_LILITH_
_A Novel_
A SEQUEL TO “THE UNLOVED WIFE”
By MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH
Author of “The Bride’s Fate,” “The Changed Brides,” “Cruel as the
Grave,” “The Hidden Hand,” “Ishmael,” “Self-Raised,” Etc.
[Illustration: logo]
A. L. BURT COMPANY
PUBLISHERS ⁂ NEW YORK
Popular Books
By MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH
In Handsome Cloth Binding
Price — — 60 Cents per Volume
* * * * *
CAPITOLA’S PERIL
CRUEL AS THE GRAVE
“EM”
EM’S HUSBAND
FOR WHOSE SAKE
ISHMAEL
LILITH
THE BRIDE’S FATE
THE CHANGED BRIDES
THE HIDDEN HAND
THE UNLOVED WIFE
TRIED FOR HER LIFE
SELF-RAISED
WHY DID HE WED HER
* * * * *
For Sale by all Booksellers or will be sent postpaid on receipt of price
A. L. BURT COMPANY PUBLISHERS
52 Duane Street — — — — — New York
Copyright, 1881 and 1890
By ROBERT BONNER’S SONS
LILITH
Printed by special arrangement with
STREET & SMITH
LILITH
CHAPTER I
OLD ADAH’S SECRET
So at last shall come old age,
Decrepit, as beseems that stage.
How else should we retire apart
With the hoarded memories of the heart?
—_Browning._
Oh, for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!
—_Tennyson._
It was a lovely morning in May, when Tudor Hereward sat, wrapped in his
gray silk dressing-gown, reclining in his resting-chair, on the front
piazza at Cloud Cliffs.
He had had a hard fight with death, and had barely come out of it with
his life.
Physicians and friends alike ascribed his illness to nervous shock upon
a system already run down under the long-continued pressure of work and
worry.
He was convalescent now, yet he seemed the mere shadow of his former
vigorous manhood.
By his side, on a stand covered with white damask, stood a basket of
luscious strawberries in a nest of their own leaves; also a vase of
fragrant spring flowers—hyacinths, tulips, jonquils, daffodils, violets
and heart’s-ease. Yet he neither touched nor tasted flowers or fruit.
Before him stretched the green lawn, shaded by acacia trees in full
bloom, which filled the air with their rich aroma.
Farther on, the woods swept around the grounds, a semi-circular wall of
living verdure.
Beyond them stood the cliffs, opal-tinted in the sunlight, misty where
their heads were vailed by the soft white clouds which gave them their
name.
Birds trilled their song of rapture through the perfumed air.
It was a lovely morning in a lovely scene. A morning and a scene that
ministered to every sense, yet it was more than a mere material
paradise, for its many delights combined to fill the soul with peace,
joy and thankfulness, and so to raise it
“From Nature up to Nature’s God.”
Especially to a convalescent, coming for the first time out of his
sick-room, must such a scene of summer glory have brought a delicious
sense of new life in fresh and keen enjoyment, making him think that
even of this material world it might be said, to some less favored
people of some other planet: “Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, nor hath
it entered into the heart of man the things that God hath prepared for
them that love Him.”
But this was not the case with Tudor Hereward. To his sick soul, as to
the diseased mind of another, the beauty of the earth and the glory of
the heavens were but
“A foul and pestilent congregation of vapors,”
for all the pleasure he could take in them.
His wife Lilith was gone—dead—murdered.
This was to him the death-knell of nature. His mental suffering was not
now sharp. He was much too weak to feel acutely. His sorrow had settled
into a dull despair—a cold and lifeless misery.
Lilith was gone.
If she had passed away peacefully in her bed, attended by friends,
sustained by religion, though he must have mourned for her, he could
have borne his loss; or if, as had been at first supposed, she had
accidentally fallen into the creek, and met a sudden, painless death,
still, though he must have suffered much more, yet he could have endured
the blow; but she had been butchered—cruelly butchered by some
night-prowling ruffian, whose identity was neither known nor suspected,
and whose motive for the monstrous crime could not even be imagined.
Lilith had been slain, and the blackness of darkness had settled upon
the soul of him who felt that he had driven her forth that bitter winter
night to meet her awful fate.
Yes, the blackness of darkness seemed to have fallen like the clods of
the grave upon his dead and buried soul. In other deaths the body only
dies; the soul lives on. In his case it seemed the soul that died, while
the poor weak body lived on.
He had not been deserted in his misery and despair. As soon as the news
of the discovered murder at Cliff Creek had flown over the country,
spreading horror everywhere, friends and neighbors had flocked to the
house, with profound sorrow for the murdered wife and sympathy for the
awfully bereaved husband, and earnest proffers of assistance in any
manner in which their services could be made available.
And when it became known that Mr. Hereward himself had been suddenly
stricken down by dangerous illness, the ladies of the neighborhood,
skilful nurses all, carefully trained to their duties as their mothers
before them had been—and as all the mistresses of large plantations
necessarily were—came in turn to stop at the Cliffs, and to take care of
the desolate master.
The Rev. Mr. Cave, his old pastor, had come every day to visit him, and
as soon as his condition warranted, to administer religious consolation.
Every one mourned for Lilith, every one sympathized with Hereward, and
served him in every possible way. They “pulled him through,” as the
doctor phrased it, though it was but the shadow of the man they raised.
And even now that he was convalescent he was not left to himself.
Mrs. Jab Jordon was now the volunteer housekeeper and nurse, as she had
been for the week past, and as she meant to be for the week to come, and
her fine health and good spirits and judicious management were as
beneficial to the stricken man as anything could be under these adverse
circumstances.
It was her hand that had arranged his reclining-chair on the piazza, and
placed the stand of fruit and flowers by its side. It was her will that
had kindly forced him out of the gloom of his sick-chamber into the
sunshine and fresh, fragrant air of that lovely May morning. It was her
precaution that still kept from him the loads of well-meaning letters of
condolence that he could not have borne to read as yet.
And even now the good woman was upstairs superintending Cely and Mandy
in the work of preparing a new room for the patient, who was not to be
taken back to the old sick-chamber, which was dismantled and, with all
its windows open, turned out, so to speak, to all the airs of spring.
It was a little surprising to all who knew old Nancy, the colored
housekeeper who had so long ruled supreme at Cloud Cliffs, that she was
not jealous of this invasion of the house by the ladies of the
neighborhood. But in fact, Nancy was grateful for their presence and
their help.
“’Sides w’ich,” as she confided to Cassy, the cook, “dis ain’t no time
fer no po’ mortil to stan’ on deir dignity. De ’sponsibility ob de case
is too mons’ous; let alone my heart bein’ broke long ob po’ dear Miss
Lilif goin’ to glory de drefful way she did! an’ me fit for nuffin’. It
would be flyin’—’deed it’s de trufe—flyin’.”
So Nancy put herself under the orders of Mrs. Jordon, as she had done
under her predecessors.
The pale convalescent, sitting in his resting-chair, gazed with languid
eyes over the lovely lawn, with its fragrant blossoming trees, and its
parterres of flowers in sunny spots, on to the encircling woods filled
with birds and bird songs, and beyond to the opal-tinted, mist-vailed
cliffs, and to the deep blue sky above them all; yet seemed to take in
nothing of the brightness and the beauty.
At length his listless, wandering eyes perceived a figure, at strange
variance with the bright summer scene.
Creeping around from the rear grounds, emerging from a side grove of
acacia trees, winding between parterres of hyacinths, tulips, daffodils,
and other spring flowers, came a very aged woman, small, black,
withered, poorly clad in an old brown linsey gown, with a red
handkerchief tied over her head and under her chin, and leaning on a
cane, she drew slowly near the piazza, climbed the two or three steps
and stood bobbing, but trembling with infirmity, before the invalid
master.
“Well, Aunt Adah, I am pleased to see you abroad once more,” said
Hereward, kindly.
“Young marster, I t’ank yer, sah. An’ I is t’ankful! Oh, my Hebbenly
Lord, how t’ankful I is in my heart to fine yer sittin’ out yere!”
earnestly responded the woman, reverently raising her eyes and trembling
through all her frame.
“Sit down, Aunt Adah. You are not able to stand,” said Hereward, kindly,
stretching out his emaciated hand to reach and draw a chair up to the
weary old woman.
“I t’anks yer, young marster, I t’anks yer werry much, an’ I will sit
down in yer p’esence, since yer’s so ’siderate as to ’mit me so to do;
fer I is weak, young marster—I is weak. I has been yere a many times to
see yer, young marster, but dey wouldn’ leabe me do it, no dey wouldn’,
an’ I ’spects dey was right. Yer wa’n’t well ’nuff to be ’sturbed,” said
the old creature, as she lowered herself slowly and carefully into the
chair, for all her joints were stiff with extreme age.
“You were very kind to come to inquire after me so often,” said
Hereward, gently.
“An’ w’y wouldn’ I come? An’ how should ebber I hear ob yer ’dout comin’
myse’f to ’quire? It’d be long ’nuff fo’ any ob dese t’oughtless niggers
yere come ’cross de crik to fetch me any news! Me, as has been a savint
ob de Tudors for ’mos’ a hund’ed years an’ is by fur de ol’est savint on
de plantation! ’Deed it’s de trufe, young marster. I was ninety-nine
years old las’ Can’lemas Day,” continued the old woman, stooping to lay
her cane on the floor.
Hereward smiled faintly. He knew from old farm records that Aunt Adah
was even older than, with the strange pride of her race in extreme
longevity, she claimed to be; and that for the last few years she had
steadily called herself ninety-nine years old last Candlemas Day,
sticking at that imposing number and seeming to forget that every year
increased it; honestly to forget, for old Adah would have been perfectly
delighted if any one had opened her eyes and explained to her that she
might truly lay claim to a hundred and seven years.
“You have certainly been a most faithful follower of the family, Aunt
Adah,” said the young man.
“Yes, honey, fai’ful!” assented the old creature. “Dat’s me,
fai’ful!—fai’ful froo fick an’ fin, froo good ’port and ebil ’port,
fai’ful fer ninety-nine years las’ Can’lemas Day! I didn’t ’mancipate de
plantashun to go off to Cong’ess like so many ob dem riff-raff, lowlife
brack niggers did! No, sah! Aunt Adah Mungummerry had too much ’spect
fer herse’f, let alone ’spect fer de ole famberly ob de Tudors, to
’grace herse’f dat way! ’Sides w’ich, young marster, to tell de bressed
trufe, I wouldn’ ’a’ lef’ my log-house in de piney woods ’cross de crik,
wid my good pine-knot fire in de winter time, an’ my cool spring ob
water outside de do’, no, not fer all de Cong’ess in de whole worl’!
’Deed, ’fo’ de law, it’s de trufe!”
And, inasmuch as Aunt Adah had been long past labor and was living as a
pensioner on the family at the time of the emancipation, any stranger
hearing her boast might have thought that policy and not principle was
the secret of her fidelity to native soil and friends. But such was not
the case. At no age would she have left the home and the family to whom
she was so strongly attached.
Her bondage was that of love, from which no act of Congress could
emancipate her.
“Would you like a glass of wine, Aunt Adah?” inquired the young man,
reaching his thin hand to a silver call-bell that stood upon the stand
near him.
“No, honey; no, chile, not yit; not jis yit! I’d like a tumbler ob good
b’andy toddy, bimeby, but not yit, caze I’s got somefin on my min’,”
replied the old creature, so very solemnly that Hereward withdrew his
hand from the bell, lifted his head and looked at her.
“Something on your mind, Aunt Adah?” he inquired.
“Yes, young marster, somefin werry sarous on my min’,” repeated the aged
woman.
“What is it, Adah? Speak out, my good soul. Don’t be afraid!” said
Hereward, kindly.
“I ain’t afeard, young marster! ’Tain’t dat! But it is somefin berry
heabby on to my min’, as been wantin’ to get offen my min’ by tellin’ ob
you; an’ dat’s wot fetch me yere mos’ ebbery day since yer’s been sick;
on’y dey wouldn’ leabe me see yer, no way, and I ’spects dey was yight.
But I sees yer now, young marse, an’ I wants to tell yer.”
“Very well, Aunt Adah, tell me what it is now,” said Hereward, in an
encouraging tone.
“Young marse, it is a solemn secret, beknown on’y to me an’ one udder
gran’ wilyan! But I was boun’ not to tell anybody on dis worl’ ’fo’ I
could tell yo’ fuss. Dough, indeed, it ought fo’ to be tole long ago,
on’y it wasn’ in my power to tell it at de yight time, caze I was all
alone in my house, laid up long ob de rheumatiz, an’ didn’ know wot was
gwine on yere at dis place; an’ w’en I did come to fine out, it were too
late fer dem, an’ I come to tell yer, but yer was too ill to be
’sturbed, an’ dey wouldn’ let me see yer, an’ I ’spects dey was yight;
but I was ’termined to keep dat solemn secret in my own heart, an’ not
to tell nobody wot I knowed to make a stracshun in de place, till yo’
got well so I could tell yo’ fuss, an’ let yer do wot yer t’ought bes’.”
“Yes, yes; but what—what is it that you have to tell me?” demanded
Hereward, becoming more impressed by the words and manner of the woman.
His excitement alarmed the poor creature, who pulled herself up
suddenly, saying:
“Hole on now, Adah Mungummerry! Hole on, ole lady! Yer’s a rushin’ ob it
on too rapid on to a sick man. Hole up, now!” she said, talking to
herself, as is the habit of the extremely aged.
“Tell me at once what you have to tell,” said Hereward, with a sudden
terrible suspicion that her communication might concern the murder of
his young wife.
“Well, dear young marster, but yer mus’ have patience and ’pose yerse’f,
sah! ’Deed yer mus’, young marse, or yer’ll make yerse’f wuss, an’ wot
would Mrs. Jab an’ de udders say to me ef I made yer wuss? I’s gwine to
tell yer, young marse, w’ich I come yere fo’ dat puppose; but I mus’
tell yer werry graduately—so as not to make yer no wuss. Well, now, le’s
see—le’ me see, now. Le’ me be cautious. Sort o’ break de news little by
little. Young marse, yer know dat mornin’ wot yer come to my cabin to
’quire ’bout Miss Lilif?”
“Yes,” breathed the young man, beginning to tremble with anxiety in his
extreme weakness.
“Well, young marse, as I telled you dat mornin’ I ’peats now. She hadn’
been dere, nor likewise nigh de place dat bressed night, as w’y should
she come, w’en—listen now, young marse! w’y should she come w’en it
warn’t ne’sary; caze she had sent Nancy long ob dat po’ misfortunit
young gal, to fetch me money, an’ close, an’ wittels, an’ drink, an’
ebbery singerly fing as heart could wish.”
“So you told me before,” said Hereward, impatiently.
“So I did, my dear young marse, an’ I ax yer pardon fer tellin’ ob yo’
ag’in; but I does it to make yer ax yerse’f w’y should Miss Lilif do
such a unne’sary fing as to come to my cabin dat cole night for nuffin?
No, young marse! She didn’ come to no cabin dat night.”
“But she started to go!” exclaimed Hereward, with a cry of anguish.
“No, young marse! An’ dis is wot I war tryin’ to come at, soft an’
grad’al, not to s’prise yer too sudden. Now listen, dear marse, an’ year
wot I tell yer, ’caze it’s de bressed trufe—Miss Lilif nebber come to de
cabin dat night, nor likewise she nebber started to come, neider!”
solemnly declared the old woman.
Hereward sprang up, stared at the earnest speaker and then fell back
faint and trembling.
“’Pose yerse’f, dear young marse; dere ain’t nuffin to ’stress yer, but
quite deffrint,” soothingly murmured old Adah.
“What—what do you mean? She certainly did go to the creek,
because—because——” faltered the speaker, but his voice broke down in
silence.
“Caze dere was a body foun’ dere? Dat wot yer were gwine to say, young
marse?”
“Yes,” breathed Hereward.
“Yes, so dere was, Marse Tudor, so dere was. But dat body wa’n’t dear
Miss Lilif’s!”
Hereward, trembling as if stricken with palsy, and with his hands
clutching the arms of his chair, bent forward and stared at the speaker.
“It’s de trufe, as I s’pect to stan’ ’fo’ my Hebbenly Judge at de las’
day, Marse Tudor! Dat body war not Miss Lilif’s, as I could hab edified
to de Cow’s Jury, ef I had a knowed wot was gwine on yere an’ could a
come up ’fo’ it. ’Stead of w’ich I war laid up long ob de rheumatiz at
home, an’ no one came nigh me to tell nuffin.”
“Not—not—Lilith’s——” muttered Hereward, falling back in his chair quite
overcome.
Old Adah, in her well-meaning, blundering manner, had tried to “break
the news,” but had not succeeded. She was alarmed at the looks of the
young man.
“Le’ me yun in de house an’ fetch yer a glass of wine, Marse Tudor!
Please, sah!” she pleaded.
“No, no, no, do not move!—I want nothing—I want nobody to come. What did
you say?—It was not——”
“No, Marse Tudor, it war not hern, no mo’ an it war your’n or mine,”
impressively replied old Adah.
“But—it was identified as such by—by——”
“By de long, curly brack ha’r, so I years, an’ by de gown, an’ de
unnerclose wid her name on ’em, an’ de putty little F’ench boots wid her
name on de inside. Wa’n’t dat wot yer war gwine to say, Marse Tudor?”
“Yes.”
“Well, dat were all jes’ so. De booful ha’r war like Miss Lilif’s, shuah
nuff, an’ de warm casher gown, an’ de unnerclose, an’ de pooty F’ench
boots war all Miss Lilif’s. But dat war jes’ all dere war ob Miss
Lilif’s. It wa’n’t hern.”
“Adah! what is this you are telling me, and what reason have you for
saying what you do?” demanded Hereward, with a great effort.
“’Caze I knows all about it, young marse, an’ I knows whose ’mains dey
war as war foun’ in de crik.”
“Whose, in the name of Heaven, were they?”
“Dey war doze ob dat po’, des’late young creeter wot war murdered by her
man, an’ t’rowed inter de crik dat same night, as I could a testimonied
at de Cow’s Quest, ef I had been sent for or eben ef I had known wot war
gwine on yere at de time. But no one t’ought ob sendin’ for me, a ole
’oman cripple up wid de rheumatiz an’ not able to creep no furder dan to
fill my bucket at de spring outside de do’! ’Deed, I nebber heerd nuffin
’tall ’bout wot happen till it war too late to edify de Cow’s Jury. Soon
as I did year it, I creeped up yere to tell yer wot I knowed; but yer
war too ill to be ’sturbed—so dey said, an’ I ’spect as dey war yight.
So I ’solved to keep de secret till yer war able for to year it; ’caze I
didn’t want to make no mo’ stracshun in de neighborhood wid no mo’ news
till I could ’vise long ob you ’bout it, sah. An’ so I come up yere two
or three times ebbery week, but dey wouldn’ leabe me come to yer—no dey
wouldn’! I’s moughty t’ankful as I has cotch yer to-day, Marse Tudor.”