Everybody was at Crab Orchard springs, that favorite resort in the
ante-bellum days. What though the main rooms were cramped and stuffy, or
that the straggling cottages across the grassy lawn were mere shells.
It was a place thoroughly rural, thoroughly enjoyable. Merely to ramble
along the winding saw-dust walks to the deep embowered springs, was a
sufficient augury of improved health. It was the one daily excitement to
crowd up to the long platform and see the stage come in, bringing high
and low, the rich and moderate liver. The luggage was light, Saratoga
trunks being unknown quantities, and no gowns were brought except those
of the crushable kind that did duty at ten-pins, fishing, walking,
dancing, and not least, driving, for the gravel turnpikes were fine.
Across the wide street was Bachelors' Row, where were installed hunters
and hounds from the Southland, rich cotton and sugar planters, sporting
men and their sable attendants. Here the candles burned all night, and
there were loud whispers of games in vogue not as innocent as those
listed on the tempting advertising circulars of the Springs. This sunny,
summer life was of the _dolce far niente_ sort, given up to idle
pleasure, and quite out of the way of the tragic happenings of romance.
Yet a mystery had managed to creep into this Arcadian realm, a thing not
at first tangible, but getting to be an acknowledged first-class secret
as the days went by.
Egbert Mason had been nearer the carriage than the rest of the sunset
crowd when the stage rolled up, followed by the close, luxurious-looking
vehicle so rarely seen in those parts. He declared he caught a glimpse
of a being, exquisitely beautiful among the two or three closely wrapped
and veiled women who descended from the carriage; and the young men were
on the _qui vive_ some hours later to see the new comers enter the
ball room. But they did not appear either that night, or any other
night. They kept their cottage rooms closely, sitting out only in the
rear, and were waited upon by the two black servants they had brought.
Various were the conjectures about them, and vague stories soon took
shape. The hotel register told only their names: Mrs. Glencarron, Mrs.
Hamilton and daughter, from Mississippi. The daughter was an invalid,
and this was all that could be drawn from the faithful blacks. The
girls pouted, and mamas looked unutterables when their curiosity found
no relief; while the men were wisely silent, though equally diligent in
fruitless investigation.
It was past midnight, and the lights were out, when the ominous cry of
"fire!" sounded through the grounds, striking terror to the visitors
thus suddenly startled from their sleep, and emptying the cottages of
their half-clad occupants by one accord. A glance at the crackling
flames showed that Bachelors' Row was on fire and doomed. Men from the
distant village were soon on the spot with buckets, and amid frightened
cries, confused questions, and a general hurrying, scurrying of feet, a
few had presence of mind to cover the main building with wet blankets,
lest the trees now snapping and hissing might drop a blazing brand and
the whole place go down.
After the first panic had subsided there was nothing to do but stand
and watch the graphic scene; and while thus engaged the attention of
some was attracted by a face white and drawn as with pain among the
by-standers. It was that of one of the mysterious ladies of the southern
cottages. But even as they noted the faded beauty and aristocratic
bearing of the stranger she was hurried away by another figure closely
wrapped and hooded. Not before she had ejaculated: "Oh, what is it?
Is she----?" and there the words were lost.
It was somewhere near the early morning when Egbert Mason who had been
foremost in fighting the fire, was aroused by a voice just outside his
window, which was left open for the faint breeze of the summer night.
"Come quick iz you kin, young marster, fur de lub o'heb'n."
Between sleeping and waking the young man jumped up and peered out of
the window. He could just discern the prim red and yellow turban of the
black keeper of the strange ladies.
"Iz you a doctor, Marster? Dey says you iz."
"Yes--a very young one--what is wanted?"
The negress spoke a few very hurried words in a lower tone.
"All right. In one moment--stay--never mind--I have it--I'm coming." And
catching up something from the shelf of his closet the young doctor sped
away to the mysterious door of the southern guests.
He was met on the threshold by an anxious, grief-stricken face, and the
words half sobbed out:
"Was there no one else? None older? You--why, you are a boy."
"True, madam, but I am not without experience. I hope--I think, you may
trust me, unless----"
But she drew him hurriedly within the door, and on to an inner chamber,
where lay his patient, so guarded that he never once saw her face.
Before the earliest risers were called to the long breakfast hall there
echoed the cry of a little child in the southern cottages--a girl baby
that opened its eyes first in an atmosphere of secrecy and mystery.
* * * * *
Sixteen years had gone by. It was the eighth of January, and the Capitol
Hotel at Frankfort was a blaze of military glory. It was the annual
commemorative ball, and Strauss' band was pouring forth inspiring
strains, as the dancers, in fancy costumes of every age and clime,
flitted to and fro. The beauty, wealth and chivalry of Kentucky were
there. The stars and stripes were draped about the speaking portraits
of dead heroes, and munitions of war glittered on every side.
Among those wearing the neat broadcloth evening dress of the plain
American citizen was Dr. Egbert Mason, the famous surgeon, now a
distinguished looking man of thirty-five. It was rather late in the
evening when he appeared, and he was soon captured by his friend,
the Hon. Leslie Walcott, who bore the distinction of being the youngest
member of the House, and presented to Miss Eleanor Carleton, the most
popular of all the belles and beauties on the floor. Her dress was an
exquisite personation of the stars and stripes, from the crown of stars
on her golden brown hair, to the gaily ribboned white satin slipper. Her
white muslin skirts showed the red stripes at intervals; a soft blue
sarcanet sash across her breast was stamped with the outstretched wings
of the American eagle, and in every detail this unique costume was
alluring to a degree.
Dr. Mason was more than impressed by her extreme youth, in its setting
of precocious womanly grace and charm. She was so happy and bright, a
_sans souci_ maiden whom he lost no time in winning to his own
colors, by the magic of a well-stored mind and an eloquent tongue. A
sonsie, sweet-sixteen lassie, not yet out of school, but wonderfully
developed, like the southern girls of the period, whose parents were
possessed of ample means. He sounded her fresh, rich stores of mind and
found she had indeed been carefully taught, wisely trained. Not at once
did he learn it all, but soon enough to resolve to win and wear this
jewel, if only Providence were kind. Providence? Ah, there swept across
his face the shade of one bitter memory--one foul wrong that had
darkened his earlier manhood. A woman's fatal wiles, a man's trust
betrayed. He forgot that she had vowed vengeance if it took a lifetime.
He thrust it all aside, and turned to the purity and innocence of this
fair young womanhood, with the infinite longing of a starved nature.
The evening of the ball did not close without another surprise for
Egbert Mason. Eleanor Carleton was challenging him in a spirited
quotation contest when her mother approached leaning upon the arm of the
Governor of the State. She was a handsome, dark-eyed woman, young enough
to seem the elder sister of the lovely girl who called her mother.
"Eleanor, my child," she said, barely glancing at her daughter's
companion. "I've been looking everywhere for you. Have you been in the
draughts of those halls? Supper is ready."
"Oh, I've been in very good hands," was the merry reply, as the girl
introduced Dr. Mason, and shook hands with the Governor, who was looking
down at her with his kindliest smile.
"Madam," he said gallantly, "I must compliment you upon this exceedingly
pretty and patriotic dress. I have been watching it from afar all
evening. How could you conceive such a marked hit for the occasion."
"I hope it in order for me to say she never fails," proudly answered
Senator Carleton, an imposing looking man, who had come up in time to
hear the last remark. "The march is playing for supper--"
"Oh, mother--what is it?" cried the girl, suddenly directing attention
to Mrs. Carleton's face, which was colorless, almost ghastly, while her
eyes seemed gazing afar off into space.
"Allow me," said Dr. Mason, with concern, advancing quickly, and amid
the excited gathering of the little circle about him, he gently bore her
to one of the large windows, as the Senator in visible alarm threw up
the sash.
"To my room," she murmured, as she revived a little, and thither they
conducted her as quietly as possible.
At the door the startled young girl turned and impulsively clasping the
doctor's hand, exclaimed:
"Oh, Dr. Mason--what is the matter? I never saw my mother like this--is
she going to be ill?"
He tried to reassure her, though the touch of her soft, clinging fingers
set his blood dancing like wild fire in his veins.
That night old Ailsie knelt beside her mistress and soothed her with the
crooning tones of her childhood days.
"Don't you fret, Missie; he doan know nuffin' 'bout it now. An' if he
do he ain' gwine ter tell nobody."
That night, too, Egbert Mason, in dreams climbed a mountain height to
reach an eagle's nest. As he grasped the last wavering support a figure
glittering with stars dropped from the nest, suspended by a tattered
flag. Down, down it fell. Frantically he clutched at the frail colors.
They lengthened more, and more, till the starry, shimmering form was
swaying above a yawning abyss. Could he save her? Her--his young love
with the appealing eyes? With one mighty effort he nerved himself for
the desperate descent, when lo! from yon black depth appears the
vindictive face of Isabella Drury. Older, careworn, faded--but still
Isabella, and wearing the head of a Medusa.
* * * * *
"You shall never marry that girl, Egbert Mason! I have sworn it! If you
attempt it I will kill one or both of you!" and the face of the speaker
was like a mad woman. "Oh, I know all you would say," she went on,
striding about the rooms she had entered by strategy. "But she shall not
have you if I can not. Pshaw! What fools men are! Do you know who and
what she is? Where is your boasted pride, that shrank from a thing like
me! Let me tell you, then, you scornful, high mightiness! Eleanor Carleton
is----" and she hissed the hateful word in his ears.
"Woman! You lie!" shouted Egbert Mason, stung to frenzy by her taunts,
and sick unto death of her persecution. His was not a quiet nature, and
she had touched him in his sorest point. "You lie, and you know it! Out
of my sight! Tell all you will. I, too, can threaten. Your vile secret
is still safe with me, but I shall find means to be rid of you--Go!"
"Stop!" she commanded, coming nearer and dropping her voice to a
sibillant whisper. "Go back seventeen years to a summer night at Crab
Orchard Springs! Aha! you start, I see you have not forgotten. Do you
recollect the part you played that night? _She is that child!_" and
with a malicious laugh she swiftly passed from the room.
The man sat stunned where she had left him. Could it be true? And what
was the mystery of that far-away night of his youth? The more he
pondered the more complete grew the chain. Senator Carleton had married
a Kentucky girl, it was true; but her youth had been passed on a
Mississippi plantation. He had years ago heard more or less idle gossip
about the hard, miserly nature of the old planter, Hamilton, and of his
bitter opposition to his daughter's match with penniless young Carleton.
There had been an elopement, or something. It came back to him like some
hideous nightmare. His pure, spotless darling--his promised wife! Could
there be sin or shame enveloping such a being? He must know. He wrote to
Mrs. Carleton. In earnest words of manly truth and honor he besought her
to explain to him the past. Eleanor was visiting a friend in a distant
city. No answer came. He went to the house and was denied admittance. He
followed Eleanor only to learn that she had been hastily summoned home.
That was not the day of rapid transit. He returned at last to find a
letter of farewell forever--his beloved had been spirited away to other
scenes. Then Egbert Mason left his native land, baffled, broken-hearted,
and devoted the next three years to the study of special lines in his
profession.
* * * * *
In a stately drawing room of an ideal Kentucky home are Eleanor Carleton
and Egbert Mason, once more face to face.
"Oh, my love," he moaned, bending almost reverently before her, "what a
mistake, I knew it all when too late. The letters were all found when
that unhappy woman was sent to the asylum. Did you think I could change?
'Forget thee dear?'" he quoted unconsciously--he had said the lines so
often;
"God knows I would not if I could:
For sweeter far has been to me the pain
Of love unsatisfied, than all the vain
And ill spent years I lived before we met."
Still she stood, gravely looking at him, her maturing beauty made the
fairer by the sable gown she wore.
"Forgive me," then she spoke. "I thought you knew. I have been Leslie
Walcott's wife these four months."
As he sat beside his solitary hearth there was a fumbling outside the
door. He opened to admit old Ailsie, now crippled with rheumatic pains.
"I know'd dat was you. Marse Doctor, 'n I follered yer, I want to tell
yer:--Mistress 'splained all 'bout dat 'fore she died. Dey wan't nothin'
wrong. Her an' her ma was 'feared to let old Master know she hed run
'way an' married Marse Henry. He said he wan't gwine ter will her nary
cent. So mistess and her sister, Miss Ellen, arter while, dey fotch her
up to de springs. Den ole master he died sudden like, an' Marse Henry,
he had done ben 'way off to New Auleens--never know'd dey had fooled old
Master 'bout de chile an' all dat. Po' Mistress! she nebber could tell
him no better, and she was always skeerd-like arter she seed you agin.
But she sot right down dat day and writ all about it to you an' I goes
and gives de letter to dat purty white lady what was sich a good frien',
and den she gimme yourn, ain----"
"Yes, yes, Auntie, I know--I have the letters here----at last," he added
in low, husky tones.
* * * * *
The _Louisville Journal_ of the next New Year, under date of
January 9, contained the following notice, with lengthy editorial
comment:
"Died suddenly last night, of heart disease, at the close of the
Military Ball, at the Capitol Hotel, Frankfort, the Hon. Leslie
Walcott, age thirty-two years."
Did hope stretch out an alluring hand to one lonely reader?