DORA’S DIARY CONTINUED.
“It is a long time since I wrote a word in this book; I have been so
happy and so busy withal; visits, rides, picnics, and everything. I did
not know that life was so bright and pleasant as I have found it here in
Morrisville, where everybody seems trying to entertain me. Mattie’s
brother Charlie is here, but he behaves like a man; does not annoy me
one bit, but flirts shockingly with _Bell Verner_, who flirts as hard in
return. He teasingly asked me one day about _Dr. West_, and when Bell
inquired who he was, he said he was ‘a country doctor of little pills; a
sort of lackadaisical chap, who read service very loud, and almost
touched the pew railing when he bowed in the Apostles’ Creed.’
“I grew so very angry defending Dr. West that Bell honestly believes I
care for him, and kindly stops Lieutenant Reed when he begins his fun. I
like Bell Verner more and more, only she is too proud. How I cried over
that letter from Margaret telling me to come home, and how I tried not
to have Mr. and Mrs. Randall answer it; but they did, and there came
back such a nice response from John. What a dear, unselfish man he is,
and how smooth he made it look,—so smooth that I really felt as if doing
him a favor by staying until Johnnie’s letter was received, and I
guessed at once the storm through which they had passed.
“Will I ever forget the day I received a letter from _Dr. West_? I could
scarcely credit my own eyes, yet there was his name, Richard West,
looking so natural. I felt the blood tingling in my veins, even though
he merely wrote to ask me if he might read my books, the foolish man! Of
course he might. He says he misses me, and this I think is why the
letter is worth so much, and why I answered it. Perhaps it was foolish
to do so, but I can’t help it now. It is not at all likely he’ll write
again though I find myself fancying how I shall feel, and what he would
say in a second letter. Bell Verner knows he wrote, for I told her, but
pretended I did not care. To-morrow I am going at last to see Mrs. David
West.
“July 15th.—I have seen Mrs. David West; have looked into her eyes, so
like the doctor’s; have heard her voice; have seen the child; and oh!
why _am_ I so wretched, and why, when I came back, did I tear up that
rose from Anna’s grave and throw it to the winds? I hate this room. I
cannot bear it, for Anna used to occupy it; she haunts me continually.
She died in this room. _Richard kissed her here_, and here that child
was born. Oh, what am I to think except what I do? And yet it is all
suspicion, based on what a gossiping woman told me. I wish she had never
come here. I would rather have cooked the dinner myself than have heard
what I have.
“It was arranged that Mattie should go with me to see this Mrs. David
West, and I thought of little else all the morning; but when dinner came
Mattie had been seized with one of her violent headaches, and it was
impossible for her even to sit up. Knowing how much I had anticipated
the call, and not wishing to have me disappointed, she insisted that I
should go without her, Peter acting as my escort there, while the new
cook, a Mrs. Felton, who, it seems, had business on that street, would
call for me on her way home. This was the arrangement, and at about four
o’clock I started. I had in some way received the impression that Mrs.
David West lived on Elm Street, and when we passed that point I asked
Peter if we were right.
“‘Yes, miss, Grove Street,—just there a ways in the neatest little
cottage you ever set eyes on, I reckon.’
“Involuntarily I thought of the woman and child seen that first evening
of my arrival at Morrisville, and something told me I was going straight
to that cottage with its roses, its vines, and bay-windows. The surmise
was correct. I knew the house in an instant, and had there been a doubt
it would have been dispelled by the widow’s cap and the little child out
on the grass-plat, just where they were that other summer day so like
this and yet so unlike it, for then I never guessed how sharp a pang I
should be suffering now.
“‘There she is. That’s Mrs. West with Robin,’ Peter said, and the next
moment I was speaking to Mrs. David West, and before she said to me,
‘You know my son,’ I felt sure she was the doctor’s mother.
“The same fine cast of feature, the same kind, honest expression beaming
in the dark eye, and the same curve of the upper lip,—said by some to be
always indicative of high breeding. The mother and son were very much
alike, except that she as a female was noticeable for a softer style of
beauty. I never saw one to whom the widow’s cap was so becoming. It
seemed peculiarly adapted to her sad, sweet face and the silken bands of
grayish hair, which it did not conceal. There was also in her manner and
speech a refinement which even Bell Verner might have imitated with
advantage. My heart went out to her at once, and by the time I was
seated in the rustic chair, for I preferred remaining in the yard, I
felt as much at ease as if I had known her all my life.
“‘This is Robin,’ she said, turning to the child, who I now discovered
was a cripple in its feet, and unable to walk. ‘Did Richard ever tell
you of Robin?’
“There was a hesitancy now in her voice, as if she knew Richard had
never told me of him, and doubted her own integrity in asking the
question.
“‘No,’ I replied, ‘the doctor never told me of Robin, nor yet of
himself.’
“‘Richard is very reticent,’ she answered; and then as she saw my glance
constantly directed to Robin, she evidently tried to keep me from
talking of him by asking numberless questions about Richard, and by
telling me what a good, kind child he was to her.
“It is true I did not suspect her then of such a motive, but I can see
now how she headed me off from the dangerous ground on which I leaped at
last, for I could not resist the expression of that child’s face, and
breaking away from what she was telling me of Richard, I knelt by his
chair, and kissing his round cheek, asked:
“‘Whose boy are you?’
“‘Papa Richard’s and grandma’s,’ he replied, and then there flashed upon
me the thought that in spite of his deep blue eyes and soft golden curls
he was like Dr. West. For an instant I was conscious of a sharp,
stinging pain, as I said to myself, ‘Was Dr. West ever married?’ Surely
he would have told of that,—would at some time have mentioned his wife,
and with the pain there came the knowledge that I did care more for Dr.
West than I had supposed; that I was jealous of the dead woman, the
mother of this child. Mrs. West must have divined a part of my thoughts,
for she said half laughingly, like one under restraint:
“‘He has always called my son “Papa Richard,” as he is the only father
the child ever knew,’ and a shadow flitted across her face as she
directed my attention to a tall heliotrope near by. But I was not to be
evaded; curiosity was aroused, and replying to her remark concerning the
heliotrope, I turned again to Robin, whose little hand I now held in
mine, and said, ‘He is your grandchild?’
“Suddenly the dark eyes looked afar off as if appealing to something or
somebody for help; then they softened and tears were visible in them.
“‘Poor little Robin, he has been a source of great sorrow as well as of
comfort to me, Miss Freeman,’ and Mrs. West’s delicate hand smoothed and
unwound the golden curls clustering around Robin’s head. ‘So I used to
unwind her curls,’ she continued abstractedly. ‘Robin’s mother. I must
show you her picture when we go in. She was very beautiful, more so than
any one I ever knew, and Richard thinks the same.’
“Again that keen pain, as of a sharp knife gliding through my flesh,
passed over me, but I listened breathlessly, while still caressing the
child she continued:
“‘His mother was my adopted daughter: I never had one of my own. Two
sons have been born to me; one I have lost,’—and her breath came
gaspingly like speaking of the dead,—‘the other you know is Richard. To
all intents and purposes Anna was my daughter, and I am sure no mother
ever loved her own offspring more than I did Anna. O Anna darling, Anna
darling! I never dreamed, when I took her to my bosom, that she could—O
Anna!’ and Mrs. West’s voice broke down in a storm of sobs.
“After this I could not ask her any more questions, and in a kind of
maze I followed her into the house, which was a perfect little gem, and
showed marks of most exquisite taste. Some of the furniture struck me as
rather too heavy and expensive for that cottage, but I gave it but
little thought, so interested was I in what I had heard and seen.
“‘That is _Anna_,’ Mrs. West said, pointing to a small portrait hanging
upon the wall just where the western sunbeams were falling upon it and
lighting it up with a wonderful halo of beauty.
“Instantly I forgot all else in my surprise that anything so perfectly
beautiful could ever have belonged to a human being, and with a scream
of delight I stood before the picture, exclaiming, ‘It is not possible
that this is natural!’
‘It is said to be,’ Mrs. West rejoined, ‘though there is a look in her
eye which I did not notice until a few months before she died. She was
crazy at the last.’
“‘Crazy!’ I repeated, now gazing with a feeling of pity upon the lovely
face, which seemed imbued with life.
“I cannot describe that face, and I will not attempt it, for after I had
told of the dark blue eyes and curls of golden hair, of the pure white
skin and full ripe lips, you, my journal, would not have the least idea
of the face, for the sweet, heavenly expression which made it what it
was can never be described on paper. The artist had put it on canvas, so
at least said Mrs. David West, and I believed her, drinking in its rare
loveliness and repeating again, ‘Crazy—poor Anna! Was it for long?’
“‘No, not long; she died when Robin was born.’
“‘And her husband; he must have been heart-broken,’ I ventured to say
next, but if Mrs. West heard me, she made no reply, and with my thoughts
in a tumult, I continued looking at the portrait until, suddenly
remembering the grave which had so interested me, I asked, ‘How old was
Anna when she died?’
“‘Just twenty,’ was the reply; while I rejoined, ‘I am sure then I have
seen her grave. It says upon the stone, “Anna, aged 20.”’
“‘Yes, that’s all Richard would have on the marble. It almost killed
Richard, but God has healed the wound just as He will heal all hearts
which go to Him.’
“I don’t know why I said what I did next, unless it were that I should
have died if I had not. The words were wrung from me almost against my
will:
“‘Was Richard Anna’s husband?’
“‘No, no, oh no, Richard was not her husband!’ Mrs. West replied,
quickly.
“Heretofore she had answered my queries concerning Anna with hesitancy,
but the ‘No, no, oh no, Richard was not her husband,’ was spoken
eagerly, decidedly, as if it were a fact she would particularly impress
upon my mind. Then, as I stood looking at her expectantly, she went on,
but this time in the old, cautious manner:
“‘I never knew who Anna’s husband was. It is a sad story, which I would
gladly forget, but Robin’s presence keeps it in my mind,’ and bowing her
head over the child, the poor woman wept passionately.
“‘Poor grandma, don’t cry. I love you! What makes grandma cry over me so
much, and look so sorry at me? Is it because I am a little lame boy?’
“This Robin said to me, while he tried to brush away the tears of her he
called grandmother. He had not talked much before, but what he said now
went through my heart, and kissing his forehead, I whispered:
“‘People sometimes cry for joy.’
“‘But she don’t,’ he said, nodding toward Mrs. West, who left us alone
while she bathed her face and eyes. ‘She looks so sorry, and says, “Poor
Robin,” so often. I guess it’s because my feet will never walk, that she
says that. I should cry too, but Papa Richard talked to me so good, and
said God made me lame; that up in heaven there were no little cripples;
that if I loved the Saviour, and didn’t fret about my feet, I’d go up
there some day; and since then I’ve tried hard not to mind, and ever so
many times a day I say softly to myself, “Will Jesus help Robin not to
fret because he’s a poor lame boy, of no use to anybody.” I say it way
in my mouth, but God hears just the same.’
“I could not answer for my weeping, but kneeling beside the lame boy, I
wound my arms around his neck, and laid his curly head upon my bosom,
just as I would have done had it been Johnnie, Ben, or Bertie thus
afflicted.
“‘Seems like you was most my mother,’ he said, caressing my cheek with
his soft little hand. ‘You don’t look like her much, only I dreamed once
she came to me and loved me, as you do, and kissed my twisted feet, oh!
so many times. It was a beautiful dream, and next day I told it to
grandma, and asked her if she wasn’t sure my mother was in heaven! She
did not answer until I said again, “Is she in heaven?” Then she said, “I
hope so, Robin;” but I wanted to know sure, and kept on asking, until
she burst out with the loudest cry I ever heard her or anybody cry, and
said, “God knows, my little Robin. He will take care of her. I hope
she’s there!” but she wouldn’t say for sure, just as she did when the
minister and Mrs. Terry’s baby died. Why not? Why didn’t she? Lady, you
look good. You look as if you prayed. Do you pray?’
“‘Yes,’ I answered, wondering if he would call my careless words a
prayer.
“‘Then lady,’ and the deep eyes of blue looked eagerly, wistfully at me,
‘then tell me true, is my mother in heaven, sure?’
“What could I do,—I who knew nothing to warrant a different
conclusion,—what could I do but answer, ‘Yes.’ He believed me, the
trustful, innocent child, clapping his hands for joy, while the picture
on the wall, wholly wrapped in the summer sunshine, seemed one gleam of
heavenly glory, as if the mother herself confirmed the answer given to
her boy. He did not doubt me in the least, neither did I doubt myself;
Anna was safe, whatever her sin might have been; whether the wife of one
husband or six, like the woman of Samaria, she surely was forgiven.
“Mrs. West had now returned, her face as calm and placid as ever, and
her voice as low and sweet.
“‘You have had a sad call, I fear,’ she said. ‘Richard would not like it
if he knew how I had entertained you, but I’ll promise to do better next
time, though I cannot talk of Anna. Some day perhaps, you may know all,
but I would rather it should be Richard who tells you.’
“She kept associating me with Richard, and though the association was
not distasteful, it puzzled me somewhat, making me wonder if he had ever
told her much of me.
“At that moment Mattie’s new cook, Mrs. Felton, appeared, curtseying
with a great deal of humility to Mrs. West, who did not seem especially
pleased to meet her. Still she greeted her kindly, and suffered her to
caress Robin, whom she called a ‘precious lamb,’ a ‘poor, little,
stunted rosy,’ and numerous other extravagant names.
“‘I’m back to the old place,’ she said to Mrs. West, when through with
Robin, ‘but my, such a change! ’Tain’t much such times as when you were
there, I tell you. Then we had a head; now we’ve none.’
“Mrs. West stopped her at this point by asking me to come again, and
saying she did not know Mrs. Randall or she would call on me.
“‘You might make the first advance,’ I said. ‘You have surely lived here
longer than Mrs. Randall.’
“‘Yes, I know,’ and her pale face flushed up to her soft grey hair. ‘But
times have changed with me. I do not go out at all.’
“‘Come again,’ Robin said, as I turned towards him; ‘come again, lady; I
likes you, cause you seem some like Papa Richard.’
“It grated harshly to hear the child say Papa Richard, and involuntarily
I asked, ‘Why he did not say Uncle Richard? He is not your father,’ I
added, while the child’s eyes grew big with wonder, as he replied:
“‘Then where is my father, I’d like to know?’
“Mrs. Felton laughed a hateful, meaning laugh, and said:
“‘Come, Miss Freeman, it’s time we were going.’
“With another good-by for Robin I shook Mrs. West’s proffered hand, and
was soon out in the street with Mrs. Felton, who, when we were at a safe
distance from the house, remarked in a very disagreeable tone:
“‘The cutest thing you ever did was to tell that child not to call the
doctor papa. I’d have broke him of it long before this. It don’t sound
well, ’specially after all’s been said about Mr. Richard and Miss Anna.’
“I wouldn’t question her, neither was there a necessity for it, as she
was bent on talking, and of the Wests, too.
“‘I s’pose you know the doctor and his mother used to own West Lawn?’
was the next remark, which brought to my mind the conversation between
her and Mrs. West.
“‘Used to own West Lawn!’ I repeated, surprised out of my cool reserve.
“‘To be sure they did; but, for some unaccountable reason which nobody
ever knew, they sold it about the time Anna died, and bought the place
where they live now. Of course when a person jumps right out of a good
nest with their eyes wide open, nobody but themselves is to blame for
where they land. Mrs. West held her head as high as the next one, drove
her carriage, and used solid silver every day, and now its all gone. I
lived with her as chamber-maid for a whole year. I was Sarah Pellet
then.’
“I was too much interested to stop her, and suffered her to go on.
“‘I loved Miss Anna, even if she did turn out bad. She was the
sweetest-tempered, prettiest-wayed girl you ever seen, and when they
took her to the hospital I felt as bad as if she’d died.’
“‘To the hospital? The lunatic asylum? Did she go there?’ I asked; and
Sarah Felton replied:
“‘Oh yes; they hoped ’twould cure her. Seems’s if the trouble all come
to once. First, there was Robert, Richard’s twin, who went off, or was
murdered, and has never been heard of since.’
“‘Richard’s twin brother ran off? When? How long ago? How long before
Anna died, I mean?’ I asked, stopping suddenly as a new light dawned
upon me, only, alas! to fade into darkness at the answer.
“‘Oh, better than a year. Yes, a full year; for he’d been gone a good
spell before it was known to many. He didn’t live here; ’twas in New
York, and he hardly ever come home. He was a wild one, not much like
Richard, who was engaged to Anna, and that’s what I can’t make out,—why
he didn’t marry her.’
“We were crossing a common now, where there were rustic benches beneath
the trees; and feeling that unless I stopped I should fall, I was so
faint and sick with what I had heard, I said that I was tired; and
seating myself upon a bench, loosened my hat-strings and leaned against
a tree, listening, while my loquacious companion continued:
“‘He was engaged for years, so I’ve heard, and I know he thought a sight
of her. It was fairly sickish to see ’em together, he with his arm round
her and she a lettin’ her head, with them long curls, loll on his
shoulder. They was to be married the very day she died. ’Twas an awful
sight. I went away from them about the time they sent her to the
hospital; but I was back a spell, as the chamber-maid was took sick, and
so I was in it all. Dr. Richard kissed her when she was dyin’, and she
whispered something in his ear.’
“‘But Robin,’ I gasped; ‘Anna was surely married to somebody.’
“Again the smile I had seen before and hated curled her lip as she
answered:
“‘Yes, of course she was married, for she was a very pious girl, runnin’
Sunday-schools, belongin’ to the church, tendin’ to the poor, and all
that.’
“I knew that woman did not believe in Anna’s piety, but I did, and the
belief gave me comfort as I gazed up into the clear blue sky and said to
myself, ‘She is there.’
“Dimly I began to perceive why Mrs. West could not tell Robin that his
mother was in heaven sure; but I was glad I had done so, without
reasoning in the least upon the matter. I exonerated Anna, and only
wrote bitter things against poor Richard, saying to the woman, ‘And
Richard kissed her when she was dying?’
“‘Yes, up there where you sleep. That was Anna’s room, where she died,
and where Robin was born. I didn’t see it, but them that told me did.
Richard fell as flat as if struck with lightning when he came up from
the office and heard what had happened, and six hours after, when they
said she was dyin’ and had asked for him, he had to be carried, he was
so limpsy and weak. She never noticed the child an atom, or acted as if
there was one, but would whisper, ‘Forgive,—I can’t tell,—I promised
not. It’s all right,—all right.’ What she meant nobody knows, for she
died just that way, with Richard’s arm around her, and the doctor
a-holdin’ him, for he was whiter than a rag, and after she was dead he
went into a ravin’ fever, which lasted for weeks and weeks, till the
allopaths give him up. Then the homœopaths come in and cured him, and
that’s why he turned into a sugar-pill doctor. He was one of the
blisterin’ and jollup kind before his sickness, but after that he
changed, and they do say he’s mighty skilful. As soon as he got well
they sold West Lawn, and Mrs. West has never seemed like the same woman
since. Folks thinks they’s poor, though what’s become of the property
nobody knows. Anyways the doctor supports his mother, sendin’ her money
every now and agen.’
“‘But why,’ I asked, ‘did Mrs. Randall and Bell Verner never hear of all
this?’
“‘Easy enough,’ was the reply. ‘Judge Verner only moved here last fall,
and Mr. Randall last spring. West Lawn has changed hands three times
since the doctor owned it; so it’s natural that his name shouldn’t
appear in the sale. Then, it’s seven years since it all happened, and a
gossiping place like Morrisville, where there are upwards of three
thousand folks, don’t harp on one string forever; only them that was
interested, like me, remembers.’
“This was true in detail, and was a good reason why neither Bell nor
Mattie had ever heard of Anna West, I thought, as I dragged my steps
homeward, hardly knowing when I reached there, and feeling glad that
Mattie was still confined to her bed, as this left me free to repair at
once to my own room,—Anna’s room,—where she died, with her head on
Richard’s arm, and he so weak that he had to be supported. Poor Richard!
I do pity him, knowing now why he so often seems sad. But what was it?
How is it, and what makes my brain whirl so fast? Anna said with her
dying breath that it was all right, and I believe her. I will not cast
at her a stone. She is in heaven sure; yes, Robin, sure. And Richard
fell as if smitten with lightning when he heard of it! That betokened
innocence on his part. Then why this horrid feeling? Is it sorrow that
he cared for and loved her? I don’t know; everything seems so far off
that I cannot find it. What is the record? Let me see.
“Richard once lived here in this grand house; he has met with reverses,
nobody knows what; he has a brother somewhere, nobody knows where; he
supports his mother, and this accounts for what I termed his stinginess.
How I hate myself, and how noble Dr. West would appear were it not
for,—for,—I cannot say it,—the horrible possibility, and I,—I guess,—I
think,—I am very sure I did care for him more than I supposed.
“July 23d.
“I have been sick for many days, swallowing the biggest doses of
medicine, until it is a wonder I did not die. It was a heavy cold, taken
when sitting upon the common, I heard Mattie tell Bell Verner when she
came in to ask after me, and so I suppose it was, though I am sure my
head would never have ached so hard if I had not heard that dreadful
story. I have thought a great deal while Mattie believed me sleeping,
and the result of it is this: _I hate Dr. West_, and never desire to see
him again! There is something wrong, and I’ve no faith in anybody.
“There’s a letter from Margaret lying on the table. They are at the
Clarendon, which is a new hotel, smaller than either the United States
or Union Hall, but makes up for its size in its freshness, its quiet,
and air of homelike comfort. At least so Margaret says; and although she
complains that she does not see so many people as she would at the
larger houses, she seems contented, and speaks in raptures of her nice
large rooms and their gentlemanly host. I am glad she is satisfied, and
that Johnnie, at home, is, as he expresses it in a letter just received,
‘as happy as a clam.’
“Accidentally I have heard that Robin is sick and has sent for me. I
must have slept for many hours, I think: not a heavy, stolid sleep, as I
was vaguely conscious that Mattie stole in to look at me, and that Bell
Verner, too, was here. But I did not realize it all until at last I woke
and felt that I was better. The pain from the head was gone, and the
soreness from the throat, leaving only a pleasant, tired feeling which I
rather enjoy.
“In the other room Mattie and Bell were talking, as it seemed, of me,
for I heard Mattie say:
“‘I wonder if she really does care about him?’
“‘I think she does,’ was Bell’s reply, ‘for I remember how annoyed she
was when your brother teased her by ridiculing his peculiarities. Poor
girl! I half suspect this has something to do with her illness. Mrs.
Felton has confessed having told her what she knew.’
“‘She has? When?’ and Mattie seemed surprised.
“‘Why,’ returned Bell, ‘that night I sat with Dora, Mrs. Felton, you
know, was with me a part of the time, and once when Dora, in her
disturbed sleep, was talking, she moaned about Dr. West and Anna. “Poor
lamb, she’s dwellin’ on the young lady who died in this very room,”
Felton said; and when I inquired what young lady, she told me all she
knew, and more too, I think. Afterwards I asked Mrs. Stryker if she ever
heard of Anna West, and she said, “Oh yes; she died just before we came
here. Everybody was talking about it;” and then she told her story,
which, of course, differed from Mrs. Felton’s about as much as is the
difference in the social position of the two women,—Felton seeing things
from her stand-point, and Mrs. Stryker repeating them from hers. She
said Mrs. West used to give elegant parties, and Anna was always the
star of the company. She was so beautiful and attractive that young men
could not help admiring her, while Richard loved her very much, and
nobody now believes—’
“I covered up my head at this point, for I would not listen to any more.
After a little I heard some one coming up the stairs, not quietly,
soberly, as Mattie and Bell had come, but noisily, rapidly, two steps at
a time, trilling a few notes from some opera, and when the music ran
high, absolutely breaking into a clear, decided whistle! I was amazed,
particularly as the next moment Bell Verner said:
“‘Hush-sh! Miss Freeman’s asleep. You’ll wake her with your boy-ways!’
“‘I don’t care!”’ and the whistler evidently cut a pirouette. ‘I’ll try
to wake her, unless you tell me quick who is the handsomest man in town,
the most _distingué_, for I met him just now in the street, and fell in
love at once! Tall, broad-shouldered, with brown, dreamy eyes, and the
whitest teeth! Tell me quick, Bell! You ought to know every marriageable
man between the two poles, for here you’ve been out just as many years
as you are older than I am, to wit, _ten_. Say, who was it?’
“‘Jessie, do be quiet. How do I know?’ Bell began, and then I knew the
noisy girl was Bell’s young sister, Jessie, who had just been graduated
in Boston, and had of course come home.
“She was a wild, rattle-brained creature, I was sure, but her flow of
spirits suited my mood, and for the sole purpose of seeing her I called
to Bell, who, the next moment, was asking anxiously what I wanted.
“‘I am better,’ I said. ‘Am well; and I want you to open the blinds so I
can see; then all come in where I can hear you talk. Who is that with
the cheery whistle?’
“‘_Eureka!_ she thinks my whistle beautiful!’ I heard from the next
room, while Bell replied:
“‘It’s sister Jessie. She came last night, and has nearly driven us wild
already with her fun and spirits. She stopped for a few days at
Saratoga, and saw your sister. Shall I call her?’
“‘Yes,’ I said; and Jessie came at once,—a little fairy, hoydenish
creature, with the sauciest, merriest face, the roundest black eyes, and
a head covered with short, black curls, which shook as she talked, and
kept time with the twinkle of her eyes.
“She kissed me heartily, and then, perching herself upon the foot of the
bed, told me about Saratoga,—what a little paradise it was at the
Clarendon,—so clean and nice; what a splendid man the proprietor was,
treating his boarders as if they were invited guests; humoring
everybody’s whim, even to muzzling the poor dog who barked at night,
thereby disturbing some nervous invalid,—told me too what a love of a
man she thought Squire Russell.
“‘Mrs. Russell is your sister,’ she went on, ‘and so I say nothing of
her, _pro_ nor _con_, except that it must be good pious work to live
with her,’ and the curls and the eyes danced together.
“I could not be angry, and the gypsy rattled on:
“‘But that Mr. Russell is my _beau ideal_ of husbands. I made him
promise if he ever was a widower, he’d take me for his second wife.
There’s nothing I’d like better, I told him, than to mother his six
children. You ought to have seen my lady then!’ and the queer, little
face put on a look so like Margaret’s that I could not forebear
laughing, knowing, as I did, how shocked my sister must have been.
“‘“Husband,” she said, “I think it’s wrong to trifle with matters so
sacred!” Whereupon the husband meekly subsided, and fanned her
connubially with the Saratoga paper. Oh, he’s a splendid fellow, but I
used to pity him evenings when I saw him standing over his wife’s chair,
looking so wistfully at the dancers. She wouldn’t let him waltz,—thought
it was very improper, and I was told made several remarks not very
complimentary to my style of tripping the light fantastic toe. She is
rather pretty, and one night when she wore a pale blue silk, with all
her diamonds and point-lace, she was the finest-looking woman in the
room.’
“‘She used to be very beautiful,’ I said, feeling that I must defend
her, ‘but she is sadly broken, and no wonder,—six children in twelve
years!’
“‘Yes, I know. It’s perfectly dreadful, but if I had forty children, I’d
let my husband waltz and smoke. Oh, I forgot, she don’t let him smoke if
she knows it, and if by chance the poor fellow drew a whiff or two down
in the office, he had to walk round the south-east corner of the
building sixteen times to air himself. There’s the gate,—who’s come?’
and with this she bounded from the bed and ran to the window to
reconnoitre.
“‘As I live,’ she exclaimed, drawing back from the window, ‘it’s the
very man I told you about, and he’s coming here.’
“‘Don’t be angry with her: she’s a crazy child,’ Bell whispered, and I
had just time to reply that I was not angry, when the peal of the
door-bell was distinctly heard, and Jessie, by leaning over the
bannisters, tried to hear what was said.
“‘It’s about you,’ and she darted back to my side. ‘He certainly said
Miss Freeman.’
“I don’t know that I expected what followed, but my breath came heavily,
and I was not surprised when Sarah, the maid, came up and handed me a
card bearing the name of _Dr. West_. He was in the parlor, and if I
could not go down he wished to see Mrs. Randall. Instantly Mattie and
Bell exchanged glances, while the former said in an aside:
“‘Can it be the child is so sick they have sent for him?’
“‘What child?’ I exclaimed. ‘Who is sick. Is it Robin?’
“‘Yes,’ Mattie answered, hurriedly. ‘We did not think best to tell you
when the message came, four days ago. Robin West is very sick, and keeps
asking for the lady who said his mother was in heaven sure. As you could
not go, I went myself, learning by that means many things concerning the
family which I never knew before. I liked Mrs. West very much. But what
shall I tell the doctor for you?’
“I felt irritated and annoyed that Mattie and Bell, and so many, should
know and talk about that story, and more than all I was vexed that Bell
should believe I cared for the doctor, whose heart was buried in Anna’s
grave, and I answered pettishly:
“‘You needn’t tell him anything.’
“Bell looked surprised, Jessie whistled, and Mattie laughed, as she
walked downstairs to receive her visitor.
“‘I have only known you for half an hour, Miss Dora Freeman,’ Jessie
said, saucily, ‘but if _I_ am any judge of the genus female-homo, you
are desperately in love with that man, and are jealous of somebody.’
“Bell shot at her a warning glance, which silenced her for a moment, and
in the pause I distinctly caught the tones of Dr. West’s familiar voice,
though I could distinguish nothing he said. He did not stay long, and
the moment his step was heard in the hall Jessie was at her post at the
window, ready to watch him as he went down the walk. I think Bell wanted
to look out, but she was far too proud, and in spite of Jessie’s
entreaties that she would come just for a minute and say if she ever saw
a more perfectly splendid man, she sat where she was and waited for
Mattie, who soon appeared, joining with Jessie in praises of Dr. West.
The most agreeable person she had ever met, she said, and she wondered I
had not told them about him.
“I was so unamiable that I would not even ask when he came to
Morrisville, nor why he had called; but Jessie asked for me, and so I
learned that he arrived at his mother’s the night previously, and in
compliance with Robin’s repeated request that some one should go for
_the lady_, he had come himself. Robin was better, Mattie said, and if
no new symptoms appeared the doctor would return to Beechwood the next
day.
“All this while I asked no questions and volunteered no remark, though
in my own mind I resolved that so soon as I was able, I would go to see
Robin West. I suppose I was beginning to look tired, as Bell said they
were worrying me too long, and, after some coaxing and scolding, she
persuaded her sister to leave with her.
“‘Mind, now,’ Jessie said to me, as she stood with her hat poised on her
short, thick curls, ‘if you are sure you do not like this doctor, and
wish to be rid of him; I’ll take him off your hands, and thank you, too.
I’ve a great mind to try the effect of my charms upon him: shall I? You
see, I am not going to wait, like Bell, till I verge upon the _serious_
yellow leaf. I am going to be married. _Au revoir!_’ and whistling ‘Hail
to the Chief,’ she bounded down the stairs, three at a time, I verily
believe, for I trembled lest she should break her neck, and felt
relieved when her gay laugh sounded upon the walk.
“The next thing which I heard was that Dr. West was at Mr. Verner’s,
prescribing for Jessie’s father, who had been taken violently ill.”