ANNA AND CAPTAIN ATHERTON.
Malcolm Everett’s engagement with General Fontaine had expired, and as
was his original intention, he started for New York, first seeking an
interview with Mr. and Mrs. Livingstone, of whom he asked their
daughter Anna in marriage, at the same time announcing the startling
fact that they had been engaged for more than a year. “I do not ask you
for her now,” said he, “for I am not in a situation to support her as I
would wish to, but that time will come ere long, I trust, and I can
assure you that her happiness shall be the first object of my life.”
There was no cringing on the part of Malcolm Everett. He was unused to
that, and as an equal meets an equal, he met them, made known his
request, and then in silence awaited their answer. Had Mrs. Livingstone
been less indignant, there would undoubtedly have ensued a clamorous
call for hartshorn and vinaigrette, but as it was, she started up, and
confronting the young man, she exclaimed, “How dare you ask such a
thing? _My_ daughter marry _you_!”
“And why not, madam?” he answered, coolly, while Mrs. Livingstone
continued: “_You_, a low-born Yankee, who have been, as it were, an
hireling. _You_ presume to ask for _my_ daughter!”
“I do,” he answered calmly, with a quiet smile, ten-fold more
tantalizing than harsh words would have been, “I do. Can I have her
with your consent?”
“Never, so long as I live. I’d sooner see her dead than wedded to
vulgar poverty.”
“That is your answer. Very well,” said Malcolm, bowing stiffly. “And
now I will hear yours,” turning to Mr. Livingstone, who replied, that
“he would leave the matter entirely with his wife—it was nothing to
him—he had nothing personal against Mr. Everett—he rather liked him
than otherwise, but he hardly thought Anna suited to him, she had been
brought up so differently;” and thus evasively answering, he walked
away.
“Cowardly fool!” muttered Mrs. Livingstone, as the door closed upon
him. “If I pretended to be a man, I’d be one;” then turning to Malcolm,
she said, “Is there anything further you wish to say?”
“Nothing,” he replied. “I have honorably asked you for your daughter.
You have refused her, and must abide the consequence.”
“And pray what may that be?” she asked, and he answered: “She will soon
be of an age to act for herself, and though I would far rather take her
with your consent, I shall not then hesitate to take her without, if
you still persist in opposing her.”
“There is the door,” said Mrs. Livingstone rising.
“I see it, madam,” answered Malcolm, without deigning to move.
“Oblige me by passing out,” continued Mrs. Livingstone. “Insolent
creature, to stand here threatening to elope with my daughter, who has
been destined for another since her infancy.”
“But she shall never become the bride of that old man,” answered
Malcolm. “I know your schemes. I’ve seen them all along, and I will
frustrate them, too.”
“You cannot,” fiercely answered Mrs. Livingstone. “It shall be ere
another year comes round, and when you hear that it is so, know that
you hastened it forward;” and the indignant lady, finding that her
opponent was not inclined to move, left the room herself, going in
quest of Anna, whom she determined to watch for fear of what might
happen.
But Anna was nowhere to be found, and in a paroxysm of rage she alarmed
the household, instituting a strict search, which resulted in the
discovery of Anna beneath the same sycamore where Malcolm had first
breathed his vows, and whither she had repaired to await the decision
of her parents.
“I expected as much,” said she, when told of the result, “but it
matters not. I am yours, and I’ll never marry another.”
The approach of the servants prevented any further conversation, and
with a hurried adieu they parted. A few days afterward, as Mrs.
Livingstone, sat in her large easy-chair before the glowing grate,
Captain Atherton was announced, and shown at once into her room. To do
Mrs. Livingstone justice, we must say that she had long debated the
propriety of giving Anna, in all the freshness of her girlhood, to a
man old as her father, but any hesitancy she had heretofore felt, had
now vanished. The crisis had come, and when the captain, as he had two
or three times before done, broached the subject, urging her to a
decision, she replied that she was willing, provided Anna’s consent
could be gained.
“Pho! that’s easy enough,” said the captain, complacently rubbing
together his fat hands and smoothing his colored whiskers—“Bring her in
here, and I’ll coax her in five minutes.”
Anna was sitting with her grandmother and ’Lena, when word came that
her mother wished to see her, the servant adding, with a titter, that
“Mas’r Atherton thar too.”
Instinctively she knew why she was sent for, and turning white as
marble, she begged her cousin to go with her. But ’Lena refused,
soothing the agitated girl, and begging her to be calm. “You’ve only to
be decided,” said she, “and it will soon be over. Captain Atherton, I
am sure, will not insist when he sees how repugnant to your feelings it
is.”
But Anna knew her own weakness—she could never say, in her mother’s
presence, what she felt—and trembling like an aspen, she descended the
stairs, meeting in the lower hall her brother, who asked what was the
matter.
“Oh, John, John,” she cried, “Captain Atherton is in there with mother,
and they have sent for me. What shall I do?”
“Be a woman,” answered John Jr. “Tell him _no_ in good broad English,
and if the old fellow insists, I’ll blow his brains out!”
But the Captain did not insist. He was too cunning for that, and when,
with a burst of tears, Anna told him she could not be his wife because
she loved another, he said, good-humoredly, “Well, well, never mind
spoiling those pretty blue eyes. I’m not such an old savage as you
think me. So we’ll compromise the matter this way. If you really love
Malcolm, why, marry him, and on your bridal day I’ll make you a present
of a nice little place I have in Frankfort; but if, on the other hand,
Malcolm proves untrue, you must promise to have me. Come, that’s a fair
bargain. What do you say?”
“Malcolm will never prove untrue,” answered Anna.
“Of course not,” returned the captain. “So you are safe in promising.’
“But what good will it do you?” queried Anna.
“No good, in particular,” said the captain. “It’s only a whim of mine,
to which I thought you might perhaps agree, in consideration of my
offer.”
“I do—I will,” said Anna, thinking the captain not so bad after all.
“There’s mischief somewhere, and I advise you to watch,” said John Jr.,
when he learned from Anna the result of the interview.
But week after week glided by. Mrs. Livingstone’s persecutions ceased,
and she sometimes herself handed to Anna Malcolm’s letters, which came
regularly, and when about the first of March Captain Atherton himself
went off to Washington, Anna gave her fears to the wind, and all the
day long went singing about the house, unmindful of the snare laid for
her unsuspecting footsteps. At length Malcolm’s letters suddenly
ceased, and though Anna wrote again and again, there came no answer.
Old Cæsar, who always carried and brought the mail for Maple Grove, was
questioned, but he declared he “done got none from Mas’r Everett,” and
suspicion in that quarter was lulled. Unfortunately for Anna, both her
father and John Jr. were now away, and she had no counselor save ’Lena,
who once, on her own responsibility, wrote to Malcolm, but with a like
success, and Anna’s heart grew weary with hope deferred. Smilingly Mrs.
Livingstone looked on, one moment laughing at Anna for what she termed
love-sickness, and the next advising her to be a woman, and marry
Captain Atherton. “He was not very old—only forty-three—and it was
better to be an old man’s darling than a young man’s slave!”
Thus the days wore on, until one evening just as the family were
sitting down to tea they were surprised by a call from the captain, who
had returned that afternoon, and who, with the freedom of an old
friend, unceremoniously entered the supper-room, appropriating to
himself the extra plate which Mrs. Livingstone always had upon the
table. Simultaneously with him came Cæsar, who having been to the
post-office, had just returned, bringing, besides other things, a paper
for Carrie, from her old admirer, Tom Lakin, who lived in Rockford, at
which place the paper was printed. Several times had Tom remembered
Carrie in this way, and now carelessly glancing at the first page, she
threw it upon the floor, whence it was taken by Anna, who examined it
more minutely glancing, as a matter of course, to the marriage notices.
Meantime the captain, who was sitting by ’Lena, casually remarked, “Oh,
I forgot to tell you that I saw Mr. Everett in Washington.”
“Mr. Everett—Malcolm Everett?” said ’Lena, quickly.
“Yes, Malcolm Everett,” answered the captain.
“He is there spending the honeymoon with his bride!”
’Lena’s exclamation of astonishment was prevented by a shriek from
Anna, who had that moment read the announcement of Mr. Everett’s
marriage, which was the first in the list. It was Malcolm H.
Everett—there could be no mistake—and when ’Lena reached her cousin’s
side, she found that she had fainted. All was now in confusion, in the
midst of which the Captain took his leave, having first managed to
speak a few words in private with Mrs. Livingstone.
“Fortune favors us,” was her reply, as she went back to her daughter,
whose long, death-like swoon almost wrung from her the secret.
But Anna revived, and with the first indication of returning
consciousness, the cold, hard woman stifled all her better feelings,
and then tried to think she was acting only for the good of her child.
For a long time Anna appeared to be in a kind of benumbed torpor,
requesting to be left alone, and shuddering if Mr. Everett’s name were
mentioned in her presence. It was in vain that ’Lena strove to comfort
her, telling her there might be some mistake. Anna refused to listen,
angrily bidding ’Lena desist, and saying frequently that she cared but
little what became of herself now. A species of recklessness seemed to
have taken possession of her, and when her mother one day carelessly
remarked that possibly Captain Atherton would claim the fulfillment of
her promise, she answered, in the cold, indifferent tone which now
marked her manner of speaking, “Let him. I am ready and willing for the
sacrifice.”
“Are you in earnest?” asked Mrs. Livingstone, eagerly.
“In earnest? Yes—try me and see,” was Anna’s brief answer, which
somewhat puzzled her mother, who would in reality have preferred
opposition to this unnatural passiveness.
But anything to gain her purpose, she thought, and drawing Anna closely
to her side, she very gently and affectionately told her how happy it
would make her could she see her the wife of Captain Atherton, who had
loved and waited for her so long, and who would leave no wish, however
slight, ungratified. And Anna, with no shadow of emotion on her calm,
white face, consented to all that her mother asked, and when next the
captain came, she laid her feverish hand in his, and with a strange,
wild light beaming from her dark blue eyes, promised to share his
fortunes as his wife.
“’Twill be winter and spring,” said she, with a bitter, mocking laugh,
“’Twill be winter and spring, but it matters not.”
Many years before, when a boy of eighteen, Captain Atherton had loved,
or fancied he loved, a young girl, whose very name afterward became
hateful to him, and now, as he thought of Anna’s affection for Malcolm,
he likened it to his own boyish fancy, believing she would soon get
over it, and thank him for what he had done.
That night Anna saw the moon and stars go down, bending far out from
her window, that the damp air might cool her burning brow, and when the
morning sun came up the eastern horizon, its first beams fell on the
golden curls which streamed across the window-sill, her only pillow the
livelong night. On ’Lena’s mind a terrible conviction was fastening
itself—Anna was crazed. She saw it in the wildness of her eye, in the
tones of her voice, and more than all, in the readiness with which she
yielded herself to her mother’s schemes, “But it shall not be,” she
thought, “I will save her,” and then she knelt before her aunt,
imploring her to spare her daughter—not to sacrifice her on the altar
of mammon.
But Mrs. Livingstone turned angrily away, telling her to mind her own
affairs. Then ’Lena sought her cousin, and winding her arms around her
neck, besought of her to resist—to burst the chain which bound her, and
be free. But with a shake other head, Anna bade her go away. “Leave me,
’Lena Rivers,” she said, “leave me to work out my destiny. It is
decreed that I shall be his wife, and I may not struggle against it.
Each night I read it in the stars, and the wind, as it sighs through
the maple trees, whispers it to my ear.”
“Oh, if my aunt could see her now,” thought ’Lena but as if her
mother’s presence had a paralyzing power, Anna, when with her, was
quiet, gentle, and silent, and if Mrs. Livingstone sometimes missed her
merry laugh and playful ways, she thought the air of dignity which
seemed to have taken their place quite an improvement, and far more in
keeping with the bride-elect of Captain Atherton.
About this time Mr. Livingstone returned, appearing greatly surprised
at the phase which affairs had assumed in his absence, but when ’Lena
whispered to him her fears, he smilingly answered, “I reckon you’re
mistaken. Her mother would have found it out—where is she?”
In her chamber at the old place by the open window they found her, and
though she did not as usual spring eagerly forward to meet her father,
her greeting was wholly natural; but when Mr. Livingstone, taking her
upon his knee, said gently, “They tell me you are to be married soon,”
the wildness came back to her eye, and ’Lena wondered he could not see
it. But he did not, and smoothing her disordered tresses, he said,
“Tell me, my daughter, does this marriage please you? Do you enter into
it willingly?”
For a moment there was a wavering, and ’Lena held her breath to catch
the answer, which came at last, while the eyes shone brighter than
ever—“Willing? yes, or I should not do it; no one compels me, else I
would resist.”
“Woman’s nature,” said Mr. Livingstone, laughingly, while ’Lena turned
away to hide her tears.
Day after day preparations went on, for Mrs. Livingstone would have the
ceremony a grand and imposing one. In the neighborhood, the fast
approaching event was discussed, some pronouncing it a most fortunate
thing for Anna, who could not, of course, expect to make so eligible a
match as her more brilliant sister, while others—the sensible
portion—wondered, pitied, and blamed, attributing the whole to the
ambitious mother, whose agency in her son’s marriage was now generally
known. At Maple Grove closets, chairs, tables, and sofas were loaded
down with finery, and like an automaton, Anna stood up while they
fitted to her the rich white satin, scarcely whiter than her own face,
and Mrs. Livingstone, when she saw her daughter’s indifference, would
pinch her bloodless cheeks, wondering how she could care so little for
her good fortune.
Unnatural mother!—from the little grave on the sunny slope, now
grass-grown and green, came there no warning voice to stay her in her
purpose? No; she scarcely thought of Mabel now, and with unflinching
determination she kept on her way.
But there was one who, night and day, pondered in her mind the best way
of saving Anna from the living death to which she would surely awake,
when it was too late. At last she resolved on going herself to Captain
Atherton, telling him just how it was, and if there was a spark of
generosity in his nature, she thought he would release her cousin. But
this plan required much caution, for she would not have her uncle’s
family know of it, and if she failed, she preferred that it should be
kept a secret from the world. There was then no alternative but to go
in the night, and alone. She did not now often sit with the family, and
she knew they would not miss her. So, one evening when they were as
usual assembled in the parlor, she stole softly from the house, and
managing to pass the negro quarters unobserved, she went down to the
lower stable, where she saddled the pony she was now accustomed to
ride, and leading him by a circuitous path out upon the turnpike,
mounted and rode away.
The night was moonless, and the starlight obscured by heavy clouds, but
the pale face and golden curls of Anna, for whose sake she was there
alone, gleamed on her in the darkness, and ’Lena was not afraid.
Once—twice—she thought she caught the sound of another horse’s hoofs,
but when she stopped to listen, all was still, and again she pressed
forward, while her pursuer (for ’Lena was followed) kept at a greater
distance. Durward had been to Frankfort, and on his way home had
stopped at Maple Grove to deliver a package. Stopping only a moment, he
reached the turnpike just after ’Lena struck into it. Thinking it was a
servant, he was about to pass her, when her horse sheered at something
on the road-side, and involuntarily she exclaimed, “Courage, Dido,
there’s nothing to fear.”
Instantly he recognized her voice, and was about to overtake and speak
to her, but thinking that her mission was a secret one, or she would
not be there alone, he desisted. Still he could not leave her thus. Her
safety might be endangered, and reining in his steed, and accommodating
his pace to hers, he followed without her knowledge. On she went until
she reached the avenue leading to “Sunnyside,” as Captain Atherton
termed his residence, and there she stopped, going on foot to the
house, while, hidden by the deep darkness Durward waited and watched.
Half timidly ’Lena rang the door-bell, dropping her veil over her face
that she might not be recognized. “I want to see your master,” she said
to the woman who answered her ring, and who in some astonishment
replied, “Bless you, miss, Mas’r Atherton done gone to Lexington and
won’t be home till to-morry.”
“Gone!” repeated ’Lena in a disappointed tone. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“Is you the new miss what’s comin’ here to live?” asked the negro, who
was Captain Atherton’s house keeper.
Instantly the awkwardness of her position flashed upon ’Lena, but
resolving to put a bold face on the matter, she removed her veil,
saying, playfully, “You know me now, Aunt Martha.”
“In course I do,” answered the negro, holding up both hands in
amazement, “but what sent you here this dark, unairthly night?”
“Business with your master,” and then suddenly remembering that among
her own race Aunt Martha was accounted an intolerable gossip, she began
to wish she had not come.
But it could not now be helped, and turning away, she walked slowly
down the avenue, wondering what the result would be. Again they were in
motion, she and Durward, who followed until he saw her safe home, and
then, glad that no one had seen her but himself, he retraced his steps,
pondering on the mystery which he could not fathom. After ’Lena left
Sunnyside, a misty rain came on, and by the time she reached her home,
her long riding-dress was wet and drizzled, the feathers on her cap
were drooping, and to crown all, as she was crossing the hall with
stealthy step, she came suddenly upon her aunt, who, surprised at her
appearance, demanded of her where she had been. But ’Lena refused to
tell, and in quite a passion Mrs. Livingstone laid the case before her
husband.
“Lena had been off that dark, rainy night, riding somewhere with
somebody, she wouldn’t tell who, but she (Mrs. Livingstone) most knew
if was Durward, and something must be done.”
Accordingly, next day; when they chanced to be alone, Mr. Livingstone
took the opportunity of questioning ’Lena, who dared not disobey him,
and with many tears she confessed the whole, saying that “if it were
wrong she was very sorry.”
“You acted foolishly, to say the least of it,” answered her uncle,
adding, dryly, that he thought she troubled herself altogether too much
about Anna, who seemed happy and contented.
Still he was ill at ease. ’Lena’s fears disturbed him, and for many
days he watched his daughter narrowly, admitting to himself that there
was something strange about her. But possibly all engaged girls acted
so; his wife said they did; and hating anything like a scene, he
concluded to let matters take their course, half hoping, and half
believing, too, that something would occur to prevent the marriage.
What it would be, or by what agency it would be brought about, he
didn’t know, but he resolved to let ’Lena alone, and when his wife
insisted upon his “lecturing her soundly for meddling,” he refused,
venturing even to say, that, “she hadn’t meddled.”
Meantime a new idea had entered ’Lena’s mind. She would write to Mr.
Everett. There might yet be some mistake; she had read of such things
in stories, and it could do no harm. Gradually as she wrote, hope grew
strong within her, and it became impressed upon her that there had been
some deep-laid, fiendish plot. If so, she dared not trust her letter
with old Cæsar, who might be bribed by his mistress. And how to convey
it to the office was now the grand difficulty. As if fortune favored
her plan, Durward, that very afternoon, called at Maple Grove, being as
he said, on his way to Frankfort.
’Lena would have died rather than ask a favor of him for herself, but
to save Anna she could do almost any thing. Hastily securing the
letter, and throwing on her sun-bonnet, she sauntered down the lawn and
out upon the turnpike, where by the gate she awaited his coming.
“’Lena—excuse me—Miss Rivers, is it you?” asked Durward, touching his
hat, as in evident confusion she came forward, asking if she could
trust him.
“Trust me? Yes, with anything,” answered Durward, quickly dismounting,
and forgetting everything save the bright, beautiful face which looked
up to him so eagerly.
“Then,” answered ’Lena, “take this letter and see it deposited safely,
will you?”
Glancing at the superscription, Durward felt his face crimson, while he
instantly remembered what Mrs. Livingstone had once said concerning
’Lena’s attachment to Mr. Everett.
“Sometime, perhaps, I will explain,” said ’Lena, observing the
expression of his countenance, and then adding, with some bitterness,
“I assure you there is no harm in it.”
“Of course not,” answered Durward, again mounting his horse, and riding
away more puzzled than ever, while ’Lena returned to the house, which
everywhere gave tokens of the approaching nuptials.
Already had several costly bridal gifts arrived, and among them was a
box from the captain, containing a set of diamonds, which Mrs.
Livingstone placed in her daughter’s waving hair, bidding her mark
their effect. But not a muscle of Anna’s face changed; nothing moved
her; and with the utmost indifference she gazed on the preparations
around her. A stranger would have said ’Lena was the bride, for, with
flushed cheeks and nervously anxious manner, she watched each sun as it
rose and set, wondering what the result would be. Once, when asked whom
she would have for her bridesmaid and groomsman, Anna had answered,
“Nellie and John!” but that could not be, for the latter had imposed
upon himself the penance of waiting a whole year ere he spoke to Nellie
of that which lay nearest his heart, and in order the better to keep
his vow, he had gone from home, first winning from her the promise that
she would not become engaged until his return. And now, when he learned
of his sister’s request, he refused to come, saying, “if she would make
such a consummate fool of herself, he did not wish to see her.”
So Carrie and Durward were substituted, and as this arrangement brought
the latter occasionally to the house, ’Lena had opportunities of asking
him if there had yet come any answer to her letter; and much oftener
than he would otherwise have done, Durward went down to Frankfort, for
he felt that it was no unimportant matter which thus deeply interested
’Lena. At last, the day before the bridal came, Durward had gone to the
city, and in a state of great excitement ’Lena awaited his return,
watching with a trembling heart as the sun went down behind the western
hills. Slowly the hours dragged on, and many a time she stole out in
the deep darkness to listen, but there was nothing to be heard save the
distant cry of the night-owl, and she was about retracing her steps for
the fifth time, when from behind a clump of rose-bushes started a
little dusky form, which whispered softly, “Is you Miss ’Leny?”
Repressing the scream which came near escaping her lips, ’Lena
answered, “Yes; what do you want?” while at the same moment she
recognized a little hunch back belonging to General Fontaine.
“Marster Everett tell me to fotch you this, and wait for the answer,”
said the boy, passing her a tiny note.
“Master Everett! Is he here?” she exclaimed, catching the note and
re-entering the house, where by the light of the hall lamp she read
what he had written.
It was very short, but it told all—how he had written again and again,
receiving no answer, and was about coming himself when a severe illness
prevented. The marriage, he said, was that of his uncle, for whom he
was named, and who had in truth gone on to Washington, the home of his
second wife. It closed by asking her to meet him, with Anna, on one of
the arbor bridges at midnight. Hastily tearing a blank leaf from a book
which chanced to be lying in the hall, ’Lena wrote, “We will be there,”
and giving it to the negro, bade him hasten back.
There was no longer need to wait for Durward, who, if he got no letter,
was not to call, and trembling in every nerve, ’Lena sought her
chamber, there to consider what she was next to do. For some time past
Carrie had occupied a separate room from Anna, who, she said disturbed
her with her late hours and restless turnings, so ’Lena’s part seemed
comparatively easy. Waiting until the house was still, she entered
Anna’s room, finding her, as she had expected, at her old place by the
open window, her head resting upon the sill, and when she approached
nearer, she saw that she was asleep.
“Let her sleep yet awhile,” said she; “it will do her good.”
In the room adjoining lay the bridal dress, and ’Lena’s first impulse
was to trample it under her feet, but passing it with a shudder, she
hastily collected whatever she thought Anna would most need. These she
placed in a small-sized trunk, and then knowing it was done, she
approached her cousin, who seemed to be dreaming, for she murmured the
name of “Malcolm.”
“He is here, love—he has come to save you,” she whispered, while Anna,
only partially aroused, gazed at her so vacantly, that ’Lena’s heart
stood still with fear lest the poor girl’s reason were wholly gone.
“Anna, Anna,” she said, “awake; Malcolm is here—in the garden, where
you must meet him—come.”
“Malcolm is married,” said Anna, in a whisper—married—and my bridal
dress is in there, all looped with flowers; would you like to see it?”
“Our Father in heaven help me,” cried ’Lena, clasping her hands in
anguish, while her tears fell like rain on Anna’s upturned face.
This seemed to arouse her, for in a natural tone she asked why ’Lena
wept. Again and again ’Lena repeated to her that Malcolm had come—that
he was not married—that he had come for her; and as Anna listened, the
torpor slowly passed away—the wild light in her eyes grew less bright,
for it was quenched by the first tears she had shed since the shadow
fell upon her; and when ’Lena produced the note, and she saw it was
indeed true, the ice about her heart was melted, and in choking,
long-drawn sobs, her pent-up feelings gave way, as she saw the gulf
whose verge she had been treading. Crouching at ’Lena’s feet, she
kissed the very hem of her garments, blessing her as her preserver, and
praying heaven to bless her, also. It was the work of a few moments to
array her in her traveling dress, and then very cautiously ’Lena led
her down the stairs, and out into the open air.
“If I could see father once,” said Anna; but such an act involved too
much danger, and with one lingering, tearful look at her old home, she
moved away, supported by ’Lena, who rather dragged than led her over
the graveled walk.
As they approached the arbor bridge, they saw the glimmering light of a
lantern, for the night was intensely dark, and in a moment Anna was
clasped in the arms which henceforth were to shelter her from the
storms of life. Helpless as an infant she lay, while ’Lena, motioning
the negro who was in attendance to follow her, returned to the house
for the trunk, which was soon safely deposited in the carriage at the
gate.
“Words cannot express what I owe you,” said Malcolm, when he gave her
his hand at parting, “but of this be assured, so long as I live you
have in me a friend and brother.” Turning back for a moment, he added,
“This flight is, I know, unnecessary, for I could prevent to-morrow’s
expected event in other ways than this, but revenge is sweet, and I
trust I am excusable for taking it in my own way.”
Anna could not speak, but the look of deep gratitude which beamed from
her eyes was far more eloquent than words. Upon the broad piazza ’Lena
stood until the last faint sound of the carriage wheels died away;
then, weary and worn, she sought her room, locking Anna’s door as she
passed it, and placing the key in her pocket. Softly she crept to bed
by the side of her slumbering grandmother, and with a fervent prayer
for the safety of the fugitives, fell asleep.