the
hotel for the winter, but I hate hotels, and it is so cozy here!"
"Anna and I would be very lonely without you now," interposed the widow,
calmly. "Our rooms are small, but we have a goodly number of them."
"And I will call it 'Maple Grove Inn' and write that I have secured a
suite of rooms ample for us all! Bravo! And I want to learn to make pies
and cakes and put my own hands into the biscuits, for I am a Yankee girl
from henceforth! No more black fingers in my bread. Dear old Katy," she
said, after a moment's pause. "How good everything tasted that her poor
old ebony hands made! If I could find such a noble looking northerner as
Lillian has for her husband he wouldn't have to ask me more than once to
be his wife!"
"Lillian's husband, my child?" interrogated both father and mother in a
breath.
"Certainly; but I have not told you. One cannot say everything in an
hour!" And then the story was reproduced with the details George had
added, having known it for months, yes almost a year and never told it,
not forgetting her abstracted manner as the disappearance of Lily
Gaylord was rehearsed. "One might have imagined to look at her that the
girl was a near kin. She asked me about her general appearance, and when
I said that some thought there was a very striking resemblance between
her and Mrs. Gaylord's adopted daughter you ought to have seen the
look!"
"You are quite imaginative, my dear," remarked Mrs. St. Clair warmly.
"It was the shock, her mother being with Lily at the time that gave her
the look you speak of. I do not wonder, for there was room at least for
censure!"
"That's a fact, wife! I should like to know where the mistress of
Rosedale is keeping herself? Bertha writes that she disappeared soon
after leaving the city, and Charles has never heard from her since.
Didn't meet her in Washington I suppose?"
"No, Father," and a hearty laugh followed. When quiet was restored Ellen
asked: "Where is Charles, Father?"
"Skulking around without doubt for fear of being drafted, and the
negroes have it all their own way at Rosedale now, I believe."
That night as the mother and daughter were left alone, the former
interrupted a prolonged silence by the abrupt question: "Anna, my child,
what about this George St. Clair? Has a secret crept into your confiding
heart that you would keep hidden from the careful, watchful eye of your
parent? Tell me, what about this rebel colonel?"
A long silence followed. At last, "I was waiting, Mother," she said,
"for my heart to be sure of its first great lesson before imparting it
to you. But first let me tell you he is true, loyal, to the old flag
under which my brother fought and died. It was the circumstances of his
life that has placed him where he was, and not the convictions of his
better judgment."
The mother watched the beaming face. "And you can excuse him?"
"Yes, Mother, my heart pleads for him! I cannot deny it; I do love
George St. Clair! My brother has been slain upon the altar of sacrifice,
but his hand has not the stain of his blood upon it!" There were tears
in the mild blue eyes and the mother saw them.
"Does he know all this?"
"All, Mother! This was the storm that rolled about me when in
Alexandria. The waves dashed high, but it cannot be wrong; I do love
George St. Clair!"
"Do you realize the great difference in your social positions? You the
daughter of a poor widow--he the heir of large possessions and a devotee
to aristocracy. O my daughter, I fear for your future happiness!" The
dear face showed the inward struggle of the mother's heart, and the hand
upon which her head was languidly resting trembled.
"Wait until you see him," pleaded the daughter; "he is good and noble!"
"My basket is getting full of bitter fruit in the commencement of this
terrible war; what will it be when the harvest is wholly gathered?"
"Mother, have you forgotten that 'all things shall work together for
good to those who trust God?' Can you not trust now as surely as when
you laid your two sons where the fire might consume them?" She was
standing by the side of that mother now, and an arm had stolen softly
about her neck.
"I will trust Him!" came from the compressed lips, and drawing her
daughter upon her knee as in the years gone by she looked into her
flushed face. "Whatever God wills my selfish heart will not pronounce
unkind!"
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