A STARTLING EVENT.
What see you in these papers, that you lose
So much of your complexion? Look you how you change!
Your cheeks are paper!--why, what hear you there
That hath so cowarded and chased your blood
Out of appearance? --SHAKESPEARE.
It was on the evening of the very same day that saw the departure of
Laura Lytton for Lytton Lodge that Peter, the post-office messenger of
Blue Cliffs, returned from Wendover, bringing with him a well-filled
mail-bag.
He took it into the drawing-room, where Miss Cavendish and her guests,
the Rev. Dr. Jones, Miss Electra, and Mrs. Grey, were gathered around
the center-table, under the light of the chandelier.
Emma Cavendish unlocked the mail-bag and turned its contents out upon
the table.
"Newspapers and magazines only, I believe. No letters. Help yourselves,
friends. There are paper-knives on the pen-tray. And in the absence of
letters, there is a real pleasure in unfolding a fresh newspaper and
cutting the leaves of a new magazine," said the young lady, as she
returned the empty bag to the messenger.
But her companions tumbled over the mail still in the vain hope of
finding letters.
"None for me; yet I did hope to get one from my new manager at Beresford
Manors," muttered Dr. Jones, in a tone of disappointment.
"And none for me either, though I do think the girls at Mount Ascension
might write to me," pouted Electra.
"And of course there are none for me! There never are! No one ever
writes to me. The poor have no correspondents. I did not expect a
letter, and I am not disappointed," murmured Mary Grey, with that
charming expression, between a smile and a sigh, that she had always
found so effective.
"Well, there is no letter for any one, it seems, so none of us have
cause to feel slighted by fortune more than others," added Emma
Cavendish, cheerfully.
But Peter, the post-office boy, looked from one to the other, with his
black eyes growing bigger and bigger, as he felt with his hand in the
empty mail-bag and exclaimed:
"I'clar's to de law der was a letter for some uns. Miss Emmer, 'cause I
see de pos'marser put it in de bag wid his own hands, which it were a
letter wid a black edge all 'round de outside of it, and a dob o' black
tar, or somethink, onto the middle o' the back of it."
As the boy spoke, the Rev. Dr. Jones began again to turn over the
magazines and newspapers until he found the letter, which had slipped
between the covers of the _Edinboro' Review_.
"It is for you, my dear," he said, as he passed the missive across the
table to Miss Cavendish.
"I wonder from whom it comes? The handwriting is quite unfamiliar to me.
And the postmark is New York, where I have no correspondents whatever,"
said Emma, in surprise, as she broke the black seal.
"Oh, maybe it's a circular from some merchant who has heard of the great
Alleghany heiress," suggested Electra.
"You will permit me?" said Emma, glancing at her companions as she
unfolded her letter.
And then, as one and another nodded and smiled and returned to their
magazines and papers. Emma Cavendish glanced at the signature of her
strange letter, started with surprise, gazed at it a second time more
attentively, and then turned hurriedly and began to read it.
And as she read her face paled and flushed, and she glanced from time to
time at the faces of her companions; but they were all engaged with
pamphlets and papers, except Mrs. Grey, whom Emma perceived to be
furtively watching her.
The strange letter was written in rather a wild and rambling style of
composition, as if the writer were a little brain sick. It ran as
follows:
"BLANK HOTEL, New York City, April 27th, 18--.
"MY DEAR MISS CAVENDISH:--Our near blood relationship might
warrant me in addressing you as my dear Emma. But I refrain,
because you would not understand the familiarity any more than
you recognize this handwriting, which must seem as strange to you
as my face would seem if I were to present myself bodily before
you; for you have never set eyes upon me, and perhaps have never
even heard my name mentioned or my existence alluded to.
"And yet I am one of your family, near of kindred to yourself; in
fact, your own dear mother's only sister.
"'We were two daughter's of one race,
_She_ was the fairer in the face.'
Yes, she was literally so. Your mother was a beautiful blonde, as
I have been told that you, her only child, also are. I am--or,
rather, I _was_ before my hair turned white with sorrow--a very
dark brunette.
"If you have ever heard of me at all, which I doubt--for I know
that at home my once loved and cherished name
"'Was banished from each lip and ear,
Like words of wickedness or fear'--
but if you ever heard of me at all you must have heard of that
willful love marriage which separated me from all my family.
"Since that ill-omened marriage an unbroken succession of
misfortunes have attended my husband and myself until they
culminated in the most crushing calamity of our lives--the loss
of our dear and only daughter in a manner worse than death.
"Soon after that awful bereavement our creditors foreclosed the
mortgage on our estate at White Perch Point, and sold the place
over our heads.
"And my poor husband and myself went out to California, childless
and almost penniless, to begin life anew.
"We began in a very humble way indeed. As he was familiar with
hotel business he got a place as bar-tender in a San Francisco
hotel; and soon afterward I got a place in the same house, to
look after and keep in repair the bed and table linen. And we
lodged in the hotel, in a small attic chamber, and took our meals
in the pantry.
"But we were both utterly broken down in mind and body, as well
as in estate.
"He soon sank into a consumption and had to give up his place. I
hired a room in a small house and took him to it. I still
retained my place at the hotel, because my salary there was the
only support we had. But I lived there no longer. I used to go in
the morning, make the daily inspection of the linen, and bring
home what needed mending; and working all the afternoon and half
the night at my husband's bedside.
"But rent and food and fuel, physic and physicians' fees were
very costly in San Francisco. And with all my work I fell deeper
and deeper into debt.
"At length my poor husband died. And it took the proceeds of the
sale of all our little personal effects to pay for the humblest
sort of funeral.
"And I was left entirely destitute. Then my courage gave way. I
wept myself so blind that I could no longer mend the linen at
the hotel, or even see whether it wanted mending. Then I fell
sick with sorrow and had to be taken to the hospital.
"At the end of three months I was dismissed. But where could I
go? What could I do, broken in health and nearly blind as I was?
"I must have perished then and there but for the timely
assistance of a young gold-digger who happened to hear about me
when he came up to the city from his distant mining-camp.
"He was a very queer young man, whom his few friends called crazy
on account of his lonely and ascetic manner of life, and his
lavish liberality.
"He sought me out to relieve my wants. And upon my telling him
that all I wanted was to go home to die, he bought me a whole
state-room to myself in the first cabin of the 'Golden City,'
bound from San Francisco to New York. And then he bought me an
outfit in clothing, good enough for a duke's widow. And he gave
me a sum of money besides, and started me fairly and comfortably
on my voyage.
"I reached New York three days ago. But my strength continues to
fail and my funds to waste. I have no power to work, even if I
could procure anything to do. And I have not money enough to
support me a month longer.
"I do not like to go into an alms-house. Yet what am I to do?
"But why do I write to you? you may naturally inquire.
"Why? Because, although a perfect stranger, you are, after all,
my niece, my only sister's only child, my own only blood
relation. And 'blood is thicker than water.'
"'I can not work; to beg I am ashamed.'
"I do not, therefore, beg, even of you. I do not so much as make
any suggestion to you. I tell you the facts of the case, and I
leave you to act upon them, or to ignore them entirely, at your
pleasure.
"I do not even know whether I may venture to sign myself your
aunt, KATHERINE FANNING."
Emma Cavendish read this letter through to the end; then she glanced at
her companions, who were still all absorbed in the perusal of their
journals.
Even Mrs. Grey was now lost in a magazine; but it was _Les Modes de
Paris_, and contained plates and descriptions of all the new spring
fashions.
So Miss Cavendish, seeing her friends all agreeably occupied and
amused, returned to her singular letter and recommenced and read it
carefully through to the end once more.
At the conclusion of the second reading she looked up and spoke to the
Rev. Dr. Jones, saying:
"Are you reading anything very interesting in that _Quarterly Review_,
my dear uncle?"
"Well, yes, my child--an article entitled 'Have Animals Reason?'"
"Reason for _what_?" naively inquired Mary Grey, looking up from her
magazine of fashion.
Every one smiled except Dr. Jones, who condescended to explain that the
subject under discussion was whether animals were gifted with reasoning
faculties.
"Oh!" said Mrs. Grey, and returned to her _Modes_.
"You needn't read any more on that subject, grandpa; I can answer that
question for you, or any other inquirer. All intelligent animals,
whether they go upon two feet or four, or upon wings or fins, have
reason just in proportion to their intelligence. And all idiotic
animals, whether they go upon two feet or four, or wings or fins, lack
reason just in proportion to their idiocy. Lor'! why I have seen human
creatures at the Idiot Asylum with less intellect than cats. And I have
seen some horses with more intelligence than some legislators. You can't
generalize on these subjects, grandpa," said Miss Electra, with an air
of conviction.
The Rev. Dr. Jones stared, much as a hen might stare to see her own
ducklings take to the water. And then he turned to Emma Cavendish and
said:
"Whether animals have reason or not, my dear, _you_ had some reason for
interrupting me. Now what was it?"
"To ask you to read this, sir," said Miss Cavendish, putting her letter
in the hands of her uncle.
He took it and read it slowly through, muttering from time to time:
"Dear, dear, how distressing! Bless my soul alive! Well, well, well!"
And he glanced uneasily at Mary Grey, who fidgeted and flushed under his
observation.
At length he finished and folded the letter and returned it to Miss
Cavendish, with the inquiry:
"Well, my dear, what are you going to do in the premises?"
"I shall write immediately and ask my aunt to come here and make this
her home," answered Emma, promptly.
At these words Mary Grey started, caught her breath with a gasp, and
quickly whirled her chair around so as to bring her back to the light
and throw her face in deep shadow.
"What's the matter with you?" inquired Electra.
"The light makes my eyes ache; that is all. You know I have not quite
got rid of my cold yet," answered the widow in a low, faltering tone
that might have attracted the attention of Miss Cavendish had not that
young lady's thoughts been engaged with the subject of her letter.
"You will consult your grandmother before making this important addition
to the household, I presume?" inquired the old gentleman.
"Yes, of course; but I am certain beforehand of my dear grandma's
consent and co-operation in such an evident Christian duty," answered
Miss Cavendish.
And then she turned to her young friends, to whom she thought some
explanation was due, and she added:
"I have news in this letter that has much surprised and pained me. It is
from my aunt, Mrs. Fanning. She has lost her husband, and has suffered
very severe reverses of fortune. She is at this time alone in New York
City, and in failing health. I shall write for her to come and live with
us. And not to leave her a day in suspense, I shall telegraph from
Wendover to-morrow morning."
"I'm glad she's coming. The more the merrier," said Electra, gayly.
Mrs. Grey said nothing. She arose as if to leave the room, tottered
forward and fell to the floor in a dead swoon.