Em's husband : A sequel to "Em"

By Emma Dorothy Eliza Nevitte Southworth

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Title: Em's husband
        A sequel to "Em"

Author: Emma Dorothy Eliza Nevitte Southworth

Release date: September 23, 2025 [eBook #76916]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: A. L. Burt Company, 1876

Credits: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EM'S HUSBAND ***





                             _EM’S HUSBAND_
                           _A Sequel to “Em”_


                      By MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH

                                Author of
 “Ishmael,” “Self-Raised,” “Lilith,” “The Unloved Wife,” “Why Did He Wed
                                Her?” Etc.

[Illustration: [Logo]]

                           A. L. BURT COMPANY
                PUBLISHERS      ::      ::      NEW YORK




                              EM’S HUSBAND




                               CHAPTER I
                             TO THE ISLAND

                On the cliff-bounded stream!
                When it is summer noon,
                And all the land is still,
                But on the water’s face
                The merry breeze is playing,
                Whitening a ripple here and there.
                                              H. ALFORD.


The pretty _White Dove_ lay rocking at its moorings. It was gray on the
outside and white within, and as clean and nice as any little boat need
be.

Old ’Sias handed his young passenger into it, and made her very
comfortable on a seat in the stern.

Then he loosened the chain of the boat, spread the snowy sail to the
breeze, took the tiller in his hand and steered for the island.

They had a beautiful run down the river.

The clear bosom of the water, reflecting the brilliant morning sky with
its sunlit clouds, displayed all the blending rainbow hues of rose,
violet, azure, gold and green.

The shore on the right hand was a wide range of high, undulating, wooded
hills, rising one behind the other until their outlines were melted amid
the vapors of the distant western horizon.

The shore on the left hand was a wall of lofty, rugged, moss-studded
cliffs, whose tops were lost among the clouds.

Before them, down the river, lay the lovely isle, with its girdle of
green trees, from the midst of which arose its velvety green hill,
crowned with its airy palace, whose high, white walls and many crystal
windows flashed and sparkled in the sunshine.

“Oh, how heavenly the country is!” exclaimed Em. “I always thought it
was beautiful, but I never dreamed it was so divine!”

“You come from the city, honey?” inquired the old man.

“Yes, but I never want to go back to it,” answered Em.

“Ay, ay! I never was in a city in my life. Dey say how ‘De Lord made de
country and man made de town.’ Do yer think dat is true, honey?” asked
’Sias.

“Yes, I _do_,” said Em., decidedly. “And if you could see a town you’d
think so, too.”

“Well, honey, I has libbed in dis yer sublunatic speer a hundred and
fifty years, more or _less_, and nebber sot eyes on a city, nor likewise
a town. But I libs in hopes to see one, or both, ’fore ebber I ’parts
for de glory land,” said old ’Sias.

Em. did not reply; indeed she scarcely heard his words, as her whole
attention was fixed upon the lovely isle, to whose shore they were now
approaching so near that the velvety green hill, crowned with its
glittering white mansion, was slowly sinking out of sight behind the
beautiful girdle of silver maple trees that encircled it like a halo of
soft light.

“Here we is, honey,” said old ’Sias, as he drew down the little sail,
and, taking an oar, pushed the boat up among a shoal of white
water-lilies that surrounded the shores.

Then ’Sias moved the _White Dove_ to a water-post, and got out and
offered his hand to his passenger, saying:

“Jump for it, honey, so as to clear de wet sand and light wid dry feet
on de rock here.”

Em. followed his direction and landed dry-shod.

Then they picked their way over a bank of violets and pansies,
snow-drops and other wild flowers, and then through a thicket of
eglantines, sweet-briers, and wild roses, and honeysuckles, and next
through a grove of acacias or flowering locusts, and finally through the
belt of silver maples and then up the verdant hill, that was beautifully
laid off in groves of fragrant, flowering trees, adorned with statues,
arbors and fountains; in parterres of the most brilliant and odoriferous
shrubs and flowers; and in green terraces, rising one above another, and
reached by white stone steps and leading quite up to the colonnaded
porch of the glistening white mansion, with its many sparkling, crystal
windows and its balconies, verandas and porches. Around the white
columns that supported the piazzas were twined the most beautiful and
fragrant rose-vines and climbing plants.

It was a place of more than ideal beauty; it was a home of paradisiacal
loveliness.

It was no dreamy solitude now, however. On the highest terrace in front
of the house were seated about seventy persons, of both sexes and all
ages, colors and conditions—a very small congregation, but making up in
devout attention for what they lacked in numbers, as they listened
silently, with upturned, intent faces, to the preacher, who was
concealed from the newcomers by an intervening, rose-wreathed column.

“I am afraid we are late,” whispered Em.

“Yes, honey, we is. The sermon is begun. We sha’n’t hear de tex’ ’less
he repeats it, which he may; but what we will hear will be wort’ comin’
for, I tell yer. Hush, honey; come ’long here. Here’s a good seat, and
right good view ob de preacher, too.”

Em. took the seat indicated on the broad pedestal of a group of
statuary, representing Faith, Hope and Charity, that stood on the second
terrace. Her position was a little below the crowd, but gave her a
plenty of space and a good view of the preacher.

And that preacher! How shall I be able to present him vividly before my
readers—that blind orator of the wilderness, who labored among the
few—the poor and the ignorant—but who ought to have had a world-wide
field and fame.

He stood on the highest step of the stairs leading up to the colonnaded
piazza in front of the house, so facing his audience. He was a man of
colossal stature, with the shoulders of Hercules and the beauty of
Apollo. His face was of the pure Grecian type, and his countenance was
full of intellect, majesty and tenderness. The top of his head was high,
spherical and perfectly bald, but a fringe of golden hair at the back of
his neck came around and almost touched the flow of golden beard that
fell from chin to bosom. His eyes were blue, large, full, clear and
wonderfully brilliant and mobile! He was dressed in a white linen coat
and white duck trousers, and wore white morocco slippers on his feet. He
stood by a great white marble vase, from which an almond tree grew, and
he rested his left hand upon the vase. That was the only support he had.

With parted lips, suspended breath and rapt attention Em. gazed on the
stranger. She had never seen so god-like a man. That the magnificent
form should have been struck with paralysis seemed incredible; that
those splendid, radiant, soaring eyes, with their flying glances and
rapt gaze, should be blind seemed impossible.

Em. could scarcely believe it.

“I should think they had light enough _within_ them to see in the dark;
that they would never need the sun as we do,” she whispered in
awe-struck tones.

“That’s what we all say, honey. He has the light _inside_ of his eyes.
But he is stone blind for all that, honey.”

“Hush! hush! Let me hear _him_,” said Em., as she bent her whole
attention upon the preacher.

He had evidently got well on in his sermon before the late arrival of
these last comers. They had not heard his text, but they soon
comprehended his subject. It was threefold—

Faith, Love, Works.

I shall not risk spoiling the blind preacher’s sermon by attempting any
report of it here. I will only say that in simple, eloquent words, which
went directly to every heart, he explained to them—

How Faith without Love was cold, and either, or both, without Works,
dead. How Faith and Love must go forth in good uses; must go forth,
through brain, heart and hand in good thoughts, good feelings and good
deeds to all.

He told them it was not enough we should cease to _do_ ill to our
neighbor, but we should cease to _speak_ ill, or even to _think_ ill of
him. We should do good to him or do nothing; speak well of him or be
silent; think the best of him or not at all; that thus, by the Lord’s
help, we should come into the life of Faith, Hope and Charity—the life
of love to the Lord and the neighbor, in which all men should live in
this world, and in which all should wish to enter the world beyond.

He told them the vast significance of this word “neighbor”; how it had
reached from the highest created being to the lowest; how he who
“needlessly set foot upon a worm,” sinned in the same manner, if not in
the same degree, as he who tortured or sacrificed a hero or a martyr.

He begged them to take this truth home with them that all might be the
better and the happier for it.

The sermon was followed by a fervent prayer, an inspiring hymn, in which
nearly all the congregation joined, and lastly, by the benediction.

Em. saw the blind preacher raise his radiant face toward heaven to
invoke the blessing, and she reverently bowed her head until he had
ceased to speak.

When she lifted it to look at him again he had disappeared and his
hearers were dispersing.

Em. turned inquiring eyes upon old Josias.

“He’s only dropped down in his chair, behind the rose-vines, honey.
Dat’s allers de way. ’Pears like arter de benediction he gibs right
out,” the old man explained.

“And you tell me that man is blind? ’Sias, I cannot realize it! Blind!
Why, ’Sias, how _could_ he be blind when, at several places in his
sermon that suited my case, he looked me right straight in the eyes as
if he pointed his words directly to me? How could he know I sat there
unless he could see me? How could he see me unless he had sight, and
very excellent sight, too?”

“Honey, I don’t know. Dat’s what ’stonishes us all; for dat’s de way he
looks at us all, right in our eyes, right into our hearts, too. I dunno
how it is. He is stone blind, dat is sartain sure, and yet he talks to
yer wid his eyes as plain as anybody can speak. Maybe, honey, _his
soul’s eyes sees your soul_; for he told us in one of his sermons how we
was all souls that had bodies to live in; and not bodies that had souls;
and how our souls were ourselves, and our bodies only our houses of
flesh, our clothing, our instrument, that we were always using up and
wearing out and having to repair by eating and drinking and breathing;
but how we ourselves never did wear out.”

“I should like to have heard that,” said Em., with a hungry look in her
eyes.

“’Nother time, honey, what do yer think he said? It was a hard sayin’
for us poor sinners, now I tell yer! He said the hardest resurrection
was the resurrection of our souls out of de death of selfishness.”

While the two had sat talking all the rest of the rural congregation had
separated and gone down by the various paths leading from the hill to
the shores of the island, all around which, at various landings, their
boats were moored.

At length the old man arose and put on his hat, saying:

“Come, honey.”

“Oh, Uncle ’Sias, don’t you think we might walk up these steps and walk
around the beautiful rose-wreathed piazza and see the lovely oriel
windows and balconies?” inquired Em. in a coaxing voice.

“Sartin sure, honey! Come along!” replied the good-natured old fellow,
leading the way.

Up they went to the elegant porch with its rows of white stone pillars,
wreathed around with climbing red and white roses, all in full bloom, on
the outer side, and adorned with rows of crystal windows on the inner
side. These windows had white shutters that closed within the house.

Em. looked at these closed shutters with the curiosity and longing of
Blue Beard’s wife when the latter contemplated the closed chamber.

“Would you like to see inside de house, honey?” demanded the old man.

“Oh! would I not?” exclaimed Em.

“Well, den you can, honey. De lady as owns it is the most free-hearted
lady as ebber you seed. She lets anybody walk ober and ober de island,
and t’rough and t’rough de house—less she dere herse’f, honey—den, to be
sure, she ’serves her private rooms. You sit down here, honey, at de
front door and wait for me, and I’ll go round to de housekeeper’s room,
which I knows her, and she’ll let you see de house if she can at my
recommend.”

“Oh, thank you, dear Uncle ’Sias. I will wait here joyfully until you
come back,” eagerly exclaimed Emolyn, as she seated herself on the
threshold of the front door.

The old man went down the front and around to the rear of the premises,
while Em., sitting on the threshold of this fairy palace, let her
delighted eyes rove around over rose-wreathed pillars, vine-clad
balconies, oriel windows, trellised terraces, flowery lawns, fountains,
statues, lakelets, groves and sparkling rivulets running down to the
river.

After a short absence the old man returned with a single key in his
hand, saying, as he twirled it in his fingers:

“I can show you de hall and de grand saloon, honey, and de drawing-rooms
and library, which are all on dis floor at dis front ob de house; but
all de oder rooms are closed and can’t be shown.”

“Is the lady at home, then?” inquired Em.

“No, honey.”

“Then why may we not see the whole of the house?”

“I dunno, chile; I didn’t ax her,” replied ’Sias, who was not so much
interested in the mystery as was the young questioner.

By this time he had slowly unlocked and opened the front door, admitting
them into the hall.

This hall was circular in shape, spacious in size and lofty in height,
reaching from the inlaid white marble floor to the crystal dome that
formed the roof and lighted the whole scene. Around the polished white
walls of this fair circle were doorways, hung with curtains of blue silk
and white lace, leading into many lovely rooms.

The old guide beckoned Em. to follow him, and pulling aside the blue and
white curtains of a doorway on his left, led the way into an oval-shaped
saloon, with an oval window in front and a semi-circular mirror exactly
opposite in the rear. This mirror was so artistically contrived that it
reflected all the varied island scenery from the oriel window, and gave
the saloon the appearance of being open and illimitable in length. This
beautiful room was furnished entirely in white and blue—the walls being
of polished white panels that shone like porcelain and having cornices
of blue; the side windows and doorways draped with blue silk and white
lace; the carpet white velvet bordered with blue; the chairs and sofas
covered with white velvet trimmed with blue; the stands and tables of
pure white marble tops, supported on blue-veined marble pedestals; the
statues and statuettes, both in groups and single pieces, all of Parian
marble; the jars and vases of blue Sèvres china. And what was still more
unique in its harmony, the pictures that filled up all the spaces
between the side doors and windows were framed in frosted silver plate,
and the subjects were all of a bright, aerial, happy type—“Spring,”
“Morning,” “Hope,” “Youth.”

Em., “embarrassed with the riches” of these beauties, gazed in delight
upon the whole room, and then began to examine the pictures, pausing in
a rapture of admiration before each.

But suddenly in her progress she started, uttered a slight cry and stood
perfectly still before a picture that hung between two lofty windows on
the side of the saloon opposite to the door leading into the hall.

It was the full-length portrait of a lady, tall, elegantly formed,
gracefully posed and clothed in white from head to foot; a white satin
robe that fell from her rounded bust to her feet and drifted about them
in soft white clouds; white satin hanging sleeves, open from the
shoulders and half revealing the shapely arms; and over all, head, bust
and waist, a large, flowing silver gauze veil that fell to her feet,
half concealing, half revealing the resplendant beauty of the head and
face with the bright, sun-gilded, auburn hair; with the perfect,
chiseled Grecian features, the snowwhite complexion and large, mournful
blue eyes half hidden under their snowy, drooping lids. The background
of this form was a deep, cloudless, twilight sky. There was nothing
else, nothing to divert attention from the beautiful, spiritual,
mysterious form of the lady.

Em. gazed upon it with breathless attention. It was not the spiritual
beauty and mystery of this veiled figure alone that fixed her gaze—it
was the “counterfeit presentment” of the moonlight apparition she had
seen in the old hall.

“Whose portrait is this?” she demanded in low, breathless tones of the
old man, who had come to her side.

“I dunno, honey, ’less it’s de White Spirit’s. Seems like it might be,
from all accounts of her,” replied ’Sias.

Em. said no more, but remained gazing fixedly at the picture, as she
would not have dared to gaze at the apparition.

Yes, it was the very same form! the very same features! the same sunlit,
auburn tresses! the same pure, clear-cut, alabaster profile! the same
large, drooping blue eyes—even the same flowing silver gauze veil and
white satin robe!

Em. shivered, half in terror, half in admiration, and felt for the
moment as if she should lose her reason.

Old ’Sias waited with exemplary patience, but as minute after minute
passed and the young girl stood there as motionless as if she had “taken
root,” the old man thought proper at last to break the spell by saying:

“Come, honey, it’s getting on to two o’clock. If yer want to see de
drawing-rooms and de library and de boody we’d better be a-movin’.”

“No, I will not look at anything else this morning,” said Em., with her
eyes still fixed upon the picture.

In his surprise old ’Sias stared at the spellbound girl, and then
suddenly uttered a loud exclamation that startled even her.

“Why, what is the matter, Uncle ’Sias?” she inquired, turning sharply
around.

“Oh, my law, honey!” cried the old man, staring first at her and then at
the picture.

“What is it, then?” she repeated.

“Oh, honey, de _likeness_! _de ’strornary likeness!_” exclaimed the
amazed old man.

“What likeness, Uncle ’Sias?” inquired Em.

“’Twixt you and de picter, honey!—’twixt you and de picter! Let alone de
diffunce in de clo’s, de picter is de image ob yer, honey! de same face,
de same eyes, de same hair! Well, law, I nebber did see such a likeness
’twixt two in all de days ob my life!”

“_Is_ the picture so much like me? How strange,” said Em. in perplexity
as she gazed at the portrait and tried to remember how her own face
looked in the glass; but could not do so.

“_Like_ yer, honey? Well, chile, I has libbed in dis yer sublunatic
speer for a hund’ed and fifty year, more or less, honey, more or less,
an’ I nebber see no sech a likeness before, dere!” solemnly replied the
old negro.

“It is very wonderful! but everything about the picture and—the lady,
too—is wonderful,” said Em., as her mind reverted to the apparition of
the night previous.

“Come, honey, I d’want to hurry yer; but de time is gettin’ on, an’
Sereny—I promised of her to get back to dinner at two o’clock, honey,
an’ Sereny do have sich a wiolent temper!” said old ’Sias uneasily.

“Sereny?” questioned Em.

“Yes, honey, Sereny; that’s my wife, my second one, chile, not my fust
one, as has passed away to de gloryland long ago, dough she wasn’t
nuffin nigh as old as I was; no, honey, Sereny is my young wife as I
took las’ year to keep me warm in my ole age—accordin’ to King David and
Abishey, honey, and true nuff, she _do_ keep me warm—wid her temper and
her tongue, let alone de broomstick and de hoe-helve, honey! An’ ef I
don’t get home by two o’clock, chile, I shall get hoe-helve ’stead of
hoe-cake for dinner, mine I tell you!” said the old man, sighing.

“Oh, let us hurry, then, and get back. I would not bring you into
trouble for anything in this world! But why do you let a young woman
treat a man of your venerable age so disrespectfully and cruelly?”
exclaimed Em., as she turned to follow her conductor from the saloon.

“Well, dare’s jes’ where it is! It’s _’cause_ ob my wenerable ole age!
I’m de weakest—in de body, honey! in de body! not in de mine! And she’s
de strongest—in de body, honey! in de body! not in de mine! and so she
gets de better ob me! And serb me right, too, come to think ob it! I had
no business to take Sereny! I wa’n’t no King David! And she had no
business to take me, which she did ’sake ob libbin’ in de purty
gate-lodge, so much purtier dan de log cabins de odder colored folks lib
in. But she keeps me warm—dat’s so—wid de broomstick and de hoe-helve!
But, patience! it can’t las’ forebber, and some ob dese days I shall go
to sleep down here an’ wake up in de glory land, where my _own_ ole
’oman is waitin’ for me,” concluded ’Sias as he carefully locked the
outside door; and then he went slowly down the steps and around to the
rear of the premises to restore the key to the housekeeper.

Em. remained standing where he had left her, with her eyes fixed upon
the ground, in a deep reverie, which continued unbroken until the return
of the old man, saying as he came up: “Now, den, honey, for de boat.”

Em. followed him down through the terraced grounds, with their arbors,
statues, fountains, parterres of flowers, groves and ponds, and then
through the wood of silver maples, and the fragrant, blooming wood of
acacias, to the sandy shore, where sat the little _White Dove_ brooding
on the waters.

Em. entered the boat and seated herself in the stern.

The old man followed her, hoisted the sail, and took the tiller in his
hand.

Leaving the lovely island behind he headed up stream and steered for the
Valley of the Wilderness. Now their course lay half way between the
river shores, having the lofty, rugged, gray, rocky precipices on their
right hand, and the beautiful, undulating green and wooded hills on
their left.

Their progress was a little slower up stream than it had been down, and
so it was near three o’clock when at length they landed at the foot of
the little dilapidated pier belonging to the old boat-house of the
Wilderness.

Old ’Sias secured his boat and followed Em., who was hurrying along the
woodland walk that led from the landing through the forest to the park
gate.

“Yes, honey, it is late. Sereny’ll be wiolent, I tell yer!” said ’Sias
as he came up quite breathlessly.

Em. heard him, and wondered how she might save the poor old man from
suffering at the hands of his Xantippe.

At length, without stopping in her hurried walk, she unpinned a pretty
new neck-tie that she wore on her white dress, smoothed out the folds
and rolled it up, saying to herself:

“Bright blue ribbons must be rare luxuries of dress in this Wilderness,
and if it does not mollify the temper of Madame Sereny, I do not know
what will!”

They reached the park gate at last and passed through.

And there, sure enough, at the door of the lodge stood the tall,
handsome mulatto woman called, or rather miscalled, Serena.

A heavy thunder-cloud was on her brow.

Her little, old, black dwarf of a husband shrank behind Em., who walked
smilingly up to the woman, saying frankly:

“See what I have brought you, as a testimonial of my gratitude to your
husband for taking me to the island to hear the blind preacher.”

And with these words she placed the bright blue scarf in the woman’s
hand.

Serena smiled, showing all her large, white, regular ivories, and said:

“Thanky, Miss. How purty! Dere ain’t sich a scaff in de whole county as
dis! ’Deed, I’m ebber so much obleeged to yer! Won’t yer come in an’
res’?”

“No, I thank you. I have to hurry home to my father and mother,” said
Em.

“Yes, honey, dat’s right, too! Be dutiful to yer parients. Thanky agin,
Miss! And if ebber, so be, yer want my ’Sias to take yer a rowin’ or a
sailin’, he’ll _do_ it, or I’ll know the reason why he _don’t_. Come in,
’Sias, honey, yer dinner’s all ready for yer,” concluded Sereny in a
tone of such good will that the old man smilingly followed her into the
lodge, while Em. hurried home feeling that all was well.




                               CHAPTER II
                               THE AGENT

                A man in middle age.
                Busy, and hard to please.       TAYLOR.


“Well, runaway! Where have you been all the morning?” briskly inquired
John Palmer as he ran down the front steps to meet his favorite daughter
as she came up the heavily-shaded avenue.

“To a lovely island down the river, father, to hear a—heavenly
minister!” exclaimed Em. with a burst of enthusiasm.

And then, as they strolled leisurely on to the house, she gave him,
after the manner of young girls, a rapid, impetuous, and graphic
description of her morning’s adventures and discoveries.

“An Edengarden and a White Spirit! Wery fantastical names, Em. And, I
reckon, just some of old ’Si’s yarns,” quietly observed John as they
entered the hall, where Susan and old Monica were busy setting the table
and preparing the frugal dinner.

“Gracious, Em., you’ve been away all day, and if it had not been for
that little black boy—Si’, he said his name was—a coming and telling me
you had gone to a preaching with his grandfather, I shouldn’t a known
what had become o’ you,” said Susan.

“But I wouldn’t have gone without sending you word, mother. And, oh! as
soon as ever we get quiet I have got _so_ much to tell you,” answered
Em., as she took the loaf of bread out of the good woman’s hand and
began to cut it in slices for the table.

The hall at this hour presented a very pleasant scene, both the front
and the back doors being open and admitting a free current of the fresh
summer air, laden with the fragrance of the wild woods which grew
closely all around the house.

From the midst of the hall arose that grand staircase with its lofty
window at the top, forevermore mysterious and memorable to Em. from the
ghostly vision of the night before.

Now, however, it looked a homely and familiar household object enough,
with the three little girls, Molly, Nelly and Venny running up and down
its richly-carpeted steps or sliding on the balustrades.

Em. looked up at the high window and at such doors in the upper hall as
came within the range of her sight, and with a natural curiosity,
wondered into what manner of places they led.

“Mother,” she at length inquired, “have you looked into any of the rooms
above there?”

“No, child, nor the rooms below, either. There hasn’t been a door opened
anywhere except into this hall. It is Sunday, you know, and neither me
nor your father believe in doing any more work than we can help on this
day, even if we have just arrived at a strange place,” replied Susan
Palmer.

Em. fell into silent and self-reproachful thought, wondering whether she
had not committed a sin and broken the Sabbath by going to look at the
lovely white palace on the island.

“Don’t you like to live here, Em.? Ain’t it jolly? Ain’t this a splendid
old hall? I would like to stay here always, even if they didn’t give us
any more of the house to live in than just this. Wouldn’t you?” inquired
her youngest brother, Tom, who had just come in with a pail of fresh
water from the well.

“Oh, it’s bully! It’s like a picnic or camp-meeting what Aunt Monica
used to tell us about,” chimed in Ned, who was piling up a little heap
of brush in a corner.

“I hope they’ll let us stay just here, where we can slide on the
banisters all day long,” sung out little Nelly from her perch on the
stairs.

“Them children will break their necks! John, can’t you make them come
down and behave themselves? They don’t mind me one bit!” cried out Mrs.
Palmer, pausing in the midst of slicing cold ham.

“Lor’, Susan, woman, young uns is like kittens and monkeys. It is their
natur’ to climb. ‘Sich is life;’ and it’s cruel to perwent ’em; besides,
these poor things never had a chance to climb in all their lives
before.”

“And now they’ll go it, you may depend! They’ll be swarming up all these
trees like bees before the week is out if you encourage them so.”

“Well, I hope they will. It will do ’em good. ‘Sich is life,’” concluded
aggravating John.

All this time Em. had made no remark, but was silently putting the
dinner on the table. It was a cold dinner of bread, butter, ham, pies
and well water; for neither Susan nor John would have any cooking done
on Sunday.

“I think I like this gypsy sort of life myself,” said John as he began
to drag the heavy, high-backed oaken chair from the wall up to the
table.

They were all about to sit down to dinner when they were interrupted by
the sudden entrance of a little, elderly, dark-skinned man with snapping
black eyes, a brisk manner, a quick step and a short tone.

All the family started up.

“‘Sich is life,’” said John.

“Well-well-well!” the intruder exclaimed, running his words together in
swift repetition. “Well-well-well! So here you are at last! So here you
are at last!”

“Yes, sir,” said John Palmer, rising and saluting the stranger who had
taken him so much by surprise. “Yes, sir, we reached here all right. You
are the agent of the property, I presume, sir—Mr. Comical?”

“_Car_-michael, man! _Car_-michael! But what the deuce are you doing
here in the grand hall? Grand hall—grand hall—grand hall! Eh-eh-eh?”
quickly demanded the brisk little man.

“Excuse me, sir. ‘Sich is life.’ We are doing no harm. We reached here
last night too late to do anything more than to throw ourselves down
here. This being the Sabbath day, we could not make a change without
breaking the commandment; but to-morrow we will go into the quarters
provided for us, if you will kindly direct us where they are,” said
John.

“I see! I see! I see! And meantime you are cooking your dinners on the
very hearths where the old cavalier lords of the manor used only to
roast their own shins! Well-well-well! I suppose it can’t be helped for
to-day—to-day—to-day!” replied the nervous little old man with rapid
reiteration.

“You have likely had a long ride this morning, sir. Won’t you sit up and
take some dinner?” inquired John politely.

“I thank you! Yes-yes-yes! I believe I will! I believe I will!” said the
agent frankly, taking the chair that one of the boys vacated for him.

“That is my wife, sir,” said John, indicating the good woman at the head
of the table.

“Yes-yes-yes! So I should have supposed! I hope you are very well,
ma’am!” exclaimed the quick visitor, and then, without waiting for an
answer, he turned to his host, and pointing with his fork to Mrs.
Whitlock, said: “And the other respectable old party, your
mother-in-law? mother-in-law? mother-in-law?”

“No, though she do lectur’ me to that extent, she might as well be,”
laughed John as he resumed his place at the foot of the table and helped
his guest to ham.

“Well-well-well!” said the agent after he had taken the edge off his
appetite with several slices of bread and ham. “Well-well! as your
conscience will not permit you to move on Sunday, and as I can’t stay
here till Monday, I’ll just indicate where you are to lodge yourself and
family. It is in the rear of the manor-house. We call it The Red Wing.”

“Yes, sir, I know exactly the place you mean. It is just under the
shadow of the mountain and is built of a different colored stone from
the rest of the house—a red stone.”

“Yes-yes-yes! Very fine specimen of old red sandstone, while the main
building is of blue limestone. You’ll do, you’ll do, you’ll do! And now
I will give you this paper, which contains full instructions as to your
duties here, and I will leave it with you for reference,” said the
agent, handing over to John a very formidable looking document in a
long, yellow envelope, tied with red tape.

“I will study this to-morrow morning,” said Palmer, stowing it away in
the breast pocket of his coat.

“I will rest here until the heat of the day is over, and then leave my
horse here and take a fresh one and return-return-return,” said the
agent as they all arose from the table when the frugal meal was ended.

Leaving the women to clear away the table, John Palmer and his guest
walked down on the front lawn, if lawn that could be called which was so
thickly covered with trees as to be only the skirt of the deep forest
that lay between the house and the river.

“You spoke about your horse. I hope he is taken care of, sir. If so it
had a been that I had knowed when you first came I’d a taken care of him
myself,” said Palmer apologetically.

“Oh, don’t bother, don’t bother!” exclaimed the visitor as he threw
himself down at full length under one of the large shade trees, took a
pipe and pouch of tobacco from his pocket, filled and lighted the pipe
from a match, and began to smoke, continuing to talk between his whiffs.

“Bless you, man, I’m more at home here, more at home, more at home than
you are. I just rode around to the stable, gave my horse to Seth, the
head groom, and then walked on to the house. The horse belongs here. I
have none of my own, none of my own; but I have the privilege of using
these, using these. I shall take a fresh one, a fresh one, a fresh one,
when I go back. But, sit down, man, sit down, sit down. I want to talk
to you about something else, and it tires me to see you standing.”

John seated himself under the tree at some little distance from the
agent, who then, lowering his tone, inquired:

“Slept in the house last night, didn’t you? Slept in the house, slept in
the house?”

“Yes,” replied John. “I told you so, you know.”

“Yes-yes-yes-yes! So you did! Hem! See anything unusual?”

“Sir?” inquired John in a bewilderment.

“See anything unsual—unusual—unusual?” rapidly reiterated the little
man, fixing his keen black eyes on Palmer’s face.

“I beg pardon. I—I don’t understand,” said John.

“Any disturbance in the night—any fright-fright-fright?”

“Not in the least. But now that reminds me that the same question was
asked by old ’Si, the gate-porter, this morning! But I answered him as I
answer you: nothing disturbed us. As far as I know we all slept like
tops—we always do. What _should_ have disturbed us?”

“Nothing-nothing-nothing! Bats, mice, wind! Nothing more, _I_ verily
believe! But there are a lot of idiots who have got a story up about the
old manor-house being haunted-haunted-haunted!”

“Rubbish!” said John with all the strong contempt of a practical man for
the supernatural.

“So I say, so I say.”

“But I wish, for all that, no one would hint any sich a thing to the
women and girls. It might trouble them. ‘Sich is life.’”

“No-no-no-no! But even if such a rumor should reach their ears it need
not alarm them. It is only the old manor-house that the fools say is
full of ghosts, ghosts, ghosts! Not the wing, not the wing!”

While the two men talked together they perceived the slow approach of
some figure through the trees, which soon revealed itself to be old
’Sias, the gatekeeper.

“Well, well, old man, what do you want? What do you want?” demanded the
agent, ill-pleased at the intrusion.

“Nothing werry particular, marster; only to pay my dispects to yer, sar,
and I no more knowin’ as you was here till dat boy Seth told me! I
nebber was more s’prised in my life, no, not since I was a boy, and dat
wa’n’t yes’day, marster! Dat must a been a hundred and fifty year ago,
more or less!”

“Humph-humph-humph! To hear _you_ talk, old man, one would think you
might remember Noah’s flood,” said the agent.

“Well, no, marster, not quite: but _I_ s’pects my grand-daddy did; ’caze
I has heerd him ’scribe it, when he was a little boy,” gravely replied
the old man.

“Yes-yes-yes. I see! Mendacity comes to you quite legitimately, handed
down from father to son,” said the agent.

“Yes, sar, so it do indeed, marster, sar, and few colored fam’lies is as
much favored in dat ’spect as ours,” said old ’Sias so innocently that
the agent looked half ashamed of himself.

To change the subjects, as well as to utilize the old man, Mr.
Carmichael said:

“Well, now that you are here, ’Sias, do me the favor to walk down to the
stable and tell Seth to saddle Saladin for me, and bring him around
here.”

“Yes, marster, wid de greatest pleasure in life,” said ’Sias, moving
off.

“And here-here-here! Come back here! Here’s a dollar for a present to
buy tobacco pipes with,” added Carmichael, thrusting the broad silver
coin in his hand.

“Thanky, marster, a thousand times, and I hab the hoss round here for
yer in no time. T’anks be to goodness, Sereny don’t know nuffin’ ’tall
’bout my habbin’ ob _dis_ money! Ain’t me and her been in de way ob
getting presents to-day? She a sky-blue scarf, and me dis here dollar!
But, dere! I ain’t a gwine to let Sereny know nuffin’ ’tall ’bout dis
here dollar. ’Cause if I did—hush, honey!—she’d dance a war-dance ’round
me, and scalp de top o’ my head off but what she’d hab every blessed
cent ob it,” muttered the old man to himself as he carefully stowed away
his prize in the lowest recesses of his trowsers’ pocket and hurried
away down a little foot-path leading through the thicket in the
direction of the stables.

While waiting for his horse the agent occupied the time in giving the
new overseer some general information about the situation. He told
Palmer that the Wilderness Manor had always been in the possession of
the Elphine family; but that the last male descendant of the race had
suddenly left the house on the marriage of his cousin, many, many years
before, and had lived abroad; that very lately he had died in Paris,
unmarried and intestate, and the manor had fallen to the only daughter
of that cousin whose marriage he had taken in such high dudgeon.

He went on to say that this lady—whose confidential agent he, Peter
Carmichael, was—had come in person to visit her new inheritance, and
finding the old manor-house going to ruin from neglect, she had directed
him to find a suitable family to take charge of it; and that he had
advertised and found the present family, with whom, he added, he was
very well “pleased-pleased-pleased.”

He concluded by saying that he was a lawyer by profession and a bachelor
by choice, and that he lived at the Red Deer Hotel in the town of
Greyrock, about thirty miles down the river, and that he rode up weekly
to look after the estate, always changing horses when he went back.

Then, as he saw the stable boy, Seth, coming up the narrow path and
leading Saladin, he arose to take leave, requesting John Palmer to bid
good-by to the family for him, and promising to ride over again on the
ensuing Saturday.

“It’ll be ten o’clock before Mr. Comical gets home, and he’ll have to
ride fast to do that,” said John as he stepped into the large hall,
which he found put in order for the night, with all the pallets spread.

“Has that funny old fellow gone?” inquired Susan as she arose from
putting the last smoothing touches on the children’s bed.

“Yes, and he asked me to bid you all good-by for him.”

“Well, now all is done here, we’ll go out and sit under the trees, and I
hope this is the very last night we shall have to sleep in the hall. It
is a perfectly savage way of living!”

“Oh! I think it’s just _nice_!”

“It’s real jolly!”

“It’s first-rate fun!”

“I’d rather live this way than any way!”

Such was the chorus of exclamations from the children that answered
their mother’s remarks.

“Difference of opinion; but ‘sich is life,’” said John.

“_Do_ hush your noise, Palmer! You distract me with your clatter!”
scolded Susan as she hurried the children out of the house.

“I wasn’t making the least bit. She and the young uns was making it all,
and I get the blame: ‘sich is life,’” said John as he followed them out.

But there was no malice in Susan Palmer’s hasty speeches, and her
husband knew it well.

All was harmony in the family circle as they sat under the trees, John
smoking his white clay pipe, and the children amusing themselves with
picking the grass-flowers that grew thickly around them.

“Is _this_ country enough for you, Em.?” inquired John Palmer for the
second time, as he looked at his daughter, who was sitting on the ground
with her hands clasped around her knees, and with her eyes fixed upon
the forest, through whose waving branches, glimmering here and there,
could be caught glimpses of the distant river.

“Oh, father, it is almost divine! I sometimes wonder if we are not all
dead and in Paradise together. Maybe we were all suffocated in our
burning house that night, you know, and have come to life in Paradise!”
dreamily replied the girl.

“Em., hush! you’re crazy!” broke in Susan Palmer.

“Well, mother, anyway we _are_ dead to the old life in Laundry Lane, and
are risen to this,” said Em., smiling.

“_That’s_ what she means, Susan. Law, _I_ understood the girl!” said
Palmer heartily.

“Oh, yes! I dessay you do, John, and you encourage her in her flights
just as you do the little ones in their climbing. The end of which will
be you will have a crazy girl and three or four crippled children!”
chimed in Ann Whitlock.

“No wonder Mr. Comical took her for my mother-in-law!” muttered John to
himself. “And now I come to think of it, it is all providential—having
no mother-in-law of my own, Mrs. Whitlock fell right into the place to
fill up the wacancy! ‘Sich is life!’” laughed John to himself.

They sat out under the trees until their early bedtime, and then they
all returned to the house. The women and children entered first and
retired, and then the man and the boys.

Em., not wishing a repetition of her last night’s experience, had made
her pallet in the rear of the grand staircase, and close by the back
door, which was left wide open for air.

As usual with this hard-working and healthy family, as soon as their
heads dropped upon their pillows they fell fast asleep.

Even Em.—who would have kept her eyes open if she could, for the
pleasure of looking out from her pallet through the open door upon the
waving trees, the gray rocks beyond and the starlit sky above, soon
succumbed to fatigue and slept soundly.

The vigils of the last night and the exertions of the past day had
completely exhausted the girl, and produced a prolonged sleep of many
hours.

It must have been very near day when at last she calmly opened her eyes.

The moon was shining over the top of the mountain and down through the
waving trees and making their shadows dance upon the floor of the hall
and on the white quilt of Em.’s pallet.

All else was still in the place.

“This is beautiful, beautiful,” said the girl, watching the graceful
shadows of the leaves dance and fly over her outspread hands. She knew
the moon was also shining through the lofty window at the head of the
stairs and flooding the stairway and front hall with light where she had
seen the radiant vision of the night. She felt glad that she had moved
her pallet, for she thought that visions would not be likely to appear
anywhere else except in that splendor of light.

Hush! What was that?

Her ears had caught the sound of a soft foot-fall approaching,
accompanied by the slight _swish_ of a trailing garment along the floor.
The sound drew nearer.

Horror of horrors! What is this?

No radiant form of light now! but a demon of darkness from the pit! a
tall figure shrouded in black from head to foot, with a muffled face of
which nothing could be seen but a pair of fierce, dark eyes that seemed
to shine and gleam by their own fires!

Em.’s blood curdled in her heart; she tried to cry out! to spring up! to
fly for her life! but she could neither move, speak, nor breathe!

The terrible form drew nearer, stood beside her pallet, stooped over
her.

That was too much, and the girl swooned with horror.




                              CHAPTER III
                              THE RED WING

               Face to face with the true mountains,
                 Standing silently and still,
               Drawing strength from fancy’s dauntings,
                 From the air about the hill,
               And from nature’s open mercies,
                 And most debonair good will.
                                         E. B. BROWNING.


When Em. recovered her consciousness it was broad daylight, and the old
hall and the woods around it were full of the jubilant sounds of
awakening life.

John and his two boys had slipped out to wash and dress themselves in
the back premises, leaving the hall to the sole possession of the women
and girls.

Em. instantly recollected her frightful vision of the night; but, true
to her resolution of silence on the subject of the haunted house, she
refrained from speaking of it, while she inwardly thanked Heaven that
she had passed her very last night in the ghostly hall.

She arose with alacrity, rolled up her pallet, and put it out of the
way, dressed herself and began to assist her mother in clearing up the
hall for breakfast. It was a lively scene, like the general getting up
in the morning from the cabin of a steamboat.

“Why, my girl, you overdid yourself yesterday, you did! You look as pale
as a ghost this morning! Just go and sit down in that arm-chair, and
don’t attempt to do a hand’s turn to-day,” said Susan Palmer on seeing
her daughter’s pallid countenance and languid air.

But Em. declared that she was able to work, and begged to be allowed to
do her share.

The hall was quickly set in order. John and the boys brought in wood and
water; old Monica kindled the fire; Mrs. Whitlock filled the kettle;
Susan Palmer set the table; and Em. cut the bread and meat.

As “many hands make labor light,” the breakfast was soon prepared, and,
with the keen appetite bestowed by the pure mountain air, it was soon
consumed.

As they were about to rise from the table a shadow crossed the front
door and the odd little figure of the old gatekeeper entered the hall,
and in such a plight that his appearance was greeted with a general
exclamation from the company present; but before any one could ask a
question the old man walked up to the new overseer and said meekly:

“If yer please, Marster John, Mr. Comical, as he passed out de gate
yes’day, tole me to come up here dis mornin’ and help yer to get
righted, and show you t’rough de Red Wing, case you couldn’t find your
own way.”

“Thank you, ’Si; your help will be very acceptable. But, man alive,
what’s happened to you?” inquired John, gazing with surprise and pity on
the battered veteran who stood there with his clothes torn to ribbons,
his eye black, his nose swelled, and his scalp bleeding from where a
lock of hair had been pulled out by the roots.

“He looks as if he had been blowed up by a steam-boiler!” said Tom.

“Or run over by a locomotive,” added Ned.

“He looks to me more as if he had had an interview with a wild cat,”
suggested Em., half in pity, half in humor.

“But what on earth _is_ the matter with you, man?” repeated John.

“Well, ver see, marster, Sereny has been performin’ on me,” quietly
replied ’Sias.

“_What?_” demanded John.

“Sereny has been performin’ on me, sar. Dancin’ of a war-dance over me,
marster; it is Sereny’s little way she has, Marster John. Only, dis time
’pears like she has scalp’ me worse ’an I ebber was scalp’ since I was a
boy, and dat was a hundred and fifty years ago, marster, more or less,
more or less, sar.”

“But who the mischief is Sereny?”

“My young wife, marster; dat young yaller gal yer might see at de
gate-house any time passing,” meekly replied old ’Sias.

“But what on earth did she abuse you for?” demanded John.

“Marster, yer know dat dollar yer see Mr. Comical gib me?”

“Yes.”

“Well, marster, dat Sereny hab got a nose like a rat-terrier for
smellin’ out things. Jes’ ’cause Mr. Comical come on a visit to de
place, and I went up to pay my dispects to him; Sereny suspicioned him
gibbin’ me money, an’ soon’s ever he was gone she up an’ ’cuse me ob it
to my face, an’ tell me to ’liber dat money up to my lawful wife. I
didn’t want to gib all dat money, ’cause I knowed she’d heabe it all
away on finery, an’ sich trash, first chance she got, so I wouldn’t
’fess as I had any. An’ den she tried to sarch me, an’ I ’sisted her,
an’ den she began to perform on me an’ dance a war-dance round me, an’
tomahawk an’ scalp me, an’ bein’ so much youngern stronger’n I am, she
got the better o’ me an’ took all my money——”

“And left you in this condition?”

“Yes, sar; which it’s a little way Sereny’s had ebber since I married of
her.”

“But what in the world tempted an old man like you to take a young
wife?”

“Yes, sar; dat’s jis’ where it is. In de old ages of my pilgrimage I did
take a young gal for a wife, according to King David and Abishey, to
keep me warm in my old days—which warm she _do_ keep me, sar, as yer may
see for yerself, my head is all of an inf’amation now wid de warmin’ up
she gib me yes’day. An’ I offen do wonder to myself, thinking of my own
thoughts inside of myself, how was dat de way young Abishey kept ole
King David warm—wid de broomstick an’ de hoe handle, let alone sometimes
de shovel and de tongs also,” said the old man in reflective tone.

“Well, I never heard that preached on, as ever I can remember; but now
you put it to me, I should not wonder if it was so; for ‘sich is life,’
you see,” gravely replied John. And then, after a few moments of quiet
thought, he added:

“But, ’Si, this catamount of yours shall not be let to clapper-claw your
body off your soul! I’ll see to it ’Sias! I’ll see to it!”

“Now, Marse John, don’t yer do no sich a thing. Don’t yer go interferin’
’tween man an’ wife, ’tain’t no good! I don’t want no white man to
interfere ’tween me an’ Sereny, an’ any colored ge’man try to do it—well
dere! Sereny’d settle _him_! Now, Marse John, I is ready for any sarvice
as yer would like to have me to do, an’ _able_ for it, too! Dese here
woun’s and bruzes is all on the outside, an’ looks worse dan dey feels.
To be sure de head is de worse, for it do feel mighty hot: but den it is
also mighty hard. I was born wid a hard head, marster, so dey used to
tell me, an’ it’s been gettin’ harder an’ harder ebery year all my life,
for a hund’ed and fifty year, more or less, marster; till now it’s done
got dat hard as it can stan’ even Sereny’s broomstick and hoe handle. So
now I is ready for yer, marster,” cheerfully concluded this war-worn
veteran.

John Palmer had taken out his paper of instructions and was reading
them.

“Here we are,” he exclaimed, folding up and replacing the document in
his pocket. “Here is our first duty, in the first line, to open and air
the house from garret to cellar, to build small wood fires in every
chimney, to burn out the cobwebs and dry the dampness; afterwards to
take time and thoroughly clean the house. Well! the opening and airing
and fire-kindling will be enough to begin with to-day. It will take us
until noon, and then we must move into our own quarters in the Red Wing.
Now, then, suppose we begin with the rooms on this floor? What do you
say, Susan?”

“Certainly, John—unlock the doors! We are every one of us _aching_ to
see the closed parlors,” answered the woman.

John gave the big bunch of keys to old ’Sias, saying:

“As you know the locks better than I do, you must unlock the doors for
us.”

The old man selected a key, fitted it, and opened a door on the right
hand and admitted the whole party to a long, dark, sombre drawing-room,
whose close air and musty smell immediately drove the women and children
back into the hall, leaving only John and old ’Sias to enter together.

“We’ll soon alter this, ’Si,” said Palmer as he went to one of the front
windows, threw up the sash, and with some effort withdrew the rusty
bolts and opened the heavy shutters.

Old ’Sias had meanwhile pushed back the sliding doors across the middle
of the room and was now performing the same service at the back windows.

And soon floods of light and currents of air poured into the
long-disused apartment.

“This must have been the ball-room, from its size,” said John, staring
down the long saloon that reached the whole length from front to back of
the house.

“Well, sar, it were mostly used for company and parties.”

“You can come in now, Susan; the air is good enough.”

The whole troop poured into the room and began to walk about and stare
with wide open eyes.

The waxed oaken floor had no carpet, or a carpet of thick dust only. The
dark, oak-paneled walls were decorated with a few fine pictures, one of
which immediately attracted the attention of Em. It hung in a very rich
and very dusty gilt frame, between the two front windows, and it reached
from the floor to the ceiling.

It was the full length, life size portrait of a lady in the costume of
the time of Queen Elizabeth—a bright blue satin dress, richly
embroidered with silver thread and lavishly trimmed with lace and decked
with gems. It was made with the long, tight waist, full, short, puffed
sleeves, and high, standing ruff of the period.

The hair was dressed in large masses of ringlets on each temple, and
surmounted by a close cap of bright blue velvet, embroidered with
silver, edged with a row of large pearls, and brought down to a peak on
the top of the forehead, and widened out in loops over each mass of
curls upon the temples. A mantle of ermine drooped from the graceful
shoulders, leaving bare the beautiful neck, framed in with its high
standing ruff, and adorned with a necklace of many rows of pearls. Long
ear-drops and broad bracelets of pearls completed the set. The
background of the picture was the cushioned steps and canopied chair of
a throne, and gleaming and glowing with crimson velvet and gold.

It was a very gorgeous and brilliant picture, full of light and color.
But it was not the rich dress, splendid jewels or royal surroundings of
the court lady that held the eyes of the spellbound girl—it was the
lovely face! the same in its delicate outlines, fair, spirituelle
beauty, clear blue eyes and sunny hair—the very same with that of the
white-veiled picture she had seen in the palace on the island.

But how different the costume and surroundings! One, adorned with the
most superb robes and splendid jewels in the magnificent court of
Elizabeth.

The other, arrayed from veiled head to hidden feet in spotless white,
with nothing but clouds for a background, might have been a spirit or a
woman of any time or country.

Yet the faces were the same.

“Uncle ’Sias,” whispered Em., “can you tell me whose portrait this is?”

“Yes, honey, dat’s one ob de aunt-sistresses ob de ole family,” answered
the gatekeeper.

“The _what_? The aunt-sis—Oh! do you mean ancestress?” inquired the
puzzled girl.

“Yes, honey, aunt-sistress. She were a great lady in her time, but it
was a long, long time ago, more ’an a hund’ed and fifty years ago, I
reckon.”

“Oh, yes! the costume of the lady shows the picture must be three
hundred years old, and must have been brought from England in the
earliest settlement of this country.”

“Very likely, honey! Anyway, she were a great lady. Lady—less see
now—what’s dat dey did call dat pictur’? Lady Em-Emmer-Emmerlint!”

“‘Emolyn!’” exclaimed our girl, turning and looking full upon the
speaker.

“Yes, honey! dat was it! Emmerlint! _Lady_ Emmerlint, dey called her!
And now I looks at dat pictur’ right good, oh, my gracious me alibe,
honey!” cried the old man, staring at the picture and then staring at
Em.

“Why, what’s the matter _now_?”

“De likeness, honey! De mos’ ’strorna’ry likeness!”

“Oh!” exclaimed Em. suddenly, “I remember that you said that the
portrait that you saw in the island palace was like me, too.”

“So I did, honey. Bofe is like you and like each oder, dough I nebber
would o’ noticed it if you hadn’t been by. Well, it is de mos’
’strorna’ry fing as ebber I seed since I was a boy, and dat was a
hund’ed and fifty years ago, more or less, honey.”

At this moment John Palmer called old ’Sias to attend him through the
other rooms.

The whole party then left the long drawing-room, crossed the hall and
went into the south wing, which was made up on this floor of family
parlor, library, sitting-room, dining-room, and conservatory—all except
the latter having paneled oak walls and polished oak floors, and being
furnished with the heavy, highly ornate tables, chairs, escritoires,
screens, and sofas of a past century.

Having thrown open all the windows in this wing the party proceeded up
the great staircase, followed by old ’Sias, who, on the landing, passed
the others and unlocked the chamber doors and opened the windows. Here
were long suites of bed-rooms and dressing-rooms, all with the darkly
polished oak floors and the oak-paneled walls, and heavy, black walnut,
four-post bedsteads, with lofty canopies; and broad walnut presses with
innumerable drawers and cupboards; deep, high-backed, softly-cushioned,
easy chairs; high, semi-circular, curtained toilet tables, curious,
old-fashioned china ewers and basins, and many other things, interesting
from their oddity or antiquity. But everything was covered with dust,
veiled with cobwebs, and redolent of must and mice.

Indeed, often, on opening a door, the intruder would be startled by the
rapid scuttling away of rats or mice, and sometimes, near a chimney, by
the flitting out of a bat.

“_They_ are the ghosts that haunt the house, I reckon, ’Sias,” said John
Palmer in a low voice to the old guide.

’Sias shook his solemn old head and said nothing.

Em. overheard the remark and shuddered. She remembered the radiant
apparition of the first night and the horrible spectre of the last, and
to her the whole of these vast, dark, dreary rooms wore a ghostly
aspect.

They visited the attic and the back buildings.

And then, while the women and girls returned to the hall to prepare
dinner, John, old ’Sias, and the boys brought light wood and kindled
little fires in all the chimneys to dry the rooms and destroy the must.

“And, now,” said Palmer, “we’ll get a bite of dinner and then go into
our new home.”

“Yes, marster,” replied old ’Sias; “which I hope, sar, you’ll find to
yer satisfaction.”




                               CHAPTER IV
                                RED WING

              A rude dwelling, built by whom or when,
              None of the ancient mountain people knew.
                                                    SCOTT.


Red Wing was a misnomer, since it was not really a wing, but a separate
building, on the northeast corner of the manor-house and much older than
the old hall.

Tradition said that it had been erected by the Elphines immediately
after their arrival at the Wilderness, and had been their dwelling for
some years before the more imposing edifice had been raised.

Subsequently it had been used as kitchen, scullery, laundry, and
servants’ hall and lodging.

But since the self-expatriation of the last of the Elphines the Red
Wing, like the Old Hall, had been shut up and deserted.

Now it was to be opened to accommodate the new overseer and his family.

All this was explained to John Palmer by old ’Sias, as he led the way to
the house, followed by the whole party.

They left the hall by the back door, and passing through the back yard
turned to the left, where, nearly hidden by high trees, and immediately
under the shadow of the rocky precipice, stood the old Red Wing.

’Sias, going before, opened the door, entered and threw open all the
windows to the light and air, and great need there was to do this, for
the old Red Wing was pervaded by a heavier fixed air and a deeper
dampness and a stronger smell of mould than had hung about the closed
manor-house.

This building was of two stories, with cellar and attic. There were four
rooms on each floor, with a passage running from front to back between
them.

The rooms were large, with low ceilings, broad, low windows and very
wide fireplaces. They were filled up with the oldest fashioned
furniture, much of it rickety and worm-eaten—all of it covered with dust
and mould.

John, old ’Sias and the boys bestirred themselves briskly, brought pine
cones, dried brush and other combustibles and quickly built fires in all
the chimneys.

“Now, Marse John,” said old ’Sias, “as I’ve ’stalled you inter yer new
house I’ll be going. It’s mos’ Sereny’s tea time, and I couldn’t stand
another scalping.”

“Very well, old man, go. You have done quite work enough to-day for one
of your age,” said John kindly.

“_We’ve_ got work enough for a week to come, cleaning up the old place,”
exclaimed Susan Palmer when ’Sias had disappeared.

“Never mind, mother. There are ten of us to do it, and we shall soon get
through; and oh, think what a lovely, roomy old house this is; and how
beautiful outside. The trees overshadow the roof, and from the back
windows you can almost stretch out your hand and touch the rocky
precipice,” said Em., brightly.

“Let’s see, now,” said John, looking around himself. “There are four
rooms on this floor. This one we are in is the kitchen, in course; and
well supplied it is with cupboards and dressers. The room next to this
must be your bedroom, Susan, my dear, because it will be convenient to
the kitchen, and, besides, it will save your back, running up and down
stairs. Across the passage is two rooms—the front one, opposite your
bedroom, must be for the parlor, and the back one, opposite this
kitchen, for our family room. How rich we are in space, Susan. Plenty of
space and air for all the family. What a blessing! Well, and now the
four rooms upstairs. Em., you shall take your choice there, and have a
room all to yourself.”

“Oh, father, if I might choose, and mother pleases, I would like to have
the attic. It is all one great room, running from front to back, you
know, and I don’t mind climbing.”

“Very well, then your mother must sort the four chambers upstairs among
the children and the two old women as she sees fit. Now, who in the
world is this?” exclaimed John, as a little, old colored woman, who
looked like ’Sias in petticoats, entered the kitchen.

“Ebenin’, mist’ess; ebenin’, marster; ebenin’, young uns. Hopes you’ll
’scuse me. I jus’ come to look in on y’ all, to see how you’re gettin’
’long.”

“You are quite welcome. Take a seat,” said John.

“Who are you, and what is your name?” inquired Susan.

“I’m yer Uncle ’Sias’ onliest sister, Aunt Sally, yer know, honey. Yes,
honey, Aunt Sally; that’s my name. I only come to see yer all outen good
will, honey. I don’t mean no harm, honey; I never does mean no harm. I
never does nothin’ to nobody,” meekly explained the little old woman as
she sank into an old-fashioned stuffed easy-chair that Em. placed for
her.

“You are ’Sias’ sister?” inquired Susan.

“Yes, honey, Uncle ’Sias’ sister, honey; Aunt Sally. But you needn’t be
feared of me, honey. I never does nothin’ to nobody.”

“You don’t look so old as ’Sias,” said John, scrutinizing the little,
old woman.

“Yes, marster, you’re right, honey. ’Sias do look old since he married
that young gal, Sereny. But he don’t mean no harm, honey. He never does
nothin’ to nobody.”

“’Sias says he’s a hundred and fifty years old, ‘more or less,’” laughed
Em.

“I know ’Sias do say that. I don’t know what make him say that. ’Sias
ain’t no more’n eighty-five. That’s my age, and we is twins.”

“You and ’Sias twins?” exclaimed Susan.

“Yes, honey; that’s what makes us bofe so little, I reckon; but we don’t
mean no harm by it. We nebber does nothin’ to nobody; me and ’Sias
don’t.”

“I’m sure you don’t. Be satisfied. We are not disposed to think evil of
you,” said John.

“I do thank you for that ’pinion, marster; an’ it a true one; ’cause we
nebber does nothin’ to nobody. An’ now I’ll go. Ebenin’, sar; ebenin’,
ma’am; ebenin’, young people. I’s gwine now.”

And with these last words the queer little old woman took leave and went
away.

The strong, industrious and hard-working Palmers, toiling together, soon
got their pleasant house in perfect order. And then they began to
realize how, without actually possessing wealth, they had come into all
the practical enjoyment of it.

John’s duty was very light—it was only to look after the plantation; but
not to take any part in the hard labor. Susan’s office was still
lighter—to look after the women servants and see that the manor-house
was kept clean and well aired, and that all the work in their department
was well done.

In compensation the Palmers had the free use of the comfortable house,
six hundred dollars a year, and all the family provisions from the
plantation that the household might require; and lastly, the privilege
of “exercising” the horses in the stable, either under the saddle or
before one of the rather dilapidated old carriages.

The granaries supplied them with abundance of bread-stuffs; the dairies
with milk, cream and butter; the barnyard with poultry; the droves of
cattle and flocks of sheep with meat; the river below them with fish;
the garden with vegetables; the orchard with fruit, and the bee-hives
with honey; for, although the manor-house had been utterly neglected,
the farms and stock had been tolerably well kept up by the negroes,
under the occasional supervision of the agent.

Besides all this, John and Susan had the privilege of selecting two
servants, a man and a woman, from the plantation for their own family
service—a privilege which they had not as yet availed themselves of,
having help enough within their own household.

There were so many hands, indeed, that all their work was quietly and
easily done, leaving them much leisure for rest and recreation.

John Palmer took the women and children in the capacious old carry-all
for long drives along the banks of the river or through the forest.

Em. and the two boys learned to ride so well that they could always
attend the carry-all on horseback.

Em. usually rode a little, silver-gray horse, which was her favorite
because it united the rare qualities of swiftness, gentleness, and
spirit, and which she named Pearl. She liked, on a fine summer
afternoon, to ride beside the carriage in going through the forest or
along the river banks and to listen or reply to the happy chatter of the
delighted children; but she liked even more than that to mount her
little horse and go for a solitary ride on the mountain, to explore
narrow, hidden, and forgotten paths, to startle the deer from its leafy
couch, or the eagle, screaming, from its dizzy perch; to find new Edens
of light and beauty, and even new Hades of gloom and grandeur.

Em. enjoyed this life in the Wilderness more than any other member of
the family did, though they were all happier than they had ever been
before.

There was, indeed, but one cloud on the sunshine of their lives—they
missed the pleasure of attending divine service on Sundays.

There was no church within thirty miles of the manor-house.

Certainly, by getting up at four o’clock on Sunday mornings and
harnessing two of the strongest draught horses to the largest carry-all,
John might have taken his family to Greyrock Chapel in time for the
morning service, at eleven o’clock, but that he had conscientious
scruples on the subject. He was a simple and literal interpreter of the
commandment, and he held that beasts of burden had as much right to
their Sabbath rest as mankind, and that to make them work by dragging
Christians to church was the inconsistency of worshiping the Lord by
disobeying him, and keeping the Sabbath holy by breaking it. We think
John was level-headed on that subject, as well as on some others.

Em. begged him to go to the island and hear the blind preacher. But John
was strongly attached to the church in which he had been brought up, and
the forms with which he had been familiar from childhood. Besides, he
did not like worshiping in the open air—“the temple not made with
hands.” So John assembled his household in his own parlor every Sabbath
day and read the services. And he made himself contented until communion
Sunday drew near.

Then, on the Saturday immediately preceding it, he said:

“Susan, my dear, we are famishing for the bread of life. We must go to
church to-morrow, whether or no. Not that I intend to travel on that
day! No; but I tell you what we’ll do, my dear. We’ll go this afternoon,
and we’ll take vittals and horse feed enough to last us until Monday
morning, and we’ll camp out, like we did when we were on our journey.
It’s lovely weather for out-doors, Susan. What do you think of it
yourself?”

“I think that will be very enjoyable, John.”

“The young uns would like it.”

“’Mazingly, John.”

“Very well; you get the eating and sleeping conveniences all ready and
I’ll harness up the old wagon we traveled in, and I reckon we’ll leave
here about five o’clock and we’ll get to Greyrock by eleven to-night.”

This plan was carried out then and continued, once a month, all the
summer and all the autumn, as long as the weather permitted.

Em. always went with the family when they traveled so far to church; but
on other Sundays she went to the gate-house, propitiated Sereny by the
gift of a little bit of bright ribbon, or a string of glass beads, and
so borrowed old ’Sias from his lawful proprietor to take her down the
river to hear the blind preacher of the island.

One day as they floated down the stream before a gentle breeze, old
’Sias said to her:

“Miss Em., why don’t yer larn to manage de boat yourse’f? It is one ob
de easiest things to larn and one ob de ’lightfullest things to know. It
would be a great divarsion to yerse’f in the weeky days, when yer can’t
hab me to wait on yer.”

“Oh, I should like that so much! Would it be a great deal of trouble to
you to teach me?” exclaimed the girl.

“Why, laws, no, honey! none.”

So, then and there, ’Sias gave Em. her first lesson in handling the
tiller and steering the boat.

When they landed he showed her how to lower the sail.

After the preaching, when they were about to return home, he showed her
how to hoist the sail, and as they ran up the river he taught her how to
trim it.

“And sometimes, Miss Em., when dere’s too much wind, or no wind at all,
yer can ship de little mast and furl de sail and take de oars. I mus’
teach you some day how to row.”

“Oh, do!” said Em. “I should like that ever so much!”

The old man kept his word, and soon Em. became quite an expert in the
use of the oars as well as in the management of the sail-boat.

Every Sunday, attended by old ’Sias, she went to the island preaching,
and sometimes during the week, when she could get away, she went alone
down to the boat, hoisted the little sail and steered for the island or
for some point on the shore.

It gave her a new and delightful sense of freedom to feel that she had
the power to move over the surface of the water and go from place to
place at her pleasure.

“I am a bird when I fly through the forest or over the mountains on
horseback, and I am a fish when I speed through the waters in my boat!”
she gleefully exclaimed to herself one morning in August as she steered
for the island.

She had never yet landed at the island on any week day or on any other
occasion than to attend the preaching of the blind minister. She had at
such times kept a bright lookout for the mysterious beauty known to
popular superstition as the White Spirit; but she had seen no sign of
such a being. She had heard it rumored, indeed, that the lady would not
come to the island this season.

Now, therefore, on this cool August morning an impulse suddenly moved
Em. to steer directly for the island, to land there, go up to the palace
and try to get permission from the housekeeper to view the interior once
more, and especially to look upon the portrait of the White Spirit.

The wind was in her favor; the little sail filled and the boat was
wafted swiftly down stream to the landing-place at the island.

Em. furled her sail, moored her boat, and stepped out upon the pretty
path that led first through the girdle of acacias and then through the
ring of silver maples, and thence up the ornamented terraces among
groves, fountains, arbors, statues, and parterres of flowers to the
beautiful high knoll on which the white mansion stood.

She remembered the way taken by old ’Sias when he borrowed the key from
the housekeeper, and so she followed the path around to the rear of the
premises, where she was so fortunate as to find the woman—a very
handsome mulatto, sitting on an arbor, engaged in needlework.

“Good-morning,” said Em., who had approached so softly that her presence
was not perceived until she spoke.

“Lord bless my soul alive! Who _is_ you, anyhow, young lady?” exclaimed
the woman, but there was more of surprise, even of amazement, than of
offence in her manner.

“I startled you, I fear,” said Em. with a smile.

“Well, I should think you did. Who _is_ you, honey, to be sure, then?”

“Only Em. Palmer, one of the new overseer’s daughters from the
Wilderness.”

“Oh, yes! To be sure!” exclaimed the woman, but without ceasing to stare
at the visitor.

“I came upon you too suddenly. You seemed to be in a reverie. But I came
to ask you, if it is not asking too much, to permit me to see the inside
of the house,” said Em. with some bashful hesitation.

“Oh, yes, chile, you can see the house. Any one can see it without
reserve at any time, ’cept when my mistress is at home, and even then
they can see every part of it except her chamber. Yes, chile, here is
the key of the front door. Go in and look for yourself.”

“Thank you very much. I only want to see the drawing-room, with the
portrait of your mistress. It _is_ the portrait of your mistress, is it
not?”

“It’s like her, honey, if you mean the white veiled figure in the
drawing-room.”

“Thank you,” said Em. again, as she received the key and turned to go
around to the front.

She unlocked the door and entered the hall, and then passed immediately
to the elegant drawing-room, upholstered in white, blue and silver.

She scarcely glanced at the splendors of this saloon, but went
immediately up to the figure and stood gazing at it with uplifted eyes
and clasped hands and eager mind, anxious to read the mystery of this
veiled face, whose wonderful, fair beauty could be traced even behind
the mist of the flowing white gauze. She stood thus until startled by a
voice at her elbow:

“That is a most wonderful picture, is it not?”

Em. turned suddenly and stood face to face with Ronald Bruce.




                               CHAPTER V
                              RONALD BRUCE

             Handsome as Hercules, ere his first labor.
                                                     ANON.


Ronald Bruce! Yes, it was he. There he stood, taller, browner, and
stouter, and, withal, handsomer than he had ever been before.

They recognized each other in one mutual, instantaneous, astonished
gaze.

“Miss Palmer! You here! What a surprise! I did not know it was you until
you turned your face. I am _very_ glad to see you!” exclaimed the young
man heartily, offering his hand.

But he looked full of curiosity and interest, as if he would have liked
to ask her how on earth she ever came there, if the question had been
admissible.

Em.’s expressive face flushed and paled as she received his hand.

“I hope I did not frighten you,” continued the young lieutenant, seeing
that she did not speak.

“Oh, no, not much—that is, not at all,” faltered the girl in blushing
confusion.

“You did not in the least expect to meet me here, however,” said Ronald
Bruce, fixing his honest, dark eyes smilingly upon her roseate face.

“Oh, no; but I am very much pleased to meet you here,” said Em.,
beginning to recover her self-possession and speaking with all the more
formal politeness because of her conscious embarrassment.

“Are you really? Then this is a mutual pleasure as well as a mutual
surprise. Being in the neighborhood, and hearing of this beautiful
place, I came this morning to see it. I met the housekeeper, who told me
that the doors were open, as there was another person inside viewing the
rooms. I came in and found you.”

“I have been here once before. I like to come.”

“It is a very attractive place—but do not stand!” suddenly exclaimed the
young man as he went off and wheeled up a short sofa before the picture.

“Now sit down, Miss Palmer, and I will explain how I happen to be in
this neighborhood.”

She seated herself with a bow of thanks, and he, leaning over the arm of
the sofa, continued:

“I am on a three months’ leave, and I have come to spend it with my
uncle, Commodore Bruce, who has been placed on the retired list, and is
living at a fine old place called The Breezes, on the west bank of the
river, about half way between this and a queer old manor called the
Wilderness. Perhaps you may know both, if you have been here long.”

“Yes, I have seen The Breezes from the river. It is a long, gray stone
house on a plateau half way up the mountain side, half hidden, also, by
trees, and with a fountain gushing from the rocks at the right and
tumbling all the way down from ledge to ledge until it falls into the
river.”

“That is the place. The house, as you say, stands upon a natural plateau
about half way up the mountain. The commodore calls the plateau a shelf,
and says that it is all right that a worn-out old veteran like himself
should be laid upon the shelf. But I am sorry that he is retired from
the navy. He needed that active life more than any man I ever knew.”

“Why?” inquired Em.

“To occupy his mind and make him forget his troubles. He has had so much
trouble. He lost all his children in their childhood, with the exception
of one, who lived to be about eighteen years old, and was then lost on
the _Eagle_, when that fine ship was wrecked on the coast of Morocco.”

“Oh, what a terrible misfortune!” sighed Em.

“That catastrophe broke his wife’s heart. She died within a few weeks
after the news of the wreck came. And now for years past the brave old
man has been a childless widower. Still I think he bore up much better
when in active service than he does now, for since his retirement he has
been subject to fits of deepest melancholy. I spend all the time I can
with him; but I am only his nephew. I cannot take the place of his son.”

“I know you must be a great comfort to him, for all that,” said Em., in
earnest sympathy.

“I don’t know. He wants me to resign my commission in the navy and live
with him altogether.”

“Oh, I wish you would! I wish you would!” impulsively exclaimed the
girl. And then she suddenly recollected herself and blushed deeply at
her own impetuous words.

“Most certainly I will do so, since you wish it!” replied the young man
with so much comic solemnity that Em. broke into a peal of silvery
laughter. Then growing grave in her turn she said:

“I do not think you ought to make fun of what I said, Mr. Bruce.”

“‘Fun!’ You think I am jesting?”

“Of course I do. You certainly do not mean to say that you are in
earnest.”

“Indeed I do—that is, if—do you know that I have never ceased to think
of you since that day I first met you?” he whispered earnestly.

Em. flushed and paled and began to tremble.

“Never ceased to think of you, and longed to see you again. And now I do
see you, I wish never to lose sight of you more. Do you understand me,
little Em.?” he breathed, trying to take her hand; but she withdrew it
gently and folded her arms.

“There, I will not touch your hand if you do not wish me to do so. But
do you understand me, dear little Em.?”

“I—think—I—Oh! but——” muttered the girl, incoherently, and every moment
growing more and more confused and—distressed or delighted, she could
hardly know which, so mixed were her emotions.

“This is what I mean, dear girl—that your presence in the neighborhood
makes the place so much more attractive to me that, if you are to be a
permanent resident of the county, I shall indeed be strongly tempted to
forego all my cherished hopes of a career in the navy and be delighted
to settle down with my uncle at his retreat.”

“Just to see me once in a while?” inquired Em. in low, tremulous,
incredulous tones.

“Just to see you as often as I may be permitted to do so. You are to
live here, then, I am to understand?”

“Yes; at the Wilderness. My father is the new overseer.”

“In-deed!” slowly responded Ronald Bruce.

“Yes,” replied Em., recovering some self-possession now that the
conversation was turned from her personally. “We are all there—father,
mother, all my brothers and sisters, the little Italian girl, Valencia,
and Mrs. Whitlock and Aunt Monica.”

“Heaven and earth! Your father is a practical communist, with the
unprecedented peculiarity of keeping up the commune at his own expense.
So the little orphan is still with you?”

“Oh, yes; but she does not feel that she is an orphan. She is one of
ourselves. We all love her dearly, and do all we can to make her forget
she was ever anything else. Why, do you know, she has a high little
spirit of her own, and the first time she showed it by slapping Molly in
the face for combin her hair roughly we were all delighted, for we said
to ourselves:

“‘Now we _know_ she feels quite at home.’”

“Hum,” gravely commented Ronald Bruce. “Was Molly delighted, too?”

Em. laughed.

“No,” she answered. “It took all the house to mollify Molly; and for a
long time it was in vain that we explained what a good sign that was!
oh, of course, we know that it was naughty, and that very night, at
prayer-time, father gave out the children’s hymn, ‘Let dogs delight to
bark and bite,’ for them all to learn by heart against the next
Sabbath.”

“How do you like living at the Wilderness?”

“Oh, so much! So very much! We have such a good time! Plenty of clean
space and fresh, sweet air. Plenty of well water and cool shade.
Abundance of fruit and milk and everything we need. And the forest all
around the house and the mountains behind and the river before. We
children have learned to ride and drive, for the many horses standing in
the stables have to be exercised. And I have learned to row and to
manage a sail-boat. Oh, it is so delightful! After Laundry Lane, to be
here is like having died to the earth and come to heaven!” exclaimed
Em., with such enthusiasm that the young man smiled ruefully and said:

“And, in fact, you are so perfectly happy that you do not need even the
presence of an old friend like me to add to your happiness—no, not even
though he is willing to resign a glorious career and stay here for your
sake. You do not want him.”

“Oh, yes, indeed, indeed I do!” exclaimed Em. impulsively, and then she
clapped her hands over her own lips that no more hasty words might escape
them, as she turned pale at the thought of their earnestness.

“That settles my destiny,” said the young lieutenant.

“Oh, I must go now,” murmured the girl, rising to her feet and throwing
over her head a light gossamer shawl that had been knit by her own
hands.

“Ah, not yet! Stay a little longer,” pleaded the young man.

“Oh, _indeed_ I must go now. I have duties to do at home,” persisted Em.
as she shook the white gossamer shawl down over her shoulders until it
flowed around her form like a mist.

“Stop! One moment! Good Heaven, what a resemblance!” exclaimed Ronald
Bruce, gazing at Em. and then at the picture of the veiled lady.

“What? Oh! between me and the portrait? Yes, it has been remarked
before,” said Em.

“I did not notice it until that flowing mantle of yours called my
attention to it; but the resemblance is perfect in every feature of the
face; Is it accidental, or are you perhaps a distant relation of the
original?”

“It is accidental. I never even saw the original of that portrait, who I
understand to be the lady of this island manor.”

“A strange coincidence of form and feature. You are not going?” he
inquired, seeing Em. moving toward the door.

“Oh, yes, I must. Good-by.”

“No, I will see you to your boat.”

“But you have not been through the house you came to look at.”

“I can go through the house another time. I will see you to your boat,
unless you forbid me to do so.”

She did not forbid him, and so he followed her out, and when he had
returned the key to the keeper he attended her down through the
beautiful groves of the isle to the landing where she had moored her
boat.

“Do you mean to say that you sailed from the Wilderness alone in that
boat?”

“Yes, why should I not?”

“Suppose an accident had happened?”

“They tell me that no accident ever was known to have happened on the
Placid. Even if there had been an accident, at the very worst I could
only have been drowned. And is it worth while to refrain from any
harmless and healthful enjoyment for the fear of a possible accident?”

“Well, no, you are right. But it is rare to find a young girl so
skillful and fearless in managing a sail-boat. Who taught you?”

“An old philosopher who is called ’Sias, and keeps the gates at the
Wilderness,” said Em. as she began to unmoor her boat.

“No, no, let me do that. I should have done it before, but that I did
not wish to hasten the time of your departure—like dropping the
handkerchief for my own execution, you know,” said the young man as he
took the task out of her hands and performed it himself.

Then he handed her into the boat, hoisted the sail and took the tiller
and said:

“I hope you will let me go with you as far as our course separates—that
is, to the landing below our place—though, if you feel the very least
objection to my doing so, say it frankly and I will leave,” he added.

“I have no objection at all. I thank you very much; but what will become
of your own boat that brought you here?” inquired Em., half pleased,
half frightened at his proposal.

“Oh, I came in a little row-boat. I can send a servant down here in
another boat to tow this back. Come, be charitable, and take me in. I am
tired of rowing, and to row up stream will be much harder work than it
was to row down.”

Em. hesitated for a moment and communed with herself to this effect.

“I would not refuse _any other_ person a seat in my boat, and why, now,
should I refuse this gentleman, who has been kinder to me than most
people? I will _not_ refuse him. It would be unkind, ungrateful and
impolite.”

“Shall I go?” inquired Ronald Bruce.

“Oh, no, pray do not. Keep your seat, sir,” said Em., all the more
graciously because she had hesitated.

“Ay, ay, sir,” said the young officer, laughingly touching his hat.

He took the tiller again and steered for the Wilderness, while Em. sat
opposite to him with her idle hands before her.

“Now you know that you are captain of this boat, and I am only the man
at the helm, under your command. I will steer where you order me and
stop when you tell me,” said Ronald Bruce.

“No,” replied Em., “when I resigned the helm I resigned the command. I
decline the responsibility you would force upon me. I am only a
passenger.”

“Very well,” said the man at the helm, “then here we go!” and, unknown
to Em., he shot past the landing below The Breezes and steered for the
Wilderness.

“Why, where are you going?” inquired Em. when at last she perceived his
course.

“To take you home to your landing at the foot of the Wilderness and then
walk with you up to the house to see your father and mother.”

“I declare you are like the fox in the fable of the fox and the hare,”
said Em. to herself, but to him she only put a question:

“How will you get back?”

“Oh, walk it—The Breezes being on the same side of the river with the
Wilderness, you know.”

“Oh, yes, to be sure!” replied the girl, and upon every account she was
very glad that Ronald Bruce was going straight home with her, for thus
she would have his company for an hour or two longer, and then he would
see the family, and they would all know how he came home with her, and
all would be frank, open, and straightforward.

“You are very kind to me, Mr. Bruce, and you always were. I know my
mother and father will be very glad to welcome you,” she said.

They soon reached the island landing, where Ronald Bruce lowered the
sail, moored the boat, and would have given his hand to help his
companion out, but she, unaccustomed to any such assistance, without
waiting for it, sprang lightly to the shore.

He joined her immediately, and they entered the forest road and walked
toward the house. It was now so near sunset that the sun had sunk out of
sight behind the mountain range, casting the wooded valley into a
premature twilight.

The young pair did not hurry themselves, but walked in a leisurely way
through the deepening shades of the forest until they reached the
manor-house.

Em. then led her companion around to the rear, where they found John and
all the family sitting before the door of the Red Wing enjoying the
coolness of the August evening.

“Well, little truant, where have you been all the afternoon, and who is
that you have got with you?” inquired John Palmer as Em. and her escort
approached.

“I have been all this time on the river, and at the island, father, and
I have brought an old friend home whom you and mother will be glad to
see—Lieutenant Ronald Bruce,” said Em.

Young Bruce lifted his cap and advanced.

But almost before he could take a step the little Italian girl,
Valencia, with a great cry of joy rushed forward and clasped him with
both little arms, calling him, in her enthusiastic language, her
illustrious, her beneficent, her beloved, her caressed, and so forth,
and so forth.

Ronald Bruce responded heartily, lifted her in his arms and kissed and
blessed her, and then put her gently down and went forward to greet John
and Susan Palmer, who both received him very cordially and pressed him
to be seated and to stay to tea.

Ronald Bruce in look and manner showed his willingness to do so at the
same time that he explained his inability by saying that he was obliged
to start immediately, as he had to walk back through the forest and half
way up the mountain to The Breezes, where he was then staying with his
uncle, Commodore Bruce.

“Well, there,” said John Palmer; “we did hear that a retired naval
officer had taken that old place, but we never heard his name. So it was
the commodore. Well, sir, his place, I should say, was a good ten miles
from here by the road; it is a great deal nearer by the river. Now, sir,
there’s no need for you to walk it at all. If so be you must go back,
why, there’s a dozen horses in the stable needing exercise, the best of
’em heartily at your service. But—would the old gentleman be anxious if
you was to stay out all night?”

“Oh, no!” laughed the young man. “He retires to his study so early that
he would not know it.”

“Well, then, sir, here’s my offer to you—the best horse in the stable if
you _must_ go; or a hearty welcome to the best room in the house if you
can stay,” said John cordially.

“Do stay, Mr. Bruce. We should all be happy to have you,” added Susan
Palmer, glad of the chance to offer hospitality.

The little Italian girl caught his hand and held it tightly while she
lifted her dark, bright, eager eyes pleadingly to his.

But Ronald Bruce sought the eyes of Em., which said nothing, their
glance being fixed upon the ground.

Nevertheless, the young man thanked the hospitable couple and accepted
their invitation as frankly as it was given.




                               CHAPTER VI
                               THE GUEST

               Welcome he is in hut and hall,
               To maids and matrons, men and all.
                                                  PRAED.


To the isolated family in the Wilderness Manor the sight of a stranger
was a rare event, and the entertainment of a guest an unprecedented one.
So Ronald Bruce’s frank acceptance of their cordial invitation to stay
to supper and spend the night threw every member of the household into a
flutter of excitement.

Susan Palmer, signing to Em. to keep her seat and entertain her visitor,
arose and withdrew into the house.

Ann Whitlock and old Monica got up and followed her.

And the three women stood together in the kitchen and held a council of
cookery as to what should be provided for so “distinguished” a guest.

“Now you jest leab it all to _me_, chillun, and ’range yourselbes
underneaf my orders for de night, and I jest tell yer all what, I’ll
jest ’vide sich a supper as will make dat young man thank his blessed
stars as he missed his dinner at home—which he must a-missed, yer know,
’cause all dem dere big bugs allers eats deir dinner ’bout de time we
all thinkin’ ’bout gwine to bed,” said Monica confidently.

“And you really think you can cook a supper that he will enjoy?”
anxiously inquired Susan.

“Hush, honey, what’s yer talkin’ ’bout? He mus’ be a dreat deal harder
to please dan his ole uncle was if I can’t. Wasn’t I cook to ole Marse
Capt’n Wyndeworth, at Green Point? And didn’t ole Marse Capt’n Bruce
come to dinner and supper dere two or t’ree times a week? And where
would you find two greater epitaphs dan dey was? G’way from here,
chillun, and let me get de supper,” exclaimed the old woman.

And truly, with the resources of the rich Wilderness Manor, with the aid
of the well filled smoke houses, poultryyards, dairies, gardens and
orchards, old Monica found materials worthy even of her culinary
science.

Then leaving the cook to get supper Susan Palmer and Ann Whitlock went
upstairs and prepared the largest and best bedchamber (usually reserved
for the use of the agent) for the accommodation of their guest.

Meanwhile the party gathered under the trees in front of the house,
conversing gayly together, enjoying the cool evening air.

John Palmer, who was as innocent and unconventional as a child in the
matter of asking questions, drew out the frank young officer to speak
freely of his own circumstances.

When Susan Palmer had finished her task in the house and rejoined the
circle under the trees, John was saying:

“And so the old gentleman wants you to resign your commission in the
navy and to spend your life with him, does he?”

“Yes. You see it is not from selfishness on his part, but from
affection. The terrible disaster through which he lost his only son at
sea has so wrought upon his mind that he dreads to trust any one he
loves to the career of a sailor,” the young man explained.

“Ay, ay,” said John, “‘sich is life.’ And you say that he promises, if
you will resign your commission in the navy and stay with him for the
short remainder of his life, he will leave you The Breezes and all his
other property at his death?”

“Yes.”

“Have you a loving for the sea?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, if I was you I wouldn’t give it up. Not for filthy lucre, I
wouldn’t! It is an honorable career, the navy, and some _must_ follow it
and risk their lives, and, if need be, lose their lives; for ‘sich _is_
life.’ Put it to the old gentleman that way. Tell him _he_ wouldn’t
a-done it when _he_ was a young man, and why then should he want you to?
Tell him you will spend all your leaves with him, and that you don’t
want his money; you want an honorable naval career. There, young
gentleman, tell him that.”

Ronald Bruce smiled at the simplicity and freedom with which honest John
Palmer gave advice involving the loss or gain of a large estate, but was
saved the trouble of replying by his wife Susan, who struck into the
conversation with:

“But law, John, the old gentleman’s _feelings_ ought to be considered
_some_. It ain’t _all_ a question of money, nor it ain’t all a question
of honor; but of kindness and of feelings.”

“We be talking of principles, my dear, not feelings. But there, what’s
the use of arguing? Men will be guided by principles and women by
feelings while the world stands, for ‘sich is life.’ And youth will be
guided by its own wayward will. This young gentleman will do as he
pleases, after all.”

Ronald Bruce laughed, but did not commit himself.

Em. was perfectly silent. And the deepening twilight threw her beautiful
face into such dark shadow that her lover could not see its expression.

John Palmer started another topic by speaking of the island and the
mysterious stranger who owned it.

“They say as she is as fair as an angel of light; but how can they tell
that, since nobody has ever seen her face unveiled?” said John.

“I know nothing about her,” replied the guest, “except what the gossip
of the country people tell me, which may not be true.”

They discoursed concerning the White Spirit until one of the boys came
out of the house and whispered to his mother that supper was on the
table.

Susan Palmer arose in good, old-fashioned, rustic style and invited her
guest to walk in and partake, adding, with polite hypocrisy, that she
hoped he would excuse the plainness of fare they had to set before him.

Young Bruce laughed as he replied that there was no doubt the viands
were excellent in themselves and much better than he deserved—and so,
with the custom of _his_ class, he offered his arm to Mrs. Palmer to
take her to supper.

Susan accepted it and marched in.

John looked on with an amused smile, and then gravely took Em.’s hand
and tucked it under his arm and followed into the spacious dining-room
of the old house, where his first words were an exclamation of honest
astonishment:

“OH, MY!”

It cannot be denied that the table and the supper were a triumph of
decorative art and culinary science—adorned with the choicest flowers of
the conservatory, and laden with the daintiest luxuries of the season.
But covers were laid for four only—for John, Susan, Em. and their guest.

“For,” said Aunt Monica, in consultation with Mrs. Whitlock, “you an’ de
chillun will ’joy yourselves a dreat deal more eatin’ of your fill ’long
of yourselves dan siftin’ down dere, ’shamed to eat as much as you want
’fore de quality.”

Ann Whitlock and the young people fully agreed with Aunt Monica’s view
of the case, for with them feeding was always the most serious business
of life, at which they wanted no disturbing or restraining influence;
and here indeed was a feast not to be slighted on account of any company
in the world, but to be discussed at liberty and enjoyed at leisure.

So the party of four sat down to an epicure’s supper and did it full
justice.

Young Bruce complimented Mrs. Palmer upon the excellence of her dishes,
whereupon poor Susan, with much pride, answered:

“Well, sir, it is not much to say to _you_; but our old Aunt Monica was
chief cook to old Captain Wyndeworth, who was one of the greatest
epitaphs in the country.”

Ronald’s dark mustache quivered for a moment with the humorous smile
that was hovering around his lips; but that smile vanished when he saw
the distressed face of poor Em., who sat directly opposite him.

John saw all and understood half, saying to himself:

“Now the old ’oman has put her foot in it somehow or other; but what
odds? ‘Sich is life.’”

Young Bruce had tact enough to change the subject and lead the
conversation into such channels of entertainment and amusement that the
face of Em. soon lost its look of care and pain, lighted up with
interest and beamed with pleasure.

And the little, half perceived cloud having vanished, the dainty supper
passed off very pleasantly.

When they rose from the table, John led the way to the front piazza,
saying:

“I couldn’t advise you to sit under the trees at this hour, sir. The
dews are heavy at this season.”

The young man took the offered seat from his host and sat down in the
summer night’s sweet gloom, holding the hand of Em., who, unseen, sat
near him and good-naturedly answering the child-like questions of honest
John, who wanted to know if he had ever been to Africa. If he could tell
anything about the slave trade on the coast of Guinea. If he had ever
been to the Mediterranean. If he knew much about the pirates of the
coast of Barbary. And were there really wreckers there who rescued
shipwrecked passengers from the deep only to carry them off inland and
sell them into slavery? Had he ever doubled the Cape of Good Hope, and
were there really chunks of solid gold to be found there as big as pigs
of lead? And diamonds large as lumps of coal? Had he ever doubled Cape
Horn? And was there truly a land of fire there, corresponding to the
land of ice in Iceland, say?

Young Ronald Bruce had been to sea in some capacity or other ever since
he was ten years old. So he had seen all these places, and was able to
answer all these questions, and many more, that were put to him during
the evening.

His patience was inexhaustible while he held the slender, delicate
little hand of Em. within his own.

But these honest people were early birds, and very soon Susan Palmer
suggested that their guest must be weary by this time and would perhaps
like to be shown to his room.

Upon this hint John arose, lighted a tallow candle and offered to
conduct Mr. Bruce to his chamber.

Young Ronald pressed the little hand that he held in the darkness and
arose, bade the two women good-night and followed his host into the
house.

John, flaring tallow candle in hand, led the way up a plain, wide
staircase to the second floor and to a large, old-fashioned back room,
with paneled walls and polished plank floor, with tall windows looking
full upon the precipice, and so near it that one leaning out might peel
a piece of moss from the rock.

The room was lighted by two “mould” candles in tall, silver-plated
candlesticks that stood upon the top of a high, antique chest of drawers
and on each side of a tall, oval mirror.

The woodwork of all the furniture in the room, of the high post,
canopied bedsteads, the antique chest of drawers, the ancient press, or
wardrobe, the old escritoire, or bookcase and writing desk combined, the
claw-footed sofa, the high-backed, hard “easy-chair,” and the
spider-legged chairs and tables were all of the oldest and darkest
mahogany.

The draperies of the room, the curtains at the windows and the bedstead,
the covers of the chairs and the sofa were all of English chintz, of
large pattern, and once of “loud” colors, but now toned down to a
general hue of faded flowers.

“I see you looking around on the room with curiosity, sir. Yes, it _is_
old-timey! I reckon if these here old sticks of furniture had a tongue
they could tell a tale—don’t you?” inquired John, as he placed his
candlestick upon the high mantel-shelf.

“Yes, doubtless,” mused Ronald Bruce.

“But this is nothing to the manor-house, sir, though they do say this is
older than that. But if you want to see a rale, gorgeous, old, ancient
palace you come some day and see the manor-house, sir. Why, for one
thing, there is a picture, large as life, of a court lady of the time of
King David or Queen Mary, or some king or queen, I don’t remember which;
but anyhow, it is hundreds of years ago, and the splendid colors are as
bright and fresh as if it was painted only yesterday. But I am keeping
you from sleep, sir; good-night,” said John, with a smile, as he took up
his light to retire.

“Good-night, and many thanks for all your kind attentions,” returned the
young man.

When John Palmer reached the family sitting-room he found all the
household gathered around the table as a common center, discussing the
merits of their guest.

“He is really one of the most gentlemanly young men I ever saw in my
life,” said Susan.

“Hi, honey, what yer talkin’ ’bout! Ain’t he one ob de Bruces? An’ dey
do tell me as the Bruces are ’cended from some r’yal fam’ly or other.
Not dat I know, but so I hab heerd,” said Aunt Monica.

“There was a great hero named Robert Bruce, who became king of Scotland
in the old, old times, but there were also a large tribe of Bruces. So
how can any one tell? But as for this young gentleman, it does not
matter in the least whether he is descended from a king or a carter, _he
is himself_; that is the best he could possibly be,” said Em. earnestly.

“He is an honest, straightforward young fellow enough; and you are
right, my girl; it don’t matter two straws _who_ he is descended from,”
added John.

“Well, chillun, as de heat and burden ob entertainin’ ob dis young
ge’man falls onto my ole shoulders, and I hab to get up in de mornin’ to
cook a fust-chop, out-an’-out breakfast for him, _I’m_ a-gwine to bed.
Tell yer all what, it’s desaustin’ to de system cookin’ for dese here
epitaphs!” said old Aunt Monica.

“Oh, Aunty!” exclaimed Em., as if she had received a stab, so keen was
the recollection of the error of the supper table—“Oh, Aunty, not
epi_taph_, you mean epi_cure_! Epitaphs are put on tombstones, and
epicures——”

“Are put _under_ them! So what odds? ‘Sich is life,’” said John.

“Yes, but I want her to remember this, father, dear. Aunt Monica, _will_
you remember that people who love delicate and dainty food are
epi_cures_ and not epi_taphs_?” pleaded Em.

“Yes, honey, I’ll try,” said old Monica, and she remembered the
emphasized syllables so well that thenceforth she put them together, and
when she had occasion to speak of a gourmand she called him a curataph.

John called the children around him for their evening prayers; and after
these had been offered up the simple, kindly people bade each other
good-night and retired to rest.




                              CHAPTER VII
                               A PROPOSAL

               I see a small, old-fashioned room,
                 With paneled wainscot high;
               Old portraits round in order set,
               Carved, heavy tables, chairs, buffets,
                 Of dark mahogany.
               And there a high-backed, hard settee
                 On six brown legs and paws,
               Flowered o’er with silk embroidery;
               And there, all rough with filigree,
                 Tall screens on gilded claws.
                                       CAROLINE SOUTHEY.


When young Ronald Bruce awoke in the morning he found all things
prepared for his toilet by the care of the two boys, who had brought
fresh water and towels for their guest while he slept.

He arose and dressed himself before the tall mirror on the chest of
drawers that stood between the two back windows looking out upon the
precipice.

Just before leaving his room he leaned from the window and plucked a
wild mountain rose that grew in the cleft of the rock and placed it in
his buttonhole.

Then he went downstairs to find his way to the parlor.

He found the little Italian girl, Vennie, in the hall below. With the
impetuosity of her age and nation she rushed to him, threw herself into
his arms, calling him by the most extravagant pet names that her
hyperbolical language afforded.

He responded to all her enthusiastic caresses, and then allowed her to
lead him into an old-fashioned, oak-paneled front parlor that looked out
upon the garden of the old manor-house, and beyond that upon the section
of the wooded vale with its wall of mountains and its far down glimpse
of the river.

Here he found the breakfast table neatly set and Em. herself flitting
from cupboard to kitchen, back and forth, putting finishing touches to
its arrangement.

She paused suddenly in her work to greet him as he entered.

He noticed the lovely flush and the timid smile that lighted up her face
as she offered her hand and her low-toned “good-morning.”

He took the delicate hand and raised it to his lips, while her eyes
dropped and her color deepened under the eloquent gaze he fixed on her
face.

But before he could speak a word John entered with boisterous cordiality
and greeted his guest. Since coming to the country and entering upon a
happier and more prosperous manner of life, John’s nature had risen out
of its subdued sadness into something very like hilariousness.

Susan soon followed him; breakfast was brought in, and the four sat down
to the table.

Old Monica waited on them.

“I hope the old commodore won’t be up early enough this morning to
inquire after you and grow anxious before you get home,” said blunt
John.

“Oh, no, my uncle rises very late. It is a habit he has grown into since
his retirement from the navy,” smilingly replied the young man.

“You didn’t tell me whether there was any one else at The Breezes to
keep the old gentleman company,” said Palmer.

“Oh, a house full. My mother is there, and his sister, and her daughter,
and two lady friends,” said Ronald Bruce.

“A nice party for a country house, I should say. But, dear me, five
ladies and only one young gentleman to take care of them! You must have
your hands quite full, sir,” exclaimed John in comic dismay.

“Oh. not at all! My uncle relieves me—plays whist, reads, drives and
tells stories. I assure you, he is the more popular of the two of us,”
laughed Ronald, as they rose from the table.

“Well, Lieutenant, whenever you are disposed, by way of a little change,
to leave high life and ladies’ society for a plain man’s company and
table, we shall all be very glad and grateful to have you here,”
heartily declared John.

“Thanks, very much. Now, however, I shall have to bid you a happy
good-morning,” replied Ronald.

“Stay. I will order your horse,” exclaimed Palmer, hurrying from the
room.

Susan had already left it temporarily to see to some household affairs.

The young lovers were alone.

“Oh, my little fairy of the forest, when shall I see you again?” he
breathed in a low sigh, as he took her hand and looked into her face.

She dropped her eyes, but did not reply.

“When shall I see you again, Em.?” he pleaded.

“When you come again. Father said he would be glad to have you,” she
murmured without raising her eyes.

“And _you_, will you be glad to see me?”

Susan Palmer bustled into the room before the girl could reply.

Ronald dropped Em.’s hand and turned away.

John came in and announced the horses, for there were two.

“I have ordered a groom to attend you, sir, that he may bring back the
beasts without giving you any trouble,” Palmer explained.

“You give yourself a great deal of trouble, my friend,” said Ronald.

“No, the animals need exercise. I am glad of the chance of giving it to
them. Between you and me, sir, two-thirds of their number ought to be
sold, and so I have told the agent time and again. What good do they do
standing in their stalls? Well, sir, Lord bless you!” said John,
heartily shaking the offered hand of his departing guest.

Ronald Bruce then took leave of Susan and of Em., holding the girl’s
hand a little while in hope that she would raise her blue eyes once to
his own.

But she did not, so he pressed the little hand and left her.

Then Em. slipped out of the room and flew up to her attic chamber and
placed herself at the window which commanded a view of the mountain path
by which Ronald Bruce left the house.

She saw him ride away slowly up the mountain until he reached the
entrance of an evergreen thicket, which would soon conceal him from
view.

There he paused and turned to look back at the house which contained his
idol. To Em.’s dismay his eyes caught her as she watched him from the
window. He raised his hat, bowed very low and rode slowly and
reluctantly into the thicket, where he disappeared.

Em. remained at the window, gazing up the now deserted mountain path,
lost in thought.

“To think that he should have remembered me so long! To think he, a
cultured and refined man of good family, should care for me so much—for
me, the child of a workman; a poor, half educated girl! Yet he _does_
care for me. But, oh! I wish he had not held my hand so long or dropped
it so suddenly when poor mother came in. If there was any harm in his
holding my hand, why _did_ he hold it? Or if there was _no_ harm, why
did he drop it so quickly? I don’t understand! I wonder what will come
of it all! Oh, how I do wish I could look into the future!”

“EM.!”

She started from her dreamy reverie. It was her mother’s voice calling
loudly from the foot of the stairs.

“Yes, ma’am; I’m coming directly,” she answered, as she hurried down
from the attic.

Susan was at the foot of the stairs.

“Where have you been all this time, girl?”

“Only upstairs, mother.”

“There’s a whole basket full of stockings to darn, and you ought to have
been at it an hour ago; only this having a visitor puts everything back;
not but what he was a very agreeable young man, too,” said Susan Palmer,
as she led the way, followed by her daughter, to the family
sitting-room, where just then a patch-work quilt was stretched out in
the frame, and all the women and girls of the house, except Em. and her
mother, were seated at it, industriously quilting.

Susan joined the quilters and Em. sat down to her basket of stockings.

So the family routine was taken up again.

Days passed, and the visit of young Ronald Bruce was nearly forgotten by
all the busy family except Em., who, more was the pity, thought of him
all day and dreamed of him all night.

“I can’t think what has come over the child!” said John. “She is so
silent.”

“She wants amusement. She wants some change. Some companions of her own
age. She is not a child any longer, but a young woman,” said Susan.

“Well, I know; but she can drive, and she can ride, and she can row,”
said John; “and she used to be very fond of doing that when she first
came down here.”

“Oh, yes, it was all new to her then; but it is all played out now. Em.
wants the company of young people of her own age. Here she has only old
folks and children.”

“Well, poor gal, I wish I could give her all she wants,” sighed John.

“Where is she now?”

“Sitting out in the back porch making a dress for Mrs. Whitlock.”

No more was said at the time.

Weeks passed and nothing more was heard of Ronald Bruce.

“I wonder why he does not come,” sighed Em. to herself. “He seemed so
delighted to see me, so anxious to know whether I was going to stay in
the neighborhood, and so overjoyed when I told him that I was living
here permanently. He even told me that would decide him to remain with
his uncle. And yet he has never called here since, though father invited
him so cordially to do so. Perhaps he stays away because father has not
returned his visit; but surely a young gentleman like himself would not
stand on ceremony with a plain, elderly overseer like poor father. Oh,
dear, I don’t understand it at all, and I wish I could stop thinking
about it.”

But she did not stop thinking about it, although she busied herself more
actively and constantly than ever with her household duties.

Two months passed, and the very memory of the young lieutenant’s visit,
which had broken the monotony of their life in the Wilderness, seemed to
have faded away into dreamland.

The golden days of October were at hand, and still no news was heard of
their neighbor, Ronald Bruce.

One glorious autumn morning about this time the family had finished
breakfast and John and the boys had gone out to work.

Susan and the other women and children were gathered in the family
sitting-room, where a cheerful wood fire burned on the hearth.

They were busily engaged in their various employments. Susan was making
up flannel shirts for the winter, assisted by the three little girls,
who were hemming for her. Ann Whitlock was knitting yarn socks for
coming cold weather, old Monica was sewing carpet rags, and Em. seated
at the window which commanded the mountain pass leading to The Breezes,
was carefully working the buttonholes in the otherwise finished shirts.

Suddenly she called out:

“Oh, mother, what do you think? There is a carriage coming down the
mountain road toward the house! Such a handsome carriage, with such fine
horses and liveried servants! Whose can it be, do you think?”

“Lord knows!” exclaimed Susan, as she started, dropping her work, and
rushed to the window, followed by all the family, to see the
unprecedented sight of a carriage coming to the solitary manor-house.

They crowded before the two windows of that end of the room and gazed
with wonder upon the phenomenon.

It was certainly a very handsome, close carriage, drawn by a splendid
pair of silver-gray horses, and driven by a stout, gray-haired negro
coachman in livery.

It wound down the mountain road, turned into the house drive, and
finally drew up before the main entrance of the old hall. A footman got
down from behind and knocked at the door.

“The idea of anybody knocking at that empty old house! It’s awful, it’s
ghostly, and one wouldn’t be astonished if a ghost was to open the door
at last!” exclaimed Susan Palmer, as she left the sitting-room and went
out of her own house door to meet the visitors, whoever they might
chance to be.

The women and children stared through one of the windows to see what was
coming of this arrival.

Em. gazed through the other, hoping some news of—well, of one Ronald
Bruce, in whom she took some interest.

She saw her mother go up the front steps of the old manor-house to the
still persistently knocking footman and seem to explain to him the utter
futility of his exertions and the total impossibility of receiving any
response from a closed-up and deserted house.

She then saw her, followed by the footman, walk up to the door of the
carriage and speak to some one within.

Finally she saw the carriage door open and a lady alight and join her
mother.

As they walked towards the old house Em. had a good view of the lady’s
face and form.

She was a tall, slender, dark-haired, dark-eyed woman, still beautiful,
though passed the prime of life, for she seemed from forty to forty-five
years of age. She was richly dressed in black, but not in mourning, and
a handsome cashmere shawl fell gracefully from her shoulders.

But what took Em.’s breath as the stranger drew nearer was her wondrous
likeness to Ronald Bruce.

“She is his mother! I know that beautiful and queenly woman is his
mother,” said Em. to herself in breathless interest, as the lady and her
conductress approached.

“If you will excuse our plainness, madam, and come into the sitting-room
you will find a fire. There is none in the parlor, and as it is damp
there, you might take cold,” said Susan, as she entered the house.

“Pray make no apologies, Mrs. Palmer; I am sure this room is
delightfully home-like and attractive,” answered the lady, with just a
tinge of condescension in her manner that escaped the notice of Susan,
but slightly chilled Em.’s more sensitive spirit.

“Pray take a seat, Mrs. Bruce,” said Susan, pushing forward the best
arm-chair. “This is my oldest daughter that I have at home,” added
Susan, introducing Em., but not thinking it necessary to present the
other members of her numerous family.

“How do you do, my dear?” said the lady, kindly holding out her
kid-gloved hand to the girl as if to encourage a poor child of the lower
orders, but looking on her with the beautiful dark eyes of Ronald Bruce.

Em. bent her head respectfully, but in silence; for indeed there was no
need for her to speak, as the lady turned away almost instantly and
addressed Susan:

“Yes, Mrs. Palmer, as I was saying to you, I have come here in search of
a seamstress and in some hope of getting one from your family. My son,
Lieutenant Bruce, of the navy, who knows your husband, I think——”

“Yes, madam, he does. I hope the lieutenant is well?”

Em.’s eyes, ears and heart were all on the _qui vive_ now. She almost
feared her companions of the moment might read her thoughts, her hopes
and her fears in her face, so she bent lowlier over her task and worked
more diligently at her buttonholes.

“Thanks, he is quite well. He has just returned from a two months’
sojourn at the Naval Academy of Annapolis, where he was suddenly called
upon some business connected with the school—some investigation of—I
know not what.”

“Oh, indeed,” said Susan.

Em.’s troubled heart leaped for joy and then settled into a delicious
calm. He had not forgotten her. He had been away. That was all.

“My son, hearing me inquire in vain of my friends for a seamstress,
casually informed me that the new overseer of the Wilderness Manor had
several daughters, and it would be quite worth while to try whether one
of them would not be able to enter my service. I really _must_ have help
in getting ready for the winter, Mrs. Palmer. So if one of your girls
would come to me at once she should have a comfortable home and liberal
remuneration,” continued the lady.

“Well, really, ma’am, it is true I have several daughters—six of ’em, in
fact; but the two eldest are married and away. And the three youngest
are little things, from six to ten. So it comes to this, that there is
no one but Em. here who is fit for the place.”

“As Ronald Bruce knew well enough,” smiled Em. to herself.

“Ah, is it so? But of course Lieutenant Bruce could not know all these
little details of your family. He only knew that you had several girls
who might possibly be good seamstresses.”

“Just so, ma’am; but there’s only Em.,” said Susan.

“As he knew—as he knew,” silently sang the girl’s heart.

“Is she a neat and skillful seamstress?”

“None better in the world, ma’am, I think.”

“Then if you will part with her to me, I would like to engage her for a
few weeks.”

“It is just as Em. pleases, madam. There is no necessity in us why our
girls should go out to work, but I am willing to oblige you; and
besides, I think the change would do the girl good. She has been moping
lately. What do you say, Em.?” inquired Susan, turning to her quiet
daughter.

“I will go, mother, if this lady wishes me to do so; and I will do my
best to give satisfaction,” answered the girl demurely.

“Very well. Can you be ready to come to-morrow if I send the carriage
for you?” inquired Mrs. Bruce.

“I will come to you to-morrow, madam; but do not take the trouble to
send for me. One of my brothers can take me to you,” said Em.

“Just as you please, my dear. Three dollars a week, with board and
washing, is what I have been in the habit of giving my seamstresses,”
concluded the lady, as she arose to take her leave.

“What will father say to this, mother?” inquired Em. when Mrs. Bruce had
gone.

“Your father won’t say nothing against it, child. We have had many a
talk about you. He’ll be glad you’ll have a change. And mind, he’ll take
you over there himself to-morrow morning,” answered Susan.

Em. spent the remainder of the day in packing her little box for her
removal to Commodore Bruce’s.

When John Palmer came home to dinner he was told what had happened and
gave his hearty approval.

“I’m glad for the girl’s sake,” he said. “I know it will do her a great
deal of good. We’ll miss her very much, I feel. But our loss will be her
gain, and we must put up with it; for ‘sich is life.’”

Later in the day old ’Sias and Aunt Sally, who had heard the news from
the boys, strayed into the house to pay Em. a parting visit.

“Well,” said old ’Sias, “I ain’t had sich a surprise, no, not since I
was a boy, and dat were about a hund’ed and fifty years ago, more or
less, honey, more or less!”

“Law! What a story! But he don’t mean no harm by it, Miss Em. ’Deed he
don’t! He nebber does nuffin’ to nobody,” said Aunt Sally. “But I’m
mighty pleased long o’ dem dere B’uces what yer gwine to, honey. I
nebber seed de ole man, nor yet de madam, but I see de young man, what
time he come and took supper and stayed all night here. He’s a good
soul, honey. I took a good look at him, and I know it. He’s a good soul.
He’ll nebber do nuffin’ to nobody.”

With these consoling assurances Aunt Sally took leave and departed,
carrying Uncle ’Sias away with her.

That night after Em. went to bed her mother came up unexpectedly and sat
by her side.

“After this busy day I wish to take this only chance I shall have of
speaking to you in private, my child,” she said.

Em. took her mother’s hand and kissed it with silent affection.

“Listen to me, child. I want to give you a little advice before you
leave us for your safe guidance while you are away.”

“Dear mother, indeed I will listen; indeed I will follow your counsel,”
said the girl simply and earnestly.

“I need not tell you to read the Word of God, with prayer, morning and
evening. That I am sure you will do.”

“Yes, dear, I will.”

“Nor need I give you any hints as to your conduct toward your employers.
Your own good sense will teach you how to behave toward them. But, oh,
my dear child, there are dangers that beset youth which I cannot even
hint at without hurting you.”

“Speak what is on your mind, dear mother; never mind hurting me,” said
Em. tenderly.

“No, I cannot. But I will give you one little simple rule, easy to
remember and easy to follow for your safe guidance among your new
companions: _Never do or say anything that you would not like your
mother to see or hear._”

“I never will! Indeed, dear mother, I never, never will!” earnestly
replied Em.

“That is right. Be guided by that rule, my child. It is the path of
safety.”




                              CHAPTER VIII
                         Em. AT THE COMMODORE’S

            That lonely mansion stood upon a cliff,
            By a great mountain spring—just elevate’
            Above the winter torrents did it stand,
            Upon a craggy brink; and now it wore
            One sober hue; the narrow cleft which wound
            Among the hills was gray with rocks, that peered
            Above its shallow soil; the mountainside
            Was loose with stones bestrewn, which oftentimes
            Clattered adown the steep, beneath the foot
            Of struggling goat dislodged.
                                                    SOUTHEY.


It was a glorious morning in October when Em., amid the kisses, tears
and blessings of the whole family, left the valley of the Wilderness for
her new home on the mountain.

Seated by her father in the little, old-fashioned chaise, drawn by one
steady, old, draught horse, and with her little trunk containing all her
worldly goods strapped on behind, she commenced her journey.

They could not go by the way up which Em. had watched her lover ride
until man and horse disappeared in the thicket above because that was
but a narrow though nearer bridle-path which led up the mountain from
the rear of the manor-house and was used only by horsemen and foot
passengers.

They drove down the old avenue leading through the thick woods that lay
between the house and the park wall to the lodge gate, where they found
both ’Sias and Sereny on duty to bid a final good-by to “Miss Em.”

She felt for a moment distressed that she had no parting token of regard
to bestow on these attentive friends; then she quickly took the clean
linen collar and cuffs from her neck and wrists and gave them to Sereney
and the neatly-folded handkerchief from her pocket and bestowed it upon
’Sias.

Both received these little presents with grateful smiles and promised to
use them for her sake.

And both threw old shoes after the chaise as it passed through the gate
and turned to the left.

“Why, my girl, you have half stripped your neck and hands for them
darkies. You’ll look a perfect dowdy when you get to the commodore’s,”
said John when they were out of hearing of the gate-keepers.

“Oh, no, father dear. See, my shawl will cover all deficiencies until I
reach my journey’s end, and then I can get new cuffs and collar from my
trunk,” smilingly replied Em., as she drew her shepherd’s plaid wrap
closer around her shoulders.

Their road ran southward between the mossy gray stone wall of the park
on the left and the richly-colored autumn woods on the right. Overhead
was the most glorious October sky; underneath a road so thickly strewn
with fallen leaves that the horse’s hoofs and the carriage wheels went
softly and silently on.

Passing the southeast angle of the park wall the road continued through
the forest, but began gradually to ascend the wooded mountain range,
half way up which, on a natural plateau, was situated the old house.

The way was very lonely. Sometimes indeed a fox squatted on the road
before them, startled by their approach, would spring up, scamper off
and disappear in the forest. Sometimes a hawk, perched on some bending
bough above them, frightened by their appearance, would take wing with a
scream and be lost in the clouds afar.

But such were the only signs of life that met them. No human being
appeared on this almost totally abandoned road.

It wound up and up the wooded precipice until all of a sudden it came
out of the woods and on to the back of the old house—a long, low
building of gray stone, without any pretensions to architectural beauty,
but with a look of spacious, homely comfort that was very attractive.

Entering by a side gate and driving over a stony road, they came around
to the front of the building, which stood within a yard bounded by a
stone wall upon the very edge of the precipice.

A short flight of broad, low stone steps led up to the flagged piazza
and thence to the front door of solid oak, adorned with a huge iron
knocker.

As there was no one in sight, John Palmer got off his seat, fastened his
horse and helped Em. to alight.

Then both went up the steps, and John knocked loudly at the door.

It was opened by an old negro man, who stood silently waiting the
pleasure of the visitors.

“Is your mistress in?” inquired John.

“Yes, sar.”

“Then tell her that the young person she expected this morning has
arrived.”

“Yes, sar,” said the old negro, and then bethinking himself of proper
civility, he added: “You may walk in here and take a seat in de hall, if
you please.”

John Palmer, followed by Em., entered the hall, which was of the type of
nearly all the halls in all the large old houses in the country, running
through the house, with a front door and back, a great staircase in the
midst and room doors on either side.

John and Em. sat down on a heavy oaken settee, while the man went off to
announce their arrival to his mistress.

“Em, this is a cold, hard, sterile place, and my heart sinks like lead,
my girl!” sighed honest John, looking about him.

“Why should it, father dear? Mine doesn’t. Don’t get blue, dear father.
Remember, Sunday is the Lord’s day, and every Saturday night you are to
send Tom for me or come yourself, and I will go home and stay till
Monday morning—two nights and a day with you, dear father,” said Em.
cheerfully.

“Yes, there is some comfort in that, and if it wasn’t for that I should
not have let you leave home to come here at all,” replied John, just as
the old servant reappeared and said:

“You is to come inter de back parlor and wait until de madam is ready to
see you. She will come down presently.”

Once more John and his daughter arose and followed their guide.

He conducted them down the hall, opened a door on the right hand and
showed them into a moderate-sized and plainly-furnished room with
oak-paneled walls and polished oak floor, and with a broad fireplace, on
which burned a fire of huge hickory logs. This fireplace was flanked by
two deep recesses, in one of which stood a carved oaken beaufet, full of
old china, and in the other stood a cabinet with glass doors, behind
which might be seen a collection of small curiosities from all quarters
of the world, brought by Commodore Bruce from his various voyages.

Two large easy chairs, covered with flowered chintz, were drawn up to
the fireplace, before which lay a rich Turkey rug.

John placed himself in one of these and Em. in the other.

She was busily employed in gazing at the old, old china in the beaufet
on her right and curiosities in the cabinet on her left when the door
opened and Mrs. Bruce sailed in.

“Sailed” is the only term to use in regard to the carriage of this lady,
so smooth and majestic was her motion.

“Ah, my dear, you are very punctual. I am glad to see you,” she said,
taking the hand of Em. and then nodding graciously to John, who arose
and bowed and remained standing while he said:

“Well, madam, I have brought my girl to you according to her promise. If
she should not happen to suit, just drop me a word by one of your grooms
and I’ll come and fetch her home with more pleasure than I have brought
her here.”

“Oh, I have no doubt in the world that she will suit me excellently
well,” said the lady, smiling at the bluntness of John and looking
kindly upon Em.

“I will try my best to please you, madam,” said the girl.

“I am not very hard to please, little one,” replied the lady.

“But in any case, I shall be here Saturday night at six o’clock to take
my girl home to spend the Sabbath,” said John, who could not help
feeling in a very unchristian and aggressive humor; for why should this
proud lady have the light of his eyes, the core of his heart, his
darling little Em., merely because she wanted her services and was rich
enough to pay for them?

John felt himself rapidly growing into an agrarian, a communist, a
revolutionist or any other sort of incendiary Satan should desire to
make of him.

“There can be no objection at all to that. Indeed, if you like, you can
come at an earlier hour,” replied Mrs. Bruce.

“I thank you, ma’am; but I will come at six o’clock, the regular hour
for knocking off work all over the world, I believe,” answered John, who
did not wish to receive any favors.

Then he went up to his daughter, took her in his arms and kissed her
heartily, put her down, caught up his hat from the floor, bowed to the
lady and abruptly departed.

“Your father does not like to part with you,” said Mrs. Bruce.

“No, madam; and this is the first time I have ever left home,”
respectfully replied Em.

“Why does he consent for you to leave home when he is so reluctant to
lose sight of you?”

“He yields to my wish and to what he considers my mother’s better
judgment in all matters that relate to her daughters.”

“Ah, then _you_ wished to come to me.”

“Yes, indeed, madam,” said Em. with an ardor that almost touched
familiarity.

But the lady took no offence. She seemed rather pleased than otherwise
as she added:

“And so your mother sided with yourself?”

“Yes, madam.”

“I hope that neither of you will regret your choice. Your duties here
will not be heavy. We breakfast at eight. After breakfast you will sew
until luncheon time—one o’clock—then take an hour for rest or recreation
and then sew until the dinner—six o’clock—after which you have the
remainder of the day and the night to yourself. When we have no company
besides the friends staying in the house, you will take your meals with
us. And now I will ring for a servant to show you your room,” said the
lady, suiting the action to the word.

A good-looking young colored girl answered the call.

“Liza, show Miss Palmer here to the southwest room in the attic, and
have her trunk carried up there, and wait until she is ready to come
down and then bring her to my room. Do you understand?” inquired Mrs.
Bruce.

“Oh, yes’m,” replied the servant.

“I will see you soon then,” said the lady, as she passed out of the
parlor.

“Come long o’ me, miss, and I’ll take you to Cuba,” said the colored
girl, showing all her teeth at she smiled.

“Cuba?” echoed Em. in bewilderment.

“Yes, miss, which I means de sou’wes’ room in de attic, as de madam tell
me to take—which de ole marse he do call Cuba ’cause de sun do shine
dere mos’ all day an’ make it warm,” the girl explained as she left the
parlor.

“That is quite fanciful,” observed Em., as she followed her guide.

“Yes, miss, I s’pose it mus’ be somefin like dat—which de ole marster do
call ebery room in de house after some furrin country as he had to sail
to when he used to go down to de high seas in de big ships,” continued
Liza, as they went on.

They climbed two flights of stairs and reached the attic floor, which,
like all the lower ones, had a broad hall running through it from front
to back, with two large rooms on each side.

“Are all these rooms named after foreign countries?” inquired Em., as
she stood in the spacious hall, which was lighted by a large window at
each end.

“Yes, miss; and this here sow’wes’ one, which is to be yourn, is Cuba,
’cause it’s de warmest.”

“And the one back of mine—the southeast room—what is that called?”

“Oh! Loosy anny, ’cause it’s warm an’ damp. An’ de rooms on de norf side
ob de hall is—well, less se—de sow-ees’ room is called Greenlan’, and de
now’wes’ is ’Laska.”

“I declare that is quite interesting, Liza. When we have time I will get
you to tell me the names of all the rooms in the house, but now
introduce me into Cuba and then please have my trunk sent up right
away.”

“Yes, miss, I will. Here is your room,” answered the little maid,
opening the door of the southwest room.

Em. entered it and made a little exclamation of surprise and pleasure.
It was a very attractive bower, if it _was_ in the attic—a spacious
chamber, with whitewashed walls, a sloping roof, a clean, bare floor,
with rugs lying here and there; a broad fireplace, with a good fire of
logs; four deep dormer windows, two looking to the west out upon the
cedar-wooded ascent of the mountain, and two looking south, down the
river, with a view of the opposite wooded, hilly shore, and a distant
sight of the beautiful island.

The old-fashioned four-post bedstead, the tall chest of drawers, the
“press” and the three-cornered washstand, the tables and the chairs were
all of maple. The window curtains and the chair-covers were of yellow,
flowered calico.

Altogether, the attic room had a spacious, cheerful, homely look that
perfectly contented its new occupant.

She took off her shawl, folded it and put it away in one of the press
shelves and placed her bonnet beside it.

And by the time Em. had bathed her face and hands and brushed her hair
the colored girl reappeared, accompanied by a strong man bringing the
trunk.

Em. only detained Liza long enough to open her trunk and take from it a
clean, white linen collar and pair of cuffs, which she added to her
simple dress of brown merino.

Then she followed the colored girl downstairs to a spacious, handsomely
furnished chamber on the second floor, where she found Mrs. Bruce alone
and busily engaged in cutting out work for her new seamstress.

She spoke very kindly to Em., told her where she could sit down, and
then she filled her hands with needlework and placed a pile on a
standing workbasket at her side and said:

“I am now going downstairs to my guests. It is ten o’clock. The lunch
bell will ring at one. You can then come down and join us. You can
easily find your way to the dining-room—it is the back room on the north
side of the house.

“Thank you, madam. Yes, I can easily find it,” said Em.

Mrs. Bruce went down to the drawing-room and Em. stitched for three
hours, her fingers busy with her needlework, her thoughts with Ronald
Bruce. She felt sure that he had instigated his mother to engage her
only for the sake of having her near him, and she rejoiced in the
thought.

She never seriously reflected now how this love might end. It was
happiness enough for the present to know that she was under the same
roof with her lover, and that she would be sure to see him several times
a day for weeks to come.

So she sat and stitched diligently, smiling dreamily over her work until
the luncheon bell rang.

Then she sprang up, smoothed her dress and her hair and tripped
downstairs to the dining-room where the luncheon-table was spread.




                               CHAPTER IX
                       “THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE”

             The course of true love never yet ran smooth;
             For either ’twould be different in blood,
             Or else misgrafted in respect of years.
             Or else it stood upon the choice of friends;
             Or, if there is a unity in all,
             War, death or sickness will lay siege to it.
                                               SHAKESPEARE.


But the family had not yet assembled. There was but One person in the
room, and he sprang to meet her, caught both of her hands, and would
have saluted her with a kiss but that the quick, forbidding look in the
young girl’s eyes arrested him.

“Well, well, I won’t, then!” he said; “but, oh, Em., I am so enraptured
to see you! And did I not manage beautifully? As soon as I had got home
from Annapolis, where that interminable investigation detained me so
long, I was postively determined to have you here! So, my dear, having
purposely left the bulk of my wardrobe behind, I told my mother that I
had scarcely the thread of a garment left and must have several made up
immediately. My poor mother, who is as new to this neighborhood as you
or I, was immediately driven to her wit’s end for the wants of a
seamstress. I knew she would be! So I recommended John Palmer’s
daughters, knowing full well that there was but one among them who could
suit my mother. So here you are, my love; and if I succeed in my plans,
from here you will never go again without me! But hush! here is somebody
else,” said Ronald, as old Commodore Bruce came into the room.

He was very much bowed and broken—his head was bald on the top, with a
light fringe of silver-gray hair around his temples and the nape of his
neck. He wore a dressing-gown of flowered India silk, wadded and lined
and confined around the waist with a crimson silk cord and tassel. He
stooped over his large, gold-headed cane as he walked.

Some men soon recover from severe bereavements, others never do.
Commodore Bruce belonged to the latter class. He had never rallied from
the overwhelming grief of Lonny’s loss.

Every year, on his son’s birthday, he had said:

“If my Lonny were now alive he would be this old.”

And only in the beginning of _that_ year he had said:

“Ah, if my poor Lonny were alive now he would be thirty-five years old.
In the very prime and pride of life, in the vigor and glory of his
manhood!”

Commodore Bruce came in slowly, leaning on his cane, as I said, and
looking keenly from side to side as if to see who was in the room, for
his sight was always dim.

“Ah, nobody here scarcely. These women are always unpunctual. They need
a little navy discipline to train them. But who is this? Who is this,
Ronald?” he exclaimed as his eyes fell upon Em.

“This is Miss Palmer, a young lady my mother has staying with her,” said
young Bruce not quite frankly.

“Oh, how do you do, my dear. I am very glad to see you. I hope you will
enjoy yourself among us,” said the old man with formal politeness,
taking her hand, yet scarcely looking in her face.

“I thank you, sir, but I am only Mrs. Bruce’s seamstress,” said Em.,
amending Ronald’s little error.

“Eh?” exclaimed the commodore, looking more attentively in her face.

Em. repeated her assertion.

But Commodore Bruce was not listening to her words or caring for them.
He was gazing in her face as if he were transfixed.

At length he recovered himself, found his voice and said:

“I beg your pardon, my dear, but I seem to have seen you somewhere else
long before this.”

“Yes, sir, you did—in the city, more than a year ago, when you were at
the Indian Queen Hotel, and I carried home some shirts to you,” said Em.

“Ay—ay—ay—ay! I remember that! But this was long, long before! Yet no,
you could not be so told! It must be some one whom you closely resemble
that I remember and am thinking of! Yes—yes! I know now! Ah, that poor,
unhappy one! What has ever become of her? Where lies her broken heart?
And she was my Lonny’s last charge to me before he left me for the last
time. ‘Father,’ he said, ‘for my sake be kind to poor Emolyn!’ Ah! she
was my poor boy’s sweetheart, I doubt! But she is gone! gone! This girl
looks like her! Looks as she did before that blasting calamity fell upon
her! An accidental likeness! The world is full of such! Yet I wish I had
not seen it!” murmured the old man in a musing tone.

Ronald Bruce led him to a chair, placed him in it, took the cane from
his hand and set it up and then gave him a glass of wine.

When the old man had drank this he seemed to be revived, for he turned
to Em. and said:

“Do not let my lucubrations disturb you, child!”

At that moment Mrs. Bruce and two other ladies entered the room.

Em. looked up, and to her intense amazement caught the eye of her former
teacher, Mrs. Templeton.

“Why, Emolyn Palmer!” she exclaimed in astonishment equal to Em.’s own.
“Is it possible that this is _you_, my dear? Why, how came you to be
here?”

“I am Mrs. Bruce’s new seamstress,” answered Em. simply.

“You are! Well, I knew that she had taken a young girl in the house to
sew, and I believe I heard she was the daughter of one Palmer, who was
overseer at the Wilderness Manor; but I had no idea that it was _you_,
my dear! I am _very_ glad to see you again! And here is Hermia, who will
be equally well pleased to meet her old schoolmate,” concluded Mrs.
Templeton, as her daughter joined them.

“Yes, indeed, I am very happy to see you so unexpectedly, Em.,”
cordially exclaimed Miss Templeton, who had developed into a tall,
queenly brunette of about nineteen years of age.

“And oh! I am _so_ glad and so _very_ much surprised to see you, Miss
Hermia,” heartily exclaimed Em., squeezing the offered hand of the young
lady.

“Why, did you not know that my mother was Commodore Bruce’s only sister?
And that when he retired from the navy and settled down here he took her
from her school and brought her here to keep house for him?” inquired
Hermia, still holding the hand of her little schoolmate.

“Oh, I knew, at least I had heard, that Mrs. Templeton had a brother in
the navy who had sent her son to the Naval Academy, and afterwards I
heard that she had resigned her situation as teacher of the public
school, and had gone to live with her brother; but I had not the least
suspicion that it was Commodore Bruce!” said Em., still gazing with
surprised eyes.

“Oh, yes!” said Hermia, laughing. “And here we found my aunt, Mrs. David
Bruce, his brother’s widow and her son Ronald. They are not rival
queens, although this is but one kingdom and cannot be divided. No;
though they are both here, there is no rivalry, and you will soon know
the reason,” concluded Hermia as she gave her friend’s hand a hearty
squeeze.

Mrs. Templeton, who had crossed the room to speak to Mrs. Bruce, now
came back to Em., and again expressed her joy in meeting the girl.

As for Em., she was bewildered with happiness.

Every one spoke gently to her; every one smiled on her. She was received
into the family circle more like a dear young relative than as a
dependent.

But then the girl was so fair and lovely in person and manner that no
one could have treated her with coldness or indifference.

And as for Ronald Bruce, who looked on all this from the opposite side
of the room with the air of a careless spectator, he was really filled
with delight at the success of his experiment.

“She will win all hearts,” he said to himself; “and being quick-witted
as well as gentle and refined, she will soon catch the ‘shibboleth’ of
our set—the thousand and one almost inscrutable and quite indescribable
absurdities—

                “‘That mark the caste of Vere de Vere.’

“Dear girl! For myself I should only be too glad to introduce her into
any society. And as to the old folks putting their heads together and
setting their hearts on making a match between me and my Cousin
Hermia—that is perfect nonsense! We like each other well enough; but we
won’t marry each other. We’d die first!”

While Ronald Bruce was ruminating the old commodore was growing
impatient for his lunch.

“Well, well, Catherine! Well, well, Margaret! what are we waiting for
now?” he testily inquired.

“Only for Mrs. and Miss Warde,” replied Mrs. Bruce. “These women! These
women! They have no idea of the duty of punctuality! Ah! a little
training on board a man-o’-war would improve their habits.”

As the old man spoke Belinda Warde entered the room, apologizing, and
saying:

“Mamma is not very well; but she will be down in a few moments, and begs
that you will not wait.”

“I am sorry to hear that. But take your seats. She will join us
presently,” said the commodore.

Belinda was now about thirty-five years old, a superb brunette, like her
mother, and being well-preserved and well-dressed, she still passed
among those who did not know her age as a young lady.

She stared for an instant at the little stranger in their midst, until
Hermia said:

“This is a schoolmate of mine—Miss Palmer—who has come to assist Aunt
Bruce.”

“Oh!” said the young lady, and took her seat at the table, which was now
full but for the vacant chair waiting for Mrs. Warde.

The meal progressed, but the absent lady did not make her appearance.

A servant was sent up to ask her if she would have refreshments served
in her room.

An answer was returned declining the offer with thanks, and desiring
that the company would excuse her.

“Whimsical,” whispered the old commodore confidentially to his own white
beard as he finished his “mayonnaise.”

The luncheon was an informal meal, and one by one the party around the
table dropped off, until no one was left but the commodore, his
sister-in-law and Em., who, though she had finished eating, sat there
because she was too timid to get up and leave while Mrs. Bruce remained.

Finally the three arose together, and Em. was about to hurry up to her
needlework when the old commodore arrested her steps by saying:

“Stop, my dear; with my sister’s leave here, I want you to read the
newspapers for me; the boy brought them from the post-office just before
we sat down to lunch and they are not opened yet. Follow me to my
study.”

Em. stood still in perplexity and looked from the commodore to the lady.

“My dear brother, I, Ronald, or, indeed, any of us, will be most happy
to be your reader, as we always have been,” said Mrs. Bruce
hesitatingly.

“Oh, yes, I know! I know! But this child has a sweet, fresh voice very
pleasant to hear. So I am sure she can read most agreeably. I prefer to
try her at any rate—that is, if you have no objection, madam,” added the
old man in a tone that warned his sister-in-law she must make no more
opposition to his wishes.

“Oh, _of course_, I have no objection, sir. I am only too happy if any
one in my employment can be of the least service to you, to whom I owe
so much. Miss Palmer,” she said, turning to Em., “attend Commodore Bruce
to his study.”

“Come here on my left, child,” said the old man.

Em. obeyed.

Then, leaning with his right hand upon his stick and with his left upon
Em.’s shoulder, he walked slowly from the dining-room, crossed the hall
and passed into his study, which was in fact a handsome library in the
southwest corner of the first floor.

Supported by Em. and his stick he walked to a long table in the middle
of the room and dropped into a large chair beside it.

On the table before him lay several newspapers still in their envelopes.
He opened them one by one and spread them out.

“Now, my child, draw up a chair and seat yourself on my right side—I am
as deaf as a post on my left—and begin to read me the news.”

“Where shall I begin?” softly inquired Em. when she had seated hemself
and unfolded the paper. “Shall I read the speech of——”

“Oh, bother, no; don’t; read the news—the murders, suicides, arsons,
burglaries, robberies, and so forth; and if you can find any, the
opposite sorts of things—the rescues, the reconciliations, the
benefactions, and so on! Only don’t read speeches!” replied the
commodore.

Em. looked all over the paper and found a long sensational account of a
great fire and the rescue of a family of children by a brave fireman,
who saved them at the imminent hazard of his own life.

Next she read of the discovery of a silver mine in the mountains of
Virginia, which the old man instantly pronounced to be a hoax.

Then of the laying of the corner-stone of a poor children’s hospital.

But before she got through with this Em.’s flute-like voice had lulled
the old man to rest.

Missing his comments at last, she looked up, and found him fast asleep
in his chair, and Ronald Bruce standing before her with his eyes full of
laughter.

“You have been reading to closed ears for about ten minutes, Em.,” said
the young man.

“Oh! is he asleep? Must I go?” inquired the girl, dropping her paper and
preparing to rise.

“He is asleep; but you must not upon any account go until he wakes up
and dismisses you! Don’t be afraid, however! _I’ll_ stay and keep your
company.”

Em. looked perplexed, confused and utterly uncertain what to say.

“Dear Em., keep your seat; I have got something that I must tell you in
a plain, honest, straightforward way, even although you may know it well
enough already. May I tell you now, this moment?” inquired the young
man, as he drew a foot-stool and seated himself at the feet of the
sleeping veteran, and very near to her also, it must be confessed.

“Dear Em., dearest Em., may I tell you now?” he repeated.

“Ronald, is it anything you would tell me in the presence of my mother?”
timidly questioned the girl.

“Yes! in the presence of the whole world, if necessary.”

“Well, then—say on,” whispered Em.

“Em. Palmer, I haven’t been like other young fellows, falling in and out
of love with almost every pretty girl I ever saw since I was five years
old! No! I have been to sea ever since I was a child, and I never,
never, _never_ knew what it was to love a girl, the least in the world,
until I met you.”

“Oh! _do_ please don’t talk so! I _know_ you wouldn’t talk so to me if
my mother was sitting there right before us!” murmured Em., beginning to
tremble.

“May I never be saved if I would not! I would tell you I love you if all
the mothers, fathers, aunts, and uncles, and guardians in Christendom
were sitting on stiff, high-backed chairs in a circle around us! There!
For it is the blessed truth! I _do_ love you, Em., with all my heart and
soul and life! I began to love you from the first moment I ever saw you!
Yes, and I perceived that you also began to love me about the same
time!” he added triumphantly.

“Oh, Ronald,” breathed Em., her face dyed with blushes, “was I so
forward?”

“‘Forward!’ No. You little, sensitive plant. The opposite of all that—so
shrinking you were! But, oh, Em., I began to love you from the first
moment I ever saw you, and I have loved you more and more ever since;
and the more I have loved you the more my spirit has gone forth in
good-will to all the world. My heart was as pure and fresh as your own,
Em., and no heart could be purer and fresher when I gave it to you; and
that heart has remained as true and constant as your own, Em., through
these years of absence and silence, when no word of love or of plighted
faith had passed between us!”

“Oh, Ronald, Ronald, I am so frightened,” she murmured.

“Why should you be even uneasy? Listen, love! Listen, loveliest! By all
the signs I have told you do I know that ours is the real, true, holy,
heavenly love, and not one of its plausible counterfeits.”

“Oh, Ronald, is it right for you to talk to me in this way?” she
breathed.

“Right? It is righteous!”

“Ah, how can it end? You are a young gentleman of rank and wealth; I, a
poor, half educated girl, the child of a man of the laboring classes.”

“I do not care! I will tell you how it will end, Em. It will end in our
happy marriage. In the first place, let me tell you that I am of age,
and NO ONE, however near and dear, however rich and influential, shall
control my choice in that which would be the most important act of my
life and the nearest to my heart. I will not lead _you_ into any
disobedience, Em. If the old folks do object to our union I will wait
until you are of age, and then I will marry you, love—I will Em., I
will, ‘Though mammy and daddy and a’ gang mad!’ Yes! though my crotchety
old kinsman here should disinherit and turn me out of the house, get me
discharged from the navy, and leave me to earn our living by breaking
stones on the highway. If you will only be constant, Em., as I know you
will be, I will marry you in spite of them all. I will marry you in
spite of fate and fortune; and I don’t care a button who hears me say
so! OH!”

This last exclamation was called forth by the sight of old Commodore
Bruce sitting straight up in his chair, very wide awake, and staring at
them.




                               CHAPTER X
                                SURPRISE

                                          The spell,
            The mightiest upon earth—the spell of love,
            Familiar, mutual, requited love—
            Shall be upon thee; and its charmed power
            Shall at each moment, at a wish, call up
            More wealth than ever crossed the desert sands,
            Gems, purer, costlier far than Araby’s;
            Unsunned treasures from that richest mine,
            The human heart.                    POCAHONTAS.


“OH!” echoed the old man, while the young people looked at him aghast.
“Eh? What? It seems I’ve been nodding and you’ve caught me! Very rude of
me to fall asleep while you were reading, my dear! You might have won a
pair of gloves, eh?”

It was evident from the commodore’s words that he had not heard a word
of Donald Bruce’s reckless talk, but had indeed but just at that instant
waked up.

“I hope you had a refreshing nap, sir,” said Em., who was the first to
recover her self-possession.

“Yes—yes—yes—yes! I had a very refreshing nap! Brief, but very
refreshing. ‘Forty winks,’ as the saying is, you know, my dear; just
lost myself, that is all!” said the old man, apparently unconscious that
he had been sound asleep for two hours.

“I hope you feel revived, sir,” said Ronald, now plucking up heart.

“Yes—yes, quite so! But how the deuce did you come here, Ronald? What do
you want?” demanded the commodore, bethinking himself now of the
unexpected presence of his nephew.

“I want to go to Greyrock this afternoon. Will you let me have Warlock?”
inquired the young man with quick invention.

“Now, Ronald!” testily exclaimed the elder, “why will you reiterate a
request that you know, for your own sake, I must deny? No! You cannot
have that four-legged fiend! No! I will not have your neck broken during
_my_ lifetime by any concession of mine. No! Once for all, you can not,
and you never _can_ have Warlock! You may ride any other horse in the
stable—in fact, you may ride any other four-footed creature on the
estate, and you know it. But you sha’n’t risk your life on Warlock,”
emphatically declared the commodore, bringing down his doubled fist with
force upon the table as a finality.

“Very well, sir; of course you must be obeyed,” said Ronald with a
slight shrug of his handsome shoulders. “I shall not, however, take any
of the other horses. If I cannot have Warlock I do not care to take a
ride to-day.”

“No! I thought you only wished to go to Greyrock for the sake of risking
your precious neck on Warlock’s vicious back. But you shall not do it. I
shall sell that horse the first chance I get. Now, then, go about your
business, Ronald, and send my man here. It is time to dress for dinner.
You may go, also, my dear; but don’t go back to my sister-in-law and sit
down to sewing, I command you. And, mind, my commands are paramount on
this ship! You have been sitting enough to-day for a young one. Go now
and take a turn in the fresh air of the grounds. There! Be off with you
both. ’SCAT!!”

The conscience-stricken young pair hurried from the library by different
doors—Ronald going out into the hall, and Em. descending the steps
through a French window that opened upon the front yard.

That yard so widely different from all the other houseyards she had ever
seen in her life; that yard so savage in rocky desolation, so sublime in
magnificent prospect.

The house, as I said, stood upon a natural plateau about half way up the
front of the precipice, directly overhanging the river. The yard
extended some thirty feet to the extreme edge of the precipice, which
was defended by a stone wall about breast high. There was no gate or
outlet from this front wall. The approach to the house, as I told you,
was from behind, and the entrance to the yard was at the side.

Em. walked to the wall, leaned over it, and looked down the sheer
descent of a wooded steep a thousand feet to the river that flowed at
its foot. What abysms of darkness and mystery were in the depths of the
shadowy foliage so far below! There, in those deep caverns, doubtless,
the wildcat made her lair and reared her young; there, among those gray
crags, the eagle built her nest and brooded over her eggs. No gentler
creatures of the earth or air could surely find their homes among such
savage desolation, though Em. as she stood there leaning over the wall
and gazing down the dreadful descent.

At length she raised her eyes and looked around, and beheld a prospect
magnificent beyond all words to portray. Spread out before her was the
beautiful valley, with the river flowing in the midst, and the
undulating, wooded hills rising beyond, all now royally arrayed in the
gorgeous hues of autumn, and refulgently lighted up by the glorious rays
of the setting sun.

Ah! how brief are the moments of such splendid effects!

Even as Em. gazed the sun sank down behind the mountains at her back,
and all the valley faded into twilight.

Em. turned away and walked around the side of the house and passed to
the rear.

There the precipice presented a different aspect. Instead of descending
to the river it ascended to the clouds, and from a fissure in the rock,
to the left of the stables, sprang a fountain that grew in volume as it
fell from rock to rock, and rushed roaring into the river below.

Em. knew—because she had heard, in the conversation between Ronald Bruce
and her father on that evening when the former had stayed all night in
the old manor-house—that the cultivated farms belonging to The Breezes
estate were all in the valley below, and that these mountain ranges were
only valuable for their quarries of blue limestone; but she wondered
exceedingly at the eccentricity of the first proprietor, who had built
his dwelling-house on this mere shelf of rock half way up the mountain
side, with an ascending precipice behind it, and a descending precipice
before it.

She remained out until the twilight faded into darkness, and then she
went into the house and ran up to her attic chamber, where the care of
the little colored girl Liza had already lighted two wax candles and set
them on the toilet-table, and had mended the wood fire which burned
brightly on the hearth.

Em. brushed her hair and ran a narrow blue ribbon through its brown
ringlets, then put a blue bow to the meeting of her linen collar; and
so, having made the best toilet she could for dinner with well-dressed
ladies she put out her candles and left the room to go downstairs.

The upper halls were dimly lighted, each by a little lamp at the back
end.

Em. had just reached the landing on the second story and was hurrying
down the hall when a door on the left opened and a tall, dark, handsome
woman, richly dressed, but looking older than either Mrs. Bruce or Mrs.
Templeton, came out and carelessly approached Em.

They stood face to face. The lady lifted her eyes haughtily to those of
the girl that for the moment stood in her way. But when their gaze met
the lady’s great black eyes dilated wide with terror, with horror! Her
face blanched to the pallor of death, her frame shook as with an ague.

“BEGONE!” she shrieked. “Why do you come to haunt me?”

And with these words she fell to the floor.

Em., paralyzed by amazement, stood speechless and motionless over the
woman whom she had so involuntarily appalled and overwhelmed.

But the shriek and the fall had startled others. Four opposite doors
flew open and four women rushed out of their rooms to see what was the
matter and to behold Em. standing like a statue of Fear over the
prostrate form of Malvina Warde.

“In the name of Heaven, what does all this mean, Miss Palmer!” demanded
Mrs. Bruce, stooping to examine the condition of her guest, while Mrs.
Templeton, Hermia, and Belinda gathered around them.

“She has fainted,” said Mrs. Templeton.

The four women raised the unconscious form and laid it on the hall
lounge.

“How did this happen, Miss Palmer?” inquired Mrs. Bruce while they all
began to use the common methods of reviving a swooning woman—bathing her
head, beating her hands, and applying sal volatile to her nose.

“Why don’t you answer, Miss Palmer?” demanded Mrs. Bruce without pausing
in her efforts.

“I—I don’t know,” stammered the frightened girl. “I had just run
downstairs and turned around when I met this lady coming out of that
door. We came on each other suddenly, and she stared and screamed and
fell. I think she took me for a ghost.”

“It is very strange,” said Mrs. Templeton; “but, then, Malvina has had
heart disease for some years, and a little thing startles her.”

“Do not be alarmed. Mamma is subject to these fainting fits,” said
Belinda Warde; “lay her head quite low and she will soon recover.”

They followed the daughter’s advice, and the mother gave signs of
returning consciousness.

“You had better go down, my dear. Since it was the sight of you that
first startled her you had better not be one of the first objects that
her eyes meet on opening,” said Mrs. Templeton.

Gladly enough Em. left the circle and went downstairs. A feeling of
repulsion had come over her at the sight of that woman for which she
could in no way account.

“It is strange, and unjust, and sinful,” said the girl to herself as she
tripped downstairs. “That woman never did me any harm in all the days of
my life! She never even knew me any more than I did her, and yet it is
true that I feel such a loathing of her as I never felt for any living
creature before. I must pray it away! It will not do! I will not have
hatred in my heart—particularly such a wicked, unnatural, and
unreasonable hatred as this. I will do that lady every kind service I
possibly can, and I will try to overcome this sudden hatred of an
inoffensive stranger.”

In the lower hall she found Ronald Bruce, standing and staring upward.

“What is the row upstairs? Was it a mouse, or a spider, or a candle moth
that caused all that screaming and running?” he inquired.

“Oh! Ronald, it was I,” said Em. compunctiously.

“You! What did you do?”

“Oh! I suppose I came running down the attic stairs too swiftly and too
silently——”

“Were you expected to creep down noisily, like an old cripple on
crutches?” laughingly demanded the young man.

“Nonsense, Ronald! You must know I glided down and met Mrs. Warde in the
gloom, and she screamed and fainted.”

“Was that it? Ha, ha, ha!”

“Don’t laugh, Ronald. She took me for a ghost.”

“Then she must have a bad conscience, that is all I can say about it!
Em., I hate that woman!”

“Don’t, Ronald. That is wicked, even supposing she ever injured you,
which perhaps she never did.”

“No, she never did. Nor did ever snakes or scorpions injure me, yet I
hate them; and I hate that woman as I hate them, with an instinctive
hatred.”

“We should not hate anything; we should not permit the feeling of hate
to take any root in our hearts,” began Em., but before she could preach
her bit of a sermon she was interrupted by the appearance of Commodore
Bruce, who came out of his study to cross the hall on his way to the
drawing-room.

“What was the matter just now? Which of the women was in hysterics?” he
carelessly inquired.

“Mrs. Warde met Miss Palmer in the twilight, and taking her for a ghost,
screamed and fainted,” replied Ronald.

“Humph! I don’t wonder, seeing that she persecuted to death one who was
as much like Miss Palmer as though they had been twin sisters. Ah,
well!” said the old man to himself as he passed on his way, “I am only a
little less culpable than herself, seeing that I should have looked
after the orphan girl whom my poor lad loved and committed to my charge
with his parting words. I have often wondered what he meant when he said
that he would have something to tell me which would surprise and please
me, but that his lips were sealed by honor until he should return from
his three years’ voyage—that voyage, ah, Heaven! from which he never
came back! I often suspected that that unfortunate child was——But what
is the use of speculating? The poor boy is gone, the girl is lost, and
the child is dead. The past is beyond recall, and therefore beyond
regret,” concluded the commodore as he passed to his arm-chair in the
drawing-room.

Em. had followed him, and naturally Ronald had followed Em., and while
she busied her nimble fingers by arranging the books and bijouterie on
the center-table Ronald stood by her side.

The dinner-bell rang.

“Now, where are all these women? Unpunctual as usual. I wish I had them
all on board a man-o’-war in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean! I’d train
’em into punctuality! Where are they, I wonder?”

“They are attending to Mrs. Warde, I think, sir,” said Em. soothingly.

“Attending to Mrs. Warde? Does it take four able-bodied women to attend
to a single hysterical one? Let ’em throw a pitcher of cold water over
her head—that will fetch her to,” growled the old man as he arose from
his seat and took his cane and crept towards the dining-room, followed
by Em., who was pursued by Ronald.

“You always run after uncle! You never stay behind a moment to let me
have a word alone with you,” complained the young man.

“No, because it is not right far me to do so,” replied Em.

“What! Not when we are engaged to be married?” he whispered.

“We are not engaged. We cannot be engaged without the consent of parents
and friends,” said Em.

“Eh! Why, did I not swear to marry you, whether or no?” he hurriedly
whispered, for the ladies of the household were hastening downstairs,
and before Em. could reply they were close behind the lovers.

They all entered the lighted dining-room together and seated themselves
at the table.

“Well! How is Malvina? Got over her fainting fit?” inquired the
commodore as he seated himself at the foot of the table.

“No, not entirely; but she is lying down in her room carefully watched
over by Liza. She will not be able to join us this evening,” replied
Mrs. Bruce.

“Humph!” exclaimed the commodore, neither very sympathetically nor
credulously.

When dinner was over the family adjourned to the drawing-room. The old
man settled himself in his arm-chair and went to sleep. Belinda Warde
placed herself beside Ronald Bruce, and with something like her mother’s
powers of fascination held him bound for hours. The three other ladies
drew around the center-table with their fancy work of embroidery or
crochet. And Em. spent the very dullest evening she had ever passed in
all her life.

At ten o’clock precisely Commodore Bruce rang up all the servants, sent
for the old family Bible and conducted the evening prayers.

Then he peremptorily sent every one off to bed.

Em. was glad to reach her attic, which had already begun to seem like
home in its privacy.

It remained just as she had left it four hours before, except that the
fire was burning so low that it scarcely half lighted the large room
with its lurid glow.

There was a box of wood in one corner near the fireplace, and Em. took a
few sticks and laid them on the smoldering logs, and soon had a cheerful
blaze.

Then she took down one of the candles from the mantelpiece, and was
about to light it when she started to hear a voice behind her
exclaiming:

“Dere now! I jes’ dis minute got ’lieved offen duty to Miss Melwiny
Warde, which I had to set by her and watch her until Miss Belindy came
up to bed and let me go, and den I ran right up here fas’ ever I could
to fix your fire and light your candles, and you gone and done it all
yourself ’dout de slightest ’sideration for my feelings.”

“I didn’t know that you were coming, Liza,” said Em. in a gentle tone.

“Now, see dere, now! Didn’t know I was coming; didn’t have no conf’ence
in me. Course I was coming, on’y I was ’tained so long dere tending to
Miss Malwiny Warde. Takes all de house to ’tend to she?” grumbled Liza
as she went about her duties, mending the fire, lighting the candles on
the dressing-table, turning down the bed and so on.

When she had completed her work she stopped and said:

“Now, Miss Em., ef you’s afeard to sleep by yourself I’ll fetch a little
mattriss from t’other room and sleep down here ’fore the fire to keep
you company.”

“Oh, no, thank you. You are very kind to think of it, Liza, but I am not
at all afraid.”

“You know dere ain’t nobody sleeps up here in dis garret ’sides you.”

“Is there not? But it is of no consequence.”

“Now, you better let me stay up here long o’ you, Miss Em. ’Deed you
had.”

“Oh, thank you, but it is not necessary that you should. Besides, what
would Mrs. Bruce say to your changing your sleeping place?”

“Oh, she! Lor’ bless you, Miss Em., ole Marse Commodo’ _he’s_ marster
and mist’ess, too, in dis house, and he ax me to-day, he say, ‘Lizer,
where dey put dat young girl to sleep?’ I say, ‘Up in the garret.’ He
say, ‘I thought so. Now you sleep on a pallet in her room if she is
afraid to stay by herself, you hear?’ I say, ‘Yas, marster.’ And so,
Miss Em., I come up faithful to offer my services.”

“You are very kind. And so is your dear old master. He shows very great
consideration for me. But, as I said before, I do not need you, Liza. By
the way, where do you generally sleep?”

“Oh! out’n de house in a room ober de stables, which dere are six rooms
dere, where de servants sleep, ’cept de cook and de two kitchen-maids.
Dey sleep in a room ober de kitchen.”

“Very well, then, Liza, perhaps as it is late, you had better go now.
Shall I come downstairs and lock the door after you?”

“Oh, lor’, no, Miss! I locks de door and takes de key ebery night
myself, so as to let myself in in de morning to wait on de ladies! But
it ain’t so awful late, after all, Miss Em. It ain’t no more an’ a
quarter arter ten o’clock, so wouldn’t you like to go through de other
rooms in this garret and look at ’em? ’Sides which, it would be good to
’xamine, and be sure as dere ain’t no robbers nor nuffin’ hid away in
dese rooms, and you up here by yourself,” persisted Liza.

“Why, what a wise little woman you are! I’m not afraid of ‘robbers nor
nuffin’,’” said Em., smiling; “but I have ‘a cat-like love of garrets,’
and so we will look at these other rooms, Liza. You take one candle ond
I will take another, so we will have light enough.”




                               CHAPTER XI
                              HIDDEN LOVE

              They seem to those who see them meet,
                The worldly friends of every day;
              Her smile is still serene and sweet,
                His courtesy is free and gay;
              Yet if by one the other’s name
                Should in some careless hour be heard,
              The heart we thought so calm and tame
                Would struggle like a captive bird.
                                            MONCTON MILES.


The colored girl did as she was directed, and led the way to the hall.

“We calls de hall Canady, ’cause it’s so big and cold,” said Liza,
holding up her candle that Em. might view it.

There was nothing at all to be seen in it, except bare floor and bare
walls, the head of the stairs, at one end, a large front window at the
other, and two doors on each side leading into the four rooms. These
rooms were not connected with each other, but opened only on the hall.

“Yur room is de sou’west room, Miss Em., and called Cuba, ’cause it’s
warm and dry. Now less us go in de sou’east room, next to your’n, which
we call Louisiany, ’cause it’s warm and damp.”

They entered that room, which had a musty and mouldy atmosphere of age
and decay, and was furnished with a miscellaneous assortment of old
furniture that seemed to have served its time out in the state chambers
below, and had been retired to the rest and seclusion of the attic.

“I would like to look out of the window,” said Em., going to the front
one and throwing open the shutters.

But she only looked down on the same scene by starlight as she had
beheld by sunset—the descent of the precipice, the river, and the
undulating, wooded hills beyond.

“Now, less look in de rooms on de north side,” said Liza, going across
the hall. “Now this nor’east room we calls Newfoun’lan’, ’cause it’s so
cold and damp,” she added as she led the way in.

It was filled up, as the other two were, with furniture that had once
been very handsome and costly, but was now worn out and dilapidated.

A glance into the room sufficed.

“Now, Miss Em., I sorter to think as you’ll like dis last room better’n
all de rest—dis nor’west room which we do call Alasky, because it is
bofe cold and dry. It’s de lumber-room for de whole ’stablishment, and
dere’s ebber so many funny and cur’us objects in it,” said the little
maid as she admitted Em. into the fourth room.

“It is ‘a curiosity shop!’” exclaimed Em., looking around upon a
heterogeneous multitude of articles that seemed to be the collection of
a century—as most likely it was.

There were costly fragments of furniture, curiously carved chair-backs
without seats; elaborately embroidered cushions without chairs; richly
gilded frames without pictures; old, disfigured pictures without frames;
busts without heads; statuettes without hands or feet; vases without
pedestals; or pedestals without vases, and an innumerable quantity of
other things too bewildering to contemplate.

Em. took up one object after another with curious interest, until at
length her eyes fell upon a frameless, dusty, dark-looking picture, half
hidden among broken vases and crippled statuettes.

It was the portrait of a youth in a midshipman’s uniform.

Em. took her handkerchief and wiped the dusty face and looked at it.

A bright, frank, boyish face; a pair of merry black eyes; a smiling lip,
shadowed by a slight mustache; a brown complexion and short, curling
black hair, met her gaze.

The eyes seemed to meet hers with a mischievious, conscious twinkle, so
that she herself smiled into the smiling face.

Her heart warmed and melted before it.

“Oh, Liza,” she said, “is this a portrait, or is it a fancy sketch? Oh,
how life-like it is. And to be pushed away with all this rubbish! Is it
a portrait, Liza?” she eagerly inquired.

“Which, Miss Em.? That? Oh, yes! That’s poor, dear Marse Lonny’s
pictur’,” replied the girl, approaching and holding the candle to it.

“Who is Marse Lonny, Liza?”

“Marse Lonny Bruce, miss, which was ole Marse Commodo’s onliest son, and
was lost at sea on his fust v’yage, in de Benighted States man-o’-war
_Eagle_, which it broke his mother’s heart to that degree as she pined
away and died in less than a year afterwards.”

“I do not wonder, indeed,” said Em., gazing almost fondly on the bright
frank face before her.

“And dey do say de commodo’ have never been de same man since. I don’t
memorize poor Marse Lonny as well as I ought to, he being ole marster’s
onliest son, and lost at sea; but, den, Miss Em., it ain’t my fault,
’cause I wasn’t born den; hows’ever, mammy memorizes all about him, and
de very day he got his middy’s new uniform, and de fust time he ever put
it on, which it is de self-same his portrait is painted in.”

“And this is his portrait,” murmured Em. in a low voice as she knelt
down before the picture to get a nearer and a better view.

“Yes, miss, de onliest portrait as he ebber had took, and it was took
that spring, jes’ ’fore he sailed on dat misfortnit v’yage whar he was
lost.”

“And why is it poked away in the lumber-room? It seems a cruel slight.”

“Oh, my dear Miss Em., ’cause de ole marster he nebber could endure de
sight ob it arter poor Marse Lonny was drowned. If ebber he come across
it by accident it would knock him ober for all day. His onliest son, you
know, Miss Em. So Mrs. Bruce, which hab kept house for ole marse ebber
since his wife died, Mrs. Bruce she put de picture—hung it up on de
wall, you know, miss, first in one room and den in t’other, but ole
marster was sure to come upon it in his rambles about the house some
time or other, and be upset for a whole day; so den de madam put it in
dis here garret lumber-room, whar nobody nebber comes, not eben ole
marster.”

“Oh, Liza,” eagerly exclaimed Em., “since it is pushed away in this
rubbish room, do you think I might not have it in my room? If I were to
ask Mrs. Bruce do you think she would let me have it while I stay here?”

“No call to bother de madam ’bout it. De madam gib me my orders to fix
up your room comfortable and ’tractive, and to take anything out ob de
lumber-room dat might be useful. And didn’t I take de fender and de
handy irons out ob de lumber-room and mightn’t I take de picture? Yes,
miss! I’ll take de picture and de ’sponsibility bofe!” said Liza; and
suiting the action to the word she gave Em. her candle, pulled away the
_impedimenti_ from before the portrait, lifted it from its place and
carried it away to the southwest room, followed by Em., bearing the two
lights.

Em.’s looking-glass stood upon the dressing-table. There was no glass on
top of the old chest of drawers, but a good, vacant place for the
portrait, and there they set it.

“Now, to-morrow, Miss Em., I’ll hunt over de lumber-room to try and find
a frame dat will fit it. It _used_ to have a frame of its own, but de
old madam took it to put another pictur’ in. Hows’ever, I know I can
find one to fit it there, ’cause you see, Miss Em., whenever I wants
anything as I haven’t got, and can’t get anywhere else, I takes a
broomstick and I goes up into the lumber-room, and I tosses up
everything till I finds what I want. So now, Miss Em., I bids you
good-night, and to-morrow we’ll frame de pictur’ and hang it up anywhere
you like,” said the kind-hearted colored girl as she left the room.

Em. went to the door and watched until she heard Liza go all the way
downstairs and leave the house, locking the back door behind her.

Then she returned to her own room, fastened herself in, and fell to the
contemplation of the portrait.

The bright, frank, joyous face that seemed to smile in hers fascinated
her to such a degree that she could scarcely withdraw her gaze for a
moment from it.

“I have read, or heard, that every one fated to die by any sudden or
violent catastrophe carries the shadow of the coming ill on brow or
cheek; but surely no prevision of early death darkens this glad young
face!” she murmured to herself as she gazed with infinite sympathy,
tenderness and compassion on this counterfeit presentment of the
unfortunate young midshipman.

The sonorous hall clock began to strike eleven. Like hammer on anvil its
strokes rang through the house. Em., with a long, lingering gaze, left
the portrait and prepared for bed.

So ended her first day at the mountain house.

Em., wearied with the various fatigues and excitements of the time,
slept soundly until morning.

She was finally awakened by a rap at her door and the voice of her
little maid calling:

“It’s half-past seven, Miss Em., and de ladies has breakfas’ at eight.”

“Quite right! I will be ready in time,” said Em. as soon as she had
collected her scattered senses and remembered where she was; for,
indeed, on being first aroused from her sleep she could scarcely “place
herself.”

“Please to open de door and let me in to make your fire, Miss Em.,” said
Liza.

Em. jumped out of the bed and complied with the request.

Then her eyes fell upon the pictured face of Lonny Bruce—brighter,
gladder, more joyous looking by the morning light than it had seemed the
evening before.

Em. greeted it with such a smile as she would have given to a living and
beloved face, and then while her little maid kindled her fire she made
her simple morning toilet.

She made such good haste that when she reached the breakfast-room she
found none of the family except Ronald Bruce.

“Good-morning, Em. I was in hopes you would be down first, so I came
here on purpose to wait for you, Em. I want you to promise to marry me.”

“Oh, Ronald, you know I cannot do that without the knowledge and consent
of all your family and all mine,” replied Em.

“Well, but _with_ their knowledge and consent,” urged the young man.

“They will never, _never_ give it, Ronald! Your family are too proud to
consent to receive the daughter of a poor overseer as a relative. And
_my_ family are much too proud to permit their daughter to enter any
household where she would not be most welcome.”

“But, Em., what in the Blue Dees do you mean? Is the wicked, diabolical
pride of your old folks and mine to interfere with our lives, so as to
make us both miserable all our days?”

“I don’t know, Ronald; but we must do what is right.”

Ronald’s impatient reply was checked by the entrance of Commodore Bruce,
who greeted his nephew and the young girl kindly, and then growled as
usual at the _punctual unpunctuality_ of the ladies of his household.

“You can never rely on them but for one thing, and that is for always
being behind time. Ah! here they are at last!”

The ladies entered, interchanged the morning salutations, and then they
all went to breakfast.

It was not until they were all seated at the table that Commodore Bruce
missed Mrs. Warde, and said:

“Well, how is Malvina? Is she not sufficiently recovered from her
hysterics yet to come down?”

“Mamma does not feel strong enough to rise this morning, but she will
try to join us at dinner in the evening,” Belinda explained.

The breakfast was then discussed, and when it was over and the family
party arose from the table, Em. was about to leave the room when again
the old commodore stopped her, saying:

“My dear, don’t run away! I want you to finish reading the papers for
me, and I will promise not to go to sleep. I never go to sleep in the
forenoon, however.”

Em. looked at Mrs. Bruce for directions.

“Go with the commodore, child,” said that lady condescendingly.

Em. followed the old man to the library, where he seated himself in his
easy-chair, lay back at rest, and pointed to another chair, telling Em.
to draw it up, seat herself and commence reading.

Em. obeyed him and spent the whole forenoon in perusing the papers.

It was nearly two o’clock when she got through.

“Well, now, my dear, you have given me a great deal of pleasure, and I
thank you; but I will not trouble you again until Friday. The mails come
in but twice a week to Greyrock—on Tuesdays and Fridays. Then I get my
papers, and you shall read them to me. Go now and take a run in the
fresh air until luncheon. Young blood requires a great deal of oxygen.
Go.”

Em. wished to say something, but could not think what. She turned to go;
then looked over her shoulder, and seeing the pale, gray, feeble old
man, with his chin bowed upon his breast in an attitude of depression,
weakness and sorrow, her heart was filled with compassionate tenderness
for him, and she lingered, looking lovingly on him.

One thin, white, withered hand hung down by his side. With a sudden
impulse of strange affection she stepped forward, raised the hand to her
lips, dropped it, and would have hurried away; but the hand she had
kissed was laid in benediction on her bright young head as the old man
murmured:

“God bless you, my child! How kindly that was meant. Go now and take
your walk.”

Em. left the room, ran up to her attic chamber for hat and shawl, and
then ran downstairs out of the house to the stony front yard overlooking
the descent of the precipice.

Here she was quickly joined by Ronald Bruce, who had seen her from the
front drawing-room windows and ran out into the place.

“Em.,” he whispered as he joined her, “you have not answered my question
yet. Are we both to be made miserable all our lives by the sinful pride
of our relatives?”

“Yes, I did answer you, Ronald; but I will answer you again. We cannot
tell how this will end; but whatever other people do, _we_ must do what
is right. And, Ronald, if you _do_ care for me, as I believe, please do
not follow me about or try to meet me anywhere. It is not discreet. Now
do but look! There is Miss Belinda Warde watching us from the front
parlor windows!”

Ronald turned to catch a glimpse of the lady’s face, which was withdrawn
the instant it was detected.

“I am going in,” said Em.

“So am I,” said Ronald. “I only came out here to speak to you, and I
don’t care if all the fine ladies in Christendom watch me. I will let
them see that I love you, Em.; for I _do_ love you, and I _will_ marry
you in spite of them all.”

They returned to the house and Em. ran upstairs to get ready for lunch.

Ronald went into the drawing-room, sulkily threw himself into a chair,
took up a book and pretended to be absorbed in reading, in order to
escape any interchange of words with Miss Warde.

But still he did not feel any more at ease when Belinda, with an
offended air, arose and left the room.

The family met at luncheon.

Commodore Bruce treated Em. with more than previous kindness; but the
sensitive girl perceived a shadow of coldness in the manner of the
ladies towards her, and she wondered whether Miss Warde had not been
making mischief by certain misrepresentations.

After luncheon, just as the ladies were about to leave the room, Mrs.
Bruce called to Em.:

“Miss Palmer, I wish to speak with you alone. Follow me to my room.”

“I was going there, madam, to resume my needlework,” replied Em. as she
obeyed the directions of the lady.

When they had reached Mrs. Bruce’s chamber the latter inquired:

“When is your father coming for you, Miss Palmer?”

“On Saturday evening, madam, when he will take me home to stay over
Sunday, if you please,” modestly and respectfully replied the girl.

“Very well. It pleases me quite well. And you need not take the trouble
to return on Monday. I shall have no further occasion for your services
after this week,” said the lady with cold hauteur.

Em. turned deadly sick at heart and ghastly pale with mortification and
disappointment.

But before her faltering lips could form a reply another voice came from
the open door, saying defiantly:

“I am very glad to hear that, madam; for after this week I shall require
all the young lady’s society all to myself. Yes, and with her consent I
mean to retain it just so long as we both shall live.”




                              CHAPTER XII
                           LOVE IN THE TOILS

          You may as well go stand upon the beach
          And bid the main flood bate his usual height;
          You may as well use question with the wolf
          Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb;
          You may as well go bid the mountain pines
          Still their high tops and make no further noise,
          When they are fretted with the gusts of heaven;
          You may as well do anything most hard,
          As seek to alter that (than which, what’s firmer?)—
          His stubborn heart.
                                                SHAKESPEARE.


The speaker was Commodore Bruce, who stood in the doorway, with one hand
leaning on his ivory-headed cane and the other against the frame of the
door.

“Oh, it is you, uncle! You quite startled me. Please come in,” said Mrs.
Bruce, recovering from her momentary panic.

“Thank you. I intended to,” said the old man, advancing and sinking into
the great cushioned arm-chair which Em., rallying from her shock, had
wheeled for his accommodation.

“Sit down, child; it is not good for young spines to stand up too much,”
he added as he settled himself comfortably.

Em. took a chair at a little distance and picked up the needlework on
which she had been engaged the day before.

“You say you will not require the services of this young lady after next
Saturday?” inquired the commodore.

“Yes, I have told her so; the work we have on hand will be finished by
that time, and I shall have no more for her,” answered Mrs. Bruce,
considerably modifying the tones of haughtiness and contempt with which
she had spoken to the poor girl.

“I am very glad to hear you say so, for I would like to have her
services all to myself, to read or write for me.”

“But, my dear uncle, Ronald would be most happy to do all this for you.”

“Yes, and look confoundedly bored all the time. No; I want this girl.”

“If you must have a young girl, I am sure our niece, Hermia, would be
delighted to——”

“Well, I shouldn’t, then; there!”

“Or I, myself, if you would accept my services, would be——”

“Thanks, very much, my dear, I will not trouble you.”

“Well, then, there is Mrs. Warde, who really is a very fine
elocutionist——”

“But I don’t want to be elocutionized; particularly by Mrs. Warde.
Malvina is a fine woman for her age, but she has a voice between a
trumpet and a hand-saw. I want Miss Palmer and no one else,” persisted
the veteran.

“One would really think the poor fool was in love with the girl and
meant to marry her! But, still, that is not very likely,” said Mrs.
Bruce to herself with a shrug of her handsome shoulders.

She did not, however, proffer the services of the only remaining lady of
the household—Miss Belinda Warde; for she could not tell what other
matrimonial whim might enter into the old man’s mind or be put into it
by the constant presence of the handsome brunette.

“I am sure, uncle, if you will permit me, I could find a much more
suitable companion than this young girl,” rather sulkily persisted Mrs.
Bruce.

“Thanks, very much, my dear; but _I_ think the companion that _suits_ me
best is the most _suitable_. I say I will have Miss Palmer. Let the
question rest. Come here, my child.” (This was to Em.)

The young girl laid down her work and came to the side of the old man,
who took her hand and looked benignly in her face.

Em. smiled, though her tears were ready to start.

“Where did you get my Lonny’s smiling eyes, my dear? You are like a boy
I lost long years ago, Miss Palmer—a brave boy, and a handsome one, or
you could not be like him. You are very like him, my dear—with one of
those accidental likenesses that are sometimes found to exist between
those of no kin. It is not in your complexion or features, for you are
fair and fragile, while my poor lost Lonny was dark and strong—but it is
so in your smile—so in your whole expression of countenance, that I
could almost fancy my Lonny’s purified soul looked from out of your blue
eyes. It is very strange; but I cannot endure the sight of his portrait,
though I love to see his likeness in you. I think I partly understand
the reason, however,” continued the veteran, dropping his head in
meditation, while his white beard flowed to his waist. “Yes, I think I
see it, ‘as in a glass, darkly’—that portrait was the perfect image of
his material body, as I used to see it—the material body which has
perished; and which, because it has perished, I cannot bear to see in
its ‘counterfeit.’ But that which looks at me from your fair face is the
likeness of my son’s living soul; therefore I love to contemplate it.”

“How the old dotard drivels!” thought Mrs. Bruce. “He’ll soon be a
subject for the lunatic asylum.”

“But that is not the point now, my dear,” continued the old man, still
holding the hand of Em. “The question at issue is whether, when you have
completed your term of service with my sister-in-law, you will enter
mine, as my reader and writer?”

Em. paused for a moment and then, raising her blue eyes full of the
reverential, filial tenderness she felt for the childless old man,
answered earnestly:

“Indeed, I should be so very happy to do so, if only Mrs. Bruce and my
mother will consent.”

“Ha! ha! ha! _Mrs. Bruce_ will consent! I’ll swear to that! And if you
have half the influence with your mother that I have with Mrs. Bruce,
_she’ll_ consent. If she does not I’ll try my ‘’prentice hand’ at
persuasion, and it will go hard but she shall give you up to me,”
chuckled the old man.

“As for _myself_, uncle, you know that your will has always been my
law,” said the lady.

“Oh, I know it; I know it, my dear,” said the commodore. “And now,
little one,” he continued, turning to Em., “go and take a run in the
grounds. Too much house is not good for little girls. I want to talk
with my sister-in-law.”

Em. turned to her employer for direction.

“Come! Run away! run away!” exclaimed the veteran.

“Do as you are bidden,” loftily commanded Mrs. Bruce.

“SCAT!” stamped the commodore.

Em. laughed and ran out.

“Now, then, madam, what the demon does all this mean?” demanded the
commodore.

“All what mean? I don’t understand,” replied Mrs. Bruce.

“Oh, yes, you do. Yesterday you could not, any of you, be too kind to
that poor girl. To-day you, all of you, so overwhelmed the child with
your studied coldness and contempt that she looked as if she were going
to expire at the lunch-table. I could scarcely stand it myself, and so,
to counteract the effect of your combined rudeness, I was obliged to be
obtrusively attentive to Miss Palmer. I knew perfectly well when I saw
you leave the lunch-table and order that girl to follow you to your room
you were sharpening your claws and whetting your teeth and licking your
chops in anticipation of a meal off her!”

“Commodore Bruce! What MONSTROUS ideas you have!” exclaimed the
horrified lady. “Am I a vampire, or a cannibal?”

“Well, yes; in some sense you are. I do not mean to say that, having
lunched on chicken-pie, cold ham and custard, you are going to dine on
Em. immediately. No, but you were going to glut your pride and surfeit
your anger and satisfy your selfishness on her, all the same, which is a
wickeder sort of cannibalism than the other, since it devours the
spirit. That child has most innocently offended you all. Now I want to
know in what manner. And I _will_ know; for while I am captain of this
ship—master of this house, I mean—no woman shall be treated with
coldness and cruelty while under my roof, and especially when at my
table. Come.”

“Well, uncle, since you _will_ have it, I acknowledge that Miss Palmer
_has_ offended me—has offended us all; therefore I really do not think
that you should keep her here as you propose to do, or that you will
keep her when you have heard all about her.”

“I’ll be shot to death if I don’t,” said the commodore. “But how has
that harmless girl offended you? By her beauty, grace and sweetness? I
know of no other cause. In what way has she offended you, I ask?”

“In a way that would have offended any woman with a proper sense of
modesty and decorum.”

“But by what _means_? By what _means_?” impatiently demanded the
veteran.

“By the general indiscretion of her conduct,” coldly replied the lady.

“By Jove! I will not take such an answer!” roared the old commodore,
bringing his fist down upon the table like a hammer upon an anvil, and
making every article on it dance. “You would ruin an innocent girl’s
reputation with a few generalities like that! I—will—know,” he continued
slowly and emphatically, telling off every word with a thump of his
stick. “I—will—know—every detail of—time, place, and company—word, act,
and look of the indiscretion with which you charge this child! Yes, and
I will have them established by more than one competent witness! None of
your unsupported generalities for me! I have made myself the advocate of
this innocent girl, and will see that she suffers no wrong. No, by Jove!
While I’m commander of this ship—captain of this house, I mean—no woman
in it shall suffer injury unavenged! No, in a few words tell me
distinctly what the girl has said or done!”

“Well, I do not think that you will be any better satisfied when you
have heard,” said Mrs. Bruce maliciously. “This is her offense, then:
She has been here but two days, and has been detected several times in
private conversation with my son, your nephew, Ronald Bruce, who follows
her about wherever she goes! There! now you have it!”

“He—he—he! Ha—ha—ha! Ho—ho—ho!” laughed the commodore. “That’s a great
offence, now, isn’t it? As if it wasn’t perfectly natural and right for
a young man to follow a young girl around when they are both shut up in
a lonely country house with a lot of old ladies!”

“Hermia Templeton is not old, at least, and I think she is more
interested in this matter than any one else,” gravely replied Mrs.
Bruce.

“That is true,” mused the commodore—“I beg Hermia’s pardon. She is not
old. She is young and pretty and attractive enough for any man, and a
great deal too good for my young rascal of a nephew: but as she is to
marry him, whether or no, of course she has more at stake in this
running than any one else! But now tell me the particulars—the
particulars! Time, place, and circumstance! You know I told you that I
would have the details and have them proved!”

Mrs. Bruce told the whole story of Ronald’s and Em.’s meetings and
talks, in the drawing-room, in the dining-room, in the library, and in
the grounds. She told it, not as it is known to you and me, reader, but
with many an exaggeration and much false coloring, as she had heard it
from Mrs. Warde and Miss Belinda—for, ill as Malvina was, or affected to
be, she was not too ill to play the part of an eavesdropper and a
detractor. And since Em. had been in the house there was no harmless
interview she had had with her honest suitor to which either the
designing mother or daughter had not been an unseen listener.

“This must be looked into,” said Commodore Bruce, very much more gravely
than he had yet spoken. “Yes, this must be seen to. I must give that
young scamp a sound lecture! for, mind you, it is _he_ who is in fault,
though, woman-like, you put the whole blame upon her! It is he who is to
blame, and very much to blame, for he is pursuing her and trifling with
her when he knows very well, the rascal! that he must marry my niece,
Hermia Templeton, or go to the deuce! While I am commander of this
ship—I mean master of this house—I won’t have it! Still, let me tell
you, madam, that I despise the means by which these women have detected
these interviews. They could have done so only by eavesdropping! And,
oh, Lord! how I do loathe and detest eavesdroppers!” exclaimed the
veteran with every expression of disgust and abhorrence disfiguring his
fine old face as he arose from his seat and, leaning on his stick,
turned to depart.

Before leaving the room he paused and said:

“I shall say nothing to Ronald to-day. I have had quite enough of
excitement for one day—more of it would spoil my dinner and my night’s
rest—perhaps ruin my digestion and my nervous system! So no more of this
subject for the present. I want to relish my turkey and enjoy a good
night’s sleep. To-morrow morning after breakfast I will take my young
gentleman in hand, and we will go over the chart of his life voyage
together, and I will show him his course. To make things surer, I will
also speak to my young lady. But, in the meantime, I desire you and your
friends in the house to treat this young girl with consideration and
kindness. Let them know, if you please, that such is my will. I shall
see in a moment, by the look of that child’s face, whether she has been
treated with contempt while out of my sight.”

With these words the veteran left the room.

Mrs. Bruce cared very little for the _brusquerie_ of the old sailor, so
that he had given his promise to break up the intimacy between her son
and her seamstress.

Indeed, her reason for the severe course she took towards Em. was rather
the desire to put a prompt and final stop to the acquaintance between
the young people than any dislike to the girl herself.

Meantime Em. had gone out to the grounds for a walk, but seeing Ronald
Bruce approaching from the house she quickly passed around to a side
door, entered it, and ran up to her room, where she arranged her simple
toilet for dinner.

Em. dreaded meeting the family again at the table; but when the bell
rang and she went down and found them all assembled in the dining-room,
and Commodore Bruce advanced, took her hand and led her to her seat, and
all looked kindly or with perfect indifference on her, she felt more at
her ease.

“Mrs. Warde, permit me to name to you my young friend, Miss Palmer here,
who has not had the privilege of being presented to you before,” said
the commodore with somewhat stilted politeness to a tall, dark,
haggard-looking woman, with great black eyes, who sat opposite to Em.,
and who was richly dressed in black velvet, lace and bugles, and whom
Em. immediately recognized as the lady who had fainted at the sight of
herself in the upper hall.

Em. arose from her chair and bent her head.

Mrs. Warde stared and returned the salutation with a slight and haughty
nod.

That was all. They were as much strangers as before the introduction.
The dinner went on; other people spoke to Em. from time to time, but
Mrs. Warde scarcely noticed her at all, or only by a furtive, nervous
glance.

As soon as the dinner was over the family party adjourned to the
drawing-room—with one exception, that of Ronald Bruce—who sulkily
absented himself from the domestic circle that night.

The old commodore, seated in his soft-cushioned, big arm-chair, made a
point of talking to Em. until he fell fast asleep.

The ladies of the house gathered around a large center-table that stood
under a lighted chandelier, and before the ruddy open fire of hickory
logs, where, having few intellectual resources, they busied themselves
with crochet and gossip.

Em., having no taste for either of these pursuits, sat apart, near the
sleeping old man, and wondered what they were all doing at home, and
whether Ronald Bruce would make his appearance at all in the
drawing-room that evening.

He did not; and, therefore, upon the whole, Em. spent another one of the
dullest evenings she had ever passed in her life.

When the hour of ten, their sober bedtime, struck, and the circle broke,
Em. was glad.

But as she was about to leave the room the old commodore, awakened by
the general movement, aroused himself, got up from his chair and took
her hand, saying kindly:

“Good-night, and may the Lord bless you, my dear child!”

“And you, too, sir,” replied Em. in a low, timid, but earnest tone as
she bowed over his wrinkled hand and then left the room.

She glanced up and down the hall in the hope of seeing Ronald Bruce, to
give him good-night. She could scarcely help doing this; indeed, she was
scarcely conscious of doing it; for if she had met him, waylaying her,
to speak a word, she would certainly and very properly have rebuked him
for doing so.

Yet she heaved a deep sigh of disappointment when she had passed all the
way upstairs without seeing him.

When Em. entered her cheerful room in the attic she found the candles on
the dressing-table lighted, the fire burning brightly, and the little
maid, Liza, waiting.

“Cold night, Miss Em., ain’t it? ’Spect dere’ll be a mighty heavy frost,
if not snow, ’fore mornin’. We had snow airlier’n dis last year,” said
Liza as she pushed up a chair nearer the fire.

“Then I suppose you must have winter much earlier on these mountains
than we ever have on the plains where I was brought up,” answered Em.

“Well, you see, miss, I dunno nuffin’ ’tall ’bout de wedder ’way down
dere. I nebber libbed on de plains, _my_se’f. Dunno how anybody can lib
so far, far down below de sky! You was right to come up here, Miss Em.
Well, I only just waited till you come, Miss Em., to see if you has
everything you ’quire. _Has_ you?”

“Oh, yes, indeed, Liza; thank you.”

“Well, den, I must go. I got to go to Miss Melwiny Warde’s room and rub
her feet till she goes to sleep, the Lord help her; She’s an awful bad
sleeper, she is, and sometimes I has to set at de foot of her bed and
rub her feet half de night ’fore she gets quiet. Wonder to me is how she
can’t read her chapter in de Bible, and say her prayers, and go to sleep
like a Christian. Well, good-night, Miss Em., I reckon _you_ can go to
sleep ’dout having of your feet rubbed, can’t you?”

“Oh, yes,” smiled Em. as the girl left the room.

The bright fire shone on the portrait of Lonny Bruce, so that the merry,
mischievous young face beamed out in full light.

“Ah, you beautiful and happy boy, what a dreadful fate was yours!”
murmured Em., standing before the picture. “And your poor, bereaved old
father fancies that I look like you; and so he loves me for your sake! I
wonder if I do look like you—I, who am so fair, while you are so dark—I,
who am so steady, while you look so wild! But, perhaps, you had your
grave seasons as I sometimes have my gay spells! Oh, dear me, I wonder
why Ronald Bruce did not come in the drawing-room all the evening! And
did not even try to bid me good-night! I know it is on his account that
Mrs. Bruce gave me warning to leave her service so suddenly. But the
dear old commodore, whom I love so much, likes me, and is kind to me. I
wonder, oh, I wonder, if he will ever consent that his nephew may marry
me! What is the use of thinking about that? I will say my prayers and go
to sleep.”

And so she did.




                              CHAPTER XIII
                      “OLD HEADS AND YOUNG HEARTS”

                I must be cruel only to be kind.
                                            SHAKESPEARE.


The next morning Em. awoke to the memory of the preceding day’s
events—her unkind dismissal by Mrs. Bruce; her immediate engagement by
Commodore Bruce; Ronald’s unaccountable absence from his mother’s
drawing-room circle, and his strange omission to appear somewhere about
the halls of the staircases to bid Em. good-night on her way to her
room.

She felt a strong impulse to arise and dress quickly and hurry down to
the breakfast-room, in the probability of seeing Ronald before any one
else should be there.

She acted on this impulse; but by the time she had finished her simple
toilet, reason had come to check impulse, and prudence to warn her that
she must not seek an interview with her lover, and, furthermore, that
she must not even risk an accidental meeting with Ronald Bruce if she
would avoid giving new cause of offence.

So, instead of hastening down to the breakfast-room, Em. seated herself
at her chamber window with a piece of needlework in her hand and sewed
until the breakfast bell rang, and then, to make sure of not meeting
Ronald alone, she waited five minutes after the bell had stopped
ringing, for she concluded that it would be better that she should be a
little late at the table than that she should give umbrage by a
_tête-à-tête_ with Ronald.

She went leisurely downstairs and entered the breakfast-room, expecting
to find all the family at the table.

She found no one present except Ronald Bruce, who stood on the rug with
his back to the fire impatiently waiting for her.

“Em.!” he exclaimed, stepping forward and taking her hand, “I have been
here half an hour, hoping you would be down early, perhaps earlier than
usual, because we could not see each other last night. Why are you so
late?” he inquired reproachfully.

“I am not late, Ronald. None of the family except yourself have yet come
down. But, oh, Ronald! please do not plan to see me alone. Your having
done so has already caused trouble. That was the reason why at lunch
yesterday the ladies treated me so coldly——”

“Impertinently, insolently, _I_ call it! I saw it all, Em., and my blood
boiled! But what can a man do with such women, except to avoid them?”

“But they were kinder to me at dinner,” said Em. apologetically.

“‘Kinder!’ They behaved towards you with proper politeness, that was
all, and I know to whose power that must be attributed! The old
commodore had ‘put his foot down’ to that effect, I feel sure. But, Em.,
I could not join those women in the drawing-room last night, when I felt
that I should not be able to play the hypocrite and treat Miss Warde or
her mother with the respect I could not feel for them, with the respect
a man should always, and under all circumstances, show women. So to
avoid them I absented myself from the drawing-room. I went up to my
chamber, locked myself in, hated all my fellow-creatures except you,
Em., and read satires in the original Greek all the evening.”

“And so that was the reason why you did not come to bid—any of
us—good-night,” said Em.

“That, yes, that was one reason why I did not come to bide—_any of
you_—good-night. But that was not the only reason. I was making up my
mind and coming to a conclusion that I shall act upon to-day.”

“Oh, Ronald!” exclaimed Em., startled by his expression, “I hope you
will never do or say anything to distress your good old uncle! His past
life has been so full of trouble. His remaining days are few. Let them
at least be filled with peace.”

“I must speak to him to-day, however, for your sake, Em.”

“Oh, no, no, no! It were must better that you should give me up
altogether than bring discord to the last days of one to whom you owe so
much!” exclaimed Em.

“To give you up, Em., would be to give up my freedom of choice in a
matter where the whole happiness of my life and that of my chosen one is
concerned! That would be too heavy a price to pay, even for the great
benefits I have received at my uncle’s hands. No, Em., I will never,
never give you up!” said the young man earnestly.

“WHAT!” exclaimed the voice of the commodore.

Both the young people started as at a thunder-clap and looked around to
see the old man, leaning on his stick, as he advanced slowly into the
room.

“No one down but two? But, then, you are always down first, and ought to
have a medal for punctuality!” he continued as he paused and leaned more
heavily upon his stick.

Ronald stepped quickly to his side and gave him the support of an arm,
while Em. wheeled the big arm-chair to the fire.

Both the young people were filled with painful doubts as to whether or
not the old commodore had heard the concluding words of Ronald’s
impetuous speech. Their countenances were full of confusion, nor were
their minds set at rest by the next words of the old man, who, as soon
as he had sunk into his seat, turned a rather severe eye upon his nephew
and said:

“‘My handsome young man,’ I have something very serious to say to you.
Come to my room immediately after breakfast; I will meet you there.”

“Very well, sir. I will be punctual, the more so because I have an
important communication to make to you,” replied Ronald.

“Oh, indeed!” exclaimed the old commodore.

The entrance of the ladies here put an end to the topic.

They greeted the party in the breakfast-room, received the commodore’s
rebukes for their tardiness very good-humoredly, and gathered around the
table.

As the meal progressed Ronald was taken to task for his desertion of the
preceding evening.

He coldly excused himself by saying that he had been engaged in reading
Greek and trying to solve a problem.

Miss Belinda hoped that he had succeeded in doing so.

Ronald said dryly that he hoped he had.

When breakfast was over Em. followed Mrs. Bruce to her sitting-room,
where that lady filled her hands with needlework enough to last her all
day long and left her alone.

Meanwhile Ronald Bruce repaired to his uncle’s study, fully resolved to
avow his love for Em. and ask his uncle’s consent to marry her; but he
thought that, as in duty bound, he would defer his communication until
he should have heard what his uncle had to say to him.

When he entered the study he found the old man seated in his big
leathern chair by the long study table.

There was an empty chair placed exactly opposite to him.

“Take this seat before me, that we may look each other in the face as we
speak,” said the commodore with an emphatic rap upon the one indicated.

Ronald sat down, folded his hands before him, and waited with the air of
a rebellious child about to be catechized or reprimanded.

The old commodore on his part dropped his head on his chest and
reflected for a few moments before opening the discussion.

At length, however, he looked up, drew a long breath, and began:

“Ronald, I asked you to come here that I might talk to you on a very
painful and very delicate subject, and I scarcely know how to open it.”

He paused and looked at his nephew; but that young gentleman said
nothing to help him out.

“Perhaps you yourself may have some suspicion of the subject?” suggested
the commodore.

“Is it Miss Palmer?” sulkily inquired the young man.

“Yes, it is Em. Palmer. Ronald, I do not wish to be hard on you. You are
but a young man, shut up in a very dull country house with a very
beautiful and attractive young girl. You could scarcely help falling a
little in love with her, so I cannot blame you for that; but, Ronald, if
you have let her perceive your love you have done wrong; and if you have
won her love in return you have done very wrong.”

Ronald started, flushed, and was about to speak, when his uncle raised
his hand and said:

“Hear me out, your turn will come presently.”

“But I _must_ speak now. I never intended any wrong to Em.—never, so
help me Heaven!” burst forth Ronald.

“I quite believe it,” the commodore promptly admitted. “Yet you have
already wronged her more than you know.”

“How? how?” impetuously demanded the young man.

“By your thoughtless pursuit of her since she has been in this house. By
following her, lying in wait for her, meeting her in the breakfast-room,
in the study, in the grounds, anywhere, in short, where you could find
her alone. And this you have done without her connivance, I firmly
believe!”

“Heaven knows that is true! Em. herself has rebuked me for pursuing her;
and yet I meant her no wrong, as I soon hope to prove to you.”

“I need no proof. I know you, Ronald, and, therefore, I am sure you
meant no harm; and yet, as I said before, you have by this conduct done
her grievous wrong. You have drawn upon her the invidious notice of
evil-thinking women. Do you know what happened yesterday?” suddenly
inquired the commodore, breaking off in his discourse.

“I know that our lady guests presumed to treat Miss Palmer with
insolence! But they will find——”

“Never mind what they will find. There was something worse than that
happened! these women’s tongues obliged my sister-in-law to dismiss the
girl from her service.”

Ronald sprang to his feet.

“Did my mother have the cruelty to do that?” he exclaimed.

“She could not help herself, with those two women nagging her on! But I
was determined the child should not be sent back to her mother in that
discreditable manner, and so I immediately engaged her as my reader and
writer, and conveyed a hint to those ladies that they would oblige me by
treating her with proper consideration. Since that, I must say, they
have behaved better.”

“I thought the improvement in their manner to Miss Palmer was brought
about through your interference; but I had no idea that she had passed
from my mother’s service into yours,” said Ronald.

“She has not yet done so. She was warned to leave Mrs. Bruce’s
employment on next Saturday, when her father will come for her. She is
to come back and enter mine on Monday—unless her parents should raise
some objection, which I do not think likely—_or_, unless you should
persist in your dangerous pursuit of her.”

“‘Dangerous!’ sir?” echoed the young man.

“Yes, dangerous! Dangerous to her peace, honor and reputation!”

“But, sir, you misunderstand me, quite. I love Em.!”

“Then you are very foolish.”

“I have told her that I love her!”

“You were very rash to do so.”

“And, moreover, I know that I have won her love!”

“Then, Ronald Brace, you have been very much to blame. How will you ever
answer to her, or to your own conscience, for that child’s disappointed
heart and lost happiness?” sternly demanded the old commodore.

“My good uncle, I told you that you totally misapprehended me, and I
repeat it. I do not intend to disappoint Em. Her happiness shall be the
first object and fondest care of my life,” earnestly exclaimed Ronald.

“What—in the deuce—do you mean?” slowly demanded Commodore Bruce,
staring at his nephew with distended eyes.

“What do I mean, do you ask, sir? What does any honorable man mean when
he says that he loves a good young girl, that he has told her so, and
that he intends to marry her?” exclaimed Ronald Bruce somewhat
impatiently, as at his hearer’s want of comprehension.

“Eh? What? What the foul fiend are you saying to me, Ronald?” demanded
the provoked and puzzled old man.

“I say that with your consent, sir, I will marry Em. Palmer,” firmly
replied the young man.

“Marry—Em.—Palmer?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are raving mad! You are fit for nothing but a strait jacket and a
lunatic asylum! Marry Em. Palmer! Why, even if she were your equal in
birth, position, and education you could not do so; for you are to marry
Hermia Templeton, you know.”

“Indeed, I did not know it! No word or look of love has ever passed
between me and Hermia. We like each other well enough as cousins, but
_not_ enough to marry—especially as she loves another man and I another
woman!” recklessly replied Ronald.

“Then you are a very disobedient, rebellious, and unmanageable young
couple! That is all I have to say. But I shall talk to Hermia and bring
her to reason. And as for you, Ronald, I shall expect you to give up
this insane whim and make up your mind to marry Hermia Templeton. You
two are my heirs, and you should marry and keep the property together.”

“I should be very sorry to disappoint you, uncle; but honor as well as
love is engaged in this, and I cannot and will not give up the girl I
love. I must and will marry Emolyn Palmer,” firmly responded Ronald
Bruce.

“Come, come, now, nephew!” said the old man as soothingly as he would
have talked to a sick and delirious patient. “Come, come, listen to
reason! I can understand and appreciate your feelings! yes, better than
you can yourself. This love of yours is a delusion of the senses, a mere
hallucination that is sure to pass away whether you marry the object of
it or not! If you were to marry that young girl under your present
illusions they would pass away in a few months. You would cease to love
her; but you would never cease to regret that you had so hastily married
her. Unfitted for each other in birth, culture, position, and
everything, your wedded life would be a life of misery to both! Think of
this while there is yet time, and withdraw from this contemplated and
most insane idea of marriage! I will say no more to you at present. Go
and think of what I have said to you, and said with the most unselfish
desire to promote your happiness,” said Commodore Bruce, rising as a
signal that the interview was ended.

“I thank you, sir, for your great kindness to me in this as in all other
matters. But I must not leave you under any false impressions. I love
Em., and have won her love. I am of age and can do as I please. My pay
as a lieutenant in the navy will support my wife in moderate comfort.
Therefore, I shall certainly marry Emolyn Palmer just as soon as I can
induce her to fix a day. I say this not in defiance of your wishes, sir,
but that there may be no misapprehension of my intentions,” concluded
the young man as he bowed and retired.

“Stubborn as a mule,” said the commodore as he sank back in his seat. “I
must see the girl. With her I shall have more success.”




                              CHAPTER XIV
                            CRUEL TO BE KIND

           When I had seen this hot love on the wing,
           As I perceived it first, I tell you that,
           If I had played the desk, or table book,
           Or given my heart a winking mute and dumb,
           Or looked upon this love with idle sight—
           What might you think? No, I went round to work,
           And my young mistress thus did I bespeak:
           “This must not be”; and then I precepts gave her,
           That she should keep herself from his resort,
           Admit no messengers, receive no tokens,
           Which done, she took the fruits of my advice,
           And him repulsed.
                                               SHAKESPEARE.


Em. was sitting alone in Mrs. Bruce’s room, her hands busily engaged
with needlework and her thought with something else, when the little
maid, Liza, entered and said: “Miss Em., ole Marse Commodore sent me to
ax yer how he want to see yer in the study.”

The young girl, who thought that Commodore Bruce only wanted her to read
to him, promptly laid aside her work and arose, saying:

“Very well. I will go at once; and, Liza, will you please to tell Mrs.
Bruce that the commodore has sent for me, so that she may know why I am
absent?”

“Yes, miss, I’ll tell her; but, la! marse is marse and missus bofe here!
Nobody ain’t no call to make no ’scuses to any missus when ole marse
wants ’em, I tell you that,” replied Liza as she followed the seamstress
from the room.

Em. went down to the study.

She found the old man still in his dressing-gown and skull-cap, seated
in his leathern arm-chair beside the table.

The chair just vacated by Ronald Bruce still stood before him.

As Em. entered he leaned back wearily and sighed.

“You sent for me, sir,” said the girl as she drew near.

“Yes, child. Take this seat in front of me. I wish to talk to you,” he
answered gently.

Em. sat down, feeling somewhat embarrassed to be so near and so directly
under the eyes of Commodore Bruce.

But the old man gazed kindly down on her drooping face and thought how
much it looked like that of his poor lost boy, Lonny, when the latter
was a lad and was under rebuke for some childish fault.

“Do not be afraid of me, my dear,” he said gently, as he observed her
confusion.

“I am not afraid, only——” Em. began and stopped.

“You are not afraid, only you are _afraid_. You think I am going to talk
to you of Ronald. Is it not so?”

Em. could not speak; she bowed and caught her breath.

“You are right, my child,” answered the commodore, and then he dropped
his head upon his chest until his long gray beard swept to his waist,
and he fell into silent thought.

It had been hard to open the subject with the young man; it was very
much harder to do so with the young girl.

At length he raised his head, and looking at her very kindly, said:

“Little Em., I do not know that I can give you a wiser lesson or do you
a greater service than by telling you two little incidents in my life’s
experience as examples. Will you listen?”

“Yes, sir,” breathed the girl in tones so low that the words scarcely
reached his ears.

“When I was a young man I fell desperately in love. You smile, Em.; but
fifty years ago I _was_ a young man of twenty years, and, as I said,
desperately in love with a pretty, amiable but illiterate and
humbly-born girl. I wished to marry her, but my father and mother were
bitterly opposed to the match. The controversy ran high. It almost
estranged me from my parents. At length there was a compromise. I agreed
to wait a year until I should be of age before proposing to my love. And
they agreed, in the event of my continuing to desire the marriage at the
end of that time, to withdraw their opposition. I was soon after ordered
to sea for a three years’ voyage. The end of that time found me at the
antipodes—at the port of Canton—more interested in the manners and
customs of the Chinese than in the image of ‘the girl I left behind me.’
Even if it had been practical for me to do so, I know that I should not
then have claimed my parents’ promise of their consent to my proposal of
marriage to her. I had got over my ‘puppy’ love, as they probably
anticipated that I would when they enticed me into that compromise which
was our salvation.”

As the old man uttered these words he looked wistfully at Em.

She had been rosy red under his scrutiny before, but now she was marble
white; her eyes were fixed upon the floor, and her fingers were clasped
tightly together on her lap.

He gazed at her pityingly for a moment, then sighed and took up the
thread of discourse.

“I say ‘ours’ child, for when I returned from my three years’ voyage I
found my fair one the happy wife of a handsome young workman and the
proud mother of a bouncing boy. It was a shock to my vanity, but it was
a relief to my heart. I was all right; but I felt a little anxious to
know whether she was. I called to see her as an old friend. She received
me with frank cordiality, and showed me her baby and made me stay to tea
to see her husband. When he came home she met him and hurried him
upstairs ‘to clean himself,’ as she told me. And when at length he
joined us at the tea-table, she took my breath away by introducing me as
‘an old beau’ of hers, who had been ‘awful spoony’ on her at one time,
adding, with more frankness than delicacy:

“‘And, you know, I’d married you _then_ if the old man and old woman
hadn’t raised such an awful row and kept you from asking me! But, Lord!
ain’t I glad they did! For soon after that I met my Charley here at a
picnic, and we were married three weeks afterwards. And every day, when
I think of it, I feel so awful glad, for I wouldn’t give my Charley for
a Secretary of the Navy, let alone a little middy, who would be rushing
off to sea every whipstitch and leaving me alone nearly all the time.
One better be a widow at once than sich a wife!’ she concluded with a
loud laugh.

“Well, Em., I was, at the same time, and by the same means, humbled and
relieved. Two years after that I met the woman who became my wife. Our
marriage was so happy that one of my brightest anticipations of the next
life is that of meeting her, with whom I hope to spend eternity. As for
the well united young couple who are the subjects of my story, they
lived and prospered. In the course of years the young workman rose to be
a partner in the firm in whose service he had commenced as porter. They
are still living, though both over seventy, and—a curious coincidence,
Em.—their son, the Honorable —— ——, is now Secretary of the Navy and my
superior officer. Now, what do you think of my first love, Em.?”
cheerfully inquired the commodore.

“I think—I hope—I _pray_,” faltered the girl, keeping her eyes fixed
upon the floor and twisting and untwisting her clasped fingers, “that
_all_ first love is not so fickle as yours and hers.”

“Ah, humph! humph! I might have expected that answer, of course. But
now, my dear, as I began by saying that I had _two_ incidents in my
experience to relate to you for your instruction, and as I have told you
the first story, which does not seem to have edified you much, I will
now tell you the second. Will you listen?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” sighed Em.

“Well! At the very time that I was so insane on the subject of my first
and most ill-placed love, I had a schoolmate, a young medical student,
who was madder than I was. He loved to frenzy the beautiful daughter of
a poor, ignorant workingman. She _was_ beautiful, but beauty was her
only attraction. Her intelligence was very low and her temper unhappy.
But notwithstanding this, my young friend, ensnared by her beauty and
his own eyes, and in defiance of all his family and friends, married
her. I do not know how much or how little of happiness they enjoyed in
the first years of their marriage, for I was at sea, and our paths lay
apart. But in after time, when they had a growing family around them,
they had gone so far apart that they were completely estranged. They
hated each other with a deep and grievous hatred. They often reproached
each other with great bitterness and venom. She was a ‘millstone around
his neck,’ pulling him down and keeping him down in the social scale.
She could not, perhaps, help being so. But he blamed and despised her
for this, and she hated and upbraided him because he blamed and despised
her. The children of that wretched household were both in temperament
and in position very unhappy. They left home as soon as through marriage
or employment they could escape from it. Not one of them has succeeded
in life. Much of this family misery might have been hidden from the
world, for the man, in _this_ respect, was wise and reticent, but the
woman was silly and blatant, and flaunted her domestic troubles in the
face of every friend who came near her. The worst was——”

“Oh, please, _please_ tell me no more!” exclaimed Em., instinctively
putting her hands to her ears.

The commodore looked at her and smiled.

“Oh, I beg pardon, sir; but it was so dreadful,” said the girl
apologetically, as she took down her hands.

“My child, if this state of things is so dreadful to _hear_, what must
it be to _bear_? inquired the old man with incisive earnestness.

“Oh, why do you tell me these sad stories?” said Em., almost on the
verge of tears.

“For an example and a warning, my child. Listen, little girl. My nephew,
Ronald, loves you, or fancies that he does.”

Em.’s complexion, that had been marble white before, now suddenly
flushed scarlet all over face, neck and bosom. The old man noticed it,
but continued ruthlessly:

“Ronald is of age, is his own master, and has a profession that will
enable him to support a wife in decent competency. He can therefore
marry whom he will, and in open defiance of his family and friends, if
he pleases. He will probably ask you to marry him, Em. If so, what will
be your reply?”

“I will wait until he does ask me, sir, and then I will give _him_ my
reply,” said Em. with gentle dignity.

“Humph! humph! humph! I hope it will be a proper one, Miss Palmer. If
you consent to marry Ronald Bruce, I will tell you what then will be
your fate. It will be that of the woman I have just described to you.
Ronald loves you _now_, or thinks he does. He will marry you if he can;
but his love, such as it is, will not last—cannot last. He will tire of
you in a few weeks or months at longest; he will then dislike
you—perhaps hate you—because, by having accepted his first offer of
marriage, you will come between him and his inheritance, as indeed you
will have done; for I will never leave this place to my nephew except on
the condition that he marries my niece; for those two are my only heirs,
and I will not have the property divided. Should Ronald marry any other
than Hermia I shall leave the estate to her. So you see, my dear girl,
into what depths of ruin you will cast both Ronald and yourself by
accepting him. He will be an impoverished, disappointed and regretful
husband. You will be that most miserable of all women—a despised wife.”

Em. uttered a little impulsive, half-suppressed cry and hid her face in
her hands.

But after a few moments she recovered herself, and with something of
gentle dignity arose and stood before the old man.

Resting one hand on the table, she raised her eyes to his, looked him
steadily but modestly in the face and said:

“I do not think that this would be the result of our marriage should Mr.
Bruce renew his offer and I accept it. If I should ever marry, my
husband should never despise me. Be sure of that. But, Commodore Bruce,
have no fears of me. Set your heart at rest. I would never enter any
family who were opposed to receiving me; nor, were I inclined to do so,
would my father and mother consent; nor, finally, could I take any
course against their will. To-morrow my father will come for me to go
home and spend Sunday. I shall take leave of you and then depart, not to
return.”

She ceased to speak, and was about to go away when the words of the
commodore arrested her steps.

“Now I have hurt you, my child. I did not mean to do so. I beg your
pardon, Em. Ah! it was very cruel to wound you.”

“No—yes—no,” said the girl in some distress. Then raising her eyes to
his, and seeing the pale, old, anxious face, her heart melted towards
him. She lifted his withered hand and pressed it to her lips, turned and
left the room.

“She has the spring of a fine spirit under all her downy softness. I
don’t wonder at poor Ronald. Upon my sacred word and honor I don’t!
_What a pity!_” sighed the old commodore to himself.

Meanwhile Em. fled to her attic chamber. And not until she had locked
herself in did she give way to the storm of emotion that overwhelmed
her.

She threw herself, weeping, on the bed and wept long and bitterly.

The summer gust of tears refreshed her, as a thunder gust refreshes
nature. With a healthful reaction she felt better after it had passed.

She arose and rearranged her disordered dress, and went downstairs to
Mrs. Bruce’s room and resumed her needlework and sewed diligently until
luncheon time.

There were two vigilant eavesdroppers in that house, and all the walls
had ears. So it had already become known in the family that Em. was
going away the next day, not to return, and so throughout the hour of
lunch they all, with two exceptions, treated her with distinguished
kindness. The exceptions were Commodore Bruce, who always had used her
well, and now made no change, and Ronald Bruce, who spoke to no one if
he could help it, but sat and sulked through the whole meal.

After lunch Em. hurried up to Mrs. Bruce’s room and took her work, being
desirous of doing her whole duty by her employer.

And for the short remainder of her stay the girl worked very diligently,
confining herself all day long to Mrs. Bruce’s room, and even taking her
work to the attic and stitching half the night.

She never saw Ronald Bruce except at meal times, and then never spoke
with him beyond the conventional greeting.

Before Saturday evening at six o’clock she had completed her last piece
of work and handed it over to Mrs. Bruce.

Then she packed her trunk and her handbag, dressed herself for her
journey home, and sat down before the portrait of Lonny Bruce to gaze at
it and enjoy it while waiting for the arrival of her father.

At a few minutes after six o’clock Liza entered the attic chamber and
said:

“If you please, Miss Em., your father has come for you. And my missus
sent you dis, and ax you will you send her a deceit for it. And Mose is
outside de door, waitin’ to carry down your trunk to de wagon.”

“Very well, Liza, tell Mose to come in,” said Em.

Then, while the man was carrying down her trunk, she opened the blank
envelope that had been handed to her by Liza and found in it three
dollars—her week’s wages.

Now Em. could never have told why, at the sight of that money, the blood
rushed to her head and flooded all her face and neck with fiery flushes.
But certainly she quickly replaced the notes in the envelope, dampened
the gummed edges with her lips and sealed it, and then took a pencil
from her pocket, turned the envelope face up on the mantel-shelf, and
standing there, directed it to Mrs. Bruce.

“Here, Liza, take this to your mistress,” she said, handing it to the
girl.

“Is this the deceit?” inquired Liza.

“It is the best sort of receipt,” replied Em.

Then she gave Liza a belt and buckle for a keepsake and sent by her a
woolen neck-scarf to Mose.

“Now I’ll go down,” she said to herself, and take leave of the dear old
man, for somehow I love him, though he breaks my heart.

She ran nimbly down the stairs and into the study, but, instead of the
commodore, there sat Ronald Bruce in the big leathern chair.

“Oh, Ronald! I expected to find your uncle to bid him good-by!”
exclaimed Em., glad but frightened at this unexpected meeting with her
lover at the last moment.

“Oh, Em.! Do you grudge me these few minutes? My uncle went out to speak
to your father to try to prevail on him to come in. I knew you would
come here to take leave of him, and so I just slipped in to receive you.
Ah, Em., are you indeed going for good?”

“Yes, Ronald, in every sense of the word, I am going for _good_. It is
_not_ good for either of us that I should remain here. Good-by, Ronald!
I know my father is waiting for me.”

“Good-afternoon, but not good-by! I will see you to-morrow, Em., and see
your father also! What! not one parting kiss?” he complained, as she
firmly repulsed his offered salute. “Then I will see you to your
carriage, ‘whether or no,’” he added with a rueful smile, as he followed
her out of the house.




                               CHAPTER XV
                               HOME AGAIN

               Now soon your home will greet you
               And ready kindness meet you,
               And love that will not flee.
                                               PERCIVAL.


They found John Palmer standing at the head of a powerful white mare,
before a large, old-fashioned gig.

Em. had not seen her father for a week, and during that separation from
him she had, for some incomprehensible reason, thought of him only from
first impressions—as she had known him in Laundry Lane—gaunt, sallow,
dark, stooping. She was now, for the first time, struck with the change
that had come over him since he had lived the more wholesome life of the
mountaineer, as he stood there, erect, tall, strong, handsome, and, in
spite of his hair turning “sable silvered,” younger looking than she had
ever known him.

He stood, listening to the discourse of Commodore Bruce, hat in hand, in
deference to age, not rank.

A thrill of fear shook the girl’s nerves as she saw them. What were they
discussing so earnestly? Ronald and herself? Oh, why would old folks
interfere so much with poor, young lovers? It was like picking the
hearts out of flowers, she thought to herself, as she shrank for a
moment before approaching them.

But no! what a relief! They were not talking of Ronald or herself. They
were talking of crops, stocks, finances—or at least Commodore Bruce was
talking and John was listening.

As Em. came up the commodore ceased to speak, and John turned toward
her, saying:

“Well, my dear, are you all ready? I am glad to get you back again,
lass, I tell you. I never knew how lonesome a house full of people could
be, Em., until you were gone. But ‘sich is life,’” he added, as he
kissed her and gave his hand to lift her into the gig.

“And, oh, I am glad to see you again, father, dear, good father! There
is Lieutenant Bruce,” she whispered, as he settled her comfortably in
her seat.

“Ah, how do you do, Lieutenant? Happy to see you, sir. Very happy! You
have been away since I saw you last?” heartily exclaimed John, as he
seized and shook the young man’s hand, adding: “Sorry I cannot stop to
have a good talk with you now; but it is getting late. It will be dark
before we get home, and the roads are dreadful.”

“Yes, yes!” exclaimed the old commodore, who did not approve of this
friendliness under all the circumstances. “Yes, the roads are very
dangerous to be traveled after dark. Don’t stand talking to Mr. Palmer
and keeping him here all night, Ronald.”

Ronald had not said a word up to this moment. John had done all the
talking. Now, however, the young man warmly shook the hand of the
overseer, saying:

“I will not detain you now, much as I should like to do so, but I will
drop in on you very soon.”

“_Do, do, do_, now; and the _sooner_ you do the better! You’ll always
find a plate at the table and a bed in the house heartily at your
service,” earnestly exclaimed the unsuspicious John, as he stepped into
the gig, seated himself beside his daughter and took the reins in his
hands.

“Good-by, Commodore Bruce,” said Em., bending from her seat and holding
out her hand. “Please make my excuses and adieux to the ladies. I did
not see any of them as I came out. They were all in their rooms.”

“Dressing for dinner—a fearfully long task for them, my dear. I will
give them your message, though they don’t deserve it. Good-by, and God
bless you, my dear,” said the old man, pressing a kiss upon her bent
forehead and withdrawing.

“Good-by, Lieutenant,” said Em. in a lower and less assured tone, as she
doubtfully held out her hand.

“Good-night; but not good-by. I shall see you very, very soon.
_To-morrow afternoon_,” he added in a lower tone, as he raised her hand
and pressed it to his lips and in his turn withdrew.

“They seem main fond of you at that house, Em.,” said John Palmer, as
they drove through the end gate and took the roundabout road leading
down the mountainside. “But, Lord! who wouldn’t be fond of her,” he
mentally added in a meditative mood.

“They were very kind to me, father,” answered the girl, who found it a
hard task to speak steadily and without tears.

“Why, yes; the old man and the young one took leave of you as lovingly
as if you’d a-been the sister of one and the daughter o’ t’other.”

“Are they all well at home, father?” inquired Em.

“Every one as well as con be,” heartily responded John. “And now, little
daughter, I know how hard it is for a girl to hold her tongue under any
circumstances, especially when she has been away a week from home; but
just try to keep quiet, my dear, until we get to the foot of this
mountain, for it will take all my attention to look after Queen Bess,”
said John, as he tightened the reins of the mare to hold her up in going
down hill.

“Very well, father; but remember, I am loving you all the time, although
I am not telling you so,” said Em., with an attempt at a smile, which,
even if she had succeeded, could not have been seen by him for whom it
was intended, for the short though brilliant twilight of the autumn had
faded away, and it was growing dark in the wooded mountain road.

They drove on slowly and in silence, winding down the mountainside.

An hour’s careful driving brought them down to the foot of the precipice
and to the banks of the river.

Then John paused for a few moments to rest his horse.

“The old commodore was main fond of you, Em.”

“Yes, father, and I of him, too.”

“Indeed! Were you now? That’s odd! He said he wanted you to stay with
him as his reader and writer after you had got through with Mrs. Bruce’s
sewing, but you declined.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I am glad of it! Why, Em., what on earth should an edicated old
gentleman like him, with a good pair of spectacles, want of a reader and
writer, especially a young girl like you? It is all in my eye, Em.! The
old man wanted to marry you! A thing as your mother and I never would
have consented to, no, not if he had been as rich as _Creases_!”

“Oh, oh, oh, father!” cried Em. in a perfect ecstacy of horror. “It was
nothing like that! Nothing, nothing like that! He never would have
dreamed of such a dreadful thing! Oh, no, no, no! Oh, father, how could
you dream of such—oh, father!”

“I don’t know, Em. These aged old gentlemen, when they are widowers, are
perfect wampires after young wives, and think they can buy a pretty one
for money, just as easy as a heathen could go buy a girl in one o’ them
slave markets in London or Paris, or some o’ them Pagan nations where
they sell young women for wives. Wish one on ’em would come after _you_,
Em.! I would send him home with a wasp in his ear that would make him
dance livelier ’n he did in his boyhood’s days! Would be almost as good
for him as a young wife! Are you cold, child? Wrap your shawl closer
around you; you are shivering.”

“No, father, dear, but this talk is horrible,” said the girl,
shuddering.

“Glad to hear it! It was so intended! And now I hope you won’t think any
more of marrying a rich old dotard and being made a lady of _that way_!
said John sturdily.

“Oh, father, I never _did_ think of it; nor no one else that I know of
except you!”

“Glad to hear _that_, too! Hope you never will! No, Em., no rich old
husbands for you! I want you to have a happy life, my girl. By and by,
when the proper time shall come, I hope you will wed some good and
good-looking young fellow of your own rank, with whom you will be as
happy as your mother and I have been all our lives. Yes, the Lord knows,
and I thank him,” said John, reverently raising his hat, “that we have
been very happy in spite of poverty, sickness, death and the common ills
that come to us all. For what is this life but a climbing-place to the
higher? And what are these troubles but the stones that must sometimes
bruise our feet, and the thorns that may pierce our flesh? When a
faithful, loving pair travel this upward road together, Em., they do not
mind these troubles by the way. So I hope, my girl, that some day you
may be the wife of some honest young fellow of your own class, and not
the toy and slave of a rich old husband. But there, I won’t preach any
longer. Queen Bess is tossing her head and shaking her ears in impatient
scorn of my discourse. She wants to get home to her stall and her oats,”
said John, laughing, as he started the white mare.

“And she is no better tempered than her namesake,” said Em., as they
went along.

The rest of the road home was short and easy, leading along the banks of
the river, with the woods on one side and the water on the other, and
then by a short angle leading through the thicket up to the park gate,
which was wide open to receive them, with old ’Sias on the watch to
welcome them.

Little old ’Sias grinned literally “from ear to ear” as he bowed and
continued to bow while the gig rolled through the gate.

“I am so glad to see you again, Uncle ’Sias! Come up to the house and
talk with us this evening,” said Em.

“So I will, miss! ’Deed I feel as you’d been gone a year, more or less!”
returned the old man.

But they were soon out of hearing, for Queen Bess, finding herself so
near home, mended her pace, nor thought of slacking it until drawn up in
front of the old red wing.

It was soon quite dark, but a cheerful firelight gleamed through the
open doors and unshaded windows of the house.

All the family came forth to meet Em. with joyful welcomes, as though
she had been absent on a six years’ tour in a foreign country instead of
a six days’ sojourn in the immediate neighborhood.

Mother, sisters and brothers took her in their arms in turn and warmly
embraced and kissed her, while the little Italian girl danced
frantically around, among them all, waiting for a chance to get at her
“Caressima,” as she continually called Em.

“Now, Tom, run and put up the horse and gig. You can do the rest of your
welcoming after you come back,” said John.

The youth ran off to obey his father, and the family party entered the
house and passed on into the sitting-room, where a fire of pine logs and
cones was blazing up the chimney, lighting up the whole house.

Here Ann Whitlock and Aunt Monica were both engaged in putting finishing
touches on the neatly-set tea-table, where extra dainties had been
placed in honor of the daughter’s return.

But both the old women left off work and ran to welcome their favorite.

“No, let Em. go upstairs and take off her things—_do_!” said Molly,
carrying her sister off in triumph.

“See now what a nice fire Ned kindled for you, Em. Isn’t it just
splendid to have such a grand plenty of wood that we can make a roaring
fire to warm a great room like this?” said Nelly, who had followed her
sister to the attic.

“_I_ brought all the cones to kindle with, _my_self,” added little
Vennie, who came creeping up behind all the rest.

Em. turned and kissed the little creature, and then unpacked her trunk,
which her father and Ned had already brought up to her room.

Assisted by busy and affectionate little helpers, Em. soon got through
her task, and leaving her chamber in perfect order, and followed by a
bevy of little sisters, she hurried downstairs to the sitting-room,
where all the rest of the family were waiting for her.

As soon as she entered tea was placed on the table, and they all sat
down to it.

The father of the family asked a blessing, and then they all fell to
with good appetites and fine spirits.

Ah, how different was the atmosphere of this lowly, loving, merry party
to that proud, cold, gloomy circle she had left behind! Coming from one
to the other was like passing from purgatory into Paradise. It was
almost worth parting with Ronald to experience such a change.

Almost! not quite, as the aching from the depths of her heart seemed to
assure her.

She had loved Ronald Bruce from the first hour she had met him—when he
had saved her life by laying her brutal assailant stunned at her feet.
She had loved him involuntarily, secretly, silently—never dreaming that
her love was but the response of his own unspoken passion.

Now she knew he loved her, and had loved her from their first meeting.
Ronald Bruce, who had traveled all over the world, and had mixed with
the best society in many countries, and who from his position and
prospects might have chosen his wife from almost any class—had
overlooked all others to choose _her_, Em., above all other women—to
choose her, who had neither wealth, position or accomplishments—nothing
but herself. And if she had loved him at first she adored him now! Oh,
how she longed for all the advantages that might make her as acceptable
to Ronald’s family, as, without any of them, she was to him!

Even seated in the sweet circle of this pure, unselfish family affection
these thoughts troubled her peace.

No wonder then that in the solitude of her own attic chamber, when she
had retired to rest that night, that they should destroy her repose.

Em. lay wide awake all night thinking, dreaming.

Now tempting thoughts came to the troubled, wakeful dreamer, “in the
waste and middle of the night.”

Em. remembered Ronald’s last words whispered in her ear just as he left
her seated in the gig by her father’s side.

_To-morrow afternoon_, he had said.

To-morrow afternoon, then, Ronald would be sure to make his appearance.
He would be sure to ask her father for her, as he had declared he would.

Her father liked Ronald very much, she knew; but he would never listen
to his suit for her hand unless that suit came authorized by Ronald’s
uncle. And so it would never come. And so her father would refuse her to
Ronald, and would probably request him to refrain from visiting the
house.

Then Ronald would be sure to seek an interview with her, and he would
press her to end all their trouble by marrying him at once.

Now why—the tempter asked her—should she not take him at his word? These
old people—the evil-one whispered—whose pride and stubbornness were
separating Ronald and herself, were interfering with their loves beyond
all reason and justice. They had no right to make two young people
wretched all their lives. They could not do so, if Ronald should have
his own way. And nothing obstructed _that_ but Em.’s own scruples.
Ronald’s and her happiness now depended upon herself alone. Why should
she not make sure of it by accepting him as her husband? A few hours’
travel would take them into Maryland, where they could be legally
married, although she was not of age. Then they would instantly return
to the manor-house and ask forgiveness.

Her gentle father, her tender mother, would be _sure_ to forgive them on
the asking. Then they would be happy.

Yes; but that father and mother! Should she wound those gentle and
tender hearts by an act of disobedience that would be nothing less than
a cruel insult to them, receive it however charitably they might?

And then her promise to Commodore Bruce, whom she loved, though he _did_
almost break her heart!

Em. could come to no decision on her future course of action.

Act as she might, she could not escape suffering in herself and causing
suffering to others.

Thus thinking and dreaming, she lay wide awake all night, and was glad
when she saw the dawn of morning through the uncurtained eastern windows
of her room.

She arose and mended her fire, replenishing it from the box of fuel in
the corner. Then she bathed and dressed, offered up her morning prayers
and went downstairs.

It was now sunrise, and the sunshine was filling the sitting-room, where
all the family were assembled for morning worship.

They greeted Em. affectionately and then seated her among them.

The father opened the family Bible and read a chapter and then
reverently closed it and led their devotions.

After this breakfast was placed upon the table.

It was while handing her daughter a cup of coffee that Susan Palmer
looked in Em.’s face and exclaimed:

“I do declare, child, that your week’s stay at the old commodore’s
hasn’t improved you much! I didn’t notice it last night by candle-light,
but now I see you by daylight, you are as pale as a ghost.”

“Yes, _that_ she is,” chimed in several of the others.

“It is sitting so much over her needle! She sha’n’t do it again, that is
certain,” said John positively.

“No, she sha’n’t, and I am glad this is Sunday, so she may have a
complete rest,” added Susan.

The nearest church was thirty miles off; so John Palmer’s family could
only attend it once a month, on communion days, when they had to take a
Saturday afternoon’s journey and stay over until Monday morning.

But whether they were privileged to go to church, or compelled to stay
at home, the Sabbath was always conscientiously observed by them.

After breakfast, when order was restored, John Palmer assembled his
family and read the morning service, every member of the household
taking part in it.

They had always a nice, appetizing Sunday dinner, though no cooking was
ever done beyond boiling water to make tea or coffee and warming over
the soup and meat that had been prepared the day before.

After dinner each individual pleased himself or herself by reading,
walking, talking or sleeping.

This particular Sunday afternoon, however, all the family were assembled
around the fire in the sitting-room, questioning Em. concerning her
week’s sojourn on the mountain, and she was telling them all she could
communicate without unveiling the mystery of her own heart.

While they were all thus engaged the old gatekeeper, ’Sias, put his head
in at the door and said:

“Young Marse Lieutenant Ronald Bruce have come to see you, sar, and
would like to pay his dispects, if conwenient.”

“Mr. Bruce! Well, I declare!” exclaimed Susan Palmer in surprise.

“Humph! I thought as much!” said Ann Whitlock significantly.

“Am I to denounce de young ge’man into de house?” inquired old ’Sias.

“Yes, certainly,” cordially responded John Palmer, while Em.’s heart
bounded with delight.




                              CHAPTER XVI
                               PROPOSALS

           Heaven, forming each on other to depend,
           As master, or as servant, or as friend,
           Bids each on other for assistance call,
           Till one man’s weakness makes the strength of all.
           Wants, frailties, passions closer still ally
           The common interest, or endear the tie.
           To those we owe true friendship, love sincere,
           Each home-felt joy that life inherits here.
                                                        POPE.


Ronald Bruce came in smiling. All the family arose to receive him.

“Don’t let me disturb you, pray. How do you do, Mr. Palmer! And you,
madam!” said the young man, shaking hands with John, bowing to Susan,
and then pressing the hand of Em. before he finally subsided into the
chair set for him by Tom.

“Hope you left the commodore and all the family well, sir?” hospitably
inquired John.

“Quite well, thank you, Mr. Palmer. And I have no doubt, if they had
known I was coming here, they would have sent kindest remembrances to
you and your daughter,” replied Ronald Bruce.

“Oh! They didn’t know you were coming, then?”

“No. They were all taking their Sunday afternoon naps in their chambers
when I left home.”

“Ah! Well, I am very glad to see you, Lieutenant, I am sure! Always take
such pleasure in your sea stories! It’s almost like going to sea myself
to hear you! And—well, I was thinking only to-day that the first time I
should see you I would ask you how you spend Sundays on board ship. How
_do_ you, anyhow?”

“Well,” laughed the young man, “as variously as you do on land. It
depends on the character of the captain of the ship at sea, as it does
on the master of the house ashore. Of course, much of the routine of
ship duty must go on, just as some housework must be done. If the
captain of the ship is a religious man we have divine service in the
forenoon. In the afternoon every one spends his leisure as he pleases. I
remember one Sunday afternoon——”

And here, to please his desired father-in-law, Ronald Bruce launched
into a sea story that soon absorbed all the attention of the family
party.

Even old ’Sias and Aunt Monica stepped in and sat down in an obscure
corner to listen. And not until it was finished could Mrs. Whitlock make
up her mind to steal away and prepare an extra supper for the guest.

Then old Monica and Uncle ’Sias followed to lend their aid.

“I never see such idiwuts as John Palmer and Susan is! Do they think as
that young hossifer comes here for the pleasure of seeing them, I
wonder? Why don’t they all make some excuse and leave the young folks
together and give ’em a chance!” burst forth Mrs. Whitlock as soon as
she found herself in the kitchen.

“If he comes here after Miss Em., dey is right not to give him a chance
to court her, ’cause no good can’t come out’n that; he being of a rich
young gentleman, an’ she——”

“A _lady_, every inch of her,” broke in Mrs. Whitlock, cutting Aunt
Monica’s speech short.

“And so she may be in her ways an’ manners, an’ I don’t deny so she is.
But, la! dat ain’t what _his_ people would look at. Ole Marse Commodore
Bruce is particular. Why, chillun, I used to know dat ole man good, an’
hear him talk, when he came to our old Marse Captain Wyndeworth’s oyster
suppers. Bless patience, honeys, _blood_ was his first ’sideration an’
_money_ was his second, an’ dat was all he would look at. An’ ’less our
young gal had blood an’ money, he’d never ’sent to ’ceiving _her_ inter
de Bruce famberly.”

“I’d risk it,” said Ann Whitlock, as she addressed herself to the task
of preparing a dainty supper for the guest to tempt him to repeat his
visits, if other inducements besides Em. should be necessary.

Meanwhile, in the parlor, John Palmer engaged the visitor’s attention
exclusively, keeping him so busy in telling sea stories that the young
man was in peril of having to draw upon his imagination, as well as upon
his memory.

Ronald got no opportunity of speaking a single word in confidence to Em.

Even when supper was announced and he drew the girl’s arm within his own
to take her to the table, the family massed so closely that he could not
even get a chance to breathe a syllable in her ear on the way to the
dining-room.

While the family were at supper Ann Whitlock busily prepared the spare
room upstairs for the accommodation of their guest, saying to herself as
she laid hickory logs across the andirons to build a cheerful fire:

“_I_ will make everything as pleasant as possible for him, anyhow, so as
to ’tice him to come often. And I’ll ’courage ’em to get married, too,
no matter what nobody says. Once they’re safe married nobody can’t
unmarry ’em. That’s so!”

After supper, when the family were regathered around the parlor fire,
the sea stories were resumed, and never had a story-teller a more
attentive and appreciative audience than had Ronald Bruce in John Palmer
and his household.

When the usual bedtime came, however, Susan Palmer began to grow
restless, and as soon as Mr. Bruce came to the end of the tale he was
then telling she got up and lighted a candle and put it in the hand of
her husband, saying:

“I reckon, John, as Mr. Bruce is about tired, and you’d better show him
to his room.”

“Now I do reckon he can find it for himself!” said John, laughing, as he
passed the candle over to Ronald, and added: “It’s the same room you
occupied before, sir, and you know the way to it.”

“Certainly,” replied the young man smilingly; and then more gravely he
added: “I came here, Mr. Palmer, especially to seek a private interview
with you on a matter of very great importance to me, at least. Can you
give me a few moments alone before I leave here to-morrow morning?”

“Why, of course I can,” said John, staring with surprise and curiosity.

Mr. Bruce then bowed good-night to the circle, raised the hand of Em. to
his lips and left the room.

“Now I wonder what in the name o’ sense he’s got to say to you, John? Do
you know?” eagerly inquired Susan Palmer as soon as their visitor had
disappeared.

“Oh, something about crops, or stocks, or something! You know his uncle
wants him to give up the sea and attend to agriculture, and he knows no
more o’ that than I do of navigation,” said John.

“Yes, I s’pose that’s it,” concluded Susan.

“I never did see two such old goneys in my life!” muttered Ann Whitlock
to herself. “Between them both, they’ll ruin that gal’s fortin, I know
they will!”

But nothing more was said, as the family were even then separating to
retire.

As Em. went up to bid her father good-night she whispered these
enigmatical words into his ear:

“Oh, father, please, _please_ don’t deny him!” And she was gone before
the startled and perplexed John could gather his scattered senses and
ask what she meant.

Early the next morning Ronald Bruce arose, dressed in haste and hurried
downstairs to seek the promised interview with his host.

He found John in the parlor waiting for him.

“Good-morning, Mr. Bruce! Fine, bright morning, sir, though we had heavy
frost last night. Hope you slept well, sir,” said Palmer.

“Thanks, yes, very well,” replied the young man, telling an involuntary
fib, for he had not slept a wink and had not meant to say so.

“I’ll just turn the key of this door, and we’ll be safe from
interruption,” said John, suiting the action to the word.

Then placing a chair for his guest and taking another for himself, he
sat down and said:

“Now I am ready to hear all that you have got to say, Lieutenant; but I
warn you that I don’t know much more about crops and stocks than you do
yourself.”

“‘Crops and stocks!’” echoed the young man in surprise.

“Yes! Wasn’t that what you wished to consult me upon?”

“Bless me, no!”

“What was it, then?” inquired Palmer in surprise.

Young Bruce hesitated in some confusion. The fact that the
father-in-law-elect seemed so utterly unprepared to hear the honor that
was intended him, had the natural effect of making the proposal doubly
embarrassing to the suitor.

He paused for a few moments longer and then broke the ice suddenly by
saying:

“Mr. Palmer, I love your daughter Emolyn, and I have reason to know that
she likes me. I came here to pray you to make us both happy by
consenting to our marriage.”

If I were to tell you that John’s hair stood on end, I should not much
exaggerate. His eyes fairly started from his head as he stared at the
speaker, and faltered forth:

“Now look a here, young gentleman, look a here! Quiet yourself like and
think a bit. You _can’t_ know what you’re a-talking about!”

“Yes, I do!” impatiently replied the young man, giving his dark head an
irritable shake.

“Well, then, maybe I didn’t understand you right,” said John helplessly.

“Then I will repeat what I said. I asked you if you would do me the
honor of giving me your daughter for a wife,” repeated Ronald.

“Dear me! Dear me! What a pity! I never thought of such a thing! I am
very sorry,” muttered John in a meditative way.

Ronald Bruce sat watching and waiting until he lost the last remnant of
patience and broke forth with:

“Mr. Palmer, do you understand my question _now_?”

“Yes—yes! Don’t get excited! I know what you said! And I know, too, what
my girl meant when she asked me last night not to deny you! Lord help
me! I feel awful cut up about it!” sighed John, running his fingers
through his shock of “pepper and salt” hair.

The young officer looked somewhat fallen in his selfesteem as he gazed
upon the overseer, who evidently did not feel the honor conferred upon
him as he should have done, and he inquired somewhat sulkily:

“Why should you feel ‘cut up,’ as you call it, by my proposal?”

“Oh, because it is like you have been making love to my child, and maybe
getting her to be fond of you!” replied John with a profound sigh that
seemed to come from the depth of his heart.

“Well, that is just exactly what I have been doing—in the hope of
winning her for my wife, with your consent. I come now to ask that
consent; I only wait for that!” said Ronald earnestly. “And I don’t see
why you should take the matter so very deeply to heart,” he added rather
sullenly.

John groaned and sighed, but answered nothing.

“May I hope for your consent to my proposal, Mr. Palmer?” at length
inquired the suitor.

“No, Mr. Bruce! It can’t be, and it oughtn’t to be! I am hurt to the
very bottom of my heart to have to say it, but I must say it. No, Mr.
Bruce, you can’t have Em. for your wife!” said John Palmer firmly.

The young man turned pale with astonishment, mortification and anger.

“May I ask you _why_ you reject me? Have you any objection to me
personally?” he hotly demanded, as he arose and stood before John.

“To you personally as you stand there, sir, I could have no possible
objection. You are a very well made young man, sound in wind and limb,
of steady habits and good temper, though a little spirited. No, to you
personally I would have no objection. And if you were only a young
journeyman mechanic, or a young workman, I do not know any man in the
world to whom I would sooner give my girl as a wife, or whom I would
sooner welcome as a son-in-law; because I like you, Lieutenant Bruce!
And if it would not sound queer from a man’s lips, I might almost say, I
love you! _That_ is what makes it so awfully cutting to have to refuse
you! Oh, I wish you were a workman!”

“So do I, since you seem to consider it an indispensable condition; but
if you approve of me as I am, why not accept me as I am?” inquired the
young man, now half inclined to laugh and half to weep.

John shook his gray-black head in sorrowful silence.

“I can’t help being an officer in the navy; but I can help continuing to
be so, and I will resign my commission and take up farming if you will
give me Em.! I’ll do it at once, next week, to-day!”

“Yes, and repent week after week, or even to-morrow! No, it will not do,
Mr. Bruce! You are a gentleman born and not fit for Em. You can’t unmake
yourself and make yourself over again, and therefore you can never be
fit for Em. You must give up all thoughts of her at once and forever! I
say it, and by all my soul’s hopes I mean it, young sir.”

“But, good Heaven! I can not and will not give her up! To do so would be
the ruin of our lives’ happiness!” exclaimed Ronald.

“Nonsense, young gentleman. To _marry_ would be the ruin of your lives!
Listen to me, sir. You and Em. are both too young to know yourselves, or
to know life. Of course, you think now that if you could marry you would
be perfectly happy. And so you might be for a few short weeks, while the
novelty lasted. But you are a gentleman—she a poor man’s child. You have
been differently brought up; these differences would crop out in course
of time. You might repent of your marriage, think you could have done so
much better if you could have married a lady of your own class, and so
on——”

“Believe me, sir——” began the suitor.

“Stop! hear me out,” said the father. “You might even come to despise my
child, and to make her feel that she was despised. That would break her
heart, and then—why, I might break your head!”

Ronald Bruce sprang to his feet and began to stride up and down the room
in a sort of frenzy.

“What in the deuce do you take me for, Mr. Palmer,” he indignantly
exclaimed, “that you should think me capable of such baseness! Or what
do you take your daughter for, that you should deem it even possible
that any man should ever ‘despise’ her! If you were not her father, I
would not stand quietly to hear her maiden dignity so affronted!”

“You’re not standing so very quietly just at the present speaking, young
gentleman, unless tearing up and down the room like a madman means your
idea of standing quietly! Come, Mr. Bruce! Come, Mr. Bruce! You have no
better friend on earth than I am. And the very friendliest thing I could
do for you would be to put my foot down on the notion of you marrying my
daughter. And what’s more, no girl ever had a lovinger father than Em.
has in me, and the kindest thing I can do for her is to prevent her from
becoming your wife.”

“I swear by all my hopes of salvation that I will make Emolyn Palmer my
wife in the face of all the world and in defiance of all opposition!”
exclaimed the young man, so transported with fury that he lost all
self-command and sense of propriety.

“Now I wonder why I don’t lift him by the scruff of his neck and the
slack of his pants and pitch him out of the window?” thought John Palmer
to himself. “Why? Because, with all his impudence, he loves my Em., poor
fellow, almost as hard as I did her mother, and I am sorry for him. So
I’ll be gentle with him.”

“You have no right,” broke forth the young man once more, as he strode
up and down the floor—“you have no right—no one has any right to
separate two young people who love each other as I and Emolyn do! No
right to ruin both our lives for the sake of gratifying your own
particular whims of pride or prudence! I told my uncle and my mother so
yesterday, and I tell you so to-day.”

“Whe-ew!” exclaimed John. “So you mean to marry my daughter whether I
will or not?”

“I will marry my Emolyn in defiance of all insane opposition!”

“Very well. We’ll see. Please sit down here. I am going to send for
Emolyn,” said John Palmer.

Ronald Bruce threw himself into the chair and waited.

John Palmer went to the window, tapped upon it and called one of the
boys who was chopping wood in the yard and who immediately approached.

“Ned, tell your sister Em. to come in here. I want to speak to her,”
said the father.

The boy ran off to do his errand.

John Palmer unlocked the door and set it open.

In a few moments Em. entered the room.

She looked very much flushed and embarrassed, and her color came and
went as she glanced from her lover to her father. She seemed to feel
that her fate was being weighed in the balance of the moment, and that a
second might decide it for weal or woe.

“Good-morning, father. Good-morning, Mr. Bruce,” she faltered in low
tones, compelling herself to this act of politeness, although her very
heart seemed fainting within her for fear.

Ronald Bruce bowed low to her salutation, while John Palmer held out his
hand and said:

“Come here, my girl, I have something to say to you.”

Em. went to him.

He encircled her with one arm and drew her close to his side while he
said:

“Em., my child, this good young gentleman here has done us the honor to
ask me for you as his wife—as most likely you know.”

Em. gave a quick, short nod and caught her breath.

“You did know, of course. Well, my daughter, there is no young man in
the world that I like better than him—just as there is no young woman in
the world that I love better than you. So, having the lasting happiness
of both in view, I must decline this marriage for you, my Em.”

“_Oh, father!_” she breathed almost under her breath.

“His friends would never consent to receive my child as a relative, Em.
I would never consent for you to enter any family who would not be as
_proud_ to receive you as I should be to give you. Besides this, unequal
marriages never end well. Where a gentleman marries a poor girl, however
much he may seem to have loved her at first, he grows tired of her,
perhaps ashamed of her, and ceases to love her, maybe begins to hate
her——”

“Oh, father! father!” moaned the girl in a low tone of anguish.

“Mr. Palmer, you must not say these things to your daughter! They are
cruel, unmanly, and what is more, untrue, as far as I am concerned,”
hotly interposed Ronald Bruce.

“They are hard and bitter words, I know, young people,” said John
Palmer, keeping his temper. “But bitters are tonics to cure weakness.
Now, my Em., to _you_ I speak. You are my child. This young gentleman
here declares that he will marry you in defiance of his relations and
yours, and all the world and the rest of mankind, as the late General
Taylor used to say. The question, then, is this, my child: whether you
will marry him without my consent and against my wishes? Answer, Em.!”

“Emolyn, pause! Do not commit yourself hastily by a promise that will
drive me mad and make yourself miserable!” impetuously exclaimed the
lover. “Take time to consider, Emolyn! Tell your father that you must
have time!” he earnestly pleaded.

Em. raised her head. Her face was pale, and her eyes were full of tears;
but she answered firmly:

“Ronald, you know my heart; I must not take time to consider whether I
shall obey my dear father or not. I must not marry without his consent—I
will not, dear father! Ronald, listen and be sure of this—if it should
ever be right that we should marry, my dear father will consent; for he
has nothing except our welfare in view. But do not mistake me, be sure
of this also, that I will never marry without his consent,” Em. added,
and covered her face with her hands to conceal the tears that were ready
to stream from her eyes.

“There, young gentleman, you have your answer from her as well as from
me. She will not marry without my consent. If it should ever happen to
be proper for you to marry I will give my consent. As that is not at all
likely to occur, why, you had better not hope for it. And let me repeat,
in this I have nothing but your happiness and hers at heart,” said John
in earnest kindliness.

Ronald Bruce stamped viciously, exclaiming:

“If there is anything in the world I detest, it is to suffer a grievous
wrong and to be told that it is intended as a benefit.”

“Yes, I know,” said John. “Children always rebel ag’in the physic that
is to cure ’em, or the whipping that is to reform ’em, although we
always tell ’em it’s for their good. But ‘sich is life.’”




                              CHAPTER XVII
                               THE RESCUE

              She took the fruits of my advice;—
              And he, repulsed—a short tale to make—
              Fell into a sadness, thence into a fast,
              Thence to a watch, thence into a weakness.
                                              SHAKESPEARE.


“Mammy says, how if you don’t come in to breakfast it will all be
sp’ilt,” were the prosaic words that cut short this trying interview, as
little Molly put her smoothly-brushed black head into the door.

“Run and tell mammy we will be there immediately,” said John.

The little lass sped away on her errand.

“Come, sir! Come!” exclaimed John cheerfully. “Our boys were out among
the partridges on Saturday afternoon and bagged a rare lot of fat ones.
The mother has dressed them for breakfast, and we mustn’t let them spoil
by waiting! Come, Em., little woman, cheer up! Nobody’s dead and
nobody’s dying!”

Now it was the first impulse of Ronald Bruce to decline John Palmer’s
further entertainment, and to hurry away without waiting for breakfast,
but a glance from Em.’s imploring eyes restrained him, and he sulkily
followed John and herself to the dining-room, where Susan, with the
brightest smiles, bade him good-morning.

As they seated themselves at the table Em. purposely took a chair with
her back to the window so that her troubled face might be thrown into
shadow and escape the notice of her mother.

But if Susan Palmer failed to observe the tearful eyes of her daughter,
she did not neglect to watch her guest and to see how he slighted her
delicious broiled partridges and cream rolls.

“I am afraid you are not as hearty as usual this morning, Mr. Bruce!”
she said at length.

“Oh, quite so, thanks! But this is rather earlier than I am accustomed
to take breakfast,” said the young man ingeniously.

Susan had the good sense to seem satisfied with the explanation; but she
remembered all the while that the early breakfast hour had not prevented
Mr. Bruce from making a valiant onslaught upon the edibles on the
occasion of his last visit.

As soon as breakfast was over Ronald prepared to take leave of the
family.

His horse was brought around to the door by ’Sias.

“Now I hope you will come to see us just as often as you can
conveniently, Mr. Bruce! Why, a visit from you, with your sea stories,
is as good as a voyage round the world to John and the boys, penned up
as they are in this here wally with a wall of mountains round them! Come
often, sir! And la! why, if breakfast at seven o’clock in the morning is
too airly for you, we might have it at eight or nine, or any time,” said
Susan Palmer cordially, as Ronald Bruce took leave of her.

“Thanks, very much; I shall remember your kindness,” returned the young
man, without committing himself by a promise.

He took a light and cheerful leave of the younger members of the family,
and then went to the window where Em. stood looking out.

She turned as he joined her.

He took her hand and said:

“I do not know when I shall be permitted to see you again, my dear and
only love; but be sure of this—I will never give you up, Em.! Never, as
I hope for heaven! God bless you, my darling!”

And so saying, he pressed her hand and turned away.

John Palmer went out with him.

“I am sorry, sir, that I cannot join in my wife’s invitation to you. But
under the circumstances I think you and Em. had better not see each
other again. I am grieved to the soul, I am, about all this. And—see
here! I cannot let you go in this way! I’ll tell you what, now, listen!
If you will agree not to see, or to speak to, or write to Em., or to
hold any sort of communication with her, for the space of one year from
to-day, and if at the end of that time you and Em. retain your
partiality for one another, and you come to me with the written consent
of your lady mother and your gentleman uncle, why, then I will take back
all my objections to the match! There, now! I can say no more than that.
What do _you_ say?” demanded John in a frank, hearty, almost joyous
manner.

The countenance of the young man was not, however, gratefully
responsive.

“I ask no concessions of you, Mr. Palmer, because I can make no
promises. I _must_ have Em. for my wife if I can, and as _soon_ as I
can. Her happiness, as well as my own, depends upon it!” he answered, as
he placed his foot in the stirrup and threw himself into the saddle.

“Very well! Then my hope is in Em. She is a dutiful daughter, and she
will obey me,” concluded John Palmer, as he waved his departing guest
adieu and returned into the house.

He looked around for Em.; but the girl was nowhere to be seen. He
inquired for her and was told that she had gone upstairs to make the
beds.

“And I would just like to know,” said his wife, who had been his
informant, “what they have been doing to Em. up there at the commodore’s
to make her look so ill. I take my oath she does not look like the same
child. I just think I’ll march myself up to the grand house and ask them
what is the meaning of it all!”

“Come here, my good woman. I’ll tell you all about it, and then we must
drop the subject forever and a day and try to employ and amuse Em. and
make her forget it,” said John, as he beckoned Susan to follow him into
the parlor, where they would be more secure from interruption.

There John shut the door, put his wife into the big arm-chair, and
taking another for himself, sat down before her and told her the whole
story of Ronald Bruce and Emolyn Palmer’s love.

Susan listened in breathless astonishment.

“To think of such a thing! It never once entered my head!” she
exclaimed. “And Em. nothing but a child, hardly out of her short frocks
and pantalettes! And he, you might say, almost a middle-aged man by
comparison! And quite belonging to another world! But, oh, my poor
girl!”

“Well, my dear, I considered the best thing to do in such a case was to
put my foot right down on it, and that I did. Though if I had thought as
he’d a-made her happy in the long run I’d a-given my consent; but I knew
he’d soon repent sich an unequal marriage, and that would break my
girl’s heart, and so down I put my foot upon the whole thing! And now,
Susan, we must never allude to what’s past, but try to comfort and cheer
the child up.”

Mrs. Palmer agreed to that, and then they left the parlor and set about
their several duties.

As for Em., she went hard to work—her panacea for all mental troubles.
They all heard her singing as she shook up beds and swept floors.

But when all the work was done, then came the reaction of artificial
excitement—the life weariness, the heavy-heartedness, that she could not
shake off.

So many industrious hands about that house left so little to do!

_Her_ hands could now find nothing.

She thought she would walk down to the pier and take the little boat and
make a visit to the island. She had not been to Edengarden for some
weeks past; and this golden October day tempted her to the excursion.

She went to find Susan and said:

“Mother, I am going out for an hour or two, if you would not mind.”

“No, of course not, child. But where are you going, Em.?”

“To Edengarden, mother. I have not been there for so long a time.”

“Very well, Em.; but, oh, my dear, don’t attempt to row the boat
yourself! I know you _can_ do it; but still for this once take old ’Sias
with you! Will you?”

“Yes, mother, if you wish me to do so; but you know, dear, there is no
danger. I can use an oar as well as I can a broom. And for the rest, you
know what the country people about here say—that it requires a great
deal of perseverance and presence of mind to drown one’s self in the
‘Placide.’”

“Oh, I know, Em.! But still, for this once, take old ’Sias with you.”

“I will do so, mother,” replied the girl as she turned away.

Em. quickly wrapped herself in her black and white-checkered shawl, and
put on her gray felt hat and left the house.

She walked briskly down the leaf-strewn road that led through the
thicket to the gate-house.

Here she found old ’Sias sitting on the step before the closed front
door, smoking a stumpy clay pipe and basking in the golden sunshine of
the autumn morning.

“Oh, Uncle ’Sias, I am so glad to see you at leisure. Will you row me to
Edengarden this morning?” she inquired, pausing before the old man.

“Miss Em.! Well, I ’clare to my goodness! De sight ob you down here
axing me to go wid you a-rowing is good for to cure blindness!”
exclaimed old ’Sias, taking the pipe from his mouth and rising to his
feet. “Why, you hasn’t been here—less see—not since las’ Augus’, I do
believe. Yes, honey, to be sure I’ll take you a-rowing, and glad to do
it, too,” he continued, as he emptied his pipe and put it into his
pocket, and walked on beside Em. out of the gate and through the forest
road leading to the river.

“You are quite at leisure to go with me, Uncle ’Sias, I hope?” said the
girl considerately.

“Oh, la! yes, honey! I hadn’t nuffin ’t all to do, and what’s more, I
hadn’t no place to go to. You see dat dere shet-up door, didn’t you,
honey?”

“Yes, of course,” said Em., wondering to what that led.

“Well, chile, dat shet-up door was bolted on the inside,” said ’Sias
mysteriously.

“Why, how was that?” inquired Em.

“Sereny been performing, honey! Sereny been performing, chile! Thanks be
to goodness, Miss Em., dere ain’t much ha’r left on my head for her to
twist her fingers in now! Lord, if Miss Abishey performed on King David
like Sereny do on me, no wonder he wrote so many sollum sams! She’s been
performing, honey, and arter she’d done performing she kicked me out and
clapped the door to and bolted it! Dere, dat’s what Sereny did, and I
feel as if I could write a sollum sam myself!”

“It is really too bad!” cried Em.

“Now ain’t it, dough, honey? And de most aggravokingest part if it is to
think as I’m her lawful lord and marster, as she swore beore de holy
altar to lub, honor and obey! But law! what’s de use o’ talking? De
wimmen don’t ’member dem wows no longer’n dey get out’n de church!
Leastways, I know Sereny didn’t! Purty way she lub me to pull all de
ha’r out’n my head! Purty way she honor me to kick me out’n de house and
slam de door and bolt it on me. And I her lord and marster! But you see,
chile, dough I is her s’preme ruler, she’s de strongest ob de two, and
dat’s de way she gets de better ob me! Now, I tell you what, Miss Em.,
if it should please de Lord to take Sereny, I think as I should be
’signed to His holy will, and I never would get another young wife to
keep me warm in my ole age, ’cording to King David nor no other king! So
dere, now! ’Cause de way dey hab o’ keepin’ you warm is by pummeling and
scalpin’ of you, and I don’t like it! So no young cullered gal needn’t
be coming arter me if ebber I’m a widderer ag’n! ’Deed and ’deed needn’t
dey!”

They had by this time reached the water’s edge, where the little boat
lay moored and rocking.

“Shall I put up de sail, Miss Em.? But dere ain’t a breaf ob breeze,
neider!” said ’Sias as he began to unmoor.

“Oh, no! We will row. You take the oars, I the tiller, and we shall skim
the water like a bird,” said Em.

“So we will, Miss Em., and won’t that be sociable?” cried old ’Sias
gleefully as he threw the chain ashore and took up the oars and placed
them in their rests.

Em. nodded, entered the boat, seated herself, took the tiller and
steered for the island.

Old ’Sias laid himself sturdily to the oars, and the little boat sped on
its way down the river.

“Oh, how glorious this is in autumn!” exclaimed the girl, as, forgetting
all her troubles in the moment, she gazed with enthusiastic delight on
the magnificent scene before her.

The mighty river, rolling on in calm strength to the sea; the lofty
precipices on the left, with their gray rocks dappled with clumps of
evergreen trees and parterres of variegated moss, and brightened by
springs and fountains of sparkling water dancing down their sides and
losing themselves in the river; the undulating, wooded hills on the
right, now changing into all the most brilliant colors of the autumn
foliage—crimson, orange, purple, golden, scarlet—all blended and
contrasted on the shore, and reflected in the shining river; the distant
island, midway between the banks, resting on the bosom of the river and
looking in the autumn dress of its groves like an immense bouquet of
gorgeous exotics.

Em. sat and absorbed the beauty and glory of the scene into her soul,
and never spoke again until they had reached the landing at Edengarden.

“Now, Miss Em., my honey, if you don’t mind walking up to de house by
yourself, I think I’ll jes’ set here in de boat and smoke my pipe and
think o’ King David and Abishey till you come back,” said old ’Sias as
he steadied the boat to let his passenger step out.

“Very well, Uncle ’Sias, I will not keep you long.”

“Never mind ’bout de ‘long,’ honey. I could stay here all day, willin’!
It’s so quiet like here, and clean out’n de reach o’ Sereny,” replied
the old man as he settled himself in his seat and took out his pipe and
began to fill it.

Em. walked on through the belt of silver maples that had now turned in
their autumn tints so that they formed a golden girdle around the shores
of the beautiful island.

Passing through and out of them she walked up the ornate terraces where
the clumps of trees in their fall dress of crimson, orange, and purple,
looked like gigantic posies, and the parterres of flowers were rich in
late roses, dahlias, chrysanthemums, and other autumn blooms.

Up, past arbors, statues, and fountains, to the white, colonnaded piazza
that surrounded the white palace.

“This might be the ‘Island of Calm Delights,’ and the fairy palace of
the Princess Blandina, for its beauty and its solitude,” said Em. to
herself as she went up the marble steps that led to the main entrance.

She had intended to walk around the piazza to the rear of the house to
get the key from the solitary housekeeper; but as soon as she stepped
upon the porch she saw that the front door was open.

It was not an unusual circumstance—Em. had twice, on former visits,
found the door open when other sightseers happened to be present.

Therefore, without the least surprise or hesitation, she entered the
beautiful hall and passed directly to the saloon, where that wondrous
portrait of the “White Spirit” hung, which had, for her, so powerful a
fascination.

To her slight surprise now she saw no one present. The room was vacant.
She went and opened one of the windows to throw a better light upon the
lovely portrait, and then she turned and stood before it.

How perfectly proportioned was the slender, elegant form! How stately
and graceful the attitude! How soft and flowing the drapery! How fair
and delicate, how refined and spirituelle the lovely face, seen through
the misty tissue of the falling veil, which seemed so real that Em. felt
tempted to lift her hand and draw it aside that she might get a clearer
view of the beautiful vision.

As she gazed a new light broke upon her.

“Why, this is a bridal dress!” she said to herself. “Strange it never
struck me so before, but I suppose it was because I had heard the lady
always appeared veiled. But here she must have been painted in her
bridal dress, for that is certainly a bridal veil.”

“Yes, she was painted in her bridal dress,” murmured a voice, soft,
sweet and low as the notes of an eolian harp.

Em. started and turned around, to be transfixed by a pair of soft, deep,
dark-blue eyes, whose gaze held hers spellbound.

The “White Spirit” stood before her.




                             CHAPTER XVIII
                         THE LADY OF EDENGARDEN

             And scenes long past of joy and pain
             Come wildering through her wondering brain.
                                                     SCOTT.


Yes! There, holding the girl’s eyes spellbound by her mesmeric gaze,
stood the Wonder of the Wilderness, the mysterious being known as the
“White Spirit,” yet not in the traditional white robe and veil.

No! The Lady of Edengarden was attired as any other conventional
gentlewoman of the period with artistic tastes might have been.

She wore a long flowing soft gray silk dress, with fine white lace about
the throat and wrists, and with a knot of light-blue ribbon mixed with
lace on her bosom, and another of the same materials among the braids of
her sunny golden-brown hair.

But the face, with its delicate patrician features, its fair transparent
complexion, and its soft, dreamy, dark-blue eyes, was the very same.

“I—I beg your pardon, madam,” stammered Em. with an effort to recover
herself.

“My child!—_Who are you?_” interrupted the lady, taking her hand and
turning her around to face the full light of the window.

“I am the daughter of John Palmer, the overseer at the Wilderness Manor,
madam, Emolyn Palmer, and I thought——”

“Em—olyn—Palm—er,” slowly repeated the lady, again interrupting the girl
and gazing steadily on her face.

To escape this searching gaze into her soul Em. first lowered her eyes
and then raised them.

Between the two front windows near which they stood hung a long pier
glass. Em. caught a full view of the lady and herself as they stood
together, reflected in the mirror, and started at the marvelous likeness
revealed—in all except dress the two seemed almost duplicates. In the
two faces there was scarcely even the perceptible difference that age
should have made.

“Emolyn Palmer!” slowly repeated the lady. “Yes, yes, to be sure, I
know! Emolyn Palmer. Come here, my dear, and sit down.”

And the lady led Em. to a _tête-à-tête_ sofa, placed her in one corner,
and took the other herself.

“I wish to beg your pardon, madam. I am very sorry—I did not know you
were here—or I should not have presumed to intrude,” faltered Em. in
painful embarrassment.

The lady did not answer, only continued to look at her thoughtfully,
kindly.

“I—I had understood that you were so good as to let the neighbors come
in and look at your beautiful pictures and statues when you were away
from home, and so I used to come very often last summer, though I was
always in a dread for fear I should happen to come while you were here.”

The lady smiled on the young speaker, but made no answer.

“And now I have done what I had feared to do, and intruded on your
privacy, madam. I am sorry, and I hope you will forgive me,” continued
Em., half ashamed of having to say so much before receiving an answer,
yet reassured by the lady’s sweet, silent smile.

“You have done nothing that requires excuse, my child. You could have
had no reason to suspect that I was present. I have never been here in
the autumn before. I always came the first of May and went the last of
September. Only this summer I went to Canada instead, and then came here
on the first of October to spend the autumn. So you see you are
blameless. Besides, Edengarden, with its house and grounds, is open to
the neighbors at all seasons. Even when I am here only my private suite
of rooms is reserved. They are at the top of the building; so you might
have roamed all over the house if you had wished to do so without the
fear of intrusion. And now let us talk of yourself, little one. Your
name is Emolyn Palmer,” said the lady, taking the girl’s slender white
hand in her own.

“Yes, madam; but everybody calls me Em.,” shyly answered the girl.

“Do not be afraid of me, my child! This is not the first time we have
met.”

Em. started and gazed at the speaker in surprise.

“No, my child, not the first time we have met. I held you in my arms and
blessed you when you were a babe of only a few weeks old,” continued the
Lady of Edengarden.

Em.’s startled gaze of surprise softened as she lowered her eyes and
reflected that this might easily have been the case, as her mother had
many customers among fine ladies, whose little girls used to notice her
babies.

“Do you know for whom you were named, Emolyn?” gently inquired the lady.

“Oh, yes, madam. I was named for Miss Emolyn Wyndeworth, a saint, an
angel; but she has been in heaven these many years.”

“How do you know that?”

“My mother has told me so all my life.”

“Your mother cherishes her memory, then?”

“Oh, yes, yes, and speaks of her as pious Catholics speak of their
patron saints.”

“Tell me of your mother, my child. I used to know her very long ago,
when I lived in the world. Does she enjoy good health, and is she much
more prosperous and much happier now at the Wilderness manor-house than
she used to be in Laundry Lane?”

“To think you should know anything about Laundry Lane, dear lady! Why,
even to me it seems like a place in a past existence, that I had died in
and risen out of,” murmured Em.

“And yet it is scarcely six months since you left it, while it has been
over sixteen years since I saw it. But about your mother, Emolyn.”

“Oh, mother, too, is just as if she had died in Laundry Lane and risen
to Paradise! She is just as healthy and hearty and happy as any human
being can be. And she looks younger now than I ever saw her look. And so
does father. Did you ever know father, madam?” cheerfully inquired Em.,
who was growing more and more at ease in the presence of the lady.

“Yes, I knew your father, too, my child,” breathed the latter in a low
tone.

“Well, father looks younger, too. He is not sallow now, and he doesn’t
stoop. He’s ruddy as a red apple and straight as an arrow. And they are
all as well and as happy as they can be at the Wilderness Manor. They
have everything that heart can wish. Without being wealthy, they have
all the enjoyments of wealth. And it is like Paradise after the
purgatory of Laundry Lane.”

“I thank the Lord that one family, at least, is made happy,” breathed
the lady in low and earnest tones.

“And we owe all that happiness to you, dear madam; for although they
have never seen you, yet of course we know that you are our Lady of the
Manor, Mrs. Lindsay,” said Em.

“‘Lindsay?’ ‘Mrs. Lindsay!’” repeated the lady in a tone of surprise.

“Yes, Lindsay—is not that your name?”

“No; but it does not matter. Tell me more of your mother. Has she any
other children, younger than yourself, I mean?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am, as many younger as there are older. The four elder ones
are all married and settled in the city where we came from, and we hear
from them about once a month. They are all doing well. And the four
younger ones are—in Paradise with us. And now, dear lady, may I ask you
a question?”

“Yes, certainly. Have I not asked you many?”

“Well, then, was it because you knew my dear father and mother that you
caused your agent to engage them to take charge of the old manor?”

The lady hesitated for a moment, and then replied:

“Yes, though at the time I did not care to be known in the transaction,
and so acted only through my agent, Carmichael, and my friend Mrs.
Willet.”

“Oh! you knew Mrs. Willet, too! How many people and places you knew that
we knew!” exclaimed Em. in glad surprise, losing all the shyness she had
first felt in the presence of the strange lady.

“Yes, a good many. And in this very transaction I found a coadjutor in a
friend of yours, whom, however, I did not know.”

“A friend of ours?” said Em. thoughtfully.

“Yes; Lieutenant Ronald—Bruce,” said the lady, hesitating and then
pronouncing the last word in a low tone and with a falling inflection.

“Oh!” breathed Em.

“It appears that he had some time before appealed to the Willets to
throw anything they could find to suit him in the way of John Palmer and
his family. So, when the proposal came from my agent, John Palmer and
his wife would have got the first offer upon Mr. Bruce’s standing
recommendation, even if his name had not been mentioned in my private
instructions.”

“Then it is to you that we owe all our happiness! Oh! how grateful we
should be, and _are_, madam, for we know that we enjoy many privileges
not usually accorded to overseers and their families,” said Em., raising
the lady’s hand to her lips.

“It was my happiness to make you happy,” replied the latter in a low
tone.

“Oh! how glad my mother will be to know that it is to a former friend
she owes her present prosperity. But, dear lady, you say your name is
not that which the country people have given you. Will you tell me what
it is, so that I may rejoice my mother’s heart with the knowledge, that
we may know whom to name when we invoke blessings on our benefactress?”

“Perhaps, my child. My name has never transpired in this neighborhood.
None know it but the people of the legal profession who are my agents.
The country folks here have given me more than one name—Lynn, Lindsay,
and so forth—all being somewhat akin to my own name, to which they may
have got some slight clew. But never mind about my name for the present;
I wish to speak of yours. Have you any middle name?”

“Oh, yes, madam. I am Emolyn Wyndeworth Palmer. That is a very fine name
for a poor girl; but mother wished to give me the whole of her _angel’s_
name, she said, and so she had me baptized Emolyn Wyndeworth.”

“And you say that she for whom you were named died many years ago?”

“Yes, madam, so many years ago that it was before my recollection. Oh, I
often wish that I could have seen her once, only once, to have her image
in my mind.”

“How came she to die so young, my child?” inquired the lady in a low
tone.

“I do not know, madam; but mother says she was a martyr; that she had
suffered a grevious wrong that broke her heart; but who had wronged her,
or how she was wronged, mother never would tell—only she said there were
some wrongs too great, and some sorrows too deep to be spoken of in this
world.”

“Yes, yes, yes, yes,” murmured the Lady of Edengarden in a low voice.

And then silence fell upon the two and lasted some minutes.

Finally Em. rose to take leave.

“You are going?” said the lady.

“Yes, madam. I have only time to get home before dark. If I should be
out later my mother would fear something ill would happen to me. I am
very grateful, dear lady, for your kindness to me to-day, as well as for
your great goodness to our whole family. I wish you good-evening,” said
Em., lifting the lady’s hand to her lips and then turning to depart.

“Stop,” said the Lady of Edengarden.

Em. obeyed, and stood waiting.

“You wish to tell your mother the name of her unknown friend?”

“Oh, yes, madam—if you please,” eagerly exclaimed Em.

“Tell her, then, that I am one whom she used to know and love as Emolyn
Wyndeworth.”

Em. uttered a half-suppressed cry, reeled, and might have fallen, but
that the lady sprang and caught her, supported her to the sofa, and sat
her down in the corner, where she leaned back deathly pale and faint.

“My child, I am very sorry for this; but I could not have supposed that
my announcement would have startled you so much,” said the lady as she
applied a small vinaigrette to the nose of the girl.

“Oh, is it possible—can it be possible?” murmured Em. to herself. Then
with an effort she sat up and said: “Forgive me, madam; but it is indeed
as if one had returned from heaven to earth. It is not a dream? You
are——”

“I am Emolyn Wyndeworth, my dear, and more convinced than ever of the
fond and faithful remembrance in which I have been held since the mere
announcement of my name and presence has produced such a effect upon
you, who had no personal recollection of me,” said the lady in a
soothing tone as she passed her hand caressingly over the girl’s bright
ringlets.

“Ah, how happy I shall be when—when I can realize all this; but now—now
I am afraid of waking! Oh, I am, indeed, madam!” added Em. with a
nervous little laugh.

The lady dropped her hand and left the room for a few moments, and then
returned, bringing a glass of wine which she made Em. drink.

“You are almost hysterical over this surprise, my dear,” she said as she
placed the empty glass on the table.

“I was never so before. I should not have been so under any other
surprise—but—to see one whom I had always been taught to reverence as a
patron saint, or a guardian angel, standing bodily before me—oh! you
know, madam, it seemed as if—_almost_ as if a seraph had descended from
heaven! Oh, how delighted, how past all delight my dear mother will be!
And father, too! And Mrs. Whitlock! And Aunt Monica! Poor old Aunt
Monica! Oh, I know, you used to know her! And, oh! _how_ dearly she
loved you! How fondly she talks of you to this day! Oh! what a jubilee
there’ll be when I go home with my news—if I don’t wake up first and
find it all a wild dream!” exclaimed Em., much revived by the wine she
had tasted.

“My impetuous child, how you run on! Uttering names that seemed to have
been once as familiar as ‘household words’ to me, in that long past
existence out of which I have died and risen! ‘Whitlock!’ ‘Monica!’ One
was my dear old guardian’s housekeeper, and the other his nurse in his
last fatal illness! But what can you know of them?”

“Why, they _live_ with us—Mrs. Whitlock ever since I can remember, and
old Aunt Monica ever since we moved out here. Father takes care of them
both. And they both love you and mourn you, dear lady! And, _oh!_ how
enraptured they will be, past all expression, when they find out
that—that—you still live in this world and they may look on your face
again!”

“Is it possible they are so near me? Old Aunt Monica, I shall be happy
to see again. But for Mrs. Whitlock, I scarcely remember her, except as
my guardian’s attendant. It seems strange that she should remember me at
all. She saw so little of me.”

“Oh, dear lady, you were so good, believe me, many, many poor people
remember you whom you most likely have forgotten.”

“Now may Heaven forbid!” breathed the Lady of Edengarden in a low,
earnest tone. Then, speaking to Em., she said: “My child, you must not
flatter _any_ one, and least of all _me_.”

“But, dearest madam, I do not know _how_ to flatter! I speak only the
very truth,” said Em. with a certain childish dignity.

“Truth sometimes flatters. Do not praise me, little girl. I do not
deserve it, and—I cannot bear it. I wish to be _forgiven_, not praised.
To be _forgotten_, not remembered—except by the very few who love me. I
have talked to _you_, young namesake, longer than I have talked with any
one these fifteen years past. My heart seems strangely and tenderly
drawn towards you, little girl. Perhaps it is because you are the child
of one who was my most steadfast friend in a time of terrible trial.
Perhaps, also, it is because you were named for me, and I held you in my
arms and blessed you, when I myself had ‘most need of blessing.’ But all
that would hardly explain the yearning of my soul towards you, my child!
my child!” said the lady as she took the hand of the young girl and drew
her to her bosom.

“Oh! May I tell you something? May I tell you something?” muttered Em.
in tones half smothered with emotion as she leaned on the bosom of the
lady, held there in a close embrace.

“Tell me anything you please, my child.”




                              CHAPTER XIX
                             THE GOOD FAIRY

             Better to hope, though the clouds hang low,
               And to keep the eyes still lifted,
             For the sweet blue sky will soon peep through,
               When the ominous clouds are drifted.
             There never was a night without a day,
               Nor an evening without a morning;
             And the darkest hour, the proverbs say,
               Is just before the dawning.
                                       BALDWIN’S MONTHLY.


“Well, the first time I ever saw your portrait—that one hanging there in
the bridal dress and veil—I loved it. Oh! I loved it so I could have sat
all day and gazed upon it! And every time I have come back to the island
it was not to see any of the beautiful objects, it was to spend all the
time I had to spare in sitting before your portrait and gazing on it.
And now I have _you_!” concluded the girl with a convulsive clasp of the
lady’s form.

“Yes, now you have me,” replied the latter, once more reseating Em. on
the sofa and sitting down beside her. “Now you have me. Therefore I feel
the less hesitation about disabusing your mind about that picture. It is
not my portrait, though very like me. It is my mother’s portrait, taken
in her bridal costume.”

“What! that picture the image of you, dear madam, and yet not you! But
it is beautiful! Beautiful, for all that,” exclaimed Em., gazing from
the face of the lady to that of the picture.

“My mother was a most beautiful woman,” murmured the lady.

“And the portrait which hangs in the long drawing-room of the old
Wilderness manor-house—the portrait of a lady in the costume of the time
of Queen Elizabeth—whose face so much resembles yours and your
mother’s?” said Em. interrogatively.

“Oh, the portrait of a remote ancestress, _so_ remote that even
tradition has little to say about her, except that Sir Walter Raleigh
wrote sonnets in praise of her beauty.”

“That beauty has been faithfully handed down,” said Em.

“The resemblance has, at any rate. But, my child, who told you that the
picture there was my portrait?”

“Oh! Several persons, I think; but the first person who said so was old
’Sias, the gate-porter at the Wilderness Manor.”

“Ah! I know—a little shriveled old man who refers everything back to the
time when he was a boy, several hundred years ago, ‘more or less?’”

“Yes,” laughed Em., “the very same.”

“What other marvels did he tell you about me? I would like to know. I
have never seen the old creature, nor any one else belonging to the old
Wilderness estate, although I am their lady; but I have heard about them
through my agent, and I am aware that many strange reports are afloat
respecting myself, merely because I appear here only a few months in the
year, and then live a strictly secluded life. Come! What have you heard
respecting your namesake, Emolyn?”

“Oh, dear lady, many absurd rumors, that I now perceive must have been
false. That you were a semi-supernatural being—a ‘White Spirit’; that
your form was seldom visible, but when seen it was clothed from head to
foot in long, white robes; that your face was never seen by any one, for
it was always hidden beneath a white veil that flowed over your whole
figure.”

“I could laugh, Emolyn, were not my laughing days past. White, indeed,
is my usual dress when here in summer. It is the most convenient and
comfortable wearing apparel. Often, too, when walking about the grounds
of my isolated island home I have thrown over my head, instead of hat or
bonnet, a white gauze scarf. From their boats on the river, or even when
sightseeing on the island, or in the house, the marvel-mongers have seen
me so, and so reported me. You know how a story grows by repetition
where there is nothing to contradict it? I was never seen in any way but
this, for I never left my island home except to leave the country, and I
never received any visitors. Behold the mystery of the White Spirit!”

Em. sighed. It is not always and to all persons an unmixed pleasure to
have a beautiful supernatural illusion dispelled. She would have liked
to tell the lady her vision of the radiant woman, on the first and
second night of her stay in the old Wilderness manor-house; but she felt
that the time had not come for such confidences; and, furthermore, that
the time had come half an hour ago for her to take leave of her new
friend and start for home.

“And what more do they say of me, child?” continued the lady.

“That you are the benefactress of the neighborhood and—White Spirit, or
what not—you are an angel of benevolence.”

“It shames me to be over-praised, little girl. Tell me something they
say which is not praise.”

“Well, some scout the White Spirit; they say you are a childless widow,
and that your name is Mrs. Lynn.”

“They do know quite a great deal about me, it seems. Well, my dear
child, as to this last rumor, it is not for _you_ to set them right by
making any explanations. You could not even do it properly, because you
do not know the circumstances. Let people continue to speak of me as
widow, and to call me Mrs. Lynn! They will not be so far wrong. Lynn is
only an abbreviation of my rightful name—however they came by such a
fractional part of the truth! So, my dear, let me still be Mrs. Lynn to
those who like to call me so. And mark me—to no one except your father,
your mother, and old Monica, must you reveal the secret that the Lady of
Edengarden is no other than the poor Emolyn Wyndeworth. They will
respect my wishes and keep my secret. The world thinks that I am dead,
and it thinks truly, for I am dead to the world. I come out of my grave
only for the sake of the few who love me.”

“You dream beautiful dreams in your grave, dear lady! you who dreamed
this Edengarden into existence!” murmured Em.

“Do you love this beauty so much, fair child? Then perhaps you will come
and share it with me. You are my little namesake. I shall beg you of
your mother some of these days. She has so many daughters she might
spare you to me!”

“Oh, she would! she would! My dear mother would give you anything in her
possession that you might ask of her! And as for me—oh, how I should
love to live with you!” exclaimed Em. with a burst of enthusiasm.

“What! and leave your _own_ mother?” wistfully inquired the lady, as if
to test the girl.

“Oh, my dear mother has father and so many other boys and girls, as you
said, she can spare me; and _you have no one to love you_,” answered Em.
in a voice of ineffable tenderness and pathos.

The lady stooped and kissed her for all reply.

“Oh, how hard it is to get away! How I dislike to go. Yet I must. I have
overstayed my time. Dear lady, good-evening,” said Em. as she arose and
lifted the lady’s hand to her lips.

“Stay! Who is going to take you home?”

“Old ’Sias, the gatekeeper, madam.”

“He of the ‘hundred and fifty years, more or less?’ Where is he?”

“Waiting below, madam, in his boat—_The White Dove_.”

“Then come, my dear, and I will walk with you as far as the Silver
Circle, for so we call the grove of maple trees that surrounds the
shores of the island—though it is a golden circle now, for the leaves
have put on their autumn livery,” said Mrs. Lynn, as she lifted a light
shawl of shining silky white gauze from a table near, threw it over her
head and shoulders and led the way from the house.

“That is a beautiful girdle of maples around the island—silvery in the
summer and golden in the autumn,” said Em. as she walked beside her
conductress down the marble steps that led from terrace to terrace from
the summit to the plain.

“Some day you shall see that golden circle from the top of the
observatory, for from there you can see the whole of it and the effect
is very fine,” answered the Lady of Edengarden as they crossed the
beautiful grounds and entered the circular grove.

“Now I shall wish to come so often, for now it will not be the likeness
but the living lady that I shall long to see,” said Em.

“You shall come as often as you like, and stay as long as you like. And
tell your mother, dear, that I never leave the confines of the island,
except when I leave the country. So I cannot go to see her; but I would
be very happy to see her here—and your father and old Aunt Monica. They
could come, as others come to see the island, and then they should see
me.”

“And Ann Whitlock? _Poor_ Ann Whitlock?” pleaded Em. as the lady paused
to take leave.

“No, my child, I do not know much about her; and my secret must not be
confided to any one but the three faithful friends in whom I can utterly
confide. Not that there is anything at stake, either; only, you see,
poor Emolyn Wyndeworth was stoned to death many years ago, and she is
dead and in her grave, and she will rise only for the two or three who
love her.”

“Oh, but you dream such beautiful dreams in death. You have dreamed this
once barren rock into a blooming paradise, you have dreamed blessings
all around you! Oh! how I wish I could dream such beautiful dreams as
you do! Especially that I could dream such blessings on all the poor!”

“Stay, my child! I have just thought how I may employ you. You shall
realize the dreams of blessings. My almoner is somewhat indolent with
declining years, and not quite equal to her duties. You shall be a
ministering angel to the needy, and find out all who are poor, sick, or
suffering in mind or body, and bring them to my knowledge, and
afterwards take them relief according to their requirements. I am sure
such occupation would suit you.”

“It would make me happier than I ever hoped to be in this world!”
exclaimed Em. with enthusiastic delight.

“Come to me, then, to-morrow. And let the others that I have named come
then, or at any other time. See! the sun is on the verge of the horizon.
You must hasten home. Oh! my darling, I am so thankful you wandered over
my grave and raised me from it. Good-night! God bless you!” And the lady
drew the maiden to her bosom and kissed her and turned away.

Em. watched the receding figure until it was lost in the grove, and then
she hurried down to the shore, where she found the boat tied to its post
and rocking on the water, and old ’Sias sitting in the stern fast
asleep.

She woke him up, and then said:

“I have kept you waiting too long, haven’t I, Uncle ’Sias? I have been
gone more than three hours.”

“Oh, no, honey; I has had a lubly quiet time here by myself! And I had
such a hebbenly dream! I dreamed how de Lord had tuk Sereny—or de debbil
had got her, I didn’t know which; ennyhow she had ’parted dis life, and
I was libbin’ alone at de gate-house and smokin’ my pipe in peace ’dout
de fear o’ being scalped or performed on enny more, and how you and
Marse Lieutenant Ronald Bruce, Esquire, was de lord and lady ob de manor
libbin’ up at de hall, and you was a-gwine out for a drive in a
cherryrout and four, and you called me to open de gate, and I jumped to
do it and woke up and found it was all a dream! How dese dere ’cevin’
dreams do cheat us, Miss Em.,” said the old man as he busied himself
untying the boat.

“They do so, Uncle ’Sias! But don’t let this dream cheat us into being
out after dark. Make haste, please,” said Em. as she stepped into the
boat and seated herself and took the tiller.

The old man laid himself heartily to the oars, and the little boat shot
from the shore and soon left the island far behind it.

The sun had sunk behind the mountains that formed the west bank of the
river, and cast their deep shadow far across the water; but Em., for the
first time, took little notice of the changes in the face of nature—she
was absorbed in thoughts of the strange discovery she had made that
day—the White Spirit, the Wonder of the Wilderness, the Lady of
Edengarden, no other than Emolyn Wyndeworth, who had disappeared from
the world so long ago, that she was supposed to have been many years in
Heaven.

How amazed, how incredulous, and at length how delighted her mother
would be to hear the news!

But the strangest truth in the girl’s experience now was the sudden and
perfect love and trust she already reposed in Emolyn Wyndeworth, the
Lady of Edengarden! She felt that near that lady was _rest_—rest for her
own troubled heart; that on her bosom, as on some angel mother’s, she
could lay her weary head and tell all the secret thoughts and
affections, faults and temptations that troubled her.

She even resolved as she sat silently meditating in her seat, while she
mechanically steered the boat, that some day she would tell this lady
all about her ill-starred love affair with Ronald Bruce, for surely the
sympathetic Emolyn Wyndeworth would be a disinterested umpire between
the old and young. And who knew? she was so wonderfully powerful she
might even find a way to make them—the poor young lovers—happy.

“Here, Miss Em.! Whar yer gwine? Here we is op’sit’ de landin’, honey!
Turn in!” were the words of old ’Sias that woke Em. from her deep
reverie.

She steered for the landing and in a few minutes reached it.

Old ’Sias drew in his oars and secured the boat.

Em. jumped out and stood waiting until the old man joined her.

Then they walked through the woods together. It was growing dark and
there was no moon.

When they reached the park wall and the gate-house Em. took a silver
half dollar from her pocket and said:

“Here, Uncle ’Sias, give this to Sereny from me.”

“Yes, Miss Em. Thanky, honey! I understands! You give me this for Sereny
’cause yer think maybe it’ll save me from a performance. Which you may
be sure it will, honey. But I ain’t a-gwine to leabe you here, Miss Em.
I gwine to see yer safe t’rough dese woods and in sight ob de house
ennyhow,” said old ’Sias as he persistently trotted by the young girl’s
side, guarding her with the fidelity of a Newfoundland dog.

It was surprising, too, to see how fast the little old man could get on
with the aid of his short, thick stick, which, at every step, he put
down with the vim of a third foot.

They soon came out of the thickest woods to where the trees grew farther
apart, under the walls of the manor-house. They diverged to the right,
where the broad gate leading to the rear of the premises stood open, and
through which they could see the firelight gleaming from the windows of
the Red Wing.

Here the old man stopped and said:

“I’ll bid yer good-night here, Miss Em., and hurry back home. No use to
try Sereny’s temper more’n necessary, if I has got a silver half dollar
to satisfy her. So I’ll bid you good-night, and de Lord bless you,
honey.”

“And you, too, Uncle ’Sias, good-night, and thanks,” answered Em. as she
entered the gate and walked rapidly towards the lighted windows of her
cheerful home.




                               CHAPTER XX
                                REVIVAL

              ’Twas many and many a year ago,
                In days when we were young,
              And o’er all life’s coming morning, lo!
                Hope’s magic glory hung.
                                                 PERSEVER.


“Well, Em. Palmer, and where have you been? I had been expecting you
home for more’n an hour, and was just thinking of sending Tom to look
for you, for fear something had happened to you!” exclaimed Susan Palmer
on seeing her daughter enter the house.

“I have been nowhere but to Edengarden, mother,” answered the girl as
she threw off her shawl and bonnet and prepared to help the busy
housewife, who was actively engaged in preparing the supper, while the
three little girls were all employed in setting the table.

“But what kept you so long? It’s dangerous for a young girl to stay out
so late in these woods!”

“Oh, dear mother, I was safe enough! Old ’Sias came with me up to the
gate; and as for what kept me,” said the girl, coming up close to the
side of the woman, “I will tell you that as soon as we are alone.”

“I—I hope it was no harm!” whispered Susan anxiously.

“None in the world, dear mother, but something that you will be glad to
hear, and, _hush_, I can’t tell you here! But where is Aunt Monica that
you should be getting supper?” inquired Em. aloud.

“Oh, Aunt Monica is a fixture at the bedside of Ann Whitlock!” answered
Susan.

“Ann Whitlock! What, is she sick? She was well enough when I left home!”

“She’s sick enough now, then. She fell down in a fit this afternoon as
sudden as if she’d been shot or struck with lightning! She was sitting
at this very fire, knitting, when it happened. If I hadn’t been on the
spot and picked her up in a minute she might ’a’ been burnt to death!”

“Oh, how shocking! Oh, how sorry I am! What was it, mother? What sort of
a fit?”

“Monica says it is a paralytic stroke, just like that what laid her own
old marster low. You see, Monica was in the room when it happened, and
she helped me to tote the old woman to the settee and lay her on it. And
then, while we ’plied hartshorn to her nose and beat her hands and that,
I sent all the children in different directions to hunt for their
father, for I didn’t exactly know whether he was in the barn or the
stables, or where. But, law; we might as well ’a’ beat a dead corpse!
She didn’t give no more signs of life, nor nothing!”

“Oh, how _dreadful_!” cried Em., sitting down and clasping her hands.

“Well, so it is; but you know Ann Whitlock was quite aged.”

“She never had a spell of sickness in her life before, though!”

“No, if she had had she might have died. As it is, she has lived to this
old age until all her body is worn out at once, and down she draps!”

“Has a doctor seen her? But, oh, of course not! There has been no time
to get one here! But has a doctor been sent for, mother?”

“I was just a-going to tell you, Em. The boys found their father in the
stables and told him what had happened, and he told them to saddle one
of the fastest horses and bring it round to the door for him, and he,
you see, hurried on to the house as hard as ever he could to see exactly
what was the matter. When he see Ann Whitlock lying in that state on the
wooden settee he said how we must get her up to her own bed as soon as
possible, and so he helped me and Monica to tote her upstairs, and, law,
Em., it almost broke the three backs of us, she is such a heavy old
woman, poor soul!”

“Poor soul!” echoed the girl with a sigh.

“Well, child, John left us to undress her and get her between the sheets
as well as she could, and he mounted Queen Bess, and off he went for
Greyrock to fetch a doctor, and as that is thirty miles off, he said he
didn’t expect to be back much before to-morrow morning.”

“And, oh, will she have to wait all that time for attendance?” exclaimed
Em., clasping her hands in dismay.

“She might have had to do so; but, thank fortune, she didn’t; for what
do you think—as your father was tearing along for life and death on the
river turnpike he met Dr. Willet full tilt in the road!”

“DR. WILLET!” exclaimed Em. in astonishment.

“_Dr. Willet!_” repeated Susan. “Yes, Dr. Willet, who, it seems, and
reached Greyrock in the stagecoach this morning, and after resting
himself had hired a horse and started to ride to The Breezes, where he
was going to pay a long promised visit to his friend and neighbor,
Commodore Bruce! There! what do you think of that? If your father, or if
the doctor had been five minutes earlier or later they must have missed
each other, for the doctor had just reached that part of the road where
it turns from the river ’pike to enter the mountain pass leading to The
Breezes! There! and if your father had missed him he would have to have
ridden thirty miles to Greyrock, and thirty miles back, making sixty
altogether, before he would have got a doctor to poor old Ann Whitlock.
But there he met Dr. Willet right in the very nick of time. Now, what do
you think of _that_, Em?”

“It was astonishing and most fortunate,” said the girl; but her thoughts
reverted to the more astonishing news she had in store for her mother.

“Well, you know as both was a-going of it as hard as they ever could go,
they all but rid over each other before they knew it; and then they were
so glad to see each other, and John thanked Dr. Willet for the hand he
had in getting of him such a good situation as he’s got now; and Dr.
Willet asked John how all the family was, and then when John told him
all was well and hearty save Ann Whitlock, which had just fell down in a
fit, why, Dr. Willet just turned his horse’s head immediate, and said he
would come and look after the poor woman, whom he had known in old times
as a skilful sick-nurse. So about an hour after I had seen John ride
away, to be gone all night, after the Greyrock doctor, you may just
fancy my astonishment to see him come riding in with Dr. Willet. Why, I
rubbed my eyes—as much expecting to see the President as he!”

“But what did he say about poor Auntie Whitlock? Did he say her attack
was dangerous—fatal?” anxiously inquired Em.

“He said it was a paralytic stroke. She might get over it or she might
not; and he gave most particular directions how to treat her, and said
as how he would see her every day during his stay at The Breezes. We
will all do the best we can for her, Em., the same as if she was my
mother and your grandmother; but, Lord! child, when a woman gets to be
seventy-five what can you expect but her removal to a better life?”

“Yes, mother,” sighed Em; for she was as yet too young, too much in love
with this present life to think very seriously of that which is to come.

“Here’s father and the boys. Now put supper on the table, Em.!” said
Susan Palmer as John and his two lads entered the kitchen, which, since
the weather had turned cold, was used as a dining-room as well.

“Now, Miss Runaway! And where have you been all day?” inquired John
Palmer good-humoredly as soon as he saw Em.

“Only to the island, father, dear,” she answered.

“She says she’ll tell me what kept her by and by. Some poor folks, I
s’pose, that she stopped to do something for. Come, John, sit down and
begin, or your supper’ll be cold,” said the practical housewife.

John was an obedient husband besides being a hungry man, and so he sat
down, asked a blessing, and then made a vigorous attack on the viands
before him.

They were still at the table when there came a rap at the kitchen door.

Em., being the nearest, left her seat and opened it.

Then, to the surprise of every one, Lieutenant Ronald Bruce walked into
the kitchen. Yes, walked in with the innocent and delighted air of a
child who was doing a voluntary good deed for which he expected to be
praised and rewarded. And then—just as if he had not been forbidden the
house that very morning, and had not departed both in sorrow and in
anger—he shook hands with Em., saying:

“Good-evening, Miss Palmer. I hope you are quite well;” and then
impudently walked up to John and Susan, shook hands with them both,
nodded to the young ones, and said:

“Mr. Palmer, I come to you from The Breezes on an errand. Dr. Willet was
remarking that your sick woman, Mrs. Whitlock, needed brandy, and that
none good was to be found in the neighborhood. So my uncle sent down to
his own cellar at once and had up two bottles of this rare old
cognac—vintage 1781—and he sends it to you with his good wishes. Here it
is!” concluded the young man, taking from each side pocket a long brown
paper parcel, unrolling them and displaying two dusty, mouldy, cobwebbed
bottles, which he stood upon the supper table.

Now what could John or Susan do or say?

I will tell you what Em. did. She set a chair before a vacant place at
the table and said:

“Will you join us and take a cup of tea, Mr. Bruce?”

“Thanks; I will gladly do so if Mrs. Palmer will permit me,” smilingly
answered the young man, as, taking this permission for granted, he
seated himself in the offered chair.

“I’m a thousand times obliged to Commodore Bruce, and so would Mrs.
Whitlock be if she was conscious enough to know anything about it. But I
must say I am sorry, sir, that you should have taken the unusual trouble
to bring it over yourself,” said John, divided as to his emotions
between gratitude and indignation.

“Now who _was_ to bring it but me? The commodore is too old, and the
doctor too tired to turn out after dinner. And as to trusting one of the
men servants—why, see here! I’d trust any of them with any amount of
money or of jewels, and they would carry either safe as a bank. But when
it comes to old cognac brandy, why all the saints and angels in heaven
couldn’t prevent one of them from drinking half the contents of the
bottles and filling them up with spring water! And then you know the
brandy would never get here at all. The messenger would have been dead
drunk before night, and dead, _dead_ before morning, and _honest_ from
that time forth, having made a meal for many crows! Now do you see? The
affair is in a nutshell. I had to bring the brandy myself.”

“And I am sure it was very kind of you, sir, and we are all very
grateful,” said Susan Palmer politely as she handed the unbidden guest a
cup of tea.

John sighed.

“I tried to put a damper on this here; but it’s no use. ‘Sich is life,’”
he muttered in confidence to his own grizzled black beard.

“And you’ll not turn me out to-night, I feel sure, my kind hostess?”
said the young man as he bowed in accepting the cup and the compliment.

“Indeed, no! Your room is ready just as you left it this morning! Turn
you out, indeed! What! to ride up that breakneck mountain-pass in the
dead of night? Not likely. Even if you wanted to go ever so much I
wouldn’t let you do it, no, not if I had to keep you by force and
violence!” said Susan.

“Quite right. I shall give you no trouble, my gentle jailer,” laughed
Ronald Bruce.

As soon as supper was over Em. slipped away and went upstairs to inquire
how her poor old friend, Mrs. Whitlock, was.

Ann Whitlock’s chamber was over the dining-room. As Em. entered it she
saw that it was at once warmed and lighted by a blazing wood fire in the
fireplace, near which sat old Monica in a big arm-chair.

The sick woman lay on her comfortable bed, apparently asleep.

Em. closed the door noiselessly and crossed the room on tiptoe. When she
had reached the side of old Monica she whispered:

“Will my whispering disturb her?”

“Oh, no, honey; nothing ’sturbs her. She don’t take no notice ob
nothing,” answered the old nurse, not in a whisper exactly, but in that
low tone that well-trained people use in a sick-room.

“Is she very ill, Aunt Monica? _You_ know as well as anybody.”

“Oh, no, honey. Not near so bad as what old marster was. Why, _she_ can
swallow and look at you; dough she can’t move or speak.”

“Do you think she will get over it?”

“Yes, honey, dough I doubt she will ebber be as well as she was before.
And whenebber she hab another ’tack like dis it will be sure to finish
her, honey! But she’s gettin’ de best of ’tention now, you may be sure,
honey.”

“I know she is. Now, Aunt Monica, I will take your place and watch here
until you go down and get your supper.”

“No such thing, Miss Em.! I heard young Captain Bruce come in just now,
and I ain’t a-gwine to take you away from his company for de sake o’ my
supper. So you go right straight downstairs and entertain de young
gentleman as you ought for to do!”

“No, Aunt Monica; you know that I will not. Mrs. Whitlock has always
been a kind friend to me, and I must help to wait on her. Go now and get
your supper.”

“Well, Miss Em., when you have once said a thing I know you’ll stick to
it; so I’ll go down,” replied the old woman, getting up and leaving the
room.

Em. went to the bedside and looked at the paralytic.

Ann Whitlock lay there like one placidly sleeping; there was no sign of
suffering about her.

Em. knelt beside her and offered up an earnest prayer for her recovery,
and then she returned to her arm-chair before the fire, sat down and
lapsed into thought. She had so much to think of! Her meeting with the
Lady of Edengarden; her discovery of the identity of this lady with that
of the long mourned Emolyn Wyndeworth; the strong, mutual attraction
that seemed to draw and bind her to that lady and that lady to her; the
fatal attack of Ann Whitlock; the unexpected arrival of Dr. Willet; the
sudden reappearance of Ronald Bruce;—all these unexpected events that
seemed to have in them something of the nature of destiny took hold on
her imagination, filled her mind and occupied all her thoughts.

Time passed unheeded until the re-entrance of old Monica, who
unceremoniously said:

“Now, honey, if you please, I’ll jes’ take my old rocking-chair, and
you’ll go downstairs to your young man! Young man for young gal, and ole
rocking-chair for ole ’omen. Behold de beauty ob de ’daptations!”
concluded Aunt Monica as she settled herself in the depths of the
softly-cushioned arm-chair and put out her feet to the fire.

Em. stepped on tiptoe from the room, noiselessly closed the door behind
her and went downstairs, where she found the family circle gathered
around the kitchen fire listening to one of Ronald’s sea yarns.

The young man arose and gave her his chair and went and got another,
which he took good care to place beside her as he seated himself.

How Ronald taxed his brain that night to invent marvelous stories of
voyages, storms, battles, fires, shipwrecks, rescues, pirates, barbarous
shores, desert islands, deliverances, and treasure-trove!

And how John listened with eyes wide open and mouth often agape to
swallow such huge prodigies.

In a short pause, while John mended the fire, Ronald found time to
whisper to Em.:

“If everything else goes by the board, my dear, and you and I have to go
to housekeeping together in a cottage I can keep the pot boiling by
writing stories for the papers, can’t I?”

“Oh, Ronald! Then it is not all true?” whispered Em.

“I suppose it is—of some other people on some other seas and shores, on
some other planets in this boundless universe, or it never would have
come into my head; but it is not true of _this_ world, as far as I
know!”

When the last wonderful tale was told the family separated and retired
to bed, leaving only Em. and her mother to settle up the kitchen.




                              CHAPTER XXI
                          THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE

           Heaven has to all allotted, soon or late,
           Some happy revolution of their fate;
           Whose motions, if we watch and guide with skill,
           (For human good depends on human will,)
           Our fortune rolls as from a smooth descent,
           And from the first direction takes its bent.
                                                      DRYDEN.


“Do you think they are all in bed and asleep?” whispered Em. as, having
covered up the kitchen fire, the mother and daughter stood for a moment
on the hearth, each with a short candle in a brass candlestick in her
hand.

“They are all abed, I’ll warrant you. I can’t say about their being
asleep, though. Why do you ask?” inquired Susan.

“Because one or another of the boys, or father, is sometimes going
around after some door or window they have forgotten to look to, or
something else, long after we have supposed them to be abed and asleep,
mother.”

“Well, what of it, Em.?”

“Why, mother, I have something to tell you that I do not wish to have
overheard by anybody.”

“Is it the reason why you have stayed out so long?”

“Yes, mother.”

“Well, now, Em., that can keep till to-morrow morning. I know it’s about
some poor family you have been visiting and want me to help, without
your telling me, and I can attend to it to-morrow. I am too tired
to-night for anything but my bed. There!”

“But, dear mother, it is not about any family that needs help, or
anything of the sort! Oh, mother, it is something I cannot speak to you
of in the morning, when there is so much going to and fro, and we have
no privacy.”

“Well, then, I do suppose it is about Ronald Bruce you want to talk to
me. But it is of no use, Em.! I agree with your father. You must give
that young man up and forget him. And after to-morrow he _must not_ be
allowed to come here again! He got his walking papers this morning, and
he ought to have been guided by them and not returned. Though, of
course, as he did so, and brought that rare old brandy for the sick
woman, I had to attend to him and treat him with politeness. And,
besides, to tell the truth, he has a way with him that nobody can
resist. That’s the reason I say he must _never_ come here again! I told
your father that he must put him _on his honor_ not to come again unless
he came with Commodore Bruce’s authority to marry you. As that’s
impossible, he’s sure not to return.”

“It was not of Mr. Bruce I wished to speak, mother,” said Em. in a low
tone.

“Well, then, what in the name o’ sense was it?” demanded Susan Palmer
somewhat impatiently, for she was tired and sleepy, and wearying for
bed.

Em. drew nearer, put her lips to her mother’s ear, and whispered:

“Of Emolyn Wyndeworth! I have heard something of her fate!”

“EH!” cried Susan Palmer, starting and dropping her candlestick. She was
wide awake now, with every vestige of weariness departed, and the
longing for bed turned into the longing for news.

“Come up with me to my attic room, dear mother; there is a good fire
burning there, and we shall be safe from interruption; and, oh, I have
so much to tell you!” said Em. as she stooped and picked up the fallen
candlestick and replaced the candle in it.

“Em.! are you sure of what you are saying?” exclaimed Susan Palmer as
soon as she could speak.

“Quite sure, mother. Come,” said the girl, leading the way from the
kitchen.

“But how on the face of the earth could _you_ have heard anything about
it?” breathlessly inquired the mother as she followed her daughter
upstairs.

“Dear mother, just wait till we get out of hearing of any of these
rooms, and then I will tell you everything,” replied Em. in a whisper.

“Where did she die? How long has she been dead? What was the matter with
her besides a broken heart? Tell me that if you can,” persisted Susan
Palmer as she tugged breathlessly up the attic stairs after her
daughter.

“Mother, she is not dead!” whispered Em.

“EH!” cried the woman.

“Hush-sh-sh—here we are at my room. Come in, mother, and when I have
shut the door I will tell you all about it,” said Em. as she entered,
followed by her eager listener.

Em. secured the door, rolled the easy-chair up before the cheerful fire,
made her mother sit down comfortably in it, drew a low stool to her
side, seated herself, and prepared to commence her narration; but was
vehemently interrupted by Susan’s breathless inquiries:

“You say she’s not dead? Are you sure? How do you know? If she is not
dead, where has she been all this time that no one has ever heard of
her?”

“Mother, dear, I do not quite know, except that she has been at
Edengarden, and traveling. But, though living, she has been dead to the
world, she says.”

“‘_She says!_’ Why, for Heaven’s sake, girl, have you _seen_ her and
heard her talk, _yourself_?” exclaimed Susan in a transport of wonder
almost as great as if she had heard Em. tell of seeing and hearing a
spirit from Paradise.

“Yes, mother, dear, how else could I have known anything about the
lady?” said Em., who would then have delivered a “plain unvarnished
tale” of her day’s adventures had not Susan’s impetuous
cross-examination precluded all possibility of a consecutive narrative.

Em. was put upon the witness-stand and compelled to answer as she was
questioned.

“When did you see her? Where was she? How came you to meet her? How did
she look? What did she say?”

“I met her by accident this afternoon on the island, while I was looking
at one of the pictures in the house. She looked thin and white, but
young and beautiful as any angel for all that. She asked me my name, and
when I told her she seemed to know all about me, and was very kind to
me, and sent her love to you and wishes you and old Aunt Monica and
father to come with me to see her to-morrow, if possible, or, if not, as
soon as you can,” answered Em., pouring out her news as rapidly as she
could to satisfy the ravenous demands of the inquirer.

“Well—well—well! Wonders will never cease in this world. Why, this beats
Mr. Ronald’s sea yarns, Em. Emolyn Wyndeworth alive! Emolyn Wyndeworth
the Lady of Edengarden! So near us, and not to let me know—_me_, who
loved her so dearly, and had good cause, for the child sold her very
clothes to buy my children bread!”

And here Susan Palmer began to cry, though she could not for her life
have told whether it was for present joy or remembered sorrow. It was
probably from both causes.

“Not to let _me_ know she was living, and so near—me, who named my
prettiest child after her!” sobbed Susan.

“But, mother, she _has_ let you know. She has sent you word by me.
Remember, she has only been here for a few days—since the first of
October.”

“Oh! You didn’t tell me _that_, Em. I thought she had been here all the
summer, as the people say she generally is. I wish you would tell _a
straight story_, Em., and then I could understand things better,” said
Susan Palmer as she wiped her eyes on her clean apron.

“That is just what I have been trying to do, mother; so, if you will let
me, I will begin at the beginning and tell you every particular so
plainly that it will be as good as if you had gone there with me
yourself and seen and heard everything.”

“Well, then, so do, Em., and I’ll not interrupt you,” said Susan,
settling herself comfortably back in the old easy-chair and stretching
out her feet to the fire.

And, having had her first ravenous and devouring cravings of curiosity
satisfied, the good woman kept her word, and sat and listened with
patient attention while Em. gave her a careful and detailed account of
her visit to the island and interview with the Lady of Edengarden.

Even when Em. had finished her narrative her mother showed no
disposition to retire. All sense of weariness and drowsiness seemed to
have vanished. Susan Palmer appeared to be disposed to sit up all night
before the fire in her daughter’s chamber, talking of Emolyn Wyndeworth.

“I wonder what she has been doing all these years when she has not been
at Edengarden? Traveling all over the world, I do suppose, scattering
blessings wherever she passed, I _know_; for the good of others was her
only object, thought of self was never in her heart. I hardly think she
ever felt she had any self until that sharp trouble of hers pierced her
through and through, and drove her out into the desert places of the
world.”

“What trouble was that of hers, dear mother, can you tell me?” inquired
Em.

“No, I can’t tell you. I think _she_ will some day, as she has taken
such a wonderful fancy to you. You say she wants you, Em.?”

“Yes, mother, dear, she wants me to live with her as companion, I
suppose. She must be very lonely, you know.”

“Would you like to go, Em.?”

“Oh, dear mother, yes, indeed, if you and father are willing to part
with me.”

“It would hardly be like parting with you to lend you to her, so near
us, too! And it would help you to forget that young man, whom you _must_
forget, Em. Well, child, if she wants you and you want to go to her _you
shall go_; so that is settled. Your father would never dream of making
any objection when anything as much for your good as that is in _every_
respect turns up.”

“I was sure you would like me to go, mother.”

“Why, of course. Now I tell you what we will do. To-morrow morning, if
no change for the worse takes place in poor Ann Whitlock, we will borrow
old ’Sias’s boat, and me and your father, just us three and no more,
will start for Edengarden. And when we get safe in the middle of the
river, out of hearing of every one but the water-fowl, we will tell
father all about it! And, oh, won’t he be astonished? But we won’t drop
a word of it to him, or any one else, until _then_. As to old Monica,
although we have the lady’s leave to do it, we will not say anything to
her yet awhile either. It would only distract her mind from the sick
woman, who needs all her attention. What do you think, Em.?”

“Dear mother, I think you are quite right. Oh, let us be very cautious;
for though I cannot imagine why that lovely Lady of Edengarden should
wish to keep her identity as Emolyn Wyndeworth concealed beyond that it
is from the memory of some great sorrow suffered in her youth—still, I
know she made such a strong point of our keeping her secret when she
gave me her confidence that I would not for all this world could offer
me even seem to betray the trust!”

“Don’t be afraid o’ me, Em.! I can be as secret as the grave,” said
Susan Palmer.

The clock in the hall clanged out twelve.

“I declare, it is midnight! Good-night, Em.! I must go to bed, though I
don’t believe I shall sleep a wink this night with thinking of Emolyn
Wyndeworth!” said the good woman as she lighted her candle and left the
room.

Em. did not go to bed, however. She drew the brands together to make
them safe, laid a log upon them to keep the fire, and then blew out her
candle and tripped downstairs to Ann Whitlock’s room, which she entered.

She found the sick woman either sleeping or unconscious, and old Monica
sitting in the arm-chair before the fire, wakeful and watchful.

“I have come to tell you that you must lie down and sleep. I will take
your place until daylight,” said Em., leaning over the chair.

Old Monica resisted this mandate; but Em. insisted, and finally the
nurse compromised matters by simply lying down on the outside of the bed
behind Ann Whitlock, where she soon fell fast asleep.

Em. herself felt very drowsy, so, for fear of following old Monica’s
example if she should sit in the old rocker over the fire, she drew a
very _un_easy, hard, and high-backed chair to the side of the bed and
sat down to watch her patient.

When feeling herself almost overcome by sleep she would rise and walk
noiselessly up and down the room.

If her patient stirred she would give her a teaspoonful or more of beef
tea and brandy, which the sick woman would swallow mechanically.

If the fire burned low she mended it by putting on fresh logs.

And so she passed the night in the sick-room.

When morning dawned she did not wake old Monica; but the aged are never
long or heavy sleepers; so, as the first rays of the rising sun streamed
through the open slats of the window shutters, the old nurse opened her
eyes, sat bolt upright on the bed, took an instant to collect her
faculties, and then got down and said:

“Lord bless you, honey, for dis ’freshing nap as I have had! Now, tell
me how you bofe got along ’dout me.”

“You bofe” being supposed to signify the young nurse and her patient,
Em. gave Monica a full and satisfactory report of the night’s watch.

Then the girl went up to her own room, took a refreshing wash in
ice-cold water, and after brushing her hair and changing her dress she
felt as wide awake as if she had slept instead of watching all night
long.

She went down into the parlor, expecting to find some part of the family
there in honor of their guest.

She found no one but Ronald Bruce, standing with his back to the wood
fire.

He sprang to meet her.

“Dear Em., I have been here since daybreak, hoping some good spirit
favorable to poor, unfortunate lovers might whisper in your ear and send
you down to see me,” he exclaimed as he took both her hands and drew her
towards him.

But she slipped away and evaded the kiss he meant, as she said to him:

“Ronald, I _am_ glad to speak to you alone for a moment, and for the
last time, dear Ronald, until our meeting shall be sanctioned by my
parents and your uncle.”

“Little prude! Little prig!” muttered the young man, half sulkily, half
lovingly.

“I wanted to tell you, Ronald, that my mother and father both love you
very dearly. Indeed, you ought to know that.”

“Perhaps I do know it and presume on it a little.”

“But for all that, Ronald, for reasons that you know of my father
intends this morning to put you upon your honor never to come to this
house or seek my presence again until you can come with your uncle’s
sanction.”

“As if my uncle had a parent’s authority over a man twenty-three years
old!” impatiently burst forth the youth.

“However that may be, my father insists that you seek my hand _only_
with your uncle’s sanction. And now, Ronald, I must be brief in what I
have to say to you, for some one may come in at any moment. It is this,
dear Ronald: Submit to my father’s terms patiently. He loves you as well
as me, and he would not do anything that he did not believe would be for
your good as well as for mine.”

“I wish to the Lord in heaven that people would mind their own business
and leave us and our good alone!” vehemently exclaimed the vexed lover.

“Ronald! Ronald! How can you say such things in reference to father? He
has a right to be obeyed by his own daughter and in his own house! But
listen, dear Ronald, for this is what I wished to say to you: _Be
patient_. I am convinced that all will soon be well.”

“Em., my dearest, what do you mean by that? Have you——”

But before the young man could utter another word John Palmer entered
the room, bid his guest a cordial good-morning, and invited him to walk
in to breakfast, which was waiting for them.

Ronald returned the greeting, and then openly gave Em. his arm and took
her in to breakfast.

They no longer treated the young lieutenant as a stranger, so all the
family were assembled around the table, only waiting for his entrance to
take their seats.

After greetings had been exchanged they sat down.

Susan dispensed the tea and coffee; John the broiled venison steaks; and
Em. the buckwheat cakes.

Love had not taken away the young man’s appetite, for he did full
justice to the food set before him.

When breakfast was over he took leave of his kind hostess and her
family, gave Em.’s hand a prolonged squeeze, and, attended to the yard
by John Palmer, went out and mounted his horse and started for The
Breezes, wondering as he rode slowly away what Em. could have meant by
her cheerful prophecy that all would soon be well.




                              CHAPTER XXII
                                  HOPE

            Hope bids me hope! In that consoling word
            Is peace and comfort to my soul restored.
            None without hope has loved the brightest fair.
            For love can hope where reason would despair.
                                            LORD LYTTLETON.


“Did you ask that young gentleman not to visit here again? Did you put
him on his honor not to come?” anxiously inquired Susan Palmer of her
husband as he re-entered the kitchen after seeing his guest off.

“Well,” said honest John, hesitating and looking down, “to tell you the
plain truth, Susan, I didn’t.”

“You didn’t!”

“No: I have been trying to tell him all yesterday and this morning, but
he was so very kind and pleasant all the while that I hadn’t a chance to
break in anywhere, even edgeways, to say he must never come back again.
Well, I hadn’t the heart to do it—there! Why, I coud as soon have struck
a friend in the face while he was smiling up into mine.”

Em. went up to her father, put her arms around his neck and kissed him
quietly.

“Yes, but you know I ought to have forbidden him the house, though, all
the same, Em.,” whispered John Palmer, shaking his head.

“Oh, no, no, no, dearest father, no! Your kind heart led you right,”
exclaimed Em.

“I know I can trust you, Em. You will not disobey me, my girl?”

“Oh, never, never, father! I will never do anything you disapprove.”

“I know it, my darling. You are safe enough.”

“That’s not the question,” snapped Susan. “It’s the girl’s peace and
quietness I’m thinking of, and if that young man is to be allowed to
come here whenever he pleases, how is she ever to forget him, I’d like
to know? Being as things are, the sooner Em. leaves home the better.”

“Well,” sighed John, “’twas _you_, Susan, as gave him the heartiest
welcome last night, and now you blame me—but ‘sich is life.’”

Having finished with his favorite bit of philosophy, John took his pipe
from the mantelpiece and walked out to the orchard, where the negroes
were gathering winter apples for storing.

He had scarcely left the house when Dr. Willet arrived on his morning
visit.

He tied his horse and walked into the open door of the passage without
ceremony.

Em. met him as she came out of the kitchen.

“Well, my dear, how do you do? How do you like living in the country? It
is only a few months since you left town, yet I dare say now it seems to
you quite a long while,” said the good doctor cheerfully as he shook
hands with the girl.

“It seems a lifetime, sir, since we lived in Laundry Lane! Longer even
than that. It seems—that period, I mean—to belong to some remote state
of pre-existence!” answered Em.

“I thought so! I thought so!” said the doctor with evident satisfaction.
“So you don’t pine to return?”

“Oh, no, sir, no! And yet the old lane and the poor, dear children who
still live there!” said Em. compassionately.

“Yes, yes. Ah, here comes your mother! Well, Mrs. Palmer, how is our
patient to-day?”

“Oh, doctor, good-morning to you! She is better, I think. I have just
come down from her bedside. She can move her hands and feet, but can’t
turn over yet. She can also chew and swallow, but she can’t speak. And
she seems to understand every word we say to her, but she can’t answer
except by signs.”

“Just so, but all that is a very great improvement since yesterday. I
will go up and see her.”

“Oh, doctor, wasn’t it a Providence you being in the neighborhood just
at this time?”

“It was fortunate,” said Dr. Willet as he followed Mrs. Palmer upstairs.

Em. took her workbasket and sat down to sew until the return of her
mother and the physician.

After an absence of about twenty minutes they came down the steps,
talking cheerfully, the doctor more than confirming the hopeful report
of the nurse as to the old patient’s amendment.

When Dr. Willet had taken a kindly leave of all the family and had
ridden away Em. said to her mother:

“Don’t you think now that we might trust Mrs. Whitlock with Aunt Monica
and Aunt Sally, and get father to take us to Edengarden, mother?”

“Yes, child, yes, I was planning the very same thing myself! I’ll send
one of the boys to fetch Sally, and you can throw your shawl over your
head and run down and meet your father in the orchard and speak to him
about taking us. And, mind, girl, be cautious! Not one word about the
Lady of Edengarden until we three are on the boat alone together in the
middle of the river, out of earshot of every human being except
ourselves.”

“Oh, mother, never fear me!” said Em. as she took her shepherd’s plaid
shawl from its peg, wrapped it around her head and shoulders, wearing it
as gracefully as ever Andalusian beauty wore her fascinating “rabousa,”
and tripped out of the house on her way to the orchard.

“Father, you are not very busy to-day?” she said interrogatively as she
came up to John Palmer, standing amid a group of busy apple-pickers.

“Well, no, Em., not particularly. Why did you ask, my lass?”

“Because, if you can spare the time, mother and I wish you to take us in
the row-boat down to Edengarden Island.”

“Well, there! If I have asked your mother once to go to Edengarden I
have asked her fifty times this summer, and never could get her to go.
No, she wouldn’t trust herself on the water! But now she will go! Well,
‘sich is life.’ Of course I’ll spare the time, my dear! When do you want
to go?”

“Now.”

“That’s short and sweet. Now, then, run home and get ready, and I will
send word down to old ’Sias to have the boat out.”

Em. went home as fast as she had come out, and told her mother to
prepare for the trip.

As for Em. herself, _her_ preparations were soon made; they consisted
only in lowering her shawl to her shoulders, putting a little brown felt
hat on her head, and drawing a pair of gloves on her hands.

Susan only waited to receive Aunt Sally and place her in charge of the
house, and then went with Em. out to join John, who, in his Sunday
clothes, was waiting for them out of doors.

The three walked briskly down the leaf-strewn road that led to the park
gate.

“Long time since you and I have had an outing together, Susan! And this
came so unexpectedly it has all the pleasure of a surprise as well as of
a holiday,” said John gayly, for he seemed honestly to enjoy his
“outing,” as he called it, in company with his wife and his favorite
child.

“I’m sure, John, this time yesterday I had as much idea of going to
Europe as going to Edengarden.”

“Well, and what put it into your head to-day, my dear?”

“I—I changed my mind,” replied Susan evasively.

“You did? Surely. Well, ‘sich is life.’”

“Here we are at the gate, and it is propped open. Old ’Sias is down on
the shore with a boat, I suppose, and as for Sereny, she’d see us stand
here forever before she would take the trouble to open the gate. The
only way in which _she_ ever exerts herself is in whacking old ’Sias,”
said Susan as they passed through the gate, which John carefully locked
behind them. Then he put the key in his pocket, with the intention to
give it to old ’Sias down on the shore.

A rapid walk through the thick woods brought them down to the banks of
the river.

Old ’Sias was there, standing in the boat and looking out for the
expected party.

John Palmer greeted him kindly, delivered the keys of the gate, and
cautioned him against ever leaving it open again.

Old ’Sias remarked that “Jordan was a hard road to travel for any poor
pilgrim who had duties to perform on the one hand, and a Sereny to
perform on him on t’other.”

But he resigned the command of the boat to John Palmer and made the best
of his way to his special post of duty.

John helped Susan into the boat and seated her comfortably.

Em. entered, unassisted, seated herself in her accustomed place and took
the tiller.

John laid himself to the oars and rowed swiftly from the shore, while
Em. steered for the island.

“What in the name o’ sense makes you hold on to that stick, Em.?”
inquired Susan, impatient of every motion she did not understand.

“This stick, as you call it, mother, is the rein that guides our
water-horse down the river.”

“I wish you would talk straight sometimes, Em.!” exclaimed her mother.

The girl laughed and then explained the simple action of the tiller.

When they had reached the middle of the river Em. said:

“Dear father, rest on your oars for a little and let us drift slowly
down stream. We did not bring you out to-day for pleasure only, but to
tell you a secret that we feared the very leaves might hear, and the
birds repeat, if we told it on land.”

“Eh! What! A secret! A dangerous secret!” exclaimed John, pausing in his
work and staring at his daughter. “None o’ the boys ain’t been up to
doing nothing wrong, have they?” he continued in growing anxiety.

“No, dear father, nor the girls, neither,” said Em.

“Whatever trouble you may have to bear in this world, John Palmer, you
may be sure of one thing—that your children will never bring it on you,”
added Susan.

“But—what’s the matter?” inquired puzzled John.

“Tell him, mother,” said Em.

“Well, then, listen and never breathe it to a human being—Emolyn
Wyndeworth is found!”

John instinctively opened his mouth to speak, but found no word to
express his astonishment.

“But I thought she was dead and gone long, long ago,” he said at length.

“No, she was only dead to the world, and gone far out of the ken of all
who ever knew her before,” replied Susan.

“She is the Lady of Edengarden,” added Em.

“Eh! What! The Lady of Edengarden! Then she must be our Lady of the
Manor as well!” exclaimed John in growing amazement.

“She _is_, and just as soon as this Manor of the Wilderness came into
her possession through the death of her relative, old Mr. Elphine, don’t
you see, she thought of us at once? Yes, and through Dr. and Mrs. Willet
she managed to get us all out here without appearing to have anything to
do with it.”

“Well,” said John meditatively, “I often wondered how such a thundering
great piece of good fortune ever did come to us, who wa’n’t much blessed
with rich friends! And now I know. But why should the lady wish to keep
her existence a secret?”

“Oh, John! you are a man, or you never could have asked that question!
Do you think she could ever get over the cruel wrong that was done her,
innocent as she was? Why, even the poor wounded dove goes away and hides
itself from all eyes to die. She was wounded to the very death, and yet
she could not die, and she would not kill herself; but she went away and
hid herself—innocent as an angel though she was!” answered Susan with
emotion.

“I’d faced it out if I’d been her!”

“Of course you would; but you wa’n’t her! And now, John Palmer, do you
listen to me,” said Susan solemnly. “Nobody but you and me, in this
neighborhood, knows anything about the awful affliction that drove this
innocent lady into the wilderness. And we must be cautious! We must
never speak of her even to each other, unless we find ourselves in a
boat in the middle of the river, as the only place where we can be quite
sure of not being overheard.”

“But—how on earth did you find all this out?” inquired John, scratching
his head.

“I will tell you all about it,” said Susan.

And she forthwith gave him a detailed account of Em.’s visit to the
isle, her unexpected meeting with the Lady of Edengarden and the ensuing
interview between them, during which the lady had revealed herself to
the girl and sent messages to the parents requesting the latter to visit
her at Edengarden.

While Susan eagerly narrated and John earnestly listened Em. steered the
boat as it floated slowly down stream.

“Now what do you think of that?” said Susan when she had finished her
story.

John did not know what he thought, and so he could not tell her.

“Why don’t you speak?” demanded Susan.

John had nothing new to say, so he said:

“‘Sich is life!’”

And he took up both oars and laid himself to them with such vigor that
the boat soon cleared the intervening water and grounded on the sands at
the landing of Edengarden Island.

“Now you two just walk up to the house. I’ll stay here with the boat
until you come back,” said John Palmer as he helped his wife and
daughter to land.

“Now, John, I do think that is too queer of you! Why can’t you walk up
with us when the lady sent you an invitation to come, too?” exclaimed
Susan, with an injured air.

“Now look here, dear woman, s’pose the lady did invite me along of you
and Em. It was just out of kindness and politeness to your husband and
Em.’s father, not that she cared about seeing me. And don’t you see, if
she was _ever_ so friendly to me, as she _is_, and has shown herself to
be bringing us all to the Wilderness manor-house, _still_, in this first
meeting, don’t you think she’d prefer to see you _without_ me? You’ll
have such a deal of woman’s affairs to talk about, you know!”

“Father is right, mother,” said Em.

“Well, then, come along,” exclaimed Susan. “And John, you had better
fasten the boat and walk up and down in the sunshine on the beach. If
you sit there you will take cold.”

With this parting advice Susan followed her daughter, who led the way up
the narrow path leading from the landing through the belt of silver
maples, and through the ornamented grounds, and up terrace upon terrace,
until they reached the middle and highest part of the island upon which
the mansion of white stone stood.

Susan was loud in her expressions of admiration at the beauty of the
place.

When they reached the marble steps that led to the main entrance, Em.
passed up quickly before her mother and rang the bell.

A colored boy about sixteen years old opened the door.

“Is Mrs. Lynn at home?” inquired Em., after she had recovered from her
momentary surprise at the unexpected sight of a stranger.

The page took a deliberate view of the mother, and then inquired in his
turn:

“Name o’ Palmer?”

“Yes, Mrs. Palmer and her daughter,” answered Em.

“My mist’ess is at home. Walk in,” said the boy, opening wide the door.




                             CHAPTER XXIII
                             EMOLYN’S WEIRD


We maun a’dree our weird.—MEG MERRILES.

They entered the beautiful white hall, with its rainbow windows, around
on which Susan Palmer stared with open-eyed admiration and wonder.

“Mrs. Palmer!” exclaimed the page, throwing wide open a door leading
into an elegant little parlor on the right-hand side of the hall,
opposite the grand saloon.

A lady dressed in gray rose from a sofa and advanced to meet the
visitors.

“Oh, Miss Emolyn!” exclaimed Mrs. Palmer, so overcome with emotion at
the very sight of the lady that she sank down at once into the arm-chair
which Em. quick as thought wheeled to her side.

Meantime Mrs. Lynn took the girl by the hand and kissed her before
turning attention to Susan.

“Oh, Miss Emolyn! That I should live to see you again! Thank Heaven! Oh,
thank Heaven! And you are not changed so much! Oh, no, indeed!”
exclaimed Susan Palmer in almost hysterical excitement.

“Nor are you changed much in all these years, dear old friend, or,
indeed, changed at all, except for the better! You are plumper and
rosier than you used to be, Mrs. Palmer,” said Emolyn, as she stood by
her chair, took her hand and kissed her gently.

“It is the good living, my dear young lady. It is the pure air and fresh
water and abundant food. It is the good living that has given us all new
life, which we owe to your sweet, kind heart, Miss Emolyn!” said Susan
Palmer, weeping for joy while she covered the hands of her benefactress
with kisses.

“It makes me so happy to see you so well and prosperous,” said the lady,
as she gently withdrew her hands from Susan’s clasps and kisses, and
seated herself in the nearest chair.

“Em. has told me all you told her, but, oh, my dear young lady——”

“I am not a young lady any longer, Susan,” said Emolyn, smiling sadly.
“I am thirty-two and a half years old.”

“That don’t seem possible, to look at you, Miss Emolyn, yet it must be
so. You must be thirty-two, for you were sixteen when I saw you last,
and that was nearly seventeen years ago! La! Em. was a baby then, and
now she’s a young woman. And, Miss Emolyn, do you know we all think Em.
the very print of you, as why wouldn’t she be when for months and months
before she was born I did nothing but think of you and your troubles in
your tyrant’s house, my poor, dear young lady, and your image was never
out of my mind. But, oh, my dear child, where have you been all these
years when we thought you in heaven?”

“Oh, Susan Palmer, it is a long story! When I left the city after
passing through that ordeal of fire and water, my guardian, dear Uncle
Lewis Berners, took me to Dranesville for a few days. Then, when Pony
came out to me, he wished to take us home with him to Virginia; but I
could not bear to go. So he took me to Europe. But lay off your bonnet
and shawl, dear old friend, for if I tell you all you wish to know, it
will be some time before I get through.”

“I am very much obleeged to you, Miss Emolyn, but I left my old man down
in the boat, so it ain’t worth while to take off my things.”

“Oh, why did he not come up?”

“Well, honey, he thought we’d like to have a little talk by ourselves
first.”

“And he was right, ma’am, wasn’t he? And, mother, don’t be troubled.
Father’ll fasten the boat and take a walk around the island, where he
will see enough to interest him for hours yet,” said Em., as she took
off her own hat and shawl and went up to Mrs. Palmer to take hers.

“Now do you see the cool manner in which that girl takes her own way?”
said Susan, as she gave Em. her bonnet and wraps.

“Give them to the boy in the hall, my dear; he will put them away for
you. And now, Susan Palmer, be easy until lunch time, which is not far
off, and then I will send your daughter to fetch her father, and by the
time he comes we will have got through all our confidential talk.”

“Well, my dear young lady—for I shall call you my young lady until I see
some signs of middle age come over you—my dear young lady, have your own
way! You can do just as you please with me! And why not, seeing how
heavenly good you have been to me! I’ll stay, ma’am, and very glad to
stay, I don’t deny it,” said Susan with a sigh of satisfaction as she
sank back comfortably in the most luxurious arm-chair she had ever sat
in during her life.

“Draw your chair near me, little namesake, so that I can hold your hand
in mine while I talk,” said Emolyn, as she turned a glance full of
tenderness on Em.’s sympathetic face.

The young girl did as she was requested, and then, with Em.’s hand
clasped closely in hers upon her lap, Emolyn began the story of her
exile.

“I say, after I had passed through that fiery trial my guardian took me
out of the city secretly and hid me at Dranesville, an obscure hamlet,
where I remained in my room at the quiet little hotel, unknown, until
the arrival of Pony with my trunk. Then my guardian wished to take me
home with him to Blackville. But I could not bear the thought of
remaining in my native country, or seeing any one whom I had ever known
before.”

“I don’t wonder, my dear! I don’t wonder, indeed!” sighed Susan Palmer,
half weeping.

“My guardian was very tolerant of my weakness—very tender of my
suffering. He had retired from the practice of law, and having no family
but his aged sisters, he found it easy to go abroad. So after a little
delay necessary to the arrangement of his affairs he took me to New York
and thence to Liverpool. We were attended only by my nurse, Pony, and
his man-servant, Prince, who, coming from Blackville, knew nothing of
the ordeal through which I had just passed.”

Here Emolyn’s glance falling on the upturned face of Em., she said:

“You are looking at me with eyes full of wonder and pity, my child!
Well, let it be so for awhile. You are too young even to _hear_ the
horrors through which I _had to pass_ when I was younger than you are
now. Yet I feel sure, Em., that some day I shall tell you all.”

A convulsive clasp of her hand by the girl’s fingers was her only
answer.

The lady resumed her story.

“It was near the last of July when we landed in Liverpool. It was
perhaps the very best season in which to see England. Better even than
the spring, for midsummer is never intolerably hot and dry there as it
is here. Well, we spent two months in traveling through England, Wales,
Scotland and Ireland. In the latter part of September we went to France,
where we also spent two months in traveling. We did not stop in the
cities nor enter any society. Early in December we went to Italy, spent
six weeks in traveling through that loveliest of lands, and then we
settled down in Rome for the winter.”

“Oh! Oh! And did you see the Pope? And does he really wear three crowns
on his head, one upon top of the other?” eagerly interrupted Susan
Palmer.

“I did not see the Pope. We never tried to see anybody. But I saw the
Vatican—the palace where he lives, and I also saw many grand cathedrals
and palaces.”

Here again Susan Palmer interrupted the narrator with a number of
questions that compelled Emolyn to describe the Vatican, the other
palaces, cathedrals and churches at some length.

“In the spring, just before Lent, we saw the carnival in Rome.”

“Yes! I have heard mention made about that. It is something like a
circus and a panorama and a procession, isn’t it?” inquired Susan.

“Like all of them together, with a great many other spectacles, all on a
tremendous scale.”

“Oh, please tell me all about it,” exclaimed Susan.

So Mrs. Lynn had to recall and describe all the grotesque and gorgeous
phantasmagoria of the carnival at Rome before her hearer could be
satisfied.

“Dear, dear me, what it is to be a traveler!” said Susan.

“As the month of May approached I became very nervous and filled with a
horrible despair that threatened my reason. You know it was the
anniversary of my great agony, Mrs. Palmer. Why, even after all these
years I cannot pass it calmly. And _that_ was the first anniversary.”

“I know, and I do not wonder at anything, my dear child, except that you
were ever able to live over it at all.”

“My guardian was very good to me; may Heaven bless him! He took me to
Venice, the most beautiful and wonderful city in the world, where there
are canals instead of streets and gondolas instead of carriages.”

“Lord bless my soul, Miss Emolyn, how was that?” cried Susan.

Emolyn explained as briefly as she could the building of Venice upon its
cluster of small islands, and then continued:

“We left Italy about the first of June. We spent the summer in traveling
through Russia, Germany, Sweden, Norway and the Shetland and Orkney
Islands. On the first of September we took a steamer from Glasgow to
Constantinople——”

“Constantinople!” eagerly interrupted Susan. “Constantinople! Oh, my
goodness gracious me alive! That’s better than the city of the Pope, or
the city built on the sea, either! It is the city of the Grand Turk! Did
you see the Grand Turk? And does he always sit cross-legged on a
gold-fringed rug, with a long shawl rolled around his head for a turban,
and smoking a long pipe, with a golden bowl and a room full of beautiful
girls dancing before him? And has he really a thousand wives?”

“I don’t know. I did not see him, but I think it quite likely,” said
Emolyn, with a slight smile.

“Think of _that_ now! The pagan Turk to have a thousand wives, more or
less, and the Pope—the poor Pope—to have not one. The laws ought to be
changed! But tell me what you did see in the city of the Grand Turk.
Though it do seem to me, my dear, that in all your travels you saw
nothing but places and things, not people.”

“I did not want to see people,” sighed Emolyn.

“Ah, I know. How thoughtless I am. Go on, my dear young lady.”

Emolyn described Constantinople, with its splendid seraglio, its
magnificent mosques, its squalid streets and mean dwellings.

“Seems to me there’s as much dif’rence between the rich and the poor in
pagan cities as there be in Christian towns.”

“Just as much,” said Emolyn with a sigh; and then she continued—“From
Turkey we went to Greece and to the Ionian Islands, where we spent the
second winter of our travels. In the spring we returned to the United
States because I had come of age and it was necessary for certain legal
forms to be observed by my guardian in turning over my estates to me. We
reached New York about the middle of May, and went down to Wynde Slopes
in Maryland. But, oh, my dear friend, I was scarcely put in possession
of my property before I lost my beloved guardian and last remaining
friend. He passed away at Wynde Slopes after a short and painless
illness, and it is my comfort to think he entered at once into his
eternal rest. You know, by the terms of my father’s will, I was to be
considered of age at eighteen. I was but a few weeks over that age when
my dear guardian left me.”

“Oh, Miss Emolyn! He was a good man. I heard from Pony of all his
devotion to you while you were in your trouble. Do go on, Miss Emolyn,
and excuse my interrupting of you.”

“Well, my dear Susan, what I have to tell you now cannot be dwelt upon
in detail. I sold Wynde Slopes, for I could not bear that my name, all
blurred as it was with falsehood and wrong, should remain connected with
my father’s old ancestral home.”

“But however came you to find out about this beautiful island, honey?”

Emolyn smiled.

“It was not a beautiful island when I found it, Susan; but the way was
this: In my restlessness I was a rambler. I had besides a feeling of
affectionate curiosity to see the old Wilderness manor-house, in which
my mother had been born and been brought up. I came to Greyrock,
accompanied by Pony, and rode over to the Wilderness. I saw the house.
It had long been vacant, the master being then in Europe. I did not
divulge my name to the old servants, nor my relationship to their
master; yet, with the courtesy they always show to strangers, they took
me all over the premises, showed me all I wished to see, told me all I
wished to hear. I returned to Greyrock that night. I had intended to
leave the place early the next morning; but both in going to and coming
from the Wilderness I had taken the river road, and seen from its banks
the desolate, rocky island. It took my fancy and haunted me even after I
had gone home to Greyrock and gone to bed.”

“And so you thought you would like to make that desert bloom and blossom
as the rose, Miss Emolyn?”

“Yes, Susan; and I thought I would like to make a home there, where I
and Pony could come and rest sometimes, ‘the world forgetting, by the
world forgot.’ In a word, before I left the neighborhood I had purchased
the barren island for a mere trifle, but all that it was worth at the
time. It would never have paid as a plantation, Susan; but it was well
adapted to the metamorphosis I made of it, by the three potent
genii—Labor, Time and Money. Fifteen years ago it was a barren rock. You
see what it is now.”

“It is a paradise now,” said Susan with enthusiasm.

“Yet a paradise that could not hold my restless spirit long. After
spending one year here I left it in careful hands and resumed my
travels, this second time accompanied only by Pony and such stranger
guides and couriers as I could pick up _en route_.”

Emolyn here paused so long that Susan Palmer inquired:

“And where did you go, Miss Emolyn? Seems to me as you had seen all the
world before.”

“Not a hundredth part of it, Susan. But I did not go over the same
ground. I sailed for Glasgow and then, without even landing, took ship
for Christiana, Norway, and traveled over the extreme northern part of
Europe, dwelling in the huts of the Lapps and Finns and making reindeer
journeys from place to place. I saw the midnight sun.”

“THE MIDNIGHT SUN, MISS EMOLYN!” exclaimed Susan in open-mouthed
amazement.

“Yes, Susan—it is a sublime and wonderful sight in those regions of
eternal snow.”

“Oome, I feared the poor lady was just a little demented, and now I know
it,” thought Susan mournfully.

“I passed through Russia and into Siberia, a voluntary exile. I spent a
long summer on those savage steppes——”

“Steps!” muttered Susan to herself with a sigh.

“And then I moved southward without stopping until we reached
Alexandria, in Egypt.”

“‘Alexandria, in Egypt!’ Ah, dear, dear, how her mind wanders. Everybody
knows Alexandria is in old Virginy,” moaned Susan to herself.

“I am fatiguing you,” said Mrs. Lynn, perceiving her companion’s
uneasiness. “I must be brief, Susan, and tell you in a few words that
since that time, with the exception of an occasional summer of rest on
the island here, I have spent all my days in travel. I have been all
over the civilized and uncivilized world. I have been where few men and
no women have ever gone before me—from Greenland to Terra del Fuego;
from Behring Straits to Bermuda Isles on this hemisphere; from Cape
North to Cape Colony, and from the coast of Guinea to the Sea of
Kamtschatka on the other.”

“What a life!” exclaimed Susan with a great sigh. “But of all the
countries and the people that you saw, which did you like the best, Miss
Emolyn?”

“You will be surprised when you hear—I liked best to dwell among the
Lapps and Finns!”

Susan was not surprised, for she had got so “mixed in her mind,” as she
said, that she really did not know but that the Lapps and Finns were the
most enlightened of European people instead of being northern
barbarians.

“I have been to this island more regularly to spend the summers for the
last few years until this year, when business connected with my
inheritance of the Wilderness Manor detained me elsewhere until the
first of October.”

“And to think, Miss Emolyn, that the very first thing you did after
entering upon that inheritance was to think of us in our poverty, that
poor, squalid Laundry Lane, and to bring us to this beautiful, wholesome
country,” said Susan Palmer gratefully.

“It is true that my very first thought _was_ of you,” admitted Emolyn.

At that moment a distant clock chimed out musically the hour of noon.

“Now, my little namesake, go find your father and bring him to the house
to lunch with us,” said the lady.

Em. immediately arose and left the room to do this errand. She went into
the hall, where she found her hat and shawl hung on an artistic tree
carved out of malachite. She put them on hastily, and ran out to seek
her father, whom she expected to find near the boat-landing.

Meantime the two women, left alone together, looked into each other’s
faces as if each expected a confidence from the other.

Susan was the first to speak.

“Now, Miss Emolyn, that she is gone and we are by ourselves, tell me why
you have never been able to get over your trouble during all these long
years?”

Emolyn shuddered and covered her eyes with her hands.

“Oh, I have hurt you, Miss Emolyn. I am so sorry. I beg you to forgive
me. I ought not to have asked you a question. But, dear Miss Emolyn,
still you ought not to take that old sorrow so much to heart, innocent
as I know you to be.”

“Oh, Susan, Susan! No one could ever entirely recover from such a
blasting affliction as mine was!” cried the unhappy lady.

“Not even when you know you was innocent, Miss Emolyn?”

“No—not even then! But, Susan, there is the horror of it. I do not know
that I am innocent!” exclaimed Emolyn, with a low moan of anguish.

“Oh, my dear young lady, what_ever_ do you mean?”

“Oh, Susan, Susan! After all I may have—_hurt my child_!”

“Oh, Miss Emolyn, you never, never did! I would stake _my soul_ that you
never did. (This is an awful symptom of derangement.) You never did,
Miss Emolyn. You have thought about it so much that you have got
heartsick and brainsick, and ready to accuse yourself. Don’t think about
it any more, Miss Emolyn. You were right to travel, after all. Oh, pray
don’t let your thoughts dwell upon it any longer, Miss Emolyn. Put it
out of your mind!”

“But, Susan, I cannot. It is a haunting horror. I could—I think I could
get over even the diabolical memory of my trial if only I were quite
sure I never harmed my child. But oh, Susan—on that awful night when she
was born there were hours of agony, followed by hours of
unconsciousness! There may have been between the agony and the
unconsciousness moments of delirium in which I might have harmed my
innocent, helpless child! I do not remember. But then, you know, Susan,
that people recovering from delirium never know or recollect what passed
during the fit. _I might have killed my own child!_ Oh, Heaven! Oh,
Heaven! What a haunting horror that thought is to all my days and
nights!” moaned the miserable woman, swaying herself back and forth and
covering her face with her hands.

“Miss Emolyn, my child, be comforted! You are clear of that sin! As sure
as I am a living woman you have only brooded and brooded over this until
you have got almost insane! Now think of this, Miss Emolyn! When you
were first accused your mind was clear enough on the subject. You knew
then that you had never hurt your child, and you affirmed it most
positive and distinct to every one; and everybody believed you, too! Now
this crazy notion of yours has only come of brooding over it.”

“Oh, Susan, is that possible?”

“Why, yes, ma’am! I have heard of such cases often and often! You aught
to speak to a physician, Miss Emolyn. Here’s Dr. Willet quite
convenient. Did you know he was in the neighborhood, Miss Emolyn?”

“Yes, I knew he was there. He has been to see me on this island.”

“Well, then, honey, speak to him.”

“Perhaps. But, oh, Susan, who can ‘minister to a mind diseased?’ And,
Susan,” she continued, sinking her voice to a whisper, “if _I_ did not
harm my child, _who did_? The child was strangled, Susan! _Who did it?_”

“Ah, dear knows, Miss Emolyn, honey!” sighed the woman. “You must pray!”

“I ‘must pray.’ Perhaps some late remorse—some deathbed confession—may
bring out the truth and give me peace!”




                              CHAPTER XXIV
                              A GOOD FAIRY

           A smile of hers is like an act of grace;
           For when she smiles, a light is on her face,
           A clear, cool kindliness, a lunar beam
           Of peaceful radiance, silvering o’er the stream
           Of human thought with an abiding glory,
           Not quite a waking truth, nor quite a dream—
           A visitation bright and transitory.
                                               H. COLERIDGE.


The conversation between the Lady of Edengarden and her visitor
continued until the return of Em., conducting her father.

“This is my husband, madam. John, this is our Lady of the Manor,” said
Susan Palmer, presenting the new arrival to her hostess.

“I am very glad to see you, Mr. Palmer. I remember you quite well. You
are not at all changed, except for the better. You are stouter
and—taller, I almost think,” said Emolyn, holding out her hand.

“I am stronger, madam, and more erect, thanks to the mountain air and
your bounty,” said John, as he respectfully received and bowed over the
little hand held out to him.

Em. placed a chair for her father, and as he sat down upon it she took
his hat from his hands and carried it out to the tree in the hall.

At the same moment Emolyn touched a bell that brought her page to her
presence.

“Order luncheon to be served at once,” she said.

The young Mercury flew on his errand.

Emolyn filled up the short interval by talking to her visitor about the
old Wilderness manor-house and its historical associations.

And then the boy returned and announced the repast in readiness.

“Come, friends,” said Emolyn, drawing the arm of her young namesake
within her own and leading the way, followed by John and Susan.

The lady conducted her guests through a suite of sumptuous rooms, each
succeeding one seeming more splendid than the other, until at length
they reached a small but elegant dining-room, in the midst of which
stood the lunch-table, laid for four, covered with the finest white
damask, furnished with Sèvres china, Bohemian glass and silver, and
provided with substantial fare, as well as with delicate viands.

The lady of the house made Em. sit on her right hand, on one side of the
oval table, while John and Susan sat opposite on the other side.

The young page waited on the party.

The unaffected kindness and simplicity of Emolyn’s manner put her
visitors quite at their ease, so that perhaps never was a repast more
enjoyed than was this lunch by John and Susan.

As for Em., girl-like, she keenly appreciated dainty items in the
feast—the potted meats and fish, the West India preserves and fruits and
the French confections and chocolate.

When the collation was over Emolyn led her friends back to the parlor,
and calling her little page to her, said:

“I want you to tell Pony to come here and see an old acquaintance.”

The boy left the room, and the party in the parlor had scarcely settled
into their seats when the door opened and a tall, stout, handsome
mulatto woman, becomingly dressed in a scarlet French calico, with a
black silk apron, white collar and cuffs, white turban and large gold
hoop earrings, entered.

“Why, Pony! Oh, Pony, I am _so_ delighted to see you!” gushed Susan,
starting up and holding out her hand to the newcomer.

“So is I, you, Mrs. Palmer! ’Pon my word, how well you does look, to be
sure!” exclaimed the woman, heartily shaking the offered hand.

“Is that young gal your darter?” she then inquired, turning her bright
black eyes on the girl.

“Yes—that’s Em.! named after your mistress, Pony. Come here, Em. and get
acquainted with the best friend I ever had in the world except Miss
Wyndeworth,” continued Susan, beckoning to her daughter.

Em. came up and offered her hand, saying:

“I have heard about you all my life, Aunt Melpomene, and you look just
as I supposed you would. I never did hope to have the pleasure of seeing
you face to face; but, oh, I am so glad to meet you now!”

“So am I you, miss. But, law—did anybody _ever_ see such a likeness in
this world?” exclaimed, the woman, almost staring the girl out of
countenance.

“As between this lady and myself?” she replied, with a blush and smile
of embarrassment. “Oh, yes, I have heard it commented upon by so many
people—all, I think, whoever chanced to see us both.”

“Yes,” added Susan, laughing, “and I have expounded and explained how it
was until I am tired. Why, Pony, woman, why shouldn’t my child be the
very image of your young mistress when I had her face in my mind for
months before this child arrived.”

“Well, it’s made her mighty pretty, and that’s the solemn truth,” said
the woman gravely. “But I’ll tell you what, Miss Em., beauty is a great
snare to the young, and unless it is supported by Christian grace, my
honey, it is likely to fetch more misery than happiness.”

“‘Sich is life,’” said John sententiously.

“Oh, I declare I forgot—Pony, you remember my husband, don’t you?”

“Who—Mr. Palmer? Why, to be sure I do! I hope I find you well, sir! But
my, how stout and portable you have got to be, sir!” exclaimed Pony,
turning her attention now to the overseer.

“I am sure I can return the compliment,” said John, laughing.

“Well, you see, sir, we colored female women folks, when we keeps in
good health, and is in peace with the Lord and the neighbor, is most in
general ’clined to wax fat as we grow old,” replied Pony, showing all
her teeth.

“‘Sich is life,’” said John solemnly.

“Indeed, and that is very true, sir, if we could only live up to it,”
remarked Pony.

“_You_ have seen a great deal of the world since _I_ saw _you_, Pony,”
put in Susan.

“I b’lieve you, ma’am! Me and my mist’ess ’mind me more of ole Satan in
Job than anything else in de world—a ‘walking up and down in the earth
and going to and fro in it.’ Yes, ma’am, me and mist’ess has been all
over the universe, from Dansheba to de Debbil’s Icy Peek!”

“She means that I have been the tormenting Satan and she has been the
patient Job,” explained Mrs. Lynn with a smile, adding: “Now, Pony, we
will detain you no longer from your lunch.”

The woman took a laughing leave of her old friends and left the room.

Then Emolyn turned to Mr. and Mrs. Palmer, and addressing both, said:

“Now, my dear old friends, I wish to make a proposal to you that I
earnestly hope may meet your views. I have a pleasant home here—very
pleasant and healthy at all seasons of the year—but I am very lonely. I
want a young and agreeable companion to share my solitude, and for such
a one I should try to provide a happy home and instructive and
profitable occupation and amusement. Your sweet girl here suits me
precisely. If only I can make myself and home as attractive to her as
she is to me, and if I can gain your approval, I wish to receive my
young namesake in my house, on the footing of a daughter, a younger
sister, pupil, companion—anything you wish, and on any terms you may
please to suggest.”

“You know, my dear Miss Emolyn, as far as I am concerned, you are
heartily welcome to Em.’s company on your own terms. It is not for us to
dictate to you,” said Susan Palmer cordially.

Emolyn, smiling, replied:

“You shall never have cause to regret the confidence you repose in me,
Mrs. Palmer.”

“Oh, I know that, Miss Emolyn. I know that.”

John Palmer as yet had said nothing.

Em., watching her father, felt a growing uneasiness.

Emolyn came to the rescue by turning and inquiring of the silent man:

“What do _you_ think, Mr. Palmer?”

“I think, my dear lady, that we are all of us under very deep
obligations to you; more, indeed, than we can ever hope to repay. As to
our girl, I feel that you wish to take her quite as much for her own
sake as for yours. But, madam, this is sudden, and under your favor, I
think we all of us—your honored self as well as the rest—had better take
a day or two to reflect before deciding,” replied John.

“Very well. How long will you want to reflect on this, Mr. Palmer?”
inquired Emolyn.

(“Oh, the old aggravating, cud-chewing cow! He’ll diddle Em. out of her
good fortune yet with his reflection,” thought Susan Palmer to herself,
feeling more impatience at her patient husband than she had ever felt
before.)

John thought a moment before answering the lady’s question, and then
lifting his head, he inquired:

“Will to-morrow evening suit you, madam, to receive our decision?”

“Thanks, yes, quite well, and I trust it will be a favorable one.”

“I hope, my dear lady, that you know we are all very sensible of your
great kindness to us,” said John, rising from his seat.

“Oh, say no more about that, my good friend,” replied Emolyn.

“I thank you, madam. We will think the more then if we speak the less.
And now, my dear lady, we must say good-by, and be getting back to the
manor-house,” said John respectfully.

“Must you, indeed? I had hoped to detain you all day. I do not like to
part with this dear child, who, I feel sure, reciprocates my affection,”
said Emolyn warmly.

Em., who was sitting by her side, impulsively raised the lady’s hand and
pressed it warmly to her lips as in confirmation of the words.

“Oh, why can you not stay till evening? There is no moon, to be sure,
but then the clear starlight nights are very brilliant, and the river is
as smooth as a mirror,” pleaded Emolyn, with more earnestness than the
occasion seemed to warrant, as she clasped and held Em.’s hand.

“Well, you see, ma’am, we left a very sick woman in our house, Ann
Whitlock, who has been with us so long that she seems like a relation,”
Susan explained.

“Ann Whitlock?” inquired Emolyn musingly.

“Why, my dear young lady, she was the sick-nurse that was with your
uncle in his latter days, you know.”

“Yes, to be sure!” said Emolyn thoughtfully.

“And after that she was nurse in the same hospital where I was a
patient. And she saved little Em.’s life, as I explained to you once,
ma’am.”

“Oh, yes, I remember,” sighed Emolyn.

“And since then me and John have felt she had a claim on us, and we have
taken care of her in her old days.”

“That was very sweet of you, Susan Palmer! And she is sick now, you
say?”

“Yes, ma’am, very much so. She had a paralytic stroke yesterday while
Em. was here. To be sure, she has rallied a little, and the doctor
thinks there’s no present danger of death. Still, nobody can tell. So
you see, ma’am, we must not leave her all day.”

“I see,” said the lady thoughtfully. And she touched the bell that
brought her young page to her presence.

She gave him an order in a low voice, and he left the room.

“Em., get our things,” said Susan Palmer.

The girl went and brought them.

While Em. and her mother were putting on their shawls and hats the page
returned, bringing a hamper of wine, which he set down on the carpet
before his mistress.

“Susan Palmer,” said the lady, “when my uncle was paralyzed the doctor
ordered him to drink champagne as freely as water. You know it kept him
alive for many months, if it could not cure him. Take this to your
invalid and give it to her freely. When it is nearly gone let me know
and I will send another hamper.”

“Oh, Miss Emolyn, how thankful I am! And how grateful poor Ann Whitlock
will be! Heaven bless you, my dear! How like you this is!” exclaimed
Susan fervently.

“The boy will take it down to the boat for you.”

“Much obliged, my dear lady, but I am a deal better able to carry it
than the boy, and with your good leave I will do it,” said John.

“As you please, Mr. Palmer.”

“Good-by, my dear Miss Emolyn. May you be very happy for all the rest of
your life! Oh, for years and years after we lost sight of you my prayers
went up day and night that I might see you once more before I died until
at last we all gave you up for dead; then I stopped praying for you. But
now, Miss Emolyn, that I have the joy of seeing you again, I shall pray
day and night to the Lord to bless you and to make you happy!”

“Yes. Pray for me, dear good woman. Oh, how I need your prayers!”

“Good-by, dear lady. I feel that you will be happy some of these days.
Unhappiness cannot last forever in any one experience. There must be
change. ‘Sich is life,’” said John, as he shook hands with his gracious
hostess.

Em. approached also to take leave; but the lady drew the girl to her
bosom and kissed her fondly, saying:

“You must persuade your parents to let you come to me, my darling.
Strange how near you feel to me; but perhaps that is my own egotism
because you bear my name and some striking resemblance to me.”

“I shall be sure to come back to you, dear lady. I never broke a promise
in my life, and I promise to come back to you,” whispered Em.

“I shall rest on that promise. Now go; your parents are waiting for
you,” said Emolyn, as she pressed a kiss upon the girl’s brow and so
dismissed her.

Em. followed her father and mother as they left the house, John carrying
the hamper of wine.

“I don’t see why you could not have given Miss Emolyn her answer about
Em. at once. You needn’t have put on airs with that lady, John, talking
about taking time for reflection and all that—when you know very well
that you intend to let her go,” said Susan, as the three walked rapidly
toward the boat.

“Indeed, then, Susan, I am not sure that I shall let her go at all!”
said John very gravely.

“_Oh, father!_” exclaimed Em. in a voice of despair.

“I think is most likely I shall do so, though, my dear. So don’t be
troubled. I think I shall let you go; but there is nothing certain in
this world; and I must have some conversation with your mother first.”

They walked so rapidly that they soon reached the landing.

John Palmer hastened to place his wife and daughter in their seats and
then to unmoor the boat and push it from the shore.

Em. took the tiller and steered for the Wilderness landing.

John laid himself vigorously to both oars, and they sped swiftly on
their way home.

Susan talked incessantly on the way up the river, and the burden of her
conversation was “Miss Emolyn Wyndeworth” and her strange and tragic
story.

“The people about here call her Mrs. Lynn! That’s _their_ mistake, not
Miss Emolyn’s doings. But I always _did_ call her Miss Emolyn, and I
suppose I shall to the end of my days,” she said, among countless other
observations.

John said but little in response and Em. nothing. She was absorbed in
her own reflections.

The sun was low when they reached the Wilderness landing.

“It has taken us the whole day, after all; but Lord knows, we needn’t
regret it, after what we have seen,” said John Palmer, as he drew in his
oars, laid one down in the bottom of the boat, and using the other as a
pole, pushed it up on the sands.

“No, indeed, we needn’t regret our visit if only we find our poor, old,
sick woman hasn’t suffered through our going,” added Susan, as she
climbed upon the shore, followed by Em.

Leaving the father to secure the boat, the mother and daughter walked
rapidly up the weed-grown, leaf-strewn path that led through the autumn
woods to the park gate.

Here they were met by old ’Sias, whom they found standing, leaning over
the bars, talking to his sister Sally.

“Dr. Willy waitin’ for you up to de house, honey, and I jes’ run down
here to de gate to see if you was coming,” said Sally, while ’Sias
opened the gate to admit them.

“Dr. Willet here again! Is Ann Whitlock worse?” inquired Susan in alarm,
as she entered the park.

“Laws, no, honey; it is only his goodness to come ag’in. He’s a nice,
quiet ge’man, honey, as ever I see in my life. I warrant you now he
never does nuffin to nobody,” said Sally.

“And jes’ as ’tentive to ole Miss Whitlock’s if she was a p’incess in
her own palace, ’stead o’ being of a poor ’pendent hanging on to you. I
’clare I never see nuffin like it in all de days of my life, and dat’s a
hundred and fifty years, more or less, honey, more or less,” solemnly
exclaimed the old gatekeeper.

“Now go away from here, Jose_phi_as Elphine! Hundred and fifty years,
indeed! We is twin sisters, you and me; and I know I ain’t no hundred
and fifty year old, neither more _nor_ less, I tell you all good,”
indignantly protested Sally.

“Come, mother, let us go on to the house,” said Em., anxious to see her
patient.

“Don’t run away, honey,” exclaimed Sally, mistaking the young girl’s
motives. “Don’t be feared of me. I don’t mean no harm. I never does
nuffin to nobody, honey, only I _must_ chas_tise_ ’Sias for his braggin’
lies.”

“Come along with us, Aunt Sally, I want you,” said Susan, as she
followed Em., who was walking rapidly up the grass-grown drive toward
the house.

The three were soon overtaken by the long strides of John Palmer, who
came up with the hamper of champagne on his shoulder.

At the house-door they were met by Dr. Willet, who cordially shook hands
with John and Susan and patted Em. on the head in a fatherly fashion.

“I think the old woman is doing very well under the circumstances,” he
said in answer to Susan’s inquiry.

Then Mrs. Palmer spoke of the timely present of wine, made by the Lady
of Edengarden, and asked the doctor if it might be freely given to the
patient.

“Indeed, yes, it is what I should have ordered if I had dreamed of its
being attainable here,” he replied.

And then, resisting all kind invitations to re-enter the house, he
mounted his horse, that stood waiting, bowed adieux and rode away.

John carried his hamper of wine into the kitchen, followed by Susan and
Em.

He put it down on the floor, opened it and drew out a bottle.

“Here, Susan,” he said, “take this right up to the old woman and give
her a drink at once.”

“Come, Em.,” said the good mother, hurrying from the room.

They found Mrs. Whitlock conscious, though unable to speak.

They gave her a large goblet full of the sparkling wine, Em. holding her
up while Susan placed the glass at her lips.

Then they proceeded to arrange her bed and room and to mend the fire,
and make all comfortable.

It was not until all the family had retired to bed, with the exception
of the parents, that John and Susan discussed the subject of Em.’s
removal to Edengarden.

“Now you have a chance, John, I want you to tell me why you stood
shilly-shallying and hem-hawing about letting Em. go to that lady?” said
Susan, as they drew their chairs in to the fire.

“Well, you see, Susan, I like that lady, and pity her, and thank her,
all in one; and I would do a great deal for her—anything for her, but
send our daughter to live with her unless—unless—Susan—well, unless you
can insure me that she was as innocent as our girl herself of all the
wrong-doing——”

Poor John had meant to put his question as delicately, as mildly and as
gently as he could possibly do; yet Susan flew at him before he could
complete his sentence.

“John Palmer, what _do_ you mean? Have you clean taken leave of your
senses? But men are _such_ fools! Innocent? Miss Emolyn innocent? Oh,
there is not a single speck on her soul’s white garments, man!”

“Now don’t get excited, Susan, my dear. If you feel sure she was
innocent, then we will let her have our girl. That was all I wanted to
know,” said John deprecatingly.

“I know that she is as pure as an angel! I would stake my salvation on
her purity! And besides, John Palmer, didn’t you hear me yourself say,
over and over again, how anxious I was to have Em. go? _Yes, you did._
And now do you dare to suppose that I, her mother, would be less careful
of my daughter than you, who are nothing but just her father? I _am_
astonished at you, John Palmer! But, as I said before, men _are_ such
fools we can hardly hold ’em to ’count for what they say and do, so
women must be patient with ’em,” said Susan, rising to cover up the
fire.

“Nobody but my wife never called me a fool; but ‘sich is life,’” sighed
John Palmer, as he relieved Susan of the shovel and covered up the fire
himself.




                              CHAPTER XXV
                             EM.’S NEW HOME

   Oh, brightly is bedeck’d your bower, and gorgeously your halls;
   Here treads the foot on springing buds, and there on velvet falls:
   The massive curtains’ graceful flow, the vase, the painting warm;
   Those household echoes, mirrors bright, revealing the fair form;
   Exotics that perfume the air with odors sweet and strange,
   And shells that far in foreign climes mid ocean wonders range,
   With countless gifts of taste and art, in classic beauty rife,
   Are laid upon your household shrine, and grace your daily life.
                                                 GILMAN.


Tired as she was with her unusual exertions, before she slept that night
Susan Palmer ran up the attic stairs to her daughter’s chamber to
communicate the good news that was to make Em. so happy.

The door was closed, but not locked, so she opened it and walked in.

She found that Em. had gone to bed but not to sleep. She immediately sat
down beside the bed, and in answer to the girl’s eager, questioning
eyes, she said:

“Yes, my dear, your father has given his consent for you to go.”

Em. started and threw her arms around her mother’s neck, exclaiming:

“Oh, how glad I am! It was you, dear, I know it was, who got him to
consent at last. But oh, dear mother, you will not think I love you any
the less because I want to go to that desolate Lady of Edengarden,
_will_ you, mother dear?”

“Nonsense, girl, of course not! You’ll love us as much, and even more,
when you get away from us than you do now. Why, law! when I was younger
than you are now I was crazy to go out to service; and when I did, I
found that I loved my home and my mother better than I had ever done
before. I sha’n’t be jealous, Em.,” laughed Susan.

“I don’t know why I should want to go, either; but that dear lady is so
lonely, so desolate, my heart goes out to her, mother. Think of it, she
has no family circle, no visitors, no society, no one but her colored
servants!”

“It is her own choice, Em.; yet I do wonder at the shyness that makes
her keep herself unknown even to old Commodore Bruce, who used to know
her when she was a child, and who was just as fond of her as if she had
been his own. I do wonder at that!”

“Mother dear,” exclaimed Em. suddenly, “don’t you remember she said Dr.
Willet had been to see her?”

“Oh, yes. Dr. Willet was one of her oldest and best friends, and stood
by her manfully in her worst troubles. But for a long time after she
disappeared not even _he_ knew what had become of her; however, I dare
say she notified him afterward, although he never said anything about
it, being bound over to secrecy, most likely.”

“Well, but, mother dear, Dr. Willet is staying at Commodore Bruce’s, and
don’t you think he will tell the old commodore, who has so long mourned
Emolyn as dead, that she is really alive and within his reach?”

“Oh, no, no, Dr. Willet will never do so without the lady’s
consent—never!”

“Oh, what a pity it is that she so secludes herself from all who would
love her!”

“Yes, it is, Em., a crying pity. If you should get any influence over
her, Em., you must try to coax her out of all that.”

“Oh, I will, I will, dear mother. I will do all in my little power for
that lady. It is so strange, but she feels inexpressibly near and dear
to me,” said the girl tenderly.

“I am glad to hear you say so, Em. And now, my dear, as you sat up all
last night with Mrs. Whitlock, you must really go to sleep. Good-night,
and God bless you, my dear,” said Susan Palmer, as she kissed her
daughter and left the room.

The next morning, true to his promise, John Palmer authorized Em. to
write a note of acceptance to the Lady of Edengarden, and to send it by
the old gatekeeper in his boat.

Em. joyfully obeyed, and penned the grateful missive, inquiring at its
close when the lady would like that she should come.

Old ’Sias took charge of the note and started to deliver it.

But the old man was feeble and slow at the oars, so that he took nearly
the whole day to do his errand, and the family had finished supper,
cleared up the kitchen and gathered around the blazing wood fire,
occupied with their evening work—the women and girls knitting and
sewing, the men and boys mending harness and carving out wooden
bolts—when ’Sias walked in, bringing a letter, which he handed to Em.

“Did you see the lady?” she eagerly inquired as she opened the note.

“No, honey, I didn’t see nobody but a mons’ous handsome, bright ’latto
’oman. Handsome as a queen, honey—de Queen o’ Sheba in all her
glory—which she tell me, honey, as her name was Mellow Ponies. ’Deed, if
I had cotch my eye on _her_ ’fore I ebber seed Sereny——But ’tain’t no
use talking ’bout dat now. On’y if the ’Vine Marster _was_ to ’flict me
wid de loss ob Sereny——But all dat’s wanity and wexation of de
sperrits,” concluded the old man with a sigh.

Meanwhile Em. read her note, which she presently passed to her mother,
saying:

“She wants me to come on Thursday, mother, and this is Tuesday evening,
you know.”

“Well, my girl, that will give you a day to get ready, and I will help
you,” answered Susan. Then quickly turning to the old gatekeeper, said:

“’Sias, stop! I want to send a message by you. Tell your wife Sereny
that if she will come and sit up with our sick woman to-night she shall
be paid well for it.”

“Berry well, ma’am, sartin. And dat will be a great deliverance for me
of one night, anyhow!” exclaimed the old man as he retreated.

The following day was spent by the mother and all her daughters in
looking over, doing up and packing Em.’s simple wardrobe, ready for use
in her new home.

That night, being the last one previous to her departure, Em. sat up
with Ann Whitlock until near day, when she was relieved by Monica.

It was a glorious autumn day, near the last of October, when Em. took
leave of her mother and sisters to set out for her new home.

“Now you know, dear mother, the lady said in her note that she hoped you
would come and spend a day with us just as often as you could, the
oftener the better,” said the girl, lovingly lingering over her
leavetaking.

“Yes, Em.,” replied Susan.

“Also she said that whenever I should feel the least homesick, I should
come to you for a few days.”

“Yes, Em.”

“And whenever you might feel like wanting me at home you were to send
for me and I should come.”

“Yes, Em.”

“Then you won’t feel lonesome for me, mother dear?”

“No, you goose! There, don’t worry about me! You didn’t make half so
much fuss about leaving home when you went to The Breezes, though that
was the very first time you ever left us! There! God bless you, my good
child, good-by. I shall come to hear the blind preacher of the island
Sunday, and then I shall see you and your sweet lady, too,” said Susan,
pressing her daughter to her heart in a final embrace.

Em. turned away, and, escorted by her father, walked quickly down the
leaf-strewn road leading through the park.

It was true! Em. felt more disturbed at leaving home now on this second
time than she had done on the first—even though now she was going to
live with one to whom her affections were strangely and strongly
attracted. It may have been that in the depths of her spirit she had
unacknowledged previsions that this was a final departure from her home,
that never again would she re-enter her father’s house except as a
visitor.

John walked on silently for a while, but just before they got to the
park gate, where old ’Sias stood in attendance, he said:

“Em., my child, don’t forget us in your fine new home.”

“Oh, dear, dear, good, best father, never, never, never! How could you
think I would? No, I will write to you twice a week, at least, and send
the letter by a special messenger, for I feel that my lady will indulge
me in that!”

“No, Em., don’t you do it! Don’t give so much extra trouble in a strange
house. I am satisfied with what you say, my girl. I know you will not
forget us!”

By this time they had reached the gate, which ’Sias had set wide open
for their egress.

“Good-by, Uncle ’Sias. You must sometimes get in your boat and come to
see me in my new home,” said Em., holding out her hand.

“Good-by, Miss Em. Surely I’ll come to see you. Give my despectful
compliments to Miss Mellow Ponies! If ever de ’Vine Marster was to
’flict me wid de ’reavement ob Sereny—but dere! I won’t say nuffin more
’bout dat. It’s permature!” added the old man, as he flourished his hat
in a final adieu.

The father and daughter walked down to the shore, where they found the
two boys mounting guard over Em.’s trunk, which they had carefully
brought down from the house and deposited in the boat ready for
transportation.

Em. took leave of her brothers and seated herself in the boat.

“Get in, dad, and make yourself comfortable; we’ll unchain her,”
exclaimed Tom.

Mr. Palmer followed this advice and took up the oars, and as soon as the
boat was free he pushed off.

Em. steered.

There was a strong current down the river, and they made very rapid
progress, and soon touched the island strand.

“The lady will send two of her men servants down for my trunk, father.
We can safely leave it here in the meantime,” said Em., as she stepped
upon the land.

John nodded and joined her, and they walked together through the silver
girdle, as the belt of maple trees was called, and thence through the
acacia groves and up the beautiful terraces to the summit of the island,
crowned with its white palace.

The Lady of Edengarden stood at the portal to receive her new inmate.
She came down the steps, greeted John Palmer courteously, and then took
Em. in her arms in a warm embrace and kissed her on the forehead and
lips.

“Don’t spoil my girl by petting and indulgence, ma’am,” said John
Palmer, smiling.

“She cannot be spoiled. Nothing can spoil her,” said the lady earnestly.
“But now come in and rest and refresh yourself before returning, Mr.
Palmer.”

“Thank you, ma’am, but I haven’t time,” replied John, with a how; and
resisting all the lady’s entreaties, he took leave of her and of his
daughter, and retraced his steps to the boat, followed by two boys whom
Emolyn had sent to bring up her young companion’s trunk.

“Come on, my lads, you will have to step into the boat. There, each of
you take hold of the handles at each end and lift it out. There! All
right. Now go on!” said John Palmer cheerfully.

And having seen the boys start with the trunk, he re-entered his boat
and rowed rapidly for home, feeling content because Em. was happy.




                              CHAPTER XXVI
                             A FAIRY BOWER

               Marble walled and crystal windowed,
                 Vailed with silken drapery,
               Dressed with ornaments of silver,
                 Interlaid with gems and gold;
               Filled with carvings from cathedrals,
                 Rescued in the times of old;
               Eloquent with books and pictures,
                 All that luxury can afford;
               Warm with statues that Pygmalion
                 Might have fashioned and adored,
               In the island’s groves and grottoes,
                 Lovely are the light and gloom,
               Fountains sparkle in the grotto,
                 And exotics breathe perfume.
                                                 MACKAY.


“Come, my darling, I wish to show you something,” said the Lady of
Edengarden, as she took the hand of Emolyn Palmer and led her out of the
front door and down the marble steps to the first terrace, which was
still green and fresh, though all around was touched with frost. Then
she turned her around, and they stood facing the beautiful windows
glistening in the morning sun like alabaster and rainbows.

“Look,” said the lady, pointing to one high, airy white tower with many
windows, whose summit seemed to be almost up among the clouds.

“Oh, I have often gazed at that tower, dear lady! How elegant it is!”
exclaimed Em.

“Look at the top,” said the lady.

“Oh, how lovely, with its crystal windows shaded with rose-colored silk
and opening upon marble balconies. It is like a chamber in Paradise
surely. I have often gazed at it while on my solitary visits to the
island, and thought it was too beautiful, aerial and ideal ever to be
used, and often wondered if any one ever lived in it! The white tower is
the most elegant part of the palace, and that aerial chamber in the
clouds the most beautiful part of the tower.”

“It has never been occupied. It is a virgin bower. But come in and I
will take you at once to your apartment,” murmured Emolyn, as she drew
her young companion’s arm within her own and conducted her into the hall
and up the fairy flight of stairs leading to the upper floors.

“I think I know your taste in lodgings. You have a cat-like love of
garrets,” said the lady, smiling.

“Oh, yes, indeed I have; but I wonder how you know it, madam?” exclaimed
the girl in open-eyed astonishment.

“I think I should have known it by intuition even if your mother had not
told me, as she did,” said the lady, as she passed the second landing
and led her companion still higher.

They went up to the attic hall, with a floor inlaid of maple and black
walnut; with broad, stained glass windows at each end, which threw a
cathedral light over all, and doors on each side leading into closed
rooms; and, lastly, with one tall and narrow door in the corner, toward
which the lady led her guest.

They passed through it and up a narrow but very pretty flight of stairs
that led them to an upper door, which the lady opened.

Em. made an exclamation of surprise and delight.

“This is your apartment, my little love,” said Emolyn.

The simple maiden gazed around her in a perfect ecstasy of admiration.

The sudden transit from the staircase to this radiant scene was almost
like the work of enchantment.

Now I wish my readers to see this beautiful room in their mind’s eye as
clearly as I saw it.

It was at the top of the highest tower of the Edengarden Villa. It was a
large, lofty, octagon-shaped room, whose eight sides were filled with
high, broad mirrors and windows, alternating with each other, and all
alike draped with rose-colored silk and white lace curtains to give
uniformity. The floor was covered with a carpet which, from its hue and
softness, seemed formed of blush roses and water lilies. Elegant
cabinets, stands and tables of white satinwood, inlaid with flowers
formed of malachite, mother-of-pearl, coral and turquoise, stood near
the silver-gilded pillars between the windows and the mirrors.

Sofas, divans and luxurious chairs of white satinwood, upholstered in
rose-colored velvet and white chenille fringe, sat about in convenient
places, inviting repose. Statuettes of Parian marble—miniature copies of
the great masterpieces of sculpture, and vases of rare Sèvres china,
Bohemian glass, or alabaster, loaded with choice exotics, adorned the
brackets which were attached around the walls.

The ceiling was a cupola, painted in fresco, of opal-tinted clouds on a
pale blue morning sky. But the central summit of this cupola was a
skylight composed of one solid sheet of thick, clear plate-glass,
through which the heavens could be seen by day or night.

Em. gazed around on this fairy chamber, too much lost in admiration even
to ask herself whether it were not too rare and costly, too dainty and
delicate for daily use.

“This is your boudoir, my bird. It is the topmost room in the high
tower. But this tower, as you may have observed from seeing it on the
outside, is flanked by four turrets, each with its row of long, narrow
windows.”

“Oh, yes, madam, I have seen them all, and this chamber lifted up among
the clouds, as it seemed to be.”

“Well, my dear, now look here. First, these four windows give you a wide
view of the country toward the four points of the compass. Then these
four mirrors between the windows are on hinges, and behind their silken
curtains open into turret chambers belonging to your suite of
apartments. See here!” she said, gently pushing one of the mirrors
outward and revealing an alcove of pure white silk and lace in which
stood a fairy bed of soft white draperies.

“Oh, how lovely!” exclaimed the delighted girl.

“Now look here,” the lady said, opening a second mirror and revealing a
dressing-room fitted with marble bath, basins, ewers, bureaus, presses
and all conveniences for the toilet.

“Here is everything that even a princess might desire!” exclaimed Em.

“And here!” continued the lady, turning in a third mirror, showing a
little room fitted up as an oratory, library or study.

The floor was covered with a carpet of shaded green, like forest leaves;
the walls were lined with white satinwood shelves, filled with choice
books; in the middle of the room stood an elegant rosewood
writing-table, covered with a richly-embroidered green cloth. Near the
table stood an ebony-backed reading chair, cushioned with green and
gold; under the window, which was draped with green and gold fringe
velvet, stood a lounge in the same colors.

“Oh, this is like the inside of an elegant casket!” exclaimed Em. with
enthusiasm.

“Yes, it is a casket, and there are the jewels,” said the lady, pointing
to the books. “And now let me show you the fourth turret room,” she
continued, leading Em. to the only remaining mirror. Turning it inward,
she revealed the fairy-like, spiral staircase by which they had ascended
to this floor, and by which she now proposed that they should mount
still higher to the observatory.

Em. followed her conductress up an aerial flight of steps and through a
stained glass window, which the lady slid aside, and thence out upon the
top of the tower.

It was round. The center was formed of the clear glass crystal that gave
light to the chamber below. Around this crystal was a slender ring of
white marble balustrades; around that a marble walk; outside the walk a
row of white benches, and around the edge of the tower a circular
colonnade so massive as to insure the safety even of a sleepwalker, if
such should venture upon the giddy height.

But the grand view, north, east, south, west, from that high and central
point! There was the island immediately beneath, with its lovely
grounds; the river all around; the wooded banks; the distant mountains!

“Em.,” exclaimed Mrs. Lynn, “you can see The Breezes, Commodore Bruce’s
place, and the Wilderness Manor-house, and even the spire of Gray Rock
church from this point.”

“Oh, it is grand! It is glorious!” exclaimed Em. in delight.

“When you wish to leave the world far below you, you can come up here to
meditate, read, sew, sketch, dream, do as you please.”

“It is like a place in a vision!” murmured Em.

“And now, dear, we will go down,” said Mrs. Lynn, leading the way.

When they had reached the beautiful octagon chamber, Em. said:

“The season is late autumn, and the weather seems cold outside, yet the
temperature in here is that of summer, although I see no means of
heating this charming place.”

“Do you not?” inquired the lady, smiling.

“No, indeed.”

“What do you take this to be?” she asked, pointing to a piece of
furniture that looked like a large pedestal and vase of alabaster and
Bohemian glass and stood near the center of the room.

“That? Why, an elegant flower stand, to be sure!” said Em., wondering.

“Why, so it is in summer; but in autumn and winter we put it to a
different use. Lay your hand on it—lightly, Em.”

The girl placed her hand on the pedestal and quickly withdrew it,
exclaiming:

“It is hot!”

“Yes, and it heats the room. It is one of those porcelain stoves, such
as those with which the Russian palaces are partly heated. And see,
dear, the vase on top is kept full of rose-water, which diffuses both
moisture and perfume throughout the atmosphere.”

“Oh, how perfect! I could not have conceived of a place so perfect, if
indeed it is not all a dream!” breathed Em.

“And now, love, I will leave you to make your toilet for dinner. There,
in those drawers and wardrobes of your dressing-room, you will find an
outfit, such as I wish you to wear. Youth should always dress in white
while in the house, Em. At least I think so, even at this time of the
year. And you may do so with impunity, for, as you say, although the
season is autumn, the atmosphere is summer. It is _always_ summer at
Edengarden,” the lady added with a smile as she pressed a kiss upon the
lips of Em. and left the room.

Em. stood for a moment looking about herself, still dazzled and
bewildered by the novelty and beauty of her surroundings, and then,
child like, she went to each rosesilk and lace-draped window and in turn
opened it and stepped out upon the marble balcony. There were four of
these, be it remembered, each affording strict privacy and commanding a
magnificent view. While she was still standing on the balcony outside of
the east window she was startled by a voice in the room calling out:

“Miss Em.! Where is yer, honey? Come out here, honey.”

“I _am_ ‘out here,’ Pony,” laughed the girl, “but I will step _in_, if
you want me.”

“Oh, I t’ought you was in your bedroom, maybe. My mist’ess has sent me
up here to help yer to dress, chile.”

“Thank you, aunty,” said Em. as she came into the room.

Pony herself went into the dressing-closet and began to overhaul the
fresh wardrobe, saying:

“There’s your nice gauze flannels in this bottom drawer, honey, and yer
cambric skirts in this, and yer dresses in the wardrobe, and yer——”

“Pony,” interrupted Em., “I have not known your dear and lovely mistress
for a week, and here she has a complete outfit for me. How on earth
could she have got it?”

“Oh, chile, maybe she may tell you herself some o’ dese days. _I_ ain’t
at liberty to explain, Miss Em. Only this I’ll say, dat dis wardrobe
wasn’t got for _you_, nor was dese rooms prepared for _you_, nor was——”

“For whom, then, were the rooms fitted up and the wardrobe selected?”
inquired the wondering girl.

“I can’t tell you, Miss Em. It ain’t my secret, but de madam’s. ’Haps,
as she has taken sich a fancy to you, she may tell you herself.”

Em. looked so puzzled, and even distressed, that Pony hastened to say:

“But you have got the beautiful rooms and the beautiful dresses all to
yourself now, honey, with no one to dispute them with you.”

“I am afraid, though, that my gain is somebody else’s——”

“No, indeed, Miss Em.! There you are very much mistaken, for I can tell
you this much——” eagerly interrupted the woman; and then she suddenly
paused.

Em. waited for her to go on, grew impatient, and then demanded:

“What, Pony?”

“_These beautiful rooms and most beautiful raiment was never designed
for no mortal girl!_”

“Pony! WHAT do you mean?” breathlessly exclaimed Em. as a mental vision
of the radiant White Lady of the Wilderness Manor-hall sent an electric
thrill through her veins.

“I daren’t tell you, honey, what I mean. ’Haps _she’ll_ tell you some ob
dese days, since she’s took sich a liking to you, which I hopes, honey,
you’ll be a blessing to her and win her away from de solitary life as I
think has all but turned her brain. I has hopes of you, honey, ’cause
you’s de berry first person she has ever bided to make a companion of
for dese seventeen years or more. Your folks is de berry first people in
all dese many days as she has ever ’vited to her house.”

“Oh, how lonely must such a life have been!” sighed the girl.

“Yes, honey, but it was her own choosing. Why, dere was even Dr. Willet,
her ’ticklerest old friend! When he came here t’other day she _seed_
him, to be sure, but she didn’t ax him to stay to dinner!”

“Oh, I am _so_ glad she let me come!” said Em.

“Yes, so am I. My hopes is all in you, Miss Em. My hopes for my dear
mist’ess is all in you! Why, honey, she is so _young_ to shet herself up
from deciety! She ain’t more’n thirty-two years old, and she don’t look
nigh _that_ even. She don’t look so much older’n you, Miss Em. And if
she would go out she might marry happy! She might, indeed, for dere’s
many and many an unmarried single young lady of her age what passed
theirselves off _well_ for a miss in her ’teens! And nobody know to de
contrary!”

“Oh, if I could only do anything to make her happy! To make her forget
the past, whatever it is! To win her back to her fellow-beings!” sighed
Em., clasping her hands prayerfully.

“I ’pends on you for to do dat, Miss Em. And now, my honey-bee, come
dress yerself as pretty as ever you can, for my lady loves to look at
pretty things. So dress yerself pretty, Miss Em.”

“In the ghost’s clothes?” inquired Em., half jestingly, half
shudderingly.

“No, honey, not de ghost’s! Don’t be afeard—dere’s no ghost. In de
_angel’s_ clothes, more like.”

“What_ever_ do you mean, Pony?”

“I daren’t say no more’n dis, honey—what I said afore—as dese things,
dese lovely rooms and lovely raiments, was never prepared for _you_,
_nor for no mortal lady_, dough you has got dem now! So, my honey, don’t
ax me no more questions, ’cause you wouldn’t have me ’tray my mist’ess’
trust, would you?” seriously inquired Pony.

“Oh, no, no, no!” earnestly exclaimed Em., who had not considered the
subject in that light before.

“Well, den, honey, don’t ax me no more questions on dat subject, ’cause
talking is my weakness, anyhow; but, come, now and dress yerself pretty
as a fairy, to go down and sit wid my mist’ess.”

Em. looked over her simple and elegant wardrobe and selected a costume
of embroidered white India muslin, lightly trimmed with pale blue
ribbons.

When she was ready she followed Pony down to the presence of her
mistress, whom she found in a little boudoir connected with the long
saloon on one end and a small, elegant dining-room on the other.

The lady had changed her own dress, and wore a silver-gray silk with
point lace falls, and no jewelry.

“We dine early here, my dear girl,” said Mrs. Lynn as she touched the
bell.

No one answered it, for the signal at that hour was understood, and in
about five minutes dinner was announced.

No more need be said of this than that it was a dainty little dinner for
two, elegantly served in the small but sumptuous dining-room.

After dinner Mrs. Lynn took Emolyn into the library, where they spent a
few pleasant hours seated in luxurious chairs at a table covered with
books of engravings after the old masters.

When tired of this amusement at the lady’s suggestion they drew their
chairs to the fire and fell into a confidential chat.

The lady drew Em. out to speak of her childhood, of Laundry Lane, of her
journey to the mountains, and of her first impressions of the new home.

In the course of her narrative Em. spoke of the radiant vision she had
seen in the moonlit hall on the first night of her stay at the old
manor-house.

“Life is full of mysteries,” muttered the lady thoughtfully—then, seeing
Em. watching breathlessly, she added—“But your vision was probably a
dream, inspired by the stories you had heard about the so-called
‘haunted hall.’”

“But I never heard any stories, dear lady. To be sure, old ’Sias, the
gatekeeper, startled mother by hinting that no one who knew the house
could be induced to go into it. But he absolutely refused to explain his
words, so we heard no story,” said Em.

“What? Why should you have dreamed of the bride’s ghost if you never had
heard the story?”

“Dear lady, I did not dream. I _saw_ the radiant spirit.”

“You think you did, my dear, at all events, and it is very strange that
your dream should have corresponded so well with the legend you never
heard.”

“No, but please tell it to me, dear lady,” said Em., who had all a
child’s eagerness to hear a story.

“It is very old; but one of my remote ancestors was a terrible domestic
tyrant, and had, among many sons, only one beautiful daughter. She loved
a poor young man, but was ordered by her father to marry an old one.
Parents did not trifle in those days. Ethelinde was to be forced to
obey. She was locked in her room and guarded till the wedding night.

“The time came. The guests were assembled, the feast was spread. The
bridegroom and his attendants waited in the hall, the bishop and the
rector were ready in the drawing-room. The bride was dressed in splendid
bridal array; but every once noticed how pale she looked, even to her
lips.

“At length the summons came and she went down, followed by her
bridesmaids.

“From the lower end of the hall her aged bridegroom came to meet her. He
was bowing and smiling and holding out his hand.

“But as he touched her she fell at his feet—DEAD!

“The overtaxed heart had broken. There, those are the facts, Em.! The
fiction is that on every anniversary of that fatal day the bride goes
through her death march again, sometimes followed by a faithful
attendant, sometimes alone. You _must_ have heard the story and
forgotten it, else why should you have dreamed the dream?”

“It was no dream, dear lady. Yours is a veritable ghost story, and I
have seen a veritable ghost,” said Em. in a voice of awe.

“Come, let us go to bed and sleep off such morbid fancies,” said Mrs.
Lynn as she arose and rang for bedroom lights.




                             CHAPTER XXVII
                        EM.’S DAYS AT EDENGARDEN

            Within the island’s calm retreat
              She leads a sort of fairy life,
            Careless of victory or defeat,
              In the word’s ceaseless toil and strife.
                                                      ANON.


Our little heroine’s life in Edengarden seemed to her something like
that of a princess in fairyland.

She lived in ease and luxury, surrounded by beauty and splendor.

No services were required from her.

The Lady of Edengarden made out for her the programme of a course of
reading which she recommended the girl to pursue, and Em. gratefully and
gladly devoted a few hours of every morning to these studies. Mrs. Lynn
also instructed her chosen pupil in the French and German languages, and
in vocal and instrumental music, and in sketching and embroidery.

Em. was very happy, or she would have been but for one tormenting
thought which presented itself again and again—the thought that she
herself was making no sort of return for all these benefits—no, nor
doing any useful thing, as far as she could see, for any human being.

This thought sometimes made Em. so unhappy that at length she felt
forced to speak of it to her benefactress. She watched for an
opportunity to do so, and it came at length.

She was sitting with Mrs. Lynn in the boudoir of the latter and engaged
on a beautiful piece of satin embroidery, mere useless “fancy” work,
such as Em. in her practical life had never “fancied.”

“You look very thoughtful, my child. Are you homesick, Em.?” inquired
the lady.

“Oh, no, dear madam, no!” earnestly replied the girl.

“What is the matter then, my love! Do you not enjoy yourself here?”

“Yes, dear lady, but——”

“But what?”

“I am not doing any service for you in return for all the great benefits
you lavish on me. I am not doing anything for anybody in the world,
and——”

“Well, Em.?”

“Well, dear lady, I feel as if I were doing wrong. I have been taught
that life was not given us for mere selfish enjoyment, and I have been
trained to a busy and active life.”

“And you think that you are doing no good here?”

“I am living a life of self-indulgence, dear lady.”

“Instead of the life of self-devotion that you have been used to, I
suppose. Now listen to me, dear girl, and I will show you how mistaken
you are. When I first saw you, child, I was drawn to you as you admit
that you were to me. In my seventeen years of utter isolation from all
society I have never met any one to whom my heart went out as it did to
you. In the short time I have known you, my child, I have learned to
love you more and more. I keep you near me. I direct your education. It
is a happiness to me to do this.”

“But I do nothing for you, dear lady.”

“Yes, you heal me, child. _You heal me of a long, long heart-sickness._”

“Oh, madam, if I could think myself so privileged, so honored and
_blessed_ as to be able to do that, I should indeed feel that my life
were well spent!” exclaimed the girl with enthusiasm.

“Then content yourself, my child, for I have told you the truth. It can
be summed up in two words—I teach you. You heal me.”

And indeed it was so. The lady was educating the girl and the girl was
drawing the recluse out of herself, out of her morbid thoughts, out of
her solitary life.

A proof of this soon occurred.

Dr. Willet came to the island. The recluse Lady of Edengarden not only
received him, as indeed she did on his first visit, but also pressed him
to stay and dine.

The good doctor did not need much persuasion. He readily consented to
remain. He brought Em. news of her father’s family, who were all well
with the exception of Ann Whitlock, whom he reported to be very much in
the same condition in which Em. had left her.

It was in the afternoon of that day when Em., having left the room for a
few moments, and Dr. Willet, finding himself alone with his hostess,
said:

“That little girl is doing you good.”

“Yes, she is a healing angel to me,” answered the lady.

“Well, now, let me tell you one thing. It is from no peculiar merit in
the girl, although she is a good child. It is only because she is not
yourself. She is somebody outside of yourself. She is company, in fact.
That is the reason why she has done you good. Now, dear friend, let me
assure you that the more company you see, within certain limits, the
more good you will receive,” said the doctor.

The lady did not reply. The doctor, encouraged by her silent toleration
of his argument, continued:

“There is your old friend and neighbor, Commodore Bruce, with whom you
know I am staying. How rejoiced he would be to hear news of you. He has
never ceased to mourn you as dead, Emolyn Wyndeworth! Let me tell _him_,
at least, that you live and are well and near him.”

“Oh, no, no, no!” exclaimed the Lady of Edengarden suddenly and
vehemently—“if you wish to break up my home here and send me forth again
a wanderer and a vagabond on the face of the earth, you will betray my
secret to _him_ of all men!”

“My dear lady, say no more! say no more! Your secret is as safe with me
as with the dead!” hastily answered the doctor.

The return of Em. put an end to the conversation, and Dr. Willet soon
after took his leave.

In the course of the same week Susan Palmer came to see her daughter,
and at Mrs. Lynn’s cordial invitation spent the day.

On bidding good-by to the lady she said:

“I fear, dear madam, as you are a-sp’iling that girl for a poor man’s
wife, with all the luxuries and elegancies as you are a-pampering her up
with.”

“Do not fear. If nature has not, from the beginning, spoiled her for a
poor man’s helpmate, education, at this late day, cannot do it. Besides,
Susan Palmer, why should she ever be a poor man’s wife?” inquired the
lady.

This question arrested Susan’s attention at once. Though in the act of
departure she paused, turned around and exclaimed:

“Oh! now I suppose Em. has been telling you about her wealthy lover!”

“Her ‘wealthy lover?’ Indeed not,” replied the lady with an anxious
glance towards Em., who blushed to the edges of her hair.

“Well, then, she _will_ tell you, ma’am, for I haven’t got time! Em.,
tell the lady all about it, and she will be able to advise you just as
well as anybody in this world! Tell her all, Em., and don’t blush up so,
my girl! You behaved well in that business, child, and haven’t got
nothing to blush for!” said Susan Palmer proudly. And then, having
kissed her daughter and shaken hands with her benefactress, Susan went
down to the beach to be rowed home by old ’Sias.

The Lady of Edengarden made it a matter of conscience to speak to her
young protégée on the subject suggested by Mrs. Palmer. She understood
well, also, how to prepare for such a confidential conversation.

There was one room, the most plainly furnished in the Villa of
Edengarden, which was the favorite evening resort of Mrs. Lynn and her
young companion, because it was warmed by an old-fashioned open wood
fire.

In this room Em. and her patroness sat in the evening after the
departure of Susan Palmer.

Pony came in to light the lamps.

“No, don’t do that yet awhile. We will sit in the firelight,” said Mrs.
Lynn.

“It _is_ cozy like, too,” Pony admitted as she retired.

“Draw your chair up to the fire, Em., put your feet on the fender; and
now, love, tell me who is this wealthy lover of yours of whom your
mother spoke?” softly inquired Mrs. Lynn when they were left alone in
the ruddy glow of the smoldering red hickory fire.

“He is Lieutenant Ronald Bruce, the nephew and heir of Commodore Bruce,
of The Breezes,” answered Em. in a low and tremulous tone, feeling well
pleased that her face was but dimly visible in the glowing gloom of the
firelight.

“‘Bruce!’ That name again,” murmured the lady thoughtfully. Then, after
a meditative pause, she said: “My dear girl, if you feel that you can
confide in me, tell me all about it.”

Thus appealed to, Em. would have told her little love story to her
friend, cost what it might to her own feelings.

It was not hard for her to tell it there. She drew her low chair closer
to the lady’s side, and with her head on the lady’s lap she related the
circumstances of her first meeting with Ronald Bruce, when he had saved
her from falling under the uplifted club of an intoxicated and
infuriated ruffian. How their acquaintance progressed. How he had been
her disinterested friend, and had tried to improve her condition even
before he had declared himself to be her lover. How he had procured her
first the offer of a situation of nursery governess in his sister’s
family, which she had refused for her father’s sake. How afterwards,
when her family had come to Virginia, he had managed so that his mother
had offered her a situation as seamstress at The Breezes. How Commodore
Bruce had taken a fancy to her himself, and when she was capriciously
discharged from his sister-in-law’s service had engaged her as his
reader, which post she had filled to his satisfaction until his nephew,
Lieutenant Ronald Bruce, had confessed his attachment to her and
announced his intention of marriage.

“That was noble and upright in the young man. What followed?” inquired
Mrs. Lynn as Em. faltered and paused in her narrative.

“Commodore Bruce summoned his nephew to his presence and threatened to
disinherit him unless he gave me up.”

“What next, my dear? Speak on. Speak low if you like, but do not be
afraid. What did the young man say or do?”

“Ronald declined to give me up, and accepted disinheritance as a
consequence.”

“That was right. And then? What then? Compose yourself, my child, and
speak on.”

“Then,” continued Em. in a low and faltering voice that seemed as if it
would break down at every syllable—“then Commodore Bruce sent for me and
told me all that he had told _him_—Ronald—and threw himself on what he
was so polite as to call _my_ honor, and asked me to reject Ronald for
Ronald’s own sake.”

“And you, darling, _you_, what did you do?”

“I—rejected—him—and went home—with my father,” said Em., utterly
breaking down.

“Do not weep so bitterly, my love. This lover—he _never_ acted on your
forced rejection, Em.?” tenderly inquired the lady.

“No—no! He would not listen to it. He said he was of age, and no one had
the right to control him in a matter so near his heart,” continued Em.,
recovering something of her self-possession.

“Go on, dear.”

“He appealed to my father; but my dear father was prouder in his way
than Commodore Bruce himself. He refused me to Ronald. He said that no
daughter of his should ever enter any family who would not be as glad to
receive her as ever he could be to give her. And that Lieutenant Bruce
must never come again until he came authorized by Commodore Bruce to ask
my hand.”

“And so,” said the lady, “between these two stiff-necked old men—the
haughty old commodore and the arrogant overseer—you are to be
sacrificed! For, I suppose, as a dutiful child, you will abide by your
father’s decision.”

“Oh, yes, madam, for I promised my dear father never to marry without
his consent, and I know he will never consent to my marriage with
Ronald,” said Em., almost on the verge of breaking down again, but she
succeeded in controlling herself.

“So, finally, all depends upon the will of Commodore Bruce?”

“Yes, madam.”

“But, again, the young man—has he accepted this decision of your
father?”

“No, indeed, madam, no more than he accepted that of his uncle or mine!
He says he will never give me up!”

“He is right. Commodore Bruce must be brought to terms. Do not
misunderstand me, however, my dear. I strongly disapprove of young
people taking the law into their own hands in this respect, and marrying
against the wishes of their parents. But Ronald’s case is an exceptional
one. Commodore Bruce is not his father, nor his guardian, and has no
right to dictate to him, a man of twenty-five, on the subject of his
marriage, nor has he the moral right to bribe him by a rich inheritance
to give up his true and honest love. With your father’s feeling on the
subject I can better sympathize. I, too, if I were so blessed as to have
a daughter, would object to her entering even a royal family by
marriage, if they were not as proud to receive her as I to bestow her.
Yes, I understand and appreciate your father’s motives. It is the old
commodore who must be set right. Now, cheer up, my darling. I will be
the fairy godmother who shall bring the prince back to your feet,” said
the lady, pressing a kiss upon her brow.

Em. looked up—gratefully, doubtfully; for how, she asked herself, could
this lady, with all her great power and good will, influence Commodore
Bruce to put away those strong prejudices of caste which formed a part
of his very being?

The Lady of Edengarden, watching her expressive face, read her thoughts
and answered them as if they had been spoken.

“Commodore Bruce knew me and loved me from my childhood up to the time I
was about sixteen years of age. I have not seen him since. The trial
that blighted my life has prevented me——But I cannot speak of that! He
believes me dead! But for your sake, my darling, I will burst the bonds
that hold me. I will break the silence of years. I will go to Commodore
Bruce in person, and I know I have the talisman which shall bring him to
favorable terms. Cheer up, Em.! All will be well.”




                             CHAPTER XXVIII
                         A VISIT TO THE BREEZES

                          Sunrise will come next!
              The shadow of the night is passed away!
                                                BROWNING.


“Yes,” said the Lady of Edengarden to herself on the morning after her
eventful conversation with Em., and while she and her young companion
sat together in the blue parlor, engaged with their embroidery—“yes,
though I have never left this island except to leave the country, I will
try to break the strong spell that has bound me, and to cast off the
dark nightmare that has oppressed me for years, and, for the sake of
this gentle child, and of one who bears the name and likeness of him I
loved and lost, I will seek the presence of the man whom I most dreaded
to meet in this world.”

All who ever knew Emolyn Wyndeworth knew that she was sensitive, timid,
and retiring in the extreme. To these weaknesses she owed all her
misfortunes. To these she had so succumbed as to have died a moral and
social death daily for the last seventeen years.

It required, therefore, a heroic effort in her to form this resolution.
It would require an almost superhuman one to carry it into effect.

While she was still trying to

              “Screw ‘her’ courage to the sticking place”

for an interview with Commodore Bruce, two cards were brought in by her
page and placed in her hands.

“‘Dr. Willet,’ ‘Lieutenant Bruce,’” she read aloud.

Em. looked up suddenly, too much frightened to blush. She expected to
see a frown of anger at this intrusion on the face of her who had worn
nothing but smiles for her protégée.

But, no! that very grave face had not the slightest trace of displeasure
on it.

“Where have you left these gentlemen?” she inquired of her page.

“In the small white saloon, madam.”

“I will see them there. Go and say so.”

The page left the room and the lady turned to Emolyn, whose color was
rolling over her face like rose-leaves before a breeze.

“You are afraid I am not going to let you see your lover? Do not fear
that, my child ; I shall send him in to you. I have something to say to
Dr. Willet,” said the lady as she stooped and left a kiss on the brow of
the girl and passed from the room.

In the small white saloon—which was a sort of anteroom to the large
white saloon—the hostess found Dr. Willet and Lieutenant Bruce.

The former arose and advanced toward her with outstretched hands and
deprecating smile, saying:

“I have to beg your pardon for what I fear you will consider an
unpardonable liberty; but my young friend here——Allow me to present
Lieutenant Bruce——”

Here the young officer approached and bowed reverentially, and the lady
smiled on him and offered her hand, saying:

“I have heard of Lieutenant Bruce from a young lady who is staying with
me, and I am very happy to make him welcome to Edengarden.”

The young officer bowed again and lifted the hand of the lady to his
lips.

“So! the great gun is fired, and nobody killed or desperately wounded,”
muttered the doctor to himself; then, aloud: “My young friend here, as I
was about to say, asked me to introduce him to you, madam, and, in fact,
would take no denial.”

“I am very glad to see him,” repeated the lady.

“He had, in fact, a small parcel belonging to your young protégée, which
he did not care to trust to an ordinary messenger, and which I, for
reasons, did not volunteer to bring myself,” added the doctor with a
merry look.

“And perhaps, for the same cause, you would prefer to deliver your
parcel in person, Mr. Bruce,” suggested the lady with a smile.

“If you please, madam,” replied the young gentleman with a bow,
expecting that his hostess would then send for her little companion.

In fact, the lady touched the bell and brought her young page to her
presence.

“Show this gentleman to the blue parlor,” she said to the boy. “You will
find Miss Palmer there,” she added to the man.

Ronald Bruce arose, turned a grateful look upon the lady, and followed
the page.

“I perceive that you have divined this pretty little love idyl, and do
not disapprove it,” said Dr. Willet as soon as he was left alone with
the Lady of Edengarden.

“I was about to make the very same observation to you. No, indeed, I do
not disapprove of it. On the contrary, I wish to do everything I can to
forward it. Dr. Willet!”

“Well, my dear?”

“I am going to match-making.”

“You, my child?”

“Yes. From what I have understood, her want of fortune is the only
objection the lover’s friends have to his chosen bride—the only
objection they _can_ have—for the girl is beautiful, intellectual,
graceful, amiable, fairly educated, ladylike, and young enough to
improve in all these things.”

“But her want of fortune, my dear lady——”

“I can supply. I have ample means and no children, no, nor even near
relations in this world. I have fallen in love with this little girl!
You smile, but, indeed, that is the only way in which I can express my
sudden and increasing affection for little Emolyn Palmer. I will endow
her richly on her marriage, and make her my heiress at my death. You
smile again.”

“I am thinking, dear lady, that you and your protégée seem to be so
nearly of an age, that, to use a homely proverb, ‘When one dies of old
age, the other may quake for fear!’”

“There is sixteen years’ difference between our ages, doctor.”

“Indeed! But, yes, of course, when I come to remember, I know there must
be. And you will really endow this child?”

“Yes, Dr. Willet, and——”

“Well, my dear?”

“I wish to see Commodore Bruce myself on this subject.”

“You do! Oh, I am delighted to hear you say that you will see him on
_any_ subject! He will be so rejoiced to know that you live that I
believe it will add years to his own lease of life.”

“That is very pleasant to hear. Yet I do not see why the aged commodore
should take such a great interest in me! Why, indeed, he should take
_any_ interest now,” said the lady thoughtfully.

“I think it is from a morbid compunction—almost remorse.”

“‘Remorse?’”

“Yes, Emolyn! For on the last night before his son Leonidas embarked on
that fatal voyage from which he never returned the boy, moved by some
prophetic spirit, implored his father to watch over YOU—his own lifelong
playmate and companion. The father gave less heed to this parting prayer
than he afterwards had reason to suppose he should have done; and he has
fostered a morbid remorse of which he has only very lately made me the
confidant. He will be so glad to know that you still live, dear Emolyn,
that he will be likely to yield to any wish of yours, even to the
consenting that his nephew and heir shall marry the overseer’s
daughter.”

“Heaven grant it,” she breathed in tones so low, so full of controlled
emotion, that the doctor turned and regarded her with surprise. He could
not know the depths of bitter memory in her bosom that had been stirred
by the name of Leonidas Bruce.

“You take this girl’s interests very deeply to heart. No doubt you will
be able to influence the old commodore in their favor. Shall I bring him
here to see you to-morrow?” he inquired.

“No, no, for he is aged, and, as I have heard from Emolyn Palmer,
unwilling ever to stir from his home. No; but I will ask you, Dr.
Willet, to take me to see him. Will you do so?”

“Most willingly, my dear young friend. When shall I have the pleasure?
To-morrow? Next day? When?”

“Can I not go to-day? Accompany you when you return?” inquired the lady.

“Assuredly you can if you wish! I shall be very happy to have you. Young
Bruce and I rowed ourselves here, and we shall be very glad to row you
back with us.”

“How soon do you return? Do not think me inhospitable; for I know, of
course, by your bringing Lieutenant Bruce, that you did not intend to
give _us_ the pleasure of your company all day, and I only wished to
know if you were going directly to The Breezes, or intending to keep on
to Gray Rock?” said the lady with a deprecating smile.

“Oh, I understand perfectly, and so I am not sensitive! We are going
directly back to The Breezes, my dear lady, and will be happy to take
you with us,” said the doctor.

“Then, if you will kindly excuse me, I will go and put on my hat and
shawl and be ready, so that when our young friends have got through
their _tête-à-tête_ I may not keep you waiting,” replied the lady as she
left the room.

In the meantime Ronald Bruce passed into the blue parlor, where he found
Em. awaiting him.

The girl’s countenance prompted her to rebuke her lover for his second
audacious attempt to break through her father’s prohibition. But at the
sight of his loving, happy, radiant face her heart condoned the offense.

“Dear Em., dear, dearest Em.! don’t reproach me! I have not seen you for
a month. I could not stand it any longer. I had to make a friend of old
Dr. Willet, I mean a confidant, for he was always my friend—one of my
oldest and best friends—and I got him to bring me here and introduce me
to the lady of the house. Oh! Em., my treasure, I am so glad to see you!
Don’t reproach me!”

Indeed, she could not do so. His beaming countenance continued to shine
on her, while he held her hands, rapturously kissing them from time to
time as he poured forth his impetuous stream of words.

“I am _very_ glad to see you, Ronald, but, oh! I know I ought not to be
glad. Did my dear lady send you in to see me?” she inquired while he
placed himself at her side on the sofa.

“Oh, yes, to be sure she did! Some good spirit must have whispered to
her how much I wished to see you alone,” he said, still tightly holding
her hand and pressing it to his lips.

“Don’t, Ronald, please don’t do that,” she said, withdrawing her hand,
but adding, “I told the lady all about us, Ronald.”

“You! There, I said some angel had enlightened her, and you are the
one!” he murmured, as he recaptured her hand and deftly slipped a ring
upon her finger.

“Oh! what is this?” she exclaimed, raising the hand that he had then
released and gazing upon the sparkling solitaire diamond set in the
golden circle around her finger.

“It is something belonging to you,” he gravely replied.

“Belonging to me!” she exclaimed.

“Yes, it is your betrothal ring, ordered for you some weeks ago, but
never received until yesterday.”

She began to withdraw the ring from her finger, but he caught her hand
and prevented her from doing so as he said:

“No, Em., you must not remove it. You must wear it until it is replaced
by a wedding ring. Listen, Em.! Don’t make me out a story-teller! I said
I had a parcel to deliver which _belonged to you_, as it did belong to
you, since it was ordered and made for you—and that was my excuse for
wanting to intrude on the seclusion of this hermit lady! Don’t make me
out a mendacious villain by refusing to take _what belongs to you_!”

“I don’t understand your logic, dear Ronald; but I _know_ I must not
take a betrothal ring from you in the face of my father’s prohibition of
our engagement,” replied the girl as she steadily withdrew the ring from
her finger and returned it to him.

“Little wooden post! Little marble pillar! Little iceberg!” exclaimed
the young man half angrily. “Are we _not_ engaged, then? Do you withdraw
from your promise?”

“No, dear Ronald, not one iota! I promised never to marry any other
person but you, and, of course, I never shall. It was hardly worth while
to have made such a promise, though! It was altogether a word of
supererogation, for in _no_ case could I ever think of any other
marriage. But notwithstanding that, Ronald, I can never marry you until
my father withdraws his opposition, and so, dear, I must not take your
ring.”

“It is _you_ who are as relentless as a griffin! I do not find it so
difficult to manage the old man. He did not forbid me the house the last
time I went to see you there! No, although I went there on that occasion
against his order!”

“I suppose he thought it was no use to prohibit the visits of a man who
paid no attention to his prohibition,” said Em. gravely.

“No, that was not the reason! My father-in-law who is to be would have
been more likely to have kicked out any other man but me, under the like
circumstances. But I am really very much attached to the old man, and he
knows it, and he _could_ not snub me while I smiled in his face! That
was the reason why he did not repeat his prohibition or even forbid me
to visit you here!”

“Oh, my father would never have done the last! He had no right to say
that you should not come to Edengarden. But, Ronald, he confides in your
honor and in mine. And we must not abuse his confidence. He shall not be
disappointed in us, Ronald. Oh, I have something so delightful to tell
you, dear Ronald! I have already told you how I made known our case to
my dear friend and benefactress, and I suppose that was the reason why
she staid with Dr. Willet and sent you in to see me. Well, Ronald, this
dear lady feels so interested in us that she is going to interfere, and
she says she has a _talisman_—that is only her way of saying that she
has power and influence with the commodore sufficient to win his consent
to our marriage.”

“The Lady of Edengarden said that?” exclaimed young Bruce in surprise.

“Indeed she did, dear, and she promised faithfully to use her power in
our favor.”

“I do not know what power or influence this beautiful, mysterious and
most interesting lady can have with my old uncle. I am very sure that he
is not even acquainted with her; for on one occasion, when I first came
to The Breezes, I asked him if he knew his neighbor on the island, whose
name was on everybody’s lips; he said no, he didn’t know her, and had
never even heard of her until very recently; and he added in his rough
way that he didn’t want to know her—that he disapproved of women whose
eccentricities placed their names in everybody’s mouth! That is a dark
prospect for her success with my uncle, Em., my darling!”

“Ah! but I suspect that the Lady of Edengarden knows what she is talking
about. Besides, how should Commodore Bruce be able to tell whether he
has ever known her before? Hardly any one knows who she was, or where
she came from. For my part, I believe she _has_ the power and influence
which she claims,” said Em., speaking with confidence, although she did
not feel at liberty to speak with explicitness.

“Very well, my dearest, I pin my faith on Mrs. Lynn and on your superior
knowledge of that lady, only devoutly praying that my faith, as well as
yours, may be justified,” said Ronald Bruce.

What more he might have said on the same subject does not appear,
because the abrupt entrance of the little page stopped the conversation.

“If you please, sir, Dr. Willet bid me say to you, with his compliments,
that he is ready to go,” said the boy.

“Very well! Tell Dr. Willet I will join him in a minute,” replied the
young man.

The boy withdrew to carry his message.

When they were once more alone Em. said:

“Dear Ronald, do not keep the good doctor waiting.”

“I will not, darling, especially as I owe to him the introduction
that enables me to visit you here; for now that an _entrée_ has
been effected, I shall come often, Em., unless my excellent
father-in-law-elect should take it into his conscientious head to
forbid me! Well, good-by, my precious!” he said, stooping to kiss
her.

“Stop,” she said, deftly evading the caress. “I am going out with you to
see Dr. Willet. I want to ask him how my dear old Aunty Whitlock is!”

“Oh, Em., was ever a girl so blessed or burdened with relations as you
are?”

“Blessed—not burdened,” said Em. as they left the parlor and walked on
together to the little white saloon.

“Oh, Dr. Willet, I am so glad to see you to-day. Have you been to the
Wilderness this morning?” inquired Em. as she shook hands with the good
physician.

“Yes, my child; and I left them all well, with the exception of Mrs.
Whitlock, who is no better,” replied the doctor as he arose to take
leave.

“You are going out, dear madam?” inquired Em. as she saw Mrs. Lynn
standing beside the door, dressed for her visit.

“Yes, my love. The doctor’s call this morning is very opportune, since
it affords me the privilege of his escort to The Breezes,” said Mrs.
Lynn with a bow to the physician.

Em. exchanged an intelligent glance with her lover; but that was all
they could do, for the doctor advanced and shook hands with her again,
this time bidding her good-by.

“But who is to bring you home again, madam?” anxiously inquired Em. of
her benefactress.

“_I_ shall have that honor, so I will not say good-by, but _au revoir_,”
Ronald Bruce hastened to add as he seized and pressed her hand.

The lady and her escort then left the house and walked down to the boat.

“It is only about half way to the Wilderness Manor Landing that we have
to go to reach The Breezes, I believe,” said Mrs. Lynn, as she permitted
herself to be assisted into the boat and accommodated with a cushioned
seat in the stern.

“Scarcely so far. We shall reach The Breezes in half an hour with _our_
rowing,” answered Ronald Bruce, as he pushed off the boat.

Then both gentlemen laid themselves to the oars and the boat sped on.




                              CHAPTER XXIX
                      BEARDING THE LION IN HIS DEN

          By hope I see the landscape bathed in light;
          And where the golden vapor vails the gaze,
          Guess out the spot and mark the site of happy days.
                                                    BULWER.


It was a glorious autumn day. The sky, of a deep and brilliant hue, was
without a single cloud. The moss-covered mountain rocks on the right
hand and the wooded hills on the left glowed and burned in all the most
gorgeous hues—scarlet, golden, purple, green, crimson and orange—all
reflected as by a clear mirror in the calm deep waters of the river.

“Oh, surely this glowing day is a happy augury!” said the Lady of
Edengarden, as the boat skimmed the water.

“Let us believe that it is so. Faith works miracles,” replied the
doctor.

The young officer turned a grateful glance on his good fairy, but said
nothing.

In a few more minutes they caught sight of the low, broad, gray front of
the old mountain manor-house, roosted on its natural plateau of rock,
half way up the precipice, and known to the country round by the name
given it by its nautical proprietor—The Breezes.

In a few more minutes the boat touched the sands on the lower landing,
and Lieutenant Bruce sprang out and assisted his lady passenger to do
the same.

The ascent of the steep was difficult and wearisome, but not dangerous.

Dr. Willet and Lieutenant Bruce each proffered strong arms to assist the
lady in climbing, but she, who in the course of her travels had ascended
more than one celebrated mountain, smilingly declined their aid, and
with the help of her long-handled parasol, folded and used as a
walking-stick, she went up the precipitous path as safely as a kid could
have done.

When they reached the plateau on which the house was built, they entered
a gate in the stone wall upon the very brink of the precipice, and
passing through the enclosed space went up to the front entrance.

Lieutenant Bruce being at home, did not wait to knock, but opened the
door and admitted the party.

Dr. Willet led Mrs. Lynn at once into a little study, which had been
placed at his disposal by the commodore on his first arrival at The
Breezes.

He placed a chair for his companion, and said:

“Remain here, dear Emolyn, where you will be entirely free from
interruption, while I go and find my old friend and break to him the
news of your visit—indeed of your existence, which will seem to him like
a resurrection from the dead,” added the doctor, as he pressed her hand
and left the room.

The lady sat back in her chair, trying to gain courage for the dreaded
interview. And with the strange double consciousness which we have all
at times experienced, while bending all her powers of mind to prepare
for the approaching ordeal, she also observed the smallest detail in the
dingy little corner nook in which she waited—the faded green carpet and
curtains, the old walnut table and chairs, the quaint old-fashioned
escritoire, half bureau as to its lower division, and half bookcase as
to its upper, whose shelves, seen through the glass doors, displayed a
queer collection of old, moldy folios.

Meanwhile Dr. Willet went on to the handsome and well-appointed library
where Commodore Bruce usually passed his days in reading, writing,
smoking and dozing.

He found the old sailor, wrapped in his wadded silk dressing-gown and
reclining back in his luxurious easy-chair, engaged in looking over a
newspaper that had just been brought to him by his mail messenger.

“Ah, doctor! Back so soon? I am glad of it! There is nothing at all
worth reading in the papers nowadays, and I feel as dull as a ship
becalmed at sea! Well, how is your patient, sir?” demanded the old
sailor. Then without waiting for reply, he burst out with: “It is
disgusting to think you left your practice in the city and came here for
a good rest——”

“I came here for the pleasure of your company, my dear friend, and for
nothing else under the sun!” interrupted the doctor.

“Well, then, you came here for the pleasure of my company, which, by the
by, is a very great and undeserved compliment to my powers of
entertaining. But let that pass. You came for my company, and the rest,
you know, is thrown in. But instead of a rest, you have found a free
patient, whose condition requires you to ride about twelve miles a
day—counting both ways!”

“No more exercise than is required for my own health. Besides, I take an
interest in the old woman. She is a very old acquaintance of mine, and
in former days was often my co-laborer, being a professional
sick-nurse,” said the doctor.

“Well, well, as you please, but I think it would be pleasanter now for
you to take an occasional ride behind the hounds with my nephew instead
of that dreary daily sick call! However, be it as you will; only I hope
the old crone will get well or go to heaven before long. Is she likely
to do either?”

“Can’t say. She is in the very same condition as we have seen an old
patient of hers and mine, and an old friend of yours. I refer to the
late Captain Wyndeworth. This woman was his sick-nurse at the time that
I attended him in his last illness, during that dreadful winter
preceding the trial of Emolyn Wyndeworth. Ah, I have often thought what
a mercy it was that the old gentleman was taken away before that
disaster fell upon his house,” murmured the doctor, purposely dragging
in the subject.

“Ah, so have I! That fatal year was full of disaster! First came the
death of my good old friend, the—the loss of my dear boy at sea,”
muttered the old commodore in a breaking voice—“then, worse than all,
the terrible calamities that befell Emolyn! Ah, that poor girl!”

“Did you ever ascertain her fate?” pointedly inquired the doctor.

“Oh, no; but of course she is dead; of course she has been dead for many
years. Emolyn Wyndeworth never could have survived the shame of a public
trial—and such a trial!”

“But when it ended in her triumphant acquittal!”

“It was not triumphant for her. It was dishonor heaped upon dishonor
from beginning to end. Her defense was based upon the theory of
paroxysmal insanity. Bah! the verdict of acquittal was rendered upon the
same ground. Bah! bah! It killed her, sir!”

“Perhaps not; she certainly had the consciousness of innocence to
support her.”

“A very much overrated support, sir.”

“You believe her to have been innocent?”

“‘_Believe_,’ Dr. Willet! I know it, sir! I knew that child from her
babyhood up. So did you. And I know her to have been as innocent as an
infant angel. She said that she had been married. I don’t _believe_ she
had ever been married! but I KNOW she was married because she said so!
she who never dreamed it possible to lie! She said her young husband was
dead, and therefore, of course, I knew he was dead because she said so,
she whose soul was truth! She would not give up the name of her husband
even to help her own defense. She would not drag down the name of an
honorable family into the mire into which her pure name had been hurled
by wicked hands! How well I understood her motive! She was a Wyndeworth!
She came of a race whose men were all honest, whose women were all pure!
She could not be otherwise. Divine lips have told us that ‘men do not
gather grapes of thorns or figs of thistles.’ Emolyn Wyndeworth was a
true daughter of her noble line! When put to the test, that gentle,
sensitive, shrinking girl became heroic! Yes, I repeat it, Emolyn
Wyndeworth was innocent, and not only innocent, but heroic! I would to
Heaven that _I_ were as guiltless of offense toward her as she was
toward all the world!” concluded Commodore Bruce, with a deep sigh.

“I am sure that you can have nothing to reproach yourself with in regard
to that most unhappy lady,” said Dr. Willet.

“You don’t know anything about it, sir! You don’t know anything about
it! Why, the very last night before my poor boy, Lonny, sailed on that
fatal voyage, from which he was destined never to return—on that very
last night, I say, in the most earnest, tender, manly way, perfectly
wonderful in a mere boy like Lonny, he commended Emolyn Wyndeworth to my
care. There were tears in the lad’s eyes, sir, as he spoke of her
orphaned and desolate condition, and told me how he had loved her all
his life long and hoped some time or other to claim her as his wife. At
that time, although he was about to leave me for a long voyage, I could
scarcely forbear smiling at the earnestness of the lad in speaking of a
prospective wife, and commending the waiting bride-elect to my fatherly
care. Of course, I promised to look after the girl, but equally, of
course, I forgot my promise—forgot it—ah, yes! until the catastrophe
brought it to my mind too late! too late!”

All this the old commodore had told the doctor several times before, yet
with the fatuity of approaching dotage he told it again.

“Forgive me for saying that I think you exaggerate your responsibility
in this matter and torture yourself needlessly.”

“No, I don’t! No, I don’t! I will prove to you that I don’t by
mentioning—that which I never breathed to any human being before—that
Emolyn Wyndeworth had been privately married to my son—that her child
was his legitimate daughter! There, it is out! Now you know the secret
of what you call my morbid self-reproach! It was my poor, shipwrecked
and drowned boy who was the lost husband of whom she spoke. It was _our_
name she refused to bring down to dishonor when the false accusation of
child-murder had branded her pure name!”

“Father in heaven, can this be true?” exclaimed the doctor in much
agitation.

“I firmly believe it to be as I have said. She was the wife of my son by
a private marriage. But when unmerited dishonor fell upon her name she
resolved, by her silence, to shield us from any share in it. She died
and made no sign.”

“Commodore Bruce, for Heaven’s sake, declare to me what reason you have
for believing this!”

“Every reason that ought to have opened my eyes before the catastrophe
came! My son’s solemn charge. Her deep dejection after his departure.
The fact that they had been the most intimate friends and playmates from
their infancy to youth, so that he had no other girl playmate, she no
other boy acquaintance. This should have enlightened us all if we had
not been as blind as bats! Then again her declaration that her young
husband had belonged to a good family and that he was dead. All this
pointed to Leonidas Bruce.

“Again, in those last, sad months, when her uncle lay slowly dying and I
was accustomed to visit him every morning, I recall her wistful looks
into my face—the looks of a poor, hunted fawn—the pleading gaze of a
poor, helpless, frightened creature that mutely prays for mercy!—the
looks she would raise to my face as she stood in the front hall waiting
for me to pass! Why, sir, I tell you, hundreds of times I was on the
point of speaking to the poor child and asking her what her trouble was,
but that Malvina Warde—may the foul fiend fire her!—was always in the
way, rattling with her tongue and hurrying me along, so that beyond a
nod or a word I could get no conversation with the girl. And shortly
after I went to sea, and did not return until the trial of Emolyn
Wyndeworth was on. It was very short, you know, and after she was
acquitted she suddenly vanished from sight, nor could all my effort to
trace her be successful. So many years have passed since then that I
have quite given her up for dead,” sadly concluded the old man.

“And yet, for aught you know to the contrary, she may be living,”
murmured the doctor.

“Bah!” exclaimed the commodore. “Julius Cæsar may be also living, but it
must be in another sphere of existence. No, the opportunity of saving or
helping Emolyn Wyndeworth passed out of my hands because I was, in her
case, too dull of perception, too slow of action. But understand this:
Even at the time of the trial I did not suspect that Emolyn Wyndeworth
had been the wife of my son. I suspected it afterward, upon reflection,
and then, as I recalled all the circumstances of the case, I saw them in
a new light, and my suspicion became conviction and filled me with
regret, that grew into remorse, for my previous dulness and blindness,
which had resulted so fatally for that poor, forlorn child. Thus, you
see, sir, I mourn the early and tragic fate of Emolyn Wyndeworth in a
sorrow that is without hope,” said the old man, dropping his gray head
upon his chest.

“But, as we have never had any proof of her death, she may be still
living!” the doctor ventured again to suggest.

The commodore made a movement of disgust and impatience, demanding:

“If she is _not_ dead, why has no one ever heard anything of her in all
these years?”

“Perhaps some one has heard of her,” quietly suggested the doctor.

“Bah!” exclaimed the old sailor.

“I think—I am sure that some one has heard of her.”

“I should like to know who it is, then!” exclaimed the commodore
incredulously.

“It is I!”

“EH?”

“I!”

“You!”

“Yes!”

“Heard of Emolyn Wyndeworth!”

“I have!”

“Good Heaven! You don’t say so!”

“Yes, I do!”

“When? Where? How? Speak, sir! Where is she? Living? Well?” demanded the
excited old man, pouring question upon question with impetuous rapidity.

“She is living, and well, and not very far off,” quietly answered the
doctor, as he arose, poured out a glass of water and made the commodore
drink it.

“It seems incredible!” exclaimed the old man, as he returned the empty
goblet to his friend.

“I knew you would be agitated by such news, and I tried to prepare you
for it,” said the doctor.

“It fills me with joy, and joy does not hurt any one. It moves me with
gratitude, and that blesses every one. Thank Heaven! Oh, thank Heaven!
But where is this lady now? If she should be within five hundred miles
of me, I will seek her within a week,” said Commodore Bruce, more firmly
and calmly than he had yet spoken.

“She is much nearer than that. She is quite within your reach,” calmly
replied Dr. Willet.

“Where? Where? Speak, friend! There is no need of farther preparation.
If you were to tell me she was in the next room, it could not startle me
_now_!” exclaimed the commodore, unconsciously touching the very truth.

Still the doctor deemed it best to be cautious.

“Have you never suspected her possible identity with that of the recluse
Lady of Edengarden?” significantly inquired the doctor.

“Never! What? The Lady of Edengarden? You don’t mean to tell me——” The
old man paused and gazed with amazement on the doctor.

“Yes, I do. I mean to tell you that Emolyn Wyndeworth and the Lady of
Edengarden are one and the same,” the latter assured him.

The commodore dropped his head upon his chest and stroked his full gray
beard.

“Is she living there at present?” he at length inquired.

“Yes; though usually she does not live there in the winter.”

“Then I will go to see her before twenty-four hours are over my head.”

“There will be no need. Emolyn Wyndeworth has come to see you!”

“EH!”

“Emolyn Wyndeworth has come to see Commodore Bruce, her father’s old
friend. She only waits your pleasure to receive her.”

“Where? Where? Where does she wait?”

“In the little green study at the end of the hall,” replied the doctor
composedly.

The veteran of seventy-six sprang up with the agility of a youth of
sixteen and dashed out of the library, exclaiming:

“Emolyn Wyndeworth here! In this house! Oh, how I thank Heaven to have
lived for this happiness!”




                              CHAPTER XXX
                              THE MEETING

            A hundred thousand welcomes! I could weep
            And I could laugh—I’m light and heavy! Welcome!
            A blight begin at the very root of his heart
            Who is not glad to see thee! Welcome!
                                                SHAKESPEARE.


“Emolyn Wyndeworth! Emolyn, my child, can it be possible that I find you
again after all these years?” exclaimed Commodore Bruce, seizing the
hands of the lady as she arose and offered them on his entrance into the
little study.

“You _are_ glad to see me, then?” she murmured in low and tremulous
tones.

“‘Glad?’ Oh, my Lord!” aspirated the old man with all his soul.

“Let me sit down,” she breathed in almost inaudible tones, as she sank
back trembling into her seat.

“You are not much changed; not so much as might have been expected. No,
indeed, you are not,” he resumed, as he stood before her, holding her
hands and gazing wistfully, tenderly into her face.

“Years of life without smiles, or tears, or frowns, or any emotion that
could trace a line on cheek or brow, a life in marble, a life in death,
leaves no vestige of its passage on the face or form,” mournfully
replied Emolyn.

“But, my child, why have you led this life? Why have you expatriated and
hidden yourself from your friends all these years?”

“You ask me why? Oh, Commodore Bruce!”

“Well, I suppose I know or can surmise your motive for doing so; but,
Emolyn, that motive arose from a very morbid mind. Oh, child, if you
knew how I have ‘sought you, sorrowing,’ all these years!”

“Ah, why should you have taken any interest in one so lost?” she sighed,
covering her eyes with one hand.

“Why? You ask me why?” he inquired, unconsciously repeating her own
words. “I will tell you, Emolyn. My poor boy, my poor Lonny, with his
last words, before sailing on that fatal voyage—committed you to my
charge—telling me that when he should return from his voyage he meant to
claim you for his wife.”

A low moan of pain escaped the lips of the lady, but she made no
comment.

“Ah, Emolyn, would to Heaven I had paid that heed to his words which I
afterward, but too late, found they deserved! But how could I have
known?”

“How, indeed? You knew nothing. Do not reproach yourself,” breathed the
lady in low, almost inaudible tones.

“But I ought to have known, or inquired, or discovered! Emolyn, child!
what was the meaning of the pleading eyes you used to raise to mine when
I would pass you in leaving Green Point, after a visit to your
bed-ridden uncle? Tell me, dear! Tell me!”

“It were bootless to tell you now what I had not the courage to tell
then,” she replied.

“And I—hard, cold and blind that I was, I never encouraged you to open
your heart to me, although I had promised my poor boy to watch over
you,” groaned the commodore.

“Do not reproach yourself,” she repeated. “I might never have been able
to confide in any man.”

“Yet I should have drawn your secret from you, Emolyn! Tell me now, I
conjure! In the name of the dead, I conjure you, tell me, were you the
wife of my son?” solemnly demanded the veteran.

She paused a moment and then answered in a low, distinct voice:

“I was.”

The commodore dropped his gray head upon his open hands and groaned
aloud.

“I thought so! I thought so! But not until it was too late! Not until
you had passed out of my reach and knowledge entirely. Oh, child! If
only you had confided in me, what sorrow would have been saved!”

“He wished to do so as soon as we were married, for boy as he was, he
had a man’s intelligent and delicate sense of honor. He wished to do so,
but I was afraid to consent. We were married nearly a month before he
sailed; and every day he pleaded with me to let him confess his
marriage; but the very idea of doing so frightened and distressed me so
much that he would yield the point.”

“Fatal timidity on your side—fatal compliance on his!” sighed the
commodore.

“I told you just now not to reproach yourself. I beg you now not to
reproach me, for I have already suffered the bitter fruits of my
cowardice, nor _him_, for he has passed beyond our judgment,” solemnly
replied Emolyn.

“My child, I am not reproaching—I am only lamenting!”

“That, too, is vain.”

“I know it; yet, oh, how differently all this might have ended had he
but confessed your marriage even at the last moment!”

“He was in honor bound to me _not_ to do so. At the very last moment he
implored me to release him from his promise and allow him to tell you
and his mother and leave me under your protection. But I was afraid to
consent and sent him away sorrowing.”

“Poor boy! Poor boy! Yet he did what he could. He _did_ invoke my
protection for you, Emolyn, although he was not permitted to use the
argument that would have bound you to us by owning you as his wife. Ah,
what a misfortune!”

“But I must tell you what more he did, that you may know how thoughtful,
how loving, how earnest he was. On the last night he stayed in his own
home he spent the hours which should have been given to sleep in writing
a long letter of confession to you, telling you all the circumstances
attending our marriage, and invoking your pardon of him and protection
of me. This letter he inclosed in one to me, in which he besought me to
seek your presence at once; or, if I could not summon courage to do so,
at least to keep the inclosed letter carefully, so that I might be able
to present it to you in case I should ever stand in need of your
friendship——”

“Where is that letter? Where? Why, oh, why, my child, did you never
deliver it to me?” impetuously demanded the commodore.

“At first I was afraid. Afterward, when the greater terror overcame the
less, I looked for my precious parcel and could not find it. My cabinet
had been rifled of that and of all my correspondence—of everything,
indeed, that could have afforded the slightest circumstantial evidence
to the truth of my marriage.”

“Who was the thief? Who?” indignantly demanded the veteran.

“I have no positive knowledge, and I have no right to speak of my
suspicions,” replied Emolyn.

“Oh, my child! If, even without those proofs, you could have summoned
resolution to have come to me and told the whole story!” sighed
Commodore Bruce.

“Are you sure that you would have believed me? Yet at one time I had
resolved to make a full disclosure of my relations to you.”

“I wish to Heaven you had; but when was that? Was it when you used to
watch for me in the hall and look at me with large, wistful eyes as I
passed out?”

“Oh, no; it was after you had gone away. I had been plunged in despair
by the news of my husband’s sudden death; but it was not until I
knew—what, in my ignorance, I was long in knowing—that I should become a
mother, and the fate of an innocent being would depend upon mine, I was
inspired with the courage to desperation and resolved to go away with my
faithful nurse to her relatives and stay with them until my child’s
arrival and your return, and then, if the babe lived, to take it to you
and tell it was your son’s child, and that I, its mother, was your son’s
widow.”

“I wish to Heaven you had done so.”

“I should have carried out my resolution if the fatal catastrophe had
not fallen so suddenly upon me. Then after the death of my child and the
shameful accusation——Oh, I cannot speak of this!” exclaimed Emolyn,
breaking off and dropping her head upon her hands.

“I know—I know,” murmured the commodore in deep emotion—“you acted with
the heroism and self-devotion of your race and nature. You refused, even
for your own preservation and vindication, to tell your real story and
bring our name into the trial.”

“Yet without it I was acquitted and vindicated by all but by myself.”

“How, Emolyn, how? What do you mean, my child?” inquired the old man in
distress.

“I know not—oh, I know not what happened that horrible night!” she
gasped with a shudder.

“You were irresponsible. You are free from reproach.”

“Oh, let us not talk of it! The thought—the doubt—has made me a vagabond
and wanderer on the face of the earth, trying to hide from the world, to
fly from myself. Oh, let us not talk of it! Let us talk of something
else!” She shivered and buried her face in her hands.

They were both painfully silent for a few moments.

At length Emolyn raised her head and spoke:

“Commodore Bruce——”

“My dear,” said the old man.

“I did not come here with any intention of telling you my secret, nor
should I ever have told you if you had not asked me the direct
question.”

“I only asked you, Emolyn, that I might receive confirmation of my own
convictions. I am glad and grateful that you came to see me and gave me
the opportunity of making inquiries that have brought out the truth.”

“Yet I should never have had the hardihood to leave my seclusion after
all these years if it had not been for one in whom I take a deep
interest. I mean my little namesake, Emolyn Palmer, whose acquaintance I
have recently made.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the commodore.

“I am aware that you know her quite well.”

“Oh, yes; she passed a week here—a very interesting young person. She
might have had a permanent home with us if it hadn’t been for the folly
of my nephew Ronald in fancying he had fallen in love with her.”

“It is of that ‘folly’ I have come to speak to you. It does not seem to
me to be folly, but an honest, manly, faithful love, likely to last his
lifetime,” said Emolyn earnestly.

“I am very sorry to hear you say that. I trust in Heaven, for his sake,
that it is not true,” gravely replied the old man.

“What is your objection to Emolyn Palmer as the wife of your nephew?”

“Objection? My dear lady, how can you ask? My objection is not a
particular but a general one.”

“She is beautiful.”

“Yes.”

“She is graceful.”

“Certainly.”

“Amiable and irreproachable in character.”

“Quite so.”

“Intelligent and fairly educated.”

“She is all that.”

“And is she not sincerely attached to your nephew and yourself, and
beloved by both?”

“Yes, it is true.”

“And are not all these qualities that you would desire to find in the
chosen bride of Ronald Bruce?”

“Yes, my dear lady—all these qualities are to be desired, but they are
not all that are to be expected in my nephew’s wife.”

“What else would you have, you exacting man?”

“Wealth and a good social position,” curtly replied the commodore.

“Emolyn Palmer shall have both,” said the lady quietly.

“Eh! Emolyn Palmer have wealth and social position? How is that
possible? You dream, my child!”

“Yes, I do dream, and I mean to realize my dream. The child, Emolyn
Palmer, has interested me more than any person or anything that I have
met with for the last seventeen years. I feel my heart so drawn out
toward her that I begin to believe in the possibility of happiness in
this life even for me, through her! For her sake I have come to see you.
I told you that in addition to all her personal attractions, she should
have the necessary ones of wealth and social position. Wealth I will
give her. I have no children nor near relatives to share my fortune. I
will, therefore, give my little namesake a marriage portion that shall
make her the equal in fortune to any young lady in this State. Her
marriage will give her the social position that is required, for the
wife takes rank from her husband. Thus Emolyn Palmer shall have wealth
and position added to all her personal attractions. Will you now consent
to the engagement of these lovers?” earnestly inquired the lady.

The commodore waved his thin white hand to and fro, as if gently putting
away her arguments, as he replied:

“My dearest young friend, that is all benevolent sophistry. I do not
wish my nephew’s wife to owe her rank to her husband’s family alone. A
beggar girl might do that. No, _good birth_, even before wealth or
personal attractions, is what I desire and insist upon in the wife of
Ronald. And let me tell you, my dear and gentle Emolyn, that this and
all other desirable attributes are to be found in the lady I long ago
selected for him—Hermia, my niece. They are indeed my co-heirs, and they
must marry. There, my dear, there is my decision. And now, my Emolyn,
you have known me of old. You know that when my judgment has decided any
course of action to be the right one no power on earth can move me to
alter.”

“I know! I know! That is the reason why I feared you so, and shrank from
confessing my marriage to you until it was too late. Do not fear. I
shall not continue to importune you, Commodore Bruce,” said the lady in
a tone of pain.

“Do not be vexed with me, Emolyn, my child. It is inexpressibly
distressing to me to be obliged to place myself in opposition to you on
any subject at this our first reunion after so long and hopeless a
separation. Believe me, dear, I appreciate the benevolence of your
actions, which is in perfect keeping with the tenor of your whole life.
I approve your kind intentions toward this young girl with only one
exception——”

“The only vital one,” murmured Emolyn.

“Be as kind to her as your good heart dictates in all things. Give her
the advantages of wealth and a higher culture. She deserves them, and
will put them to good use. Do all you please for her, my dear; but do
not torment yourself or me by trying to bring about a marriage between
Ronald Bruce and the overseer’s daughter.”

“Fear no importunity from me, sir. I shall not recur to the subject
again in your presence,” said the lady in the same tone of pain.

“Now I fear that I have angered you, Emolyn.”

“Oh, no, not angered, only disappointed me,” she replied.

Then rising and gathering her India shawl about her, she held out her
hand and said:

“I wish you good-morning, sir.”

“What? Going? You are not going so early?”

“Thanks; but I must.”

“At least stay to lunch?”

“Much obliged; but it is impossible.”

“Let me then introduce you to the ladies of my family. My niece and her
daughter will be happy to see you.”

“Not for the world. I came not out of my grave to make a fashionable
call. I came to fulfil a mission, which has failed. Let me go in peace.”

“But, my dear, your cousins—Mrs. and Miss Ward—are here, my guests. Let
me send for them and make known your presence,” said the commodore,
reaching his hand for the bell.

But the lady’s hand quickly arrested his.

“No, on your salvation!” she cried in great excitement. “Not for a
thousand worlds! Oh, stop! _Nothing_ should ever induce me to meet
Malvina Warde! _Never_ could I bear to look upon her—her, the cause of
all my sorrows—my enemy—my destroyer!”

“Well, well, my dear, you shall not see her! She is no great favorite of
mine, although she is unhappily my guest. Calm yourself, Emolyn. Sit
down and let me offer you a glass of wine. Do.”

“Thanks, no—nothing. I shall only trouble your boatmen to take me back
to the island.”

“They are at your orders, Emolyn,” said the old man, once more
approaching his hand to the bell.

Again she arrested his motion as she said:

“One moment. I had nearly forgotten an important point. But the mere
mention of that woman so maddens me that I forget everything else for
the time being! Commodore Bruce, what I must say and to impress upon you
is this—that I do not wish my name mentioned, or my existence revealed
to any human being, either in this house or out of it. Like Noah’s weary
dove, I have folded my wings to rest in peace in the ark of my island.
But the same day that reveals my name and identity to this neighborhood
sees me go forth again a homeless wanderer over the face of the earth!”

“I will keep your secret, my poor, morbid Emolyn; but—Ronald and Willet,
who know who you are?”

“I can trust them as I trust myself.”

“Then you are safe.”

“Now please ring the bell and order the boat for me.”

“Certainly. I may come to see you at your ‘Island of Calm Delights?’”

“Yes, I shall always welcome you.”

Again the old man approached his hand to the bell; but he was again
prevented from ringing it.




                              CHAPTER XXXI
                          A STARTLING VISITOR

               Much in the stranger’s mien appears
               To justify suspicious fears.
               On his dark face a scorching clime,
               And toil, hath done the work of time—
               Roughened his brow, his temples bared.
               And sable hairs with silver shared;
               Yet left—what age alone could tame—
               The lip of pride, the eye of flame.
               The lip that terror never blenched,
               The eye where teardrop never quenched
               The flash severe of swarthy glow
               That scorned pain and mocked at woe.
                                           WALTER SCOTT.


The interruption proceeded from the voice of the hall footman, saying in
a rather insolent tone:

“Well, then, you can step in here, my man! There is no one in here, and
you can go in here and wait till I go and tell my master that you want
to see him,” adding in a lower tone: “There’s nothing in there he can
steal, I reckon, ’cept ’tis some moldy old books.”

The door was thrown open, and while the steps of the footman were heard
retreating a most disreputable-looking tramp entered the study and stood
boldly up before the party therein.

Now while the commodore and the lady are gazing in stupefied
astonishment at this impudent intruder, I will endeavor to describe him.

He was a tall, dark, gaunt man, whose long, thin, swarthy face was
hedged in by a wild, neglected thicket of grizzled black hair and beard,
and whose fierce, burning black eyes were overhung by thick, shaggy
black brows. He wore an old suit of clothes that might have once been of
any color, but was now of none; around his neck a dingy woolen scarf; on
his feet a pair of broken shoes; in his hand a torn hat. He was
altogether a wayworn, travel-strained, dilapidated and dangerous-looking
customer, such as one would not like to meet on a dark night or on a
deserted road.

The commodore regarded him wrathfully, frowningly—the lady, curiously,
wistfully.

“Who in the demon are you? What jail have you broken out of? And what in
the fiend’s name do you want here?” sternly demanded the veteran; while
the lady leaned forward, gazing on the man with a strange, intense and
breathless interest.

“Good heavens! Do you not know me, then?” demanded the poor tramp in a
voice full of anguish.

“No! Never saw you in all the days of my life before, and never wish to
see you again! Begone!” exclaimed the veteran; while the lady half arose
from her seat, stared at the stranger with eyes that widened and widened
in amazement, with lips breathlessly apart and color coming and going
rapidly.

“Did you not get my letter, written from Marseilles, then?” inquired the
stranger.

“What in the demon’s name are you talking about? You are drunk, man, or
mad! Leave the house instantly!” exclaimed the irate old gentleman,
starting up as if he would have ejected the intruder by main force, had
he been strong enough.

“Oh, my soul! my soul! Do _you_ not know me—Lynny?” pleaded the
wanderer, turning his wild, sad, prayerful eyes on the intense,
listening, breathless, eager face of the lady.

The question broke the spell that bound her.

“SAVED!” she cried, and her piercing shriek rang through and through the
house as she started up, threw herself into the arms of the tramp and
fainted dead away.

The sight and sound, but not the meaning, of this action met the dulled
senses of the aged veteran.

Starting to his feet in a fury, he thundered forth:

“What in the demon do you mean, you cursed villain, by breaking into
this room and frightening a lady into fits? Lay her down on that sofa
this instant, and don’t presume to touch her again! Leave the house!
Begone! If you stop another second, Satan burn you! I’ll send you to the
county jail for six months! I’m in the commission of the peace, and I’ll
do it!”

“Yes. I had best go for the present. She has fainted. Call her women to
her,” said the tramp in a gentle tone, as he laid his burden down with
tender care upon the sofa.

“If you don’t take yourself out of this room in double-quick time, you
tramping thief, you’ll find yourself in a pair of handcuffs on the road
to prison before you know it!” roared the commodore, as he seized and
jerked the bell rope violently.

But the sad wanderer had already left the study.

The commodore continued to ring the bell furiously, peal upon peal,
until the hall footman rushed in with alarm.

“Go after that tramping vagabond and kick him out of the house! Then
call all the dogs and set them on him and hunt him off the premises! Do
you hear?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the man as he went out, dismayed, to give place to
Wren, the little page, whom the violent ringing of the bell had also
brought to the scene.

“WATER!” cried the commodore, who was now engaged in trying to recover
the fainting woman.

The boy vanished and soon reappeared with a silver pitcher and goblet.

The commodore poured some on his hand and threw it in the face of the
lady and waited for the effect, but she showed no sign of consciousness.

“Brandy! From the beaufet! In the library!” he cried in growing alarm.

The page ran away and soon re-entered with a decanter and glass.

The commodore poured out a little of the brandy, and, holding up the
head of the helpless woman, tried to force a few drops between her lips,
but the liquid only tippled over the surface.

“I don’t know what on earth to do for her! She forbid me to call the
ladies to see her before she fainted, and it seems hardly fair to do so
now that she cannot defend herself! And I don’t know how to recover her,
not I!” cried the commodore in despair. Then turning furiously on the
footman, who had re-entered the study, he demanded:

“Did you do as I ordered? Did you kick that vagrant out and set the dogs
on him?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the man, unhesitatingly telling a fib, for he had
not sought for the poor tramp with any such cruel intention, as was
afterward proved.

“Served him right! Glad to hear it!” grunted the old man, as he
recommenced his efforts to recover his patient, but in vain. Suddenly he
remembered the presence of the physician in the house, and wondered he
had not thought of him before.

“Go and ask Dr. Willet to be kind enough to step here immediately,” he
said.

“If you please, sir, Dr. Willet has gone out,” said the footman.

“Gone out! the deuce! How unlucky! Where has he gone?”

“If you please, sir, to the Wilderness Manor-house. Mr. John Palmer he
came all in a hurry for de doctor, sir, to go to the ageable old woman
what is dying dere and wants to see the doctor afore she goes, which dey
don’t think she can last another day, sir.”

“How very unfortunate!” exclaimed the old man, who never ceased from his
ineffectual efforts to recover his patient. “I do not know where to
turn! She will die, and all on account of that cursed tramp!” Then
bursting forth like a storm upon the head of the footman, he violently
demanded:

“And what did _you_ mean, you rascal, by sending that ruffian in here to
frighten this poor lady to death? Yes, to _death_, you villain! And when
she dies I’ll have you hanged for murder! I will, by my life! Why don’t
you answer me, you scoundrel? What did you mean by showing that burglar,
that robber, that cut-throat, into this room to kill this lady?”

“’Deed, ’deed, I ’elare to my Judge, marster, I never knowed nobody was
in here, which dere almost never is nobody in here; and I didn’t know
nothing about the lady wisiter, as she must a-come on along of Dr.
Willet or Lieutenant Bruce, ’cause I didn’t let her in myself and didn’t
know nothing about it, sir; and likewise thought as you was in the
libery. And as for the tramp, sir, he did say as he wanted to speak to
you werry particular, to bring you news of a long-absent friend——”

“An excuse to beg! An excuse to beg! Or to swindle! Or to extort money!
What did the ruffian call himself?”

“He ’clined to give no name, sir, but said how you’d know him when you
seed him.”

“An impudent liar! I never set eyes on him before. I wish I had
committed him!” exclaimed the old man, who was all this time diligently
chafing the temples of the unconscious woman with hartshorn.

“So I just put him in here to wait, sir, where I thought there wa’n’t
nobody sitting, nor likewise nothing to steal, ’cept ’twas them old,
worm-eaten books in the old screwter.”

“Worm-eaten books, you villain! My precious blackletter copies of the
early Christian fathers? If the thief had gone off with any of them,
your hide should have paid for it! Oh, Heaven! No change in her yet! I
_must_ have woman’s help here,” said the commodore, breaking off in his
abuse of the servant and attentively regarding the marble face below
him. “See here, sir! Go and ask my sister to come here immediately!
Don’t alarm her, you rascal! Don’t say a word about the fainting lady!
Just deliver my message.”

The footman, glad to escape, hurried out of the room to obey this order.

While he was gone the old man continued to chafe the temples or beat the
hands of his patient and groan over her and curse the tramp.

In a few minutes the widowed sister came in, saying pleasantly:

“Did you want me, brother?” Then seeing the motionless form of a woman
extended on the sofa, she started and exclaimed: “Who is that?”

“Come here, Margaret. Don’t scream nor cry, nor above all, don’t faint.
One fainting woman is as much as I can get along with at one time,” said
the commodore, taking his sister by the arm and leading her to the sofa.

“But who is this lady? What ails her? How came she here?” inquired the
puzzled woman, bending over the unconscious form.

“Don’t you recognize her? Look again,” said the old man uneasily.

“No, I do not,” replied the lady, after a careful scrutiny.

“I believe you are right; for now I come to think of it, you never met
her.”

“But who is she?”

The old man hesitated for one weak moment, and then loyally answered:

“This lady is Emolyn Bruce, the widow of my poor, dear Lonny.”

The widow’s brown eyes opened wide in amazement as she answered in a
low, frightened voice:

“I never knew that Leonidas had been married!”

“_I_ did! I knew it long ago; but I had good reason to suppose that his
poor young wife had not long survived his loss. She has reappeared,
however, I thank Heaven! And here she lies, fainting, dying, for aught I
know. Margaret, dear woman, don’t stop to ask another question, but help
me to save her!” anxiously exclaimed the old man.

Controlling the extreme curiosity awakened by the situation, the lady
knelt by the side of the sofa and began to loosen the sufferer’s clothes
to facilitate breathing.

“She must be got to bed at once. The parlor chamber happens to be in
order. We will convey her there. Ring for two women to come and help to
lift her,” were the first words with which the widow broke the silence.

The commodore complied with this direction, and then came back to the
side of his sister, saying:

“For Heaven’s sake, Margaret, let all be done tenderly and very quietly.
There must not be a nine days’ wonder created in the house.”

“Of course not. I should deprecate such a state of things as much as you
could.”

“And, Margaret, you have a heart. I need not, therefore, beg you to be
very gentle with this suffering girl when she recovers her
consciousness.”

“Be sure that I will treat her as I would treat my own child,” said the
widow, and her sympathetic face confirmed the truth of her words.

“Go and send Dorcas and Lydia here,” said the commodore to the little
page who appeared in answer to the bell.

The child ran on his errand, and two strong colored women made their
appearance.

Under the lady’s instructions Emolyn Bruce was tenderly lifted and
conveyed to the parlor chamber, where she was undressed, clothed in a
white wrapper and put to bed.

The old commodore, who had followed the party to the chamber door
without daring to enter, hovered on the outside, waiting for news.

In a few minutes, however, his sister opened the door and beckoned him
to come in.

She led him to the side of the bed, where Emolyn lay as white and
motionless as a marble effigy on a marble tomb.

“I wish to consult you, brother,” whispered the widow, as they stood
together looking down on the beautiful pale face before them.

“Do you think there is any danger, Margaret?” anxiously inquired the
veteran.

“No, for I have known women to lay in fainting fits much longer than
this and recover without injury; but her breath scarcely dims the glass
held to her lips, and her pulse is scarcely perceptible; and I think you
had better call Dr. Willet.”

“The deuce of it all is that Willet has gone to the Wilderness
Manor-house to see that old paralytic. He could not be brought back
before night, when he will come back of his own accord. Meanwhile what
_shall_ we do, Margaret?”

“Use the means within our reach and wait the issue. It must have been
some terrible shock that threw her into this state. May I _now_ inquire
what it was, brother? You need not tell me if you do not wish to,” said
the widow.

“It was a cursed tramp!—a black-visaged, red-eyed, elflocked cut-throat,
who looked like a fiend from the Inferno, with all the sulphurous smoke
and fire hanging around him! I wish I had a hand on him now! I’d break
his diabolical neck and send him back to Tartarus, where he belongs!”
wrathfully exclaimed the commodore.

“Hush! She moves, I think,” said the lady; and both watchers bent
eagerly over the entranced form.

But they were mistaken. She did not move, nor, though her attendants
continued their efforts to recover her, did she show any sign of
consciousness until nearly an hour had passed away.

When at length she sighed and stirred, Dorcas raised her head while the
lady placed a glass of wine to her lips so that she mechanically
swallowed the stimulant.

Revived by the wine, she opened her eyes, sat up in bed and gazed around
in confusion for a moment.

Then a paroxysm of sadness seemed to sweep over her. She pressed her
hands upon her eyes, upon her brows, upon her temples, pushed back her
hair and stared around with starting orbs and open mouth, and then
suddenly shrieked forth:

“Where is he? Oh, where is he? Where? Where?”

“He is gone, my dear. Don’t be afraid. Calm yourself. It is all right,”
answered the commodore soothingly; for he thought her excitement was
caused by revived terror of the tramp.

At the words of the old man she turned her wildly roving eyes on him
with an intense stare of astonishment.

“Gone! Gone! Did you say gone? Oh, _where_, has he gone? _Why_ did you
let him go?” she cried with frantic eagerness.

“I wish I hadn’t. I wish I had committed him to prison, only there
wasn’t sufficient grounds. But don’t be frightened. Compose yourself, my
dear. You are just as safe from him as if he was in prison. He will
never come back to bother us, after being kicked out the house by the
servant and hunted off the land by the dogs!” said the commodore, laying
his hand tenderly on the head of the excited woman, who had not for one
instant ceased to rave.

But she dashed it off, fiercely exclaiming:

“Oh, you cruel, ruthless, remorseless man! I feared you would do so! I
feared you would! _That’s why I never told you!_ Why he could never
persuade me to tell you, you wicked, vindictive man——”

“She is hysterical, she does not know what she says,” said the widow,
while Emolyn continued to rave in growing excitement.

“She is delirious, quite so! I wish Willet would return,” sighed the
commodore.

“I am _not_ delirious! It is _you_ who are mad with hatred and
revenge—unnatural, monstrous hatred and revenge, after all these years!
Go bring him back! If he had been the prodigal son, you should have
received him! But he was no prodigal! Not even a prodigal! And you
turned him out! You hunted him off! Go bring him back! Go bring him back
if you wish to escape perdition!” she continued to cry in what seemed to
her attendants a frenzy of insanity.

“You see she had been talking about her husband when this cut-throat
ruffian came in and frightened her into fits, and now she has got all
mixed up in her impressions,” whispered the commodore, while the excited
woman continued to rave in the same strain without a moment’s cessation.

“This _must_ be stopped. I shall give her a dose of morphia,” whispered
his sister; and she rose and left the room for the expressed purpose.

And Emolyn raved on, bitterly reproaching the commodore.

“Mad people always fly in the faces of their best friends,” said the old
man, as he continued his efforts to calm the frantic woman.

The widow returned, bringing a small glass of port wine, with which she
had mixed a dose of morphia.

“Here, my poor girl, drink this and compose yourself,” she said in her
gentlest and most persuasive tones, as she held the glass to Emolyn’s
lips.

“If I do, will you send at once and bring him back?” demanded Emolyn,
fixing her wild, excited, pleading eyes on the face of the lady.

“_Indeed I will_,” she answered.

“Because he can go with me to the island, where we will live like Adam
and Eve in Eden—_without the serpent_.”

“So you shall, my dear, _if you wish_,” said the lady.

Emolyn took the glass, drank the contents and threw herself back on the
pillow.

In a few moments she was quiet, in a few more she was asleep.

“Now,” said the lady, “you must send and seek that tramp and have him
brought back to the house.”

“In the name of Heaven, _why_?” demanded the commodore.

“First, because I promised, and I will not break a promise, even when it
is given to humor a delirious patient; and, secondly, because I do think
_there is more in this than appears_,” replied the lady.

“What should there be in it?”

“I don’t know. But find the man and bring him here.”

The commodore expostulated and swore.

The lady persisted and gained her point.

The order was given and the servants started on their quest.

Emolyn slept on, hour after hour watched by the widow.

The servants returned from their long and careful search with the news
that the tramp could not be found.

“Why are you so anxious to have that ruffian brought back?” demanded the
provoked commodore of his sister, as they stood together beside the
sleeper.

“I have told you the reason,” said the lady—“that Emolyn shall be
satisfied.”




                             CHAPTER XXXII
                           THE TRAMP’S STORY

                   Of most disastrous chances,
               Of moving accidents by flood and field,
               Of being taken by the insolent foe
               And sold to slavery.
                                             SHAKESPEARE.


“Better so,” sighed the poor tramp to himself, as, when ejected from the
study, he paused in the front hall, which happened for the moment to be
deserted. “Yes, better so. I came too suddenly upon them, and they had
not got my letter. I did not mean to shock them so; but what did that
blundering negro mean by springing me upon them in that startling
manner? He told me there was no one in the study. Well, possibly he
thought so. It can’t be helped now. I must be patient, though it seems
harder to wait minutes now than it was to wait years in the hopeless
past.”

Then instead of leaving the house, as the commodore had peremptorily
commanded him to do, the “cut-throat” threw himself down into a chair,
dropped his hat by his side, and stretched out his limbs with the air of
a man who meant to remain and make himself at home, while he continued
his mental soliloquy:

“The man I met on the road and questioned about the family told me there
was an old Dr. Willet on a visit here—our old family physician, of
course. If I could only catch sight of him now and make myself known, I
could procure a decent suit of clothes before presenting myself to any
one else. But would he recognize me? ‘Ay, there’s the rub.’ The old man
did not; but then his sight is dimmed by age. Ah, he has grown very aged
since I saw him last—more aged even than his years would warrant—not in
temper, though! Whew! what a fury he was in when he turned me out! He
would have hurled a chair at me and broken my head if I had hesitated
another moment! It was hard to go and leave her fainting there, but I
know to have stayed would have made matters so much worse, even for her.
How lovely she looked! Yet colorless as marble, with the traces of
sorrow on her beautiful face! _She_ recognized me, my love! my
own——Hallo, who comes here? Some one who will make me welcome or show me
the door?” asked the tramp to himself as he saw a white-haired old
gentleman slowly descending the stairs.

“It is Dr. Willet! He has grown gray since I saw him last, but I should
know that eagle’s beak of a nose of his anywhere under the sun. I’ll
stop him.”

The good physician was about to pass the stranger with a kindly nod when
the latter accosted him:

“Dr. Willet.”

“Well, my friend, what can I do for you?” inquired the kind-hearted
physician, very naturally supposing that his professional services were
required by some poor patient. And he stopped.

“Sir,” said the tramp very gravely, “I wish you, if you please, to look
at me well and tell me if you remember me.”

The doctor, surprised and puzzled by this address, looked long and
wistfully into the face of the stranger, first to see if he could
recognize him, secondly to see if he was mad or drunk.

“Well?” queried the tramp in an anxious tone.

“As far as I can recollect, I never met you in my life before; though I
may have done so in some hospital, where in many years I have treated
many transient patients. Was it there I made your acquaintance?”
inquired the doctor.

“No, I was never in a hospital since I was born, and I was never a
patient of yours, doctor—though, indeed, I believe you were the very
first to introduce me to my nearest relations and friends on the
occasion of my first appearance in this world, some thirty-five years
ago,” said the tramp, with a gleam of that native, irrepressible humor
which years of servitude and sorrow had not been able to extinguish.

The doctor looked at him long and seriously, and then said:

“I am responsible for many such introductions, my friend; though I
cannot be expected to remember the faces of all to whom I officiated as
gentleman usher. But you appear to be in need. Tell me how I can best
help you and I will do so willingly.”

“I am no invalid and no beggar, Dr. Willet! I ask only for recognition.
I can command everything else,” said the tatterdemalion, drawing himself
up with dignity.

“Lord bless my soul alive!” exclaimed the astonished and bewildered
doctor, as he put on his spectacles and looked again at this _strange_
stranger, who looked like a gypsy and talked like a king.

The tramp bore the scrutiny well.

“Come nearer the light, sir,” he said, moving toward the open, sunny
back door.

“Can’t you tell me who you are at once, man? Only mention your name, and
if I ever heard if before it will bring you to my memory,” said Dr.
Willet, as he followed him.

“No, sir; I must not name myself to you. I wish _you_ to do that first.
I wish to test your memory and prove my own identity. Come, sir, I will
stand facing the open door. You will please place yourself in the most
favorable position and examine my features under the full light of the
sun.”

“Lord bless my soul alive, what does it all mean?” again exclaimed Dr.
Willet, as he planted himself within two feet of the stranger, adjusted
his glasses and stared at him.

“Now, sir, be kind enough to look in my eyes, for they change least of
all. And while you do so, I may prompt your memory a little——”

“I am perplexed, but not in despair,” murmured the doctor to himself.

“You knew me from infancy to manhood. Then you lost sight of me,”
continued the tramp.

“Lord—have——” slowly began the doctor, but the words died on his lips as
he stared with reviving recollection of the speaker.

“I am the son of one of the oldest and dearest of your friends——”

“Mercy on——”

“Missing for many years——”

“Our souls!”

“Falsely supposed to have been lost at sea——”

“YOU ARE LONNY BRUCE!” cried the doctor, reeling back as if he had been
shot.

“Yes, I am Lonny Bruce! Now don’t _you_ go and faint—that’s a good
fellow! Brace up!” exclaimed the tramp, with half a laugh.

“Lon—ny Bruce!” reiterated the doctor, as he leaned against the wall
which had stopped him in his backward reel—“Lon—ny Bruce! And you are
really alive?”

“I rather think I am; but are _you really_ sure you recognize me?
Because, you see, if you want any of the proofs usually required on such
occasions—the ripe strawberry on my breast, or the tattooed anchor on my
back, or any other birthmark or branded scar, why, it will be very
awkward, for I haven’t such a thing about me—no, not even so much as a
mole. Nature and Fortune left all that out. So it is extremely important
that you should be able to identify me without their help. Are you sure
you know me now?”

“Yes; I should know you among a thousand,” replied the doctor, who,
still leaning for support against the wall, continued to stare at the
returned exile.

“Could you swear to me if called upon to do so?”

“On a stack of Bibles as high as the Pyramids of Egypt.”

“One will do,” said Lonny.

“But how did you escape? Where have you been these seventeen years? Why
didn’t you come home long ago or write? Have you seen your father?”

“Whist! Whist! for Heaven’s sake! To answer a tithe of your questions,
doctor, would keep me here all day long. Now that you see and know me,
you must perceive that I am in want of everything and everything else.
First and most of all a bath, a barber and a clean shirt. I must be
metamorphosed into a Christian before I present myself again to my old
father, when, it is to be hoped, he will acknowledge his son. And then
in good time, dear friend, I will satisfy your curiosity. Oh! you shall
hear a story as long and as full of adventure as the Arabian Nights
Entertainments! Oh, what a fireside treat you will have this winter if
you stay with us! But come. Are you going to help me?”

The doctor, who had been thinking profoundly while the returned man
spoke, now looked up and asked:

“Why not go to your father just as you are?”

“Like the prodigal son! Lord bless you, so I did! But the old gentleman
didn’t fall on my neck and kiss me worth a cent! He didn’t know me from
the king of the Cannibal Islands! He stormed and threatened me with the
constable and a prison if I did not march double-quick! I obeyed him and
an instinct of self-preservation and left the room. To have remained
another minute would have been unwholesome.”

“Ah! if I were blind, I should know you now for Lonny Bruce! Should know
you from that buoyancy of spirit that no misfortune could repress,” said
the doctor.

“Thanks, but I want my father to know me,” said the tramp.

“Very well, I will try to help you. Come with me,” said the doctor; and
he led the way to the long drawing-room, which was now closed and vacant
and never opened or tenanted except on “high days and holidays.”

“Come in here, where no one will think of intruding on you, and remain
while I go in search of your Cousin Ronald,” said the doctor, as he
opened the door and preceded the stranger into the apartment.

“My Cousin Ronald! What! The little lad I left in the schoolroom when I
went to sea? Is he in the house?” inquired Lonny, with a gleam of
delight in his dark eyes, as he entered the room and dropped into the
nearest easy-chair.

“Yes; but he is not a little lad now, by any manner of means! He is even
a bigger lad than you, if anything. I will send him to you at once. He
will take you to his room and attend to all your wants. Unluckily,
Lonny, I must leave you.”

“Must you? I am sorry. I would like the circle of friends to be complete
to-day,” said Leonidas with a look of disturbance.

“Why, so should I; but I am called to an old patient of mine who is
lying dangerously ill at the Wilderness Manor-house. At the moment you
stopped me I was even then on my way to join the messenger who was
waiting in his wagon to take me away.”

“Oh, indeed, I see that you have no time to spare; so don’t let me
detain you,” said the young man with visible reluctance.

“No, not a moment more even to bestow on such a joyful arrival as yours.
Lord bless my soul! how strange all this is! I never was so unwilling to
obey a professional call in my life. However, I will dispatch Ronald to
you immediately.”

So saying the good doctor hurried out of the drawing-room and upstairs
to the private apartment of Lieutenant Bruce.

Time being too precious to permit much ceremony, he entered without
knocking, and found the young gentleman sitting at his table absorbed in
writing a letter—to Em., most likely, as he was so deeply engaged as not
to be disturbed even by the bustling entrance of the old physician.

“LIEUTENANT!” exclaimed the latter.

“Well, doctor,” cried the young man, starting to his feet. “What news?
Has the lady succeeded in bringing my uncle to reason?”

“The lady is still with your uncle, I believe, though I don’t know. But
I haven’t come about your sweetheart, Ronald, but about something of
more pressing importance; and I haven’t time to break the news, so you
must brace yourself at once for a severe shock. Are you braced?”

“Yes,” answered the young man, turning white as death and setting his
teeth firmly; for he knew not what disastrous stroke he was to be called
upon to bear. “Yes, I am ready.”

“Now, then, think of Alexander Selkirk, Robinson Crusoe, La Parouse,
Captain John Riley, the Swiss Family Robinson, the four Russian Sailors,
the——”

“In the name of Heaven, man, speak!” exclaimed the lieutenant.

“—And Lonny Bruce! there, it’s out!” said the doctor.

“What in the world do you mean?” demanded the young officer, wondering
if the staid old physician, for the first time in his life, had taken a
glass too much.

“Haven’t I told you? Lonny Bruce has come home.”

“WHAT!” cried Ronald, starting to his feet.

“Lonny Bruce, so long supposed to have been lost at sea, has come home,
safe and sound, as many a missing man has done before him!” repeated the
doctor.

Ronald stared as if his eyes would have started from their sockets.

“Do you hear me? Can’t you take it in yet? I tell you Lonny Bruce has
come home! He is in this house at this present time; I have seen him and
spoken with him.”

“Do I——”

“Yes, you do. You hear exactly right!” exclaimed the doctor, impatiently
interrupting the bewildered speaker. “You are not dreaming nor are you
mad; neither am I! You are wide awake and in your right mind, and so am
I who tell you all this strange news. Now listen, Ronald Bruce, for I
have got to hurry off to old Nancy Whitlock, who is in extremity. John
Palmer has been waiting to take me to the Wilderness in his wagon for
half an hour or more, so I have no time for further explanation. Lonny
Bruce is below. No one except you and myself dreams of his presence in
the house. You will find him in the long drawing-room needing all sorts
of attention. Rouse yourself! Go to him! Rise to the occasion, man!”

So saying the doctor hurried off, leaving the young lieutenant standing
there in a state of stupefaction from which indeed he found it difficult
to rise.

The rumbling of the wagon wheels that carried the doctor off was the
first sound that broke the spell that bound him.

Then he started like one awakened from a dream, walked downstairs and
opened the door leading into the long drawing-room.

The place was half dark, for all the window shutters were closed; so the
young lieutenant walked in slowly, peering curiously to the right and
left.




                             CHAPTER XXXIII
                                WELCOME

                    “Oh, it fills my soul with joy
                    To greet my friends once more.”


“Here I am! Here is your disreputable-looking cousin! I had better
proclaim my name and rank, lest the good doctor has not prepared you to
meet a ragamuffin!” said a voice from a remote corner as tall and
shadowy figure arose and emerged from the darkness.

The lieutenant threw open a window-shutter, let in a flood of light, and
turned at once to meet his kinsman.

“You are Leonidas Bruce! Welcome! It seems incredible—impossible! but
you _are_ Leonidas Bruce! I know you at once by your eyes and smile.
Welcome! Welcome! Thank Heaven, you have lived to come back to us,
though at so late a day, and like one from the grave. Welcome! Welcome!
Welcome!” exclaimed Ronald Bruce as he heartily shook both his cousin’s
hands. If he had been of any other Christian nation than English or
American he would have embraced and kissed his restored kinsman. But his
greeting was felt to be sufficiently heartful.

Tears sprang to Lonny’s eyes. For a few moments he could not speak at
all. Then he said, with much emotion:

“You are the very first who has welcomed me home, warmly and without
doubt. My father drove me from his presence. One nearer and dearer
fainted at the sight of me. Good Dr. Willet mistook me for a beggar and
offered me alms. Only _you_ knew me and welcome me at once. But are you
quite _sure_ you know me?” inquired Lonny with morbid and touching
anxiety.

“Quite sure. I never forget a face. Besides, your portrait, taken just
before you went away, has been familiar to me from boyhood up; and you
have not changed so much from that.”

“But my father did not know me at all.”

“His sight is very dim; besides, he was not prepared to expect you, as I
was.”

“Dr. Willet did not know me at first, though he recognized me
afterwards.”

“His vision is also somewhat impaired by age, though not so much as your
father’s, and, besides, _he_ did not expect to see you, either, as I
did.”

“I wrote from Marseilles; but it seems my letter never came to hand.”

“The foreign mails are notoriously irregular; so are the country mails;
between them both your letter has been delayed or miscarried. But come,
Lonny! Though I am devoured with curiosity, I will not ask you a single
question, for you seem to be in urgent need of rest and refreshment,”
said Ronald Bruce, turning toward the door.

“Stay! Stay! If by refreshment you mean food, I do not require any. I
got a substantial meal from a hospitable farmer on the Grey Rock Road.
What I do need, as I explained to Dr. Willet, is a bath, a barber, and a
fresh suit of clothes.”

“You shall have them all as expeditiously as possible.”

“Take me to your own room. You are at home here, I suppose.”

“Yes; so are you; though the folks don’t know it as yet. But come with
me, so that I can attend to your wants.”

Lonny turned to follow his cousin.

Just as they were about to pass into the hall Ronald saw his Aunt
Margaret descend the stairs and pass into the little green study. He
held Lonny back until she had disappeared.

“That was our aunt. I did not want her to see you. No one must see you
till you are dressed. Come now,” said Ronald as he led the way upstairs.

Just as they passed into the lieutenant’s room a door on the opposite
side opened and Mrs. Bruce came out and crossed the hall.

“That was my mother. Now we are safe from observation at last,” said
Ronald as he closed the door.

These were the only risks they ran of discovery.

As soon as they found themselves alone, Ronald turned to his cousin and
said:

“I know you do not wish to be seen by any one, not even by a servant,
until you are transfigured and renewed.”

“No, indeed,” replied Lonny earnestly.

“All right; then I will lock the door and be your valet myself!” said
Ronald as he went and turned the key in the door.

“Now look in here, Lonny,” he continued, opening an inner door. “Here is
a bathroom, with every possible convenience for the toilet. Go in there
and make ready, while I lay out your clothes. I am a little larger than
you, but I guess mine will do for the present. Stay, however, I have a
thought!”

“What is it?” inquired Lonny.

“An inspiration, my dear fellow!”

“Of what description?”

“You shall hear anon.”

And with these words Ronald unlocked the door and passed out, carefully
closing it behind him.

Lonny threw himself into a chair and waited, wondering whether he or his
friends were more eccentric than the rest of the world.

His wonder was not lessened when Ronald reappeared, lugging in that
life-sized portrait of Lonny that had been taken in his midshipman’s
uniform, just before he went to sea.

Ronald locked the door carefully and then stood the picture on the
floor, leaning against it, and said:

“Do you know that boy?”

“I _used_ to know him some seventeen years ago, and a sad dog he was, to
be sure! He came to no good, I dare say,” replied Lonny with a rueful
smile.

“Well, _that_,” said the lieutenant, rapping on the canvas, “was the
last his friends saw of him, was it not?”

“Yes.”

“Well, _this_,” said Ronald, again rapping the canvas—“or something very
_like_ this, must be the first his friends see of him again! In other
words, Lonny Bruce, you must dress to match your portrait of seventeen
years ago, so that your friends may know you at a glance. Do you
understand?”

“Yes, but it will be difficult.”

“Not at all! Listen now. I have the recipe, the pattern, the programme,
all cut, dried, and laid out! After you have had your bath and put on
fresh underclothing, we must take the plantation barber so far into our
confidence as to let him cut and shave that bandit-like black beard of
yours, and trim those unkempt elf locks into civilized proportions. Then
you must put on my last midshipman’s uniform, which is quite new and
fresh, and which, having been discarded by me two years ago, when I was
promoted, will probably fit you perfectly.”

“And so, when that toilet is completed, I shall come forth a new,
revised, and improved edition of the Midshipman Lonny Bruce of seventeen
years ago?”

“Exactly.”

“An excellent idea! Thanks, Ronald! I am impatient to act upon it. My
father will be sure to recognize me now,” said Lonny.

“All right,” laughed Ronald.

He then proceeded to open his wardrobe and bureau and to lay out from
them all necessary articles of apparel required by the wanderer. Lastly,
he unlocked a lumber closet and took from its peg the midshipman’s
uniform.

All these things he lifted in his arms and conveyed into the
communicating bathroom, saying as he came out: “Now all is ready for you
in there, Lonny. Go in and get ready. I will go down and send the barber
up here to you, with directions to wait in this room until you want him.
Then I will go and find your father and break the news of your return to
him. But, for Heaven’s sake, Lonny, do not leave this apartment until I
come back for you.”

“Of course I will not,” replied the latter.

Lieutenant Bruce then left the room and went slowly down the stairs,
asking himself how on earth he should ever be able to tell the commodore
without killing him.

In the hall below he met his own servant, and to him he said:

“Timothy, go and find the barber, and take him to my room, and tell him
to wait there until he is called. There is a gentleman there who will
require his services.”

“Yes, sir. Did you hear, sir, about the robber what broke inter de house
dis morning and drawed a pistol on Marse Commodore in de little green
study, and scared one of de ladies into fainty fits, and jumped clear
through de glass windy, and made off before any one could catch him?”

“Oh! yes, I heard all about him,” replied the young gentleman, smiling
to himself to see how the poor tramp’s adventure had grown in the
telling.

“We libs in awful times, marster,” added the man, who seemed inclined to
linger.

“We do, indeed. But now run and find the barber. Yet, stay a moment.
Where is the commodore?”

“He been tending to de fainty lady ’til jes’ dis minute, when he went to
de liberary to ’ceive de mail-bag, which de mail-boy have jes’ fotched
in.”

“Very well. I shall find him there. Now run on your errand.”

The boy obeyed, but the lieutenant stood still, ruminating how he could
ever with safety break to the long bereaved old father the news of his
son’s return, and praying that it might be given him in that hour what
to speak.

“I have it!” he said to himself at length. “I have it! The mail has just
come in with the Washington and Richmond papers! I will go in and take
up one and offer to read it to him. I will then pretend to read the
heading of an article: ‘Remarkable Return to Life.’ ‘Reappearance of a
young man long supposed to have been lost at sea.’

“And then I’ll read a rigmarole about somebody, or rather nobody, that
shall resemble Lonny’s arrival, and so prepare the old man’s mind to
hear the fact, by presenting the possibility of such a thing. Bah! I
know it will throw him in a fit, all the same,” concluded the poor
lieutenant as he opened the library door and went in.

He found the old commodore seated in his big arm-chair at the table,
holding an open letter in his shaking hand and staring at it with
starting eyes.

The young man saw, as by a flash of lightning, what had occurred. The
commodore held in his hand the long-delayed letter from Marseilles,
referred to by poor Lonny, announcing his existence and intended return.

No need of breaking news here.

“Ronald! For Heaven’s sake, look at this!” exclaimed Commodore Bruce as
soon as he saw his nephew. The lieutenant, instead of immediately
complying with his uncle’s request, went to the buffet, poured out a
glass of cognac, and took it to the old man, who received it with a
trembling hand and drank it at a draught.

“Ronald! Ronald! You are shocked to see me in this state; but if you
knew the contents of this letter you would wonder you had not found me
stone dead in my chair, struck by a lightning flash of joy! Ronald! You
may marry the girl you love now! You may do anything in the world you
like to make yourself happy! I would all the world were as happy as I am
now! There! Read the letter. I—read it!”

He stopped, for he was tremendously agitated.

The lieutenant took the letter. It was short and crudely written, as by
a hand long unaccustomed to the use of the pen. It was dated Marseilles,
September 1st, and it told, in a few brief words, of the wreck of the U.
S. frigate _Eagle_ on the coast of Africa seventeen years before; of the
loss of all the officers and crew, with the exception of the writer, who
was rescued by the natives and carried captive into the interior, where
he had long remained; of his flight to the seacoast after many
ineffectual efforts; of his escape on board of a French ship, and his
voyage to Marseilles; of his failure to find friends who would listen to
or believe a story that he could not prove; and finally of his being
obliged to work his passage home on board of a Baltimore clipper, which
would sail in a few days.

While Ronald Bruce read this letter the commodore, recovering his voice,
was pouring forth his emotions in a torrent of exclamations.

“He was to follow the letter by the next ship, you see! In a few days!
The date of that letter is old! It has been delayed! It was sent first
to the Navy Department at Washington, then forwarded here! Good Heaven,
to think of it! Even the consul at Marseilles discredited his story! A
half-naked vagabond, picked up by a French ship on the coast of Africa
and clothed by the humanity of the crew. Obliged to work his passage
home! It is my son, Lonny, that I am talk of, Ronald—do you understand?
My son, Lonny Bruce, who was falsely supposed to have been lost at sea
seventeen years ago!”

“Yes, yes, dear sir, I quite understand. I am reading his letter,” said
the young man, trying to comprehend through the confusion what he was
reading.

“He will be here soon—very soon! Those Baltimore clippers are fast
sailers. He will go to Washington first—to the Navy Department—to find
out where I am. Then he will post here!”

The impetuous torrent of language poured forth by the old man in his
excessive excitement made it almost impossible for the young lieutenant
to get in his word “edgeways;” but at length he had an opportunity of
saying:

“If Lonny has neither money nor friends he may have to _tramp_ all the
way from Baltimore to Washington, and from Washington here.”

“So he may, poor dear fellow,” said the commodore musingly.

“By the way, did not that strange _tramp_ who came here this morning say
something about a letter from Marseilles which should have preceded
him?” inquired Ronald meaningly.

The old man started, looked keenly at the younger one for a moment, then
doubling his fist and bringing it down upon the table, he smote it
smartly, exclaiming:

“What an idiot! What a monster I have been! He was my Lonny! And _she_
knew him! Oh! it is all clear enough now! What a jolter-headed beast I
have been! No wonder strangers discredited his story when his own father
disowned him!”

“Do not reproach yourself, sir! Not dreaming of seeing your son, how
should you have known him after so many years and in that strange
dress?”

“By nature, sir! By nature, if I had not been an unnatural monster!”
cried the commodore, springing up and striking out for the bell rope.

“What are you about to do?” inquired Ronald, intercepting him.

“Ring up the whole house and start them in pursuit of him.”

“I thought that had been already tried without success.”

“True, true,” said the commodore, sinking back in his seat. “He could
not be found. He has taken a temporary shelter in some farmer’s house,
doubtless. But he will come back before night. He could never imagine
that I would deny _him_!”

“No, never; and I dare say he never even left the house at all, but is
waiting in some vacant room for a good chance to make himself known.”

“Nothing more likely!” exclaimed the commodore, standing up again. “They
have looked for him too far away. They have _over_looked him. They
should have sought him nearer at hand.” And so saying he went for the
bell.

“Stay! do not call a servant! Let me go and institute a search,” said
the lieutenant.

“Yes, thanks, that is better,” agreed the old man.

Ronald Bruce left the library and flew, bound beyond bound, up the
stairs to the chamber where he had left Lonny.

He found the “tramp” washed, combed, shaved, trimmed, dressed, and
looking not like the original of his portrait, but like the elder
brother of the original.

The plantation barber, having finished his work, had left the room.

“Come,” said Ronald, “he is waiting to see you. No preparation was
needed; I found him reading your letter, which had just arrived. Come.”

Lonny joined his cousin at once, and both, with beating hearts, went
below.

“Go in alone. I cannot intrude on such a meeting,” whispered Ronald
Bruce as they reached the door.

Lonny passed into the library.

The commodore stood in the middle of the room, with a look of expectancy
on his aged face.

“Father!” exclaimed Lonny, hastening towards him.

The old man started forward and caught his son to his heart, exclaiming:

“Lonny! Lonny! My son! My son! Oh, joy!”




                             CHAPTER XXXIV
                             FATHER AND SON

          And doth not a meeting like this make amends
            For all the long years I’ve been wandering away?
          To see thus around me my youth’s early friends,
            As smiling and kind as in that happy day?
          Tho’ surely, o’er some of your brows, as o’er mine,
            The snow-fall of life may be stealing—what then?
          Like Alps in the sunset, new lighted, in fine,
            We’ll wear the warm hue of youth’s roses again.
                                                         ANON.


The silence of unutterable emotion fell upon the father and son for a
few moments, and then the old man held the younger one off at arm’s
length and gazed wistfully into his face, saying, as he slowly shook his
white head:

“You are not so much changed since I saw you last on the day you sailed
on that disastrous voyage, my boy; not so much changed, after all.
Somewhat taller and gaunter in form, darker in complexion, and older in
aspect than formerly, but not so much as might have been expected after
seventeen years of captivity among barbarians. I am more changed than
you are, my son. Ah! I have grown very aged in the long years of your
absence and supposed death, Lonny.”

“Yes, father, you and I are both traveling towards—eternal youth.”

“And your mother, Lonny—your mother——”

Here the old man’s voice became choked with emotion.

“Don’t, father, don’t. I heard all that in the city. Strangers to me,
who would not credit my story, yet remembered—could tell me—how——”

Here Lonny’s voice broke down.

“She could not survive the news of that fatal week,” said the commodore,
struggling for self-command. “She could not live to see this day,
Lonny.”

“Don’t, father, don’t! Don’t say that! We know, when we _think_ about
it, that she _has_ lived to see this day, though from a higher sphere.
She has lived in heaven these many years! Father, we _must_ believe
that, because she was so good. And we shall find her there in good time
if we, too, lead good lives! And now, dear sir, tell me of—of Emolyn.”

“Your wife?”

“Yes, my wife! You know it, then? She has told you? I thought so when I
saw her with you, but I was not sure, so I spoke very cautiously of her
to my Cousin Ronald.”

“Yes, she told me,” admitted the commodore, but he did not add how very
recently Emolyn had made her appearance and taken him into her
confidence. To have done so would have involved too much explanation for
the moment.

“How is she and where is she now? I left her fainting. It was hard to do
so——”

“But you could not help yourself, as I was in such a blind fury that I
took you for a ruffian who had frightened her half to death, and so I
ordered you off, and of course to have persisted in staying would have
made matters much worse for the fainting woman.”

“Yes, but how is she and where is she at this moment? I am most anxious
to see her. She recognized me, you know.”

“Yes, and when she recovered from her swoon she became so wild, and
excitable, and reproached us so bitterly for letting you go, and urged
us so strenuously to fetch you back, calling you always ‘him,’ and never
using your name, that we thought her hysterical or delirious, and so
your good aunt gave her a dose of morphia in a glass of port wine to
compose her nerves. I left her sleeping under the influence of the
opiate. You can come to her room, Lonny, and sit by her bed and wait for
her awakening; it cannot be far off now.”

“Thank you, father, I will do so. Naturally, I wish to see and speak
with _her_ before I do with anybody else,” said the younger man, rising.

The commodore got up and led the way towards Emolyn’s chamber.

In crossing the hall he encountered his nephew, Ronald Bruce, and
immediately stopped and hailed him in a loud voice, saying:

“Come here, you young scapegrace! I have got an errand for you! One
suited to your vagrant mind!”

Ronald came, smiling, and stood before his uncle, cap in hand.

“The Lady of Edengarden cannot leave her room to-day; nor must her young
companion, Miss Palmer, be left alone or with only colored servants on
the island. Take the boat, therefore, and go to Edengarden, see the
young lady, give my respects to her and ask her, in my name, if she will
do us the favor to return with you and join her friend here, who is too
much indisposed at present to leave The Breezes. And—tell her anything
else you like, for I will not go back on my promise, do you hear, you
mutinous young dog?”

“I hear. ‘And to hear is to obey,’” said the lieutenant, laughing, as he
bowed and bounded away to order his boat.

“And pray who is the Lady of Edengarden?” inquired Lonny as they walked
on.

“Your Emolyn. The country people gave her this fantastic title because
she has the most beautiful island home ever seen out of Paradise. It is
near this place.”

“And has Ronald a little love affair on the premises, as I should judge
from your manner to him?”

“Oh, yes! An innocent little love idyl with this lady’s adopted child,
protégée, or pet, whichever she may be called—a love idyl against which
I set my face for a whole summer, and for no other reason than the girl
is Ronald’s inferior in birth and fortune, for in almost everything else
she is his superior—I can tell you that.”

“She must be an excellent girl to have won such favor from Emolyn,” said
Leonidas Bruce thoughtfully.

“Yes; but notwithstanding all that, I had set my face against the
affair, both for the reasons I have explained—her want of rank and
fortune—and also because I wished to bring about a marriage between
Ronald Bruce and his Cousin Hermia, who, failing you, would have been my
co-heirs. But, bless you, the mutinous young dog would have defied me,
and disinherited himself, by marrying the girl long ago, if it had not
happened that her father was too proud to permit his daughter to marry
into a family where she was not wanted, and the girl herself was too
pious to disobey her father. So, you see, the whole affair turned upon
the pivot of my will, and the rebellious young rascal was forced to obey
me, whether he would or no. However, in my joy and gratitude at the news
of your arrival, my son, I told the young rebel that he might marry his
love if he wanted to, that I had withdrawn my opposition to his
marriage, and now I have sent him to bring the pretty child here to her
benefactress—your Emolyn. Not much magnanimity in that, however, for now
that your joyful return has changed the face of affairs, so that Ronald
is no longer my heir, of course I have no longer any right to pretend to
control his freedom of action, or even any farther interest in trying to
promote a marriage between him and his cousin. So I withdraw my
opposition to his union with this child, and as her father has now no
excuse for withholding his consent, I suppose he will give it. But
whatever they will have to live on except his pay I don’t know, unless
indeed your Emolyn should choose to endow her adopted child. She could
do so. She is fabulously rich. But here we are at her door. There is no
one but the old colored housekeeper watching her now, so we may enter.”

They went into the room together.

It was in semi-darkness, for the better repose of the sleeper. But the
afternoon sun, shining against the heavy crimson curtains of the front
windows facing the west, threw a deep, somber, ruddy glow over the
richly furnished chamber, and even lent a little color to the marble
face of her who lay in deep repose upon the white bed.

The old commodore went up to the bedside, followed by Lonny.

The colored nurse respectfully arose from her seat, and with a courtesy
yielded her place to her master.

“You may go now, Liddy. I will ring when we want you,” said the latter.

With another courtesy the woman turned and left the room.

“Sit you here yourself, Lonny,” said the commodore, pointing to the
chair by the side of the bed, which had just been vacated by the nurse.

Lonny, who was at that moment standing at the head of the bed gazing
anxiously down on the still, pale face of the sleeper, now almost
breathlessly inquired:

“Is she well, do you think?”

“Perfectly well, and when she wakes she will be prepared to see you;
for, mind you, she had already recognized you, and before we could
induce her to drink that glass of port wine into which your aunt had put
the dose of morphia I had to promise her that you should be sought for
and brought back, though little did we dream who you would turn out to
be when found. So she will really expect to see you when she wakes.
Therefore, all we have to do, Lonny, is to sit here and watch for that
awakening, which cannot be far off. Meantime you can while away the hour
by telling me some of the strange adventures that you must have had out
in the wilds of Africa, or by asking me of anything you wish to know
concerning what has transpired here in your absence.”

“But will our talking disturb Emolyn?”

“No, not at all. We need not talk loud.”

“Will she sleep long?”

“I think not. If she should, we may safely awaken her and give her a cup
of strong coffee,” said the commodore.

Then they settled themselves down for a long talk.

But in all their conversation Commodore Bruce adroitly avoided all
mention of Emolyn’s long and fatal reticence and her terrible trial; for
not in that first day of happy reunion could the father darken the son’s
spirit with the shadow of that long past tragedy.

No. He spoke of Emolyn’s goodness and popularity; of her benefactions to
the poor; of her extensive foreign travels; of her lovely home in
Edengarden; and of her affection for her pretty namesake and lately
adopted daughter, Emolyn Palmer, whose cause she had been pleading, he
said, at the very moment Lonny had surprised them in the study.

“Then my Emolyn will be made as happy by your consent to their marriage
as the young lovers themselves,” said Lonny.

“Quite,” replied the commodore.

But at the end of that interview the long absent, lately returned
husband was left in complete ignorance that a child had been born to
him, and that his wife had kept the secret of their private marriage
during all the long years of his absence and up to within a few hours of
his return.

It was late in the afternoon when Emolyn gave signs of awakening.

The commodore whispered to his son to withdraw for a moment out of her
range of vision.

When Lonny had done so the commodore stooped over Emolyn.

She had awakened calmly, as all sound persons do after an opiate.

“Have you kept your promise to me?” she quietly questioned, fixing her
eyes upon those bent on her.

“Yes, of course. I always keep my promises. Every officer and gentleman
is bound to do so.”

“You have brought Lonny back? Oh, where is he? Why doesn’t he come? Let
me see him at once!” she vehemently exclaimed. “It was cruel! cruel!—it
was _mad_ in you to send him away at all! Why on earth——”

“Because I didn’t know him, child! My eyes are old, and I took him for
a——”

The good commodore had got in so many words “edgeways” while she
continued to speak; but now she vehemently interrupted him with—

“Not know Lonny! Not know your own son! I beg you to forgive me, though,
for all my rudeness. I was so excited—I was almost crazy; but, oh,
please, _please_, bring him to me at once!”

“I will, my dear, I will!” said the old man as he arose from his seat,
beckoned his son to approach and then glided silently out of the room.

Leonidas Bruce went towards his wife.

She had risen on her elbow, and was eagerly watching the door out of
which the commodore had passed. She evidently expected Lonny’s entrance
through that way.

But he came to her from the opposite direction, and said softly:

“Emolyn!”

With a slight cry she started, turned and threw her arms about his neck
as he bent over her.

“Oh, Emolyn, my beloved! This meeting pays us for all—does it not?” he
said as he clasped and pressed her to his heart.

Instead of replying she burst into a storm of tears and sobs, crying
between her gasps:

“Oh, Lonny! Lonny! Oh, Lonny! Lonny!”

She was thinking at this hour of the child she had borne and lost under
such heart-rending, soul-harrowing disasters.

Her husband tried to soothe her. He thought she was crying in memory of
their long separation, which was like the parting by death, as it was
long supposed to be.

“Do not weep so! You will make yourself ill. It _has_ been a long,
dreary, hopeless absence—yes, and silent as the grave; but it is over
now, forever, dearest, and surely you are glad I have come back at ‘long
last?’ This meeting, I repeat it, repays us for all the past.”

“Yes,” she said with a profound sigh.

“And it is over now, dear Emolyn. That first parting and long separation
shall be our last also.”

“Yes,” she sighed.

“We meet now to part no more in this world, until the Lord’s summons
comes for one or the other, or both—I hope it may be for both, Emolyn—to
go ‘up higher.’”

“Yes, I hope it will be ‘for both,’” she added, wiping her eyes and
striving to command herself. She perceived that he had not heard of the
terrible ordeal through which she had passed, and not for the world
would she, any sooner than his father, darken the first day of his
return with the knowledge of the blight that had fallen on her young
life. Later, Lonny should know all—_all!_ but not to-day, no, nor
to-morrow. They must have a little rest before such a revelation.

“But that day of summons and departure is probably far enough off for
both of us, dear Emolyn. We are both young yet. Remember, we married
when we were children. You a little over fifteen, I eighteen. Just
seventeen years and a half have passed. You are not yet quite
thirty-three. I no more than thirty-five. Why, unmarried people at that
age pass for young ladies and gentlemen! We have a long time yet to live
and love, even in this world, dear Lynny.”

“Yes,” she said, smiling.




                              CHAPTER XXXV
                            A SUDDEN SUMMONS

                                     Prythee, say on;
             The setting of thine eye and cheek proclaim
             A matter of moment.
                           I go, I go; look how I go;
             Swifter than arrow from the Tartar’s bow.
                                               SHAKESPEARE.


While the happy reunited pair spoke of future hopes and plans, Commodore
Bruce passed off to the long drawing-room, rang for his servant and sent
the man first, to go in turn to every member of the family and request
each one to come thither, and then to call every domestic in the house
to the presence of the master.

While waiting for his orders to be obeyed the old commodore walked
slowly up and down the floor, muttering to himself:

“I dare say one-half of them already know the whole truth, and the other
half shrewdly suspect it! However, I must make the announcement all the
same, I suppose.”

In a few moments the ladies of the family began to drop in. First came
Mrs. Catherine Bruce and Hermia; next Mrs. Warde and Belinda.

The commodore requested them to sit down and wait for a few minutes
longer.

At length the household servants came, with faces full of interest and
curiosity.

The old gentleman’s conjecture as to their knowledge and their
suspicions was about half right. The crowd before him knew that
something extraordinary, connected with a tramp, had occurred; but they
were far from knowing what it really was.

They stood now, eagerly waiting for the master of the house to enlighten
them.

Commodore Bruce did this in a very few words:

“I have to announce to you joyful intelligence. My son, Mr. Leonidas
Bruce, long supposed to have been lost in the wreck of the United States
ship _Eagle_, has returned unexpectedly to-day. He is now in this house,
as is also his wife, Emolyn, whom you have all heard of as the Lady of
Edengarden. They are to remain here, I hope. Those among you who
remember Mr. Bruce in his boyhood shall have an opportunity of shaking
hands with him after dinner. Later you shall hear more. This is all I
have to tell you. No! no demonstrations—not even congratulations yet! I
will have none—I——”

But before the commodore could utter another word every arm went waving
aloft over every head, and a unanimous—

“Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!” burst from the crowd of servants.

“As if it were reasonable, or even possible, to prevent that!” whispered
his sister Margaret, laying her hand soothingly on the arm of the
exasperated commodore.

The old man swallowed his rising wrath and merely said to the offenders:

“Now, every man among you go quietly away to your duties! Next
Thursday—a week from to-day—being Hallow Eve, you shall all have a
thundering blow-out in honor of this joyful occasion! No! No more
hurrahing, you villains! If there should be——”

“Hurrah! Hurrah!! Hurrah!!!”

“Begone!” said the commodore with a stamp.

And they hurried away, making the welkin ring as they went with:

“Hurrah! Hurrah!! Hurrah!!!”

“You really cannot expect anything else, and you should not blame them,”
said Mrs. Templeton, the peacemaker.

The commodore relieved his feelings by striking his thick cane down
heavily upon the floor.

“But, now that the servants are gone, uncle, for Heaven’s sake tell _us_
all about this wonderful return,” exclaimed Hermia.

“Yes, pray do!” chorused all the other ladies.

The old man looked at them mockingly for a space, and then said bluntly:

“I WON’T! I have had excitement enough for one day, and now I am going
to my room to smoke. You’ll all see Lonny and his wife at dinner. Yet
stay—in this connection I would add that the young girl, Emolyn Palmer,
who was our inmate a few weeks ago, is now the cherished pet of the Lady
of Edengarden, in consideration of which I have sent for her to come and
join us at dinner, and she will probably remain our guest as long as her
benefactress is pleased to stay. Now pray ask no more questions, my
dear, for I have no more explanations to make at present. Mrs. Warde,
you look pale. I hope you are not indisposed.”

“Thanks, no; I am as well as usual,” answered the widow in a constrained
voice.

“I am glad to hear it. I want every one to feel well on this happy day.
Ladies, in good time you _shall_ hear ‘all about it;’ but for the
present I must leave you and seek needful repose.”

And so saying, with his ceremonious old bow, the commodore left the
room.

Mrs. Warde stepped away to hide her agitation that the news of Lonny’s
return and the mention of his wife’s name had raised in her conscious
soul.

The other ladies remained for a few minutes, talking over the
extraordinary event of the day, and then separated to go to their rooms
and prepare a special toilet for the occasion.

Meanwhile Commodore Bruce had sought the refuge of his library, dropped
with a sigh of relief into his easy-chair, and delivered himself to
repose.

But his rest was of short duration. He had set too many wires in motion
that day to be left long in quietness. He was soon interrupted by the
entrance of Ronald with Em., just arrived from Edengarden.

They both entered the room looking so innocently and frankly happy that
the old man could not but receive them very cordially.

“Well, Ronald, I never knew you to do an errand so quickly in all the
days of my life before. I commend you, my lad,” he said in good-humored
raillery of the young lover.

Then, holding out his hand to Em., he smiled on her, saying:

“Come hither, my child, and kiss me. Now, am I not a good-natured old
muff to let that young coxcomb have you, when I am so fond of you
myself?” he continued, as he put his arm around her waist and drew her
to his side in a fatherly embrace. “Say, am I not very, _very_ good to
the young puppy?”

“You are ‘very, very good’ to _me_, sir,” said Em., raising his withered
hand to her lips.

“To _him_, miss, to _him_. As for you, I do not know but that I am doing
you a mischief in consenting to this marriage. But, there, I have
consented and shall not retract. I suppose that fellow has told you so,
and also everything else that has happened here to-day?”

“Oh, yes, sir, and I am so glad and thankful that your son has returned.
Oh! if I could only _tell_ you how glad and thankful,” earnestly
exclaimed Em. as the tears rushed to her eyes.

“_That_ tells _me_! And now I have something else to tell you. This
dear, only son of mine is also the beloved husband of your benefactress,
Em.—of your lovely Lady of Edengarden, Ronald!” exclaimed the commodore.

Both the young people opened their eyes in astonishment, and would have
opened their lips in inquiry had not the commodore prevented them by
nervously exclaiming:

“No questions! No comments! You will find out everything in time. Ring
the bell, Ronald.”

The young man silently obeyed.

The hall footman appeared.

“Send the girl Liza here,” said the old man.

In a few moments the girl appeared.

“You waited on Miss Palmer when she was here before, did you not?”
inquired her master.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then show this young lady to the best spare room in the house, and make
her comfortable,” said the commodore.

Em. kissed the old man’s hand and followed the girl.

“Now, my lad, do you also go about your business! I expect to have a row
with your mother about consenting to this marriage; but I guess I know
how to persuade _her_. And now I must smoke my pipe in peace.”

“And doze, if you can, uncle! Indeed, I hope you will,” said Ronald as
he turned to leave the room.

“There’s but little time left for _that_ before dinner,” muttered the
commodore as he settled for a nap.

As Em. went upstairs, attended by Liza, she asked the girl:

“Don’t you think I might have the room in the attic that I had before?”

“Surely, Miss Em., if you refers dat one; but dere’s heap betters.”

“I prefer that one.”

“Now, ain’t dat so funny!” exclaimed the girl.

“What funny? My preferring the attic chamber to a finer one?” inquired
the guest.

“No, Miss Em., not dat; but I’ll jes’ tell you. It _was_ funny. Why,
Miss Em., when you went away so suddint I did feel so lonesome ’dout you
dat I mos’ cried my eyes out. And den I cleaned up your room, and
cleaned out de fireplace, and piled shavin’s and pine cones and pine
sticks and hickory logs inter it, ready to light a fire at a minute’s
warning, ’caze I ax myself maybe if I keeps de room ready for her it
will work on de sperrits in some ’sterious way so she may come back!
And, sure ’nough, here you is, and your room all ready for you. It _is_
funny. Come in, Miss Em.,” concluded Liza, for they had now reached the
attic landing and the chamber door.

Liza entered first, took a match from the mantelpiece and lighted the
combustibles under the hickory sticks across the andirons, and soon had
a bright, blazing fire.

Then she took Em.’s traveling-bag from her hands and began to unbutton
her waterproof, which was fastened from her neck to her feet.

When this was done Em. threw off her cloak and unpinned a looped skirt
and shook it down, and appeared in a simple but elegant blue silk dress,
trimmed on the bosom and sleeves with pure Valenciennes lace.

“Why, Miss EM.!” cried the little maid in glad surprise. “If that ain’t
jes’ like Cinderella!”

“Lieutenant Bruce told me there was to be company at dinner, and so I
put on the best dress I owned—a present from my benefactress—to grace
it,” she explained as she went to the glass to rearrange her golden
auburn hair.

“Let me run to the deservatory for some white roses, Miss Em., one for
your head an’ one for your breas’. I won’t be gone long!” exclaimed
Liza, dashing out of the room without waiting for an answer.

She soon returned, bringing a bunch of fresh, half-open white roses,
which Em., after thanking the girl warmly, arranged in her hair and on
her bosom.

She had just put these finishing touches to her toilet when the
dinner-bell rang.

“That’s the last bell, Miss Em. The first one rang half an hour ago,
’fore you ’rived, I reckon,” said Liza.

“I am quite ready,” said the young lady as she passed out of the room
and went downstairs.

On entering the drawing-room she found the family assembled there. A
group near the upper end fixed her attention.

A tall, dark, handsome man, whom she instantly recognized by his
portrait to be Leonidas Bruce, stood with the Lady of Edengarden leaning
on his arm. Near them stood Commodore Bruce and his sister. Not far off
were all the other members of the family circle.

As Em. entered her benefactress dropped the arm of the gentleman on whom
she had been leaning and advanced to meet her youthful protégée.

“Come, my love, you have heard how happy we are all rendered by Mr.
Bruce’s return. I wish to present you to him,” said the lady as she drew
the girl’s arm within her own and led her straight up to the gentleman.

“This is my dear young friend, Emolyn Palmer, Mr. Bruce, and I know you
will love her for her own sake as well as for mine.”

“She is enough like you to be your sister. I am very glad to see her,”
replied Lonny as he offered his hand to the timid child before him.

“I hope you will let me say how rejoiced I am at your return and at your
happiness,” said Em. shyly.

“Thank you, my dear girl. I hope you will be as happy with us both as
you have been with your friend here.”

“Oh, indeed I _know_ I shall be even much happier,” replied the girl;
and if she could have spoken her whole thoughts she would have added:
“For—I do not understand it, but—I love you just as much as I do love
her.”

Em.’s lips did not utter this, but her radiant face said a great deal
more.

Then she received and returned the greetings of the other ladies.

“Well, we are waiting for Dr. Willet and Mrs. Warde,” said the
commodore.

“Dr. Willet has not yet returned from the Wilderness, and Mrs. Warde is
too much indisposed to join us. We need not wait for either,” said Mrs.
Catherine Bruce.

“Very well, then, we won’t! Leonidas, bring Emolyn in to dinner. Ronald,
take Miss Palmer. Catherine, allow me,” said the commodore as he gave
his arm to his sister-in-law and led the way to the dining-room, where
the housekeeper had laid a sumptuous feast in honor of the
newly-arrived.

That was a memorable dinner. Every one enjoyed it, and no one more than
the reunited couple and the young lovers.

When the cloth was removed a few toasts were drunk—to the returned
traveler, to the reunited husband and wife, and finally to the
commodore.

When the ladies rose to leave the table the gentlemen did not, on this
occasion, linger over their wine, but followed them at once to the
drawing-room.

It was nine o’clock, and they were at the height of their enjoyment of
this family reunion when the clatter of a horse’s hoofs was heard
rapidly galloping up the rocky road leading to the gate of the yard.

Before any one could hazard a conjecture on the subject the hall door
was opened and the voice of Dr. Willet heard in excited tones demanding:

“Where is your master?”

The footman was heard to reply:

“In the drawing-room, sir.”

On this Commodore Bruce started up, exclaiming:

“What now?” and he left the room.

He met the doctor full tilt at the door.

“Commodore Bruce, there is not a moment to be lost! I ordered the
carriage as I came through the stable yard!”

“But what is the matter?” demanded the commodore of the excited speaker.

“I have a most startling and important revelation from the dying woman,
Ann Whitlock, who has partly recovered her speech. It is a revelation
that must be received under oath in presence of a magistrate. It is in
your capacity as a justice of the peace that I want you at the bedside
of this dying woman.”

“I will be ready in five minutes,” replied the commodore with his old
martial promptitude.

“And not only yourself, but your son, Leonidas Bruce, his wife, Emolyn,
and the young girl whom we have known only as Em. Palmer.”

“What! Do you mean to say that they must go, too?”

“Yes.”

“But what have _they_ to do with this?”

“Everything! Everything connected with their honor, prosperity and
happiness.”




                             CHAPTER XXXVI
                           A STARTLING STORY

                                 If hearty sorrow
               Be a sufficient ransom for offence,
               I tender it here; I do as truly suffer
               As e’er I did commit.
                                             SHAKESPEARE.


Great was the wonder in the drawing-room when Dr. Willet entered, and
after a sweeping bow that took in the whole circle, went straight up to
Leonidas Bruce and said:

“I am really sorry to break up this ‘goodlie companie,’ but ‘necessity
has no law,’ and this particular case admits of no compromise. Mr.
Bruce, I am here to ask you, your wife, and this young lady, Miss
Emolyn, to come with me to the deathbed of my patient.”

“Who is it?” inquired the astonished man.

“Mrs. Ann Whitlock, the old woman whom I have been attending for the
last few weeks at the Wilderness Manor-house; the same one to whom I was
so suddenly called again this afternoon.”

“Oh, yes. Well, poor soul, if she is dying, I am sure I’m very sorry for
her; but I can’t help it. I don’t know her the least in the world. Why,
I have but just got home, you see; and I don’t know——”

“Oh, of course you don’t know anything at all about it; but your wife
and this young lady both know the old woman who sends for them to her
deathbed, and as they will not disregard her dying request, perhaps you
will elect to go with them. Your presence is desirable, but not
absolutely necessary.”

“Oh, of course I will go. Since these ladies were acquainted with the
poor old creature I can partly understand her desire to see them,” said
Leonidas Bruce good-naturedly.

“Then, as no time is to be lost, let me entreat the ladies to get ready
for their ride immediately. The carriage is ordered,” said the doctor.

Full of conjecture as to the cause of the summons, Mrs. Bruce arose,
drew Emolyn’s arm within her own, and left the drawing-room.

As the two women separated in the hall, the one to go to the parlor
chamber, the other to go to the attic, Mrs. Bruce noticed that Em.’s
eyes were full of tears.

“What! weeping, my love?” she exclaimed.

“Ah! she was very good to me. Always very good to me,” sighed the girl.

               “‘But the angels weep when a babe is born,
               And sing when an old man dies.’

You should not weep for the death of the aged, my dear. What can she
want with us, Em.? Ah! I understand how she may want you; but _me_? Long
ago she nursed my uncle, it is true, yet I scarcely ever knew her.”

“I think, dear lady, that, as she knows you have me, she only wishes to
see us both together, and perhaps commend me to your kindness. She
_need_ not do that, of course, but she was always _very_ good to me.”

“That is it!” exclaimed the lady, and then she hurried off to her room,
while Em. ran up to the attic.

In the meantime the ladies left in the drawing-room, Mrs. Catherine
Bruce, and Miss Belinda Warde, came around to Dr. Willet for an
explanation of this sudden night summons.

The good physician parried their questions as politely as he could, and
was still evading them when the door opened and Commodore Bruce came in,
all booted and spurred for riding, and exclaimed:

“Well, doctor, I am ready, you see! As you have ridden so much to-day I
shall give you my seat in the carriage, old friend, and take your horse.
No, now! Not one word of objection! I will have it so. Besides, I have
ordered a second horse for Leonidas, so that I and my son may trot side
by side, as we used to do when I was younger and he was smaller,” added
the commodore as he drew on his gloves.

As he spoke Leonidas Bruce, equipped for riding, accompanied by his
cousin, Ronald, re-entered the room.

The two ladies soon followed—Mrs. Leonidas Bruce in the dress she had
worn on her short journey from Edengarden to The Breezes, and Em. in her
boat cloak and hood.

“Well, we are all ready, I believe?” inquired the doctor.

The other members of the party assented, and after bidding good-evening
to the three ladies and the one gentleman left behind, they went out the
front door to the place where the carriage and the saddle horses were
awaiting them.

Dr. Willet handed the two ladies into the carriage, then followed and
took his seat at their side.

Leonidas Bruce assisted his father to mount his horse, then leaped into
his own saddle and rode after the carriage, which had already started.

The commodore was soon by his son’s side.

And so they wound down the road leading down the mountainside and
through the forest to the back road, and thence to the Wilderness
Manor-house.

There was no moon, but the sky was perfectly clear, and the innumerable
stars shone with a sparkling brilliancy that compensated for her
absence.

The three passengers in the carriage spoke but little. Dr. Willet went
to sleep. It was very rude of him to do so, but he was aged and tired.
Mrs. Leonidas Bruce was absorbed in reverie. Em. was silently weeping
and stealthily wiping away her tears. Em. had scarcely realized how much
she loved the uncouth old creature who had been her nurse and companion
all her young life and until within a few weeks. Yet these were tears of
tender compassion rather than of bitter sorrow; tears, too, which Em.’s
cheerful faith taught her were more natural than rational, since “death
is but an orderly step in life,” and to die out of this sphere is to be
born in a higher one.

The two men enjoyed _their_ ride. Neither of them took any more than a
kindly interest in the dying woman they were going to see, so they
talked of everything else than of her—of Lonny’s shipwreck, and rescue,
and capture; of his experiences in the long years of his captivity; of
his flight and escape, and his voyage home on the French ship, etc.,
etc., etc.

All these adventures Lonny had already related. But now, at his father’s
request, he went over them again, as he was destined many times to
repeat them at intervals for his father, his father’s friends and—their
friends, for many years to come.

It was ten o’clock when they drew near a pile of dark buildings in the
valley below them, which they recognized as the Wilderness Manor.

In a few minutes they were at the gates opening into the back courtyard
under the shadow of the mountain, this being the nearer approach to the
house from the direction of The Breezes.

Here John Palmer and his boys waited to receive them.

John led the party up to the house, while the boys took away the horses
to the rear stables.

At the door of the house Susan Palmer received her late visitors.

She had been prepared by Dr. Willet, who had informed her of the
unexpected return of the long missing Leonidas Bruce, so she showed no
surprise at his appearance, and under the serious circumstances gave him
only the general welcome extended to the whole party.

“Walk in here, ladies and gentlemen,” she said, opening the door of a
well-warmed and lighted parlor, where a fine fire of hickory logs blazed
in the broad fireplace, and two tall “mold” candles, in taller brass
candlesticks, stood on the high mantel-shelf.

“Please sit down and make yourselves comfortable, while I take Em. up to
see the poor soul, for so she desired me to do first of all,” added Mrs.
Palmer as she placed chairs near the fire for her guests.

When they were seated she beckoned Em., who arose to follow her, then
bowed to her guests, and left the room.

As soon as they reached the hall outside Susan Palmer astonished Em. by
suddenly throwing her arms around the girl’s neck, bursting into tears,
and exclaiming:

“Oh! my child, you’ll love us all the same! You’ll love us all the same!
You’ll love us all the same!”

“Dear mother, what is the matter?” inquired the girl in alarm.

“Oh! Em., say you will! Say you will!”

“Will _what_? I’ll do _all_ you wish, dear mother, only tell me _what_!”
exclaimed the frightened girl.

“Love us just as much! Just as much, Em.! Oh, just as much!” sobbed the
woman.

“My own dear mother,” murmured Em., caressing and soothing the excited
creature, although she herself was frightened half out of her senses at
the agitation she could not comprehend—“my own dear mother, I love you
and shall always love you. Compose yourself. Do not doubt me. Is it
because Commodore Bruce has consented that his nephew shall marry me?
Have you already heard that, and do you think it could make any
difference in my love for you? It could not, dear mother, not one bit!”

“Oh! no, Em., no! It isn’t _that_. I’m not such a fool as to take on so
about _that_. Of course I knew you would marry some time. Besides, I
hadn’t even heard of it. Oh! no, Em., it is not that! It is worse than
that. Heaven forgive me, it is better than that. No, it is _worse_. Oh,
Em.! Em.! Em.!”

And Susan Palmer fell to weeping.

“My own dear, dear mother, I never knew you to be so nervous in my life
before. Surely you are not well. Oh, what _is_ the matter?” exclaimed
the girl, her alarm rising to terror.

“You’ll hear soon enough, Em.! You’ll hear soon enough! But oh, do
promise me you’ll love us all the same, all the same, whatever you
hear!” said Susan Palmer, with a great sobbing sigh as she released the
girl and wiped her own eyes.

“Won’t you tell me what it is, mother, dear?”

“No, Em. It ain’t for me to tell you. But oh! you will still call me
‘mother,’ and poor, dear, good, good John, who is so fond of you,
‘father’—won’t you, Em.?” she pleaded.

Em. could only look at the distressed woman in silent dismay—thinking of
approaching illness, fever, delirium.

“You know you will call the gentleman and lady papa and mamma because
children in high life call their parents that. But you will call me and
poor old John plain mother and father as you always did—won’t you, Em.?”

“She is distressing herself about my possible marriage and my future
mother and father-in-law,” thought Em.; and then she answered earnestly:

“_Always_, dear mother. Always, believe me! I will never call any one
else father or mother but you and father!”

“That’s my loving heart! That’s my sweet, loving heart! You can call
them ‘papa’ and ‘mamma,’ you know, and they’ll like that just as well,
and even better, for that is fashionable and elegant, and polite, and so
on. But oh, Em!”—with another burst of emotion—“it is just as if you
were dead to us! Just as if you were dead! I wish—oh, I do wish that we
had taught you to call us ‘daddy’ and ‘mammy,’ for then I should know
you would never call any fine lady or gentleman _that_. Now, come
upstairs, child, for I have kept you down here too long already. But oh,
Em.! It is just like closing down the coffin-lid over your face to let
you go now! We part now, we will never meet again in the same way, Em.,”
she exclaimed, as she began slowly to climb the stairs, followed closely
by the troubled and bewildered girl.

Not a word more was spoken between them until they reached the attic
landing, when Mrs. Palmer opened the door of the sick-room and said:

“Go in there, Em.! Go in alone! Oh! my Lord! It is like lowering you
into the grave! We will meet again! But not the same! Oh, nevermore the
same.” She sighed as she sent Em. alone into the room and gently closed
the door after her.

The sick chamber, as I mentioned once before, was a large upper room. It
was now in obscurity, the smoldering hardwood fire in the fireplace, and
the rustic lamp on the mantel-shelf giving but little light.

Em. went up to the old-fashioned four-poster at the upper end of the
room, where Dr. Willet had already taken his place, and old Monica was
waiting. The latter gave way as Em. approached the bed.

The dying woman was lying very still, on her back, with her wasted face
level on the pillow, and her skeleton hands folded on her breast.

“Speak to her,” said Dr. Willet.

“Aunty Whitlock,” said Em., gently, bending over her.

The woman sighed, moaned, and opened her eyes.

“Aunty Whitlock, how do you do?” inquired Em.

The poor creature made several ineffectual efforts to articulate, and
finally said, in an imperfect way:

“I—am—getting—well—fast.”

“Is she delirious?” inquired Em., in a whisper and with a startled look
at the doctor.

“Oh, no, it is her way of speaking. She means that she is going—dying.
Hush! She is trying to speak to you again. Bend low—bend your ear to her
lips.”

The girl obeyed.

“Em.,” muttered the woman, so imperfectly that the listener could
scarcely recognize her own name. “Em., my child.”

“Yes, Aunty Whitlock. I am listening—I hear.”

“Have I been—good to you—my dear?” she asked, in tones so faint and
muffled that Em. scarcely gathered their meaning, but rather divined it,
as she answered:

“Very, very good to me always, dear Aunty Whitlock.”

“I—_did_—save—your life.”

“Yes, I know you did, dear aunty! Mother has often told me you did.”

A cloud of trouble passed over the face of the dying woman, and her lips
writhed in their efforts to utter the next words, which Em. bent her ear
and strained her sense to hear.

“Yes—but not in that way—not as she thinks—did I save your life.”

There was silence and quick breathing for a few minutes, and then, with
an effort, she resumed:

“When—you know all—forgive—because—I _did_ save your life.”

Em. stooped and kissed the old woman, and laid her fresh, living cheek
against the faded and dying one.

“Now, doctor!” panted the woman.

Dr. Willet approached and bent over her.

“Let them come—quick—I’m passing.”

The doctor administered a restorative, and then left the room to bring
the Bruces to the bedside of the fast sinking woman.

Em. remained standing by her, rubbing her cold hands.

In a few moments the doctor re-entered the room, bearing two lighted
candles in his hand, and followed by Commodore Bruce, Leonidas and
Emolyn and John and Susan Palmer.

The doctor drew a little stand to the bedside and placed the two candles
upon it, and laid a folded paper beside them. Then he beckoned Emolyn
Bruce to appear.

The lady put off her bonnet and shawl and went up to the bedside,
closely followed by her husband.

The lady bent over the dying woman, saying:

“I am very sorry to see you in this way, Mrs. Whitlock. Do you know me?”

“You are Emolyn Wyndeworth—I saved your child’s life—I was always good
to her—she will tell you so herself.”

“What does she mean?” inquired Leonidas, who had caught only one or two
words of this faintly muttered speech.

Emolyn shook her head in doubt, and Dr. Willet said:

“Hush! You will know soon. Let me say a few words. When I came to this
woman this afternoon she made a startling confession to me in the
presence of John and Susan Palmer. I took the statement down from her
dying lips, lest if I had delayed to do so it might have been too late.
I took her mark and the signatures of the two Palmers as witnesses. I
wish to have her acknowledge this confession to be the truth, under
oath. Commodore Bruce, will you administer the oath?”

The old commodore, much wondering what he should hear next, said:

“Will you read it to her first?”

“No, there will not be time. I will read it afterwards.”

“Lift her up, then, somebody.”

John Palmer, being the strongest “body” present, went to the head of the
bed, lifted the dying woman to a sitting posture, and supported her in
his firm arms, with her back resting against his chest.

“This is her written statement,” said Dr. Willet, placing the folded
paper in the hands of the commodore.

“Make—haste,” panted the woman, with difficulty.

The doctor poured out and administered a stimulant, which partially
revived her.

“Do you know what you are about to do?” inquired the commodore.

“Yes—swear to—the truth of—my statement,” gasped the woman.

Commodore Bruce, in his capacity of magistrate, then administered the
oath and exhibited the written statement with its signatures, which she
recognized and acknowledged under oath.

“There! That will do! This necessary disturbance has shaken the last
sands of her life. Leave her now to repose, and follow me down to the
drawing-room, where I will read to you all this strange confession,”
said the doctor.

John Palmer left his perch on the head of the bed and gently lowered the
head of the dying woman to the pillow.

Susan tenderly adjusted the covering around her, and beckoned old Monica
to come and resume her watch by the bed.

Dr. Willet took up the two lighted candles and led the way from the
room, leaving the place in the twilight shadow and stillness best fitted
for the sufferer.

The whole party repaired to the drawing-room, and seated themselves
around the large circular center-table upon which Dr. Willet had placed
the candles and the document.

When the little bustle, incident upon this movement, subsided, the
doctor took up the paper and began to read the statement aloud to his
almost breathless audience.

And then and there the astonished family of Commodore Bruce learned a
secret they had never even suspected before, though doubtless my
intelligent readers have divined it long ago.

The attested statement of the dying woman showed how she, Ann Whitlock,
sick-nurse, while in the employment of Mrs. Malvina Warde, at Green
Point, being tempted of the devil, did appropriate to herself certain
valuable jewels belonging to the family, and being caught in the act by
Mrs. Warde, did thenceforward fall, body and soul, into the power of
that lady, who, by threats of prosecution and imprisonment did compel
her, Ann Whitlock, to commit great sins. How, to effect her purpose,
Mrs. Warde procured for Ann Whitlock, the position of sick-nurse in the
Women’s Hospital in the city. How, on the thirtieth of April, 18—, she,
Ann Whitlock, being driven of the devil in the shape of Malvina,
procured certain drugs to be administered to Emolyn Wyndeworth, then
living at Green Point, which drugs hastened the illness of that lady.
How, on the morning of the first of May, while it was yet dark, and the
household all in bed, she, being secretly admitted by Mrs. Warde to the
sick chamber of Emolyn Wyndeworth, had, with the assistance of Malvina
Warde, stolen away the new-born, healthy infant daughter of Emolyn
Wyndeworth, and secretly conveyed it to the Women’s Hospital, and
adroitly changed it for the still-born child of Susan Palmer, a patient
in the ward then under her care. How, leaving the living infant by the
sleeping woman, she had brought back the dead one and laid it on the bed
with Emolyn Wyndeworth. How ever since that fatal night she had so
suffered with remorse that nothing but the one thought that Mrs. Warde
would certainly have destroyed the living child, if she herself had not
substituted the dead one for it, could bring her any comfort; but that
she compensated the child for the loss of its real mother by giving her
to the best woman she knew in the world, and by being as good to her as
she possibly could be. Finally, that she had meant to tell the truth on
her deathbed, when she should be out of the power of her demoniac
mistress.

That was all. Fortunately not a word had been said about the trial.




                            CHAPTER XXXVII.
                              CONCLUSION.

              Thou art our daughter, never loved as now,
              Thou gentlest maid, thou child of purity.
                                                  MATURIN.


Fortunately, I say, not a word had been said of the trial which had
blighted so many years of Emolyn Wyndeworth’s life.

The reading of Ann Whitlock’s confession was followed by a deep silence
of some moments, during which nothing was heard but the low sound of
Susan Palmer’s weeping.

At length Em. arose softly from her seat beside old Commodore Bruce, and
went over and seated herself beside Susan, put her arms around the poor
woman’s neck, kissed her, and murmured:

“So _that_ was what you meant, dear mother! How strange it all is! But
_do_ not weep so! I _will_ love you all the same, dear, dear mother. Are
seventeen years of tenderest motherhood to be blotted out by one hour’s
revelation? Oh, no, no, no, my own dear mother, no! You and I have loved
and worked and suffered too long and too closely together for that——”

“And John, too!” sobbed Susan. “Oh, _poor_ John! You were his favorite
child, Em. He _was_ so fond of you!”

“Yes, and dear father, too! He _is_ so fond of me, mother. Ah! don’t
weep so! Indeed, I love you—_more_ than ever!”

“Oh, Em., I know it is so selfish and _so_ mean in me to cry so hard
about anything that brings so much good to you, but I can’t
help—help—help it!” sobbed Susan.

“No, it is not selfish, dear mother. You haven’t a selfish vein in your
body. It is natural. Didn’t you cry hard when you parted with your
children who went to heaven, though you knew they were so much better
off? And don’t everybody do so?”

“Ye—yes, and this is almost the same, Em. Almost as hard for me!”

“Only I wish you wouldn’t, dear mother, for I shall be _just_ the same
to you as I was before, and come and help you to darn the stockings, or
wash the dishes, _just_ as I did before. And if you don’t scold me just
as much as you do the other children and—and father,” added Em., with a
peculiar smile, “I shall think you don’t love me half as much as you do
them.”

“We always loved the child that has gone to heaven the best, Em., and
you will be to me like that. You are a good girl, Em., it’s me that’s
mean and selfish to cry about your good fortune, and begrudge you to
that poor lady who has suffered so much in this world, and who hasn’t
got no other child, but only you, while I have so many girls and boys;
and another one a-coming, as sure as you live, Em.—another one a-coming.
But don’t you say a word about that—it is awful! Now, there, child, go
speak to your mamma. She is very patient to wait for you so long. I’ll
go and comfort John by telling him what you say. Oh, _poor_ John!”

And Susan Palmer arose and went out of the room to look for John, who
had left the scene immediately at the end of the reading, to conceal all
outward signs of his own inner trouble.

Meanwhile, the very first movement of Em. to join her foster-mother
having broken the spell of silence that had followed the reading of the
confession, the other members of the family gathering had fallen to
whispering, exclaiming, or questioning Dr. Willet.

Em.’s first impulse to join them was checked by a feeling of diffidence,
and she remained for some moments seated where Susan Palmer had left
her, waiting the pleasure of her elders.

At length she glanced toward her parents.

They were sitting talking earnestly together in a low voice, seemingly
quite absorbed in each other, though they had frequently looked across
at their daughter without her consciousness of their regards.

Commodore Bruce and Dr. Willet sat together at some little distance from
the other two, and somewhat nearer to Em., very gravely conversing,
their gray heads bent closely together, the doctor pointing his
arguments, whatever they were, with his right forefinger on his left
palm; the commodore listening solemnly, nodding from time to time, and
taking countless pinches of snuff.

A few words of their discourse necessarily reached Em.’s ears.

“He _must_ hear it some time or other,” said Dr. Willet.

“True, true; most true”—from the commodore, with a nod, a sigh, and a
huge pinch of snuff.

“He will bear it better now, perhaps, than at any other time.”

“Humph, perhaps, you know best.”

“If you authorize me, I will myself take the disagreeable task off your
hands and be his informant.”

“Yes, yes, doctor, do! I could never tell him myself! Never!”

While the two old men were still conversing, Em. turned her eyes from
them and fixed them upon her parents.

At the same instant Emolyn Bruce looked up and met her daughter’s gaze.

The lady smiled and opened her arms.

Em. arose and crossed the room and gave herself to that fond embrace.

“Now we know the reason why we loved each other so, my darling, don’t
we?” murmured the lady, as she folded her daughter to her bosom.

“Yes, dear mamma, yes, for my heart was drawn to you from the very first
moment I saw you. I longed for you to love me then,” answered Em.,
returning love for love and kiss for kiss.

“Your papa, my dear,” whispered Emolyn, in a low tone.

Em. raised her head from the lady’s bosom to see bending over them both,
the dark, handsome man whose very portrait she had worshiped long before
she had ever seen him.

“Have you no place left in your heart for me, little daughter?” inquired
the stranger, as he drew the girl to his bosom and pressed his lips to
hers.

“I loved you long before I ever saw you, dear papa,” whispered Em., half
shyly, half fondly.

“How is that, my little girl? You loved me before you ever saw me?”
inquired the pleased young papa.

“Yes—and even before I ever _heard_ of you,” said Em.

“Explain,” said the object of this strange affection, with a smile and a
caress.

“Well, I found your portrait in the attic at The Breezes, and I set it
up in my room as an object of worship, having been struck with it before
I knew to whom it belonged.”

“Who will say now that there is no instinct in natural affection?”
demanded Leonidas.

That question was unanswerable; but after a little while Em. turned to
her mamma and asked another.

“So it was for your lost child you always provided a yearly outfit of
dainty clothing?”

“Yes, love; it was a fond, foolish fancy of mine; but not without
benefit to others, since at the end of every year I gave away the
raiment to those who needed it.”

At this moment Dr. Willet came up to the group, and laying his hand on
the shoulder of the last speaker, said gravely:

“The commodore, Mr. Bruce, has authorized me to make a communication to
you, which should no longer be withheld. Will you come with me into
another room?”

The gentleman so addressed at once arose and followed the doctor, who
took him into the disused dining-room of the old house, closed and
locked the door, and then and there told him the terrible story of the
false accusation and the trial to which his young wife had been
subjected in his absence.

Leonidas was frightfully agitated while listening. He strode up and down
the floor, most bitterly reproaching himself, groaning, weeping, as only
brave men can weep, and bursting into exclamations of pity, rage,
remorse.

It took all Dr. Willet’s skill and experience to reduce the fearfully
excited man to anything like calmness and rationality.

“The dying woman was but a weak tool in this diabolical work! She has
done what she could to atone for her share in it, and now she is beyond
the reach of punishment. But Malvina Warde! that fiend in human shape!
_She_ shall be prosecuted to the utmost extent of the law! I will spend
every dollar I am worth to engage the best counsel to be had, to send
her to the State prison.”

“Leonidas, the wretched woman is a family connection! You could not
punish _her_ without——” began the doctor; but Bruce interrupted him in a
voice of thunder:

“Don’t tell me about family credit, Dr. Willet! If she were my sister I
should send her to the State Prison for such a cause!”

The doctor ceased to expostulate, thinking it best to let the infuriated
man rage himself to exhaustion.

Presently, however, Leonidas Bruce came up to Dr. Willet and said:

“Doctor, if it had not been for you, Emolyn, _poor_ Emolyn, could never
have lived through that terrible ordeal. You, with your constant
charity, your wisdom, and your medical skill, bore her up, and sustained
her in mind and body, or she must have sunk and perished in that fiery
furnace of affliction. Doctor! so long as I may live in this world—ay!
and in the next—I shall never forget your invaluable services, never
cease to remember them with glowing gratitude. I should have expressed
this to you before, for it is as true as truth; but the thought of that
fiendish woman’s work put everything else out of my head. But, doctor,
believe me——”

“Say no more, my dear friend. I have told you this tragic story to
forestall any false or garbled account you might possibly receive of it.
Now, my dear Leonidas, I advise you never to speak of it again, but to
forget it as fast as you can.”

(“After I have sent that fiend in female form to the State Prison,” said
Lonny to himself.)

“Now then, calm yourself and clear your brow, and let us go back to the
ladies, lest they should think we are engaged here in some conspiracy.”

And they returned together to the parlor.

By this time it was midnight, and the moon was up.

The old commodore, resisting all John Palmer’s hospitable entreaties to
spend the night at the Manor House, and declaring that he never slept
out of his own bed if he could help it, ordered the carriage and the
saddle horses to be brought to the door that he and his party might
return to The Breezes.

“Mamma, dearest,” whispered Em., coming to the side of her beautiful
lady mother—“mamma, dearest, leave me here for a few days with my _poor
mother_, till she gets used to thinking of this change. Her heart is
almost broken, mamma. You will leave me here a little while?”

“Yes, tender soul, I will leave you here to comfort your ‘poor mother.’
My own heart bleeds for that ‘poor mother.’ I will leave you with her
for the present. It will not be for long, however; Susan’s own sense of
right will cause her to bring you to me very soon.”

John and Susan Palmer were touched even to tears when they learned that
Em. was to be left with them for the present.

“Just when he has returned and they have found her, and the lady so fond
of her even before she knew who the child was!” whimpered Susan, drying
her eyes on her apron.

“‘Sich is life,’” said John, in lack of anything else to say, and never
had he quoted his favorite scrap of philosophy more _out_ of place.

When the commodore and his party were entering the carriage and mounting
the horses, Susan Palmer and Em. stood with the lantern to light them.

When they had gone, Susan still lingered as if spellbound to the spot.

“What is the matter, mother dear?” inquired the girl.

“I was thinking, Em., that, after all, my poor baby did die.”

“Oh, dear mother, don’t use that word that you have so often told me
isn’t true. The little baby didn’t die. It went to heaven with your own
children, and instead of the baby on earth, you have another angel in
heaven—an angel daughter as much fairer and brighter than she could have
been on earth, as—look up, dear mother!—as that beautiful, brilliant
star you see overhead, is fairer and brighter than this dull lantern we
hold.”

When they re-entered the house, Em. said:

“I am going upstairs to send old Aunt Monica to bed, and to take her
place by poor Aunty Whitlock. I can never believe she was wicked at
heart.”

Meanwhile, Commodore Bruce and his party pursued their moonlight journey
home, where they arrived about two o’clock in the morning.

To their surprise they found the family all up and the house lighted
above and below.

“They must have sat up for us. It was foolish for them all to sit up for
us,” said the old commodore, as he led the way into the house.

They were met in the drawing-room by Mrs. Templeton.

“Did you meet the messenger?” inquired that lady.

“No; what messenger?”

“Aleck was sent to the Wilderness to tell you.”

“What?”

“Malvina Warde is dead.”

“DEAD!” echoed the whole party in consternation.

“Yes.”

“When?”

“How did it happen?”

“It seems that she did not sleep well, and about an hour ago, hearing
the clock strike one, and hearing the family still stirring below, she
woke up her daughter, who was sleeping beside her, and asked what kept
the family up so late. Belinda replied that they were waiting for the
commodore and his party, who had gone to the Wilderness Manor-house to
see the dying woman, Ann Whitlock. Whereupon Mrs. Warde got out of bed
and went across the room, it was thought to procure a glass of water. In
coming back to the bed she fell heavily to the floor. Belinda sprang out
of bed and ran to her mother’s help, and raised her head from the floor.
But she was quite dead.”

“She had organic disease of the heart. It might have been expected,”
said Dr. Willet curtly.

“Vengeance is mine, and I will repay, saith the Lord,” reverently
murmured Leonidas Bruce, raising his hat.

Whether Malvina Warde died of heart disease or of prussic acid
self-administered, can never now be known. Her remains lie in the family
burial ground in the Wilderness Manor, beside those of her tool and
victim, Ann Whitlock, who penitently and peacefully expired the same
night, with her hand clasped in that of her beloved foster-child, Em.

Belinda Warde was mercifully spared the knowledge of her mother’s crime.
Immediately after the funeral she accepted the invitation of Mrs.
Delaney Fanning, and went to make her home with that lady at beautiful
“Belle Plains,” until her marriage the next year to a middle-aged
colonel of marines.

Susan Palmer fully justified Emolyn’s faith in her sense of right. After
keeping Em. for a few days, she voluntarily brought the girl to The
Breezes, and willingly and cheerfully surrendered her to the charge of
her rightful parents.

“We bring up our darters in care and toil, and if we don’t lose ’em by
death, we’re most sure to lose ’em by marriage. So what dif’ence do it
make anyway, Susan, my dear, when ‘sich is life?’” said John when his
wife came back without his favorite child.

“Em. loves us and we love her, therefore we can never really lose her in
this world nor the next,” answered Susan.

Among all who rejoiced in the good fortune of our little girl, none did
so more sincerely than the poor colored people of the Wilderness Manor,
whose affections her goodness had won.

“Miss Em. deserves it all,” said old ’Sias, the gatekeeper—“Miss Em.
deserves all that, and more too. For I never knowed sich a little angel
as she is in all the days of my yethly pilgrimage, and that mus’ be by
dis time ’bout two hundred years, chillun! Two hundred years, more or
less—more or _less_, honies; for I wouldn’t be guilty of a falsehood on
no account,” added ’Sias, solemnly.

“Yes, Miss Em. was a good gal, sure enough,” put in Aunt Sally. “Miss
Em. never meant no harm, and she never did nothing to nobody.”

“‘_Never did nothing to nobody!_’” repeated old ’Sias, in supreme scorn.
“_That’s_ your notion of an angel and of Miss Em., is it? You put my
pipe out with your ‘Never did nothing to nobody!’ Miss Em. was always
doing good to everybody, there!”

“Well, I thinks as people what means no harm and never does nothing to
nobody is a heap gooder than them as is always a-aggrawating people,”
retorted Sally.

Before taking leave of old ’Sias I must mention one circumstance of
which I hope my readers will be glad, for his sake.

Sereny, to use her own words, “got religion.” She really _did_, if a
total though gradual change of heart and life and manners for the better
was any proof of it. And she became at last what she had promised to be
at first, the comfort of her poor, old, patient husband’s latter days.

In the spring of the following year Ronald and Emolyn were married.

Ronald, who was, in the right of his wife, the owner and the heir of
more wealth than he would ever know what to do with, resigned his
commission in the Navy.

“It is all very well,” he said, “to talk of the duty of serving one’s
country, but there are hundreds of men who are just as able and as
willing to serve as I am, and who need my position a great deal more
than I do. I must resign to make room for one of them—as well as to stay
home with my bonny bride.”

Of course Em. agreed with him in this.

Their honeymoon was spent at Edengarden, while the Wilderness
Manor-house, which had been given to Em. as her marriage portion, was
being renovated to receive the newly wedded pair.

John Palmer and his family were to continue to live in the Red Wing and
manage the estate.

Mr. and Mrs. Leonidas Bruce consented to reside at The Breezes as long
as the aged commodore should live.


                                THE END

------------------------------------------------------------------------




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                   Sequel to The Lost Heir
                 Self-Raised
                   Sequel to Ishmael
                 Skeleton in the Closet, A
                 Struggle of a Soul, The
                   Sequel to The Lost Lady of Lone
                 Sweet Love’s Atonement
                 Test of Love, The
                   Sequel to A Tortured Heart
                 To His Fate
                   Sequel to Dorothy Harcourt’s Secret
                 Tortured Heart, A
                   Sequel to The Trail of the Serpent
                 Trail of the Serpent, The
                 Tried for Her Life
                   Sequel to Cruel as the Grave
                 Unloved Wife, The
                 Unrequited Love, An
                   Sequel to For Woman’s Love
                 Victor’s Triumph
                   Sequel to A Beautiful Fiend
                 When Love Commands
                 When Shadows Die
                   Sequel to Love’s Bitterest Cup
                 Why Did He Wed Her?
                 Zenobia’s Suitors
                   Sequel to Sweet Love’s Atonement

   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 1876–1892
                        BY ROBERT BONNER’S SONS
      Renewal granted to Mrs. Charlotte Southworth Lawrence, 1904

                              EM’S HUSBAND

           Printed by special arrangement with STREET & SMITH




                      Good Fiction Worth Reading.


A series of romances containing several of the old favorites in the
field of historical fiction, replete with powerful romances of love and
diplomacy that excel in thrilling and absorbing interest.

=A COLONIAL FREE-LANCE.= A story of American Colonial Times. By Chauncey
C. Hotchkiss. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis.
Price, $1.00.

  A book that appeals to Americans as a vivid picture of Revolutionary
  scenes. The story is a strong one, a thrilling one. It causes the true
  American to flush with excitement, to devour chapter after chapter,
  until the eyes smart, and it fairly smokes with patriotism. The love
  story is a singularly charming idyl.

=THE TOWER OF LONDON.= A Historical Romance of the Times of Lady Jane
Grey and Mary Tudor. By Wm. Harrison Ainsworth. Cloth, 12mo. with four
illustrations by George Cruikshank. Price, $1.00.

  This romance of the “Tower of London” depicts the Tower as palace,
  prison and fortress, with many historical associations. The era is the
  middle of the sixteenth century.

  The story is divided into two parts, one dealing with Lady Jane Grey,
  and the other with Mary Tudor as Queen, introducing other notable
  characters of the era. Throughout the story holds the interest of the
  reader in the midst of intrigue and conspiracy, extending considerably
  over a half a century.

=IN DEFIANCE OF THE KING.= A Romance of the American Revolution. By
Chauncey C. Hotchkiss. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson
Davis. Price, $1.00.

  Mr. Hotchkiss has etched in burning words a story of Yankee bravery,
  and true love that thrills from beginning to end, with the spirit of
  the Revolution. The heart beats quickly, and we feel ourselves taking
  a part in the exciting scenes described. His whole story is so
  absorbing that you will sit up far into the night to finish it. As a
  love romance it is charming.

=GARTHOWEN.= A story of a Welsh Homestead. By Allen Raine. Cloth, 12mo.
with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

  “This is a little idyl of humble life and enduring love, laid bare
  before us, very real and pure, which in its telling shows us some
  strong points of Welsh character—the pride, the hasty temper, the
  quick dying out of wrath.... We call this a well-written story,
  interesting alike through its romance and its glimpses into another
  life than ours. A delightful and clever picture of Welsh village life.
  The result is excellent.”—Detroit Free Press.

=MIFANWY.= The story of a Welsh Singer. By Allan Raine. Cloth, 12mo.
with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

  “This is a love story, simple, tender and pretty as one would care to
  read. The action throughout is brisk and pleasing; the characters, it
  is apparent at once, are as true to life as though the author had
  known them all personally. Simple in all its situations, the story is
  worked up in that touching and quaint strain which never grows
  wearisome, no matter how often the lights and shadows of love are
  introduced. It rings true, and does not tax the imagination.”—Boston
  Herald.

  For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by
  the publishers, A. L. BURT COMPANY, 52–58 Duane St., New York.

=DARNLEY.= A Romance of the times of Henry VIII. and Cardinal Wolsey. By
G. P. R. James. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis.
Price, $1.00.

  In point of publication, “Darnley” is that work by Mr. James which
  follows “Richelieu,” and, if rumor can be credited. It was owing to
  the advice and insistence of our own Washington Irving that we are
  indebted primarily for the story, the young author questioning whether
  he could properly paint the difference in the characters of the two
  great cardinals. And it is not surprising that James should have
  hesitated; he had been eminently successful in giving to the world the
  portrait of Richelieu as a man, and by attempting a similar task with
  Wolsey as the theme, was much like tempting fortune. Irving insisted
  that “Darnley” came naturally in sequence, and this opinion being
  supported by Sir Walter Scott, the author set about the work.

  As a historical romance “Darnley” is a book that can be taken up
  pleasurably again and again, for there is about it that subtle charm
  which those who are strangers to the works of G. P. R. James have
  claimed was only to be imparted by Dumas.

  If there was nothing more about the work to attract especial
  attention, the account of the meeting of the kings on the historic
  “field of the cloth of gold” would entitle the story to the most
  favorable consideration of every reader.

  There is really but little pure romance in this story, for the author
  has taken care to imagine love passages only between those whom
  history has credited with having entertained the tender passion one
  for another, and he succeeds in making such lovers as all the world
  must love.

=CAPTAIN BRAND, OF THE SCHOONER CENTIPEDE.= By Lieut. Henry A. Wise,
U.S.N. (Harry Gringo). Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson
Davis. Price, $1.00.

  The re-publication of this story will please those lovers of sea yarns
  who delight in so much of the salty flavor of the ocean as can come
  through the medium of a printed page, for never has a story of the sea
  and those “who go down in ships” been written by one more familiar
  with the scenes depicted.

  The one book of this gifted author which is best remembered, and which
  will be read with pleasure for many years to come, is “Captain Brand,”
  who, as the author states on his title page, was a “pirate of eminence
  in the West Indies.” As a sea story pure and simple, “Captain Brand”
  has never been excelled, and as a story of piratical life, told
  without the usual embellishments of blood and thunder, it has no
  equal.

=NICK OF THE WOODS.= A story of the Early Settlers of Kentucky. By
Robert Montgomery Bird. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J.
Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

  This most popular novel and thrilling story of early frontier life in
  Kentucky was originally published in the year 1837. The novel, long
  out of print, had in its day a phenomenal sale, for its realistic
  presentation of Indian and frontier life in the early days of
  settlement in the South, narrated in the tale with all the art of a
  practiced writer. A very charming love romance runs through the story.
  This new and tasteful edition of “Nick of the Woods” will be certain
  to make many new admirers for this enchanting story from Dr. Bird’s
  clever and versatile pen.

 For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the
    publishers, =A. L. BURT COMPANY, 52–58 Duane St., New York=.

=GUY FAWKES.= A Romance of the Gunpowder Treason. By Wm. Harrison
Ainsworth. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by George Cruikshank.
Price, $1.00.

  The “Gunpowder Plot” was a modest attempt to blow up Parliament, the
  King and his Counsellors. James of Scotland, then King of England, was
  weak-minded and extravagant. He hit upon the efficient scheme of
  extorting money from the people by imposing taxes on the Catholics. In
  their natural resentment to this extortion, a handful of bold spirits
  concluded to overthrow the government. Finally the plotters were
  arrested, and the King put to torture Guy Fawkes and the other
  prisoners with royal vigor. A very intense love story runs through the
  entire romance.

=THE SPIRIT OF THE BORDER.= A Romance of the Early Settlers in the Ohio
Valley. By Zane Grey. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson
Davis. Price, $1.00.

  A book rather out of the ordinary is this “Spirit of the Border.” The
  main thread of the story has to do with the work of the Moravian
  missionaries in the Ohio Valley. Incidentally the reader is given
  details of the frontier life of those hardy pioneers who broke the
  wilderness for the planting of this great nation. Chief among these,
  as a matter of course, is Lewis Wetzel, one of the most peculiar, and
  at the same time the most admirable of all the brave men who spent
  their lives battling with the savage foe, that others might dwell in
  comparative security.

  Details of the establishment and destruction of the Moravian “Village
  of Peace” are given at some length, and with minute description. The
  efforts to Christianize the Indians are described as they never have
  been before, and the author has depicted the characters of the leaders
  of the several Indian tribes with great care, which of itself will be
  of interest to the student.

  By no means least among the charms of the story are the vivid
  word-pictures of the thrilling adventures, and the intense paintings
  of the beauties of nature, as seen in the almost unbroken forests.

  It is the spirit of the frontier which is described, and one can by
  it, perhaps, the better understand why men, and women, too, willingly
  braved every privation and danger that the westward progress of the
  star of empire might be the more certain and rapid. A love story,
  simple and tender, runs through the book.

=RICHELIEU.= A tale of France in the reign of King Louis XIII. By G. P.
R. James. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis.
Price, $1.00.

  In 1829 Mr. James published his first romance, “Richelieu,” and was
  recognized at once as one of the masters of the craft.

  In this book he laid the story during those later days of the great
  cardinal’s life, when his power was beginning to wane, but while it
  was yet sufficiently strong to permit now and then of volcanic
  outbursts which overwhelmed foes and carried friends to the topmost
  wave of prosperity. One of the most striking portions of the story is
  that of Cinq Mar’s conspiracy; the method of conducting criminal
  cases, and the political trickery resorted to by royal favorites,
  affording a better insight into the statecraft of that day than can be
  had even by an exhaustive study of history. It is a powerful romance
  of love and diplomacy, and in point of thrilling and absorbing
  interest has never been excelled.

 For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the
    publishers, =A. L. BURT COMPANY, 52–58 Duane St., New York=.

=WINDSOR CASTLE.= A Historical Romance of the Reign of Henry VIII.,
Catharine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn. By Wm. Harrison Ainsworth. Cloth,
12mo. with four illustrations by George Cruikshank. Price, $1.00.

  “Windsor Castle” is the story of Henry VIII., Catharine, and Anne
  Boleyn. “Bluff King Hal,” although a well-loved monarch, was none too
  good a one in many ways. Of all his selfishness and unwarrantable
  acts, none was more discreditable than his divorce from Catharine, and
  his marriage to the beautiful Anne Boleyn. The King’s love was as
  brief as it was vehement. Jane Seymour, waiting maid on the Queen,
  attracted him, and Anne Boleyn was forced to the block to make room
  for her successor. This romance is one of extreme interest to all
  readers.

=HORSESHOE ROBINSON.= A tale of the Tory Ascendency in South Carolina in
1780. By John P. Kennedy. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J.
Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

  Among the old favorites in the field of what is known as historical
  fiction, there are none which appeal to a larger number of Americans
  than Horseshoe Robinson, and this because it is the only story which
  depicts with fidelity to the facts the heroic efforts of the colonists
  in South Carolina to defend their homes against the brutal oppression
  of the British under such leaders as Cornwallis and Tarleton.

  The reader is charmed with the story of love which forms the thread of
  the tale, and then impressed with the wealth of detail concerning
  those times. The picture of the manifold sufferings of the people, is
  never overdrawn, but painted faithfully and honestly by one who spared
  neither time nor labor in his efforts to present in this charming love
  story all that price in blood and tears which the Carolinians paid as
  their share in the winning of the republic.

  Take it all in all, “Horseshoe Robinson” is a work which should be
  found on every book-shelf, not only because it is a most entertaining
  story, but because of the wealth of valuable information concerning
  the colonists which it contains. That it has been brought out once
  more, well illustrated, is something which will give pleasure to
  thousands who have long desired an opportunity to read the story
  again, and to the many who have tried vainly in these latter days to
  procure a copy that they might read it for the first time.

=THE PEARL OF ORR’S ISLAND.= A story of the Coast of Maine. By Harriet
Beecher Stowe. Cloth, 12mo. Illustrated. Price, $1.00.

  Written prior to 1862, the “Pearl of Orr’s Island” is ever new; a book
  filled with delicate fancies, such as seemingly array themselves anew
  each time one reads them. One sees the “sea like an unbroken mirror
  all around the pine-girt, lonely shores of Orr’s Island,” and
  straightway comes “the heavy, hollow moan of the surf on the beach,
  like the wild angry howl of some savage animal.”

  Who can read of the beginning of that sweet life, named Mara, which
  came into this world under the very shadow of the Death angel’s wings,
  without having an intense desire to know how the premature bud
  blossomed? Again and again one lingers over the descriptions of the
  character of that baby boy Moses, who came through the tempest, amid
  the angry billows, pillowed on his dead mother’s breast.

  There is no more faithful portrayal of New England life than that
  which Mrs. Stowe gives in “The Pearl of Orr’s Island.”

 For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the
    publishers, =A. L. BURT COMPANY, 52–58 Duane St., New York=.




                   The Popular Charles Garvice Books


[Illustration: [book]]

This series of Popular Fiction comprises the best novels written by that
popular author, Charles Garvice, well-known throughout England and
America for his stories dealing with the lives and interests of the
common people.

Bound in Handsome Cloth Binding.

All Copyright Books. =Price, 60 Cents.=

      =A Heritage of Hate=, or A Change of Heart.
      =A Life’s Mistake=, or Love’s Forgiveness.
      =A Modern Juliet=, or The Unknown Future.
      =At Love’s Cost=, or Her Rival’s Triumph.
      =Better than Life=, or Her Bitter Cup.
      =By Devious Ways=, or Love Will Find a Way.
      =Heart for Heart=, or Love’s Queer Pranks.
      =In Cupid’s Chains=, or A Slave for Life.
      =Just A Girl=, or The Strange Duchess.
      =Love, The Tyrant=, or Where Her Heart Led.
      =Maida=, or A Child of Sorrow.
      =Marcia Drayton=, or Her Heart’s First Choice.
      =Nell of Shorne Mills=, or One Heart’s Burden.
      =Once in A Life=, or The Secret of Her Heart.
      =Queen Kate=, or A Willful Lassie.
      =The Outcast of the Family=, or A Battle of Love and Pride.
      =The Story of A Passion=, or Guided by Her Heart.
      =The Shadow of Her Life=, or Love’s Mistake.
      =’Twas Love’s Fault=, or A Young Girl’s Trust.
      =With All Her Heart=, or Love Begets Faith.

 For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the
    publishers, =A. L. BURT COMPANY, 52–58 Duane St., New York=.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


    Page            Changed from                   Changed to

         22 “Em., hush! you’re crazy!”    “Em., hush! you’re crazy!”
            broken in Susan Palmer        broke in Susan Palmer

         43 clapped her hands over he     clapped her hands over he
            own lips                      own lips

 everywhere Abishav or Abishag            Abishey

 ● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
 ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.





*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EM'S HUSBAND ***


    

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