"I declare!" said Mrs. Wynn, looking up from the gilt frames in Mrs.
Swan's parlor, "the changes that have been going on in Waveland do beat
everything. Only think of it! Why, the town hasn't been so lively for
years before. There used to be only an occasional wedding or
christening, or funeral; and now, strange faces that no one knows
anything about, meet you at every turn."
"Oh, I don't know about that!" said Mrs. Swan. "There has only been one
or two arrivals here; that new family who brought out the Burtons, and
the new minister and his wife. By-the-bye, they say he married her just
before he came here, and that she was a widow."
"Yes, I know that," replied the old lady. "I heard the report, and,
thinkin' it was only natural that we should be a leetle curious about a
woman who was a goin' to give tone to our society, I made bold to ask
her about it. She put her handkercher to her eyes, and cried the least
bit, when she spoke of her former pardner. 'Dear soul,' she said, 'he's
in Heaven, but the Lord's got work for me to do in this world yet,
Sister Wynn.' She's a leetle too dressy, and I'm most afraid will set
the young folks here an example of extravagance; but I believe she
means well, and expects to do her whole duty."
"Well, I shall wait for her works to prove her disposition," said Mrs.
Swan. "I believe that 'actions speak louder than words.' I'll admit that
Arguseye _talks_ well--she's a gift that way; but I ain't drawn to her
as I was to the dear motherly saint that has left us."
"No, you can't expect another like her. I don't know what the old Elder
will do, now; but it won't be long before he'll follow her, in my
opinion," was the rejoinder.
"She's gone to that happy land where the wicked can never enter," spoke
up Betsey Pryor, who had been industriously stitching away during this
dialogue.
"It's a good thing to realize that, Betsey," said Mrs. Wynn, slyly. "I'm
glad you've found out the danger of evil communications."
"Don't say another word," said the spinster, showing signs of dissolving
in tears. "I've learnt a lesson this past summer I shall never forget."
"I don't wonder that you feel so," rejoined Mrs. Wynn, smiling grimly.
"I never look at you now, and remember the Secretary of the 'Ladies'
Charitable Society,' without feeling thankful that you have riz like
that--what do you call it?--from its ashes, and are once more an orderly
and respectable member of society."
"Have you observed," asked the good-natured hostess, striving, out of
pity for the disconcerted Betsey, to turn the conversation into another
channel, "anything of these new people at the Burton place?"
"A leetle, but not much," said Mrs. Wynn. "I was so upset by their
sellin' out so sudden like, when I thought they was as much fixtures
here as the place itself, that I ain't had much time to think about
these new folks."
"As for me," continued Mrs. Swan, "I like them already. Being such a
near neighbor, I have a chance to see a good deal of them. Their names
are Garnet, and that pretty younger lady is the wife of their only son."
"It took some money, I should imagine," pursued Mrs. Wynn. "Of course
these folks must be rich."
"Yes, they paid twelve thousand, cash down, for their present home, and
the old lady told me they had other property besides."
"Do tell!" and "Gracious sakes!" ejaculated both her listeners at once.
"I must call right away." "It ain't neighborly to neglect strangers."
"I've another item for you," added the communicative Mrs. Swan. "They've
bought that cottage down near the Widow Hardyng's, for the young couple
to commence housekeeping for themselves."
"Why, what's that for?" was the next question; "don't they agree?"
"Oh, yes, perfectly; but the young people want a little home of their
own, 'a play house,' the elder Mrs. Garnet calls it. For my part, I
think it only natural. Mr. Swan and I did not want to stay with either
of the old folks after we were married, but came off and set up for
ourselves."
"That's the house that Mrs. Newcomer lived in, ain't it?" asked Betsey
Pryor.
"The very identical one," replied Mrs. Wynn. "I am glad that woman has
left, for it was a living disgrace to any respectable community,
harboring such a character."
"But nobody ever dreamed anything of her true history. If they, had they
wouldn't have associated with her," said Mrs. Swan. "She was a dreadful
creature, and I can't make out yet why she should take all that pains to
come here and persecute two unoffending women like Mrs. Hardyng and her
young friend."
"But don't you see," reiterated Mrs. Wynn, "it was at the instigation of
Mr. Westbourne, Mrs. Hardyng's former husband, and probably she wanted
to gratify her own malice. I can understand her motive, for no doubt she
cordially hated this woman, whom she felt she had wronged."
"But Miss Graystone?" queried Mrs. Swan. "I should think her sweet,
patient face would have touched the heart of a stone."
"It seems she did have some compunctions," said the old lady; "don't you
remember there at the last meeting of the Society, she said she would
have taken the girl's part, only she thought she could hurt the widow
still more by wounding this young girl? Betsey can tell you better about
that, though," she added, wickedly; "ask the former Secretary to give
you the particulars. I had not the honor of being present on that
occasion myself."
"Don't ask me to rehearse it," said Miss Pryor, in subdued tones, "I
can't bear it. My nerves have never yet recovered from the shock."
"We will excuse you, then, Betsey," said the other, magnanimously, "and
proceed to the more congenial occupation of disposing of some of these
nice biscuits and delicious tea that I see Mrs. Swan has prepared for
us."
The pensive beauty of the mild Indian Summer flooded hill and valley
now. Where the sombre shades of green had erst clothed the forest,
brilliant pennons of flame-colored, and crimson-dyed, and paler tints,
shading into amber, and gray, and russet brown, lit up the woods with
their bright-hued splendor.
Clemence, with her little charge, loved to wander through these places,
that nature had clothed in rarest beauty for her worshippers. This was
her favorite season of the year. Sometimes a foreboding oppressed this
young dreamer that it might be her last hours of earthly enjoyment. She
used often to look with pity into the child's face, where a sweet
seriousness lingered, and it gave her sympathetic heart pain to think
that the child should be old beyond her years. Indeed, there was the
same wistfulness about the younger face that we have noticed about our
heroine, and there was a gravity of expression about the tender mouth
that told of a capacity for suffering unusual in one so young. It was
apparent that, like the tried friend who toiled daily to sustain her,
sorrow had early marked the orphan girl for its own. If misfortune or
death were to overtake this fragile creature who stood between her and
the storms of life, what would become of Ruth?
There were trials, and temptations, and dangers lurking in the path of
the innocent child. Would she surmount them all bravely, and achieve
victory in the battle of life?
This thought haunted, continually, the mind of the young teacher, and
gave her hourly pain. There was but little to attach her to life, and
only for this child's love she would have longed for the hour when God
should call her home. As it was, the girl had not sufficient faith to
leave all in His hands. With her sad experience of life, she dreaded all
that might come to her darling. And hope had nearly died out in her
heart.
Seated by the little grave, which was the shrine at which she poured out
her daily petitions, Clemence thought despondingly of the past, and how
little there seemed for her in the future, to which every one around her
looked forward with such eager anticipation.
The dreary waste stretched out unsmiling, and inexpressibly desolate.
The path of duty seemed straight and thorny.
While she sat, sorrowful, the child, who had been watching her with
tender eyes, came and knelt before her. "Let me come and sit with you,"
she pleaded, laying her soft, rounded cheek upon the two hands folded
idly in Clemence's lap. "I cannot play while I know you are grieving on
my account."
"Why," asked Clemence, arousing with a start from her reverie, "what put
that odd fancy into your head, little one?"
"Oh, I have known it for a long time," said Ruth, earnestly. "Although I
never have told you before, I realize more and more every day how much
you deny yourself for my sake. I owe you more than I can ever hope to
repay."
"There, there, child," said Clemence, astonished at her vehemence. "What
on earth has put all this into your head? Who told you about
self-denial? Have any of these rough villagers been seeking to wound you
by speaking of your state of dependence?"
"No, oh no," protested the little one, wisely, "nobody told me except
Johnny. We used to talk of it long ago, of how kind and good you were to
two poor little children like us. Johnny used to think you must be an
angel, like those we read about at Sabbath School, for nobody ever
treated him kindly until you came. He said good people were always
afflicted and persecuted."
"Poor little tired heart," said Clemence, commiseratingly, "it is now at
rest. But, Ruth, you must not allow these recollections to sadden you.
The little bound boy had not much to brighten his dreary life, and he
knew not what it was to possess the buoyant hopefulness of childhood.
Sorrow had made him wise beyond his years. Its weight crushed him down
like a bruised lily. The Good Shepherd listened to his pitiful
supplications, and he is now safe in the fold above. I don't want _your_
life to be one of gloom, my little adopted sister. I have tried to make
you feel happy, but I fear I am but dull company for a little girl."
"You are the best, the _very_ best," persisted the little devotee, with
worshipping eyes. "I would like to be always near you, and it is only
the thought that I am a burden that clouds my face with one shade of
care."
"How often have I told you, Ruth," returned Clemence, gravely, "not to
disturb your mind with such fancies? It displeases me to have you talk
upon these subjects, that a little girl ought not to think of at all. I
have never told you of your obligations, and I do not wish it to form a
topic of conversation between us. I want your love and obedience, and
that is all that a little girl like you can give. You have not added
greatly to my trials, and as yet I have experienced few inconveniences
from having another to provide for. God has raised up a kind friend for
us in Mrs. Hardyng, and we will not question His wisdom who has made us
what we are, but strive always to remember in whose hands our future is
placed."
A look of pain flitted over the child's open countenance, and a tear
trembled upon the silken lashes.
"Have I offended you?" she whispered, creeping closer. "I only wanted to
tell you what was in my heart. I don't want to hide anything from you."
"You have done quite right," said Clemence, embracing her; "run and
play, now, dear; a race will do you good and dry these tear-drops."
She kissed the little one and pushed her gently away; then leaned her
head upon her hand in the old attitude of weariness, and watched her
until the slight form of the child was lost to view among the trees.
Little Ruth's remarks had disturbed her. There was too much foundation
in their present circumstances for anxiety. Still there was one drop of
comfort in the midst of her trials. The young teacher knew that time had
dissipated the cloud of suspicion and distrust that had hung over her
for so long, and which had been created by the basest envy. The School
Committee had lately tendered her again her old position, which she had
declined with thanks. She was too weak to labor now, either with hands
or brain. What did this strange lassitude, this very weariness of
spirit, betoken?
The sad-browed dreamer knew but too well the end of all this; though,
whatever it might be, it was surely for the best, or it would not be
suffered.
While her thoughts were engaged upon the subject, she resolved to write
without delay to Alicia Linden, and speak to her about Ruth. Mrs.
Hardyng should not have everything put upon her. She had trouble enough
of her own.
Clemence, who felt as if she did not want to presume upon the generosity
of her friend, knew that the masculine Alicia would be prepared for any
emergency, having both the will and the ability to help her. It was only
her extreme conscientiousness that had led her, thus far, to struggle on
with her self-imposed burden. The girl had argued that it was not right
to call upon others to relieve from that which she had assumed of her
own free will.
Now, she beheld matters in a clearer light. There was a higher Will that
took out of her hands the ordering of her own actions. She had tried to
act wisely, and from the best and purest motives. Her strength having
now failed utterly, it was her duty to strive and repress all these
rebellious murmurings and go forward in the narrow path so many had
trodden before her.
This was unusually difficult for one of Clemence Graystone's proud,
independent spirit, but if pride conflicted with duty it must be
conquered. There was but one way, to "be careful for nothing."
However, it was the fault of her nature to go to the other extreme, and
despond when she could not see the path beyond marked out distinctly,
and illumined by the star of Hope.
Now, life had nothing in it but the affection of this clinging,
dependent child, to draw her from the contemplation of that future for
which her soul had longed these weary months of sorrowful waiting, and
where she hoped to gain the sweet reward for all her striving.
She had sought to live for the hour that was approaching, remembering,
all these years, that "Heaven is won or lost on earth; the possession is
_there_, but the preparation _here_."
The girl knew she had failed often, but she felt willing to trust
herself to the mercy of Him who loves those He chasteneth. She repeated
softly these words from a gifted woman's pen:--
"Though we fail, indeed,
You--I--a score of such weak workers--He
Fails never. If he cannot work by us,
He will work over us."
A sudden footstep roused the young dreamer, and her startled gaze rested
upon a form before her. A faint dash of crimson kindled the pallid
coldness of the pure face. She rose and moved forward with outstretched
hands, while the voice of Wilfred Vaughn asked, in sorrowful accents,
"Can this be the Clemence Graystone I have known, or only her wraith?"
He pressed the slender fingers tenderly in his own, and while every
lineament of that noble face spoke of his grief at finding her thus, he
said to the wondering girl, who looked upon his sorrow, "What a grievous
sin has been committed here! My sweet-faced darling, they have
sacrificed you to their cruelty. You have been the innocent victim of a
dreadful wrong."