THE SIREN AND THE SAGE.
All started to their feet and rushed to the prostrate woman's
assistance.
She was but a slight creature, and Dr. Jones lifted her easily and laid
her on one of the sofas.
Electra flew upstairs to bring down a bottle of Florida water.
Emma patted and rubbed her hands.
Dr. Jones bathed her brow with cold water, sighing and muttering to
himself:
"Poor girl! Poor unfortunate girl!"
"I take blame to myself," said Emma. "She is evidently much iller than I
thought. I ought not to have persuaded her to leave her room so soon
after her cold. It is my fault."
At that instant Electra ran in with the Florida water and dashed a
liberal portion of it over the head and face of the fainting woman.
The shock and the penetrating odor combined to rouse her from
insensibility; and with a few gasps she recovered her consciousness;
though her face, after one sudden flush, settled into a deadly paleness.
"My poor dear, how are you?" inquired Emma Cavendish, kindly.
"Dying, I think; dying, I hope! Let some one help me to my room," she
murmured.
Dr. Jones at once lifted her in his arms and bore her upstairs, preceded
by Electra, who flew on before to show the way to Mary Grey's room, and
followed by Emma Cavendish, who still blamed herself for the invalid's
supposed relapse.
Dr. Jones laid her on her bed, and was about to leave her to the care of
Emma and Electra, when she seized his hand and drew him down to her face
and said:
"I wish to speak to you for a moment _now_. Send Miss Cavendish and Miss
Coroni out of the room for a little while."
"My dear children, go away for a moment. Mrs. Grey wishes to speak to me
alone," said Dr. Jones.
And Emma and Electra softly retired, with the belief that Mary Grey only
wished to consult the minister on religious subjects.
As soon as the door was closed behind them Mary Grey seized the old
man's hand and, fixing her great black eyes fiercely upon him, demanded:
"_Do they suspect?_"
"No; certainly not."
"Did you drop no word during my swoon that might have led them to
suspect?"
"Not one syllable."
"I thank you then!" she exclaimed, with a long sigh of relief.
"But, my child, was that all you wished to talk to me about?"
"That was all, except this: to beg you still to be silent as the grave
in regard to my identity."
"My child, your words disappoint and grieve me. I did hope that you
asked this private interview with the design to consult me about the
propriety of making yourself known."
"Making myself known!" she exclaimed, with a half-suppressed shriek, as
she started up upon her elbow and stared at the speaker. "Making myself
known!"
"The opportunity, my dear child, is such an excellent one. And, of
course, you know that if Mrs. Fanning comes here--as she must; for there
is no other refuge open to her--if she comes and finds you here,
discovery is inevitable."
"But she will not find me here! She shall not! I could not look her in
the face. Sooner than do that, I will hurl myself from the turnpike
bridge into the Mad River!" she fiercely exclaimed.
"My child, do not talk so wickedly. It is frightful to hear such
things!" cried the old man, shuddering.
"You will _see_ such things, if you do not mind. I am quite capable of
doing what I said, for I am tired and sick of this life of constant
dependence, mortification and terror--an insupportable life!" she wildly
exclaimed.
"Because, my poor girl, it is a life of concealment, in constant dread
of discovery and the humiliation attending discovery. Change all that
and your life will be happier. Trust in those who are nearest to you,
and make yourself, your name, your errors, and your sufferings and
repentance fully known. Emma Cavendish is the ruling power in this
house, and she is a pure, noble, magnanimous spirit. She would protect
you," pleaded the old man, taking her hand.
"Oh, yes, she is all that! Do you think that makes it any easier for me
to shock her with the story of my own folly, weakness and cowardice? Oh,
no, no! I could not bear the look of her clear, truthful blue eyes! And
I would not! There; it is useless to talk to me, Doctor Jones! There are
some things that I can not do. I can not stay here!"
"My poor, poor child, whither will you go? Stay! Now I think of it, I
can send you to my house at Beresford Manors. That shall be your home,
if you will accept it. But what excuse can you make for leaving this
place so abruptly?"
"You are very kind, Doctor Jones. You are very kind. But a moment's
reflection will teach you that I could not accept your hospitality. You
have no lady, I believe, at Beresford Manors? No one there except the
colored servants? Therefore, you see, it would not be proper for me to
go there," said Mary Grey, affecting a prudery that she did not feel,
and objecting to the place only because she did not choose to bury
herself in a house more lonely, dreary and deserted, if possible, than
Blue Cliff Hall itself.
"Then where can you go, my poor girl?" compassionately questioned the
old minister.
"I have thought of that. Sudden as this emergency is, I am not quite
unprepared for it. This crisis that I feared _might_ come _has_ come,
that is all. Only it has come in a far different manner from what I
feared. But the result must be the same. I must leave the house
immediately. And you must help to smooth my way toward leaving it."
"But whither will you go, poor shorn lamb?"
"I have planned out all that, in view of this very contingency. I will
go to Charlottesville, where I have a lady friend who keeps a
boarding-house for the University students. I can stay with her, and
make myself useful in return for board and lodging, until I get
something to do for a living. That is all settled. I asked you for this
interview only to satisfy myself that no hint of my identity had been
dropped, and no suspicion of it excited, during my swoon; and, further,
to beg you to keep my miserable secret hereafter, as you have hitherto."
"I have satisfied you, I hope, upon all those subjects."
"Yes; and I thank you."
"But still I can not abandon the hope that you will yet heed good
counsel and make yourself known to your best friends," pleaded the old
man.
But Mary Grey shook her head.
Dr. Jones coaxed, argued, lectured, all in vain.
At length, worn out by his importunities, Mary Grey, to gain her own
ends, artfully replied:
"Well, dear, good, wise friend, if ever I _do_ gain courage to make
myself known to my family, I must do it from some little distance, and
by letter, so as to give them time to get over the shock of the
revelation, before I could dare to face them. Think of it yourself. How
could we bear to look each other in the eyes while telling and hearing
such a story?"
"I believe you are right _so_ far. Yes, in _that_ view of the case it
is, perhaps, better that you should go away and then write," admitted
Dr. Jones.
"And you will aid me in my efforts to get away at once and without
opposition? Tell them that it is better for my health and spirits that I
should go away for a while, and go immediately--as it really is, you
know. Will you do this?"
"Yes, I will do it, in the hope that your nervous system may be
strengthened, and you may find courage to do the duty that lies before
you," said the doctor, as he pressed her hand and left the room.
Dr. Jones went down-stairs to the drawing-room, where the young ladies
waited in anxious suspense.
Emma Cavendish arose and looked at him in silent questioning.
"There is no cause for alarm, my dear Emma. Your friend will do very
well. No, you need not go up to her room. She requires absolutely
nothing but to be left to repose. You can look in on her, if you like,
just before you go to bed. That will be time enough," explained Dr.
Jones, as he took his seat at the table and took up his _Review_ again
as if nothing had happened to interrupt his reading.
Emma Cavendish breathed a sigh of relief and resumed her seat. She and
Electra read or conversed in a low voice over their magazines until the
hour of retiring.
Electra was the first to close her pamphlet, as with an undisguised
yawn, for which her school-mistress would have rebuked her, she declared
that she could not keep her eyes open a minute longer, much less read a
line, and that she was going to bed.
Dr. Jones, with as much courtesy as if he had not been her grandfather,
arose and lighted her bedroom candle and put it in her hand.
And she kissed him a drowsy good-night and went upstairs.
Emma was about to follow, when the doctor motioned her to resume her
seat.
She did so, and waited.
"I want a word with you about Mrs. Grey, my dear Emma. She is very much
out of health."
"I feared so," replied Emma Cavendish.
"Or, to speak with more literal truth, I should say that her nervous
system is very much disordered."
"Yes."
"She is full of sick fancies. She wishes to go away for a while to get a
change of scene."
"I will go with her to any watering-place she desires to visit, in the
season," said Emma Cavendish, readily.
"Yes; but, my dear, she must have this change now, immediately."
"I would go with her now if I could leave my guests. You know I have
Electra here, and Laura will return in two days perhaps, with her
brother also."
"My good child, she does not ask or need any attendance. She wants to go
away by herself for a while. She wants to go to an old lady friend in
Charlottesville."
"I have heard her lately speak of such a friend, and of her intention,
some day, to visit her."
"Well, she wishes to go now, immediately, but is afraid to mention her
desire lest it should meet with opposition, which she has no nerve to
contest."
"Dear uncle, how strange that she should feel this way! Why, she is not
a prisoner here! And if she wishes to leave us for a short or a long
time she can do so."
"Of coarse she can, my dear; but she is full of sick fancies. And my
advice to you is that you let her go at once. To-morrow morning, if she
wishes."
"Why certainly, Uncle Beresford! I have neither the power nor the will
to prevent her."
"So let it be then, my dear. And now good-night," said the doctor,
taking his candle to leave the room.
Thus the matter was settled.
But the next day old Mrs. Cavendish, Electra, and, in fact, the whole
house, were thrown into a state of consternation at the announcement of
Mrs. Grey's immediate departure.
When or how she had managed to get her personal effects together,
whether she had kept them packed up for the emergency, or whether she
had sat up all night to pack them, I do not know; but it is certain that
by seven o'clock that morning she had three enormous Saratoga trunks
packed, strapped and locked ready for the wagon that she asked for to
take them to the railway station.
It was not until her luggage was in the wagon, and the carriage was
waiting for her at the door, and she herself in her traveling-suit and
hat, that she went to bid the old lady good-bye.
Mrs. Cavendish had been informed by Emma of the intended abrupt
departure of Mary Grey, and she had begun to oppose it with all her
might.
But Emma endeavored to convince her that the change was vitally
necessary to Mary Grey's health and strength.
So now when the traveler entered the old lady's room the latter feebly
arose to her feet, holding on to the arm of her chair, while she
faltered:
"Mary--Mary, this is so sudden, so shocking, so sorrowful, that I almost
think it will make me ill! Why must you go, my dear?"
"Sweet mother--may I call you so?--sweet mother, I will tell _you_ what
I did not like to tell dear Emma, for fear it might distress her; she is
so sensitive, you know!" murmured the siren, sitting down and tenderly
caressing the old lady.
"Tell me then, my love, tell me anything you like," said Mrs. Cavendish,
weeping.
"Well, you know that dear old lady friend in Charlottesville, of whom I
spoke to you a week or so ago?"
"Ah, yes! The bishop's widow, who is reduced to keeping a student's
boarding-house to help support her fifteen children," sighed the ancient
dame.
"Yes, and my dear dead mother's dearest friend. Well, I have heard that
she is in a dying condition and desires above all things to see me
before she departs. That's what shocked me so severely as to make me
quite ill. But I never should forgive myself if by any delay of mine she
really should depart without having her last wish gratified. Do you
blame me for hurrying away?"
"No, no, no, my child--my own lovely child! I do not wonder my poor
Charley worshiped you, you are so very good! Go, Mary, my darling! But
hurry back as soon as possible."
"Yes, sweet mother, I will. And now, not a word to Emma, or to any one
else who might tell her of these distressing circumstances."
"No, no; certainly not! How thoughtful you are, for one so young, my
good child! Bend down and take my blessing."
Mary Grey bowed her head.
The venerable lady placed her withered hands upon the bent head, raised
her eyes to heaven, and solemnly invoked a blessing on the traitress.
And then Mary Grey arose, kissed her in silence, and left the room.
And thus they parted.
In the hall below she had to part with Emma and Electra.
"We hope you will return to us very soon, dear Mrs. Grey," said Emma
Cavendish, as she kissed her good-bye.
"I hope so too, my dear," answered the widow.
"But you will scarcely get back before I return to school, so ours must
be a very long good-bye," said Electra, as she also kissed the "parting
guest."
"'Tis true, 'tis pity," said Mrs. Grey, between a smile and a sigh.
Dr. Jones then handed her into the carriage, and followed and took a
seat by her side, for he was to attend her to the station and see her
off on her journey.