by Marion Harland
CHAPTER II. AN
"FOUNDED UPON A
CHAPTER V. CLEAN
THE FACE AT THE
CHAPTER IX. HE
CHAPTER X. ROSA.
CHAPTER XI. IN
CHAPTER XV. THE
CHAPTER XVI. THE
THUNDER IN THE
CHAPTER I. DEWLESS ROSES.
Mrs. Rachel Sutton was a born match maker, and she had cultivated
the gift by diligent practice. As the sight of a tendrilled vine
suggests the need and fitness of a trellis, and a stray glove
invariably brings to mind the thought of its absent fellow, so every
disengaged spinster of marriageable age was an appeal—pathetic and
sure—to the dear woman's helpful sympathy, and her whole soul went
out in compassion over such "nice" and an appropriated bachelors as
crossed her orbit, like blind and dizzy comets.
Her propensity, and her conscientious indulgence of the same, were
proverbial among her acquaintances, but no one—not even prudish and
fearsome maidens of altogether uncertain age, and prudent mammas,
equally alive to expediency and decorum—had ever labelled her
"Dangerous," while with young people she was a universal favorite.
Although, with an eye single to her hobby, she regarded a man as an
uninteresting molecule of animated nature, unless circumstances
warranted her in recognizing in him the possible lover of some
waiting fair one, and it was notorious that she reprobated as worse
than useless—positively demoralizing, in fact—such friendships
between young persons of opposite sexes as held out no earnest of
prospective betrothal, she was confidante-general to half the girls
in the county, and a standing advisory committee of one upon all
points relative to their associations with the beaux of the region.
The latter, on their side, paid their court to the worthy and
influential widow as punctiliously, if not so heartily, as did their
gentle friends. Not that the task was disagreeable. At fifty years of
age, Mrs. Button was plump and comely; her fair curls unfaded, and
still full and glossy; her blue eyes capable of languishing into moist
appreciation of a woful heart-history, or sparkling rapturously at the
news of a triumphant wooing; her little fat hands were swift and
graceful, and her complexion so infantine in its clear white and pink
as to lead many to believe and some—I need not say of which
gender—to practise clandestinely upon the story that she had bathed
her face in warm milk, night and morning, for forty years. The more
sagacious averred, however, that the secret of her continued youth lay
in her kindly, unwithered heart, in her loving thoughtfulness for
others' weal, and her avoidance, upon philosophical and religions
grounds, of whatever approximated the discontented retrospection winch
goes with the multitude by the name of self-examination.
Our bonnie widow had her foibles and vanities, but the first were
amiable, the latter superficial and harmless, usually rather pleasant
than objectionable. She was very proud, for instance, of her success
in the profession she had taken up, and which she pursued con amore;
very jealous for the reputation for connubial felicity of those she
had aided to couple in the leash matrimonial, and more uncharitable
toward malicious meddlers or thoughtless triflers with the course of
true love; more implacable to match-breakers than to the most
atrocious phases of schism, heresy, and sedition in church or state,
against which she had, from her childhood, been taught to pray. The
remotest allusion to a divorce case threw her into a cold
perspiration, and apologies for such legal severance of the hallowed
bond were commented upon as rank and noxious blasphemy, to which no
Christian or virtuous woman should lend her ear for an instant. If she
had ever entertained "opinions" hinting at the allegorical nature of
the Mosaic account of the Fall, her theory would unquestionably have
been that Satan's insidious whisper to the First Mother prated of the
beauties of feminine individuality, and enlarged upon the feasibility
of an elopement from Adam and a separate maintenance upon the
knowledge-giving, forbidden fruit. Upon second marriages—supposing
the otherwise indissoluble tie to have been cut by Death—she was a
trifle less severe, but it was generally understood that she had grave
doubts as to their propriety—unless in exceptional cases.
"When there is a family of motherless children, and the father is
himself young, it seems hard to require him to live alone for the
rest of his life," she would allow candidly. "Not that I pretend to
say that a connection formed through prudential motives is a real
marriage in the sight of Heaven. Only that there is no human law
against it. And the odds are as eight to ten that an efficient hired
housekeeper would render his home more comfortable, and his children
happier than would a stepmother. As for a woman marrying twice"—her
gentle tone and eyes growing sternly decisive—"it is difficult for
one to tolerate the idea. That is, if she really loved her first
husband. If not, she may plead this as some excuse for making the
venture—poor thing! But whether, even then, she has the moral right
to lessen some good girl's chances of getting a husband by taking two
for herself, has ever been and must remain a mooted question in my
Her conduct in this respect was thoroughly consistent with her
avowed principles. She was but thirty when her husdand died, after
living happily with her for ten years. Her only child had preceded
him to the grave four years before, and the attractive relict of
Frederic Sutton, comfortably jointured and without incumbrance of
near relatives, would have become a toast with gay bachelors and
enterprising widowers, but for the quiet propriety of her demeanor,
and the steadiness with which she insisted—for the most part,
tacitly—upon her right to be considered a married woman still.
"Once Frederic's wife—always his!" was the sole burden of her
answer to a proposal of marriage received when she was forty-five,
and the discomfited suitor filed it in his memory alongside of
Caesar's hackneyed war dispatch.
She had laid off crape and bombazine at the close of the first
lustrum of her widowhood as inconvenient and unwholesome wear, but
never assumed colored apparel. On the morning on which our story
opens, she took her seat at the breakfast-table in her nephew's
house—of which she was matron and supervisor-in-chief—clad in a
white cambric wrapper, belted with black; her collar fastened with a
mourning-pin of Frederic's hair, and a lace cap, trimmed with black
ribbon, set above her luxuriant tresses. She looked fresh and bright
as the early September day, with her sunny face and in her
daintily-neat attire, as she arranged cups and saucers for seven
people upon the waiter before her, instructing the butler, at the
same time, to ring the bell again for those she was to serve. She was
very busy and happy at that date. The neighborhood was gay, after the
open-hearted, open-handed style of hospitality that distinguished the
brave old days of Virginia plantation-life. A merry troup of maidens
and cavaliers visited by invitation one homestead after another,
crowding bedrooms beyond the capacity of any chambers of equal size to
be found in the land, excepting in a country house in the Old
Dominion; surrounding bountiful tables with smiling visages and
restless tongues; dancing, walking, driving, and singing away the
long, warm days, that seemed all too short to the soberest and
plainest of the company; which sped by like dream-hours to most of the
Winston Aylett, owner and tenant of the ancient mansion of
Ridgeley—the great house of a neighborhood where small houses and
men of narrow means were infrequent—had gone North about the first
of June, upon a tour of indefinite length, but which was certainly to
include Newport, the lakes, and Niagara, and was still absent. His
aunt, Mrs. Sutton, and his only sister, Mabel, did the honors of his
home in his stead, and, if the truth must be admittbd, more acceptably
to their guests than he had ever succeeded in doing. For a week past,
the house had been tolerably well filled—ditto Mrs. Sutton's hands;
ditto her great, heart. Had she not three love affairs, in different
but encouraging stages of progression, under her roof and her
patronage! And were not all three, to her apprehension, matches worthy
of Heaven's making, and her co-operation? A devout Episcopalian, she
was yet an unquestioning believer in predestination and "special
Providences"—and what but Providence had brought together the dear
creatures now basking in the benignant beam of her smile, sailing
smoothly toward the haven of Wedlock before the prospering breezes of
Circumstance (of her manufacture)?
While putting sugar and cream into the cups intended for the happy
pairs, she reviewed the situation rapidly in her mind, and sketched
the day's manoeuvres.
First, there was the case of Tom Barksdale and Imogene Tabb—highly
satisfactory and creditable to all the parties concerned in it, but
not romantic. Tom, a sturdy young planter, who had studied law while
at the University, but never practised it, being already provided for
by his opulent father, had visited his relatives, the Tabbs, in
August, and straightway fallen in love with the one single daughter
of his second cousin—a pretty, amiable girl, who would inherit a
neat fortune at her parent's death, and whose pedigree became
identical with that of the Barksdales a couple of generations back,
and was therefore unimpeachable. The friends on both sides were
enchanted; the lovers fully persuaded that they were made for one
another, an opinion cordially endorsed by Mrs. Sutton, and they could
confer with no higher authority.
Next came Alfred Branch and Rosa Tazewell—incipient, but promising
at this juncture, inasmuch as Rosa had lately smiled more
encouragingly upon her timid wooer than she had deigned to do before
they were domesticated at Ridgeley. Mrs. Sutton did not approve of
unmaidenly forwardness. The woman who would unsought be won, would
have fared ill in her esteem. Her lectures upon the beauties and
advantages of a modest, yet alluring reserve, were cut up into
familiar and much-prized quotations among her disciples, and were
acted upon the more willingly for the prestige that surrounded her
exploits as high priestess of Hymen. But Rosa had been too coy to
Alfred's evident devotion—almost repellent at seasons. Had these
rebuffs not alternated with attacks of remorse, during which the
exceeding gentleness of her demeanor gradually pried the crushed
hopes of her adorer out of the slough, and cleansed their drooping
plumes of mud, the courtship would have fallen through, ere Mrs.
Sutton could bring her skill to bear upon it. Guided, and yet soothed
by her velvet rein, Rosa really seemed to become more steady. She was
assuredly more thoughtful, and there was no better sign of Cupid's
advance upon the outworks of a girl's heart than reverie. If her fits
of musing were a shade too pensive, the experienced eye of the
observer descried no cause for discouragement in this feature. Rosa
was a spoiled, wayward child, freakish and mischievous, to whom
liberty was too dear to be resigned without a sigh. By and by, she
would wear her shackles as ornaments, like all other sensible and
Thus preaching to Alfred, when he confided to her the fluctuations
of rapture and despair that were his lot in his intercourse with the
sometimes radiant and inviting, sometimes forbidding sprite, whose
wings he would fain bind with his embrace, and thus reassuring
herself, when perplexed by a flash of Rosa's native perverseness,
Mrs. Sutton was sanguine that all would come right in the end. What
was to be would be, and despite the rapids in their wooing, Alfred
would find in Rosa a faithful, affectionate little wife, while she
could never hope to secure a better, more indulgent, and, in most
respects, more eligible, partner than the Ayletts' well-to-do,
But the couple who occupied the central foreground of our
match-maker's thoughts were her niece, Mabel Aylott, and her own
departed husband's namesake, Frederic Chilton. She dilated to herself
and to Mabel with especial gusto upon the "wonderful leading," the
inward whisper that had prompted her to propose a trip to the
Rockbridge Alum Springs early in July. Neither she nor Mabel was
ailing in the slightest degree, but she imagined they would be the
brighter for a glimpse of the mountains and the livelier scenes of
that pleasant Spa—and whom should they meet there but the son of
"dear Frederic's" old friend, Mr. Chilton, and of course they saw a
great deal of him—and the rest followed as Providence meant it
"The rest" expressed laconically the essence of numberless walks by
moonlight and starlight; innumerable dances in the great ball-room,
and the sweeter, more interesting confabulations that made the young
people better acquainted in four weeks than would six years of
conventional calls and small-talk. They stayed the month out,
although "Aunt Rachel" had, upon their arrival, named a fortnight as
the extreme limit of their sojourn. Frederic Chilton was their escort
to Eastern Virginia, and remained a week at Ridgeley—perhaps to
recover from the fatigue of the journey. So soon as he returned to
Philadelphia, in which place he had lately opened a law-office, he
wrote to Mabel, declaring his affection for her, and suing for
reciprocation. She granted him a gracious reply, and sanctioned by
fond, sympathetic Aunt Rachel, in the absence of Mabel's brother and
guardian, the correspondence was kept up briskly until Frederic's
second visit in September. Ungenerous gossips, envious of her talents
and influence, had occasionally sneered at Mrs. Sutton's appropriation
of the credit of other alliances—but this one was her handiwork
beyond dispute—hers and Providence's. She never forgot the
partnership. She had carried her head more erect, and there was a
brighter sparkle in her blue orbs since the evening Mabel had come
blushingly to her room, Fred's proposal in her hand—to ask counsel
and congratulations. Everybody saw through the discreet veil with
which she flattered herself she concealed her exultation when others
than the affianced twain were by—and while nobody was so unkind as
to expose the thinness of the pretence, she was given to understand
in many and gratifying ways that her masterpiece was considered, in
the Aylett circle, a suitable crown to the achievements that had
preceded it. Mabel was popular and beloved, and her betrothed, in
appearance and manner, in breeding and intelligence, justified Mrs.
Sutton's pride in her niece's choice.
The old lady colored up, with the quick, vivid rose-tint of sudden
and real pleasure that rarely outlives early girlhood, when the first
respondent to the breakfast-bell proved to be her Frederic's god-son.
"You are always punctual! I wish you would teach the good habit to
some other people," she said, after answering his cordial
"None of us deserve to be praised on that score, to-day," rejoined
he, looking at his watch. "I did not awake until the dressing-bell
rang. Our riding-party was out late last night. The extreme beauty of
the evening beguiled us into going further than we intended, when we
"Yes! you young folks are falling into shockingly irregular
habits—take unprecedented liberties with me and with Time!" shaking
her head. "If Winston do not return soon, you will set my mild rule
entirely at defiance."
Chilton laughed—but was serious the next instant.
"I expected confidently to meet him at this visit," he said,
glancing at the door to guard against being overheard. "Should he not
return to-day, ought I not, before leaving this to-morrow, to write to
him, since he is legally his sister's guardian? It is, you and she
tell me, a mere form, but one that should not be dispensed with any
"That may be so. Winston is rigorous in requiring what is due to
his position—is, in some respects, a fearful formalist. But he will
hardly oppose your wishes and Mabel's. He has her real happiness at
heart, I believe, although he is, at times, an over-strict and
exacting guardian—perhaps to counterbalance my indulgent policy. He
is unlike any other young man I know."
"His sister is very much attached to him."
"She loves him—I was about to say, preposterously. Her implicit
belief in and obedience to him have increased his self-confidence
into a dogmatic assertion of infallibility. But"—fearing she might
create an unfortunate impression upon the listener's mind—"Winston
has grounds for his good opinion of himself. His character is
unblemished—his principles and aims are excellent. Only"—relapsing
hopelessly into the confidential strain in which most of the
conference had been carried—"between ourselves, my dear Frederic, I
am never quite easy with these patterns to the rest of human-kind. I
should even prefer a tiny vein of depravity to such very rectangular
"You are seldom ill at ease, if human perfection is all that
renders you uncomfortable," responded Frederic. "There are not many in
whose composition one cannot trace, not a tiny, but a broad vein of
Adamic nature. What a delicious morning!" he added, sauntering to the
"And how sorry I am for those who did not get up in time to enjoy
the freshness of its beauty!" cried a gay voice from the portico, and
Mabel entered by the glass door behind him—her hands loaded with
roses, herself so beaming that her lover refrained with difficulty
from kissing the saucy mouth then and there.
He did take both her hands, under pretext of relieving her of the
flowers, and Aunt Rachel judiciously turned her back upon them, and
began a diligent search in the beaufet for a vase.
"Do you expect us to believe that you have been more industrious
than we? As if we did not know that you bribed the gardener to have a
bouquet cut and laid ready for you at the back-door," Frederic charged
upon the matutinal Flora. "Else, where are other evidences of your
stroll, in dew-sprinkled draperies and wet feet? Confess that you ran
down stairs just two minutes ago! Now that I come to think of it, I am
positive that I heard you, while Mrs. Sutton was lamenting your drowsy
proclivities after sunrise."
"I have been sitting in the summer-house for an hour—reading!"
protested Mabel, wondrously resigned to the detention, after a
single, and not violent attempt at release. "If you had opened your
shutters you must have seen me. But I knew I was secure from
observation on that side of the house, at least until eight o'clock,
about which time the glories of the new day usually penetrate very
tightly-closed lids. As to dew—there isn't a drop upon grass or
blossom. And, by the same token, we shall have a storm within
"Is that true? That is a meteorological presage I never heard of
"There is a moral in it, which I leave you to study out for
yourself, while I arrange the roses I—and not the
In a whisper, she subjoined—"Let me go! Some one is coming!" and
in a second more was at the sideboard, hurrying the flowers into the
antique china bowl, destined to grace the centre of the breakfast
"Good-morning, Miss Rosa. You are just in season to enjoy the
society of your sister," Frederic said, lightly, pointing to the
billows of mingled white and red, tossing under Mabel's fingers.
The new-comer approached the sideboard, leaned languidly upon her
elbow, and picked up a half-blown bud at random from the pile.
"They are scentless!" she complained.
"Because dewless!" replied Mabel, with profound gravity. "It is the
tearful heart that gives out the sweetest fragrance."
"I have more faith in sunshine," interrupted Rosa, a tinge of
contempt in her smile and accent. "Or—to drop metaphors, at which I
always bungle—it is my belief that it is easy for happy people to be
good. All this talk about the sweetness of crushed blossoms, throwing
their fragrance from the wounded part, and the riven sandal-tree, and
the blessed uses of adversity, is outrageous balderdash, according to
my doctrine. A buried thing is but one degree better than a dead one.
What it is the fashion of poets and sentimentalists to call perfume,
is the odor of incipient decay."
"You are illustrating your position by means of my poor oriental
pearl," remonstrated Mabel, playfully, wresting the hand that was
beating the life and whiteness out of the floweret upon the marble
top of the beaufet. "Take this hardy geant de batailles, instead. My
bouquet must have a cluster of pearls for a heart."
"What a fierce crimson!" Frederic remarked upon the widely-opened
rose Miss Tazewell received in place of the delicate bud. "That must
be the 'hue angry, yet brave,' which, Mr. George Herbert asserts,
'bids the rash gazer wipe his eye.'"
"More poetical nonsense!" said Rosa, deliberately tearing the bold
"geant" to pieces down to the bare stem, "unless he meant to be
comic, and intimate that the gazer was so rash as to come too near
the bush, and ran a thorn into the pupil."
No one answered, except by the indulgent smile that usually greeted
her sallies, howeve? absurd, among those accustomed to the spoiled
Mabel was making some leisurely additions to her bouquet in the
shape of ribbon grass and pendent ivy sprays, coaxing these with
persuasive touches to trail over the edge and entwine the pedestal of
the salver on which her bowl was elevated; her head set slightly on
one side, her lips apart in a smile of enjoyment in her work and in
herself. It was a picture the lover studied fondly—one that hung
forever thereafter in his gallery of mental portraits. Beyond a pair
of fine gray eyes, the pliant grace of her figure and the buoyant
carriage of youth, health, and a glad heart, Mabel's pretensions to
beauty were comparatively few, said the world. Frederic Chilton had,
nevertheless, fallen in love with her at sight, and considered her,
now, the handsomest woman of his acquaintance. Her dress was a simple
lawn—a sheer white fabric, with bunches of purple grass bound up with
yellow wheat, scattered over it; her hair was lustrous and abundant,
and her face, besides being happy, was frank and intelligent, with
wonderful mobility of expression. In temperament and sentiment; in
capacity for, and in demonstration of affection, she suited Frederic
to the finest fibre of his mind and heart. He, for one, did not carp
at Aunt Rachel's declaration that they were intended to spend time and
Still, Mabel Aylett was not a belle, and Rosa Tazewell was. Callow
collegians and enterprising young merchants from the city; sunbrowned
owners of spreading acres and hosts of laborers; students and
practitioners of law and medicine, and an occasional theologue, had
broken their hearts for perhaps a month at a time, for love of her,
since she was a school-girl in short dresses. Yet there had been a
date very far back in the acquaintanceship of each of these with the
charmer, when he had marvelled at the infatuation which had blinded
her previous adorers. She was "a neat little thing," with her round
waist, her tiny hands and feet and roguish eye—but there was nothing
else remarkable about her features, and in coloring, the picture was
too dark for his taste. Why, she might be mistaken for a creole! And
each critic held fast to his expressed opinion until the roguish eyes
met his directly and with meaning, and he found himself diving into
the bright, shimmering wells, and drowning—still ecstatically—before
he reached the bottom whence streamed the light of passionate feeling,
striking upward through the surface. What her glances did not effect
was done by her dazzling smile and musical voice.
As one of her victims swore, "It was a dearer delight to be
rejected by her than to be accepted by a dozen other girls—she did
the thing up so handsomely! And yet, do you know, sir, I could have
shot myself for a barbarous brute when I saw the pitying tears
standing upon her lashes, and heard the tremor in her sweet tones, as
she begged me to forgive her for not loving me!"
Those she had once captivated never quite rid themselves of the
glamour of her arts; remained her trusty squires, ready to serve, or
to defend her always afterward.
Aunt Rachel, intent, during the short pause, upon the movements of
the servant who was setting the smoking breakfast upon the table,
glanced around when all was properly arranged, to summon the two to
their places—but something in Rosa's attitude and countenance held
her momentarily speechless. Mabel still bent over her roses, in
smiling interest, and Frederic Chilton was watching her—but not as
the third person of the group about the beaufet watched them both
between her half-closed lids, her black brows close together, and the
glittering teeth visible under the curling upper lip.
"She looked like a panther lying in wait for her prey!" Mrs. Sutton
said to her niece, many months later, in attempting to describe the
scene. "Or like a bright-eyed snake coiled for a spring. The sight of
her sent shivers all down my spine."
Her interruption of the tableau sounded oddly abrupt to ears used
to her pleasant accents.
"Come, young people! how long are you going to keep me waiting?
Breakfast is cooling fast!"
"I beg your pardon, Auntie! I did not notice that it had been
brought in," apologized Mabel, drawing back, that Frederic might lift
the loaded salver carefully to its place upon the board.
As they were closing about this, they were joined by Messrs.
Barksdale and Branch, Miss Tabb delaying her appearance until the
repast was nearly over, and meeting the raillery of the party upon
her late rising with the sweet, soft smile her cousin-betrothed
admired as the indication of unadulterated amiability. The
breakfast-hour, always pleasant, was to-day particularly merry. Rosa
led off in the laughing debates, the play of repartee, friendly jest,
and anecdote that incited all to mirth and speech and tempted them to
linger around the table long after the business of the meal wag
"This is the perfection of country life!" said Frederic Chilton,
when, at last, there was a movement to end the sitting. "But it
spoils one fearfully for the everyday practicalities of the city—a
Northern city, especially."
"Better stay where you are, then, instead of deserting our ranks
to-morrow," suggested Rosa, gliding by his side out upon the long
portico at the end of the house. "What does your nature crave that
Ridgeley cannot supply?"
"Work, and a career!"
"You still feel the need of these?" significantly.
"Otherwise I were no man!"
"You are right!"
Her disdainful eyes wandered to the farther end of the portico,
where Alfred Branch, in his natty suit of white grasscloth, plucked
at his ebon whiskers with untanned fingers, and talked society
nothings with the ever-complaisant Imogene.
"Come what may, you, Mr. Chilton, have occupation for thought and
hands; are not tied down to a detestable routine of vapid pleasures
and common-place people!"
"You are—every independent woman and man—is as free in this
respect as myself, Miss Rosa. None need be a slave to conventionality
unless he choose."
She made a gesture that was like twisting a chain apon her wrist.
"You know you are not sincere in saying that. I wondered, moreover,
when you were railing at the practicalities of city life, if you were
learning, like the rest of the men, to accommodate your talk to your
audience. Where is the use of your trying to disguise the truth that
all women are slaves? I used to envy you when I was in Philadelphia,
last winter, when you pleaded business engagements as an excuse for
declining invitations to dinner-parties and balls. Now, if a woman
defies popular decrees by refusing to exhibit herself for the popular
entertainment, the horrible whisper is forthwith circulated that she
has been 'disappointed,' and is hiding her green wound in her
sewing-room or oratory. 'Disappointed,' forsooth! That is what they
say of every girl who is not married to somebody by the time she is
twenty-five. It matters not whether she cares for him or not. Having
but one object in existence, there can be but one species of
disappointment. Marry she must, or be PITIED!" with a stinging
emphasis on the last word.
Tom Barksdale and Mabel were pacing the portico from end to end,
chatting with the cheerful familiarity of old friends. Catching some
of thin energetic sentence, Mabel looked over her shoulder.
"Who of us is fated to be pitied, did you say, Rosa dear?"
"Never yourself!" was the curt reply. "Rest content with that
Her restless fingers began to gather the red leaves that already
variegated the foliage of the creeper shading the porch. Strangely
indisposed to answer her animadversions upon the world's judgment of
her sex, or to acknowledge the implied compliment to his betrothed,
Frederic watched the lithe, dark hands, as they overflowed with the
vermilion trophies of autumn. The September sunshine sifted through
the vines in patches upon the floor; the low laughter and blended
voices of the four talkers; the echo of Tom's manly tread, and
Mabel's lighter footfall, were all jocund music, befitting the
brightness of the day and world. What was the spell by which this
pettish girl who stood by him, her luminous eyes fixed in sardonic
melancholy upon the promenaders, while she rubbed the dying leaves
into atoms between her palms—had stamped scenes and sounds with
immortality, yet thrilled him with the indefinite sense of unreality
and dread one feels in scanning the lineaments of the beloved dead?
Had her nervous folly infected him? What absurd phantasy was hers,
and what his concern in her whims?
A stifled cry from Mabel aroused him to active attention. A
gentlemen had stepped from the house upon the piazza, and after
bending to kiss her, was shaking hands with her companions.
"The Grand Mogul!" muttered Rosa, with a comic grimace, and not
offering to stir in the direction of the stranger.
In another moment Mabel had led him up to her lover, and
introduced, in her pretty, ladylike way, and bravely enough,
considering her blushes, "Mr. Chilton" to "my brother, Mr. Winston
CHAPTER II. AN EXCHANGE OF
"And so you know nothing of this gentleman beyond what he has told
you of his character and antecedents?"
Aunt Rachel had knocked at the door of her nephew's study after
dinner, on the day of his return, and asked for an interview.
"Although I know you must be very busy with your accounts, and so
forth, having been away from the plantation for so long," she said,
deprecatingly, yet accepting the invitation to enter.
Mr. Aylett's eye left hers as he replied that he was quite at
liberty to listen to whatever she had to say, but his manner was
entirely his own—polished and cool.
Family tradition had it that he was naturally a man of strong
passions and violent temper, but since his college days, he had
never, as far as living mortal could testify, lifted the impassive
mask he wore, at the bidding of anger, surprise, or alarm. He ran all
his tilts—and he was not a non-combatant by any means—with locked
visor. In person, he was commanding in stature; his features were
symmetrical; his bearing high-bred. His conversation was sensible, but
never brilliant or animated. In his own household he was calmly
despotic; in his county, respected and unpopular—one of whom nobody
dared speak ill, yet whom nobody had reason to love. There was a
single person who believed herself to be an exception to this rule.
This was his sister Mabel. Some said she worshipped him in default of
any other object upon which she could expend the wealth of her young,
ardent heart; others, that his strong will enforced her homage. The
fact of her devotion was undeniable, and upon his appreciation of this
Aunt Rachel built her expectations of a favorable hearing when she
volunteered to prepare the way for Mr. Chilton's formal application
for the hand of her nephew's ward. Between herself and Winston there
existed little real liking and less affinity. She was useful to him,
and his tolerance of her society was courteous, but she understood
perfectly that he secretly despised many of her views and actions, as,
indeed, he did those of most women. Her present mission was undertaken
for the love she bore Mabel and her sister. It was not kind to send
the girl to tell her own story. It was neither kind nor fair to
subject their guest to the ordeal of an unheralded disclosure of his
sentiments and aspirations, with the puissant lord of Ridgeley as sole
"Fred would never get over the first impression of your brother's
chilling reserve," said the self-appointed envoy to Mabel, when she
insisted that her affianced would plead his cause more eloquently
than a third person could. "For, you, must confess, my love, that
Winston, although in most respects a model to other young men, is
unapproachable by strangers."
As she said "your accounts and so forth," she looked at the table
from which Mr. Aylett had arisen to set a chair for her. There was a
pile of account-books at the side against the wall, but they were
shut, and over heaped by pamphlets and newspapers; while before the
owner's seat lay an open portfolio, an unfinished letter within it.
Winston wiped his pen with deliberation, closed the portfolio,
snapped to the spring-top of his inkstand, and finally wheeled his
office chair away from the desk to face his visitor.
"Is it upon business that you wish to speak to me?"
He always disdained circumlocution, prided himself upon the
directness and simplicity of his address. This acted now as a
dissuasive to the sentimental address Mrs. Sutton had meditated as a
means of winning the flinty walls behind which his social affections
and sympathies were supposed to be intrenched. Had her mission been
in behalf of any other cause, she would have drawn off her forces
upon some pretext, and effected an ignominious retreat. Nerved by the
thought of Mabel's bashfulness and solicitude, and Frederic's
strangerhood, she stood to her guns.
Winston heard her story, from the not very coherent preamble, to
the warm and unqualified endorsement of Frederic Chilton's
credentials, and her moved mention of the mutual attachment of the
youthful pair, and never changed his attitude, or manifested any
inclination to stay the narration by question or comment. When she
ceased speaking, his physiognomy denoted no emotion whatever. Yet,
Mabel was his nearest living relative. She had been bequeathed to his
care, when only ten years old, by the will of their dying father, and
grown up under his eye as his child, rather than a sister. And he was
hearing, for the first time, of her desire to quit the home they had
shared together from her birth, for the protection and companionship
of another. Mrs. Sutton thought herself pretty well versed in
"Winston's ways," but she had expected to detect a shade of softness
in the cold, never-bright eyes and anticipated another rejoinder than
the sentence that stands at the head of this chapter.
"And so you know nothing of this gentleman beyond what he has told
you of his character and antecedents?" he said—the slender white
fingers, his aunt fancied, looked cruel even in their idleness,
lightly linked together while his elbows restod upon the arms of his
"My dear Winston! what a question! Haven't I told you that he is my
husband's namesake and godson! I was at his fathers house a score of
times, at least, in dear Frederic's life-time. It was a charming
place, and I never saw a more lovely family. I recollect this boy
perfectly, as was very natural, seeing that his name was such a
compliment to my husband. He was a fine, manly little fellow, and the
eldest son. The christening-feast was postponed, for some reason I do
not now remember, until he was two years old. It was a very fine
affair. The company was composed of the very elite of that part of
Maryland, and the Bishop himself baptized the two babies—Frederic,
and a younger sister. I know all about him, you see, instead of
"What was the date of this festival?" asked Winston's unwavering
"Let me see! We had been married seven years that fall. It must
have been in the winter of 18—."
"Twenty-three years ago!" said Winston, yet more quietly.
"Doubtless, your intimacy with this estimable and distinguished
family continued up to the time of your husband's death?"
Mrs. Button's color waned, And her voice sank, as the inquisition
proceeded. "Dear Frederic's" death was not the subject she would have
chosen of her free will to discuss with this man of steel and ice.
"I never visited them again. I could not—"
If she hoped to retain a semblance of composure, she must shift her
"I returned to my father's house, which was, as you know, more
remote from the borders of Maryland—"
"You kept up a correspondence, perhaps?" Winston interposed,
overlooking her agitation as irrelevant to the matter under
"No! For many months I wrote no letters at all, and Mr. Chilton was
never a punctual correspondent. The best of friends are apt to be
dilatory in such respects, as they advance in life."
"I gather, then, from what you have ADMITTED"—there was no actual
stress upon the word, but it stood obnoxiously apart from the
remainder of the sentence, to Mrs. Sutton's auriculars—"from what
you have admitted, that for twenty years you have lost sight of this
gentleman and his relatives, and that you might never have remembered
the circumstance of their existence, had he not introduced himself to
you at the Springs this summer."
"You are mistaken, there!" corrected the widow, eagerly. "Rosa
Tazewell introduced him to Mabel at the first 'hop'
she—Mabel—attended there. He is very unassuming. He would never
have forced himself upon my notice. I was struck by his appearance
and resemblance to his father, and inquired of Mabel who he was. The
recognition followed as a matter of course."
"He was an acquaintance of Miss Tazewell—did you say?"
"Yes—she knew him very well when she was visiting in Philadelphia
"And proffered the introduction to Mabel?" the faintest imaginable
glimmer of sarcastic amusement in his eyes, but none in his accent.
"He requested it, I believe."
"That is more probable. Excuse my frankness, aunt, when I say that
it would have been more in consonance with the laws controlling the
conduct of really thoroughbred people, had your paragon—I use the
term in no offensive sense—applied to me, instead of to you, for
permission to pay his addresses to my ward. I am willing to ascribe
this blunder, however, to ignorance of the code of polite society,
and not to intentional disrespect, since you represent the gentleman
as amiable and well-meaning. I am, furthermore, willing to examine
his certificates of character and means, with a view to determining
what are his recommendations to my sister's preference, over and
above ball-room graces and the fact that he is Mr. Sutton's namesake,
and whether it will be safe and advisable to grant my consent to their
marriage. Whatever is for Mabel's real welfare shall be done, while I
cannot but wish that her choice had fallen upon some one nearer home
The prosecution of inquiries as to the reputation of one whose
residence is so distant, is a difiicult and delicate task."
"If you will only talk to him for ten minutes he will remove your
scruples,—satisfy you that all is as it should be," asserted Mrs.
Sutton, more confidently to him than herself.
"I trust it will be as you say—but credulity is not my besetting
sin. I am ready to see the gentleman at any hour you and he may see
fit to appoint."
"I will send MR. CHILTON to you at once, then." Mrs, Sutton
collected the scattering remnants of hope and resolution, that she
might deal a parting shot.
"Winston is an AWFUL trial to my temper, although he never loses
his own," she was wont to soliloquize, in the lack of a confidante to
whom she could expatiate upon his eccentricities and general
untowardness. His marked avoidance of Frederic's name in this
conference savored to her of insulting meaning. She had rather he had
coupled it with opprobious epithets whenever he referred to him, than
spoken of him as "this" or "that gentleman." If he took this high and
chilly tone, with Mabel's wooer, there was no telling what might be
the result of the affair.
"Don't mind him if he is stiff and uncompromising for a while," she
enjoined upon Frederic, in apprising him of the seignior's readiness
to grant him audience, "It is only his way, and he is Mabel's
"I will bear the latter hint in mind," rejoined the young man, with
the gay, affectionate smile he often bestowed upon her." I don't
believe he can awe me into resignation of my purpose, or provoke me
into dislike of the rest of the family."
Mabel was in her aunt's room, plying her with queries, hard to be
evaded, touching the tenor and consequences of her recent
negotiations, when a servant brought a message from her brother. She
was wanted in the study. The girl turned very white, as she prepared
to obey, without an idea of delay or of refusal.
"O Auntie! what if he should order me to give Frederic up!" she
ejaculated, pausing at the door, in an agony of trepidation. "I never
disobeyed him in my life."
"He will not do that, dear, never fear! He can find no pretext for
such summary proceedings. And should he oppose your wishes, be firm
of purpose, and do not forsake your affianced husband," advised the
old lady, solemnly. "There is a duty which takes precedence, in the
sight of Heaven and man, of that you owe your brother. Remember this,
and take courage."
Mabel's roses returned in profusion, when, upon entering the
arbiter's dread presence, she saw Frederic Chilton, standing on the
opposite side of the table from that at which sat her brother at his
ease, his white fingers still idly interlaced, his pale patrician
face emotionless as that of the bust of Apollo upon the top of the
bookcase behind him. It was Frederic who led her to a chair, when she
stopped, trembling midway in the apartment, and his touch upon her arm
inspirited her to raise her regards to Winston's countenance at the
sound of his voice.
"I have sent for you, Mabel, that I may repeat in you hearing the
reply I have returned to Mr. Chilton's application for my sanction to
your engagement—I should say, perhaps, to your reciprocal attachment.
The betrothal of a minor without the consent, positive or implied, of
her parent or guardian is, as I have just explained to Mr. Chilton,
but an empty name in this State. I have promised, then, not to oppose
your marriage, provided the inquiries I shall institute concerning Mr.
Chilton's previous life, his character, and his ability to maintain
you in comfort, are answered satisfactorily. He will understand and
excuse my pertinacity upon this point when he reflects upon the value
of the stake involved in this transaction."
In all their intercourse, Frederic had no more gracious notice from
Mabel's brother than this semi-apology, delivered with stately
condescension, and a courtly bow in his direction.
It sounded very grand to Mabel, whose fears of opposition or
severity from her Mentor had shaken courage and nerves into pitiable
distress. Frederic could desire nothing more affable than Winston's
smile; no more abundant encouragement than was afforded by his
voluntary pledge. Had not the thought savored of disloyalty to her
lover, she would have confessed herself disappointed that his reply
did not effervesce with gratitude, that his deportment was distant,
his tone constrained.
"I appreciate the last-named consideration, Mr. Aylett, I believe,
thoroughly, as you do. I have already told you that I invite, not
shirk, the investigation you propose. I now repeat my offer of
whatever facility is at my command for carrying this on. No honorable
man could do less. Unless I mistake, you wish now to see your sister
He bent his head slightly, and without other and especial
salutation to his betrothed, withdrew.
Odd, white dints came and went in Winston's nostrils—the one and
unerring facial sign of displeasure he ever exhibited, if we except a
certain hardening of eye and contour that chiselled his lineaments
into a yet closer resemblance to marble.
"He is very sensitive and proud, I know," faltered Mabel, hastily
marking these, and understanding what they portended.
"You need not like him the less on that account, always provided
that the supports of his pride are legitimate and substantial,"
answered her brother, carelessly transferring to his tablets several
names from a sheet of paper upon the table—the addresses of persons
to whom Frederic had referred him for confirmation of his statements
regarding his social and professional standing.
"I hope, for your sake, Mabel," he pursueds pocketing the
memoranda, "that this affair may be speedily and agreeably adjusted;
while I cannot deny that I deprecate the unseemly haste with which
Mrs. Sutton and her ally have urged it on, in my absence. Had they
intended to court suspicion, they could not have done it more
effectually. You could not have had a more injudicious chaperone to
"Indeed, brother, she was not to blame," began the generous girl,
forgetting her embarrassment in zealous defence of the aunt she
loved. "It was not she who presented me to Mr. Chilton, and she has
never attempted to bias my decision in any manner."
"I have heard the history in detail." Had his breeding been less
fine, he would have yawned in her face. "I know that you are indebted
for Mr. Chilton's acquaintanceship to Miss Tazewell's generosity. But
in strict justice, Mrs. Sutton should be held responsible for whatever
unhappiness may arise from the intimacy. You were left by myself in
"I do not believe it will end unhappily," Mabel was moved to reply,
with spirit that became her better than the shyness she had
heretofore displayed, or the submissive demeanor usual with her in
tête-à-têtes with her guardian.
He smiled in calm superiority.
"I have expressed my hope to that effect. Of expectations it will
be time enough to speak when I am better informed upon divers points.
I am not one to take much for granted, am less sanguine than my
romantic aunt, or even than my more practical sister. Assuming,
however, that all is as you would have it, your wish would be, I
suppose, for an early marriage?"
"There has been little said about that," responded Mabel,
reddening—then rallying to add smilingly—"such an arrangement would
have involved the taking for granted a good many things—your consent
Winston passed over the addenda.
"But that little, especially when uttered by Mr. Chiiton, trenched
upon the inexpediency of long engagements—did it not?"
Mabel was mute, her eyes downcast.
"I agree with him there, at any rate. You are nineteen years of
age; he twenty-five. Your property is unincumbered, and can be
transferred to your keeping at very short notice. Mr. Chiiton
represents that his income from his patrimonial estate, eked out by
professional gains, is sufficient to warrant him in marrying
forthwith. I shall see that no time is lost in making the inquiries
upon which depends the progress of the negotiation. Business calls me
North in a week or ten days. I shall stop a day in Philadelphia, and
settle your affair."
The frightfully business-like manner of disposing of her happiness
appalled the listener into silence. The loss of Frederic; the
destruction of her love-dream; the weary years of lonely wretchedness
that would follow the bereavement, were to him only unimportant
incidentals to her "affair;" weighed in the scale of his impartial
judgment no more than would unconsidered dust. For the first time in
the life to which he had been the guiding-star, she ventured to wonder
if the unswerving rectitude that had elevated him above the level of
other men, in her esteem and affection, were so glorious a thing after
all; if a tempering, not of human frailty, but of charity for the
shortcomings, sympathy for the needs, of ordinary mortals, would not
subdue the effulgence of his talents and virtues into mild lustre,
more tolerable to the optics of fallible beholders
Unsuspicious, with all his astuteness, of her sacrilegious doubts,
"In the event of your marriage, you would desire, no doubt, that
Mrs. Sutton should take up her abode with you? You would find her
useful in many ways, and she would get on amicably with her husband's
"I do not think she expects to go with me," answered Mabel,
staggered by his coolly confident air. "I certainly have never
entertained the idea. I imagined that she would remain with you,
while you needed her services."
"That will not be long. I shall be married on the 10th of October."
"Married! brother!" starting up in amazement. "You are not in
"I should not jest upon such a theme," replied Winston, in grave
rebuke. "My plans are definitely laid. It is not my purpose to keep
them secret a day longer. I meant to communicate them to yourself and
Mrs. Sutton this afternoon, but yours claimed precedence."
Mabel sat down again, totally confounded, and struggling hard with
her tears. The thought of her brother's marriage was not in itself
disagreeable. She had often lamented his insensibility to the
attractions of such women as she fancied would add to his happiness,
and grace the high place to which his wife would be exalted. She
never liked to hear him called invulnerable; repelled the hypothesis
of his incurable bachelorhood as derogatory to his heart and head.
This unlooked-for intelligence, had it reached her in a different
way, would have delighted as much as it astonished her. The fear lest
her consent to wed Frederic and leave Ridgeley might be the occasion
of discomfort and sadness to her forsaken brother had shadowed all her
visions of future bliss. She ought to have hailed with unmixed
satisfaction the certainty that he would not miss her sisterly
ministrations, or feel the need of her companionship in that of one
nearer and dearer than was his child-ward. She had striven not to
resent even in her own mind, his cavalier treatment of her lover; had
hearkened respectfully and without demur to his unsympathizing
calculations of what was possible and what feasible in the project of
her union with the man of her choice. For how could he know anything
of the palpitations, the anxieties, the raptures of love, when he was
a stranger to the touch of a kindred emotion? He meant well; he had
her welfare in view; unfortunate as was his style of discussing the
means for insuring this—for he loved her dearly, dearly!
She must never question this, although he had dealt the comfortable
persuasion a cruel blow; wounded her in a vital part by withholding
from her the circumstance of his attachment and betrothal until the
near approach of the wedding day rendered continued secrecy
inexpedient. No softening memory of his affianced had inclined him to
listen with kindly warmth to her timid avowals, or Frederic's manly
protestations of their mutual attachment. He recognized no analogy in
the two cases; stood aloof from them in the flush of his successful
love, as if he had never known the pregnant meaning of the word.
Smarting under the sense of injury to pride and affection, her
language, when she could trust her voice, was a protest that, in
Winston's judgment, ill beseemed her age and station.
"Why did you not tell me of this earlier, brother? It was unjust
and unkind to keep me in the dark until now."
"You forget yourself, Mabel. I am not under obligation to account
to you for my actions."
He said it composedly, as if stating a truth wholly disconnected
with feeling on his part or on hers.
"I have given you the information to which you refer, in season for
you to make ample preparation for my wife's reception. And, mark me,
she must see no sulkiness, no airs of strangeness or intolerance,
because I have managed a matter that concerns me chiefly, as seemed
to me best. Say the same to Mrs. Sutton, if you please; also that I
will submit to no dictation, and ask no advice."
Mabel's anger seldom outlived its utterance. The hot sparkle in her
eye was quenched by moisture, as she laid her hand caressingly upon
"Winston! you cannot suppose that we could be wanting in cordiality
to any one whom you love, much less to your wife. Let her come when
she may, she will be heartily welcomed by us both. But this has
fallen suddenly upon me, and I am a little out of sorts to-day, I
believe—excited and nervous—and, O, my darling! my oldest and best
of friends! I hope your love will bring to you the happiness you
The tears had their course, at last, bathing the hand she bowed to
kiss. The simple ardor of the outbreak would have affected many men
to a show of responsive weakness. Even Winston Aylett's physiognomy
was more human and less statuesque, as he patted her head, and bade
her be composed.
"If you persist in enacting Niobe, I shall believe that you are
chagrined at the prospect of having the sister you have repeatedly
besought me to give you," he said, playfully—for him. "You have not
asked me her name, and where she lives. What has become of your
curiosity? I never knew it to be quiescent before."
"I thought you would tell me whatever it was best for me to know,"
replied Mabel, drying her eyes.
If she had said that she was too well-trained to assail him with
interrogatories he had not invited, it would have been nearer the
"There is nothing relating to her which I desire to conceal," he
rejoined, with some stiffness, "or she would never have become my
promised wife. She is a Miss Dorrance, the daughter of a widow
residing in the vicinity of Boston, Massachusetts. I met her first at
Trenton Falls, where a happy accident brought me into association with
her party. I travelled with them to the Lakes and among the White
Mountains, and, while in Boston, visited her daily. We were betrothed
a week ago, and having, as I have observed, an aversion to protracted
engagements, I prevailed upon her to appoint the tenth of next mouth
as our marriage day. There you have the story in brief. I have not
Mrs. Sutton's talents as a raconteur, nor her disposition to turn
hearts inside out for the edification of her auditors."
"Does she—Miss Dorrance—look like anybody I know?" asked Mabel,
hesitating to declare herself dissatisfied with the skeleton
love-tale, yet uncertain how to learn more.
"A roundabout way of asking if she is passable in appearance,"
Winston said, with his smile of conscious superiority. "Judge for
yourself!" taking from his pocket a miniature.
"How beautiful! What a very handsome woman?" the sister exclaimed
at sight of the pictured face.
"You are correct. She is, moreover, a thorough lady, and
highly-educated. Ridgeley will have a queenly mistress. The likeness
is considered faithful, but it does not do her justice."
He took it from Mabel, and they scanned it together; she resting
against his shoulder. She felt his chest heave twice; heard him
swallow spasmodically in the suppression of some mighty emotion, and
the palpable effort drew her very near to him. She never doubted from
that moment, what she had more cause in after days to believe, that he
loved the woman he had won with a fervor of passion that seemed
foreign to his temperament as the evidence of it was to his conduct.
The September sun was near the horizon, and between the bowed
shutters one slender, gilded arrow shot athwart the portrait,
producing a marvellous and sinister change in its expression. The
large, limpid eyes became shallow and cunning; the smile lurking
about the mouth was the more treacherous and deadly for its
sweetness; while the burnished coils of hair brushed away from the
temples had the opaline tints and sinuous roll of a serpent.
Mabel shrank back before the horror of the absurd imagination.
Winston raised the picture to his lips.
"My peerless one!"
CHAPTER III. UNWHOLESOME VAPORS.
"DORRANCE!" repeated Frederic, after his betrothed, when she
rehearsed to him in their moonlight promenade upon the piazza the
leading incidents of her brother's wooing. "She lives near Boston,
you say, and her mother is a widow?"
"Yes. What have you ever heard about her?"
"Nothing whatever. I was startled by the name—but very foolishly!
I once knew a family of Dorrances—New Yorkers—but the father, a
retired naval officer, was alive, and all the daughters were married.
The youngest of them would be, by this time, much older than you judge
the original of the miniature to be."
"She is not more than twenty-two, at the most," Mabel was sure.
Frederic's hurried articulation and abstracted manner excited her
curiosity, and unrestrained by Winston's curb, it was not
"quiescent." The thought was spoken so soon as it was formed.
"There was something unpleasant in your intercourse with them,
then? or something objectionable in the people themselves? Could they
have been relatives of this widow and her daughter? The name is not a
common one to my ears."
"Nor to mine; yet we have no proof to sustain your supposition. I
should be very sorry—"
Mabel studied his perturbed countenance with augmented uneasiness.
"Was not the family respectable?"
"Perfectly, my shrewd little catechist!" seeming to shake off an
uncomfortable incubus, as he laughed down at her serious face. "They
vaunted themselves upon the antiquity of their line, and were more
liberal in allusions to departed grandeur than was quite well-bred.
When I knew them they were not wealthy, or in what they would have
called 'society.' Indeed, the mother kept a private boarding-house
near the law-school I attended. There were several sons—very decent,
enterprising fellows. But one lived at home, and a daughter, the wife
of a lieutenant in the navy, whom I never saw. I boarded with them for
six months, or thereabout."
"You never saw the daughter! How was that?"
"I must have expressed myself awkwardly if I conveyed any such
idea. I did not meet the seafaring husband who was off upon a long
cruise. The wife I met constantly—knew very well. You need not look
at me so intently, love, as if you feared that some dark mystery
lurked behind this matter-of-fact recital. If I do not tell you every
event of my former life, it is not because it was vile. I could not
sustain the light of your innocent eyes if I had ever been guilty of
aught dishonorable or criminal. But even the follies and mistakes of
a young man's early career are not fit themes for your ears. And I
was no wiser, no more wary, than other youths of the same age; was
apt to believe that fair which was only specious, and that I might
play, uninjured, with edged tools. Nor had I seen you then, my
treasure—my snow-drop of purity! Mabel! do you know how solemn a
thing it is to be loved and trusted by a man, as I love and confide
in you? It terrifies me when I think of the absoluteness of my
dependence upon your fidelity—of how rich I am in having you—how
poor, wretched, and miserable I should be without you. I shall not
draw a free breath until you are mine beyond the chance of recall."
"Nobody else wants me!" breathed Mabel in his ear, nestling within
the arm that enfolded and held her tightly in the corner of the
piazza shaded by the creeper. "The danger of losing me is not
imminent to-night, at all events," she resumed, presently, with a
touch of the sportiveness that lent her manner an airy charm in
lighter talk than that which had engrossed her for the past hour.
The evening was warm and still to sultriness, and the moonlight,
filtered into pensive pallor through a low-lying haze, yet sufficed
to show how confidingly Imogene leaned upon her attendant in
sauntering dowa the long main alley of the garden. Rosa was at the
piano in the parlor, singing to the enamored Alfred. Mrs. Sutton had
withdrawn to her own room to ruminate upon the astounding disclosure
of her nephew's engagement, while Winston bent over his study-table
busy with the interrupted letter his aunt had seen in his portfolio.
"There is no one here who has the leisure or the disposition to
contest your rights, you perceive," said Mabel, running through a
laughing summary of their companions' occupations.
"Betrothals are epidemic in this household and neighborhood,"
Winston was writing. "There are no fewer than three pairs of turtles
cooing down stairs as I pen this to you, my bird of paradise. The
case that next to mine—to ours—commands my interest is that of my
sister. I came home to learn that the little Mabel I used to hold on
my knee had entered into an engagement—conditional upon my
sanction—with that traditional tricky personage, a Philadelphia
lawyer—Mr. Frederic Chilton, at the door of whose manifold
perfections, as set forth by my loquacious aunt, you may lay the
blame of this delayed epistle. I know nothing of this aspirant to the
dignity of brotherhood with myself, saving the facts that he is
tolerably good looking, claims to be the scion of an old Maryland
family, and that self-conceit is apparently his predominant quality."
"What is that?" asked Frederic, halting before the windows, of the
drawing-room, as a wild, sorrowful strain, like the wail of a
breaking heart, arose upon the waveless air.
Rosa was a vocalist of note in her circle, and she had never
rendered anything with more effect than she did the song to which
even the preoccupied strollers among the garden borders stayed their
steps to listen. Through the open casement Mabel and her lover could
see the face of the musician, slightly uplifted toward the moonlight;
her eyes, dark and dreamy, as under the cloud of many years of weary
waiting and final hopelessness. Her articulation was always pure, but
the passionate emphasis of every word constrained the breathless
attention of her audience to the close of the simple lay:
"Thy name was once the magic spell
By which my thoughts were bound;
And burning dreams of light and love
Were wakened by the sound.
My heart beat quick when stranger-tongues,
With idle praise or blame,
Awoke its deepest thrill of joy
To tremble at thy name.
"Long years, long years have passed away,
And altered is thy brow;
And we who met so fondly once
Must meet as strangers now.
The friends of yore come 'round me still,
But talk no more of thee,
'Twere idle e'en to wish it now,
For what art thou to me?"
"Yet still thy name—thy blessed name!
My lonely bosom fills,
Like an echo that hath lost itself
Among the distant hills,
That still, with melancholy note,
Keeps faintly lingering on,
When the joyous sound that woke it first
Is gone—forever gone!"
"A neat conceit that last verse, and the music is a fair imitation
of a dying bugle-echo!" said Winston Aylett to himself, resuming the
writing he had suspended for a minute. "That girl should take to the
stage. If one did not know better, her eyes and singing together
would delude him into the idea that she had a heart. Honest Alfred
evidently believes that she has, and that the patient labor of love
will win it for himself. Bah!"
Frederic and Mabel retired noiselessly from their post of
observation, as "honest Alfred" made a motion to take in his the hand
lying prone and passive upon the finger-board. They exchanged a smile,
significant and tender, in withdrawing.
"We understand the signs of the times," whispered Frederic, at the
upper turn of their promenade. "Heaven bless all true lovers under
"Don't!" said Rosa, vehemently, snatching away her hand from her
suitor's hold. "Leave me alone! If you touch me again I shall scream!
I think you were made up without nerves, either in the heart or in the
brain—if you have any!"
Before the aghast Alfred rallied from the recoil occasioned by her
gesture and words, her feet were pattering over the oaken hall and
staircase in rapid retreat to her chamber.
"You are really happy, then?" queried Mabel. "Quite content?"
"Did I not tell you awhile ago that I was not satisfied?" returned
Chilton. "Two months since I should, in anticipation of this hour,
have declared that it would be fraught with unalloyed rapture. I was
happier yesterday than I am to-day. It is not merely that we must
part to-morrow, or that your brother's precautionary measures and
disapproval of what has passed between us have acted like a
shower-bath to the fervor of my newly born hopes. I am willing that
my life should be subjected to the utmost rigor of his researches,
and another month, at farthest, will reunite us. Nor do I believe in
presentiments. I am more inclined to attribute the uneasiness that
has hovered over me all the day to physical causes. We will call it a
mild splenetic case, induced by the sultry weather, and the very slow
on coming of the storm presaged by your dewless roses."
He laughed naturally and pleasantly. Having confessed to what he
regarded as a ridiculous succumbing of his buoyant spirit to
atmospheric influences, he shook off the nightmare as if it had never
sat upon him.
Mabel was grave still.
"There is something weirdly oppressive in the night," she said, in
a low, awed tone. "But the burden you describe has weighed me down
since morning. While Rosa was singing, I felt suddenly removed from
you by a horrid gulf. What if all this should be the preparation to
us for some impending danger?"
"Sweet! these are unwholesome vapors of the imagination. Nothing
can be a disaster that leaves us to one another," was the text of
Frederic's fond soothing; and by the time Mrs. Sutton descended from
her chamber of meditation, to remind Imogene that the seeds of ague
and fever lurked in the river-fogs, the couple from the piazza came
into the lighted parlor, all smiles and animation, wondering,
jocosely, what had become of the recent occupants of the apartment.
Neither reappeared until breakfast-time next morning. Rosa was like
freshly-poured champagne, in sweet and sparkle. Alfred, rueful and
limp, as if the dripping clouds that verified Mabel's prediction had
soaked him all night. He was dry and comfortable—to carry out the
figure—within twenty minutes after his beloved fluttered, like a
tame canary, into the chair next his own—in five more, was more
truly her slave, living in, and upon her smiles—adoring her very
caprices as he had never admired another woman's virtues—than he had
been prior to the brief, but tempestuous scene over night. She was the
life of the party assembled in the dining-room. Imogene had caught
cold, walking bareheaded in the evening air, and Tom condoled with her
upon her influenza and sore-throat too sincerely to do justice to the
rest of his friends and his breakfast. Mr. Aylett was never talkative,
and his unvarying, soulless politeness to all produced the conserving
effect upon chill and low spirits that the atmosphere of a
refrigerator does upon whatever is placed within it. Mrs. Sutton's
motherly heart was yearning pityingly over the lovers who were soon to
be sundered, while Mabel's essay at cheerful equanimity imposed upon
nobody's credulity. Frederic comported himself like a man—the more
courageously because the host's cold eye was upon him, and he surmised
that sighs and sentimentality would meet very scant indulgence in that
quarter. Moreover, he was not so unreasonable as to descry
insupportable hardships in this parting. By agreement with Mr. Aylett
and his sister, he was, if all went prosperously, to revisit Ridgeley
at the end of six weeks, when his design was to entreat his betrothed
to name the wedding day. The prospect might well support him under the
present trial. He bore Rosa's badinage gallantly, tossing back
sprightly and telling rejoinders that called forth the smiling
applause of the auditors, and commanded her respectful recognition of
him as a foeman worthy of her steel.
"Nine o'clock," said Winston, at length, consulting his watch, and
pushing back his chair. "The carriage will be at the door in fifteen
minutes, Mr. Chilton. The road is heavy this morning, and the stage
passes the village at ten."
"I shall be ready," responded Frederic. "I am sorry your carriage
and coachman must be exposed to the rain."
"That is nothing. They are used to it. I never alter my plan of
travel on account of the weather, how ever severe the storm. This
warm rain can hurt nobody."
"It is pouring hard," remarked Mrs. Button, solicitously. "And that
stage is wretchedly uncomfortable in the best weather. I wish you
could be persuaded to stay with us until it clears off, Mr. Chilton,
and"—making a bold push—"I am sure my nephew concurs in my desire."
"Mr. Chilton should require no verbal assurance of my hospitable
feelings toward him and my other guests," said Mr. Aylett,
frigidly—smooth as ice-cream. "If I forbear to press him to prolong
his stay, it is in reflection of the golden law laid down for the
direction of hosts—'Welcome the coming, speed the parting guest.'"
"You are both very kind, but I must go," Frederic replied,
concisely and civilly, following Mabel into the parlor, whither the
other visitors were fabled to have repaired. As he had guessed, his
betrothed was the only person there; the quartette having dispersed
with kindly tact, for which he gave them due credit.
"Don't think hardly of me, dear," he began, seating himself beside
her on the sofa.
"Allow me to offer you a few of the finest cigars I have enjoyed
for many years," said Mr. Aylett, entering in season to check
Frederic's movement to encircle Mabel's drooping form with his arm.
"You smoke, I believe? You may have an opportunity of indulging in
this solace in an empty stage. At least, there is little probability
that you will be denied the luxury by the presence of lady passengers.
I procured those in Havana, last winter. In case you should like them
well enough to order some for yourself, I will give you the address
of the merchant from whom I purchased them."
He wrote a line upon a card, as he might sign a beggar's
petition—with a supercilious parade of benevolence—and passed it to
the other, who accepted it with a phrase of acknowledgment neither
hearty nor grateful. Then the master of the house paced the floor with
a slow, regular step, his hands behind him; his countenance placidly
ruminative, his thoughts apparently engaged with anything rather than
the pain upon the corner-sofa, whose leave-taking he had mercilessly
marred. Frederic dumb and furious; Mabel equally dumb and amazed to
alarm, knowing as she did that her brother's actions were never
purposeless, sat still, their hands clasped stealthily amid the folds
of Mabel's dress; their eyes saying the dear and passionate things
forbidden to their tongues. Neither would feign indifference, or
attempt a lame dialogue upon other topics than those that filled their
minds. Mr. Aylett was not one to pay outward heed to hints when he
chose to ignore them. He kept up his walk until the carriage was
driven around to the front door, informed the parting guest that it
awaited his commands, likewise that he would need all the time that
remained to him if he hoped to catch the stage; without leaving the
room, called to a servant to bring down Mr. Chilton's baggage, and did
not lose sight of his sister's lover until the last farewell was said,
and Frederic bestowed inside the vehicle. There was nothing
offensively officious or malicious in all this. Having declared as an
incontrovertible dogma, that a ward could form no engagement without
the formal sanction of her legal guardian, he saw fit to put the seal
upon the decision at this, their adieu, in a manner they were not
likely to forget. An hour's harangue would not have imbued them with
the sense of his authority, his determination to exercise it, and
their impotency to resist it, as did this practical lesson.
Mrs. Sutton could scarcely restrain her tearful remonstrances
against what was, to her perception, an act of arbitrary and wanton
cruelty, and other spectators had their views upon the subject.
"Very inconsiderate in Aylett! I wonder how he would like the same
game to be played upon himself!" commented Alfred, aside, to his
Her lip curled in disdainful amusement.
"As if he had ever done an inconsiderate thing since he put off
long clothes! There is method in all this, if we were clever enough to
Within herself, she determined that she would solve the enigma
before she was a week older.
Frederic cast one hasty, eager look at the portico, as the carriage
turned out of the yard. Mabel stood in the foreground, her figure
framed by the climbing roses drooping over the front steps. She was
very pale, and, forgetful for the moment of the observation of the
bystanders, leaned slightly forward, her eyes strained upon the
carriage-window—one hand laid upon her heart, the other resting
against the pillar nearest her, as for support. She waved her
handkerchief, in response to his smile and lifted hat, and
simultaneously with this interchange of adieux her brother took her
by the arm.
"You are getting wet there, Mabel! Come into the house! It is well
I have come back to look after you!"
CHAPTER IV. "FOUNDED UPON A ROCK."
If Mrs. Sutton had raised horrified eyes and despairing hands upon
learning the date of her nephew's proposed marriage, it was because
she miscalculated his executive abilities, and the energy she had
never until now seen fairly put forth. Within three days after his
return, the homestead was alive with masons, carpenters, painters,
and upholsterers, engaged by the prompt bridegroom on his passage
through Richmond; and so explicit were his orders as to the minutest
detail of the work appointed to each, that he could safely leave the
scene of action at the time appointed for the flying trip northward,
to which he had referred in his dialogue with Mabel on the afternoon
of his arrival.
The party of visitors had emigrated to other regions, a couple of
days after Frederic Chilton's departure, with the exception of Rosa
Tazewell, who accepted Mabel's invitation to prolong her sojourn, the
more willingly since she "flattered herself she could be of use in the
general upheaving of the ancient foundations, and establishment of the
new. If there was one thing she enjoyed above another, it was a
tremendous bustle—a lively revolution."
She made her boast of personal utility good by installing herself
forthwith as Mrs. Sutton's aid-de-camp, and rendering herself so far
indispensable in the work of reconstruction that Mr. Aylett deigned
to ask her not to desert her post in his absence.
"Yours is the genius of renovation, Miss Rosa," the potentate was
pleased to say in his handsomest style. "Do not, I beg of you,
forsake my aunt and sister in their need. Let me feel that I leave
one head as the motive-power of the multitudinous hands."
She agreed, in the same strain, to oblige him—a decision greeted
with satisfaction by the pair in whose behalf he besought her
friendly offices. The versatile invention and deft fingers of the
little brunette were welcome to the heavily-taxed housekeeper, as
were her gay good-humor and words of cheer and affection to the
younger of her companions. The two girls became more confidential in
six days than eighteen years of neigbborly intercourse had sufficed
to make them. Mabel's innate delicacy and excellent common sense
would, in ordinary circumstances, have barred effusiveness upon the
theme nearest her heart, but love at nineteen is rarely discreet,
even when the persuasives to communicativeness are less powerful than
were the sorcery of Rosa's sympathy and the confessions that paved the
way to answering and trustful communicativeness on her friend's part.
They were having what she called "a good, long, comforting, as well
as comfortable chat" over their sewing in Mabel's chamber on the
afternoon of the eighth day of Winston's absence. The weather was
lovely, with the mellow brightness and balmy airs that make Virginian
autumns a joy and glory until November is half spent, and the
atmosphere held, at sunset, the warmth and much of the radiance which
had set the day—a perfect gem—in the heart of the golden month. Into
the eastern windows gazed the full moon, a crimson globe upon the hazy
horizon, while Venus lay, large and tremulous, among the dying fires
of the west.
"'Lovers love the western star,'" quoted Rosa, merrily, taking
Mabel's work from her and throwing it upon the bed. "Come and enjoy
the holy hour with me."
They leaned together upon the window-sill, their young faces tinted
by the changeful hues of the sky, both thoughtful and mute, until
Rosa broke the silence by a heavy sigh.
"O Mabel, you should be a happy, happy girl; blessed among women.
You can love—freely and joyously—and have pride and faith in the
"As you will some day," rejoined the other, drawing nearer to her,
"when you, in your turn, shall know the unspeakable sweetness of
unquestioning faith—of utter dependence upon him to whom you have
given your heart."
"Utter dependence!" echoed Rosa. "That would mean utter wreck of
heart, hope—everything—should the anchor give way. It is a
hazardous experiment, ma belle!"
The other looked down at her with simple fearlessness.
"'For it was founded upon a rock!'" she repeated softly; yet the
exultant ring of her accent vibrated upon the ear like a joyous
Rosa's fretful movement was involuntary.
"Mine would drag in the sand at every turn of the tide, every rise
of the wind, if I were to follow your advice, and say 'yes' to the
pertinacious Alfred," she said reproachfully.
"Don't say advice, dear!" corrected the other. "I only endeavored
to convince you that there must be latent tenderness beneath your
sufferance of Mr. Branch's devotion; that if you really were averse
to the thought of marrying him, you could not take pleasure in his
society or enjoy the marks of his attachment which are apparent to
you and to everybody else."
"Can't you understand," said the beauty, petulantly, "that it is
one thing to flirt with a man in public, and another to cherish his
image in private? There is no better touchstone of affection than the
holiness and calm of an hour like this. If Frederic were with you, the
scene would be the fairer, the season more sacred for its association
with thoughts of him and his love. Whereas, my Alfred's adoring
platitudes would disgust me with the sunset, with the world, and with
myself, for permitting him to haunt my presence and hang upon my
smile—foppish barnacle that he is! If you knew how I despise myself
"Dear Rosa! I shall never try again to persuade that you care for
him as a woman should for the man GOD intended her to marry. But why
not act worthily of yourself—justly to him, and reject him
"Because"—her face shrewd and wilful as it had been sorrowful just
now—"I am by no means certain that I can do better than to marry
him. He is rich, good-looking (so people say!), well-born,
gentlemanly, and pleasant of temper. An imposing array of advantages,
you see! I might go further, and fare very much worse. We shall not
expect to pass our days in gazing at sunsets and walking in the
moonlight, you know. It is not every woman who can marry the man she
loves best. While the right to select and to woo is usurped by the
masculine portion of the community, it must, perforce, be Hobson's
choice with an uncountable majority of feminines. I should not
complain. The stall allotted to me by Hobson—alias Fate—might hold a
worse-conditioned animal than my worshipping swain."
"What a wicked rattle you are!" Mabel said, affecting to box her
ears. "I could not love you if I believed you to be in earnest. As to
your figure of the stabled steed—this disapproving customer has the
consolation that she need not accept him, unless she wishes to do so.
She has the invaluable privilege of saying 'no' as often and
obstinately as she pleases."
"I deny it," said Rosa, perversely. "Parents, in this age, do not
make a custom of locking up refractory daughters in nunneries or
garrets until they consent to wed Baron Buncombe or my Lord Nozoo,
but there are, nevertheless, compulsory marriages in plenty. Society
warns me to make a creditable match, upon penalty, if I decline, of
being pointed out to the succeeding—and a fast-succeeding generation
it is! as a disappointed old maid—passée belle, who squandered her
capital of fascinations, and has become a pauper upon public
toleration, while my mother, sisters, and brothers are growing
impatient at my many and profitless flirtations, and anxious to see me
'settled.' My mother's pet text, since I was sixteen, has been her
prayerful desire that I, the last of her nestlings, should make choice
of a tenable bough and helpful partner, and set up a separate
establishment before she dies. When that event occurs, I shall be, in
effect, homeless—a boarder around upon my rebukeful relatives, who
'always thought how my trifling would end,' and who will be forever
scribbling 'vanitas vanitatum,' upon the tombstone of my departed
youth—my day of beaux and offers. You may shake your head and look
heroic with all your might! You are no better off than I, should your
brother see cause to refuse his consent to your marriage with Mr.
Chilton. He could, and probably would, coerce you into another
alliance before you were twenty-one. There are so many ways of letting
the life out of a woman's heart, when it is already faint from
disappointment! The spirit is oftener broken by unyielding, but not
seemingly cruel pressure, than by outrageous violence. And Winston
would show himself an adept in such arts, if occasion offered."
"Rosa Tazewell! you are speaking of my brother, my friend and
benefactor! one of the best, noblest, most disinterested creatures
Heaven ever made!" cried Mabel, erect and indignant. "You have no
warrant—I shall never give you the right—to asperse him in my
presence. He is incapable of cruelty or unfairness. It is my duty to
obey him, but it is no less a pleasure, for he is a hundred-fold
wiser and better than I am—knows far more truly what is for my real
advantage. As to his conduct in this affair of Frederic and myself,
yon cannot deny that it has been generous and consistent throughout.
He has been cautious—never harsh!"
"So!" said Rosa, scrutinizing the flushed countenance of the other,
her own full of intense meaning, "you HAVE had your misgivings!"
Mabel reddened more warmly.
"Misgivings! What do you mean?"
"That the uncalled-for vehemence of your defence is a proof of
disturbed confidence, of wanting belief in the infallibility of your
semi-deity. The trailing robes of divinity have been blown aside by a
chance breath of suspicion, and you had a glimpse of the clay feet. I
am glad of it. Scepticism is the parent of rebellion, and the time is
coming when fealty to your betrothed may demand disloyalty to the
power that now is."
Mabel's smile was meant to be careless, but it was only uneasy, and
gave the lie direct to her asseveration.
"I have no apprehensions of such a conflict. Winston's word is as
good as another man's oath. It is pledged to my marriage with
Frederic Chilton, in the event of the prosperous issue of his
inquiries into his, Frederic's, character and prospects. That these
will be answered favorably, I have the word of another, who is every
whit as trustworthy. Where is there room for doubt?"
The brunette shook her head—unconvinced.
"Have your own way! I can afford to abide the showing of the logic
"And I!" retorted Mabel, hastily, turning from her, without
attempting to dissemble her chagrin, to answer a knock at the door.
It was a servant, with two letters. The annoyance passed from her
brow, like the sheerest mist, as she read the superscriptions—one in
her brother's handwriting, the other in Frederic's.
Rosa interfered to prevent the breaking of the seals.
"I am going to leave you to the undisturbed enjoyment of your
feast," she said, in her most winsome manner. "But—won't it taste
the sweeter if your antepast is the delight of forgiveness? Say you
are not angry with me—mia cara!"
"You are a ridiculous child!" Mabel bent to kiss the pleading lips,
then the great, melting eyes. "Who could be out of temper with you
for half a minute at a time? You did try my patience with your
nonsense, but since it WAS nonsense, I have forgotten it all, and
love you none the less for your prankish humor—you gypsy!"
"She calls my prophecies humbug—turns a deaf ear to my warnings!"
cried the incorrigible rattle, clasping her hands above her head and
rolling her eyes tragically. "I have a lively appreciation, at this
instant, of Cassandra's agonies when Troilus named her 'our mad
'Woe! woe! woe!
Let us pay betimes
A moiety of that mass of moans to come!'"
Laughing anew at her frantic rush from the chamber, Mabel sat down
in the broad window-seat to read her love-letter.
Frederic was too manly in feeling and habit of speech to deal in
florid rhapsodies, but each line had its message from his heart to
hers. He loved her purely and in truth, and there was not a sentence
that did not tell her this, by inference, if not directly. He trusted
her—and this, too, he told her, more as a husband might the wife of
years than a lover of her he had won so lately. Their hopes were the
same and their lives, and she dwelt longest upon the sketched plans
for the future of these. It brought him closer to her than anything
else—put her secret and reluctant imaginations of evil, and Rosa's
daring insinuations, out of sight and recollection. She read slowly,
and with frequent pauses, that she might take in the exquisite flavor
of this and that phrase of endearment; set before herself in beauty
and distinctness the scenes he portrayed as the adornment of the
prospect which was theirs.
The second and yet more deliberate perusal over, she folded the
sheet with lingering touches to every corner, thrust it into the
envelope, and drew it forth again to peep once more at the
signature—"Forever and truly, your own Frederic;" pressed it to her
lips, then to her heart, and bestowed it securely in her writing-
desk, before she unclosed her brother's epistle.
With her finger upon the seal—a big drop of red wax, like a
petrified blood-gout, stamped with the Aylett coat-of-arms—she
leaned through the casement to watch for the flutter of Rosa's white
dress among the vari-colored maples shading the lawn—sang a clear,
sweet second to the song that ascended to her eyrie:
"Why weep ye by the tide, ladye?
Why weep ye by the tide?
I'll wed ye to my youngest son,
And ye shall be his bride.
And ye shall be his bride, ladye,
Sae comely to be seen;
But aye she loot the tears down fa'
For lock o' Hazeldean."
"MY DEAR MABEL" [wrote the lord of Ridgeley]—"I wish you, so soon
as yon receive this, to communicate with Jenkyns and Smythe
concerning the new parlor furniture I ordered from them. In talking
it over, Clara and I have decided that it had better be covered with
maroon, instead of green, as you advised. I enclose a sample of
damask which they must match exactly. I would I write direct to them,
but think it likely that Jenkyns, the managing man of the firm, is in
your neighborhood at this time. He told me, when I was in town, of his
intention to visit Mrs. Wilson, his sister, I believe, who lives on
the White Oak road, about three miles from Ridgeley. Send for him, and
put the samples into his hands. If he cannot get the precise color in
Richmond, let him order it from New York.
"The carpets for the parlor, dining-room, and Clara's chamber I
have bought in Lowell. Clara accompanied me thither, and gave me the
benefit of her taste in the selection. I have resolved, also, to
purchase wallpaper in Boston to match these. Say as much to Jenkyns.
I shall have the boxes directed to his care and instruct him further
respecting making the carpets and hanging the paper when I return.
"Ask Roberts (the mason) whether it will be practicable to build a
fire-place in the large lower hall. Another chimney would be an
unsightly appendage to the roof, but Clara agrees with me, since
studying the plan of the house I brought on for her inspection, that
a flue could be run through the closet in your room into the rear one
of the west chimneys. She thinks the hall must be freezing cold in
winter, and caught eagerly at my idea that a blazing fire at one end
would lighten the sombre effect of the oaken wainscot and lofty
ceiling. I proposed to tear down the panelling, but she was horrified
at the thought. I could not take more pride and interest in preserving
the antique character of the home of my forefathers than does she. She
will have it that the hall, thus improved, and hung with a few old
pictures, some bits of ancient armor, and carpeted with maroon and
green will be truly baronial. You and she will agree admirably in your
enthusiastic love of the venerable, and in your aesthetic tastes. I
congratulate myself hourly upon my good fortune in securing such a
companion for myself, and such an instructress for yourself. You
cannot fail to derive infinite benefit from intercourse with her.
"This brings me to another subject to which I desire to call your
immediate attention. I wish her to select a couple of dresses
suitable for your wear on the night of our reception-party, and at
others which will, undoubtedly, be given in our honor. She objects to
doing this unless I obtain from you a written request that she should
thus aid me. She fears you may consider her action 'premature and
officious.' Write to her at once, requesting her to do this sisterly
favor for you, setting forth your distance from the city, the meagre
assortment of the goods to be had in the Richmond stores, etc., and
giving her carte blanche as to cost and style. It will be an
inestimable advantage to your appearance on the occasions named should
she oblige you in this particular. I earnestly desire that you should
look your best at your introduction to her."
"'Maroon and green!' a 'baronial' hall, and new party-dresses for
insignificant me!" Mabel stopped to say aloud in great amusement.
"What would my sage brother have said to such paltry memoranda six
months ago? He is an apt scholar, or he has an able teacher. Ah,
well! love is a marvellous transmogrifier!"
With this apothegm from the storehouse of her lately acquired
wisdom, she passed to the next paragraph.
"Now for another matter about which I meant to write to you
yesterday, but I was prevented by our expedition to Lowell. The
evenings I of course devote to Clara. I have not been so engrossed by
my own very important concerns as to neglect yours. I stopped a day in
Philadelphia, illy as I could afford the time, to make such
investigations as I could, without exciting invidious suspicion, into
the character of the person whom I found domesticated at Ridgeley on
my return from my summer tour. The information I picked up in that
cautious city was so meagre and tantalizing as to provoke me into the
belief that he had selected his references with an eye to the
slenderness of their knowledge of his personal history. Accident,
however, has since placed within my reach a means of learning all that
I wish to know. Without wearying you with explanations, which, indeed,
I have no time to write—being engaged to drive out with Clara in an
hour from this time—I will transcribe a portion of a letter received
by me, two days since, from a gentleman of unexceptional standing, and
upon whose word you may safely depend.
"He says: 'In reply to your queries as to my acquaintanceship with
one Frederic Chilton, now a practising lawyer in the city of
Philadelphia, I would, if conscience permitted, repay your frankness
by evasion of a disagreeable truth. But in the circumstances which
induced your appeal, I have no option. Hesitation or concealment
would be unkind and dishonorable. I knew the man you speak of well—I
may say intimately, while we were fellow-students in the—— law
school, in 18—. He was then—what I have but too much reason for
believing him at this day—a plausible, unprincipled man of pleasure.
Our intercourse, which commenced at the card-table, terminated with a
severe horsewhipping I administered to him in punishment of an offence
offered a married lady—a relative of my own. Taking advantage of the
protracted absence of her husband, who was a naval officer, he offered
her many attentions, received by herself as tokens of innocent and
friendly regard, until he forgot himself so far as to make her open
and insulting proposals, even urging her to consent to an elopement,
and threatening, in the event of her refusal, to ruin her by infamous
calumnies. Her father was infirm; her husband in a foreign land. His
base persecution would have met with no chastisement, had not I
espoused the terrified woman's cause. These are the bare facts of the
case. He merited a flogging—as you, a chivalric Virginian, will
admit. I—a Northern man, with cooler blood, but I hope, as true a
sense of honor and right as your own—inflicted this, as I am prepared
to testify before any number of witnesses.'"
[Mabel was reading very fast, her eyes hurrying from side to side
of the page, her face blanching, and her hands more numb with every
"The above is a verbatim copy of that portion of my friend's letter
which pertains to your affair," continued Mr. Aylett. "I shall write
to Mrs. Sutton's protege by the mail that carries this, informing him
of my opportune discovery, through no instrumentality of his
providing, of the poverty of his claims to the title of gentleman,
and the audacity of his pretensions to my sister's hand. Have what
letters, etc., you have received from him ready packed to return to
his address when I come home. My principal regret, in the review of
the unfortunate entanglement, is that he ever visited Ridgeley and
was known in the vicinity as your suitor. You will suffer from this,
in the future, more than you can now suppose. A woman hardly ever
outlives such a stigma.
"You may expect me on Thursday next, the 21st, at which time I hope
to see most of the alterations I have ordered in an encouraging state
of forwardness. Should Jenkyns be in town when you get this, write out
my directions clearly and in full, and send them, with sample of
damask, by mail.
"Your affectionate brother,
The clammy, nerveless hands dropped—the fatal sheet below
them—into Mabel's lap. She did not cry out or moan. Things stricken
to the heart generally fall dumbly. It was not her cramped position
within the window-seat that paralyzed her limbs, nor the chill of the
twilight that crept through vein and bone. For one sick second she
believed herself to be dying, and would not have stirred a muscle or
spoken a syllable to save the life which had suddenly grown
worthless—worthless, since she was never to see Frederic again; be no
more to him than if she had never laid her head upon his bosom; never
felt his kisses upon lip and forehead; never lived upon his words of
love as rapt mortals, admitted in trances to the banquet of the gods,
eat ambrosia, and drink to divinest ecstacy of nectar—the elixir of
immortal life and joy, sparkling in golden chalices.
She had had her dream—ravishing and brief—but the awakening was
terrible as the struggle back to life from a swoon or deathful
lethargy. As to thinking, I believe nobody thinks at such seasons.
Nature shrinks in speechless horror at sight of the descending
weight, and when it has fallen, lies motionless, gasping in breath to
enable her to support the intolerable anguish, not speculating how to
avert the next stroke. Frederic and she were parted! Had not Winston
said so! And when was he known to reverse a verdict! She had nothing
to do but sit still and let the waters go over her head.
Rosa was seated upon the upper step of the west porch, her chin
cradled in her hand, her elbow on her knee, gazing on the darkening
sky, and crooning Scotch ballads in a pensive, dreamy way. Mabel,
from her perch, eyed her as if she were a creature belonging to
another world—seen dimly, and comprehended yet more imperfectly. Yet
it could not have been half an hour—thirty fleeting minutes—since
the two had talked as dear friends out of the fulness of their hearts.
Where were the hopes and happy memories that had made hers then a
garden of pleasant things, a fruitful field which Heaven had blessed?
In that little inch of time, the flood had come and taken them all
Would the dry aching in her throat and chest ever be less? Tears
had gushed freely and healthfully after her last leave-taking with
Frederic—the looked farewell, which was all Winston's surveillance
had granted them. She had been wounded then by her brother's singular
want of tact or feeling. She had not the spirit to resent anything
to-night, unless it were that God had made and suffered to live a
being so wretched and useless as herself. She supposed it was
wicked—but she did not care! She ought to be resigned to the
mysterious dispensations of Providence—that was the prescribed
phraseology of pious people. She had heard the cant times without
number. What more would they have than her utter destitution of love
and bliss? Was she not miserable enough to satisfy the sternest
believer in purgatorial purification? to appease the wrath even of
Him who had wrought her desolation? It must be the judgment of a
retributive Deity upon her idolatrous affection that she was
bearing—her worship of Frederic. Yes, she had loved him; she loved
him now better than she did anything else upon earth—better than she
did anything in Heaven.
In the partial insanity of her woe and despair, she lifted her gray
face and vacant eyes to the vast, empty vault, beyond which dwelt her
Maker afar off, and said the words aloud—spat them at Him through
hard, ashy lips.
"I love him! I love him! You have taken him from me—but I will
love him for all that!"
Heaven—or Fate—her blasphemous mood did not distinguish the one
from the other—was a robber. Her brother was pitiless as the death
that would not answer to her call. Between them she was bereaved.
It was but a touch—the lightest breath of natural feeling that
broke up the hot crust, that shut down the fountain of tears—Rosa's
voice, tuneful and sad as a nightingale's, chanting the border-lays
she loved so well:
"When I gae out at e'en.
Or walk at morning air,
Ilk rustling bush will seem to say
I used to meet thee there.
Then I'll sit down and cry,
And live beneath the tree.
And when a leaf falls in my lap,
I'll oa' it a word from thee."
She had sung it herself to Frederic the night before he left her,
and as she finished the artless ballad, he took her in his arms and
As he would never do again!
"My darling! my darling!" she cried aloud.
Then the grief-drops came in a flood.
CHAPTER V. CLEAN HANDS.
The servant who summoned Mabel to supper brought down word that she
was not feeling well, and did not wish any.
"Not well! Bless me!" exclaimed Mrs. Sutton, starting up. "Rosa,
love, excuse me for three seconds, please. I must see what is the
matter. I do hope there is no bad news from—" (arrested by the
recollection that there were servants in the room, she substituted
for the name upon her lips)—"in her letters."
"I don't think she's much sick ma'am," said the maid. "She is
a-settin' in the window."
"Where I left her with her letters, an hour and more ago," observed
Rosa. "Don't hurry back if she needs you, Aunt Rachel. I will make
myself at home; shall not mind eating alone for once."
Not withstanding the array of dainties before her, she only nibbled
the edge of a cream biscuit with her little white teeth, and crumbled
the rest of it upon her plate in listlessness or profound and active
reverie, while the hostess was away. She, too, had her conjectures and
her anxieties—a knotty problem to work out, and the longer she
pondered the more confident was she that she had grasped at least one
filament of the clue leading to elucidation.
Mabel had not stirred from her place—sat yet with her brother's
letter in her lap, her hands lying heavily upon it, although her
muslin dress was ghostly in the stream of moonlight flowing across
the chamber. She had wept her eyes dry, and her voice was monotonous,
"I am not really sick, aunt, but I have no appetite, and having a
great deal to think of, I preferred staying here to going to the
table," was her answer to Mrs Sutton's inquiries.
"Your hands are cold and lifeless as clay, my child. What is the
matter? It is not like you to be moping up here, alone in the dark."
"Won't you leave me to myself for a while, and keep Rosa
down-stairs?" asked Mabel, more patiently than peevishly. "Before
bed-time I will see you in your room, and we can talk of what has
"My daughter," murmured the gentle-hearted chaperone, trying to
draw the erect head to her shoulder, as she stood by her niece.
Mabel resisted the kindly force.
"No, no, aunt. I cannot bear that yet. I have just begun to think
connectedly, and petting would unnerve me."
This was strange talk from the frank-hearted child she had reared
from babyhood, and while she desisted from further attempts at
consolation, Aunt Rachel took a very sober visage back to the
supper-room with her, and as little appetite as Rosa had manifested.
The meal was quickly over, and by way of obeying the second part of
Mabel's behest, the innocent diplomatist begged Rosa to go to the
"I always enjoy your delightful music, my dear. It makes the house
"Thank you, dear Mrs. Sutton. I should take pleasure in obliging
you; but if Mabel is out of sorts, I don't believe she will care to
have the house lively to-night," was the amiable rejoinder.
"Moreover, I am dying to finish 'David Copperfield.' Will you allow
me to curl myself up in the big chair here, and read for an hour?"
Mrs. Sutton gave a consent that was almost glad in its alacrity,
and pretended to occupy herself with the newspapers brought by the
evening mail, until she judged that Mabel had had season in which to
compose her thoughts. Then she muttered something about "breakfast,"
"muffins," and "Daphne," caught up her key-basket, and bustled out.
Rosa's book fell from before her face at the sound of the closing
door. The liquid eyes were turbid; her features moved by some passion
mightier far than curiosity or compassion for her friend's distress.
"I have done nothing—literally nothing, to bring this on!" was the
reflection which brought most calm to her agitated mind. "If it
should be as I think, I am guiltless of treachery. My skirts are
clear. My hands are clean! Yet there have been moments when I could
have dipped them in blood that this end might be attained!"
Too restless to remain quiet, she tossed her book aside and
wandered from side to side of the room, halting frequently to hearken
for Mrs. Sutton's return, or some noise from the conference chamber
that might alleviate her suspense.
"I tried to put her on her guard," she broke forth at length, bent,
it would seem, upon self-justification against an invisible accuser.
"I saw aversion in Winston's eye the day he came home to find the
other here. He would never forgive his slave the presumption of
choosing a husband for herself. Did I not tell her so? Yet this has
caught her like a rabbit in a trap—unprepared for endurance or
resistance. The spiritless baby! Would I give him up, except with
life, if he loved me as he does her?"
It was not a baby's face that was confronting Mrs. Sutton's just
then. It was no weak, spiritless slave who sustained the pelting
shower of her comments, her wonderment and her entreaties that Mabel
would refuse to abide by her brother's decision—her guardian though
he was—and if she would not write to Frederic with her own hand,
empower her aunt to apply to him for an explanation of the
"We should condemn no man unheard," she argued.
"It is but fair to give him an opportunity of telling his side of
"Winston's letter will inform him of what and by whom he is
accused," said Mabel. "He will have the opportunity you speak of. I
should not be content with my brother's action, were this not so. I
have been over the whole ground again and again, since sunset.
We—you and I—are powerless. This story is either true or false. If
what we have read really happened, what could arise from our
correspondence with the offender against honor and virtue? It would
but complicate difficulties. If he is unjustly accused, he can prove
it, and put his slanderers to shame without our promptings. Our
interference would be an intimation that he needed our championship."
"I believe he will clear himself of every stain," returned Mrs.
Sutton earnestly. "This is either a vile plot concocted by some
secret foe, or the Frederic Chilton mentioned here," pushing the
letter away from her on the table, with a gesture of loathing, "is
"That is very unlikely!"
Mabel leaned her forehead wearily upon her hand, and did not finish
the sentence immediately.
"I will be candid with you, aunt, upon this subject, as I have
tried to be in every other confidence with which I have burdened you.
Frederic Chilton was a student in the law-school, which was also
attended by Winston's correspondent, and at the date specified by
him. I have reason to think there was something unpleasant—something
he wished to conceal from me, and perhaps from everybody else,
connected with his stay there. He referred to it ambiguously on the
last evening of his visit here, as a folly, a youthful indiscretion. I
have the impression, moreover, that a married woman was mixed up in
this trouble, whatever it was—a lady, some years older than himself,
whose husband, a naval officer, was absent upon a long cruise. This
may be the germ of the story related here, and it may have nothing
whatever to do with it."
In saying "here," she pointed to the letter. Both avoided touching
it as it lay between them, the big seal uppermost, and looking more
like bright, fresh blood than ever, in the lamplight.
"My dear, all this proves nothing—absolutely nothing—except that
the shock and overmuch solitary musing have made you morbid and
Mrs. Sutton assumed a collected air, and delivered herself with the
mien of one who was determined to submit to no trifling, and to
credit no scrap of evidence against her friend which
counter-reasoning could set aside.
"My husband's godson—we must remember he is that, Mabel!—could
never be guilty of the infamous conduct ascribed to this Chilton by
Winston Aylett's anonymous friend. I am accounted a tolerable judge
of character, and I maintain that it is a moral impossibility for my
instincts and experience to be so utterly at fault as these two men
would make you believe. As to the corroboration of your 'impression,'
that would be consummate nonsense in the eye of the law. Let us sift
the pros and cons of this affair as rational, unprejudiced beings
should—not jump at conclusions. And I must say, Mabel"—was the
consistent peroration of this address, uttered in a mildly-aggrieved
tone, while the blue eyes began to shine through a rising fog—"it
seems to me very singular—really wounds me—is not what I looked for
in you—that you should rank yourself with my poor boy's enemies!"
"I, his enemy!" The word was a sharp cry—not loud, but telling of
unfathomed deeps of anguish, from the verge of which the listener
drew back with a shudder. "I would have married him without a single
glance at the past! Let him but say 'it is untrue—all that you fear
and they declare,' and I would disbelieve this tale, instantly and
utterly, though a thousand witnesses swore to the truth of it. Or, let
him be all that they say, I would marry him to-night, if I had the
right to do it. But I promised—and to promise with an Aylett is to
fulfil—that I would be ruled by my guardian's will, should the
investigation, to which Frederic himself did not object, terminate
unfavorably for my hopes, and contrary to his declaration."
"It was a rash promise, and such are better broken than kept."
"Your Bible, Aunt Rachel—to-night, I cannot call it
mine!—commends him who swears to his own heart and changes not,"
replied the niece, with restored steadiness. "It would have been the
same had I refused my consent to Winston's proposal. I am a minor, and
who would wait two years for me?"
"Anybody who loved you, provided your trust in him equalled his in
you," said Mrs. Sutton, slyly.
Mabel's answer was direct.
"You want me to say that I do not believe this tale of Mr.
Chilton's early errors; to brand it as a mistake or fabrication. You
insinuate that, in reserving my sentence until I shall have heard both
sides of it, I show myself unworthy of the love of a true man; betray
of what mean stuff my affection is made. I suppose blind faith is
sublime! But for my part, I had rather be loved in spite of my known
faults, than receive wilfully ignorant worship."
The daring stroke at Mrs. Sutton's hypothesis of the inseparable
union between esteem and affection, excited her into an impolitic
"My child, you make my blood run cold! You do not mean that you
could love a man for whose character you had no respect!"
"There is a difference between learning to love and continuing to
love," said Mabel, sententiously. "But we have had enough of useless
talk, aunt. In two days more Winston will be here. Until then, let
matters remain as they are. You can tell Rosa as much or as little as
you like of what has happened. She must suspect that something has
gone awry. To-morrow, I will look up this Mr. Jenkyns, and deliver the
messages with which I am charged—likewise consult the mason about the
'baronial' fireplace," smiling bitterly.
"You never saw another creature so altered as she is," Mrs. Sutton
bewailed to Rosa, in rehearsing the scene. "If this thing should turn
out to be true, she is ruined and heart-broken for life. She will
become a cold, cynical, unfeeling woman—a feminine copy of her
"If!" reiterated Rosa, testily. "There is not one syllable of truth
in it from Alpha to Omega! I know he is your nephew, and that it is
one af the Medo-Persian laws of Ridgeley that the king can do no
wrong; but I would sooner believe that Winston Aylett invented the
slander throughout, than question Fred Chilton's integrity. There is
foul play somewhere, as you will discover in time—or out of it!"
To Mabel, Frederic's spirited champion said never a word of the
event that held their eyes waking until dawn—each motionless as
sleepless lest her bed fellow should discover her real state.
"I have had no share in causing the rupture. I am not called upon
to heal it," meditated she. "In this, the law of self-preservation is
my surest guide."
Her resolve to remain neutral was sharply and unexpectedly tested
the next afternoon.
The two girls went out for a ramble about four o'clock, taking the
beaten foot-path that led through cultivated fields, and between
wooded hills, to a small post-town two miles distant. The day was
sunless, but not chilly, and when they had outwalked the hearing of
the murmur of rural life that pervaded the barnyard and adjacent
"quarters," the silence was oppressive, except when broken by the
whirr of a partridge, the melancholy caw of the crows, scared from
their feast upon the scattered grains knocked from over-ripe ears of
corn during the recent "fodder-pulling," and, as they neared it, by
the fretting of a rapid brook over its stony bottom.
The pretence of social converse had been given up before the
friends cleared the first field beyond the orchard. Rosa's exquisite
tact witheld her from obtruding commonplaces upon the attention of a
mind torn by suspense—distracted between disappointment and outraged
pride, and Mabel had not besought her sympathy in her grievous
strait. They walked on swiftly, the one staring straight forward, yet
seeing nothing; the other, although thoughtful, losing not one feature
of the landscape—the light-gray sky, the encircling forest, the
yellow broom-straw clothing the hill-sides, the crooked fences, lined
with purple brush, golden-rod, black-bearded alder and sumach, flaming
with scarlet berry cones and motley leaves. It was her principle and
habit to seize upon whatever morsels of delight were dropped in her
way, and she had a taste for attractive bits of scenery, as for
melody. There was no reason why the evil estate of her companion
should debar her from quiet enjoyment of the autumn day. She was sorry
that Mabel was suffering. It was unpleasant to see pain or grief.
Smiles were prettier than glum looks. She hoped she had enough
humanity about her to enable her to recognize these facts. But, in her
soul, she despised the girl for her tacit acquiescence in her
brother's decree; contemned her yet more for her partial credence of
the rumor of her lover's unworthiness. It was as well, taking these
things into account, that Mabel was not communicative with regard to
the great change that had befallen her since this hour yesterday, when
she had exultingly proclaimed that her trust was "founded upon a
"Varium et mutabile semper faemina!" reflected Rosa, who knew that
much Latin—and attracted by the waving of the bright grasses beneath
the waves of the rivulet they were crossing, she stopped to lean over
the railing and poke them aside from the stones with a chincapin
switch she had picked up a little way back.
Mabel did not look around; apparently did not observe that she
walked on alone.
"I dare say she would not miss me for the next mile!" soliloquized
the idle lounger, snatching foam-flakes from their nestling-places
behind the rocks, and watching them as they danced down the stream.
Something, whiter and more regular in shape than they, lay upon the
margin of the brook, partly concealed by a clump of sedge. A letter,
with the address uppermost! Rosa's optics were keen. She easily made
out the direction upon the envelope from where she stood. It was
Frederic Chilton's name in Mrs. Sutton's quaint, old-fashioned
"back-hand" chirography. An hour before, as Rosa now recollected, she
had seen, from her window, a negro man take the path to the village,
arranging some papers in the crown of his tattered straw hat. He had
dropped this, the most important of all, probably in stooping to drink
from his hollowed palms at the spring-stream. However this might be,
there it lay—the warning to the calumniated lover that his traducers
were making clean (or foul) work with his fair fame in the quarter
where he wished to stand at his best; perhaps citing him to appear and
answer the damaging charges in person before the same tribunal.
"If she would only let me drop him a friendly line asking him, for
her sake, to contradict this horrid slander!" the distraught matron
had sighed, last night, in her recapitulation of the conversation
with her obdurate niece. "But she will not hear of it."
"I hardly think he would like it either," Rosa had rejoined. "It
would hint at distrust on your part or on hers. Mr. Aylett's letter
should be sufficient to elicit the defence you crave."
"You are in the right, perhaps!" But Mrs. Sutton had looked
miserably discontented. "Yet to be frank with you, Rosa, Winston is
not apt to be conciliatory in his measures when he takes it into his
head that the family honor is assailed. I am afraid he has written
haughtily, if not insolently, to poor Frederic."
Rosa had no doubt of this, even while she answered, "Neither
haughtiness nor downright insolence would prevent a man who has so
much at stake as has Mr. Chilton, from taking instant steps to
re-establish himself in the respect of the family he desires to
enter. This is a very delicate matter—take what view of it we may.
Hadn't you better wait a few days before you interfere? Nothing can
be lost—something may be gained by prudent delay."
"And I suppose Winston WOULD be very much displeased at my
officiousness, as he would term it," had been Mrs. sutton's reluctant
concession to her young guest's discreet counsels. "But it is very
hard to remain quiet, and see everything going to destruction about
She had evidently reconsidered her resolution to let things take
their wrong-headed course, and in virtue of her prerogatives as
match-maker and mender, had thrust her oar into the very muddy
whirlpool boiling about the bark of her darling's happiness.
Rosa wrought out this chain of sequences, with many other links,
stretching far past present exigences and possibilities, ere Mabel's
figure disappeared behind the shoulder of the hill rising beyond the
brook. Should Frederic Chilton receive that letter, in less than a
week—in three days, perhaps, for he was a man prompt to resolve and
to do—he would present himself at Ridgeley to speak in his own
behalf—an event Rosa considered eminently undesirable. Certainly
Mabel's pusillanimity merited no such reward. She had no right to
question the rectitude that one she professed to love, nor her aunt
the right to act as mediator. If Mabel Aylett, with her found sense
and judgment, and her inherent strength of will, would not hold fast
to her faith in her affianced husband, and defy her brother to sunder
them, let her lose that which she prized so lightly.
If the epistle, soaking slowly there in the wet, had been committed
to Rosa's charge, she would have scorned to intercept it; would have
deposited it safely and punctually in the post-office. As it was, if
she left it alone, Frederic would never get it, and Mrs. Sutton
remain unconscious of its fate—unless some other passer-by should
perceive and rescue it from illegibility and dissolution; unless
Mabel should espy it on their return-walk, or, coming back, the next
moment, to seek her truant mate, catch sight of the snowy leaflet of
peace in its snuggery under the sedge.
A startled partridge flew over Rosa's head from the thither rising
ground, and in the belief that he was the harbinger of the approach
she dreaded, she dislodged the envelope from its covert, with a quick
touch of her little wand, and it floated down the stream.
Slowly—all too gradually at first—swinging lazily wound in the
eddies, catching, now against a jutting stone, now entangled by a
blade of grass—Rosa's heart in her throat as she watched it, lest
Mabel's footsteps should be audible upon the rocky path, Mabel's hat
appear above the spur of the hill. Then the channel caught it,
whirled it over and over, faster and faster, and sucked it downward.
Mrs. Sutton was at the tea-table with the girls that evening, when
Johnson, the sable Mercury, showed himself at the door, to inform his
superior that he had "got everything at de sto' she sent him fur to
"You mailed the letters, Johnson?" said the mild mistress, rather
"All on dem, Mistis!"
"The unconscionable liar!" thought Rosa, virtuously, "he ought to
be flogged! But it is none of my business to contradict him."
She did not say now, "My hands are clean!"
CHAPTER VI. CRAFT—OR DIPLOMACY!
"YOUR letter notifies me, in general terms, that the answers
returned to your inquiries as to my antecedents and present
reputation are the reverse of satisfactory. You feel constrained, you
add, in view of the information thus obtained, to interdict my further
intercourse with your sister or any other member of your family. Since
I cannot battle with shadows, or refute insinuations the drift of
which I do not in the least comprehend, may I trouble you to put the
allegations to which you refer into a definite and tangible shape? Let
me know who are my accusers, and what are the iniquities with which
they charge me. The worst criminal against human and divine laws has
the right to demand thus much before he is convicted and sentenced.
"As to your prohibition of my continued correspondence with Miss
Aylett, I shall consider her my promised wife, and write to her
regularly as such, until you have made good your indictment against
me, or until I receive the assurance under her own hand and seal that
my conduct in thus addressing her is obnoxious to herself.
"I have the honor, sir, of signing myself
"Your obedient servant,
"FREDERIC S. CHILTON."
The cool contempt of the reply to his imperative dismissal of
whatever claims the presumptuous adventurer his aunt had encouraged
believed he had upon Mabel's notice or affection, was likely to irk
Winston Aylett as more intemperate language could not. It did more.
It baffled him, for a time. He could, and he meant, to withhold the
lover's letter from his sister's eyes. He could—and upon this also
he was determined—command her, in the masterful manner that
heretofore had never failed to work submission, never to meet, speak,
or write again to the man he almost hated; will her to forget her
childish fancy for his handsome face and glozing arts, and in the
fulness of time, to bestow her in marriage upon a partner of his own
providing. He had no misgivings as to his ability to accomplish all
this, if the blackguard aforesaid could be kept out of her way until
that remedial agent, Time, and lawful authority had a chance to do
But he was openly defied to prevent communication between the
betrothed pair, unless his injunction had Mabel's endorsement; and,
upon alighting from the stage at the village, on his return to
Ridgeley, he had taken from the post-office, along with the
impertinent missive addressed to himself, one for Mabel, superscribed
by the same hand. From the first, he had no intention of transferring
it to the keeping of the proper owner, It was forwarded in direct
disobedience to his commands, and the writer should be made to
understand the futility of opposition to these. For several hours, his
only purpose respecting it was to enclose it, unopened, in an envelope
directed by himself, and send it back to the audacious author, by the
next mail. He was balked in this project by no fastidious scruples as
to his right thus to dispose of his ward's property. Nature, or what
he assumed was natural affection, concurred with duty in urging him to
hinder an alliance by which Mabel's happiness would be imperilled and
her relatives scandalized. But when, in the solitude of his study, he
vouchsafed a second reading to Frederic's letter, preparatory to the
response he designed should annihilate his hopes and chastise his
impudence, a doubt of the efficacy of his schemes attacked him for the
first time. "Under her own hand and seal," were terms the explicitness
of which commended them to his grave consideration. His next thought
was to oblige Mabel to indite a formal renunciation of her unworthy
suitor. There were several objections to this measure.
Firstly, he disliked whatever smacked of scenic effect, and women
were apt to get up scenes—hysterics, attitudes, and the like—upon
trivial provocation, He wanted to get the thing over quietly and
Secondly, he was not very sure that he should find in Mabel the
docile puppet she had appeared to him for so many years of tutelage.
She had matured marvelously of late. Her very manner of meeting him
that afternoon impressed him by its self-possession and freedom from
the emotion that used to gush from eyes and lips, in happy tears, and
broken, delighted greeting at his approach. For aught he knew to the
contrary, she might have accepted his fiat as just, if not merciful,
and not a dream of rebellion been fostered thereby. The grave
tranquillity of her demeanor might arise from the chastening
influences of the mortification she had sustained, and a
consciousness of ill-desert that bred humility. He would fain have
believed all this, but until he broached the subject to her, his
incertitude could not be removed, and in a step so momentous as that
which he meditated, it behooved him to try well the solidity of the
ground beneath him.
Lastly, our blood-prince of the kingdom of Ridgeley was, whether he
confessed it or not, acting under orders.
"Be very tolerant with that poor little deceived sister of yours!"
his fiancee had implored, her diamond eyes bedimmed by
quick-springing damps of commiseration. "Recollect that the
consciousness of wasted love is always harder to bear than what is
commonly known as bereavement. If you find her refractory, be patient
and persuasive, instead of dictatorial. Craft often effects what overt
violence would attempt in vain."
"Craft!" The word struck unpleasantly upon the Virginia lordling's
ear, and he echoed it with a suspicion of a frown upon his brow. "I
am not an adept in chicanery!"
"But you are a born diplomatist!" seductively. "And because I am of
the same credulous sex as our mistaken little darling, you will not
proceed to open warfare with her, even should she be both to resign
her lover? It is the glory of the strong to show charity to the weak
For her sake, then, our flattered diplomatist would try the effect
of guile, instead of brutality, upon the helpless girl, the balance
of whose fate was grasped by his shapely hand. For one base second,
the idea of attempting an imitation of his sister's handwriting
flashed through his mind. But he was a gentleman, and forgery is not
a gentlemanly vice, any more than is counterfeiting bank-notes.
Finally, the author of craft—the subtle, refined virtue bepraised by
his bride-elect—the devil—came to his help.
Mabel, like most other girls, had a dainty and fantastic taste in
the matter of letter-paper and envelopes. She used none but French
stationery, stamped with her monogram—a curious device, wrought in
two colors—and at the top of each sheet stood out in bas-relief the
Aylett crest. With these harmless whimsies Frederic was, without
doubt, familiar. If his letter were returned to him, wrapped in a
blank page, taken from her papetiere and within one of her envelopes,
it would not signify so much whose handwriting was upon the exterior.
Papetiere and writing-desk were in Mabel's bed-room, but she was in
the parlor, practising an instrumental duet with Rosa—a favorite with
Miss Dorrance. Winston had brought it south with him, and asked his
sister to learn it forthwith, in just the accent he used to employ
when prescribing what studies she should pursue at school. There was
nothing in his errand that he should be ashamed of, he reminded
himself with impatient severity, as he traversed the upper hall on
tip-toe to the western chamber. He had, on sundry previous occasions,
sought, in the receptacles he was about to ransack, for sealing-wax,
pencils, and the like trifles. Mabel was too wise a woman not to keep
her secrets under lock and key, and if there were private documents
left in his way, he was too honorable to pry into them.
Shutting the door cautiously, that the snap and blaze might not
betray him, he struck a wax match, warranted to burn a
minute-and-a-half, and raised the lid of the desk. His unseen but
wily coadjutor had guided him cunningly. In fingering a heap of
envelopes in order to find one large enough for his purpose, he
brought to light one addressed to "Mr. Frederic Chilton, Box 910,
Upon the reverse was a small blot that had condemned it in Mabel's
sight, as unfit to be sent to her most valued correspondent, and
which she had not observed before writing the direction. Selecting
another, she had thrown this back carelessly into the desk, meaning
to burn it when it should be convenient, and forgotten all about it.
The livid dints were deep and restless in Winston's nostrils, as
seen by the light of the tiny taper he raised to extinguish, when his
prize was secured. The devil supplied him with another crafty hint, as
he was in the act of folding one edge of Frederic's letter that it
might fit into the new cover. Why not strip off the letter entirely,
that it might seem to have been opened, read, and then flung back upon
the writer's hands with contumely? Half-way measures were unsafe and
foolish. Stratagem, to be efficient, should be not only deft, but
thorough; else it was bungling, not diplomacy. His hand did not shake
in divesting the closely-written sheet of its wrapping, but in one
respect his behavior was in consonance with the gentlemanly instincts
he vaunted as a proof of pure old blood. He averted his eyes lest he
should see a line the lover had penned to his mistress. The letter
slipped smoothly into the quarters prepared for it—smoothly as
Satan's mark usually goes on until his tool has made his damnation
"Well done?" said Diabolus.
"That was a clever hit!" chimed in his assistant, complacently,
after he had put the sealed envelope into his portfolio for
safe-keeping, and burned the torn one he had removed. "Nobody but an
idiot or a madman would persist in following a girl up after such a
He replied to Frederic's note to himself shortly and with disdain,
using the third person throughout, and informing Mr. Chilton with
unmistakable distinctness that Miss Aylett had offered no opposition
whatever to her brother's will in this unfortunate affair. So far as
he—Mr. Aylett—could judge, her views coincided exactly with his
own. Mr. Chilton's letters and presents should be returned to him at
an early day, and thus should be finished the closing chapter of a
volume which ought never to have been begun.
All this done to his mind, he set the door of his room ajar, and
watched for Mabel's passage to hers.
He had not to wait long. The young ladies had fallen into habits of
early retiring of late—a marked change from their olden fashion of
singing and talking out the midnight hour. Himself unseen, Mr. Aylett
scrutinized the two mounting the stairs side by side—Rosa's dark,
mobile face, arch with smiles, while she chattered over a bit of
country gossip she had heard that afternoon from a visitor, and the
weary calm of Mabel's visage, the drooping eyelids, and, when appealed
to directly by her volatile comrade, the measured, not melancholy
cadence of her answer, The girl had had a sore fight, and won a
Pyrrhian victory. She was not vanquished, but she was worsted. Some
men, upon appreciating what this meant, and how her grief had been
wrought, would have had direful visitings of conscience, surrendered
themselves to the mastery of doubts as to the righteousness and
humanity of stringent action such as he had just consummated. He was
not unmoved. He really loved his only sister, as proud, selfish men
love those of their own lineage who have never disputed their
supremacy, and derogated from their importance. He said something
under his breath before he called her, but the curse was not upon
"The low-bred hound!" he muttered. "This is his doing!"
Mabel halted at the stair-head, the blood suddenly and utterly
forsaking her cheeks when he spoke her name, although his address was
purposely kind, and, he thought, inviting.
"Can you spare me a moment?" he continued, smilingly, to win her
advance. "I will not detain you long. I know you are agonizing to
have your talk out, Miss Rosa."
Rosa laughed, with a saucy retort, and turned into her chamber.
Mabel entered her brother's, and without speaking, took the seat he
offered. She was to be sentenced, and she must reserve her forces to
sustain the pain without a groan.
"You saw Jenkyns—did you not?" began Mr. Aylett, with the manner
of one at peace with himself, and those of his fellow-men whose
existence he chose to acknowledge.
"I did. He made memoranda of your orders, and said all should be
done as you wished."
"I ordered the masons, this evening, to begin the hall-chimney
to-morrow. While the work is going on, you had better occupy some
other bed-room. I shall hurry it forward, day and night, or it will
not be done in season for us when we return from our bridal-tour. The
carpets must be down, and the paper dry by the fifteenth at farthest.
Clara bought your dresses, and offers to have them made, if you will
send her an accurate measurement. You are about her height, although
not so well-proportioned. Your figure is angular, where hers is round.
She is your senior by several years, yet one might easily mistake her
for a girl of twenty, her complexion is so fresh. Her twenty-five
years show themselves in nothing except her ease of manner, maturity
of thought, and elegance of diction."
He would have sneered at this strain in another as hyperbolical and
fatuous. The absurdity of it in his mouth consisted mainly in the
cool arrogance of the assumption that whatever belonged to him was
above adverse criticism, and would be maligned if it were referred to
without appending an encomium. Much of fervor might and did mingle in
his thoughts of her he was to wed, but none warmed his enumeration of
her perfections. He did nothing con amore, unless it were exalting the
dignity and glory of the Aylett name, and maintaining his right to
support their ancient honors.
Mabel did not respond to his gratuitous praise of the fair and
benevolent Clara. While he was talking, he seemed to recede a great
way from her; his tones to ring hollowly upon her hearing, his form
to grow indistinct. Was he playing with her suspense, or could it be
that he—a being with heart and nerves like hers, had no conception
of the rack on which she waa stretched—no suspicion that every one
of his deliberate sentences was a turn of the screw that redoubled
her torture? The Ayletts were a strong-willed race, and she repressed
all sign of suffering save intense pallor; made this less palpable by
screening her eyes from the lamp-light with a paper she took from the
table, and thereby throwing her features into deep shadow.
"But it is not my intention to trouble you with matters that
concern me alone," he pursued, without varying his intonations. "As I
anticipated, Mr. Chilton declines explaining the ugly story relative
to his eariier career of dissipation and deceit, which I forwarded to
you. He indulges, instead, in a tirade of personal abuse touching my
right to control you, declaring his purpose to pursue you with letters
and attentions until he shall be discarded by yourself. We will not
stay to discuss the gentlemanliness and delicacy of his behavior in
this regard. I merely declare, that, having had a fair opportunity of
honest confession or denial of statements detrimental to his
principles and pursuits, and having shirked both, he has placed
himself outside the pale of respectful consideration. Has he written
to you since his receipt of my letter?"
Mabel was staring at a figure in the carpet, on a line with her
feet. Had she regarded her brother never so attentively, she would
have detected no change in his countenance. He did not prepare
questions without also studying how to deliver them.
"I am glad he has the moral decency to forbear carrying out his
threat of persecution."
He could say it with the greater hardihood in the remembrance that
the "persecution" had been attempted.
"I wish he had written!" rejoined Mabel, abruptly, but without
passion. "He was right to protest against accepting his dismissal
from any other than myself."
She had not removed her eyes from the spot on the carpet, or
lowered the paper screen. She looked like a statue and spoke like an
Mr. Aylett's nostrils quivered ominously.
"Is it your wish to recommence the correspondence I have ended?"
"You know that I would strike off my right hand sooner than do it.
But if he had written to me, I should have answered his letter, if it
had been only to bid him farewell. Since he has not chosen to do this,
I cannot take the initiative."
If Winston had never entertained a favorable opinion of his own
sagacity prior to hearing this avowal, it would have forced itself
upon him now. How timely was the thought, how felicitous the
accident, that had aided him to ward off the disaster of renewed
Involuntarily his fingers crept nearer to the closed portfolio.
"No good could have come of that!" returned he coldly. "When an
amputation is to be performed, wise people submit to it without
useless preliminaries. The exchange of farewells in this case would
be inexpedient in the highest degree. You would compromise yourself
by continued acknowledgment of this fellow's acquaintance. My will is
that you and the world should forget, as soon as it can be done, that
you ever saw or heard of him. The connection was degrading."
"Don't abuse him, brother! Let the knowledge that we are parted
forever, satisfy your resentment. Since he has not appealed to me
from your verdict, I am left to suppose that, upon second thoughts,
he has resolved to acquiesce in your will. I do not blame him for the
change of purpose." Still impassive in feature and voice, still not
withdrawing her fixed gaze from that one point upon the floor. "He,
too, has pride, and it matches yours. I do not say mine. I question,
sometimes, if I have any."
"If your conjecture be correct, you cannot object to return the
letters you have already received from him," said Winston, pressing
on to the conclusion of a disagreeable business. "Since you are not
likely to add to your stock of these valuables, you do not care to
retain them, I suppose? I believe the rule is total surrender of
souvenirs when a rupture is pronounced hopeless."
"I shall keep them a week longer!"
She assigned no reason for the resolution, and her manner, without
being sullen, aggravated her brother into wrath, the effusion of
which was a withering sneer.
"Your hope in his repentance is creditable to the strength—or
weakness—of woman's love. But have your way. The illustrious record
of his former life is a powerful argument in favor of clemency. In a
He nodded dismissal, wheeled his chair around to the table, dipped
a pen in the standish, and pulled an account-book toward him.
He was surprised and not pleased, nevertheless, that Mabel retired
without other reply than a simple "Good-night," said without temper,
or any evidence of excitement. A month before, a milder sarcasm, the
lightest breath of reproof, would have brought her to his feet in a
paroxysm of tears, to implore pardon for her contumacy, and to
promise obedience for all time to come. She was getting beyond his
control the while she offered no open resistance to his government.
Was sorrowful shame, or her infatuation for the adventurer he cursed
in his heart by his gods, the influence that was petrifying her into
this unlovely caricature of her once bright and affectionate self?
She presented herself, unsummoned, in his study at the expiration
of the period she had designated, a pacquet in her hand, neatly done
up and sealed.
"I will trouble you to direct it," was all she said, as she laid it
"This is done of your own free will—remember!" he said,
impressively. "In after years, should you be so unreasonable as to
regret it, there must be no misconception on the subject between us.
If you wish, at this, the eleventh hour, to draw back, I shall not
"You will write the address, then, if you please!" was Mabel's
reply, showing him the surface intended for it.
Then she left him.
"A sensible girl, after all! a genuine Aylett, in will and
stoicism!" commented the master of the situation, beginning in his
round, legible characters, the inscription he hoped never to trace
again. "So endeth her first lesson in Cupid's manual!"
He never knew that Mrs. Sutton had bolstered the Aylett will and
stoicism into stanchness at this closing scene. In a fit of
despondency, she had that morning imparted to Mabel the fact that she
had written to Frederic, ten days before, and had no answer, although
she had besought an immediate one.
"I have expected him confidently every day for a week," she
lamented. "I didn't suppose he would stay at Ridgeley, after what has
happened; but there's the hotel in the village, and, as I told him, he
could accomplish more by an hour's talk with you than by fifty
letters. It is very mysterious—his continued silence! He always
appeared so frank and reasonable. Nothing else like it has ever
occurred in my experience—and I have had a great deal, my dear!"
"I am sorry you wrote, aunt," replied Mabel, sorrowfully dignified.
"Sorry you have subjected yourself to unnecessary mortification. I am
past feeling it for myself. We cannot longer doubt that Mr. Chilton
desires to hold no further communication with any of us."
Within the hour she made up the pacquet and carried it to her
CHAPTER VII. WASSAIL.
ALMOST sixteen months had passed since the dewless September
morning, when Mabel had gathered roses in the garden walks, and her
brother's return had shaken the dew with the bloom from her young
heart. It was the evening of Christmas-day, and the tide of wassail,
the blaze of yule, were high at Ridgeley. Without, the fall of snow
that had commenced at sundown, was waxing heavier and the wind
fiercer. In-doors, fires roared and crackled upon every hearth; there
was a stir of busy or merry life in every room. About the spacious
fire-place in the "baronial" hall was a wide semicircle of young
people, and before that in the parlor, a cluster of elders, whose
graver talk was enlivened, from time to time, by the peals of laughter
that tossed into jubilant surf the stream of the juniors' converse.
Nearest the mantel, on the left wing of the line, sat the three
months' bride, Imogene Barksdale, placid, dove-eyed, and smiling as
of yore, very comely with her expression of satisfied prettiness
nobody called vanity, and bedecked in her "second day's dress" of
azure silk and her bridal ornaments. Her husband hovered on the
outside of the ring, now pulling the floating curls of a girl-cousin
(every third girl in the country was his cousin, once, twice, or
thrice-removed, and none resented the liberties he, as a married man,
was pleased to take), anon whispering in the ear of a bashful maiden
interrogatories as to har latest admirer or rumored engagement;
oftenest leaning upon the back of his wife's chair, a listener to what
was going on, his hand lightly touching her lace-veiled shoulders,
until her head gradually inclined against his arm. They were a loving
couple, and not shy of testifying their consent to the world.
"They remind me irresistibly of a pair of plump babies sucking at
opposite ends of a stick of sugar candy!" Rosa Tazewell said aside to
the hostess, as the latter paused beside her on her way through the
hall to the parlor.
"The candy is very sweet!" replied Mrs. Aylett, charitably, but
laughing at the conceit—the low, musical laugh that was at once
girlish in its gleefulness, yet perfectly well-bred.
Mr. Aylett heard it from his stand on the parlor-rug, and sent a
quick glance in that direction. It was slow in returning to the group
surrounding him. He had married a beautiful woman—so said
everybody—and a fascinating, as even everybody's wife did not
dispute. In his sight, she was simply and entirely worthy of the
distinction he had bestowed upon her; an adornment to Ridgeley and
his name. From their wedding-day, his deportment toward her had been
the same as it was to-night—attentive, but never officious;
deferential, yet far removed from servility; a manner that, without
approximating uxoriousness, yet impressed the spectator with the
conviction that she was with him first and dearest among women; a
partner of whom, if that were possible, he was more proud than
fond—and of the depth and reality of his affection there could be no
She declined to seat herself in the circle, although warmly
importuned by her guests thus to add brilliancy to their joyous
party, yet remained standing near Rosa, interested and amused by the
running fire of compliment and badinage that went to make up the
hilarious confusion. If the family record had been consulted, the
truth that she had counted her thirty-second summer would have
astonished her husband, with her new neighbors. Apparently she was
not over twenty-five. Her chestnut hair was a marvel for brightness
and profusion, her broad brow smooth and white, her figure, as
Winston had described it to his sister, rounded, even to
voluptuousness, yet supple as it had been at fifteen. In her cheeks,
too, the blushes fluctuated readily and softly, and when she smiled,
her teeth showed like those of a little child in size and purity. Her
voice matched her beauty well, never loud, always melodious, with a
peculiar, gliding, legato movement of the graceful sentences, for the
pleasing effect of which she was indebted partly to Nature, and much
more to Art. She appeared on this evening in a green silk dress,
matronly in shade and general style, but not devoid of coquettish
arrangement in the square corsage, the opening of which was filled
with foam-like puffs of thulle, threatening, when her bust heaved in
mirth or animated speech, to overflow the sheeny boundaries. A chaplet
of ivy-leaves encircled her head, and trailed upon one shoulder; her
bracelets were heavy, chased gold without gems of any kind; a single
diamond glittered—a point of prismatic light at her throat. Her
wedding-ring was her only other ornament.
"Very sweet, I grant you, and very flavorless," returned Rosa. "And
alarmingly apt to turn sour upon the stomach. I had rather be fed
upon pepper lozenges."
"You should have been born in the Spice Islands," said the hostess,
tapping the dark cheek with her fore finger. "But we could not spare
you from our wassail-cup to-night, my dear Lady Pimento!"
She bent slightly, that the flattery might reach no other ear. She
may not have known that Rosa's Creole skin was at a wretched
disadvantage, as seen against the green silk background; but others
noticed it, and thought how few complexions were comparable to the
wearer's. She had the faculty of converting into a foil nearly every
woman who approached her.
"Thank you! So I am pimento, am I?" queried Rosa, pertly. "And each
of us is to personate some condiment—sweet, ardent, or aromatic—in
the exhilarating draught! Which shall Mr. Harrison here be?
"'Cinnamon or ginger, nutmeg or cloves?'"
"That is a line of a college drinking-song!"
The speaker was a young man of eight-and-twenty; who sat between
Rosa and Mabel, and whose attentions to the latter were marked. Of
medium height, with sandy hair and whiskers, high cheek-bones, that
gave a Gaelic cast to his physiognomy; which was remarkable for
nothing in particular when at rest, and followed somewhat tardily the
operations of his mind when he talked, he would probably have been the
least likely person present to rivet a stranger's notice but for the
circumstance that he played shadow to the host's sister and was Mrs.
Aylett's brother. With regard to the feeling entertained by the former
of those ladies for him, there were many and diverse opinions, but his
sister's partiality was unequivocally exhibited. Of her three
brothers, this—the youngest, the least handsome, and the only
bachelor—was her favorite. She took pains to apprise his
fellow-guests of this interesting fact by petting him openly, and
exerting her fullest artifices to bring him out in becoming colors.
"It is," she answered him now, admiringly. "What a memory you have,
my dear Herbert! Now I am never positive with whom to credit a
quotation. I recollect, since you have spoken, that your famous
quartette-club ussd to render that with much eclat, and how it was
encored at the brilliant private concert you gave in behalf of some
popular charity or other."
Thus encouraged, Mr. Dorrance proceeded to enlarge the fragment:
"Nose, nose, jolly red nose!
Where got you that jolly red nose?
Nutmeg and ginger, cinnamon and cloves,
These gave me this jolly red nose.'
"You did not quote the third line correctly, Miss Tazewell."
"Never having been a college bacchanalian, I am excusable for the
inaccuracy," she retorted. "I did not even know where I picked up the
foolish bit. Having ascertained the origin to be of doubtful
respectability, I shall never use it again."
"My sister has alluded to our quartette-club," pursued Mr.
Dorrance, turning from the caustic beauty to Mabel, without noticing
the impertinent thrust. "It was the most successful thing of the kind
I ever knew of, being composed of thoroughly-trained musicians—
amateurs, of course—and practising nothing but classic music, the
productions of the best masters. There is something both instructive
and elevating in such an association."
"Especially when the theme of their consideration is the 'Jolly Red
Nose,'" interposed the wicked minx at his other elbow.
Two giddy girls tittered, unawed by Mrs. Aylett's proximity and her
brother's owl-like stare at his critic.
"You may not be aware, Miss Tazewell, that the lyric to which you
have reference is celebrated, both for its antiquity, and the
pleasing harmonies that must ever commend it to the taste of the true
lover of music; although I allow that to a disciple of the modern and
more flimsy school of this glorious art, it may seem puerile and
ridiculous," he remarked, in grandiose patronage. Then, again to
Mabel, "There were four of us—as I said—all students. What is it,
"I have dropped my bracelet upon the floor, between you and Miss
Tazewell," stooping to shake out Rosa's full skirts from which the
trinket fell with a clinking sound.
Three gentlemen darted forward to pick it up, but her husband noted
approvingly that while she accepted it graciously from the lucky
finder, and thanked the others for their kindly interest in the fate
of her "bauble," she held out her arm to her brother, that he might
clasp it again in its place. Affable always, winning whomsoever she
chose to admiration of her personal and mental endowments, she never
departed from matronly decorum. The company agreed silently, or in
guarded asides, that she was charming. No tongue—even the most
reckless or venomous—ever lisped the dread word, levity, in
connection with her name.
"Take care, my dear brother! you will pinch me!" those near heard
her say, and she twisted the golden circlet that the clasp might be
Rosa's alert ear caught the hurried murmur which succeeded, and was
muffled, so to speak, by her affectionate smile of gratitude.
"What were you about to say? Will you never learn prudence?"
"The dove has talons, then?" mused the eavesdropper, "But what was
he in danger of revealing?"
If the interdicted revelation had connection, close or remote, with
the famous quartette club, he kept well away from it after this
reminder, beginning, when he resumed his seat, to discourse upon the
comparative excellence of wood and coal fires, of open chimney-
places and stoves.
Mrs. Aylett smiled an engaging and regretful "au revoir" to the
circle, and passed on to look after the comfort and pleasure of her
elder visitors, and Rosa soon discovered that her awakened curiosity
would be in no wise appeased by listening to the steady, pattering
drone of Mr. Dorrance's oration. Oratorical he was to a degree that
excited the secret amusement of the facile Southern youths about him.
With them, the art of light conversation had been a study from
boyhood, the topics suitable for and pleasing to ladies' ears
carefully culled and adroitly handled. To amuse and entertain was
their main object. Erudite dissertations upon science and literature;
abstruse arguments—whatever resembled a moral thesis, a political,
religious, or philosophical lecture met with the sure ban of ridicule
from them, as from the fair whose devoted cavaliers they were. If they
laughed, when it was safe and not impolitic to do so, at the ponderous
elocution of the Northern barrister, they marvelled exceedingly more
at Mabel's indulgence of his attentions. That a girl, who, in virtue
of her snug fortune and attractive face, her blood and her breeding,
might, as they put it, have the "pick of the county," if she wanted a
husband, should lend a willing ear to the pompous platitudes, the
heavy rolling periods of this alien to her native State—a man without
grace of manner or beauty—in their nomenclature, "a solemn prig,"
defied all ingenuity of explanation, was an increasing wonder
outlasting the prescribed nine days. He rode with the ill assurance of
one who, accustomed to the sawdust floor, treadmill round, and
enclosing walls of a city riding-school, was bewildered by the unequal
roads and free air of the breezy country. He talked learnedly of
hunting, quoting written authorities upon this or that point, of whom
the unenlightened Virginians had never heard, much less read; equipped
himself for the sport in a bewildering arsenal of new-fangled guns,
game-bags, shot-pouches, and powder-horns, with numerous belts,
diagonal, perpendicular, and horizontal, and in the field carried his
gun a la Winkle; never, by any happy accident, brought down his bird,
but was continually outraging sporting rules by firing out of time,
and flushing coveys prematurely by unseasonable talking and
precipitate strides in advance of his disgusted companions.
Yet he was not a fool. In the discussion of graver
matters—politics, law, and history—that arose in the smoking-room,
he was not to be put down by more fluent tongues; demolished
sophistry by solid reasoning, impregnable assertions, and an array of
facts that might be prolix, but was always formidable—in short,
sustained fully the character ascribed to him by his brother-in-law,
of a "thoroughly sensible fellow."
"No genius, I allow!" Mr. Aylett would add, in speaking of his
wife's bantling among his compatriots, "but a man whose industry and
sound practical knowledge of every branch of his profession will make
for him the fortune and name genius rarely wins."
With the younger ladies, his society was, it is superfluous to
observe, at the lowest premium civility and native kindliness of
disposition would permit them to declare by the nameless and
innumerable methods in which the dear creatures are proficient. To
Rosa Tazewell he could not be anything better than a target for the
arrows of her satire, or the whetstone, upon the unyielding surface
of which she sharpened them. But she showed her prudential foresight
in never laughing at him when out of his sight, and in Mabel's. At
long ago as the night of Mr. Aylett's wedding-party at Ridgeley, her
sharp eyes had seen, or she fancied they did, that the hum-drum
groomsman was mightily captivated by the daughter of the house, and
she had divined that Mrs. Aylett's clever ruses for throwing the two
together were the outworks of her design for uniting, by a double
bond, the houses of Dorrance and Aylett. She knew, furthermore, that
Herbert Dorrance had travelled with the Ridgeley family for three
weeks in October, and that he had now been domesticated at the
homestead for ten days. Mrs. Aylett's show of fondness for him was
laughable, considering what an uninteresting specimen of masculinity
he was; but the handsome dame was too worldly-wise, too sage a judge
of quid pro quo, to entice him to waste so much of the time he was
addicted to announcing was money to him, for the sake of a good so
intangible as sisterly sentimentality.
Unless there were some substantial and remunerative ulterior object
to be gained by his tarrying in the neighborhood, cunning Rosa
believed that "dear Bertie" would have been packed off to Buffalo, or
whatever outlandish place he lived in, so soon as the bridal
festivities were over, and not showed his straw-colored whiskers
again in Virginia in three years, at least, instead of running down
to the plantation every three months.
"If such an ingredient as the compound, double-distilled essence of
flatness is to be infused into the wassail-cup, it is he who will
supply it!" thought the spicy damsel, with a bewitching shrug of the
plump shoulder nearest him, while engaged in a lively play of words
with a gentleman on her other hand. "What can possess Mabel to
encourage him systematically in her decorous style, passes my powers
of divination. Maybe she means to use him as a poultice for her
bruised heart. In that case, insipidity would be no objection."
Mabel had not the air of one whose heart is bruised or torn. That
she had gained in queenliness within the past year was not evidence
of austerity or the callousness that ensues upon the healing of a
wound. The Ayletts were a stately race, and the few who, while she
was in her teens, had carped at her lack of pride because of her
disposition to choose friends from the walks of life lower than her
own, and criticised as unbecoming the playful familiarity that caused
underlings and plebeians—the publicans and sinners of the
aristocrat's creed—to worship the ground on which she trod—the
censors in the court of etiquette conferred upon her altered demeanor
the patent of their approbation, averring, for the thousandth time,
that good blood would assert itself in the long run and bring forth
the respectable fruits of refinement, self- appreciation, and
condescension. The change had come over her by perceptible, but not
violent, stages of progression, dating—Mrs. Sutton saw with pain;
Rosa, with enforced respect—from the sunset hour in which she had
read her brother's sentence of condemnation upon her then betrothed,
now estranged, lover. After that one evening, she had not striven to
conceal herself and her hurt in solitude. Neither had she borrowed
from desperation a brazen helmet to hide the forehead the cruel letter
had, for a brief space, laid low in the dust of anguished humiliation.
If a whisper of her disappointment and the attendant incidents
crept through the ranks of her associates, it died away for want of
confirmation in her clear level-lidded eyes, elastic footfall and the
willingness and frequency with which she appeared and played her part
in the various scenes of gayety that made the winter succeeding her
brother's marriage one long to be remembered by the pleasure-seekers
of the vicinity. She had not disdained the assistance of her
sister-in-law's judgment and experience in the choice of the dresses
that were to grace these merry-makings, and, thanks to her own
naturally excellent taste, now tacitly disputed the palm of elegant
attire with that lady. Her Christmas costume, which, in many others of
her age, would have been objected to by critical fashionists, as
old-maidish and grave, yet set off her pale complexion—none of the
Ayletts were rosy after they reached man's or woman's estate—and
heightened her distingue bearing into regal grace. Yet it was only a
heavy black silk, rich and glossy as satin, cut, as was then the
universal rule of evening dress, tolerably low in the neck, with short
sleeves; bunches of pomegranate-blossoms and buds for breast and
shoulder-knots, and among the classic braids of her dark hair a
half-wreath of the same.
She had the valuable gift of sitting still without stiffness, and
not fidgetting with fan, bouquet, or hand-kerchief, as she listened
or talked. Rosa's mercurial temperament betrayed itself, every
instant, in the bird-like turn of her small head, the fluttering or
chafing of her brown fingers, and not unfrequently by an impatient
stamp, or other movement of her foot that exposed fairy toe and
instep. Contemplation of the one rested and refreshed the observer;
of the other, amused and excited him. Mr. Dorrance's phlegmatic
nature found supreme content in dwelling upon the incarnation of
patrician tranquillity at his right hand, and he regarded the actions
of his frisky would-be tormentor very much as a placid, well-gorged
salmon would survey, from his bed of ease upon the bottom of a stream,
the gyrations of a painted dragon fly overhead.
A lull in the geteral conversation—the reaction after a hearty
laugh at a happy repartee—gave others besides Mabel the opportunity
of profiting by his learned remarks.
"But does not that seem to yon a short-sighted policy," he was
urging upon his auditor, with the assistance of a thumb and
forefinger of one hand, joined as upon a pinch of snuff, and tapping
the centre of the other palm; "does not that appear inexcusable
profligacy of extravagance, which fells and consumes whole surface
forests of magnificent trees—virgin growth—(I use the term as it is
usually applied, although, philosophically considered, it is
inaccurate) giants, which centuries will not replace, instead of
seeking beneath the superficial covering of mould, nourishing these,
for the exhaustless riches, carboniferous remains of antediluvian
woods, hidden in the bowels of your mountains, and underlying your
Rosa was shaking with internal laughter—she would give no escape
except through her dancing eyes.
Indeed, Mr. Dorrance's was the only staid countenance there, as
Mabel said, pleasantly, moving her chair beyond the bounds of the
ring, "I, for one, find the combustion of the upper forest growth too
powerful, just at this instant. This is a genuine Christmas-storm—is
it not? Listen to the wind?"
In the stillness enjoined by her gesture, the growl of the blast in
the chimney and in the grove; the groaning, tapping, and creaking of
the tree branches; the pelting sleet and the rattle of casements all
over the house brought to the least imaginative a picture of out-door
desolation and fireside comfort that prolonged the hush of attention.
Tom Barksdale's pretty wife slipped her hand covertly into his tight
grasp, and their smile was of mutual congratulation that they were
brightly and warmly housed and together. Rosa, preternaturally grave
and quiet, lapsed into a profound study of the mountain of red-hot
embers. Several young ladies shuddered audibly, as well as visibly,
and were reassured by a whispered word, or the slightest conceivable
movement of their gallants' chairs nearer their own.
"I think we have the grandest storms at Ridgeley that visit our
continent," resumed Mabel thoughtfully. "I suppose because the house
stands so high. The wind never sounds to me anywhere else as it does
here on winter nights."
Yielding to the weird attraction of the scene invoked by her fancy,
she arose and walked to the window at the eastern extremity of the
hall, pulling aside the curtain that she might peer into the wild
darkness. The crimson light of the burning logs and the lamp rays
threw a strongly defined shadow of her figure upon the piazza floor,
distinct as that projected by a solar microscope upon a sheeted wall;
sent long, searching rays into the misty fall of the snow, past the
spot from which she had her last glimpse of Frederic Chilton, so many,
many months agone, showing the black outline of the gate where he had
looked back to lift his hat to her.
What was there in the wintry night and thick tempest to recall the
warmth and odor of that moist September morning, the smell of the
dripping roses overhead, the balmy humidity of every breath she drew?
What in her present companion that reminded her of the loving clasp
that had thrilled her heart into palpitation? the earnest depth of the
eyes that held hers during the one sharp, yet sweet moment of
parting—eyes that pledged the fealty of her lover's soul, and
demanded hers then and forever? His conscience might have been sullied
by crimes more heinous than those charged upon him by her brother and
his friends; he might—he HAD—let her go easily, as one resigns his
careless hold upon a paltry, unprized toy; but when her hand had
rested thus in his, and his passionate regards penetrated her soul, he
loved her, alone and entirely! She would fold this conviction to her
torpid heart for a little while before she turned herself away finally
from the memories of that love-summer and battle-autumn of her
existence. If it aroused in the chilled thing some slight pangs of
sentiency, it would do her no hurt to realize through these that it
had once been alive.
She saw a shadow approaching to join itself to hers upon the
whitened floor without, before Mr. Dorrance interrupted her reverie
"The fury of the tempest you admire proves its paternity," he said,
with a manifest effort at lightness. "It emanates from the vast
magazines of frost, snow, and wintry wind that lie far to the
north-east even of my home, and THAT is in a region you would think
drear and inhospitable after the more clement airs of of your native
"We have very cold weather in Virginia sometimes," returned Mabel,
still scanning the sentinel gate-posts, and the pyramidal arbor-vitae
trees flanking them.
Her gaze was a mournful farewell, but she neglected none of the
amenities of hospitality. She was used to talking commonplaces.
"We feel it all the more, too, on account of the mildness of the
greater part of the winter," she subjoined.
"Allow me!" said the other, looping back the curtain she had until
now held in her hand. "Whereas our systems are braced by a more
uniform temperature to endure the severity of our frosts, and high,
"I suppose so," assented Mabel, mechanically, and unconscious as
himself that meaning glances were stolen at them from the fireside
circle, while the hum and conversation was continuous and louder, for
the good-natured intent on the speakers' part to afford the supposed
lovers the chance of carrying on their dialogue unheard.
"But our houses are very comfortable—often very beautiful," Mr.
Dorrance persevered, keeping to the scent of his game, as a trained
pointer scours a stubble-field, narrowing his beat at every circuit;
"and the hearts of those who live in them are warm and constant. It is
not always true that
"'The cold in clime are cold in blood;
Their love can scarce deserve the name.
"I have thought sometimes that that feeling is strongest and most
enduring, the demonstration of which is guarded and infrequent, as
the deepest portion of the channel is the most quiet."
If his philosophical and scientific talk were heavy and solid, his
poetry and metaphors were ponderous and labored. Yet Mabel listened
to him now, neither facing nor avoiding him, looking down at her
hands, laid, one above the other, upon the window-sill, the image of
maidenly and courteous attention.
Why should she affect diffidence, or seek to escape what she had
foreseen for weeks, and made no effort to ward off? She had come to
the conclusion in October that Herbert Dorrance would, when the forms
he considered indispensable to regular courtship had been gone through
with, ask her to marry him, and coolly taken her resolution to accept
him. This morning, on the reception of a handsome Christmas gift from
him, and discovering in his actions something more pointed than his
customary punctilious devoirs, and in his didacticism the outermost of
the closing circle of pursuit she had furthermore concluded that his
happy thought was to celebrate the festal season by his betrothment.
She was quite ready for the declaration, which, she anticipated, would
be pompous and formal. She would have excused him from "doing" the
poetical part of it; but, since it was on the programme, it was not
her province to interfere.
"I am no enthusiast," he next averred,—Rosa would have said, very
unnecessarily—"the tricks of sighing lovers are beyond—or
beneath—my imitation. I could not 'write a sonnet to my mistress'
eyebrow,' or move her to tearful pity by sounding declarations of my
adoration of her peerless charms, and my anguish at the bare
imagination of the possibility that these would ever be another's.
But, so far as the earnest affection and sincere esteem of an honest
man can satisfy the requirements of a good woman's heart, yours shall
be filled, Mabel, if you will be my wife. I have admired you from the
first day of our meeting. For six months I have been truly attached to
you, and seriously meditated this declaration. Your brother is
satisfied with the exhibit I have made of my affairs and my prospects,
and sanctions my addresses. I can maintain you more than comfortably,
and it shall be one of the principal aims of my life to consult your
welfare in all my plans for my own advancement. I have been settled in
the large and flourishing city of Albany about seven years,
and—ignoring the trammels of mock humility, let me say to you—have,
within that period, gained to a flattering extent the confidence of
the most respectable portion of the community; have built up an
excellent and growing business connection, and secured the entree of
the best society there. These are the pecuniary and social aspects of
the alliance I propose for your consideration. Through my sister, and
by means of the intimate association into which her marriage with your
brother has drawn you and myself, you have been enabled, within the
twelvemonth that has elapsed since our introduction, one to the other,
to learn whatever you wished to know with respect to my personal
character, my tastes, temper, and habits. It has given me heartfelt
pleasure to discover that these are, in the main, analogous to your
own. I have built upon this similarity—or harmony would be the better
word—sanguine hopes of our future happiness, should you see your way
clear to accept my proffered hand, consent to link your future with
"I beg to lay the 'ouse in Walcot Square, the business and myself,
before Miss Summerson, for her acceptance," said magnanimous Mr.
Guppy, thus clinching his declaration that "the image he had supposed
was eradicated from his 'art was NOT eradicated."
It was more in keeping with Rosa's character than Mabel's to
recollect the comic scene in the book they had read together lately,
but the latter did remember it at this instant, and despite the
momentous issues involved in her immediate action, was strongly
tempted to laugh in her wooer's solemn face.
Then—so abrupt and fearful are the transitions from the extremes
of one emotion to another—arose before her another picture. As in a
dissolving view, she beheld herself walking with Frederic Chilton in
the moonlighted alleys of the garden; midsummer flowers blooming to
the right and left, her head drooping, in shy happiness, as the
lily-bell bows to shed its freight of dew; his face glowing with the
ardor of verbal confession of that he had already sought to express
by letter—heard his fervent, pleading murmur, "Mabel! look up, my
darling! and tell me again that you will not send me away beggared
and starving. I cannot yet believe in the reality of my bliss!"
These were the love-words of an "enthusiast"—these—-
The vision vanished at the short, hard breath, she drew in
unclasping her locked hands, and lifting her grave, tranquil eyes to
the level of her suitor's.
"I will follow your example in repudiating spurious sentiment, Mr.
Dorrance. I believe you to be a good, true man and that the
attachment you profess for me is sincere. I believe, moreover, that
my chances of securing real peace of mind will be fairer, should I
commit myself to your guardianship, than if I were to surrender my
affections to the keeping of one whose vows were more impassioned,
who, professing to adore me as a divinity, should yet be destitute of
your high moral principle and stainless honor. When I was younger and
more rash in judgment and feeling, I was led into a sad mistake by the
evidence of eye, ear, and a girl's imagination. I ought to tell you
this, if you have not already heard the story. I will not deceive you
into the persuasion that I can ever feel for you, or any other man,
the love, or what I thought was love, I knew in the few brief weeks of
my early betrothal. But you must know how that ended, and I have no
desire to repeat the mad experiment of risking my earthly all upon one
throw of fate. If friendship—if esteem, and the resolve to show
myself a worthy recipient of your generous confidence—will content
you, all else shall be as you wish."
In her determination to be candid, to leave him in no uncertainty
as to her actual sentiments, she had concerted a response but a degree
less stilted than his proposal. She would have been ashamed of it had
he appeared less gratified.
His dull eyes brightened; his face flushed and beamed with
unfeigned delight, and in his transport he said the most natural and
graceful thing that ever escaped him during his wooing.
"I am content! The second love of Mabel Aylett must ever be more to
me than the first of any other woman!"
True, he nearly spoiled all the next minute, by producing from his
pocket a wee velvet case, from which he extracted a valuable diamond
ring, and proceeded, then and there, in the shadow of the
accommodating curtain, to fit it upon her finger. He had foreseen
that she would not be hardly won, and with characteristic providence
had prepared himself for the event.
The blood leaped to Mabel's temples and the fire to her eye, at the
prompt seal set by the practical non-enthusiast upon the contract,
but she bit her lip, and submitted after a second of thought. He owed
his exemption from rebuke to her memory of his latest utterance. She
could not mistake the tone of genuine feeling, and she overlooked the
breach of taste that followed; treasured up the heart-saying as one of
the few souvenirs she cared to preserve of his courtship.
"If he is content, I need not be miserable," was the consolatory
reflection with which she took upon herself her new and binding
CHAPTER VIII. THE FACE AT THE WINDOW.
MRS. AYLETT was in her best feather that night; the suave
chatelaine, the dutiful consort; the tactful warder of the
interesting pair whose movements she had not ceased to watch from the
moment they took their places with the party about the fire-place in
the hall until she, alone of all the company, saw Herbert Dorrance
draw the diamond signet from its receptacle, and the sparkle of the
jewel as it slipped to its abiding-place upon Mabel's finger.
Lest something unusual in their look or behavior should excite the
suspicions of their companions, make them the focus of inquisitive
observation and whispered remark, the diplomate passed again into the
hall, sweeping along in advance of them when they deserted their
curtained recess, and would have joined the rest of the company.
"Are we to have no dancing this evening?" she said, in hospitable
solicitude. "It wants an hour yet of supper-time. The exercise will
do you all good, particularly the young ladies, who have not stirred
beyond the piazzas to-day. I have been waiting for an invitation to
play for you, but my desire for your welfare has overcome native
humility. Will you accept my services as your musician?"
The suggestion was acceded to by acclamation, and while one
gentleman led her to the grand piano which stood between the front
windows of the drawing-room, and another opened a music-book which
she named, a set was quickly formed in the long apartment, the
soberer portion of the crowd ranging themselves along the walls as
Mrs. Aylett was a proficient in dance-music. She never volunteered
to perform that which she was not conscious of doing well. She had
occasionally taken the floor for a single quadrille, to oblige a
favored guest—always a middle-aged or elderly gentleman—or moved
through a cotillion with ease and spirit as partner to her husband,
but she declined dancing, as a rule; was altogether indifferent to
the amusement, while she delighted to oblige her friends by playing
for them whenever and as long as they required her aid. Without
saying, in so many words, that she disapproved of the waltz for
unmarried ladies, and frowned upon promiscuous dancing for matrons,
she yet managed to regulate the social code of the neighborhood in
both these respects, was imitated and quoted by the most discreet of
chaperones and belles.
Mr. Dorrance was Mabel's partner; Rosa stood up with Randolph
Harrison, a gay youth, who was her latest attache; Tom Barksdale led
out a blushing, yet sprightly school-girl, and Imogene was his
vis-a-vis supported by an ancient admirer, who had comforted himself
for her preference for another man by falling in love with a prettier
woman. The room was decorated with garlands of running cedar—a vine
known in higher latitudes as "ground-pine," and which carpeted acres
of the Ridgeley woods. The vases on the mantel were filled with holly,
and other gayly colored berry boughs, while roses, lemon and orange
blossoms, mignonette and violets from the conservatory were set about
on tables and brackets, blending fresher and more wholesome odors with
those of the Parisian extracts wafted from the ladies' dresses and
Mr. Aylett had—accidentally, it would seem—his wife understood
that the action was premeditated—stationed himself at an angle to
the piano that allowed him a fair view of her, and did not grudge the
merriest bachelor there his share of enjoyment, while he could keep
furtive watch upon the changeful countenance, the Sappho-like head,
and the delicate hands which one could have thought made the music,
rather than did the obedient keys they touched. The wedded lovers had
taste and pride in equal proportions, and a parade of their
satisfaction in one another for the edification or amusement of
indifferent spectators would have been revolting to both, but the ray
that sped from half-averted eyes, from time to time, and was returned
by a kindling glance, also shot sidelong beneath dropped lashes, said
more to each other than would a quarto volume of stereotyped
protestations and caresses, such as Tom Barksdale dealt out profusely
to his beauteous Imogene. Clearly, neither Mr. nor Mrs. Winston Aylett
was fond of sugar-candy.
Mabel's faith in the sincerity of her sister-in-law's agreeable
sayings and ways was not invariable nor absolute. She liked her after
a certain fashion; got along swimmingly with her, the amazed public
decided "SO much better than could have been expected, and than was
customary with relations by marriage, and not by descent;" yet her
more upright nature and different training helped her to detect the
petty artifices with which Clara cajoled the unwary, moulded the
plastic at her will. But she had never questioned the reality of her
love for Winston. As a wife, her deportment was exemplary, her
devotion too freely and consistently rendered to have its spring in
policy or affectation. She gloried in her handsome, courtly lord, and
in his attachment for herself. Whether she would have espied the same
causes for loving exultation in him, had he been a poor clergyman or
merchant's clerk, was an irrelevant consideration. The master of
Ridgeley was not to be contemplated apart from the possessions and
dignities that were his inalienable pedestal. Clara Dorrance was a
clever woman, and she had given these due weight in accepting his
hand; and they may have had their influence in moving her to
unceasing, yet unobtrusive endeavor to make herself still more
necessary to his happiness, to strengthen her hold upon him by every
means an affectionate and beloved wife has at her command. She had
done well for herself—she was thinking while he concluded as silently
within himself that the slight pensiveness tempering the expressive
face was its loveliest dress.
She—beautiful and penniless, ambitious, and a devotee of
pleasure—yet dependent for food and clothing upon her mother's
life-interest in an estate, not one penny of which would revert to
her children at her decease; without kindred and without society in
the elegant suburb they had inhabited for four or five years, might
have been elated at a less brilliant match than that she had made.
The "best people" of the aforesaid suburb were exclusive; slow to
form intimacies with their unaccredited neighbors, and very hasty in
breaking them at the faintest whiff of a doubtful or tainted
reputation. And of the second best the Dorrances had kept themselves
clear. Having met and captivated her wealthy lover on a rarely
fortunate summer jaunt, made in company with her eldest brother, his
wife, and two relatives of the last-named, Clara did not repel him or
disgust the best people of Roxbury by indiscreet raptures over, or
exhibition of, her prize.
"I feel with you an invincible repugnance to throwing open our
hearts to the inspection of the unsympathizing world, at the most
sacred moment of our lives," she said, in stating her preference for
a quiet morning-wedding, a family breakfast, and instant departure
upon their bridal-trip. "If I begin to invite my friends and
neighbors, our cottage—lawn and garden included—would not contain
them, and after all were asked whom I could rememher, as many more
would be mortally offended at being forgotten."
The bridegroom gladly acquiescing, with a compliment to her womanly
delicacy, the ceremony was performed in the presence of the bride's
nearest relatives; an elegant repast was served, at which the
Dorrance plate made an imposing show, and Clara turned her back upon
the scenes and reminiscences of her past life to commence the world
Yes, she had done very well for herself—how wonderfully well she
knew better than did any one else, and at this date she had fresh
cause for self-gratulation. Through her, Herbert, her favorite
brother, was likely to form an alliance which would be a timely and
substantial stepping-stone to his aggrandizement and wealth. There
were more reasons why she should hold her head higher—why the blood
should clothe her cheek with a richer carmine, and a smile encircle
the mouth, as one swift glance took in the spacious, luxurious room,
thronged with well-dressed aristocrats, her husband the stateliest,
most honored of them all, yet her fond thrall; the splendid apparel
in which his wealth had bedecked her, the queen of the scene—more
reasons, I say, for the ineffable thrill of pleasure that coursed, a
rapid, intoxicating stream, through her veins, than grateful
affection for the author of all these goods. With a Sybarite's dread
of pain and loneliness, she seldom trusted herself to look at the
dark curtain in the background, against which her latter-day glories
shone the more dazzlingly. But to-night she felt safe upon her
throne—sat, the lady of kingdoms, sultana in the realm of her
spouse's heart and in his domain, and could stare full upon the
past—could measure, without shuddering, the height of her actual and
assumed estate above—
Mr. Aylett stepped forward in haste and concern at the deadly
pallor that overspread her face—the look of horror, fear, loathing,
before which smile and brightness fled, blasted into wretchedness. The
revellers stopped in their giddy measure at the discordant jangle,
preluding a dead silence.
Mabel, chancing in the evolutions of the set to be nearest the
window, and noting the direction of the fainting woman's eyes, was
quick enough to see a shadow flit across the yellcw square of light
upon the snowy floor of the portico—a man's shape, as it appeared to
her, crouching and slinking out of view into the darkness.
"She saw something, or somebody, through the window, and was
frightened," she said, in a low voice, checking Tom Barksdale and
another gentleman, who would have pressed with the inconsiderate
crowd toward the senseless figure Mr. Aylett had laid upon the sofa.
"Will you see what it was?"
The request cleared the room directly of all the men of the
assembly, with the exception of Winston and Dr. Ritchie, a young
physician, who was superintending the administration of restoratives
to Mrs. Aylett.
She was reviving rapidly when the search party gave in their
report. There were fresh tracks upon the piazza, and these they had
traced to the back of the house, losing them there in the drifting
snow, the wind blowing like a hurricane, and ploughing what had fallen
and what was descending into constantly changing heaps. But the
watch-dogs had been unchained, and four of the negro men detailed as
sentinels, the gentlemen engaging to make the round of the premises
again before bed-time.
The effect of this communication was the reverse of tranquillizing
upon the patient. The wild, terrified look in her eye resembled the
unreasoning fear of lunacy as she seized her husband's arm.
"Indeed, indeed they must not. It is not right or safe to make such
a serious matter of my foolish nervousness. I am not sure there was
any one there! It was probably an optical delusion. I was plunged in
a reverie, thinking of happy, peaceful, lovely things"—with the
sickly feint of a meaning smile into his face—"and, happening to
look at the window, I fancied that I saw"—with all her self-command
her voice failed here, and she put her hand before her eyes for a
moment before she could go on—"I thought I saw—SOMETHING! It may
have been a human face—it may have been the shadow of the curtains,
or the reflection of the lights upon the glass; but it startled me,
appearing so abruptly. Please say no more about it. If it was a
living creature, it must have been one of the servants, tempted by
curiosity to peep at the dancers."
"It will prove to be a costly indulgence to him, if I can discover
who the rascal was," said Mr. Aylett, decisively. "I would not have
had you so startled for the worth of all the lazy hounds on the
His wife laid her hand upon his.
"It is Christmas night, my love, and the poor fellow is excusable.
He showed excellent taste. It was a very pretty scene. I shall not
soon forgive myself for throwing it into such 'admired disorder.'
Miss Scott"—[to a musical spinster]—"may I tax your politeness so
far as to ask you to take my seat at the piano? I must go to my room
for a few minutes," raising her finger smilingly to her displaced ivy
wreath. "If you would testify your tolerance of my folly, please go on
with your amusement. I shall be encouraged to return when I hear the
Her collected, urbane self once more, she took her husband's arm,
and passed through the opening ranks of her friends, bowing to this
side and that, with apologetic banter and graceful words of
regret—still very pale, but changed in no other respect.
"A singular episode in an evening's entertainment," said Mr.
Dorrance, leading Mabel to her stand in the re-forming set. "I never
knew Clara to succumb before to any type of syncope or asphyxia. She
is a woman of remarkable nerve and courage. And, by the way, how
preposterous is the common use of the word 'nervous.' The ablest
lexicographers define it as 'strong, well-strung, full of nerve,'
whereas, in ordinary parlance, it has come to signify the very
opposite of these. When I speak of a nervous speaker or writer, for
example, what do I mean?"
"One who imbibes unwholesomely large quantities of strong green
tea, and sees hobgoblins peering at her through the window-panes!"
said Rosa, sarcastically artless, tripping by in season to overhear
this clause of his small-talk.
Mabel's imperturbable good-breeding prevented embarrassment or
resentment at the interruption. At heart, she was vexed that Rosa
should omit no opportunity of shooting privily and audaciously at her
practical admirer, but to betray her appreciation of the impertinence
would be to subject herself to imputations of sensitiveness on his
"I saw the hobgoblin without the aid of green tea," she rejoined.
"There was really some one upon the porch, but why the apparition
should scare Clara out of her wits, I cannot divine. The negro is an
incurable Paul Pry, and, next to dancing a Christmas jig himself, is
the pleasure of seeing others do it."
Mrs. Aylett verified her brother's encomium upon her nerve by
reappearing in the saloon by the time another set was over, and just
before the announcement of supper, radiant and self-possessed,
prepared to do double social duty to atone for the fright she had
caused, and the temporary damp her swoon had cast over the
The revel went joyously forward—Christmas-games and incantations,
the dexterous introduction, by a jocose old gentleman, of a
mistletoe-bough into the festoons draping the chandelier, and divers
other tricks, all of which were taken in excellent part by the
victims thereof, and vociferously applauded by the spectators. The
great hall-clock had rung out twelve strokes, and two or three
methodical seniors were beginning to whisper to one another their
intention to take French leave of the indefatigable juniors and seek
their couches, when a continued tumult arose from the yard—barking
and shouts, and voices in angry or eager dispute.
Unmindful of the nipping air, the ladies flew to the windows and
raised them, while the gentlemen, in a body, rushed out upon the
porch, many to the lawn—the scene of the disturbance.
"They have caught him!"
"There are several of them—a gang of thieves, no doubt!"
"No! I see but one! They are bringing him to the house!" were
morsels of information passed over the shoulders of the foremost rank
of inquisitive fair ones to the rear, but none were able to answer the
"Who is it?"
"What does he look like like?"
"Does he offer any resistance?"
"Do you suppose he is a burglar, or only a common vagrant?"
"I thought the Ridgeley grounds were never infested by prowling
beggars, or other vagabonds," said a lady to Mrs. Aylett, who
prudently remained near the fire, even then shivering with the cold,
and casting uneasy looks at the windows.
"Mr. Aylett is a model to his brother magistrates in his treatment
of such nuisances," remarked another "His name is a terror to
strollers, whether they be organ-grinders, pedlers, or incendiaries."
Mrs. Aylett, excessively pale, applied her vinaigrette to her nose,
and trembled yet more violently.
"I believe he is very strict," she assented. "But I am really
afraid those ladies will take cold! The snow-air is piercing. And they
are—most of them—heated with dancing. Cannot we prevail upon them
to close the windows, now that the mysterious prowler is secured? We
shall hear all about him when the gentlemen return, and they will not
stay out of doors longer than is necessary."
They began to pour back into the room, while she was speaking,
laughing, and talking, all together shaking the snow-powder from
their hair and hands, and anathematizing the cold and their thin
boots. The particulars of the midnight disturbance were quickly
disseminated. The ebon sentinels had, directed by the barking of
their canine associates, discovered, under a holly hedge on one side
of the yard, a man lying upon the earth, and almost buried in the
snow he seemed not to have strength to throw off. He was either drunk
or so nearly frozen as to be incapable of answering coherently their
demands as to what was his name and what his business upon the
premises. The interrogations of the gentlemen and the ungentle
shakings administered by his captors elicited nothing but groans and
muttered oaths. He could not, or would not, walk without support, and
to leave him where he was, or to turn him adrift into the public road,
would be certain death. Therefore Mr. Aylett had ordered him to be
confined for the night in a garret room. In the morning he might be
examined to more purpose.
"But he ought to have a fire, and something hot and nourishing to
drink!" exclaimed Mrs. Button, upon hearing the story. "He will
freeze in that barn of a place—poor wretch!"
"I imagine he has no need of additional stimulants," said Mrs.
Aylett, dryly, again resorting to her smelling-bottle. "From what the
gentlemen say, I judge that he had laid in a supply of caloric
sufficient to last through the night. And the first use he would make
of fire would be to burn the house over our heads. His lodgings are
certainly more comfortable than those selected by himself. There is
little danger of his finding fault with them. What manner of looking
creature is he?"
"An unkempt vagabond!" rejoined Randolph Harrison, rubbing his blue
fingers before the fire. "His clothes are ragged, and frozen stiff. I
suppose he has been out in the storm ever since it set in. There were
icicles upon his beard and hair, his hat having fallen off. It is a
miracle he did not freeze to death long ago. It is a bitter night."
"Did you say he was an old man?" inquired the hostess languidly,
from the depths of her easy chair.
"He is not a young one, for his hair is grizzled. But we will form
ourselves into a court of inquiry in the morning, with Mr. Aylett as
presiding officer—have in the nocturnal wanderer, and hear what
account he can give of himself. Who knows what romantic history we
may hear—one that may become a Christmas legend in after years?"
"You will get nothing more sensational than the confessions of a
hen-roost robber, I suspect," said Mrs. Aylett, more wearily than was
consistent with her role of attentive hostess.
Her husband noticed the tokens of exhaustion, and interposed to
spare her further exertion.
"Our friends will excuse you if you retire without delay, Clara.
You still feel the effects of your agitation and faintness."
This was the signal for a general dispersion of the ladies—the
gentlemen, or most of them, adjourning to the smoking-room.
Since the late extraordinary influx of visitors, Mabel had shared
her aunt's chamber, but, instead of seeking this now, she went
straight from the parlor to the supper-room, where she found, as she
had expected, Mrs. Sutton in the height of business, directing the
setting of the breakfast-table, clearing away the debris of the
evening feast, and counting the silver with unusual care, lest a
stray fork or spoon had, by some hocus-pocus known to the class, been
slipped into the pocket of the supposititious burglar.
"Aunt," began Mabel, drawing her aside, "that poor wretch up-stairs
must be cared for. It is the height of cruelty to lock him up in a
fireless room, without provisions or dry clothing. If he should die,
would we be guiltless?"
Mrs. Sutton's benevolent physiognomy was perplexed.
"Didn't I say as much in the other room, before everybody, my dear?
And didn't SHE put me down with one of her magisterial sentences? She
is mistress here—not you or I. Besides, Winston has the key of that
east garret in his pocket, and I would not be the one to ask him for
it, since he has had his wife's opinion upon the subject of humanity
"I shall not trouble him with my petition. I discovered by
accident, when I was a child, that the key of the north room would
open that door. If I order, upon my own responsibility, that a cup of
hot coffee, and some bread and meat be taken up to him, you will not
deny them to me, I suppose?"
"Certainly not, my child! but I dare not send a servant with them.
Winston's orders were positive—they all tell me—that not a soul
should attempt to hold communication with him. And what he says he
"Then," replied Winston's sister, with a spark of his spirit, "I
will take the waiter up myself. I cannot sleep with this horror
hanging over me—the fear lest, through my neglect or cowardice, a
fellow-being—whose only offence against society, so far as we knows
is his dropping down in a faint or stupor under a hedge on the
Ridgeley plantation—should lose his life."
"Your feelings are only what I should expect from you, my love; but
think twice before you go up-stairs yourself! It would be considered
an outrageous impropriety, were it found out."
"Less outrageous than to let a stranger perish for want of such
attention as one would vouchsafe to a stray dog?" questioned Mabel,
with a queer smile. "Roger! pour me out a bowl of coffee at once. Put
it on a waiter with a plate of bread and butter—or stay! oysters will
be more warming and nourishing. I am very sure that Daphne is keeping
a saucepanful hot for her supper and yours. Hurry!"
The waiter, whose wife was the cook, ducked his head with a grin
confirmatory of his young mistress' shrewd suspicion, and vanished to
obey her orders, never dreaming but she wanted the edibles for her
private consumption. He enjoyed late and hot suppers, and why not she?
Thanks to this persuasion, the coffee was strong, clear, and boiling,
the oysters done to a turn, and smoking from the saucepan.
Taking the tray from him, with a gracious "Thank you! This is just
as it should be," Mabel negatived his offer to carry it to her room,
and started up-stairs.
Mrs. Sutton followed with a lighted candle.
"Winston or no Winston, you shall not face that desperado alone,"
she said, obstinately. "There is no telling what he may do—murder
you, perhaps, or at least knock you down in order to escape. Winston
talks as if he were the captain of the forty thieves."'
"He is pretty well hors de combat now, at any rate," smiled Mabel,
but allowing her aunt to precede her with the light to the upper
floor. "And should he offer violence—scalding coffee may defend me
as effectually as Morgiana's boiling oil routed the gang. MY captain
had to be carried up-stairs by four servants, who left him upon a
pile of old mattresses in one corner of the room. Here we are!"
They were in a wide hall at the top of the house, the unceiled
rafters above their heads, carpetless boards beneath their feet.
Mabel set her waiter upon a worm-eaten, iron-bound chest, and went
further down the passage to get the key of the north room. Her light
footstep stirred dismal echoes in the dark corners; the wind screamed
through every crack and keyhole, like a legion of piping devils;
rumbled lugubriously over the steep roof. The one candle flickering in
the draught showed Mabel's white bust and arms, like those of a
phantom, beaming through a cloud of blackness, when she stooped to try
the key in the lock of the prison-chamber.
After fitting it, she knocked before she turned it in the rusty
wards—again, and more loudly—then spoke, putting her lips close to
"We are friends, and have brought you supper. Can we come in?"
There was no answer, and with a beating heart she unlocked the
door, pushed it ajar, and motioned to Aunt Rachel to hold her candle
up, that she might gain a view of the interior.
The wan, uncertain rays revealed the heap of mattresses, and upon
them what looked like a mass of rough, wet clothing, without sound or
"He is pretending to be asleep! Take care!" whispered Mrs. Sutton,
trying to restrain Mabel as she pressed by her into the room.
"He is dead, I fear!" was the low answer.
Forgetful of her nephew's prohibition and her recent fears, the
good widow entered, and leaned anxiously over the stranger's form. A
tall, gaunt man, clad in threadbare garments, which hung loosely upon
the shrunken breast and arms, black hair and beard, mottled with
white, ragged, and unshorn, and dank from exposure to the snow and
sleet; a chalky-white face, with closed and sunken eyes, sharpened
nose, and prominent cheek-bones—this was what they beheld as the
candle flamed up steadily in the comparatively still air of the ceiled
apartment. The miserable coat was buttoned up to his chin, and the
shreds of a coarse woollen comforter, torn from his throat at his
capture, still hung about his shoulders. His clothes were sodden with
wet, as Harrison had said, and the solitary pretence at rendering him
comfortable for the night, had been the act of a negro, who
contemptuously flung an old blanket across his nether limbs before
leaving him to his lethargic slumbers. He had not moved since they
tossed him, like a worthless sack, upon this sorry resting-place, but
lay an unsightly huddle of arms, legs, and head, such as was never
achieved, much less continued, by any one save a drunken man or a
corpse. Mabel ended the awed silence.
"This is torpor—not sleep, nor yet death," she said, without
recoiling from the pitiful wreck.
Indeed, as she spoke, she bent to feel his pulse; held the
emaciated wrist in her warm fingers until she could determine whether
the feeble stroke were a reality, or a trick of the imagination.
"Dr. Ritchie should see him immediately. He is in the smoking-room.
If you call him out, it will excite less remark than if I were to do
it. Don't let Winston guess why you want him," were her directions to
her aunt, uttered quickly, but distinctly.
"Yon will not stay here! At least, go into the hall! What will the
"I shall remain where I am. The poor creature is too far gone to
presume upon my condescension," with a faint sarcastic emphasis.
At Mrs. Sutton's return with the physician, she perceived that her
niece had not awaited her coming in sentimental idleness. A thick
woollen coverlet was wrapped about the prostrate figure, and Mabel,
upon her knees on the dusty hearth, was applying the candle to a heap
of waste paper and bits of board she had ferreted out in closets and
cuddy-holes. It caught and blazed up hurriedly in season to facilitate
the doctor's examination of the patient, thrown so oddly upon his
care. Mrs. Sutton had not neglected, in her haste, to procure a warm
shawl from her room, and she folded it about the girl's shoulders,
whispering an entreaty that she would go to bed, and leave the man to
her management and Dr. Ritchie.
Mabel waved her off impatiently.
"Presently! when I hear how he is!" moving toward the comfortless
The physician looked around at the rustle of her dress, his
pleasant face perturbed, and perhaps remorseful.
"This is a bad business! I wish I had examined him when he was
brought in. There would have been more hope of doing something for
him then. But, to tell the truth, I was one of the five or six
prudent fellows who stayed upon the piazza, and witnessed the capture
from a distance. I had no idea of the man's real situation. Mrs.
Sutton! can I have brandy, hot water, and mustard at once! Miss Mabel!
may I trouble you to call your brother? He ought to be advised of this
unforeseen turn of affairs."
His emissaries were prompt. In less than ten minutes, all the
appliances the household could furnish for the restoration of the
failing life were at his command. An immense fire roared in the
long-disused chimney; warm blankets, bottles of hot water and
mustard-poultices were prepared by a corps of officious servants; the
master of the mansion, with three or four friends at his heels, and a
half-smoked cigar in his hand, had looked in for a moment, to hope
that Dr. Ritchie would not hesitate to order whatever was needed, and
to predict a favorable result as the meed of his skill.
Half an hour after her brother's visit, Mabel tapped at the door to
inquire how the patient was, and whether she could be of use in any
way. She still wore her evening dress, and the fire of excitement had
not gone out in her eyes and complexion.
"Don't sit up longer," said the doctor, with the authority of an
old friend. "It will not benefit your protege for you to have a
headache, pale cheeks, and heavy eyes to-morrow, while it will render
others, whose claims upon you are stronger, very miserable."
She thanked him laconically for his thoughtfulness, and bade him
"good-night," without a responsive gleam of playfulness. Her heart
was weighed down with sick horror. The almost certainty of which he
spoke with professional coolness, was to her, who had never within
her recollection stood beside a death-bed, a thing too frightful to
be anticipated without dread, however its terrors might be alleviated
by affection and wealth. As the finale of their Christmas
frolic—perhaps the consequence of wilful neglect in those who should
have known better than to abandon the wanderer to the ravages of
hunger, cold, and intoxication—the idea was ghastly beyond
She was about to diverge from the main hall on the second floor
into the lateral passage leading to Mrs. Sutton's room in the wing,
when her name was called in a gentle, guarded key by her
CHAPTER IX. HE DEPARTETH IN
"COME in! I want to talk to you!" said Mrs. Aylett, beckoning Mabel
into her chamber, from the door of which she had hailed her. "Sit
down, my poor girl! You are white as a sheet with fatigue. I cannot
see why you should have been suffered to know anything about this
very disagreeable occurrence. And Emmeline has been telling me that
Mrs. Sutton actually let you go up into that Arctic room."
"It was my choice. Aunt Rachel went along to carry the light and to
keep me company. She would have dissuaded me from the enterprise if
she could," responded Mabel, sinking into the low, cushioned chair
before the fire, which the mistress of the luxurious apartment had
just wheeled forward for her, and confessing to herself, for the
first time, that she was chilly and very tired.
"But where were the servants, my dear? Surely you are not required,
in your brother's house, to perform such menial services as taking
food and medicine to a sick vagrant."
"Winston had forbidden them to go near the room. I wish I had gone
up earlier. I might have been the means of saving a life which,
however worthless it may seem to us, must be of value to some one."
"Is he so far gone?"
The inquiry was hoarsely whispered, and the speaker leaned back in
her fauteuil, a spark of fierce eagerness in her dilated eyes, Mabel,
in her own anxiety, did not consider overstrained solicitude in behalf
of a disreputable stranger. She had more sympathy with it than with
the relapse into apparent nonchalance that succeeded her repetition of
the doctor's report.
"He does not think the unfortunate wretch will revive, even
temporarily, then?" commented the lady, conventionally compassionate,
playing with her ringed fingers, turning her diamond solitaire in
various directions to catch the firelight. "How unlucky he should have
strayed upon our grounds! Was he on his way to the village?"
"Who can say? Not he, assuredly. He has not spoken a coherent word.
Dr. Ritchie thinks he will never be conscious again."
"I am afraid the event will mar our holiday gayeties to some
extent, stranger though he is!" deplored the hostess. "Some people are
superstitious about such things. His must have been the spectral
visage I saw at the window. I was sure it was that of a white man
although Winston tried, to persuade me to the contrary."
"It is dreadful!" ejaculated Mabel energetically. "He, poor
homeless wayfarer, perishing with cold and want in the very light of
our summer-like rooms; getting his only glimpse of the fires that
would have brought back vitality to his freezing body through closed
windows! Then to be hunted down by dogs, and locked up by more
unfeeling men, as if he were a ravenous beast, instead of a suffering
fellow-mortal! I shall always feel as if I were, in some measure,
chargeable with his death—should he die. Heaven forgive us our
selfish thoughtlessness, our criminal disregard of our brother's
"I understood you to say there was no hope!" interrupted Mrs.
"So Dr. Ritchie declares. But I cannot bear to believe it!"
She pressed her fingers upon her eyeballs as if she would exclude
some horrid vision.
"My dear sister! your nerves have been cruelly tried. To-morrow,
you will see this matter—and everything else—through a different
medium. As for the object of your amiable pity, he is, without doubt,
some low, dissipated creature, of whom the world will be well rid."
"I am not certain of that. There are traces of something like
refinement and gentle breeding about him in all his squalor and
unconsciousness. I noticed his hands particularly. They are slender
and long, and his features in youth and health must have been
handsome. Dr. Ritchie thought the same. Who can tell that his wife is
not mourning his absence to-night, as the fondest woman under this
roof would regret her husband's disappearance? And she may never learn
when and how he died—never visit his grave!"
"I have lived in this wicked world longer than you have, my sweet
Mabel; so you must not quarrel with me if these fancy pictures do not
move me as they do your guileless heart," said Mrs. Aylett, the
sinister shadow of a mocking smile playing about her mouth. "Nor must
you be offended with me for suggesting as a pendant to your crayon
sketch of widowhood and desolation the probability that the decease of
a drunken thief or beggar cannot be a serious bereavement, even to his
nearest of kin. Women who are beaten and trampled under foot by those
who should be their comfort and protection are generally relieved when
they take to vagrancy as a profession. It may be that this man's wife,
if she were cognizant of his condition, would not lift a finger, or
take a step to prolong his life for one hour. Such things have been."
"More shame to human nature that they have!" was the impetuous
rejoinder. "In every true woman's heart there must be tender memories
of buried loves, let their death have been natural or violent."
"So says your gentler nature. There are women—and I believe they
are in the majority in this crooked lower sphere—in whose hearts the
monument to departed affection—when love is indeed no more—is a
hatred that can never die. But we have wandered an immense distance
from the unlucky chicken-thief or burglar overhead. Dr. Ritchie's
sudden and ostentatious attack of philanthropy will hardly beguile him
into watching over his charge—a guardian angel in dress-coat and
white silk neck-tie—until morning?"
"Mammy is to relieve him so soon as he is convinced that human
skill can do nothing for his relief," said Mabel very gravely.
Her sister-in-law's high spirits and jocular tone jarred upon her
most disagreeably, but she tried to bear in mind in what dissimilar
circumstances they had passed the last hour. If Clara appeared
unfeeling, and her remarks were distinguished by less taste than was
customary in one so thoroughly bred, it was because the exhilaration
of the evening was yet upon her, and she had not seen the
death's-head prone upon the pillows in the cheerless attic. Thoughts
of poverty and dying beds were unseemly in this apartment when the
very warmth and fragrance of the air told of fostering and sheltering
love. The heavy curtains did not sway in the blast that hurled its
whole fury against the windows; the furniture was handsome, and in
perfect harmony with the dark, yet glowing hues of the carpet, and
with the tinted walls. A tall dressing mirror let into a recess
reflected the picture, brilliant with firelight that colored the
shadows themselves; lengthened into a deep perspective the apparent
extent of the chamber and showed, like a fine old painting, the
central figure in the vista.
Mrs. Aylett had exchanged her evening dress for a cashmere wrapper,
the dark-blue ground of which was enlivened by a Grecian pattern of
gold and scarlet; her unbound hair draped her shoulders, and framed
her arch face, as she threaded the bronze ripples with her fingers.
She looked contented, restful, complacent in herself and her
belongings—one whom Time had touched lovingly as he swept by, and
whom sorrow had forgotten.
"Not asleep yet!" was her husband's exclamation, entering before
anything further passed between the two women; and when his sister
started up, with an apology for being found there at so late an hour,
he added, more reproachfully than he ever spoke to his wife, "You
should not have kept her up, Mabel! Her strength has been too much
taxed already to-night. I hoped and believed that she had been in bed
and asleep for an hour."
"Don't blame her!" said Mrs. Aylett, hastily. "I called her in as
she was proceeding to bed in the most decorous manner possible. I may
as well own the truth of my weakness. I was nervously wakeful—the
effect, in part, of the ultra-strong coffee Dr. Ritchie advised me to
drink at supper-tine—in part, of the silly sensation I got up to
terrify my friends. So I maneuvered to secure a fireside companion
until you should have dispatched your cigar. Gossip is as pleasant a
sedative to ladies as is a prime Havana to their lords."
"And what is the latest morceau?" inquired Mr Aylett, indulgently,
when Mabel had gone.
He was standing by his wife's chair, and she leaned her head
against him, her bright eyes uplifted to his, her hair falling in a
long, burnished fringe over his arm—a fond, sparkling siren, whom no
man, with living blood in his veins, could help stooping to kiss
before her lips had shaped a reply.
"You wouldn't think it an appetizing morsel! But I listened with
interest to our unsophisticated Mabel's account of her Quixotic
expedition to what will, I foresee, be the haunted chamber of
Ridgeley in the next generation. Her penchant for adventure has, I
suspect, embellished her portrait of the hapless house-breaker."
"A common-looking tramp!" returned Winston, disdainfully. "As
villanous a dog in physiognomy and dress as I ever saw! Such an one
as generally draws his last breath where he drew the first—in a
ditch or jail; and too seldom, for the peace and safety of society,
finds his noblest earthly elevation upon a gallows. It is a nuisance,
though, having him pay this trifling debt of Nature—nobody but Nature
would trust him—in my house. There must be an inquest and a
commotion. The whole thing is an insufferable bore. Ritchie has given
him up, and gone to bed, leaving old Phillis on the watch, with
unlimited rations of whiskey, and a pile of fire-wood higher than
herself. But I did not mean that you should hear anything about this
dirty business. It is not fit for my darling's ears. Mabel showed even
less than her usual discretion in detailing the incidents of her
adventure to you."
Flattery of his sister had never been a failing with him, but,
since his marriage, the occasions were manifold in which her
inferiority to his wife was so glaring as to elicit a verbal
expression of disapproval. It was remarkable that Clara's advocacy of
Mabel's cause, at these times, so frequently failed to alter his
purpose of censure or to mitigate it, since, in all other respects,
her influence over him was more firmly established each day and hour.
Old Phillis, Mabel's nurse and the doctress of the
plantation—albeit a less zealous devotee than her master had
intimated of the potent beverages left within her reach, ostensibly
for the use of her patient should he revive sufficiently to swallow a
few drops—was yet too drowsy from the fatigues of the day, sundry
cups of Christmas egg-nogg, and the obesity of age, to maintain alert
vigil over one she, in common with her fellow-servitors, scorned as an
aggravated specimen of the always and ever-to-be despicable genus,
"poor white folks." There was next to nothing for her to do when the
fire had been replenished, the bottles of hot water renewed at the
feet and heart, and fresh mustard draughts wound about the almost
pulseless limbs of the dying stranger. She did contrive to keep Somnus
at arm's length for a while longer, by a minute examination of his
upper clothing, which, by Dr. Ritchie's directions, had been removed,
that the remedies might be more conveniently applied, and the heated
blankets the sooner infuse a vital glow through the storm-beaten
frame. The ancient crone took them up with the tips of her
fingers—ragged coat, vest, and pantaloons—rummaged in the same
contemptuous fashion every pocket, and kicked over the worn, soaked
boots with the toe of her leather brogan, sniffing her disappointment
at the worthlessness of the habiliments and the result of her search.
"Fit fur nothin' but to bury his poor carcuss in!" she grunted, and
had recourse to her own plethoric pocket for a clay pipe and a bag of
This lighted by a coal from the hearth, she tied a second
handkerchief over that she wore, turban-wise, on her head, mumbling
something about "cold ears" and "rheumatiz;" settled herself in a
rush-bottomed chair, put her feet upon the rounds of another, and was
regularly on duty, prepared for any emergency, and to be alarmed at
nothing that might occur.
So strict was the discipline she established over herself in
fifteen minutes, that she did not stir at the creaking of the bolt, or
the shriller warning of the unoiled hinges, as the door moved
cautiously back, and a cloaked form became dimly visible in the
opening. A survey of the inside of the chamber, the unmoving nurse and
her senseless charge, with the fumes of brandy and tobacco, reassured
the visitant. Her stockingless feet were thrust into wadded slippers;
over her white night-dress was a dark-blue wrapper, and, in addition
to this protection against the cold, she was enveloped in a great
shawl, disposed like a cowl about her head. Without rustle or
incautious mis-step she gained the side of the improvised bed, and
leaned over it. The face of the occupant was turned slightly toward
the left shoulder, and away from the light. The apparition raised
herself, with a gesture of impatience, caught the candle from the
rickety table at the head of the mattress, snuffed it hurriedly, and
again stooped toward the recumbent figure, with it in her hand.
It was then that the vigilant watcher unclosed her flabby lids,
slowly, and without start or exclamation, much as a dozing cat blinks
when a redder sparkle from the fire dazzles her out of dreams. One
hard wink, one bewildered stare, and Pbillis was awake and wary. Her
chin sank yet lower upon her chest, but the black eyes were rolled
upward until they bore directly upon the strange tableau. The shawl
had dropped from the lady's head, and the candle shone broadly upon
her features, as upon the sick man's profile. Apparently dissatisfied
with this view, she slipped her disengaged hand under the cheek which
was downward, and drew his face around into full sight.
"And bless your soul, honey!" Aunt Phillis told her young mistress,
long afterward, "you never see sech a look as was on hern—while her
eyes was thar bright and big, they was jist like live coals sot in a
lump of dough—she growed so white!"
Nevertheless the spy could return the candle to its place upon the
table without perceptible tremor of lip or limb, and after bestowing
one scrutinizing glance upon the nurse, who was fast asleep beneath
it, she went to the heap of damp clothing. These she lifted—one by
one—less gingerly than Phillis had done, and ransacked every likely
hiding-place of papers or valuables, going through the operation with
a rapid dexterity that astounded the old woman's weak mind, and made
her ashamed of her own clumsiness. Anticipating the final stealthy
look in her direction, the heavy lids fell once again, and were not
raised until the rusty bolt passed gratingly into the socket, and she
felt that the place was deserted by all save herself and the dying
She was in no danger of dozing upon her post after this visitation.
For the few hours of darkness that yet remained, she sat in her
chair, her elbows upon her knees, smoking, and pondering upon what
she had witnessed, varying her occupations by feeding the fire and
such care of the patient as she considered advisable; likening, in
her rude, yet excitable imagination, the rumbling of the gale in the
chimney and across the roof-tree, to the roll of the chariot-wheels
which were to carry away the parting soul; the tap and rattle of
sleet and wind at the windows to the summons of demons, impatient at
"The Lord send him an easy death, and let him go up, instead of
down!" she groaned aloud, once.
But the dubious shake of the head accompanying the benevolent
petition betokened her disbelief in the possibility of a favorable
reply. In her articles of faith it was only by a miracle that a
"no-account white man," picked up out of the highway, and whose
pockets were barren as were those she had examined, could get an
impetus in that direction.
The stormy dawn was revealing, with dreary distinctness, the shabby
disorder of the lumber-room, when Dr. Ritchie appeared in his
dressing-gown, rubbing his eyes, and yawning audibly.
"Gone—hey?" was his comment upon the negress' movements.
She had bound a strip of linen about the lank jaws; combed back the
grizzled hair from the forehead into sleek respectability; crossed
the hands at the wrists, as only dead hands are ever laid;
straightened the limbs, and was in the act of spreading a clean sheet
over her finished work.
"Nigh upon an hour since, sir," she responded, respectfully.
"He did not revive at all after I left him?"
"Not a breath or a motion, sir. He went off at the last jist as
easy as a lamb. Never tried to say nothin', nor opened his eyes after
you went down. 'Twould a' been a pity ef you had a' lost more sleep
a-settin' up with him. Ah, well, poor soul! 'taint for us to say whar
he is now. I would hope he is in glory, ef I could. I 'spose the
Almighty knows, and that's enough."
The doctor arrested her hand when she would have covered the face.
"He must have been a fine-looking fellow in his day!" he said, more
to himself than to her. "But he has lived fast, burned himself up
alive with liquor."
"I didn't call nobody, sir, to help me, 'cause nobody couldn't do
no good, and I was afeared of wakin' the gentlemen and ladies, a
trottin' up and downstairs," continued Phillis, bent upon exculpating
herself from all blame in the affair, and mistaking his momentary
pensiveness for displeasure.
"You were quite right, old lady! All the doctors and medicines in
the world could not have pulled him through after the drink and the
snow had had their way with him for so many hours—poor devil! Well!
I'll go back to bed now, and finish my morning nap."
He was at the threshold when he bethought himself of a final
"You had better keep an eye upon these things, Aunty!" pointing to
the coat and other garments she had ranged upon chairs to dry in
front of the fire. "There will be a coroner's inquest, I suppose, and
there may be papers in his pockets which will tell who he was and
where he belonged. When you are through in here, lock the door and
take out the key—and if you can help it, don't let a whisper of this
get abroad before breakfast. It will spoil the ladies' appetites. If
anybody asks how he is, say 'a little better.' He can't be worse off
than he was in life, let him be where he may."
"Yes, sir," answered Phillis, in meek obedience. "But I don't think
he was the kind his folks would care to keep track on, nor the sort
that carries valeyble papers 'round with 'em."
"I reckon you are not far out of the way there!" laughed the
doctor, subduedly, lest the echo in the empty hall might reach the
sleepers on the second floor, and he ran lightly down the garret
The inquest sat that afternoon. It was a leisure season with
planters, and a jury was easily collected by special
messengers—twelve jolly neighbors, who were not averse to the
prospect of a glass of Mrs. Sutton's famous egg-nogg, and a social
smoke around the fire in the great dining-room, even though these
were prefaced by ten minutes' solemn discussion over the remains of
the nameless wayfarer.
His shirt was marked with some illegible characters, done in faded
ink, which four of the jury spelled out as "James Knowlton," three
others made up into "Jonas Lamson," and the remaining five declined
deciphering at all. Upon one sock were the letters "R. M." upon the
fellow, "G. B." With these unavailable exceptions, there was
literally no clue to his name, profession, or residence, to be
gathered from his person or apparel. The intelligent jury brought in
a unanimous verdict—"Name unknown. Died from the effects of drink
and exposure;" the foreman pulled the sheet again over the blank,
chalky face, and the shivering dozen wound their way to the warmer
regions, where the expected confection awaited them.
Their decorous carousal was at its height, and the ladies, one and
all, had sought their respective rooms to recuperate their wearied
energies by a loll, if not a siesta, that they might be in trim for
the evening's enjoyment (Christmas lasted a whole week at Ridgeley)
when four strapping field hands, barefooted, that their tramp might
not break the epicurean slumbers, brought down from the desolate
upper chamber a rough pine coffin, manufactured and screwed tight by
the plantation carpenter, and after halting a minute in the back
porch to pull on their boots, took their way across the lawn and
fields to the servants' burial-place. This was in a pine grove, two
furlongs or more from the garden fence, forming the lower enclosure
of the mansion grounds. The intervening dell was knee-deep in drifted
snow, the hillside bare in spots, and ridged high in others, where the
wind-currents had swirled from base to summit. The passage was a
toilsome one, and the stalwart bearers halted several times to shift
their light burden before they laid it down upon the mound of mixed
snow and red clay at the mouth of the grave. Half-a-dozen others were
waiting there to assist in the interment, and at the head of the pit
stood a white-headed negro, shaking with palsy and cold—the colored
chaplain of the region, who, more out of custom and superstition than
a sense of religious responsibility—least of all motives, through
respect for the dead—had braved the inclement weather to say a prayer
over the wanderer's last home.
The storm had abated at noon, and the snow no longer fell, but
there had been no sunshine through all the gloomy day, and the clouds
were now mustering thickly again to battle, while the rising gale in
the pine-tops was hoarse and wrathful. Far as the eye could reach were
untrodden fields of snow; gently-rolling hills, studded with shrubs
and tinged in patches by russet bristles of broom-straw; the river
swollen into blackness between the white banks, and the dark horizon
of forest seeming to uphold the gray firmament. To the right of the
spectator, who stood on the eminence occupied by the cemetery, lay
Ridgeley, with its environing outhouses, crowning the most ambitious
height of the chain, the smoke from its chimneys and those of the
village of cabins beating laboriously upward, to be borne down at
last by the lowering mass of chilled vapor.
The coffin was deposited in its place with scant show of reverence,
and without removing their hats, the bystanders leaned on their
spades, and looked to the preacher for the ceremony that was to
authorize them to hurry through with their distasteful task. That the
gloom of the hour and scene, and the utter forlornness of all the
accompaniments of what was meant for Christian burial, had stamped
themselves upon the mind and heart of the unlettered slave, was
evident from the brief sentences he quavered out—joining his withered
hands and raising his bleared eyes toward the threatening heavens:
"Lord! what is man, that thou art mindful of him! For that which
befalleth man befalleth beasts—even one thing befalleth them. All go
unto one place; all are of the dust, and all turn to dust again. Who
knoweth the spirit of man that goeth upward, and the spirit of the
beast that goeth downward to the earth? Man cometh in with vanity and
departeth in darkness, and his name shall be covered with darkness.
The dead know not anything, for the memory of them is forgotten. Also
their love, and their hatred, and their envy is now perished, neither
have they a portion for ever in anything that is done under the sun.
"Lord! teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts
unto wisdom. Oh, spare ME, that I may recover strength, ere I go
hence and be no more!
"In the name of the FATHER, SON, and HOLY GHOST—dust to dust, and
ashes to ashes! Amen!"
"By the way, Mr. Aylett, the poor wretch up-stairs should be buried
at the expense of the county," remarked the coroner, before taking
leave of Ridgeley and the egg-nogg bowl. "I will take the poor-house
on my way home, and tell the overseer to send a coffin and a cart
over in the morning. You don't care to have the corpse in the house
longer than necessary, I take it? The sooner he is in the Potter's
Field, the more agreeable for you and everybody else."
Mr. Aylett pointed through the back window at the winding path
across the fields.
A short line of black dots was seen coming along it, in the
direction of the house. As they neared it they were discovered to be
men, each with a hoe or shovel upon his shoulder.
"The deed is done!" said the master, smiling. "My good fellows
there have spared the county the expense, and the overseer the trouble
of this little matter. As for the Potter's Field, a place in my
servants' burying-ground is quite as respectable, and more convenient
in this weather."
The jurors were grouped about the fire in the baronial hall,
buttoning up overcoats and splatterdashes, and drawing on their
riding-gloves, all having come on horseback. In the midst of the
general bepraisement of their host's gentlemanly and liberal conduct,
Mrs. Aylett swam down the staircase, resplendent in silver- gray
satin, pearl necklace and bracelets, orange flowers and camelias in
her hair—semi-bridal attire, that became her as nothing else ever had
"My dear madam," said the foreman of the inquest—a courtly
disciple of the old school of manner, and phraseology—as the august
body of freeholders parted to either side to leave her a passage-way
to the fireplace—"your husband is a happy man, and his wife should
be a happy woman in having won the affection of such a model of
chivalry"—stating succinctly the late proof the "model" had offered
to an admiring world of his chivalric principles.
The delicate hand stole to its resting-place upon her lord's arm,
as the lady answered, her ingenuous eyes suffused with the emotion
that gave but the more sweetness to her smile.
"I AM a happy woman, Mr. Nelson! I think there is not a prouder or
more blessed wife in all the land than I am this evening."
Laugh, jest, and dance ruled the fleeting hours in the halls of the
old country-house that night, and the presiding genius of the revel
was still the beautiful hostess—never more beautiful, never so
winning before. No one noticed that, by her orders, or her husband's,
the window through which she had beheld the goblin visage was closely
curtained. Or, this may have been an accidental disposition of the
drapery, since no trace of her momentary alarm remained in her
countenance or demeanor.
In the kitchen a double allowance of toddy was served out, by their
master's orders, to the men who had taken part in the interment on
the hill-top. And, in their noisy talk over their potations the
vagrant was scarcely mentioned.
Only the pines, hoarser in their sough, by reason of the falling
snow that clogged their boughs, chanted a requiem above the rough
hillock at their feet.
"Man cometh in with vanity, and departeth in darkness, and his name
is covered with darkness!"
CHAPTER X. ROSA.
"THAT is a new appearance."
"Who can she be?"
"Unique—is she not?" were queries bandied from one to another of
the various parties of guests scattered through the extensive parlors
of the most fashionable of Washington hotels, at the entrance of a
company of five or six late arrivals. All the persons composing it
were well dressed, and had the carriage of people of means and
breeding. Beyond this there was nothing noteworthy about any of them,
excepting the youngest of the three ladies of what seemed to be a
family group. When they stopped for consultation upon their plans for
this, their first evening in the capital, directly beneath the central
chandelier of the largest drawing-room, she stood, unintentionally,
perhaps, upon the outside of the little circle, and not exerting
herself to feign interest in the parley, sought amusement in a keen,
but polite survey of the assembly, apparently in no wise disconcerted
at the volley of glances she encountered in return.
If she were always in the same looks she wore just now, she must
have been pretty well inured to batteries of admiration by this date
in her sunny life. She was below the medium of woman's stature, round
and pliant in form and limbs; in complexion dark as a gypsy but with a
clear skin that let the rise and fall of the blood beneath be marked
as distinctly as in that of the fairest blonde. Her eyes were brown or
black, it was hard to say which, so changeful were their lights and
shades; and her other features, however unclassic in mould, if
criticised separately, taken as a whole, formed a picture of
surpassing fascination. If her eyes and cleft chin meant mischief, her
mouth engaged to make amends by smiles and seductive words, more sweet
than honey, because their flavor would never clog upon him who tasted
thereof. Her attire was striking—it would have been bizarre upon any
other lady in the room, but it enhanced the small stranger's beauty. A
black robe—India silk or silk grenadine, or some other light and
lustrous material—was bespangled with butterflies, gilded, green, and
crimson, the many folds of the skirt flowing to the carpet in a train
designed to add to apparent height, and, in front, allowing an
enchanting glimpse of a tiny slipper, high in the instep, and tapering
prettily toward the toe. In her hair were glints of a
curiously-wrought chain, wound under and among the bandeaux; on her
wrists, plump and dimpled as a baby's, more chain-work of the like
precious metal, ending in tinkling fringe that swung, glittering, to
and fro, with the restless motion of the elfin hands, she never ceased
to clasp and chafe and fret one with the other, while she thus stood
and awaited the decision of her companions. But instead of detracting
from the charm of her appearance, the seemingly unconscious gesture
only heightened it. It was the overflow of the exuberant vitality that
throbbed redly in her cheeks, flashed in her eye, and made buoyant
"What an artless sprite it is!" said one old gentleman, who had
stared at her from the instant of her entrance, in mute enjoyment, to
the great amusement of his more knowing nephews.
"All but the artless!" rejoined one of the sophisticated
youngsters. "She is gotten up too well for that. Ten to one she is an
experienced stager, who calculates to a nicety the capabilities of
every twist of her silky hair and twinkle of an eyelash. Hallo! that
IS gushing—nicely done, if it isn't almost equal to the genuine
thing, in fact."
The ambiguous compliment was provoked by a change of scene and a
new actor, that opened other optics than his lazy ones to their
extremest extent. A gentleman had come in alone and quietly—a tall,
manly personage, whose serious countenance had just time to soften
into a smile of recognition before the black-robed fairy flew up to
him—both hands extended—her face one glad sunbeam of surprise and
"YOU here!" she exclaimed, in a low, thrilling tone, shedding into
his the unclouded rays of her glorious eyes, while one of her hands
lingered in his friendly hold. "This is almost too good to be true!
When did you come? How long are you going to stay? and what did you
come for? Yours is the only familiar physiognomy I have beheld since
our arrival, and my eyes were becoming ravenous for a sight of
remembered things. Which reminds me"—coloring bewitchingly, with an
odd mixture of mirth and chagrin in smile and voice—"that I have
been getting up quite a little show on my own account, forgetful of
les regles, and I suppose the horrified lookers-on think of les
moeurs. May I atone for my inadvertence by presenting you, in good
and regular form, to my somewhat shocked, but very respectable,
relatives? Did you know that I was in Congress this year—that is,
Mr. Mason, my aunt's husband, is an Honorable, and I am here with
The gentleman gave her his arm, and they strolled leisurely in the
direction of the party she had deserted so unceremoniously.
"I did not know it, bat I am glad to learn that you are to make a
long visit to the city. I have business that may detain me here for a
week—perhaps a fort-night," was his answer to the first question she
suffered him thus to honor.
Then the introduction to Mr. and Mrs. Mason, their married
daughter, Mrs. Cunningham, and her husband, was performed. The
Member's wife was a portly, good-natured Virginia matron, whose ruling
desire to make all about her comfortable as herself, sometimes led to
contretemps that were trying to the subjects of her kindness, and
would have been distressing to her, had she ever, by any chance,
guessed what she had done.
She opened the social game now, by saying, agreeably: "Your name is
not a strange one to us, Mr. Chilton. We have often heard you spoken
of in the most affectionate terms by our friends, but not near
neighbors, the Ayletts, of Ridgeley,——county. Is it long since you
met or heard from them?"
"Some months, madam. I hope they were in their usual health when
you last saw them?"
Receiving her affirmative reply with a courteous bow, and the
assurance that he was "happy to hear it," Mr. Chilton turned to Rosa,
and engaged her in conversation upon divers popular topics of the day,
all of which she was careful should conduct them in the opposite
direction from Ridgeley, and his affectionate intimates, the Ayletts.
He appreciated and was grateful for her tact and delicacy. Her
unaffected pleasure at meeting him had been as pleasant as it was
unlooked-for, aware as he was, from Mabel's letter immediately
preceding the rapture of their engagement, that Rosa must have been
staying with her when it occurred. The slander that had blackened him
in the esteem of his betrothed had, he naturally supposed, injured his
reputation beyond hope of retrieval with her acquaintances. Rosa, her
bosom companion, could not but have heard the whole history, yet met
him with undiminished cordiality, as a valued friend. Either the
Ayletts had been unnaturally discreet, or the faith of the interesting
girl in his integrity was firmer and better worth preserving than he
had imagined in the past. Perhaps, too, since he was but mortal man,
although one whose heritage in the school of experience had been of
the sternest, he was not entirely insensible to the privilege of
promenading the long suite of apartments with the prettiest girl of
the season hanging upon his arm, and granting her undivided attention
to all that he said, indifferent to, or unmindful of, the flattering
notice she attracted.
Over and above all these recommendations to his peculiar regard was
her association with the happy days of his early love. Not an
intonation, not a look of hers, but reminded him of Ridgeley and of
Mabel. It was a perilous indulgence—this recurrence to a dream he
had vowed to forget, but the temptation had befallen him suddenly,
and he surrendered himself to the intoxication.
Yes! she was going to the President's levee that evening, Rosa
said. A sort of raree-show—was it not? with the Chief Magistrate for
head mountebank. He was worse off in one respect than the poorest
cottager in the nation he was commonly reported to govern, inasmuch
as he had not the right to invite whom he pleased to his house, and
when the mob overran his premises he must treat all with equal
affability. She pitied his wife! She would rather, if the choice were
offered her, be one of the revolving wax dummies used in shop-windows
for showing the latest style of evening costume and hair-dressing—for
the dolls had no wits of their own to begin with, and were not
expected to say clever things, as the President's consort was, after
she had lost hers in the crush of the aforesaid mob, who eyed her
freely as an appendage to their chattel, the man they had bought by
their votes, and put in the highest seat in the Republic. No! she was
not provided with an escort to the White House. She did not know three
people in Washington beside her relatives, and, looking forward to
creeping into the palatial East Room at her uncle's back, or in the
shadow of her cousin's husband, the vision of enjoyment had not been
exactly enrapturing—BUT, her companion's proposal to join their party
and help elbow the crowd away from her, lent a different coloring to
BUT—again—flushing prettily—was he certain that the expedition
would not bore him? Doubtless he had had some other engagement in
prospect for the evening, before he stumbled over her. He ought to
know her well enough not to disguise his real wishes by gallant
"I have never been otherwise than sincere with you," Frederic said,
honestly; "I had thought of going to the levee alone, as a possible
method of whiling away an idle evening. If you will allow me to
accompany you thither, I shall be gratified—shall derive actual
pleasure from the motley scene. It will not be the only time you and
I have studied varieties of physiognomy and character in a mixed
assembly. Do you recollect the hops at the Rockbridge Alum Springs?"
"I do," replied Rosa, laconically and very soberly.
He thought she suppressed a sigh in saying it. She was a
warm-hearted little creature with all her vagaries, and he was less
inclined to reject her unobtrusive sympathy than if a more sedate or
prudent person had proffered it.
It was certain he could not have selected a more entertaining
associate for that evening. She amused him in spite of the painful
recollections revived by their intercourse. She did not pass
unobserved in the dense crowd that packed the lower floor of the
White House. Her face, all glee and sparkle, the varied music of her
soft Southern tongue, her becoming attire—were, in turn, the subject
of eulogistic comment among the most distinguished connoisseurs
present. It was not probable that these should all be unheard by her
cavalier, or that he should listen to them with profound indifference.
He was astonished, therefore, when she protested that she had had
"enough of it," and proposed that they should extricate themselves
from the press and go home. It was contrary to the commonly received
tenets of his sex respecting the insatiable nature of feminine
vanity, that she should weary so soon of adulation which would have
rendered a light head dizzy. Mrs. Mason was not ready to leave the
halls of mirth. She had met scores of old friends, and was having a
"nice, sociable time" in a corner, while Mrs. Cunningham had "not
begun to enjoy herself, looking at the queer people and the superb
Of course, they had no objection to their wilful relative doing as
she liked, but did not conceal their amazement at her bad taste.
"Take the carriage, dear! You'll find it around out there
somewhere," drawled the easy-tempered aunt. "And let Thomas come back
for us. He will be in time an hour from this."
"Would it be an unpardonable infraction of etiquette if we were to
walk home?" questioned Rosa of Mr. Chilton, when they were out of Mr.
Mason's hearing. "The night is very mild."
"But your feet. Are they not too lightly shod for the pavement?"
"I left a pair of thick gaiters in the dressing-room, which I wore
in the carriage."
"Then I will be answerable for the breach of etiquette, should it
ever be found out," was the reply, and Rosa disappeared into the
tiring-roem to equip herself for the walk.
It was a lovely night for December—moonlighted and bland as
October, and neither manifested a disposition to accelerate the
saunter into which they had fallen at their first step beyond the
portico. Rosa dropped her rattling tone, and began to talk seriously
and sensibly of the scene they had left, the flatness of fashionable
society after the freshness of novelty had passed from it, and her
preference for home life and tried friends.
"Yet I always rate these the more truly after a peep at a different
sphere," she said. "Our Old Virginia country-house is never so dear
and fair at any other time as when I return to it after playing at
fine lady abroad for a month or six weeks. I used to fret at the
monotony of my daily existence; think my simple plsasures tame. I am
thankful that I go back to them, as I grow older, as one does to
pure, cold water, after drinking strong wine."
"You are blessed in having this fountain to which you may resort in
your heart-drought," answered Frederic, sadly. "The gods do not often
deny the gift of home and domestic affections to woman. It is an
exception to a universal rule when a man who has reached thirty
without building a nest for himself, has a pleasant shelter spared,
or offered to him elsewhere."
"Yet you would weary, in a week, of the indolent, aimless life led
by most of our youthful heirs expectant and apparent," returned Rosa.
"I remember once telling you how I envied you for having work and a
career. I was youthful then myself—and foolish as immature."
"I recollect!" and there was no more talk for several squares.
Rosa was getting alarmed at the thought of her temerity in
reverting to this incident in their former intercourse, and meditating
the expediency of entering upon an apology, which might, after all,
augment, rather than correct the mischief she had done, when Frederic
accosted her as if there had been no hiatus in the dialogue.
"I recollect!" he repeated, just as before. "It was upon the back
piazza at Ridgeley, after breakfast on that warm September morning,
when the air was a silvery haze, and there was no dew upon the roses.
I, too, have grown older—I trust, wiser and stronger since I talked
so largely of my career—what I hoped to be and to do. When did you
see her—Miss Aylett," abruptly, and with a total change of manner.
"The Rubicon is forded," thought Rosa, complacently, the while her
compassion for him was sincere and strong. "He can never shut his
heart inexorably against me after this."
Aloud, she replied after an instant's hesitation designed to
prepare him for what was to follow—"I was with Mabel for several days
last May. We have not met since."
"She is alive—and well?" he asked, anxiously.
An inexplicable something in her manner warned him that all was not
"She is—or was, when I last heard news of her; we do not
correspond. She does not live at Ridgeley now."
There she stopped, before adding the apex to the nicely graduated
"Not live with her brother! I do not understand."
"Have you not heard of her marriage?"
He did not reel or tremble, but she felt that the bolt had pierced
a vital part, and wisely forbore to offer consolation he could not
But when he would have parted with her at the door of her uncle's
parlor, she saw how deadly pale he was, and put her hands into his,
"Come in! I cannot let you go until you have said that you forgive
There were tears in her eyes, and in her coaxing accents, and he
yielded to the gentle face that sought to lead him into the room. It
was fearful agony that contracted his forehead and lips when he would
have spoken reassuringly, and they were drops of genuine commiseration
that drenched the girl's cheeks while she listened.
"I have nothing to forgive you! You have been all kindness and
consideration—I ought not to have asked questions, but I believed
myself when I boasted of my strength. I thought the bitterness of the
heart's death had passed. Now, I know I never despaired before! Great
Heavens! how I loved that woman! and this is the end!"
He walked to the other side of the room.
Rosa durst not follow him even with her eyes. She sat, her face
concealed by her handkerchief, weeping many tears for him—more for
herself, until she heard his step close beside her, and he seated
himself upon her sofa.
"Rosa! dear friend! my sympathizing little sister! I shall not
readily gain my own pardon for having distressed you so sorely. When
you can do it with comparative ease to yourself, I want you to tell
me one or two things more, and then we will never allude to
irreparable bygones again."
"I am ready!" removing her soaked cambric, and forcing a fluttering
smile that might show how composed she was; "don't think of me! I was
only grieved for your sake, and sorry because I had unwittingly hurt
you. I was in hopes—I imagined—"
"That I had ontlived my disappointment? You said, that same
September day, that women hid their green wounds in sewing rooms and
oratories. Mine should have been cauterized long ago, by other and
harsher means, you think. It seldom bleeds—but tonight, I had not
time to ward off the point of the knife and it touched a raw spot.
Don't let me frighten you! now that the worst is upon me, I must be
calmer presently. You were at Ridgeley, in September, a year since,
when she who was then Miss Aylett"—compelling himself to the
articulation of the sentence that signified the later
change—"received her brother's command to reject me?"
"He would never tell me upon what evil report his prohibition was
based. He was more communicative with his sister, I suppose?"
And Rosa, following the example of other women—and men—who vaunt
their principles more highly than she did hers, made a frank
disclosure of part of the truth and held her tongue as to the rest.
"I couldn't help seeing that something was wrong, for Mabel, who,
up to the receipt of her brother's letter and one from you that came
by the same mail, had been very cheerful and talkative, suddenly grew
more serious and reserved than was her habit at any time; but she
told me nothing whatever, never mentioned your name again in my
hearing. Mrs. Sutton did hint to me her fear that Mr. Aylett had
heard something prejudicial to your character, which had greatly
displeased him and shocked Mabel, but even she was unaccountably
reticent. Intense as was my anxiety to learn the particulars of the
story, and upon what evidence they were induced to believe it, I
dared not press my inquiry into what it was plain they intended to
guard as a family secret."
His reply was just what she had foreseen and guarded against.
"It would have been a kind and worthy deed, had you written to warn
me of my danger, and advised me to make my defence in person. As it
was, I was thrown off roughly and pitilessly—my demand upon the
brother for the particulars of the accusation against me—my appeal
to the sister—loving and earnest as words could make it—for
permission to visit her and learn from her own lips that she trusted
or disowned me, were alike disregarded. Mr. Aylett's response was a
second letter, more coldly insulting than the first—hers, the return
of my last, after she had opened and read it, then the surrender of my
gifts, letters, notes, everything that could remind her that we had
ever met and loved. Mrs. Sutton, too, my father's old and firm friend,
deserted me in my extremity. And she must have been acquainted with
the character and extent of the charges preferred against me. I had
hoped better things from her, if only because I bear her dead
husband's name. Did she never speak in your hearing of writing to me?"
"She did—but said, in the next breath, that it would be useless,
since the minds of the others were fully made up. I knew she thought
Winston arbitrary, and Mabel credulous; but she was afraid to
interfere. As for myself, what could I have told you that you had not
already heard? I could only hope that the cloud was not heavy, and
would soon blow over. From the hour in which it cast the first shadow
upon her, Mabel was estranged from me—the decline of our intimacy
commenced. The Ayletts take pride in keeping their own counsel.
Winston, who never liked me, and whom I detested, was as confidential
with me in this affair as my old playfellow and school- mate. Believe
me when I declare that if my intercession could have availed aught
with her, I would have run the risk of her displeasure and Winston's
anathemas by offering it."
"I do believe you! Nor need you expatiate to me upon the obduracy
of the Aylett pride. Surely, no one living has more reason than I to
comprehend how unreasoning and implacable I find it is. I looked for
injustice at Winston Aylett's hands. I read him truly in our only
private interview. Insolent, vain, despotic—wedded to his dogmas,
and intolerant of others' opinion, he disliked me because I refused
to play the obedient vassal to his will and requirements; stood
upright as one man should in the presence of a brother-mortal,
instead of cringing at his lordship's footstool. But he was powerless
to do more than annoy me without his sister's co-operation."
"She stood in great, almost slavish, awe of him," urged Rosa, in
extenuation of Mabel's infidelity.
"Aye!" savagely. "And love was not strong enough to cast out fear!
She was justifiable if she hesitated to entrust herself and her
happiness to the keeping of one she had known but two months. It was
prudent—not false—in her to weigh, to the finest grain, the
evidence furnished by her brother to prove my unfitness to be her
husband. But having done all this, she should have remembered that I
had rights also. It was infamous, cowardly, cruel beyond degree, to
cast her vote against me without giving me a chance of
self-exculpation. Her hand—not his—struck the dagger into my back!"
Again Rosa's fingers involuntarily (?) stole into his, to recall
him to a knowledge of where he was, and there were fresh tears, ready
to fall from her gazelle eyes, when his agitation began to subside.
"My poor child!" he said, penitently. "I am behaving like a madman,
you like a pitying angel! We will have no more scenes, and you must
oblige me by forgetting this one, as fast as may be. From to-night
Mabel Aylett is to me as if she had never been. To nobody except
yourself have I betrayed the secret of my hurt. After this, when yon
think of it, believe that it is a hurt no longer."
Rosa "had out" her fit of crying when he went away, betaking
herself to her chamber and locking the door that her aunt might not
surprise her while the traces of tears disfigured her cheeks. But she
was anything but broken-hearted, and only slightly sore in spirit in
the retrospect of what had ensued upon her communication to the
discarded lover. He had, indeed, given more evidence of his
unconquered passion for Mabel than she had expected. His undisguised
pleasure in renewed companionship with herself; his excellent spirits
during the greater part of the evening; his unembarrassed reply to her
aunt's malapropos observation, and fluent chat upon other themes, had
misled her into the hope that the ungenerous and uncivil conduct of
the Ayletts had disgusted and alienated him from sister, no less than
from brother. It was a disappointment to discover that it cost him a
terrible effort to pronounce Mabel's name, while the abrupt
intelligence of her marriage had distracted him to incoherent ravings,
which had nearly amounted to curses upon the authors of his pain.
"And all for a woman who could bring herself, after being engaged
to Frederic Chilton, to marry that dolt of a Dorrance!" she said,
indignantly. "I wonder if he would have been consoled or chagrined
had I painted the portrait of the man who had superseded him. It is
as well that I did not make the experiment. He would be magnanimous
enough when he cooled down—which he will do by to-morrow morning—to
pity her, and that is next to the last thing I want him to do. Thank
goodness! the denouement is over, and the topic an interdicted one
from this time forth. Now for the verification or refutation of the
saying that a heart is most easily caught in the rebound. There was
some jargon we learned at school about the angle of incidence being
equal to that of reflection. You see, my dearly beloved self," nodding
with returning sauciness at her image in the mirror before which she
was combing her hair, "I undertake this business in the spirit of
She needed to keep her courage up by these and the like whimsical
conceits, when the forenoon of the next day passed away without a
glimpse of Mr. Chilton. He had not yet left his card for the Masons,
nor called to inquire after her health, when the summons sounded to
the five o'clock dinner. A horrible apprehension seized and devoured
her heart by the time the dessert was brought on, and there were no
signs of his appearance. He had, ashamed to meet her after last
night's exposure of his weakness, or dreading the power of the
reminiscences the sight of her would awaken, left the city without
coming to say "Farewell." That is, she had driven him from her
The room went around with her in a dizzy waltz, as the notion
crossed her brain.
"The sight and smell of all these sweets make me sick, Aunt Mary,"
she said, rising from the table. "My head aches awfully! May I go to
my room and lie down?"
"Try some of this nice lemon-ice, my love!" prescribed the plump
matron. "The acid will set you all straight. No? You don't think you
are going to have a chill, do you? Father!" nudging her husband who
was burying his spoon in a Charlotte Russe, "this dear child doesn't
want any dessert. Won't you pilot her through the crowd?"
"Only to the door, uncle! Then come back to your dinner!" Rosa made
answer to his disconcerted stare. "I can find my way to my chamber
She could have done it, had she been in possession of her
accustomed faculties. But between the harrowing suspicion that
engrossed her mind and the nervous moisture that gathered in her eyes
with each step, she mounted a story too high, and did not perceive her
blunder until, happening to think that her apartment must lie
somewhere in the region she had gained, she consulted the numbers upon
the adjacent doors, and saw that she had wandered a hundred rooms out
of her way, She stopped short to consider which of the corridors,
stretching in gas-lit vistas on either hand, would conduct her
soonest to the desired haven, when a gentleman emerging from a
chamber close by stepped directly upon her train.
CHAPTER XI. IN THE REBOUND.
"I beg your pardon!" said a deep, familiar voice. Then the
formality vanished from face and address. "Is this YOU?" holding out
his hand in hearty friendliness that instantly dispelled Rosa's
forebodings." What or whom are you seeking in these wilds?"
The crystal beads glistened upon her lashes in the fulness and joy
of her deliverance from doubt and fear, and before she could twinkle
them back, broke into smaller brilliants upon her cheeks and the
bosom of her dress. It was very babyish and foolish, but it is to be
questioned whether she could have contrived a more telling situation
had she studied it for a month.
"What is it!" inquired Frederic, kindly, not releasing the fingers
that twitched, more than struggled, in his. "Have you been
"Yes," with grieved, but fearless simplicity, "I was frightened
because I thought I had offended you—perhaps driven you away—and
that I should never be able to ask your forgiveness for my cruel
abruptness last night! In thinking about and worrying over this, I
somehow lost my way, and was just trying to remember by what route I
reached this strange neighborhood, when your appearance startled me."
"You did not know, then, that this is Bachelor's Hall—the haunt of
unmated Benedicts, wifeless visitors to the city, and celibate M.
C.'s?" he rejoined, pleasantly. "Let me be your guide to more
desirable as well as more accessible quarters!"
On the stairs he bent to scan her blushing countenance.
"How am I to punish you for your naughty distrust of my friendship
and common sense? I have been too busy all day to spare a minute for
social pleasure. I dined at two o'clock, having an appointment at
three, returned at half-past five, and was just coming down to your
parlor to look you up. Another bit of unimportant news, with which I
should not have annoyed you if you had not merited a little vexation
by your preposterous fancies, is, that, instead of taking an early
train to Philadelphia, I have to-day entered into engagements that
will oblige me to prolong my stay in this place until the first of
He looked bright and cheerful, ready for sport or badinage. Rosa
caught herself wondering many times during that evening, and the
succeeding days of the three weeks they passed under the same roof,
if she had dreamed of—not beheld with her bodily optics—that one
stormy burst of passion which had been his farewell to the hope of a
final reconciliation with Mabel Aylett.
He never spoke of her again, or referred, in the most distant
manner, to his visit at Ridgeley. The omission was an agreeable one
to Rosa for several reasons. Silence, she believed, was to oblivion
as a means to an end. Judging from herself, she adopted the theory
that people were apt to forget what they never talked of themselves,
nor heard mentioned by others. Furthermore, she was relieved from the
necessity of concocting diplomatic evasions, dexterously skirting the
truth, to say nothing of plump falsehoods. These last cost her
conscience some unpleasant twinges. To avoid narrating in full what
had happened was a work of art. A downright lie was a stroke of heavy
business, unsuited to her airy genius—and when the Aylett-Chilton
complication was upon the tapis, it was difficult to avoid undertaking
For three weeks, then, Mr. Frederic Chilton and the Virginian belle
visited concert, theatre, and assembly-room in company, sat side by
side in the spectators' gallery of House and Senate chamber, walked
in daylight along the broad avenues from one magnificent distance to
another, and on home-evenings—which were not many—chatted together
familiarly, the well-pleased Masons thought confidentially, by the
fireside in the family parlor. It must not be inferred from their
constant intercourse that he had the field entirely to himself.
Gallants of divers pretensions—first-class, mediocre, and
contemptible—considered with a practical eye to "settlement,"
hovered about the fascinating witch as moths about a gas-burner, and
had no citable cause of complaint of non-appreciation, inasmuch as
she shed equal light upon all, save one. "My very old friend, Mr.
Chilton," she was wont to denominate him in conversation with those
who inwardly called themselves fools for their jealousy of a man of
whom she spoke thus frankly, with never a stammer or blush; yet they
acknowledged to themselves all the while that they were both
suspicious and envious of his superior advantages. However backward
Frederic may have been in the beginning to monopolize the notice and
time of his "sisterly friend," he was not an insensate block, who
could not perceive and value the compliment paid him by her
partiality—ever apparent, but never unmaidenly. Impute it to
whatever motive he might, the distinction titillated his vanity,
touched, at least, the outermost covering of his heart. It might be
pity, it might be pleasant, mournful memories of other days—it was
most likely of all a sincere platonic affection, for one with tastes
and feelings akin to hers that gave lustre to her eyes, and gentle
meaning to her smile when he drew near. At any rate, it would be
churlish not to accept the preference these conveyed, and to like her
and his position as her chosen knight better every day; it was
inevitable that he should marvel—not without melancholy-at the
flight of time that brought so soon the day of parting.
The Masons, with himself, were engaged to attend a large party on
the last evening of January. Without analyzing the impulse that
constrained him to do so, he had refrained from reminding Rosa that
his stay in Washington was so nearly over, and, with masculine
consistency, he was half disposed to be affronted that she had
forgotten what he had said to her of its extent. He had never seen
her more lively—in more radiant spirits and looks—than she was upon
the night of the 30th. He had dropped into her aunt's parlor about ten
o'clock, and detected Rosa in the act of dragging her new ball-dress
from the box in which the mantua maker had sent it home.
"Conceive, if you can—but you can't, being a man—what I have
undergone for an hour and more!" she cried, at seeing him. "My
treasure—the darlingest love of a dress I have ever ordered—was
brought in exactly two seconds before a brace of honorables—
lumbering machines that they are! knocked at the door. So, lest they
should brand me as a frivolous doll (as if anybody with a soul, and
an infinitesimal degree of love for the beautiful, COULD help
admiring the divine thing!), I pushed the poor box under the sofa,
and there it has lain in ignominious neglect, like a pearl of purest
ray serene smothered in an oyster, all the time they were here. I was
purposely cross and stupid, too, in the hope of getting rid of them
the sooner. If you despise what most of your undiscriminating sex call
fancy articles, consider a woman's fondness for a ravishing robe
despicable and irrational, Mr. Chilton, you need not look this way.
You could hardly have a severer—certainly not a more
"You depreciate my aesthetic proclivities," he rejoined, catching
her tone. "You would not trust my bungling fingers to help excavate
the gem, I know; but I may surely use my eyes—admire, as we bid
children do—with my hands behind my back."
Notwithstanding his boast of knowingness in the mysteries of
feminine apparel, he could not have told of what material the divine
robe was made—except that it was some shiny white stuff, with wide
embroidery upon the flounces. But Rosa, her aunt, and cousin had gone
into ecstacies over it, and instigated by kind-hearted Mrs. Mason, the
enraptured owner had rushed off to Mrs. Mason's chamber to try it on,
returning presently in full array, elate at the "perfect fit," and
insisting upon a unanimous declaration that she "had never before worn
anything one-thousandth part as becoming."
"It is a winsome, fantastic, enchanting little being!" remarked Mr.
Chilton, in soliloquy at his dressing-table, the next evening. "I
hope she will enjoy the gathering to-night, as she hopes to do. Will
she miss me at the next she attends?"
Then—laughing at the sentimental visage portrayed upon the
mirror—"It would be the acme of ludicrous folly for me to disturb
myself on that score. We have had a pleasant time together—she and
I—and tomorrow it will be over. There is the whole story—except
that, in a month I shall cease to think of her, unless her name is
accidentally uttered in my hearing—I wish I could forget some other
things as easily!—and she will probably be the affianced darling of
one of the lumbering Honorables—the elder and homelier of the brace,
I fancy, since he is the wealthier, and the humming-bird should have a
Expressing in his composed lineaments and firm stride nothing like
disconsolateness at the programme, he flung his cloak over his arm,
took his white gloves in his hand, cast a passing glance at the glass
to see that his whiskers and hair were in order, and ran down the two
flights of stairs lying between Bachelor's Hall and the Masons'
"Come in!" said a plaintive voice, in answer to his knock.
Rosa was alone in the cosy apartment. She was curled up in a great
padded chair, set upon the hearth-rug. Her dress was a plain black
silk; she wore a scarlet shawl, and her head-gear was some odd, but
distractingly pretty construction of white lace, a square folded in
two unequal triangles, and knotted loosely, handkerchief-wise, the
points in front, under her chin.
"Not ready!" exclaimed Frederic, in merry reproach. "You, the model
of punctual women!"
"I am not going!" sighed the humming-bird, dolorously. "I have had
a horrid sore throat all day—and—a—headache—and Aunt Mary got
frightened, and forbade me to put my head out of doors."
"That is a heart-rending affliction! And could you not send the
incomparable dress as your representative?"
"Don't laugh!" she said, jerking away her head. "I cannot bear it
to-night—not that I care the millionth part of a fig for all the
parties in christendom; and as for the dress, you think that I
haven't a soul above such frippery and gewgaws: but I wish I had
never seen it. I shall never wear it as long as I live!"
And out came the laced cambric to absorb the gathering dew.
"There is something in this I do not understand," said Frederic,
setting a chair for himself close to hers. "Are you really suffering?
I imagined that yours was a case of simple cold, and that Mrs. Mason
advised you to remain indoors chiefly on account of the weather. It is
"I am glad it is!" she replied, with the manner of one bereft of
human sympathy, and extracting gloomy delight from the unison of
nature with her morbid broodings. "And my throat isn't nearly so
painful as I made Aunt Mary believe. I did not want to go out.
Parties are an awful bore when one is sad-hearted."
"You really must forgive me!" said Frederic, as she twitched her
face away again at the laugh he could not suppress. "But sadness and
you should not be thought of in the same week. Honestly, now! is not
the inimitable fabric you sported for five minutes last night, at the
bottom of what appears to you a fathomless abyss of woe? Have you
tried the efficacy of rational consolation in the thought of how many
more parties there will be this winter to which you can wear it? The
Secretary of State is to give one in ten days, which is to be the
sensation of the season. That of to-night is, in comparison, as a
caucus to a general convention."
"I shall never put on the hateful thing again. If Julia Cunningham
chooses to bedizen herself in it, she is welcome to it—flounces and
all. Yet I did like it! I had hoped—but no matter what! You had
better be going, Mr. Chilton. Aunt and the rest of them wenl
three-quarters of an hour ago."
"Does a dress go out of fashion in so short a time?" persisted
innocent Frederic, bent upon mitigating her sorrow. "If my memory
serves me aright, I have seen ladies wear the same ball-dress several
times in the same winter."
"You will never see this on me," snapped Rosa, her eyes ominously
fiery again. "Did you hear me advise you of the lateness of the
"Suppose I decline appearing at all in the festal scene?" said the
gentleman. "I shall not be missed. I will just run down and dismiss
the carriage—then, with your permission, will return and spend the
Her cheeks looked as if they had been touched with wet vermilion,
when he resumed his place near her, and the folds of the handkerchief
in her hand hung more limply.
"I ought not to allow this sacrifice!" she faltered gratefully.
"Because I have the vapors, I have no right to keep you within reach
of the infection. It is shamefully, wickedly selfish!"
"It is no such thing!" he contradicted. "If you would know the
truth, I was, myself, averse to attending this 'crush.' But for your
indisposition, I should hail with unmixed pleasure the chance that
releases me from the obligation to form a part of the throng. It is
far more in consonance with my feelings to pass this, our last
evening together, as we have spent so many others, in quiet talk at
this fireside. I had not supposed it possible that I could ever feel
so much at home in a hotel—a Washington caravansary especially—as I
have within the last three weeks. Do you know, or have you not
burdened your memory with such unimportant memoranda as the fact,
that I must set my face Philadelphia-ward to-morrow?"
"I had not dreamed that the time was so near at hand—it seemed
such a little while since the evening of our arrival—until I
happened, last night, after you left us, to take up Mrs. Rogers'
invitation-card for this evening. THEN, I recollected!"
Her listless resignation had in it something piteous, and the lever
of compassion impelled him to further efforts of cheer.
"I have to thank you for all the enjoyment of my visit to this,
heretofore to me, dismal city. If you should ever visit
Philadelphia—as I earnestly hope you will—you must acquaint me with
your whereabouts immediately upon your arrival. I should be sorry to
think that our friendship is to end here and now."
"As well here and now, as anywhere and at any time!" returned Rosa,
yet more resignedly. "And the end must come, sooner or later. This
was what I was saying over to myself when you came in. I am a fool—a
baby—to mind it!" angrily dashing away the obtrusive brine from her
mournful eyelids. "I WISH you would leave me alone for a few minutes,
Mr. Chilton, until I can behave myself!"
For a second it seemed that her companion would take her at her
word, so puzzled and troubled was his countenance, and he moved
slightly, as about to obey the petulant behest; then sat still.
"I have found no fault in your behavior!" he said, too coolly to
please Rosa's notion.
"I know you despise me!" she burst forth, chokingly. "I believe I
am hysterical, and the more I rail at my stupidity and folly, the more
unmanageable my nerves—if it is my nerves that are out of order—
become. But I have been so happy, so content and grateful, lately!
And everything will be so different after—after TO-MORROW!"
Her voice had failed to a sobbing whisper, and the diaphanous
cambric veiled her bowed face.
Frederic Chilton did not stir a finger or attempt to speak for a
full minute, but in that minute he thought a volume, felt acutely.
This, then, was what he had been doing in his hours of relaxation
from the business which had occupied his mind to the banishment of
nearly every other consideration; that had driven into comparative
obscurity the old gnawing grief which had incorporated itself with
his being! The intimacy with a beautiful, sprightly girl had been a
holiday diversion to him after arduous brain-labor, recreation sought
conscientiously and systematically, that his mental powers might be
clearer and fresher for the next day's toil in court and among
perplexing records; in hunting up titles and disputed property, and
proving their validity. He had gained the cause that had brought him
to the capital, and cost him so much fatigue and anxiety, and was
proud of his success. But what of this other piece of work? Would not
the most cold-blooded flirt, who ever prated of fidelity, when he
meant betrayal and desertion, blush to father this business? And she,
poor, guileless lamb, must bear the pain, the mortification, perhaps
the contumely, which ought to be his in seven-fold measure!
"Stay, Rosa!" he said, huskily, when she attempted to rise. "Do not
leave me yet. I may not be altogether so unworthy, so basely callous
as I have given you reason to suppose. Can it be that I have
misconstrued what you have said, or do you really care that our
separation is so near? I had not thought of this."
"I understand." She lowered her flag of distress and confronted him
sorrowfully, not in resentment. "You believed me incapable of deep
and lasting feeling; saw in me no more than the world does, a giddy
coquette, feather-haired and shallow-hearted. Be it so. Perhaps it is
best that you should not be undeceived. Such injustice and prejudice
are the penalties a woman must suffer who wears a tinsel cloak over
her finer affections—admits but few, sometimes but one, to her
sanctum sanctorum. The gushing, loving, extensively-loving class fare
better. You have been very kind and attentive to me in my strangerhood
here, Mr. Chilton. I must always revert to your conduct with
gratitude. By the way"—a hysterical laugh breaking into her dignified
acknowledgment of benefits received—"that is the same, in substance,
that you said to me a while ago, isn't it? So we are even—owe each
"Except to love one another." The solemn accents hushed her
reckless prattle. "Rosa, can you learn this lesson?"
She had shrunk down—sunk is not the word to convey an idea of the
prostration of strength, the collapse of resolution, expressed by the
figure cowering in the deep chair, its face upborne and hidden by the
shaking hands. They were cold as ice, Frederic felt, when he would
have drawn them aside.
"We will have no foolish reserves, my child. Much, if not all, the
happiness of our future lives may depend upon our perfect sincerity
now. You do not require to be told how poor is the offering of my
heart. You are the only person who has ever entered into the secret
of its emptiness and desolation; seen blight, where there should be
bloom; ashes, where flame should glow. But such as it is, it is
yours, if you will have it. If you are willing to trust yourself with
me, I will cherish as I now honor you, truly and forever; leave no
means untried that can add to your happiness. Dare you make the
Her unstudied caress was beautiful and pathetic in its lowliness of
humility and earnest affection—too earnest for the commonplace
outlet of words. It was to slip to her knees at his feet, and kiss
his hand, then lay her cheek upon it, as some dumb, devoted thing
Then she was lifted into his arms, and kissed with a fervor she
mistook for awakening passion, and her heart bounded more madly in
the belief that her victory was complete, that he would henceforward
be hers in feeling as in name.
Yet the words breathed into her ear as her head rested upon his
bosom might have taught her the fallacy of her conviction and her
"My noble, faithful girl! What have I to offer you in payment for
"I ask nothing, except the right to be with, and to serve you!"
And she thought she spoke the whole truth for once.
CHAPTER XII. AUNT RACHEL WAXES
"A SLY, artful, treacherous jade?" articulated Mrs. Sutton,
energetically. "I have no patience with her. And they say she is so
overjoyed at her conquest that she trumpets the engagement
everywhere. Such shameless carrying on I never heard of. If she ever
crosses my path I shall treat her to some wholesome truths."
"What good would that do, aunt?" asked Mabel Dorrance, without
raising her head from her sewing. "And what has she done that should
incense you or any one else against her? She was free to choose a
husband, and we have no right to cavil at her choice. I hope she will
be very happy. I used to love her—we loved each other very fondly
once. There are some excellent traits in Rosa's character, and when
she is once married she will be less volatile."
"Don't you believe it. Her flightiness and insincerity are ingrain!
I believed in her once myself—she had such beguiling ways, it was
hard to disapprove of anything she said or did. But I was secretly
aware, all the time, that there was a radical defect in her
composition. A woman who has been engaged, or as good as engaged, to
six or eight different men, cannot retain much purity of mind or
strength of affection. I heard you tell her yourself once that such
unscrupulous flirtation and bandying of hearts were profane touches
that rubbed the down from the peach."
"That was the extravagant talk of a silly, romantic girl," replied
Mabel, with a smile that changed to a sigh before the sentence was
finished. "I was somewhat given to lecturing other people, in those
days, upon subjects of which I knew little or nothing. Nine men out
of ten care little how roughly the peach has been rubbed, provided
the flavor is not injured to their taste. It is only once in a great
while that you meet with one whose palate is so nice that he can
detect the difference between fruit that has been hawked through the
market and that just picked from the tree. First love is a myth at
which rational people laugh."
"Perhaps so," said Mrs. Sutton dubiously.
In view of the circumstances of Mabel's marriage, she felt that it
behooved her to be circumspect in condemnation of transferred
"But that does not alter the fact of Rosa Tazewell's infamous
behavior to Alfred Branch and others of her beaux. Isn't the poor
fellow drinking himself into his grave, all through his
disappointment? And here she is going to be as honored a wife as if
she had never perjured herself, or ruined an honest, loving man's
prospects for life!"
Mabel went on with her work, and did not reply.
"I have had uncomfortable suspicions about certain passages in her
intercourse with us, since I heard this news," continued Mrs. Sutton,
edging her chair toward her niece, and dropping her voice. "I am
afraid I can date the beginning of her cruelty to Alfred back to that
September she spent here—to the latter part of it, I mean. Little
scenes come to my memory that caused me trifling uneasiness then. I
shall never forget, for instance, how she eyed you, the morning
Winston came home so unexpectedly."
And she described the incident recorded in the latter part of our
"Can it be," she pursued, "that she had even then designs upon the
man she is about to marry? She knew all the circumstances of the
trouble that ensued, and if disposed to be meddlesome, she had the
means at her command."
"I told her nothing," said Mabel briefly.
"But she pumped me pretty effectually," confessed the aunt
shamefacedly. "I thought there could be no harm in giving her a
synopsis of the case—she being your intimate friend."
Another gleam of pensive amusement crossed Mabel's face. She knew
too well the nature of her aunt's "synopsis" to doubt that Rosa was
conversant with every phase of the affair, concerning which her own
lips had been so sternly sealed.
"You have nothing with which to reproach yourself," she said,
tranquilly. "She marries with her eyes open."
"You don't imagine for one instant that she would be annoyed by any
such scruples as beset you!" cried Mrs. Sutton scoffingly. "Why, the
woman would sooner go to the altar with a handsome, dashing
libertine, who had broken hearts by the dozen, than marry a quiet,
honest Christian, who had never breathed of love to any ears except
hers. The aim of her life is to create or experience a sensation. I
don't quite see how she could have made trouble in that sad affair,
but I should like to be positive that she did not."
"You may safely acquit her of that sin," rejoined Mabel. "There was
neither need nor room for her interference. Whatever may have been
her inclination, she was shrewd enough to perceive that the natural
course of events was bringing about the desired end—if it were a
desirable one to her—without her help or hindrance. But, aunt!
doesn't it strike you that this is a very profitless talk, and very
uncharitable? It is a sorry task, this volunteering our assistance to
the dead past to bury its dead. And I, for one, have too much bound up
in the future to offer my service in the painful work. Look! is not
She was embroidering a white merino cloak for an infant, in a
pattern so rich and elaborate, that Mrs. Sutton groaned in commingled
admiration and sympathy as she inspected it.
"You are throwing time and strength away upon this work!" she
expostulated. "I don't know another lady in your circumstances who
would not take her friends' advice, and put out all the sewing you
need to have done. But your eyes and fingers have labored incessantly
for six months upon the finest work you could devise, and you begin to
look like a shadow. I don't wonder Mr. Dorrance seems uneasy
sometimes. He complained this morning that you did not take enough
exercise in the open air."
"He is not anxious, nor should he be. I am well, and stronger than
you will believe. As to the work, it has been one great delight of my
existence during the period you speak of. I could not endure that
anybody but myself should assist in fashioning the dainty, tiny
garments that make my hope an almost present reality. Every stitch
seems to bring nearer the fulfilment of the dear promise. I only
regret that this is the last of the set. I shall be at a loss for
occupation for the next two months. And I fear from something Herbert
said to-day, that he does not intend for me to return to Albany until
the spring fairly opens. Dr. Williams has been talking to him about my
"Dr. Williams is a fussy old woman, and Mr. Dorrance"—began Mrs.
Mabel quietly took up the word.
"Mr. Dorrance is ignorant of diseases and medicines, as men usually
are who have not studied these with a view to practise upon
themselves or others. I have said that he is not really uneasy; but
he says, and with truth, that the Northern March and April are raw
and cold, and will try my strength severely. Winston and Clara share
in his fears. It is very kind in them to tender me the hospitalities
of their house for so long a time, but I should feel more at home in
my own, during my illness and convalescence."
"Why not tell your husband this plainly?"
"Because it might bias his judgment and embarrass his action. I am
willing to do as he thinks best."
There were not many subjects upon which Mrs. Sutton was irascible,
but she patted the floor with her foot now as if this was one of
them—her discontent finding vent at length in what she regarded as a
perfectly safe query.
"Will he remain with you?"
"He cannot. His business is large and increasing. He can afford but
this one fortnight vacation."
"How do you expect to get along without him?"
"I expect my dear old aunt to come often and see me," said Mabel
affectionately, parrying the catechism "Clara suggested, of her own
accord, when the extension of my visit was discussed, that you should
be invited to be with me late in April—and I don't want you to
refuse. Do you understand, and mean to be complaisant? You are all the
mother I have ever known, auntie."
"My lamb! you need not fear lest I shall not improve every
opportunity of seeing and comforting you. I shall return a civil and
grateful reply to Mrs. Aylett's invitation, for your sake! and for
the same reason try and remember, while I remain her guest, that her
right to be and to reign at Ridgeley is superior to yours or mine."
The good lady was not to be harshly censured if she now and then,
in private confabulation with her favorite, let fall a remark which
was the reverse of complimentary to her niece-in-law. Mabel's marriage
was the signal for a radical reorganization of the Ridgeley domestic
establishment, by which Mrs. Sutton was reduced from the busy,
responsible situation of housekeeper to the unenviable one of
unnoticed and unconsulted supernumerary.
"Not that I wish you to desert your old quarters, still less to
feel like a stranger with us," said Mrs. Aylett graciously, while she
affixed shining brass labels to the keys of closets, sideboards, and
store-rooms—the keys Aunt Rachel could distinguish from one another,
and all others in the world, in the darkest night, without any labels
whatever; which had grown smooth and bright by many years' friction of
her nimble fingers. "But Mr. Aylett wishes me to assume the real, as
well as nominal, government of the establishment"—Mrs. Aylett was
fond of the polysyllable as conveying better than any other term she
could employ the grandeur of her position as Baroness of Ridgeley. "He
insists that the servants are growing worthless and refractory under
the rule of so many. Hereafter—this is his law, not mine—hereafter,
those attached to the house department are to come to me about their
orders, and the plantation workmen to him. I shall undoubtedly have
much trouble in curing the satellites appointed to me of their
irregular habits, and reducing them to something resembling system;
but Winston's extreme dissatisfaction with the anarchy that prevailed
under the ancien regime moves me to the undertaking."
"They have always—for generations back, I may say—been called
excellent servants; faithful in the discharge of their duties, and
attached to their owners," returned Mrs. Sutton tremulously. "And
since I have been in charge—ever since my dear sister's death, I
have done my best with them, as with everything else committed by my
nephew to my care. But of course I have nothing to urge against your
plan. If I can help you in any way"—-
"Thank you! You are extremely kind, my dear madam," honeyedly. "But
I should be ashamed and sorry to be compelled to call upon you for
assistance in performing what you have done so easily and
successfully for fifteen years. I must learn confidence in my own
powers, if I would be respected by underlings. They would be quick to
detect the power behind the throne; let me hold counsel with you ever
so secretly, and my authority would be weakened by the discovery. I
have not the vanity to believe that my maiden attempt at housewifery
will be attended by the distinction that has crowned yours, but
practice will perfect in this, as in other labors. And my dear Mrs.
Sutton, Mr. Aylett bids me say, in his name, as it gives me pleasure
to do in my own, that although your occupation is gone, you are ever
welcome to a home at Ridgeley, free of all expense. It is our hope
that you may still content yourself here, even if Mabel has gone from
the nest. I suppose, however, nothing will satisfy her, when she goes
to housekeeping, but having you with her as a permanent institution.
My brother intimated as much to me before his marriage."
Declining with mild hauteur, that gave great, but secret amusement
to her would-be benefactress, the handsome offer of a free asylum,
Mrs. Sutton went to live with a cousin of her late husband's, whose
snug plantation was situated about twelve miles from the Aylett
place, and in the neighborhood of the Tazewells. It was a pleasant,
but not a permanent arrangement, she gave out to her numerous
friends, any of whom would have accounted themselves favored by an
acceptance of a home for life in their families.
"Ridgeley was changed and lonely since Mabel's departure, and her
own habits were too active to be conformed to those of so small a
household. Indeed, there was nothing for her to do there any longer,
so she was glad to avail herself of Mrs. William Sutton's invitation
to stay a while with her. The children made the house so lively. In
the fall, the house Mr. Dorrance was having built for his Southern
bride would be ready for them, and Mabel's claim upon her aunt's
society and services must take precedence of all others."
The fall came, and Mabel wrote detailed descriptions of the
beautiful home Herbert had prepared for her; wrote, moreover, with
more feeling and animation, of the new and precious hopes of
happiness held out to her loving heart in the prospect of what the
spring would give into her arms, but said nothing of her aunt's
coming to her for the winter, or for an indefinite period, the bounds
of which were to be set only by her beloved relative's wishes. The
omission was trying enough to the foster-mother's heart and patience,
even while she believed the knowledge of it to be confined to herself.
She could still hold up her head bravely among her kindred and
acquaintances, and talk of the "dear child's" good fortune and
contentment with it; how popular and beloved she was among them, and
what an elegant house her generous husband had bestowed upon her;
could still hint at the instability of her own plans, and the
possibility that she might, at any day or hour, determine to leave her
native State and follow her "daughter" into what the latter
represented was not an unpleasant exile.
An end was put to this innocent deception—for, if any deception
can be termed innocent, it is surely that by which he who practises it
is himself beguiled—the blameless guile was then arrested by a story
repeated to her by her indignant hosts, as having emanated directly
from Mrs. Aylett. She had given expression, publicly, at a large
dinner-party, to her amazement and pity at the self-delusion under
which "poor, dear Mrs. Sutton" labored, in expecting to take up her
residence with Mr. and Mrs. Dorrance.
"My brother laments her hallucination as much, if not more than his
wife does," she said, in her best modulations of creamy compassion.
"But, indeed, my dear Mrs. Branch, they are not accountable for it.
Not a syllable has ever escaped either of them which a reasonable
person could construe into a request that she should become an inmate
of their household. So careful have they been to avoid exciting her
expectations in this regard, that they have refrained from extending
to her an invitation for even a month. Those who are most familiar
with the poor lady's peculiarities do not require to be told how
ill-advised would be the arrangement she desires. Mabel is a
thoroughly sensible woman, and too devoted a wife to advocate anything
so injudicious, while her husband is naturally jealous for her dignity
and the inviolability of her authority in her own house. Mrs. Sutton
left Ridgeley in opposition to our earnest entreaties that she would
spend the evening of her days with us. I was assured then, as I am
now, that she would receive the same love and respect nowhere else.
But she could not brook the semblance of interference with her rule
where she had reigned so long and irresponsibly. And while we may
deplore, we can hardly find fault with this weakness. It must have
been a trial—and not an ordinary one—to be obliged, at her age, to
resign the sceptre she had swayed for upward of fifteen years."
"'Their words are smoother than oil, but in their mouths is a drawn
sword,'" quoted Mrs. Sutton, in meek protest against the sugared
malice of this slander when it was told to her. "This is none of
Mabel's doings. She loves me dearly as ever, but one might as well
hope to move the Blue Ridge as to teach that pragmatical husband of
hers to consult her wishes and her good, before he does his own. His
head is hard as a flint, and his heart—never mind! Heaven forgive me
if I am unjust to him! I should be thankful that he does not really
mean to misuse my darling. Now, my dears, you see how undesirable an
inmate of any house I am rated to be. If you wish to retract your
offer of a hiding-place for my old head, I shall not take it amiss.
Thanks to Providence and my dear Frederic I have enough, to maintain
me decently anywhere in this country. I shall never be chargeable to
anybody for my food, victuals, and lodgings. If you are willing to let
me board here and do odd stitches for the children when they tear
their aprons and rub out the knees of their trowsers—just to keep me
out of mischief, you understand!—I promise to be as little officious
in housewifely concerns as it is in my nature to be."
William Sutton and his wife—a woman who was both sagacious and
amiable—reiterated their assurances that she could not confer a
greater boon upon them than by remaining where she was, and with them
she had stayed until Mr. Aylett sent over the Ridgeley carriage, one
day in the third week in February, with a note from Mabel, begging her
aunt to present herself, without needless delay, at the homestead,
since she was not reckoned sufficiently strong to attempt the uneven
and muddy roads that still separated them. Mrs. Aylett also dispatched
a billet by the coachman, the graceful burden of which was the same as
that of Mabel's petition, and the two long-sundered friends were
speedily together; fellow-partakers of a bountiful and painstaking
hospitality, which kept them continually in mind that they were
guests, and not at home.
The dialogue relative to Rosa Tazewell's matrimonial project took
place on the third day of Mrs. Sutton's visit, in Mabel's chamber,
and when the former, having talked off the topmost bubbles of her
righteous wrath, recollected several very important letters—business
and friendly—she ought to have written a week ago, and trotted off to
her room where she could perform the neglected duty without visible
and outward temptation to that she was more fond of doing—to wit,
talking—the young wife continued to work steadily, and with apparent
composure. It was not a bright face on which the light from the
western windows fell, yet it was not unhappy. She had never pretended
to herself that her marriage was a step toward happiness, but she had
believed that it would secure to her a larger share of peace, immunity
from disturbance, and independence of thought and action, than fell to
her lot in her brother's house, and for these negative benefits she
Mr. Aylett was not wantonly or openly unkind to his ward, and
ungenerous persecution was utterly incompatible with the temper and
habits of his lady wife, but between them they had contrived to make
the girl's life very miserable. It was Winston's cue—adopted, let us
hope, from the strict sense of duty he avowed had ever actuated him in
his treatment of the charge bequeathed him by his father—to deport
himself with calm, seldom-relaxed severity to one who had showed
herself to be entirely unworthy of confidence; to exercise unremitting
surveillance upon her personal association with young people out of
the family and her correspondence, and to curb by look and oral
reproof the most distant approach to what he condemned as indiscreet
levity. In a thousand ways—many of them ingenious, and all severe,
she was made to feel the curtailment of her liberty, and given to
understand that it was the just retribution of her unlucky love-affair
with an unprincipled adventurer. Mrs. Aylett professed to
discountenance this policy—to be Mabel's secret friend and ally,
while she deemed it unwise to combat her husband's will by overt
measures for his sister's protection.
Thus, for a year, the object of his real displeasure and her
affected commiseration lived under a cloud, too proud to complain of
her thraldom, but feeling it every second; mourning, in the seclusion
of the trebly barred chambers of her heart, over her shattered idol
and squandered affections, and fancying, in the morbid distrust
engendered by the discovery of her lover's baseness, and the weight of
her brother's unsparing reprobation of her insane imprudence, that she
descried in every face, save Aunt Rachel's, contempt or rebuke for the
faux pas that had so nearly cast a stigma upon her name and lineage.
In Herbert Dorrance's honest admiration and assiduous courtship the
most suspicious scrutiny could detect no tincture of either of these
feelings, and it was not long before she took refuge in his society
from the risk of being wounded and angered by the supposed exhibition
of them in others. Here was one man who could not but know of her
folly, in all its length, breadth, and depth, who was a witness of her
daily chastisement for it at her guardian's hands, yet who esteemed
her unsullied by the unworthy attachment, undegraded by punishment.
Gratitude had a powerful auxiliary in her feverish longing to escape
from scenes that kept alive to the quick, memories she would have
annihilated, had her ability been commensurate with her will. All
other associations with the house in which she, and her father before
her, had been born, and in which she had passed her childhood and
girlish days, were overrun by the thickly thronging and pertinacious
recollections of the two short weeks Frederic Chilton had spent there
with her. He haunted her walks and drives; trod, by her side, the
resounding floor of the vine-covered portico, sat with her in parlor
and halls; sang to her accompaniment when she would have exorcised the
phantom by music—was always, whenever and wherever he appeared—the
tender, ingenuous, manly youth she had loved and reverenced as the
impersonation of her ideal lord; the demi-god whom she had
worshipped, heart and soul—set, in her exulting imagination no lower
than the angels, and beheld in the end,—with besmirched brow and
debased mien, a disgraced sensualist, not merely a deceiver of another
woman's innocent confidence, and her tempter to dishonor and
wretchedness, but a poltroon—a whipped coward who had not dared to
lift voice or pen in denial or extenuation of his crime.
The law of reaction is of more nearly universal application in
moral and in physical science than men are willing to believe. We have
seen how cunningly Rosa calculated upon it, and wiser people than
she, every day, attribute the most momentous actions of their lives
to its influence.
"My advice to every woman is to marry for GOODNESS—simple
integrity of word and deed!" said a lady, once in my hearing.
She was an excellent scholar, attractive in person and in manner,
gifted in conversation and opulent in purse. Her hand had been sought
in marriage by more than one, and in early womanhood she had made
choice among her suitors of a man whose plausible exterior was the
screen of a black heart and infamous life. Convinced of her mistake
barely in time to escape copartnership in his stained name and ruined
fortunes, she set up the history of her deadly peril as a beacon to
others as ardent and unwary as her old-time self. Either to put a
double point upon the moral, or to insure herself against similar
mishap in the future, she wedded an amiable and correct fool, a mere
incidental in the work of human creation, who was as incapable of
making his mark upon the age that produced him as an angle-worm is of
lettering solid granite.
Mabel's husband was not a simpleton, or characterless; but if he
had been, his prospetts of success would not have been materially
damaged by her knowledge of his deficiencies. A union with him was a
safe investment, and must be several degrees more supportable than
was her position at Ridgeley, banned by its owner and patronized by
his wife. I neither excuse nor blame her for thus deciding and
transacting. Should I censure, a majority of my readers—nearly all
of the masculine portion—would pick holes in my unpractical
philosophy, scout my reasoning as illogical, brand my conclusions as
pernicious—winding up their protest with the sigh of the mazed
disciples, when stunned by the great Teacher's deliverance upon the
subject of divorce, "If the case of the man be so with his wife, it
is not good to marry!"
Which dogma I likewise decline to dispute—falling back thankfully
upon the blessed stronghold of unambitious story-tellers—namely,
that my vocation is to describe what IS—not make fancy-sketches of
millennial days, when rectitude shall be the best, because most
remunerative policy; when sincerity shall be wisdom—proven and
indisputable, and consistency the rule of human faith and practice
the world over, instead of being, as it now is, one of the lost (or
never invented) fine arts.
CHAPTER XIII. JULIUS LENNOX.
"You are puttin' your eyes out, workin' so stiddy, honey, and it's
Mabel aroused herself from her intent attitude, and looked at the
window. There was a brassy glimmer in the cloudy west; the rest of
the sky was covered by thick vapors.
"The days are still very short," she said, folding her work, and
becoming aware that her eyes ached from long and close study of the
It was Mammy Phillis who had interrupted her reverie, and she now
laid an armful of seasoned hickory wood upon the hearth, and set
herself about mending the fire, taking up the ashes which had
accumulated since morning, putting the charred sticks together, and
collecting the embers into a compact bed.
"We're goin' to have fallin' weather 'fore long," she observed,
oracularly. "The wind has changed since dinner, and when the wind
whirls about on a sudden, we upon this ridge is the fust to find it
out. I must see that them lazy chil'len, Lena and Lizy, fills your
wood-box to-night with dry wood; I'd be loth to have you ketch cold
while you are here."
"You are very good, Mammy, but why do you trouble yourself to
attend to my fire? You should have sent up Lena with that great load
"I ain't easy without I see to you myself, at least once a day. It
'minds me of the good ole times to wait upon you. O, Lord! how long?"
shaking her tartan turban with a portentous groan, her chin almost
scraping the hearth, as she stooped to blow into the crater of fiery
Mabel was too well versed in the customs of the race and class to
take alarm at the mysterious invocation. She watched the old woman's
movements in a sort of pensive amusement at the recollection of an
incident of her childhood, brought vividly to her mind by the
servant's air and exclamation.
She was playing in the yard one day, when "Mammy" emerged from her
cottage-door, and came toward her, with a batch of sweet cakes she
had just baked for her nursling.
In crossing the gravel walk leading to the "house," she struck her
toe against the brick facing of this, and the cakes flew in all
"Good Lord! my poor toe and my poor chile's cakes!" was her
vehement interjection; and as she bent to gather up the cookies, she
grunted out the same adjuration, coupled with "my poor ole back!"—a
negress' stock subject of complaint, let her be but twenty years old
and as strong as an ox.
"Mammy!" said the privileged child, reprovingly, "I thought you
were too good a Christian to break the commandments in that way. You
shouldn't take the Lord's name in vain."
"Gracious! Sugar-pie! how you talk! Ef I don't call 'pon Him in
time of trouble, who can I ask to help me?" was the confident reply.
With no thought of any more formidable cause of outcry than a cramp
in the much-quoted spine, Mabel dreamed on sketchily and indolently,
enjoying the sight of the once-familiar process of building a
wood-fire, until the yellow serpents of flame crept, red-tongued
through the interstices of the lower logs, and the larger and upper
began to sing the low, drowsy tune, more suggestive of home-cheer and
fireside comfort than the shrill, monotonous chirp of the famous
cricket on the hearth. The pipe-clayed bricks on which the andirons
rested were next swept clean; the hearth-brush hung up on its nail,
and the architect of the edifice stepped back with a satisfied nod.
"I have often wished for a glimpse of one of your beautiful fires,
Mammy, since I have been in Albany," said Mabel, kindly. "Our rooms
and halls are all heated by furnaces. An open fireplace would be a
novelty to Northerners, and such a roaring, blazing pile of hard wood
as that, be considered at unpardonable extravagance."
"Humph! I never did have no 'pinion of them people." Phillis tossed
her turban and cocked her prominent chin. "It's all make money, and
save! save! If I was 'lowed to go with you, I'll be bound I'd see you
have sech things as you've been 'customed to. The new folks, them what
comed from nothin' and nowhar, and made every dollar they can call
their own with their own hands, don't know how to feel for and look
after real ladies."
"You are wrong about that, if you mean that I have not every
comfort I could ask. My house is warm in the bitterest weather, and
far more handsomely furnished than this. And I have many kind friends.
I like the Northern people, and so would you, if you knew them well."
"They send dreadful poor samples down this way, then," muttered
Phillis, significantly. "And, some as pertends to be somebody is
nobody, or wuss, ef the truth was known. Don't talk to me 'bout 'em,
Miss Mabel, darling! 'Twas a mighty black day for us when one on 'em
fust laid eyes upon Mars' Winston. You've hearn, ain't you, that my
house is to be tore down, and I'm to go into the quarters 'long with
the field hands and sich like common trash? So long as our skins is
all the same color, some folks can't see no difference in us."
"I had not heard it. I am sorry."
Mabel spoke earnestly, for "Mammy's house," a neat frame cottage a
story-and-a-half high, embowered in locust-trees, and with a thrifty,
although aged garden—honeysuckle clambering all over the front, was
to her one of the dearest pictures of her early days. She could see
herself, now—the motherless babe whom Aunt Rachel and Mammy had never
let feel her orphanage—sitting on the door-step, bedecking her doll
with the odorous pink-and-white blossoms in summer time, and in autumn
with the light-red berries.
"Why is that done?" she asked.
"I spiles the prospect, honey!" fiercely—ironical. "Northern folks
has tender eyes, and I hurts 'em—me and my poor little house what
ole marster built for me when Mars' Winston was a baby, and your
blessed ma couldn't be easy 'thout I was near her—WE spiles the
prospect! So, it must be knocked down and carted away for rubbish to
build pig-pens, I 'spose, and me sent off to live 'mong low-lived
niggers, sech as I've always held myself above. She ain't never put
it into Mars' Winston's head to cut down the trees that shets off the
"prospect" of the colored people's burying-ground from her winder.
There's some things she'd as lief not see. I oughtn't to mind this so
much, I know, for I ain't got long for to stay here nohow, but I did
hope to die in my nest!" sobbing behind her apron.
"I am very sorry—more grieved than you can think!" repeated Mabel.
"If I could help you in any way, I would. But I cannot!"
"Bless your heart! Don't I know that, dear! Here, you ain't got no
more power nor me. But I WAS a-thinkin' that maybe you wouldn't think
me too old for a nuss when you come to want one, and could manage to
take me with you when you went home. I'se a heap of wear in me yit,
and there ain't nothing 'bout babies I don't understand."
Mabel colored painfully.
"If I had my way"—she began—then altered her plan of reply. "I
could not enter into such an arrangement without consulting Mr.
Dorrance, Mammy, and I am afraid he would not think as favorably of
it as you and I do. He has been brought up with different ideas, you
An interjection capable of as many and as varied meanings in the
mouth of a colored woman of her stamp as was little Jean Baptiste's
"altro!" It signified now—"I comprehend a great deal more than you
want me to perceive—you poor, downtrodden angel!"
"Um-HUM. I always did say he was his sister's own brother—for all
they don't look a bit alike. What's born into a man never comes out!"
"Mr. Dorrance is my husband, Mammy! I shall not let you speak
disrespectfully of him. He does what he believes to be right and
just," returned Mabel, sternly.
"I ain't a-goin' to arger that with you, my sugar-plum! You're
right to stand up for him. I beg your pardon ef I've seemed sassy or
hurt your feelin's. And I dar' say, there mayn't be nothin' wuss
'bout him nor his outside. And that don't matter so much, ef people's
insides is clean and straight in the sight of the Lord. But HER
outside is all that's decent about her, ef you'll listen to me—"
"You are forgetting yourself again!" said Mabel, unable to suppress
a smile. "Mrs. Aylett is your mistress—"
The woman's queer behavior arrested the remonstrance. Stepping on
tiptoe to the door she locked it, and approached her young mistress
with an ostentatious attempt at treading lightly, shaking her head
and pursing up her mouth in token of secrecy, while she fumbled in
her bosom for something that seemed hard to get at. Drawing it forth
at last she laid it in Mabel's lap—a small leather wallet, glossy
with use, tattered at the corners, and tied up with a bit of dirty
"What is this, and what am I to do with it?"
Mabel shrank from touching it, so foul and generally disreputable
was its appearance.
"Keep both your ears open, dearie, and I'll tell you all I know!"
And with infinite prolixity and numerous digressions she recounted
how, in removing the sodden clothing of the unknown man who had been
picked up on the lawn on that memorable stormy Chistmas night, more
than a year before, this had slipped from an inner breast-pocket of
the coat, "right into her hand." Not caring to disturb the doctor's
examination of his patient, or to tempt the cupidity of her
fellow-servants by starting the notion that there might be other
valuables hidden in the articles they handled so carelessly, she had
pocketed it, unobserved by them, guessing that it would be of service
at the inquest. Her purpose of producing it then was, according to her
showing, reversed by Mrs. Aylett's stolen visit to the chamber and
minute inspection of garments she would not have touched unless urged
to the disagreeable task by some mighty consideration of duty,
self-interest, or fear.
"'Then,' thinks I"—Phillis stated the various steps of her
reasoning—"'you wouldn't take the trouble to pull over them nasty,
muddy close, 'thout you expected to get some good out on 'em, or was
afeard of somethin' or 'nother fallin' into somebody else's hands.'
Whichsomever this mought be,'twasn't my business to be gittin' up a
row and a to-do before the crowner and all them gentlemen. 'Least
said soonest mended,' says I to myself, and keeps mum about the whole
thing—what I'd got, and what I'd seen. But when I come to think it
all over arterward, I was skeered for true at what I'd done, and for
fear Mars' Winston wouldn't like it. What reason could I give him for
hidin' of the pocketbook, ef I give it up to him? Ef I tole all the
truth, SHE'D be mad as a March hare, and like as not face me down that
all I had said was a dream or a lie, or that I was drunk that night
and couldn't see straight. I'd hearn her tell too many fibs with a
smooth tongue and a sweet smile not to be sure of that! So, all I
should git for my care of the repertation of my fam'ly would be her
ill-will, and to be 'cused by other people of stealin', and for the
rest of my days she'd do all she could to spite me. For I'm sure as I
stand here, Miss Mabel, that she knew, or thought she knew, somethin'
'bout that poor, despisable wretch that died up in the garret. What
else brought him a-spyin' 'round here, and what was there to make her
faint when she ketched sight of him a-lookin' in at her through the
winder? and what COULD a sent her upstars when everybody else was
asleep, fur to haul his close about, and poke them fine white fingers
of hern into his pockets, and pull his WHISKERY face over to the light
so's to see it better? Depend 'pon it, there's a bad story at the
bottom of this somewhere. I've hearn of many a sich that came of
gentlemens' marrying forringers what nobody knowed anything about.
Anyhow, I want you to take keer of this 'ere pocketbook. Ef I was to
die all of a suddent, and 'twas found 'mong my things, some mischief
mought be hatched out on it. It's safer in your hands nor it is in
mine. Now, I'll jest light your lamp, and you can 'xamine it, and
pitch it into the fire, ef you like, when you're through."
In a cooler moment Mabel would have hesitated to obey the advice of
an ignorant, prejudiced person, her inferior in station and
intelligence. But in the whirl of astonishment, incredulity, and
speculation created by the tale she had heard, she untied the string
which formed the primitive fastening of the worn wallet, and unclosed
The main compartment contained four tickets, issued by as many
different pawnbrokers, testifying that such and such articles had
been deposited with them for and in consideration of moneys advanced
by them to Thomas Lindsay; a liquor-seller's score against William
Jones—unpaid; and a tavern bill, in which brandy and water, whiskey
and mint-juleps, were the principal items charged against Edmund
Jackson. This last was the only paper which bore the indorsement
"Rec'd payment," and this circumstance had, probably, led to its
preservation. The adjoining division of the wallet was sewed up with
stout black thread and Mabel had to resort to her scissors before she
could get at its contents. These were a couple of worn envelopes,
crumpled and dog-eared, and stained with liquor or salt water, but
still bearing the address, in a feminine hand, of "Lieutenant Julius
Lennox, U. S. N." In addition to this, one was directed to Havana,
Cuba; the other to Calcutta, in care, of a mercantile or banking-house
at each place. A third cover bore the superscription, "CERTIFICATE,"
in bold characters.
The negress' watchful eyes dilated with greedy expectancy at Mrs.
Dorrance's ghastly face when this last had been examind, but she was
foiled if she hoped for any valuable addition to her store of
information, or anything resembling elucidation of her pet mystery.
"It will take me some time to read all these," remarked Mabel,
still scanning the half-sheet she held. "You had better not wait,
Mammy. They are safe with me. No one else shall see them, and no harm
can come to you through them."
She promised mechanically what she supposed would soonest buy for
her privacy and needed quiet, and gave no heed to the manifest
disappointment of her visitor.
When she was at last alone, Mrs. Dorrance relocked the door, and
bent close to the lamp, as if more light upon the surface of the
document would tend to clear up the terrible secret thus strangely
committed to her discretion and mercy. The paper was a certificate,
drawn up in regular form, and signed by a clergyman, whose address
was appended below, in a different hand writing—of a marriage
between Julius Lennox and Clara Louise Dorrance.
"Her very name!" repeated the whitening lips. "I remember asking
her once what the 'L' in her signature stood for."
But while she said it, there was a look in the reader's eye that
bespoke inability or reluctance to grapple with the revelation
threatened by the discovery.
"The letters may tell me more!" she added, in the same frightened
whisper, refolding the certificate.
They did—for they were in the long, sloping chirography of her
sister-in-law, and signed "Your ever-fond, but lonely wife." Each
contained, moreover, allusions to "Ellis," to "Clermont," to "Julia,"
and to "Herbert"—all family names in the Dorrance connection; spoke
gratefully of her parents' kindness to his "poor Louise" in the
absence of "her beloved Julius;" and was liberally spiced with
passionate protestations of her inconsolableness and yearnings for his
return. Both were dated ten years back, and the paper was yellow with
time, besides being creased and thumbed as by many readings.
"What am I to do?" thought Mabel, sinking into her chair, trembling
all over with terror and incertitude.
If there were one sentiment in Winston Aylett's heart that equalled
his haughtiness, it was love for his wife. But could it be that he
had totally forgotten pride and his habitual caution in the selection
of the woman who was to be the partner of his home, fortune, and
reputation—possibly the mother of children who were to perpetuate the
noble name he bore? By what miracle of unrighteous craft, what
subornation of witnesses, what concealments, what barefaced and
unscrupulous falsehoods had this adventuress been imposed upon him as
unmarried, when the evidence of her former wedlock was held by a low
stroller—a drunken wretch who might betray it in an unguarded or
insane hour, and who, judging from his exterior, would not be averse
to publishing or selling the information if he could make more money
by doing this than by preserving the secret. And how came he by these
Confused, partly by his numerous aliases, more by incapacity to
conceive of such depth and complication of horror as were revealed by
the idea, the perplexed thinker did not, for a while, admit to herself
the possibility that the nameless vagabond may have been Clara's
living husband, instead of a mercenary villain who had secured
surreptitiously the proofs of a marriage she wished the world to
forget. Having learned that she had wedded, a second time, in her
maiden name, and that her antecedents were unsuspected in her present
home, the thought of extorting a bribe to continued silence, from the
wealthy lady of Ridgeley, would have occurred to any common rascal
with more audacity than principle. It was but a spark—the merest
point of light that showed her the verge of the precipice toward which
one link after another of the chain of circumstantial evidence was
Groping dizzily among her recollections of that Christmas night,
there gleamed luridly upon her the vision of Mrs. Aylett's strange
smile, as she said, "It may be that his wife, if she were cognizant
of his condition, would not lift a finger or take a step to save his
life, or to prolong it for an hour!"
Then, in response to Mabel's indignant reply—the momentary passion
darting from her hitherto languorous orbs, and vibrating in her
accents, in adding—"There are women in whose hearts the monument to
departed affection is a hatred that can never die."
If this man were a stranger, from whom she had nothing to fear, why
her extraordinary agitation at seeing him, even imperfectly, through
the window? She must have known him well to recognize him in the
darkness and at that fleeting glimpse. Perhaps she had believed him
dead, until then! This would account for her clandestine visit to his
chamber, to which Mrs. Sutton and her niece had gone, without effort
at concealment; explain the rigid examination of his clothing ensuing
upon her scrutiny of his features.
"I must be mad!" Mabel said, here, pressing her hand to her head.
"There does not live the woman, however wicked and hypocritical, who
could sit at ease in the midst of ill-gotten luxury, on an inclement
night, and talk smilingly of other things, if she suspected that one
she had known, much less loved, lay dying in wretchedness and
solitude so near her."
The vagrant was some evil-disposed spy, whose person Clara knew,
and whose intentions she had reason to dread were unfriendly. Had she
dared—for she was daring—to attempt this nefarious plot against the
fair fame and happiness of an honorable gentleman, her family would
not have become her accomplices. They could not have blinded
themselves to the perils of the enterprise, the extreme probabilities
of detection, the consequences of Winston's anger. Herbert, at least,
would have forbidden the unlawful deceit. When his sister was wedded
to Winston, he believed that her first husband was no longer in the
land of the living—as she must also have done.
"For he is a good—an upright man!" thought the wife. "But he was
privy to the fact of her previous marriage! Why have I never heard of
it? He has invariably spoken of Clara as having lived single in her
mother's house up to the date of her union with my brother."
She could not but remember, likewise, that there was a certain tone
about the Dorrance connection she had never quite comprehended or
liked—a reticence with respect to details of family history, while
they were voluble upon generalities, over-fond of lauding one
another's exploits, virtues, and accomplishments; referring in
wonderful pride to "our beloved father," and extolling "our precious
mother," who, by the way, was so little in request among the
children, that she had, since Clara's marriage, occupied apartments
in a second-rate boarding-house in Boston. Mabel, when convinced of
the futility of her hope of having Aunt Rachel with her, had proposed
to offer Mrs. Dorrance a house in the commodious mansion of her
youngest son; but Herbert, with no show of gratification at what he
must have known was a sacrifice of her inclinations, had coolly
reasoned down the suggestion. The whole tribe—if she excepted her
husband, and perhaps Clara—had, to her perception, a tinge of
Bohemianism, although all were in comfortable circumstances, and
lived showily. Mabel had often chided herself for uncharitable
judgment and groundless prejudice, in admitting these impressions of
her relatives-in-law; but they returned upon her in this twilight
reverie with the force of convictions she was, each moment, less able
to combat. What darker secret lay back of the concealment her
rectitude of principle and sense of justice declared to be
unjustifiable? and might not this concerted and persistent reserve
imply others yet more culpable?
It showed her correct estimate of her brother's character, that she
never for a second accused him of connivance in the deceit practised
upon his relations and neighbors. He would not have scrupled to wed a
widow, knowing and acknowledging her to be such. Nothing—not love,
tenfold more ardent and irrational than that he felt for his siren
wife—could have wrought upon him to introduce to the world, as Mrs.
Aylett of Ridgeley, one who had been before married, and was ashamed,
for any cause whatever, to avow this. The blemish left by the acrid
breath of common scandal upon a woman's fame was to him ineffaceable
by any process yet discovered by pitying man or angels. The maligned
one may not have erred from the straitest road of virtue and
discretion, but she had been "talked about," and was no consort for
him. In his State and caste, private marriages were things disallowed,
and but one shade more respectable than liasons that did not pretend
to the sanctity of wedlock. What would he say when the contents of
this dingy pocket-book were spread before him? Ought his sister to do
COULD she? He had not earned compassionate consideration from her
by any act of gentleness and forbearance. He had handled the
lopping-knife without ruth, and let the gaping wounds bleed as long
as the bitter ichor would ooze from her heart. She had learned
hardness and self-control from the lesson, but not vindictiveness.
Now that the power was hers to visit upon his haughty spirit
something of the humiliation and distress he had not spared her; that
it was her turn to harangue upon mesalliances and love-matches, and
want of circumspect investigation into early records before committing
one's self to a contract of marriage—she recoiled at the thought;
felt, in her exceeding pity for the trustful husband, a stirring of
the love she had herself once borne him in the days when the changed
homestead was her world, and its master a king among men.
And yet—and yet—was it the truest friendship—the most prudent
course to prolong the ignorance which left him liable at any moment
to be shocked into the perpetration of some desperate deed by the
discovery, through some other channel, of his wife's perfidy, and the
abominable snare that bad been woven about him!
CHAPTER XIV. "BORN DEAD."
MABEL was still turning the vexed question of right and expediency
over in her fast-heating brain, the next evening, as she sat in the
parlor, and feigned to hearken to the diligent duett-practising going
on at the piano, her husband and Mrs. Aylett being the performers.
Mrs. Sutton had gone home that afternoon, engaging to return for a
longer sojourn in the course of a month. Mr. Aylett read his
newspaper at one side of the centre table, and his sister employed
her fingers and eyes at the other with a trifle of fancy-work—-an
antimacassar she was crocheting for her hostess. Her industrious or
fidgetty habits were chronic and inveterate, and people, in remarking
upon them, did not reflect that this species of restlessness is in
itself a disease, seldom analyzed, more seldom cured. There are few
students or physicians of human nature, in this world of superficial
observers, who go deep enough into the springs of man's action to
distinguish the external symptoms of heart-cancer from ossification,
or to learn ihe difference between satiety and atrophy. A night of
nervous sleeplessness, a day of irresolution and dread, had aggravated
almost beyond her control the restlessness which in Mabel was the
unerring indication of unhealthiness of mind and body. To sit still
was impracticable; to talk connectedly and easily would soon be as
difficult. She was glad to see Aunt Rachel go—immeasurably relieved
when a musical evening was proposed by the brother and sister,
seconding the motion with alacrity that called forth a pleased smile
from the one, and a look of surprised inquisitiveness from the other.
"You have grown more fond of instrumental music," said Mrs. Aylett,
half interrogatively. "You used always to prefer vocal."
"Try me and see what an appreciative listener I am," rejoined
Mabel, with a sickly smile, and the concert commenced.
Overmuch thought upon the revelation of the preceding day had
begotten in her, fears of the imminence of the dangers to Winston's
peace of mind—a persuasion that the birds of the air and the
restless air itself might bear to him the news she still withheld.
Mammy had averred, upon her cross-examination, that "not a living
soul had ever seen the wallet" since it fell from the dying man's
pocket—an affirmation Mabel could not decide whether to believe or
discredit. If she could but be certain that the secret was all hers!
She trembled guiltily when her brother folded his last paper, and
sauntered around to the back of her chair, leaning upon it, while he
affected to be interested in her work, and the too-ready scarlet
blood pulsed now hotly in her cheeks with each moment of his mute
"I heard a piece of news to-day," he said, presently, in his most
even tone; but Mabel's start upon her seat was almost a leap, while
her fingers moved faster and more irregularly.
"I suspect, from your unsettled demeanor this evening, that it
reached you before it did me," continued he. "I can attribute your
badly suppressed pertubation to no other cause. Mrs. Sutton is such
an indefatigable gossip, that this item could hardly have passed her
by. Has she told you that Rosa Tazewell is shortly to become Mrs.
He thought she was nerving herself to a simulation of hardihood,
and the long-indulged habit of censorship was strong upon him.
"I had trusted, until to-day, Mabel, that you had conquered that
disgraceful weakness," he resumed, yet more pitilessly.
Domination was one of his besetting sins. He never saw a helpless
or cowering thing without feeling the inclination to set his foot upon
it, and the least show of resistance in such, piqued him into
"I was aware that it was not dead when you married a man worth a
thousand such scoundrels as that fellow in Philadelphia. I believed
that the sentiment was powerful in impelling you to that marriage,
and that this irrevocable measure would be an antidote to the evil.
It was a wise course, and I commended you for pursuing it. But I am
too well read in your countenance and moods not to see that there is
something far amiss with you. You have been playing a part for
twenty-four hours, and you have played it wretchedly. Your nervous
flutters and laugh, your sudden changes of complexion, and the
incoherence of your language, would betray you to the least
penetrating observer. I caution you to be on your guard lest your
husband should take just offence at all this. The need of
dissimulation is the evidence that something is radically wrong in
your moral nature, and is derogatory to your lawful partner. I am
ashamed to remind you of the golden maxim of wedded life—that
without perfect and mutual confidence there can be no substantial
happiness. Does Dorrance know of your escapade at the Springs?"
"If you refer to my engagement to Mr. Chilton, I told him of it
before our marriage."
"I rejoice to hear it—am pleased at this one proof of good sense
and right feeling," in lofty patronage. "You owed him no less. You
have, without doubt been informed long since how I obtained the most
important proof against that villain?"
"I have not heard Mr. Chilton's name in a year until yesterday,"
said Mabel, the scarlet spots ceasing to flicker, and her voice hard
as was his own.
Unable to interpret her sudden steadiness of demeanor and accent,
Winston leaped to the irritating conclusion that she was sullen, and
meditated a defiant retreat from this untimely usurpation of his
"It was injudicious—miserably ill-judged in Dorrance not to
acquaint you with this. I have always feared lest his indulgence
might not be the most salutary method of repressing your self-will
and pride of opinion. You, more than any other woman I know, require
the tight rein of vigilant discipline. I intimated as much to
Dorrance when he asked my consent to your engagement. But this is his
lookout, not mine. What I began to say was that, in MY opinion, he
would have acted more sensibly had he not encouraged your squeamish
repugnance to talking of your early fault and its mortifying
"Fortunately for me, my husband is a man of feeling and delicacy!"
Mabel was goaded to boast. "I said to him, the evening of our
betrothal, that the subject you have chosen to revive to-night was
painful to me, and he has respected the reluctance you condemn."
"He would have overcome it more quickly and thoroughly had he
informed you that he had had the honor of horse-whipping your
ci-devant betrothed!" sneered Winston, with white dinted nostrils.
"That he was the author of the letter, a portion of which I copied
for your perusal, when I announced the dissolution of your
provisional engagement—the main agent, in effect, of the rupture,
since but for him I should have had much difficulty in proving what I
had believed from the beginning—that the rascal ought to be shot for
presuming to think of you in any other light than as the merest
acquaintance. And he should never have been that, had I been with you
that unlucky summer."
"We have been over that ground so often, Winston, that both of us
should be tolerably familiar with it," rejoined Mabel, decidedly. "I
prefer that, instead of reviewing the circumstances of what you term
my 'early fault,' you should show me the evidence of your singular
assertion respecting Mr. Dorrance's agency in a matter in which he
could not at that time have had the slightest personal interest. Or,
shall I ask him? It is an enigma to me."
Without other answer than a contemptuous laugh, Winston left the
room, unnoticed by the musicians. But before she could form a
conjecture as to the meaning of his abrupt movement, he was back with
a letter in his hand.
"Documentary testimony!" he said, shortly, passing it to her. "I
should have forwarded it entire, instead of transcribing an extract,
but for Clara's fear lest yon should be led thereby to dislike her
brother before you had ever seen him. I take it there is no danger of
prejudicing you against him now!"
The letter was from Herbert Dorrance, and began thus:
"Dear Sir,—Your favor of the 15th, enclosed in one from my sister,
reached me this morning."
Then followed the expose of Frederic Chilton's misdeeds, which
Winston had transferred to his own epistle to Mabel, as the leading
argument in his refusal to sanction her engagement.
Mabel read it through without flinching; then turned over to the
first page and put her finger upon a paragraph.
"Who was the lady here mentioned?"
Mr. Aylett shrugged his fine shoulders.
"I have never interested myself to inquire. Beyond the statement of
your friend's rascality, the story was nothing to me."
The ringing call—sharp and clear—checked the pianists in the
middle of a bar.
"Step here a moment, if you please!"
The novelty of the imperative tone and the glitter of his wife's
eyes moved Mr. Dorrance to more prompt compliance than he would have
adjudged to be dignified and husbandly in the case of another man.
Mabel held out the letter at his approach, still pointing to the
passage she had asked her brother to explain.
"To whom does this refer? Who was the relative whose husband was a
Herbert Dorrance's constitutional phlegm was a valuable ally in the
very contracted quarters into which this question drove him, but his
sister was his deliverer. Affecting forgetfulness of the letter and
its contents, he glanced down one page, Mrs. Aylett leaning upon his
arm, and reading with him.
"I don't think you need mind telling the name, here and at this
late day, Herbert," she said, seriously and slowly, "provided Mabel
will never repeat the story when it can do harm. Have you never heard
any of us speak of poor Ellen Lester, my mother's niece, who died
several years before your marriage?" accosting her sister-in-law,
with a face so devoid of aught resembling cowardly or guilty fears,
that Mabel's brain, tried and shaken, tottered into disbelief at her
own wild surmises.
"Not that I remember!"
"Is that so? Yet it might easily have been. She accompanied her
husband upon his last voyage, and the ship was never heard of again.
Her parents are dead, too, so there are few to cherish her memory.
She was a school-fellow of mine, and Herbert loved her as a sister."
Mabel was gazing fixedly at her husband's stolid countenance and
averted eyes, and made no rejoinder until the silent intensity of her
regards compelled him to look up. Reading distrust and alarm in these,
he shook off his sister's warning hold.
"When you wish to catechise me upon family matters, Mabel, it is my
wish that you should do it in private," he said, roughly. "Then you
shall learn all that it concerns you to know. There are subjects into
which only prurient curiosity cares to pry."
"I beg your pardon!" answered Mabel, quietly. "I have but to say,
in self-defence, that I did not ask to see the letter."
"It is a matter of profound indifference to me whether you did or
not," was the reply. "For aught that I know or cared, you may have
read it a year and a half ago. I retract nothing that is set down
there. Clara, shall we go on with our music?"
Glancing around stealthily at the finale of the (sic) he saw that
Mabel's chair was vacant, and Mr. Aylett was reading composedly
beneath the lamp.
Clara made the same discovery at the same moment, and came forward
laughing to her husband.
"What had you been saying to our dear, excitable Mabel, that
challenged the introduction of that unfortunate document?"
"Told her of Frederic Chilton's intended marriage!" curtly, and
without laying aside his volume.
"I agree with you—but it is the truth."
Herbert stood apart glowing at the fire.
"You must have approached the subject unskilfully," urged the
peacemaker. "These old sores are oest left alone."
"It is best for married woman to have none," retorted Winston,
"She does not persist in doubting his unworthiness, does she?"
queried the wife, aside, but not so cautiously that her brother did
not hear her.
He wheeled about suddenly.
"She SHALL believe it, or call me a liar to my face!" he uttered,
angrily. "I will put a stop to this sentimental folly!"
"You are late in beginning your reforms," observed Mr. Aylett,
"You are a less sensible man than I give you credit for being, if
you ever begin!" interposed his sister.
"Leave Mabel to herself until she recovers from the shock—if it be
one—of this intelligence. The surest means of keeping alive a dying
coal is to stir and blow upon it. And even we"—lifting the heavy
locks of her husband's hair in playful dalliance—"even we are
mortal. We have had our peccadilloes and our repentances, and have
now our little concealments of affairs that would interest nobody but
ourselves. Do you hear what I am saying, Herbert! Leave off your high
tragedy airs and attend to reason, as expressed in your sister's
advice. While your wife is my invalid guest, I will not have her
subjected to any inquisitorial process. There is a time for everything
under the sun, saith the preacher. This is the season for tender
forbearance, and if need be, of forgiveness."
Herbert blessed her humane tolerance in his alarmed heart, when
Mabel awoke from her troubled slumbers at midnight, in extreme pain,
that culminated before dawn, in convulsions.
Two physicians were hastily summoned, and when Mrs. Sutton arrived
about noon, she met Phillis outside the door of the sick-chamber,
carrying a lifeless infant in her arms, and weeping bitterly.
This was the end of the months of hopeful longing and glad
anticipation which were Heaven's messengers of healing and comfort to
the sick and lonely heart. The cunningly-fashioned robes were never to
have a wearer, the clasping arms to remain still empty. Oh wondrous
mystery—past finding out—of the human soul! Had the lungs once
heaved with breath, the heart given one throb; the eyes caught one
beam of Heaven's light ere they were sealed fast in eternal darkness,
she, who travailed with the infant through the inexpressible agony of
birth, would have been written a mother among women; have had the
right accorded her, without the cavil of formalist or the disputations
of science, to claim the precious thing as her own still—a living
baby-spirit that had fluttered back to the bosom of the Almighty
Father, after alighting, for one painful moment, upon the confines of
the lower world. As it was, custom ordained that there should be no
mourning for what had never really been. Anguish, hope, and the
patient love at which we do not scoff when the mother-bird broods over
the eggs that may never hatch—these were to be no more named or
remembered. In silence and without sympathy she must endure her
disappointment. The tenderest woman about whose knees cluster living
children, and who has sowed in tears the blessed seed, that in the
resurrection-morn shall be gathered in beauteous sheaves of richest
recompense—would smile in pitying contempt over the tiny headstone
which should be lettered—"Born Dead."
All this and much more Mabel was to learn with the return of health
and reason, but she lay now, like one who had passed for herself the
narrow sea that separates the Now from the Hereafter; her features
chiselled into the unmoving outlines of a waxen image, only a feeble
flutter of breath and pulse telling that this was lethargy, not
death. They watched her all night, Mrs. Sutton on one side and
Phillis on the other, the family physician stealing in with slippered
tread from hour to hour, to note with his sensitive touch if the few
poor drops of vital blood yet trickled from veins to heart, always
with the same directions, "Give her the stimulant while she can
swallow it. It is the only hope of saving her."
Armed with this, the two devoted women fought the Destroyer,
praying inaudibly, while they wrought, for the life of the child they
had reared to her sorrowful womanhood.
"HE'S asleep, and so is SHE!" whispered Phillis, once, pointing
alternately to the adjoining room where Herbert Dorrance awaited the
issue of this critical stage of his wife's illness, and to Mrs.
Aylett's chamber across the hall. "The Lord forgive 'em both! It
won't be they two that will shed many tears if so be she doesn't see
the light of another day—the murdered lamb! They tormented the life
out of her. I passed by her room last night before bed-time, and
heard her a-sobbin' and talkin' to herself, and walkin' up and down
the floor, and THEY a-bangin' away on the pyano down in the parlor!"
The faithful creature's prejudice wronged one of the hated pair.
Mrs. Aylett's slumbers upon her downy couch might be none the less
serene for her sister-in-law's danger, but Herbert's was the sleep of
exhaustion, not callousness. He had been up all the previous night,
and racked by the wildest anxiety throughout the intervening day, and
to compass this vigil was beyond his physical powers. Mabel would not
miss him, and he could do nothing for her—would only be in the way,
being totally unpractised in the art of nursing, he reasoned; and
there was no telling what new draught upon his strength the morrow
might bring. He would just lie down for an hour; then he would be
fresh for whatever service might be required of him. With this prudent
resolve, he threw himself along the bed in the spare-room, and was
oblivious of everything sublunary until sunrise.
"If there should be any change, call me!" Mrs. Aylett had enjoined,
plaintively. "Winston will not hear of my sitting up, but I shall not
close my eyes all night, so do not hesitate to disturb me, if I can be
of any use whatever."
Which, it is idle to remark, was the last thing either of the
nurses thought of doing. If their darling were, in truth, dying, they
were the fittest persons to receive her latest sigh; for had they not
been present at her birth, and did not her mother go to glory from
their supporting arms?
There was a change, and not a favorable one, before daybreak. The
patient, from mutterings and restless starts, passed into violent
delirium, laughing, crying, and singing in a style so opposed to the
prescribed diagnosis of her case, as to lash the provincial doctor to
his wits' end, and extinguish in Aunt Rachel's sanguine heart the
faint hope to which she had clung until now. Herbert, awakened
finally by the turbulent sounds from the room he had been told must
be kept perfectly quiet, jumped up, and showed himself, with
disordered hair and blinking eyes, in the door of communication, just
as Mabel struggled to rise, and pleaded weepingly with those who held
her down that they would restore her child to her.
"I had her in my arms not a moment ago!" she insisted. "See! the
print of her little head is here on my breast! You have taken her
away among you! I saw it all—those who ordered that it should be
done and those who did it, when I was too weak to hold her, or to
keep them back!"
And passing from the height of furious invective to deadly and
earnest calm, she told them off upon her fingers.
"Clara Aylett! Rosa Tazewell! Winston Aylett! (he married Clara
Louise Dorrance, you know!) Herbert Dorrance! JULIUS LENNOX!"
The household was astir by this time, and Mrs. Aylett entered from
the hall as her brother did from his bedroom. There was but one
spectator who was sufficiently composed to note and marvel at the
scared look exchanged by the two at the sound of the last name. This
was Mr. Aylett, who, from his position behind his wife, had an
excellent view of all the actors in the exciting tableau before she
fell back, swooning, in his arms.
He was alone with her in their chamber when she revived, and the
earliest effort of her restored consciousness was to seize both his
hands in hers, and scan his face searchingly—it would seem
agonizingly—until his fond smile dispelled the unspoken dread.
"Ah!" she murmured, hiding her face upon his bosom, "she is still
alive, then! I thought—I thought"—a mighty sob—"Don't despise your
weak, silly wife, darling! but it was very terrible! I believed it was
the last struggle, and was appalled at the sight. And my poor Herbert!
he was frightfully overcome. Did you notice him? Will you send him to
me, dear? I can soothe him better than any one else—prepare him for
what is, I fear, inevitable. I shall not give way again to my
The brother and sister were still together when word was brought,
two hours later that Mabel had fallen into a profound sleep—a good
omen, the doctor said.
"Thank Heaven!" ejaculated Herbert, fervently, his eyes softening
until he turned away to conceal his emotion.
He was haggard with solicitude, while Mrs. Aylett's healthful bloom
betokened slight interest in the termination of the seizure, a glance
at which had thrown her into a faint. Nor did she echo the
thanksgiving. She waited until the messenger had gone, and continued
the conversation her entrance had interrupted.
"I incline to the belief that she caught the name, in some manner,
on Christmas before last. HE was delirious, too, and although doctor
and nurse reported that he did not speak articulately after he was
brought in, she may have heard more than they. From what has been
told me, I gather that she was in the room with him alone, while Mrs.
Sutton was down-stairs looking for Dr. Ritchie. In a lucid interval he
may have given his name—possibly some particulars of his history.
Unless—are you positive there has been no indiscretion on your part,
or that others may have talked negligently to her, because she was a
member of the family?"
"There are topics of which we—your mother, sister, and
brothers—never speak, even to one another. You may trust us that
far," rejoined Herbert, emphatically. "Nor do I see what we can do,
except wait for other proof that Mabel really knows anything beyond a
name she has picked up at random and never, to my knowledge, repeated,
save in her ravings. Should she recover, the test can be easily
applied, and we can judge then, how to handle the dilemma."
"Should she recover!" He said the words reluctantly, as loth to
express the doubt.
His sister's lips twitched nervously into a sinister smile. It was
as if she would have whispered, had she dared, "Heaven forbid!"
"You have chosen a toilsome and a perilous path, Clara," he
resumed, by and by. "I do not wonder that you are, with all your
courage and sanguine trust in your own powers, sometimes disquieted,
and often weary."
"Who says that I am ever weary? And did you ever know me to
disquiet myself in vain?" with the low, musical ripple of laughter
that belonged to her sunniest mood. "Had I been born in the classic
age, I should have been a devout disciple of Epicurus. Don't imagine
that my success has not, thus far, amply repaid me for my toil and
ingenuity. Having lived upon excitement all my days, I should starve
without it. Pleasure, like safety, is the dearer for being plucked
from that evergreen nettle, Danger!"
CHAPTER XV. THE GOOD SAMARITAN.
THE snows of ten winters had powdered the nameless stranger's grave
in the servant's burial-ground of the Ridgeley plantation. For nine
years the wallet taken from his person had lain unopened in a hidden
drawer of Mabel Dorrance's escritoire, and the half-guessed secret
been hidden in her breast. Mammy Phillis had followed her mistress to
the tomb, six months after her removal from her beloved cottage to the
despised "quarters." She never held up her head from the day of her
degradation, died from a broken heart, murmured those who best knew
her—of a "fit of spleen," said Mrs. Aylett, in cool reprehension of
her unmannerly vassal.
Mabel had guarded the mystery well. Her husband examined
her—covertly, as he thought; awkwardly, according to her ideas—with
regard to the vagaries of her delirium, and was foiled by the grave
simplicity of her manner and replies.
"All she knows or remembers is substantially this," Herbert jotted
down in his notes for his sister's perusal: "she has associated in
some way—she cannot tell exactly how or why—the name with the tramp
who died in the garret. She is not sure that it was his designation.
Thinks it was not, or that, if used by him, it was an alias. Has an
impression that it was marked upon his clothing, or upon a paper found
in his pocket. Showed no agitation and little interest in the subject,
except when she inquired if I saw the stranger at all—living or dead.
Was glad I could reply truly, 'No.' Answer seemed to gratify her,
which you may consider a disagreeable augury. Am convinced that her
illness resulted from natural and unavoidable causes—that neither
F—-C—-nor J——L—-had any connection with it. It will be months
before mind and body recover their tone."
"Lawyerly! ergo, absurd and unsatisfactory!" pronounced the reader,
to whom the foregoing leaf had been committed on the morning of her
brother's departure with his slowly-convalescing wife for their
Albany home. "But until the nettle pricks more nearly, I shall
continue to enjoy my roses."
They had blossomed thickly about her path during this decade. Her
matronly beauty was the wonder and praise of the community. The
changing seasons that had bleached the locks upon her husband's
temples and heightened his forehead had spared the bronzed chestnut
of her luxuriant tresses. Her figure was larger and fuller, but
graceful, and more queenly than of yore—if that could be. There was
not an untuneful inflection in her voice, or a furrow between her
brows. Under her careful management the homestead wore every year an
air of increased elegance. No other furniture for many miles on both
sides of the river could compare with hers; no other servants were so
well-trained, no grounds so beautifully ornamented and trimly kept.
"But for all that Ridgeley is a lonely, desolate place to me," said
Mrs. Sutton, one early spring morning to her niece and crony, Mrs.
William Sutton. "A house without children is worse than a last year's
bird's nest. It is a riddle to me how Clara Aylett contrives to occupy
"She should have some of these socks to darn, if it hangs upon her
hands," replied Mrs. William, humorously, running her five fingers
through the toe of one she had just picked up from the great willow
basket set between the two upon the porch-floor.
"The Lord isn't very apt to make mothers out of that sort of
material," said the elder lady. "Nor fathers out of Winston Ayletts.
They are so wrapped up in their self-consequence as to have no
thought for others."
"Yet they say Mr. Aylett regrets that he has no heir. It is a great
pity Mabel lost her only child as she did. The family will become
extinct in another generation. It is such a noble estate, too!"
"Large families were never the rule among the Ayletts," responded
Aunt Rachel. "But I did hope my dear Mabel would be an exception to
the rest in this respect. She would adopt a little girl, but her
husband will not consent. Those Dorrances are a cold-hearted race.
He, too, is heaping up riches, without knowing who shall gather them.
Her darning-needle quilted the yawning heel of Tommy Sutton's sock
with precision and celerity, and she ruminated silently upon the
vicissitudes and failures of mortal life until she was interrupted by
Mrs. William's exclamation:
"There is Mrs. Tazewell's carriage at the gate, and the driver has
a letter in his hand. I hope the old lady is not worse!"
Aunt Rachel met the man at the steps, with neighborly anxiety.
"How is your mistress, Jack?"
"'Bout the same, ma'am. But Miss Rosa—she came last night very
unexpected, and it kinder worsted Mistis to see her so poorly. This
note is from Miss Rosa, ma'am, and I am to take back an answer."
Mrs. Sutton read it standing in the porch—the scented leaflet that
had a look of the writer all over it, from the scarlet monogram at
the top of the sheet and upon the envelope, to the flourish of the
signature—"Rosa T. C."—the curl of the C carried around the rest
like a medallion frame:
"DEAR, GOOD AUNT RACHEL,—I have come to Old Virginia to try and
shake off an uncomfortable cough which has haunted me all winter. The
Northern quacks can do nothing for me. One ray of this delicious
sunshine is worth all their nostrums. I was not prepared to find
mamma helpless, or I should not have descended upon her so
unceremoniously. Being here, I cannot retreat in good order or with
safety to my health, nor without wounding her. Frederic must return
to Philadelphia next week, by which time I hope to be quite
invigorated. Now for my audacious proposal. Can you come over and
tell me how to get well in the quickest and least troublesome way?
Dear Auntie! you loved me once. When you see what a poor, spiritless
shadow I have grown—or lessened—to be, you will care a little bit
for me again, for the sake of lang syne."
Mrs. Sutton wiped her spectacles and gave the note to her niece.
"There is but one thing for me to do, you see, my dear. Jack! I
shall be ready in twenty minutes."
If the line of duty wavered before her sight during the three-mile
drive, it lay straight and distinct ahead of her when she stood in
"My child!" she ejaculated, upon the threshold "you did not tell me
that you were confined to your bed!"
"I ought not to be!"
The rebellious pout and tone were Rosa's, as were also the black
eyes—unnaturally large and bright though they were—but the pretty
lips were wan, and strained by lines of pain; the pomegranate flush
was no longer variable, and was nestled in hollows, and the hands
were wasted to translucency.
"I am quite strong enough to be up, and would be, if my tyrannical
doctors and their tractable tool, my lord and master, had not decreed
that I shall lie here until midday, if I am very obedient; eat my
meals; take their poisonous medicines, and abstain from coughing. If I
offend in any of these particulars I am not to rise until three
o'clock—when they are in an especially glum humor—not at all that
day. But now you are here, we shall combat them valorously. Dear
Auntie!" putting the thin arms about the old lady's plump neck, and
laughing through a spring rain of tears, "how good and safe it is to
be with you again! And you are the same kind, lovely darling! no older
by a day—no uglier by a solitary wrinkle! I couldn't sleep last
night, for fearing you would not come to me!"
"You should not have doubted it, dear!" said the motherly voice,
blithe as affectionate, while soft, agile fingers undid the tight
embrace, and commenced, from the force of habit, to arrange the
tumbled bed-clothes. "Wherever I can be of most use is the place in
which I wish to be."
"I know you have always lived for others," answered Rosa, with an
involuntary sigh, a shadow glooming her eyes.
"For whom else should I live and work?" laughed Mrs. Sutton, in her
cheerful, guileless fashion. "My personal wants are few and easily
supplied, and I like to be busy. I account it a privilege to be able
to fuss about my friends when they are ailing."
By way of doing as she liked, she attacked the disorderly room.
Rosa's three trunks stood in a row against the wall—all of them
open—the tray of the largest lying beside it upon the carpet, the
lid of this thrown back and the contents in utter confusion; laces
hanging over the sides and trailing upon the floor. A casket of
medicines was uppermost in the next trunk, crushing a confused medley
of collars, ribbons, gloves, and handkerchiefs. A dressing-gown lay
upon the seat of one chair, a skirt over the back of another; boots
and slippers peeped from the valance of the antique bedstead; there
was a formidable array of bottles upon mantel and bureau—conspicuous
among them cod-liver oil, cologne, and laudanum—incongruous
appendages to the various appliances of the toilette scattered between
Mrs. Sutton understood it all—the hurry and agitation of the
unlooked-for arrival; the faintness and prostration of the
consumptive; the restless night, and the well-meant but inefficient
ministrations of negroes in an establishment where the mistress had
been feeble for years, and was now chained to her room and chair by
"And Rosa was always an indolent flyabout in health; accustomed to
have a score of servants at her heels to pick up whatever she dropped
or threw aside," she said to herself. "My Mabel was a pink of neatness
and order compared with her. Dear me! here is a bottle of oil,
cracked, and an immense grease-spot in the front breadth of a splendid
silk dress! I hope these things do not annoy her as they would me!"
Whether the universal disarray made Rosa uncomfortable or not, she
enjoyed the aspect of the tidy apartment, when her nurse brought her
noiseless labors to a close by exchanging her night-gown for a
flannel wrapper; putting clean linen upon her and the bed; combing
the tangled hair and washing her hands, wrists, and face in tepid
water, interfused with cologne.
"It prevents a sick person from taking cold when bathed, and
freshens her up wonderfully, I think," was her explanation of the
"YOU freshen me more than all things else combined!" said Rosa,
gratefully. "Ah, auntie! how often I have thought of, and wished for
you this tedious and dismal winter! I used to spend entire weeks in
bed, attended by a horrid hired nurse, who took snuff and drank—ugh!
and snubbed and terrified me whenever I—as she described it—'took a
notion into my head;' that is, when I asked for something she thought
was too troublesome for her ladyship to prepare, or wanted Fred to
stay all night in my room, or sit by me in the evening, and pet me.
She 'couldn't bear to have men around, cluttering up everything!' she
would growl the instant his back was turned, with a deal more of the
same talk, until I was afraid to ask him to take a seat the next time
he came in. He was continually bringing home baskets of fruit, and
game, and bouquets for me. She let me have the flowers, but she ate
nine-tenths of the nice things herself, I never suspecting her, and he
was too delicate to ask if I enjoyed his presents. At length he
surprised her in the act of devouring a bunch of hot-house grapes, for
which he had paid almost their weight in gold, and then all came to
light, and he sent her off in a hurry. Poor Fred, there were great
tears in his eyes when he learned what persecution I had undergone,
rather than vex him by complaints."
"It would have been better had you told him sooner, dear! It would
have spared you and him much suffering."
"I knew how engrossed he was by his business, and how ignorant he
was of household or medical matters, and I saved him all the bother I
could. I have tried, in some things and some times, to be a good wife,
Aunt Rachel! But often I have failed, O, how egregiously!
and"—beginning to weep—"the thought pierces my heart by day and by
night. What if I never have an opportunity of doing any better, of
covering up the traces of my footsteps?"
Mrs. Sutton patted the wasted hand with her cool one, but essayed
no other soothing.
"Where is your husband now? I understood from your note that he was
"He rode over to Dr. Ritchie's this morning, directly he had given
me my breakfast. He thinks highly of his skill, and he would not be
contented without bringing him to see me. I really believe he is
anxious I should get well! Strange—isn't it? when I am such a burden
upon his mind and hands."
Aunt Rachel smiled.
"Not at all strange, you ridiculous child! Two of the most
dearly-loved wives I ever knew were invalids, and bedridden, not for
weeks only, but for years. You can best show your gratitude for his
affection and kindness by getting better rapidly while he is here,
that he may leave you with a lighter heart."
"He is kind! too kind!" murmured Rosa, composing herself among the
cushions, as if to sleep.
She was quiet so long that Mrs. Button had leisure for some
reflections relating to her own personal action in the somewhat
embarrassing position she occupied. She had never seen Frederic
Chrlton from the day he left Ridgeley as Mabel's betrothed. His
visits to the neighborhood since his marriage had been few and brief,
and she had studied to avoid him whenever she happened to be with the
William Suttons during one of these. He might have guessed her design,
or unwittingly favored it on his own account. The meeting would not be
more pleasant to him than to her. But why had he allowed his wife to
send for her? The alteration in him must indeed be great, if he could,
without a conflict with resentful and painful memories, bow his pride
to sue for the services of a relative of the Ayletts, and formerly one
of their household, even in such a cause as that which now commanded
At this point of her cogitation she became aware that Rosa's eyes
were wide open, and staring at her with a whimsical blending of
curiosity, melancholy, and gratification.
"Aunt Rachel!" she said, bluntly, "you are a very good woman! the
best and most forgiving human being I ever heard of. I should not
feel one particle of surprise to see you float up gently through the
roof, at any minute—cap, spectacles, and all—translated to the
society of your sister angels—and no questions asked by St. Peter at
the gate of Paradise!"
Well as she knew her erratic disposition and wild style of speech,
Mrs. Sutton moved her hand toward the patient's pulse.
"I am not raving! I speak the words of truth and soberness—very
sad soberness, too! Believing as you do that Frederic was once the
cause of much sorrow to you and to one you loved, and having no reason
to care one iota for me, but rather to distrust me, you nevertheless
obey my call upon you for service, as if I had every right to make
it. And when here, you treat me just as you would Mabel, were her
situation as deplorable, her need equal to mine."
"Why shouldn't I?" questioned Mrs. Sutton, simply. "I have no
ground for a quarrel with you. And if I had—well, the truth is, my
dear, I have a poor memory for such things!"
Rosa caught at the scarcely perceptible emphasis upon the "YOU,"
and disregarded the remainder of the remark.
"You cannot yet acquit Frederic of wrong-doing! Indeed, Mrs.
Sutton, he has been foully wronged among you. It is not because he is
my husband that I say this. Mabel's name has never passed his lips—-
nor mine in his hearing, since I became his wife. And every one of
the family has been equally guarded when he was by. I doubt,
sometimes, if he has ever heard whom she married or where she
lives—so carefully has he shunned every reference to her or any of
the Ridgeley people. During the nine years we have lived together, he
has given me no cause to suspect that he ever thinks of her, or
laments the broken engagement. If I have made myself wretched by
imagining the contrary, it was my fault, not his—my foolish, wicked
jealousy. I would scorn to imply a doubt of his integrity, by
reminding him of the charges proferred against him by Winston Aylett,
and believed by his sister—much less ask him to contradict them. I
never put any faith in them from the outset. It comforts me to
recollect that my confidence in him stood fast when everybody else
distrusted him—my noble, slandered darling! But my declaration of his
innocence is founded upon his blameless life and upright principles.
No one could be with him as I have been, and doubt him. He is a
perfect man—if there was ever a sinless mortal—great-hearted,
gentle, and sincere. Do not I know this? Have I not proved him to the
Her rapid, impassioned declamation was ended by a copious flood of
grief that provoked a frightful fit of coughing. When this was
subdued she was weaker than a year-old infant, and lay between stupor
and dreaming for so long a time, that Mrs. Sutton became alarmed.
There must be no repetition of this scene. She most ward off
similar mishaps by whatever measures she could force or cajole her
conscience into adopting. Rosa's state was more precarious than her
account had led her friend to believe, or than the nurse's
experienced eye had seen at their meeting. The main hope of her
recovery was in the warmer climate and assiduous attendance. Above
all, she should not be allowed to exhaust herself by talking, or
hysterical paroxysms. She had no more self-control than a child, and
she must be treated as such. Mrs. Sutton's jesuitical resolve was to
humor her by every imaginable device, even to feigned friendship for
Fortified by this resolution, she heard, without any show of pride
or trepidation, the clatter of horses' hoofs in the yard; the sound
of voices below stairs, as Mr. Chilton ushered the physician into the
parlor, and the light, careful tread with which he mounted to his
wife's apartment. His momentary pause at the entrance, and surprised
look at beholding the other tenant of the chamber, were the best
passport to her indulgence he could have desired. It was clear to her
instantly that poor Rosa's passion for manoeuvring had survived the
wreck of health and prostration of spirits. She had never chosen the
straight path if she could find a crooked or a by-road, and her
project for obtaining Mrs. Sutton's services and company had been put
into execution, without consultation with her husband. However
reprehensible this might be in the abstract, it was not in the kind
old soul to betray her, as she advanced, placidly and civilly, to
reassure the startled man.
"How are you, Mr. Chilton? You hardly expected to meet me here, I
suppose? But I am a near neighbor of Mrs. Tazewell now, and hearing
that Rosa was sick, I came over to see if I could do anything for
her, knowing how infirm her mother is."
"You are very kind!" He grasped her hand more tightly than he
intended, or was conscious of. "We were ignorant ourselves of Mrs.
Tazewell's true condition. Mrs. Chilton's sisters have forwarded more
encouraging reports to her of her mother's illness than they would
have been warranted in doing by anything except the fear that a
faithful account would operate injuriously upon the daughter's health.
I should have chosen some other home for my wife, had I known the
actual state of affairs here. Change of scene and climate was
He spoke low and rapidly—hardly above his breath; but the black
eyes, unclosing, flashed upon him.
"So you have come back!" said Rosa's weak voice. "You stayed away
Her coquettish displeasure and the asperity of her accent
contrasted so oddly with her vehemently expressed attachment for her
husband and extolment of his virtues, that Mrs. Sutton regarded her in
speechless amazement. She submitted to his kiss, without returning
it—even raising her hand pettishly as to repel further endearments.
"I should have died of the blue devils if Aunt Rachel hadn't, by the
merest accident, heard that I was ailing, and driven over, like the
Good Samaritan she is, to take pity upon me in my destitution; to
pour oil—not cod-liver—into my wounds, and wine into my mouth. She
is better than all the men-doctors that were ever created; so if you
have brought your bearded Esculapius home with you, you may tell him,
with my compliments, that I won't see him yet awhile. He was an old
beau of mine, and I hope I have too much respect for what I used to
be, to let him get a glimpse of me until Dr. Sutton has set me up in
better flesh and looks. She brought me some enchanting jelly—one of
her magical preparations for the amelioration of human misery, and I
am to have a bowl of her unparalleled chicken-broth for dinner. I wish
dinner-time were come! the very thought makes me ravenous. I am to do
nothing for a week, but eat, drink, and sleep, at the end of which
period I shall be dismissed as thoroughly cured. So, Mr. Chilton, you
can go back to your beloved clients whenever you please!"
To Mrs. Sutton's apprehension this was an infelicitous introduction
of herself to the husband's toleration. Certainly, she did not know
many men who would have parried the thrusts at themselves with the
dexterity he manifested, and acknowledged her merits and kindly
offices willingly and gracefully. He did not apologize for his
protracted absence, nor insist upon conveying his physician to the
sick-chamber; but he chatted for five minutes or thereabouts upon
such topics as he knew would entertain the captious invalid, and
finally arose from the bed-side, where he had been sitting, fondling
her hot hands, with a good-humored laugh.
"But all the while I am enjoying myself here, the hirsute Galen
aforesaid is munching the invisible salad of the solitary in the
parlor! I am to eject him incontinently, am I? My conscience will not
let me withhold the admission, when I do this, that my wife's judgment
in the matter of medical attendants is vastly superior to mine. While
Mrs. Sutton is so good as to remain with you, you are right in
thinking that you have need of no other physician."
Aunt Rachel would have entered a disclaimer, but Rosa spoke before
she could open her mouth.
"I didn't say that, Frederic! There was never such another
impatient and inconsiderate creature upon the globe as yourself. It
would be unpardonably rude in us to send the man away, if he is a
charlatan, without letting him see me. Have him up, by all means, and
let us hear what priggish nonsense he has to say. He will feel the
easier when it is done."
Dr. Ritchie's private report to Mrs. Sutton, who accompanied him to
tne lower floor, under color of seeing that he was served with
luncheon, was discouraging. The disease had made fearful inroads upon
a constitution that had never been robust, and the nervous
excitability of the patient was likely to accelerate her decline. She
might linger for several months. It would not surprise him to hear
that she had died within twelve hours after his visit. It was but fair
and professional he added, that he should, through Mrs. Sutton, advise
Mr. Chilton of her state, although, unless he were mistaken, he had
already anticipated his verdict.
This Mrs. Sutton found was the case, when she essayed that evening
to insure him against the awful shock of his wife's unexpected
"She has never been entirely well since the death of our second
child, a year ago," he said. "The little one was buried on a very
stormy day, and the mother would not be dissuaded from going to the
cemetery. The severe cold, acting upon a system enfeebled by grief,
induced an attack of pneumonia. Dr. Ritchie but coincides with every
other physician I have consulted."
"It is a pity you are obliged to leave her so soon," observed the
sympathizing nurse. "Although she may be more comfortable a week
hence than she is now."
"A week! I had no intention of returning in less than a month's
time. I made all my arrangements to that effect before leaving home.
Rosa's reference to my desire to go back to my clients was sheer
badinage"—smiling mournfully. "You have heard her talk often enough
to understand how little of earnest there is in the raillery." More
insincerity! For, contradictory as it may appear, Mrs. Sutton felt
constrained to believe his unsupported word, in opposition to his
wife's written assertion that he designed to return to his practice
the ensuing week.
"She thought I would be more apt to come if I imagined that he
would soon be gone!" was her grieved reflection. "If she could beguile
me hither by this assurance, she trusted to her coaxings and my
compassion to retain me. O Rosa! Rosa! cannot even the honest hour
teach you to be truthful?"
CHAPTER XVI. THE HONEST HOUR.
The shadow of death drew on apace to the sight of all, save the
consumptive, and her semi-imbecile mother. These seemed alike blind
to the fatal symptoms that were more strongly defined with every
passing day. The paralytic sat in her wheeled chair, in the March
sunshine, at the window of her chamber, and talked droningly of other
times and paltry pleasures to that one of her daughters or
grand-children whose turn it was to minister to her comfort and
amusement, and insisted upon having all the neighborhood news
repeated in her dull ear with wearisome—to the
narrator—amplifications and reiterations, shaking with childish
laughter at the humorous passages, and whimpering at the pathetic.
Rosa cheated time of heaviness by unceasing demands upon her
attendants for service and diversion. Unable to sleep, except at long
intervals, in snatches of fitful dozing, she had a horror of being
alone for an instant, from dusk until dawn; was ingenious in
contrivances to surprise an unwary watcher nodding upon her post;
plenteous and plaintive in lamentations, if the device succeeded.
Fifty times a night her pillows must be shaken, her drink, food, or
medicine given, and after each of these offices had been performed,
occurred the petition:
"Now—sit where I can see you whenever I open my eyes! It drives me
crazy to imagine for a moment that I am by myself. I want to be sure
all the while that some living human being is near at hand. I have
such frightful dreams! I awake always with the impression that I am
drowning or suffocating, or floating away into a sea of darkness
With the light of day, her spirits revived, and her hopes of speedy
"You need not grudge waiting upon me now, for I shall be up and
about shortly—well and spry as the best of you!" she would say. "And
while I am playing invalid, I mean to have my quantum of attention. I
have been avaricious of devotion all my life, and this is a golden
chance that may never happen again."
Her husband she would not willingly suffer to leave her for an
instant. But for Mrs. Sutton's management and kindly authority, he
would have been condemned to take his meals at her bedside and from
the same tray with herself. She would be removed from the bed to the
lounge by no other arms than his, and at any hour of the twenty-four
he was liable to be called upon to read, sing, or talk her into
composure. Variable as ever in mood and fancy, and more capricious in
the exhibition of these, she was fond, sullen, teasing, and mirthful
with him as the humor of the moment dictated; sometimes assailing him
with reproaches for his indifference and want of regard for her wishes
and tastes, now that she was no longer young, pretty, and sprightly;
at others, clinging to him with protestations of repentance and love,
bewailing her waywardness and imploring his forbearance; then, taking
him to task for the slightest inadvertence—the spilling of a drop of
her medicine or jarring of her sofa or bed; anon lauding him to the
skies as the most skilful nurse she had, and enjoining upon all about
her to render verbal testimonial to his irreproachableness as husband
and man—oh! it was a wearisome, oftentimes a revolting duty to listen
to and bear with it all—keep in mind though one did that the
intolerable restlessness preluded centuries of dreamless repose.
Mrs. Sutton could endure everything else better—and she believed
that it was the same with Frederic—than the needless and puerile
trickery to which Rosa resorted to achieve the most trivial purposes.
If she wished that one of her sisters should pass the day with her, or
to sit up for a part of the night, she worked upon her by means of
others' intercessions, or broached the subject by covert passages, the
end of which, she flattered herself, was successfully masked, until
her train was ready for explosion. Did she set her fancy upon any
particular article of diet, the same tortuous course was pursued to
present the delicacy in question to the mind of him or her who, she
designed, should be the provider. Under her sauciest rattle of fun or
perversity lurked some subtle meaning. She had either some end to
subserve, or wanted to possess herself of some bit of information she
could have gained sooner and more easily by direct inquiry. Cajolery
and intrigue had become a second nature, stronger than the original;
and it never occurred to her that her wiles, in her mental and bodily
decadence, were transparent as they had once been artful.
A discovery, made on the fourth day of her visit, excited Mrs.
Sutton's sympathies in behalf of the much enduring husband to a pitch
it required long and serious pondering upon the wife's weakness and
critical condition to restrain from indignant demonstration.
Rosa was sleeping more soundly than usual under the influence of an
anodyne, and Frederic, with a whispered apology to his coadjutor,
went into the next room, leaving the door ajar. From her seat, Mrs.
Sutton had a distinct view of him in an opposite mirror—a
circumstance of which she was not aware for several minutes.
Happening, then, to look up from her knitting she saw that he was
writing, and half an hour afterward that he was leaning back in his
chair, looking at something in the hollow of his hand, a mingling of
such love and sadness in his countenance that she felt it would be
unlawful prying into his most sacred feelings for her to watch him
longer. He turned his head at the slight rustle she made in removing
to another part of the room, and beckoned to her. At her approach, he
arose and held out a morocco case, containing the miniature of a
child—a bright-eyed, delicate-featured girl of seven or eight
"You have never seen my little Florence, I think?"
"I have not. She is pretty—and resembles you strongly."
He did not color or laugh at the unconscious compliment, or seem
pleased at her praise of his darling. Instead, there crept over his
face a shade of more painful sadness, darkening his eyes and
compressing his lip, as he answered—
"So every one says. She is the dearest child in the world—a
sunbeam of gladness in any house—amiable, affectionate, and
intelligent. I wish you would read her last letter to me. She is a
better correspondent than many grown people." Then, smiling,
apologetically, "If my commendation seem overstrained, you will
excuse a father's partiality."
The letter—although the unformed chirography betrayed the writer's
inexperience in pen-practice—was correctly spelled and easy in
style, crowded with loving messages to "dear papa and mamma;"
relating anecdotes of school and home life, and while expressive of
her longings for her parents' return, professing willingness to stay
where she was "until mamma should be well enough to come back."
"I pray every night that God will cure her, and make us all happy
again," she wrote. "I dreamed one night last week that I saw her
dressed for a party, all rosy and funny and laughing, as she used to
be, and that she kissed me, and put her arm around me, and called me
'baby Florence' and 'little one,' in her sweet voice. Wasn't it
strange? I awoke myself crying, I was so happy! I do try to be brave,
and not fret about what cannot be helped, papa, because I promised you
I would; but sometimes it is right hard work. It is always easier for
a whole day after I get one of your nice, long letters. It is not
QUITE as good as having real talk with you, but it is the best treat I
can have when you are away."
Mrs. Sutton wiped her eyes.
"The dear child!" she said, in the subdued tone habitual to the
frequenters of the sick-room. "No wonder you want to see her! Why
didn't you give her a holiday, and bring her to Virginia with you?"
"I dreaded the effect of a child's high animal spirits and
thoughtless bustle upon her mother's health"—the shadow thickening
into trouble. "The next best thing to having her with me is to know
that she is kindly and lovingly looked after by my married sister, of
whom she is very fond. Florence is merrier, if not always happier,
with her young cousins than if she were condemned to the repression
and joyless routine of a house where the care of the sick is the most
engrossing business to all."
The more Mrs. Sutton meditated upon this conversation, the more
enigmatical it appeared that the mother never spoke of missing her
only living child—never pined for the sound of her vivacious talk
and the sight of her winning ways. Curiosity—her strong love for all
children, and a lively interest in Florence and Florence's father, the
two who assuredly did feel the separation—got the ascendency over
discretion that night, when Rosa, too nervous to sleep, begged her to
talk, "to scare away the horrors that were sitting, a blue-black
brood, upon her pillow."
"Your little daughter would be an endless source of entertainment
to you if she were here," said downright Aunt Rachel, with no show of
circumlocution. "I am surprised you do not send for her."
"Children of that age are a nuisance!" returned Rosa, peevishly.
"And of all tiresome ones that I ever saw, Florence is the most
trying. She doesn't talk after I bid her hold her tongue, but her
big, solemn eyes see and her ears hear all that passes. If there is
one thing that pushes me nearer to the verge of distraction than
another it is to have my own words quoted to me when I have forgotten
that I ever uttered them. And she—literal little bore!—is always
pretending to take all that I say in earnest. If I were to tell her to
go to Guinea, it is my belief she would put on her bonnet, cloak, and
gloves, pocket a biscuit for luncheon and a story-book to read by the
way, and set out forthwith, asking the first decent-looking man she
met in the street at what wharf she would find a vessel bound for
Mrs. Sutton was obliged to laugh.
"She must be a truthful, sincere little thing!"
"Didn't I tell you she is TOO outrageously literal and
unimaginative? Just let me give you an example of how she tires and
vexes me. One day, about a fortnight before I left home, she set her
heart upon spending the whole of Saturday afternoon with me. Her
father objected, for he understands, if he does not sympathize with
me, what a trial she is to flesh and spirit. But I was moderately
comfortable, and my nerves were less unruly than usual, so I said we
would try and get on together.
"No sooner had he gone than the catechism commenced:
"'Now, mamma, what can I do to amuse you?'
"She talks like a woman of fifty.
"'What should you propose if I were to leave it to you?' I asked.
"'I suppose,' said my Lady Cutshort, 'that it would excite you too
much to talk, so I had better read aloud. What book do you prefer?'
"I named one—a novel I had not finished—and resigned myself to
martyrdom. She reads fluently—her father says prettily; but the
piping voice rasped my auriculars to the quick, and I soon stopped
the exhibition. Then we essayed conversation, but our range of themes
was limited, and a dismal silence succeeded to a short dialogue. By
and by I told her that I was sleepy, hoping she would take the hint
and leave my room.
"'Then, mamma, I will just get my work-basket, and sit here, as
still as a mouse, and prevent all disturbance.'
"With that, she gets out her miniature thimble and scissors, and
falls to work upon a pair of slippers she was embroidering for her
father's birthday present, sitting up, starched and prim as an old
maid, her lips pursed, and her forehead gravely consequential. I
could not close my eyes without seeing her still, like an undersized
nightmare, her hair smooth to the least hair, her dress neat to the
smallest fold, stitching, stitching, the affected, conceited
"At last I said:
"'Put down your sewing, Florence, and look out of the window at the
people going by. You must be very tired.'
"'Not in the least, mamma, dear,' answered Miss Pert. 'I like to
work, and there is nothing interesting going on outside.'
"I tossed and sighed, and she was by me in a second.
"'Darling mamma! my poor, sweet little mother!' in her reed-like
chirp; 'can I do nothing to make you feel better?' putting her hands
upon my head and stroking my face until my flesh crawled.
"'Yes,' said I, out of all patience. 'Take yourself off, and don't
let me see you again until to-morrow morning! You kill me with your
"And would you believe it? she just put up her sewing in the basket
and went directly out, without a tear or a murmur, and when her
father came home he could not prevail upon her, by commands or
persuasions, to accompany him further than the door of my chamber. So
he, who won't admit that she can do anything wrong, instead of
whipping her for her obstinacy, as he ought to have done, guessed she
'had some reason' for her disobedience which she did not like to tell,
and interrogated poor, persecuted me. When he had heard my version of
the manner in which we had spent the afternoon, he only said, 'I
should have foreseen this. But the child—she is only a child,
Rosa!—did her best!' and he looked so mournful that I, knowing he
blamed me for his bantling's freak of temper, told him plainly that he
cared a thousand times more for this diminutive bundle of hypocrisy
than he ever did for me, and that his absurd favoritism was fast
begetting in me a positive dislike for her. I couldn't endure the
sight of the sulky little mischief-maker for a week after her
complaint of barbarity had brought the look into his face I knew so
"O Rosa, she is your own flesh and blood! and, as her father said,
a mere baby yet! You said, too, that she refused to assign any cause
to him for her singular conduct."
"She might better have made open outcry than have left upon his
mind the impression that I had banished her cruelly and unnecessarily.
But I despair of giving you an idea of how provoking she can be. She
is a Chilton, through and through, in feature, manner, and
disposition—one of those 'goody' children, you know! a class of
animals that are simply intolerable to me. She is too precocious and
unbaby-like to be in the least interesting. You should have seen my
little Violet to understand what a constant disappointment Florence
is. She was myself in miniature, and moreover the most witching,
prankish, peppery elf that was ever made. The best trait in
Florence's character was her love for her baby-sister. She gave up
everything to her while she was alive, and they told me that she
would not eat, and scarcely slept, for days after her death. Her
father will have it that she is singularly sensitive, and has
marvellous depths of feeling; but if this be so, it is queer I never
found it out. Nobody could help adoring Violet—my aweet, lost,
The hysterical sobs were pumping up the tears now in hot torrents,
and these Mrs. Sutton was fain to assuage by loving arts she would
not—but for the danger of allowing them to flow—have been in the
temper to employ, so full was her heart of yearning pity for the
hardly-used babe, and displeasure at the mother's weak selfishness.
It was easier to forgive and forget Rosa's sins; to lessen, in the
retrospect, her worst faults into foibles, than it would have been to
overlook the more venal failings of one less mercurial, and whose
personal fascinations did not equal hers.
Ere the close of another day, Mrs. Sutton had excused her unnatural
insensibility to her child's virtues and affection, by representing
to herself how fearfully disease had warped judgment and perception;
had cast over the enormities she could not palliate the pall of
solemn remembrance of the truth that death's dark door was already as
surely shut between mother and daughter, as if the grave held the
former. A week of chill March rains and wind was disastrous to the
patient, who had seemed to draw her main supplies of strength from
the sunshine admitted freely to her room, with the spring air,
redolent with the delicious odors of the freshly-turned earth, the
budding trees, and early blossoms from the garden heneath her
windows. She shrank and shivered under the ungenial sky, while the
drizzling mist soaked life and animation out of the fragile body.
Occasional fits of delirium, increased difficulty of breathing, and a
steady decline of the slender remains of vital force, warned her
attendants that their care would not be required much longer. She was
still obstinate in her disbelief of the grave nature of her malady.
The most distant reference to her decease would arouse her to angry
refutation of the hinted doubt of her recovery, and excited her to
offer proof of her declaration that she was less ill than others
supposed; she would summon up a poor counterfeit of energy and mirth,
more ghastly than her previous lassitude; deny that she suffered from
any cause, save the unfailing nervous depression consequent upon the
Then came a day on which the sun looked forth with augmented
splendor from his sombrely curtained pavilion; when the naked
branches of the deciduous trees, the serried lances of the
evergreens, and the broad leaves of the tent-like magnolias—the
pride of the Tazewell place—shone as from a bath of molten silver.
The battered flowers ventured into later and healthier bloom, and a
robin, swinging upon the lilac spray nearest Rosa's window, sang
blithe greeting to the reinstated spring.
Rosa heard him—opened her eyes, and smiled.
"One—maybe the very same—used to sing there every morning when I
was a girl—used to awake me from my second nap. I could sleep all
night then, and never dream once!"
A messenger had been sent, at daybreak, for her sisters and
brother, who resided several miles away, but as yet Mrs. Sutton and
Frederic were her only nurses. She had dozed almost constantly during
the night, and been delirious when awakened to take nourishment or
tonics, muttering senseless and disconnected words, and moaning in
pain, the location and nature of which she could not describe to the
"I remember that Mabel and I," she continued, dreamily, after a
long pause—then correcting herself, "I ask your pardon, Frederic! I
said I wouldn't speak of her ever again to you, but we were so much
together in those days. Moreover, it has troubled me at times, that
you did not know who your real friends were, and she did like
you—and—and—what am I saying! You shouldn't let me run on so!"
She raised her hand with difficulty, and tried to wipe away the
film gathering over her dilated eyes.
"Never mind, my darling! Do not attempt to talk! You are too weak
and tired!" said her husband, tenderly.
"Tired!" catching at the word, "That is it! There is nothing else
the matter, whatever Dr. Ritchie and the rest of them may say. Tired!
for how many years I have been THAT! It seems like a thousand. This
world is a tiresome place to most people, I think I shall never forget
how jaded Mabel looked that week," breaking off, as before, with a
frightened start, such as a dreamer gives when he fancies he is
falling from an immeasurable height. "Indeed, Fred, dear!" feeling for
his hand upon the coverlet, "I did not mean to wound or offend you. It
was a terrible ordeal for you, my love! But you came out of it as
silver seven times refined. That is what the text says—isn't it? And
you and Aunt Rachel are friends once more! That is one good deed I
have done. I hope it will be recorded up THERE! Heaven knows there are
not so many that I can afford to have one overlooked!"
Another season of dozing, and she awoke, rubbing her hands feebly
together, as to cleanse them.
"My hands ought to be whiter—purer! I know what ails them. I
should have picked up the letter she—Mrs. Sutton—wrote you. But I
loved you so—even then!" beseechingly. "You will not hate me when I
am gone? I mean when you get back to Philadelphia, and I am well
enough to be left here. I was sure, if you got it, you would come to
Ridgeley, and I let it go down the stream—down—down! Frederic!"
"I am here, dearest!" slipping his arm under, and raising her, as
her shrill cry rang out, and she grasped the empty air. "Rosa, my
"I thought I was strangling—in the water! I am your wife—am I
not? She couldn't take you from me if she were here. I wish she were!
I always liked Mabel. She was a good, true woman—but she did not love
you as I did!"
Panting for breath, she leaned upon her husband's breast, and her
eyelids fell together again. Only for a moment! Then a smile—fond,
sweet, and penitent—played among the ashy shadows encircling her
mouth. "Poor little Florence! I am sorry I was cross to her. Tell her
so, papa!" Her husband stooped to kiss her, laid her back upon the
pillows, closed the sightless eyes, and left Mrs. Sutton alone with
CHAPTER XVII. AFTER FIFTEEN YEARS.
"OLD Mrs. Tazewell has departed this life at last!" said Winston
Aylett, entering his own parlor one bleak November evening on his
return from the village post-office. "I met Al. Branch on the road
just now. For a wonder he was sober—in honor of the occasion, I
suppose. He and Gus. Tabb are to sit up with the corpse to-night."
"When did she die?" queried his wife, drawing her skirts aside,
that he might get nearer the fire.
"At twelve o'clock to-day. That is, she ceased the unprofitable
business of respiration at that hour. She died, virtually, five years
ago. She has been little better than a mummy for that period."
"Poor old lady!" said Mabel Dorrance, regretfully, from her corner
of the hearth. "Hers was a kind heart, while she could think and act
intelligently. One of my earliest recollections is of the dainties
with which she used to ply me when I visited Rosa. She was an
indulgent parent and mistress, yet I suppose few even of those most
nearly related to her will mourn her loss."
"It would be very foolish if they did!" Mr. Aylett picked up the
tongs to mend the fire. "And very unnatural did they not rejoice at
being rid of a burden. The old place has been going to destruction
all these years, and it could not be sold while she cumbered the
No one replied directly to this delicate and feeling observation,
and Mrs. Aylett presently diverted the conversation slightly by
"And Alfred Branch has gone to tender his services to the family!
There is something romantic in his constancy to a memory. From the
day of Rosa's death, he has embraced every chance of testifying his
respect for and wish to serve her friends. He is a sadder wreck than
was Mrs. Tazewell. You would hardly recognize him, Mabel. His hair
and beard are white as those of a man of sixty-five, and his face
bloated out of all comeliness."
"White heat!" interjected Mr. Aylett. "He can not last much
"And all because a pretty girl said him 'Nay!'" pursued the wife.
Mr. Aylett and Mr. Dorrance made characteristic responses in a
"The greater blockhead he!" said one.
The other, "His was never a rightly balanced mind, I suspect. I
always thought him weak and impressionable."
"Are your adjectives synonymous?" asked Mrs. Aylett playfully.
Her brother had been reading at a distant window, while the
daylight sufficed to show him the type of his book. He now laid it by,
and came forward into the redder circle of radiance cast by the
burning logs. He was in his forty-third year, saturnine of visage,
coldly monotonous in accent, a business machine that did its work in
good, substantial style, and undertook no "fancy jobs." He had amassed
a handsome fortune, built a handsome house, and married a handsome
woman, all of which appendages to his consequence he contemplated
with grim complacency. As regarded spiritual likeness, mutual
affection, and assimilation of feeling and opinion, he and his wife
had receded, the one from the other, in the fourteen years of their
wedded life. There had been no decided rupture. Both disliked
altercations, and where radical opposition of sentiment existed, they
avoided the unsafe ground by tacit consent. Mabel's uniform policy was
that of outward submission to the mandates of her chief.
"After all, it makes little difference!" she fell into the habit of
saying in the earlier years of matronhood, and he interpreted her
listless acquiescence in his decrees as faith in the soundness of his
judgment, the infallibility of his decisions. No woman of sense and
spirit ever becomes an exemplar in unquestioning obedience to a mortal
man, unless through apathy—fatal torpor of mind or heart. Of this
fact in moral history our respactable barrister was happily ignorant.
He was no better versed in the lore of the heart feminine than when he
accepted Mabel Aylett's esteem and friendly regard in lieu of the shy,
but ardent attachment a betrothed maiden should have for the one she
means to make her husband.
He respected her thoroughly, and loved her better than he did
anybody else. She was the one woman he recognized as his sister's
superior—supremacy due to the influence of single-minded integrity
and modest dignity. What Mabel said, he believed without gainsaying;
while Clara's clever dicta required winnowing to separate the
probably spurious from the possibly true. If his tone, in addressing
his wife, was seldom affectionate, it was never careless, as that
which replied to his sister's raillery.
"Generally," he said in his metallic, unmodulated voice. "The man
who would cast away health, usefulness, and fortune in his chagrin at
not winning the hand of a shallow-pated, volatile flirt, must be both
silly and susceptible."
"Rosa Tazewell may have been shallow of heart, but she was not of
pate," answered Mr. Aylett, with a cold sneer. "She was a fair
plotter, and not fickle of purpose when she had her desires upon a
much-coveted object. Her marriage proved that. She meant to captivate
Chilton before she had known him a month—yes, and to marry him, as
she finally did. Her intermediate conquests were but the practice that
was to perfect her in her profession. Does anybody know, by the way,
if he has ever taken a second wife to his bereaved bosom?"
A brief silence, then Mrs. Aylett said, negligently, "I think not.
Mrs. Trent, Rosa's sister, was expatiating to me a month since upon
the beauty and accomplishments of his daughter, and she said nothing
of a step-mother. Father and child live with a married sister of Mrs.
Chilton, I believe."
"I had not heard that Rosa left a child," remarked Mabel,
interested. "I understood that two died before the mother."
"Only one—and that the younger. Miss Florence is now twelve years
old, Mrs. Trent says. I saw her at church once, when she was visiting
her grandmother and aunts. She is really passable—but very unlike her
Mabel did not join in the desultory talk that engaged the others
until supper-time. There was a broken string in her heart, that
jangled painfully when touched by an incautious hand.
"Twelve years old!" she was saying, inwardly. "My darling would
have been thirteen, had she lived!"
And then flitted before her fancy a girlish form, with pure, loving
eyes, and a voice melodious as a mocking-bird's. Warm arms were about
her neck, and a round, soft cheek laid against hers—as no human arms
and face would ever caress her—her, the childless, whose had been the
hopes, fears, pains—never the recompence of maternity.
She had been to the graveyard that day—secretly, lest her husband
should frown, Clara wonder, and Winston sneer at her love for and
memory of that which had never existed, according to their rendering
of the term. She had trimmed the wire-grass out of the little hollow,
above which the mound had not been renewed since the day of her baby's
burial, and, trusting to the infrequency of others' visits to the
neglected enclosure, had laid a bunch of white rose-buds over the
unmarked dust she accounted still a part of her heart, 'neath which it
had lain so long. People said she had never been a mother; never had
had a living child; had no hope of seeing it in heaven. God and she
"Clara, I wish you to attend Mrs. Tazewell's funeral this
afternoon," said Mr. Aylett at breakfast the next day but one after
this. "There were invidious remarks made upon your non-appearance at
her daughter's, and I do not choose that my family shall furnish food
for neighborhood scandal."
"My dear Winston, you must recollect what an insufferable headache
I had that day."
"Don't have one to-day," ordered her husband laconically. "Mabel,
do you care to go?"
"By all means. I would not fail, even in seeming, in rendering
respect to one I used to like so much, and whose kindness to me was
unvarying. You have no objection, Herbert?"
"None. I may accompany you—the day being fine, and the roads in
The funeral was conducted with the disregard of what are, in other
regions, established customs that distinguish such occasions in the
rural districts of Virginia.
Written notices had been sent out, far and near, the day before,
announcing that the services would begin at two o'clock, but when the
Aylett party arrived at a quarter of an hour before the time
specified, there was no appearance of regular exercises of any kind.
A dozen carriges besides theirs were clustered about the front gate,
and a long line of saddle-horses tethered to the fence. Knots of
gentlemen in riding costume dotted the lawn and porches, and
within-doors ladies sat, or walked at their ease in the parlor and
dining room, or gathered in silent tearfulness around the open coffin
in the wide central hall.
The bed-room of the deceased was a roomy apartment in a wing of the
building, and to this Mabel was summoned before she could seat
"Miss Mary's compliments and love, ma'am; and she says won't you
please step in thar, and set with Mistis' friends and relations?" was
the audible message delivered to her by Mrs. Trent's spry
Herbert looked dubious, and Mrs. Aylett enlarged her fine eyes in a
manner that might mean either superciliousness or well-bred
amazement. But Mabel was neither surprised nor doubtful as to the
proper course for her to pursue. Time was when she was as much at
home here as Rosa herself, and Mrs. Tazewell's partiality for her was
shared by others of the family. That she had met none of them in ten
or twelve years, did not at a season like the present dampen their
affection. They would rather on this account seize upon the
opportunity of honoring publicly their mother's old favorite.
The chamber was less light than the hall she traversed to reach it.
She recognized Mary Trent, the daughter next in age to Rosa, who
fell upon her neck in a sobbing embrace, then the other sisters and
their brother, Morton Tazewell, with his wife, and was formally
presented to their children.
Finally she turned inquiringly toward a gentleman who stood against
the window opposite the door, with a little girl beside him.
Confused beyond measure, as the hitherto unthought-of consequences
of her impulsive action in sending for her friend rushed upon her
mind, Mrs. Trent faltered out:
"I forgot! You must excuse me, but I was so anxious to see you. My
brother-in-law, Mr. Chilton. He arrived yesterday—not having heard
of mother's death."
And for the first time since they looked their passionate farewell
into each other's eyes under the rose-arch of the portico at
Ridgeley, on that rainy summer morning, the two who had been lovers
again touched hands.
"I hope you are quite well, Mr. Chilton," said Mabel's firm, gentle
voice. "Is this your daughter?" kissing the serious-faced child on
the forehead, and looking intently into her eyes in the hope of
discovering a resemblance to her mother.
Then she went back to a chair next to Mrs. Trent's, and began to
talk softly of the event that had called them together, not glancing
again at the window until the outer hall was stilled, that the
clergyman might begin the funeral prayer.
"The services will be concluded at the grave," was the announcement
that succeeded the sermon; and there followed the shuffling of the
bearers' feet, and their measured tramp across the floors and down
the steps of the back porch.
The daughters and daughter-in-law let fall their veils and pulled
on their gloves, and Herbert Dorrance beckoned somewhat impatiently to
his wife from the parlor door. While she was on her way to join him,
she saw his complexion vary to a greenish sallow, his mouth work
spasmodically, and his eyes sink in anger or dismay.
Winston Aylett likewise noted and knew it, for the same look of
abject terror he had observed upon the hard Scotch face when Mabel
enumerated upon her fingers those she accused of having robbed her of
The wife attributed it to displeasure at seeing Frederic Chilton
among the mourners. Her whilom guardian, never charitable overmuch,
inclined the more to the belief begotten within him by other
incidents, to wit: that his brother-in-law's talk was more doughty
than his deeds, and his real sentiment upon beholding the man he
boasted of having flogged as a libertine and coward, was physical
dread for his own safety. Watchful alike of the other party to the
ancient quarrel, he was rewarded by the sight of Chilton's
irrepressible start and frown, when Mabel put her hand within her
husband's arm, and stood awaiting the formation of the procession.
The discarded lover gazed steadfastly into Dorrance's countenance in
passing to his place, in recognition that scouted assimilarity with
salutation, but his eye did not waver or his color fade.
"I would not be afraid to wager that this is but another version of
the fable of the statue of the man rampant and the lion couchant,"
thought Mr. Aylett, following with his wife in the funeral train down
the grass-grown alley leading through the garden to the family
burying-ground. "It would be an entertaining study of human veracity
if I could hear Chilton's story, and compare the two. He is either an
audacious rascal, or there is something back of all that I have heard
which will not bear the light."
It was not remorse at the thought of the total alteration in his
sister's life and feelings that had grown out of this imperfect or
false evidence, but simple curiosity to inspect the lineaments and
note the actions of the cool rascal whose audacity commanded his
admiration, and note his bearing in the event of his coming into
closer contact with his former foe, that prompted him to single him
out for scrutiny among those whose relationship to the deceased
secured them places nearest the grave.
For a time the widower was gravely quiet, holding his child's hand
and looking down steadfastly into the pit at his feet, perhaps
remembering more vividly than anything else a certain sunny day in
March, many years back, when another fissure yawned close by, where
now a green mound—the ridged scar with which the earth had closed
the wound in her breast—and a stately shaft of white marble were all
that remained to the world of "Rosa, wife of Frederic Chilton." But,
while the mould was being heaped upon the coffin, he raised his eyes,
and let them rove aimlessly over the crowd, neither avoiding nor
courting observation—the cursory regard of a man who had no strong
interest in any person or group there. They changed singularly in
resting upon the family from Ridgeley. A stare of stupefaction gave
place to living fires of angry suspicion and amazement—lurid flame
that testified its violence in the reddening of cheeks and brow, in
the dilating nostril and quivering lips. Then he passed his hand
downward over his features, evidently conscious of their distortion,
and striving after a semblance of equanimity, and looked again in
stern fixity, not at her from whom he had been parted in the early
summer of his manhood, nor at his successful rival, nor yet at the
guardian who had offered him gratuitous insult in addition to the
injury of refusing to permit his ward's marriage with a disgraced
adventurer—but at Mrs. Aylett, the chatelaine of Ridgeley, the wife
whose serene purity had never been blemished by a doubting breath;
chaste and polished matron; the admired copy for younger and less
discreet, but not more beautiful women. He surveyed her boldly—if the
imagination had not seemed preposterous—Mr. Aylett would have said
scornfully, as he might study the face and figure of some abandoned
wretch who had accosted him in the public thoroughfare as an
A haughty and uncontrollable gesture from the husband succeeded in
diverting the offender's notice to himself for one instant—not more.
But in that flash he detected a shade of difference in the expression
that irked him; a ray, that was inquiry, sharp and eager, tempered by
compassion, yet still contemptuous.
All this passed in less time than it has taken me to write a line
descriptive of the pantomime. The mound was shaped, and the
decorously mournful train turned from it to retrace their course to
the house, Frederic Chilton imitating the example of those about him,
but moving like a sleep-walker, his brows corrugated and eyes
sightless to all surrounding objects. He had awakened when the
Ridgeley carriage drove to the door. Mrs. Sutton detained Mabel in
one of the upper chambers to concert plans for a visit to the
homestead while the Dorrances should be there. Aunt and niece had not
met since the arrival of the latter in Virginia, a fortnight before,
the elder lady being in constant attendance upon Mrs. Tazewell.
"This is very stupid! And I am getting hungry!" said Mrs. Aylett,
aside to her lord, as she stood near a front window, tapping the
floor with her feet, while vehicle after vehicle received its load
and rolled off. "We shall be the last on the ground. Herbert! can't
you intimate to Mabel that we are impatient to be gone?"
"I don't know where she is!" growled the brother, for once
non-complaisant to her behest, and not stirring from the chair in the
corner into which he had dropped at his entrance.
His head hung upon his breast, and he appeared to study the lining
of his hat-crown, balancing the brim by his forefingers between his
knees. Mrs. Aylett had lowered her veil in the burying-ground or on
her way thither, but it was a flimsy mass of black lace—richly
wrought, yet insufficient to hide the paleness of the upper part of
her visage. Mr. Aylett watched and wondered, with but one definite
idea in his brain beyond the resolve to ferret out the entire mystery
in his stealthy, taciturn fashion. Herbert Dorrance had been, in some
manner, compromised by his association with this Chilton, had reason
to dread exposure from him, and his sister was the confidante of his
"I shall know all about it in due season," thought the master of
himself and his dependents.
Not that he meant to extort or wheedle it from his consort's
keeping, but he had implicit faith in his own detective talents.
"Here she is at last!" he said, when Mabel came down the staircase,
holding Aunt Rachel's hand, and talking low and earnestly, her noble
face and even gliding step a refreshing contrast to Mrs. Aylett's
nervousness and Herbert's dogged sullenness.
"I am sorry I have kept you so long, but there will be less dust
than if we had gone sooner. The other carriages will have had time to
get out of our way," she said, pleasantly. "Winston," coming up to her
brother, and speaking in an undertone, "will it be quite convenient
for you to send for Aunt Rachel on next Friday?"
"Entirely! The carriage shall be at your service at any hour or day
you wish," with more cordiality than was common with him.
However treacherous others might be in their reserve and
half-confessions, here was one who had never deceived him or
knowingly misled him to believe her better, or otherwise, than she
was. Honesty and truth were stamped upon her face by a life-long
practice of these homely virtues—not by meretricious arts. It was
tardy justice, but he rendered it without grudging, if not heartily.
A few words passed as to the hour at which the carriage was to call
for Mrs. Sutton, and Mabel kissed her "Good-by," the others shaking
hands with her, and with three or four of the Tazewell kinsmen who
officiated as masters of ceremonies, and Mrs. Aylett made an
impatient movement toward the front steps. Directly in her route,
leaning against a pillar of the old-fashioned porch, was Frederic
Chilton, no longer dreamy and perplexed, but on the alert with eye
and ear—not losing one sound of her voice, or trick of feature. She
inclined her head slightly and courteously, the notice due a friend
of the house she, as guest, was about to leave. He did not bow, nor
relax the rigor of his watch. Only, when she was seated in the
carriage, he bent respectfully and mutely before Mabel, who followed
her hostess, and paying as little attention to the two gentlemen as
they did to him walked up to Mrs. Sutton, and said something
inaudible to the bystanders. As they drove out of the yard, the
Ridgeley quartette saw the pair saunter, side by side, to the extreme
end of the portico, apparently to be out of hearing of the rest, but
no one remarked aloud upon the renewed intimacy and then confidential
"If it is anything very startling, the old gossip will never keep
it to herself," Mr. Aylett congratulated himself, while his wife's
complexion paled gradually to bloodlessness, and Herbert sat back in
his corner, sulky and dumb. "And she is coming to us on Friday!"
CHAPTER XVIII. THUNDER IN THE AIR.
THE only malady that put Herbert Dorrance in frequent and
unpleasant remembrance of his mortality was a fierce headache, which
had of late years supervened upon any imprudence in diet, and upon
excessive agitation of mind or physical exertion. His invariable
custom, when he awoke at morning with one of these, was to trace it
to its supposed source, and after determining that it was nothing
more than might have been expected from the circumstance, to commit
himself to his wife's nursing for the day.
She ought, therefore, to have been surprised when, while admitting
that the pain in his head was intense, he yet, on the morrow
succeeding Mrs. Tazewell's funeral, persisted in rising and dressing
"It must have been the roast duck at dinner yesterday," he calmly
and languidly explained the attack. "It was fat, and the stuffing
reeked with butter, sage, and onion. An ostrich could not have
digested it. I was tired, too, and should not have eaten heartily of
even the plainest food."
Mabel neither opposed nor sustained the theory. She had slept so
ill herself as to know how restless he had been; had heard his hardly
suppressed sighs and tossings to and fro, infallible indications with
him of serious perturbation. Had his discomfort been bodily only, he
would have felt no compunction in calling her to his aid, as he had
done scores of times. Her sleepless hours had also been fraught with
melancholy disquiet. Putting away from her—with firmness begotten by
virtue born of will—and so much of this thoughtfulness as pertained
to the bygone days with which Frederic Chilton was inseparable
associated, she yet deliberated seriously upon the expediency of
speaking out courageously to Herbert of the relation this man had once
borne to her, the incidents of their recent meeting, and the effect
she saw was produced upon her husband's mind by the sight of him.
"If we would have this negative happiness continue, this matter
ought to be settled at once and forever," she said, inwardly. "He
must not suspect me of weak and wicked clinging to the phantoms of my
youth; must believe that I do not harbor a regret or wish incompatible
with my duty as his wife. I will avail myself of the first favorable
moment to assure him of the folly of his fears and of his discomfort."
Another consideration—the natural sequence of her conviction of
his unhappiness—was a touching appeal to her woman's heart. If he had
not loved her more fervently than his phlegmatic temperament and
undemonstrative bearing would induce one to suppose, he would not
dread the rekindling of her olden fancy for another. The image of him
who, she had confessed, had taught her the depth and weight of her own
affections, whom she had loved as she had never professed to care for
him, would not have haunted his pillow to chase sleep, and torture him
"I must make him comprehend that Mabel Aylett at twenty, wilful,
romantic, and undisciplined, was a different being from the woman who
has called him 'husband,' without a blush, for fourteen years!"
It was these recollections that softened her kindly tones to
tenderness; made the pressure of her hand upon his temples a caress,
rather than a manual appliance for deadening pain; while she combated
his intention of appearing at the breakfast-table.
"Lie down upon the sofa!" she entreated. "Let me bring up a cup of
strong coffee for you; then darken the room, and chafe your head
until you fall asleep, since you turn a deaf ear to all proposals of
mustard foot-baths and Dr. Van Orden's panacea pills."
"No!" stubbornly. "Aylett and Clara would think it strange. They do
not understand how a slight irregularity of diet or habit can produce
such a result. They would attribute it to other causes. I may feel
better when I have taken something nourishing."
The dreaded critics received the tidings of his indisposition
without cavil at its imputed origin, treated the whole subject with
comparative indifference, which would have mortified him a week ago,
but seemed now to assuage his unrest. The breakfast hour was a quiet
one. Herbert could not attempt the form of eating, despite his
expressed hope of the curative effects of nourishment, and sipped his
black coffee at tedious intervals of pain, looking more ill after
each. Mabel was silent, and regardful of his suffering, while Mrs.
Aylett toyed with the tea-cup, broke her biscuit into small heaps of
crumbs upon her plate, and under her visor of ennui and indolent
musing, kept her eye upon her vis-a-vis, whose face was opaque ice;
and his intonations, when he deigned to speak, meant nothing save that
he was controller of his own meditations, and would not be meddled
"You are not well enough to ride over to the Courthouse with me,
Dorrance?" he said, interrogatively, his meal despatched. "It is
court-day, you know?"
"What do you say, Mabel?" was Herbert's clumsy reference to his
nurse. "Don't you think I might venture?"
"I would not, if I were in your place," she replied, cautiously
dissuasive. "The day is raw, and there will be rain before evening.
Dampness always aggravates neuralgia."
"It is neuralgia, then, is it?" queried Winston, shortly, drawing
on his boots.
His sister looked up surprised.
"What else should it be?"
"Nothing—unless the symptoms indicate softening of the brain!" he
rejoined, with his slight, dissonant laugh. "In either case, your
decision is wise. He is better off in your custody than he would be
abroad. I hope I shall find you convalescent when I return. Good
His wife accompanied him to the outer door.
"It is chilly!" she shivered, as this was opened. "Are you warmly
clad, love?" feeling his overcoat. "And don't forget your umbrella."
Her hand had not left his shoulder, and, in offering a parting
kiss, she leaned her head there also.
"I wish you would not go!" she said impulsively and sincerely.
"I cannot say—except that I dread to be left alone all day. You
may laugh at me, but I feel as if something terrible were hanging over
me—or you. The spiritual oppression is like the physical
presentiment sensitive temperaments suffer when a thunder-storm is
brooding, but not ready to break. Yet I can refer my fears to no
"That is folly." Mr. Aylett bit off the end of a cigar, and felt in
his vest pocket for a match-safe. "You should be able always to
assign a reason for the fear as well as the hope that is in you. You
have no idea, you say, from what recent event your prognostication
takes its hue?"
She laughed, and straightened her fine neck.
"From the same imprudence that has consigned poor Herbert to the
house for the day, I suspect—a late and heavy dinner. I had the
nightmare twice before morning. You will be home to supper?"
Hesitating upon the monosyllable, he took hold of her elbows, so as
to bring her directly before him, and searched her countenance until
it was dyed with blushes.
"Why do you color so furiously?" he asked in raillery that had a
sad or sardonic accent. "I was about to ask if you would be
inconsolable if I never came back. Perhaps your presentiment points to
some such fatality. These little accidents have happened in
better-regulated families than ours."
She gasped and blanched in pain or terror.
"What is the matter? Have I hurt you?" releasing his grasp.
"Yes—HERE!" laying his hand upon her heart, the beautiful eyes
terrified and pathetic as those of a wounded deer. "For the love of
Heaven, never stab me again with such suggestions. When you die, I
shall not care to live. When you cease to love me, I shall wish we
had died together on our marriage-day—my husband!"
He let her twine her arms about his neck, laid his cheek to her
brow, clasped her tightly and kissed her impetuously, madly, again
and yet again—disengaged himself, and ran down the steps. She was
standing on the top one, still flushed and breathless from the
violence of his embrace, when he looked back from the gate, her
commanding figure framed by the embowering creepers, as Mabel's
girlish shape had been when Frederic Chilton waved his farewell to
her from the same spot.
Did either of them think of it, or would either have reckoned it an
ominous coincidence, if the remembrance of that long-ago parting had
presented itself then and there?
Herbert spent the day upon the lounge in the family sitting-room—a
cosy retreat, between the parlor and the conservatory, which had been
added to the lower floor in the reign of the present queen. Her
brother's seizure was no trifling ailment. Alternations of stupor and
racking spasms of pain defied, for several hours, his wife's
application of the remedies she had found efficacious in former
attacks. Her ultimate resort was chloroform, and by the liberal use
of this, relaxation of the tense nerves and a sleep that resembled
healing repose were induced by the middle of the afternoon. The
weather continued to threaten rain, although none had fallen as yet,
and the wind moaned lugubriously in the leafless branches of the
great walnut before the end window of the narrow apartment. It was a
grand tree, the patriarch of the grove that sheltered the house from
the north winds. Mabel, relieved from watchfulness, and to some
extent from anxiety, by her husband's profound slumber, lay back in
her chair with a long-drawn sigh, and looked out at the naked limbs
of the wrestling giant—the majestic sway and reel she used to note
with childish awe—and thought of many things which had befallen her
since then, until the steady rocking of the boughs and hum of the
November breeze soothed her into languor—then drowsiness—then
She awoke in alarm at the sense of something hurtful or startling
hovering near her.
The fire had been trimmed before she slept, and now flamed up
gayly; the window was dusky, as were the distant corners of the room,
and Herbert was gazing steadfastly at her.
"I fell asleep without knowing it. I am sorry! Have you wanted
anything? How long have you been awake?"
"Only a few minutes, my dearest!" with no change in the mesmeric
intentness of his gaze. "I want nothing more than to have you always
near me. You have been a good, faithful wife, Mabel, better and
nobler—a thousandfold nobler than I deserved. I have thought it all
over while you were sleeping so tranquilly in my sight. I wish my
conscience were void of evil to all mankind as is yours. I awoke with
an odd and awful impression upon my mind. The firelight flamed in a
bright stream between your chair and me—and I must have dreamed
it—or the chloroform had affected my head—I thought it was a river
of light dividing us! You were a calm, white angel who had entered
into rest—uncaring for and forgetful of me. I was lost, homeless,
wandering forever and ever!"
Had her prosaic spouse addressed her in a rhythmic improvisation,
Mabel could not have been more astounded.
"You are dreaming yet!" she said, kneeling by him and binding his
temples with her cool, firm palms. "When we are divided, it will be
by a dark—not a bright river."
"Until death do us part!" Herbert repeated, thoughtfully. "I wish I
could hear you say, once, that you do not regret that clause of your
marriage vow. I was not your heart's choice, you know, Mabel, however
decided may have been the approval of your friends and of your
judgment. The thought oppresses me as it did not in the first years of
our wedded life."
"I am glad you have spoken of this," began the wife. "I would
disabuse your mind—"
"All in the dark!" exclaimed Mrs. Aylett, at the door. "And what a
stifling odor of chloroform!"
Mabel got up, and drew a heavy travelling-shawl that covered
Herbert's lower limbs over his arms and chest.
"I will open the window!" she said, deprecatingly.
A sluice of cold air rushed in, beating the blaze this way and
that, puffing ashes from the hearth into the room, and eliciting from
Mrs. Aylett what would have been a peevish interjection in another
"My dear sister! the remedy is worse than the offence. Chloroform
is preferable to creosote, or whatever abominable element is the
principal ingredient of smoke and cold! The thermometer must be down
to the freezing-point!"
Mabel lowered the sash.
"You have been sitting in a room without fire, I suspect. The
temperature here is delightful. I am sorry we have exiled you from
such comfortable quarters."
"Don't speak of it! I cannot endure to sit here alone—or anywhere
else. I have slept most of the afternoon. How the wind blows! I wish
Winston were at home."
"It is a dark afternoon. He seldom returns from court so early as
this. It is not six yet."
Mabel still essayed pacification of the other's ruffled mood.
"You are better, I see," Mrs. Aylett said abruptly to her brother.
"You were not subject to these spells formerly. People generally
outlive constitutional headaches—so I have noticed. It is queer
yours should occur so often and wax more violent each time. You
should have medical advice before they ripen into a more serious
Herbert shaded his eyes from the fire, and lay with out replying,
until his wife believed he had relapsed into a doze.
She was convinced of her mistake by his saying, slowly and
"You do not enter into Clara's whole meaning, Mabel. We have been
careful, all of us, never to tell you that our father was imbecile by
the time he was fifty and died, in his sixtieth year, of the disease
your brother named this morning—softening of the brain. I, of all his
children, am most like him physically. If it be true that this danger
menaces me, you should be informed of it, and know, furthermore, that
it is incurable."
Mabel also paused before answering.
"I cannot assent to the hypothesis of your inherited malady,
Herbert. These headaches may mean nothing. But let that be as it may,
you should have told me of this before."
"You see," broke in Mrs. Aylett's triumphant sarcasm. "The reward
of your maiden attempt at congugal confidence is reproof. What have I
warned you from the beginning?"
"Not reproof," corrected Mabel, in mild decision. "My knowledge of
the secret he deemed it wise and kind to withhold would have gained
for him my sympathy, and my more constant and intelligent care of his
health. It is the hidden fear that grows and multiplies itself most
rapidly. Before it is killed it must be dragged to the light."
"That is YOUR hypothesis," was the bright retort. "We Dorrances
have justly earned a reputation for dissretion by the excellent
preservation of our own secrets, and those committed to our keeping
by our friends. My motto is, tell others nothing about yourself which
they cannot learn without your confession. An autobiography is always
either a bore or a blunder. Not that I would regulate the number and
nature of your divulgations to your wife, Herbert. As to Winston's
unlucky hit this morning, it was mere fortuity. I have never felt
myself called upon to enlighten him in family secrets, and his is an
incurious disposition. He never asks idle questions. He has a
marvellous faculty of striking home-blows in the dark, but that is no
reason why one should betray his wound by crying out. Apropos to
darkness, may I ring for a lamp, or will the light hurt your eyes?"
"The fire-light is more trying," rejoined Mabel, pushing a screen
before the sofa, and placing herself where she could, in its shadow,
hold her husband's hand.
It was cold and limp when she lifted it, but tightened upon hers
with the instinctive grip of gratitude too profound to be uttered.
She had never been so near loving him as at the instant in which he
believed he had incurred her ever-lasting displeasure. Generosity and
pity were fast undoing the petrifying influences of her early
disappointment, their mutual reserve, and tacit misunderstandings. If
half he feared were true, his need of her affection, her counsel and
companionship were dire. Whatever wrong he had done her by keeping
back the tale of hereditary infirmity, he had suffered more from the
act than she could ever do. Who knew how much of what she, with
others, mistook for constitutional phlegm and studied austerity, was
the outward sign of the battle between dread of his inherited doom and
the resolve of an iron will to defy natural laws and the sentence of
destiny herself, and hold reason upon her rickety throne?
Heaven's gentlest and kindest angels were busy with Mabel
Dorrance's heart in that reverie, and, as they wrought, the cloud that
had rested there for fifteen years broke into rainbow smiles that
illumined her countenance into the similitude of the shining ones.
"I bless Thee, Father, the All-wise and Ever-merciful, that she is
safe!" was her voiceless thanksgiving.
No more bitter tears over the lonely, sunken grave! no more
hearkening, with aching, never-to-be-satisfied ears for the patter of
the "little feet that never trod." The great sorrow of her life that
had been good in His sight was at length a blessing in hers. Her
"hereafter" of knowledge of His doings had come to her in this world.
"Does it rain, Peter?" questioned Mrs. Aylett of the lad who
brought in lights.
"Yes, ma'am. It's beginnin' to storm powerful!" he said,
"Your master has not come?"
"See that the lantern over the great gate is lighted, and that some
one is ready to take his horse. And, Peter," as he was going out,
"tell Thomas not to bring in supper until Mr. Aylett returns."
She moved to the window, bowed her hands on either side of her eyes
to exclude the radiance within, and strained them into the black,
"He will have a dark and a disagreeable ride," she said, coming
back to the fire.
Her uneasiness was so palpable as to excite Mabel's compassion.
"Every step of the road is familiar to him, and he is accustomed to
night rides," she said, encouragingly. "Yes," absently. "But he will
be very wet. Hear the rain!"
It plashed against the north window, and tinkled upon the tin roof
of the conservatory, and Mabel, though aware of her brother's
habitual disregard of wind and weather, could not but sympathize with
the wifely concern evinced by the sober physiognomy and unsettled
demeanor of one generally so calm. She observed, now, that her
sister-in-law was arrayed more richly than usual, and her attire was
always handsome and tasteful. A deep purple silk, trimmed upon skirt
and waist with velvet bands of darker purple, showed off her clear
skin to fine advantage, and was saved from monotony of effect by a
headdress of lace and buff ribbons. A stately and a comely matron, she
was bedight for her lord's return; weighed as heavy each minute that
detained him from her arms.
She was still standing by the low mantel, her arm resting lightly
upon it, the fire-blaze bringing out lustrous reflections in her
drapery and hair, and tinging her pensive check with youthful
carmine, when her husband entered.
CHAPTER XIX. NEMESIS.
IT was a peculiarity of Winston Aylett that he was never
discomposed in seeming, however embarrassing or distressing might be
his position. In his childhood he was one to whom, to use the common
phrase, dirt would not stick. His face was clean and fair, his hands
smooth, and his hair in order after rough and tumble experiences that
sent his companions home begrimed, ragged, and unkempt frights.
To-night, he had ridden a dozen miles in the teeth of the storm, and
made no pause before appearing before his wife and sister, except to
lay off his hat and overcoat in the hall. But had he expected to
encounter a roomful of ladies, his costume could not have been more
His linen was pure and fresh, even to the narrow line of wristband
edging his coat sleeve; his clearly cut patrician features were
tranquil in every line and tint; his step was the light, yet
deliberate stride of an athlete without passion or bravado. Conscious
power, inexorable will, and thorough self-command were stamped upon
him from crown to foot, and his salutation to the small family party
accompanied a smile as mirthless and cold as were his eyes.
Mrs. Aylett advanced a step, not more, and returned the bow that
comprehended all present, with a pleased, not rapturous welcome.
"We were beginning to fear lest you might be wet," she said,
emulating his polite equanimity. Genuine tact is always
chameleon-like in quality. "It rains quite fast, does it not?"
"The storm is increasing, but I experienced no inconvenience from
it, thank you."
He sat down in his favorite arm-chair, and spread his fingers
before the fire.
"I am happy to see you so very much better"—to Herbert. "There
were many kind inquiries for you at the court-house to-day. Dr.
Ritchie wanted to know if you had ever taken nux vomica for these
neuralgic turns. I invited him to come in with me and prescribe for
you, but he said he must push on home, so we parted at the outer
So affable as almost to put others at their ease in his company, he
chatted until supper was announced; regretted civilly Herbert's
inability to go to the table, and gave his sister his arm into the
dining-room, Mrs. Aylett following in their wake. If he did not eat
heartily, he praised, in gentlemanly moderation, the viands selected
by his consort for his delectation after his wet ride, and pleaded a
late dinner as the reason of his present abstinence. Then they
adjourned to the apartment where they had left Mr. Dorrance, and the
host produced his cigar-case.
"Mabel says that smoke never offends your olfactories, or affects
your head unpleasantly, when you are suffering from this nervous
affection," he said to Herbert.
"On the contrary, it often acts as a sedative," was the reply.
Winston lighted a cigar with an allumette from a bronze
taper-stand—a Christmas gift from his wife, which she kept supplied
with fanciful spiles twisted and fringed into a variety of shapes;
drew several long breaths to be certain that the fire had taken hold
of the heart of the Havana, tossed the pretty paper into the embers,
and resumed his seat in the chimney corner.
"A sedative is a good thing for people who allow their nerves to
get out of gear," he remarked, dryly and leisurely, puffing
contentedly in the middle and at the end of the sentence. "But he who
does this subverts the order of the ruler aad the ruled. I supposed I
had nerves once, but it is an age since they have dared molest me. I
know that I had my impulses when I was younger."
He stopped to fillip the ash forming upon the ignited end of his
cigar, performing the operation with nicety, using the extreme tip of
his middle-finger nail over the salver attached for the purpose to the
"I obeyed one, above a dozen years ago. I learned only to-day that
it was rash and unwise, and to how much evil it may lead."
"Not a very active evil, if you have just discovered it to be
The speaker was his sister. Herbert was motionless upon his couch.
Mrs. Aylett, in the lounging-chair at the opposite side of the hearth
from her husband, was cutting the leaves of a new magazine he had
brought from the post-office, and did not seem to hear his remark.
"You reason upon the assumption that ignorance is bliss," said Mr.
Aylett. "Allow me to express the opinion that the adage embodying
that idea is the refuge of cowards and fools. No matter how grievous
a bankrupt a man may be financially in spirit, he is craven or a
blockhead to shrink the investigation of his accounts. Which allusion
to bankruptcy brings me to the recital of a choicely offensive bit of
scandal I heard to-day. It is seldom that I give heed to the like, but
the delicious rottenness revealed by this tale enforced my hearing,
and fixed the details in my mind. I could not but think, as I rode
home, of the accessories which would add effectiveness, to-night, to
my second-hand narrative. I had the whole scene, which is now before
me, in my mind's eye—the warm firelight and the shaded lamp
brightening all within, while the rain pattered without; the
interesting invalid over there gradually stirring into interest as the
story progressed; you, Mabel, calmly and critically attentive; and my
Lady Aylett, too proud to look the desire she really feels to handle
the lovely carrion."
"Your figures are not provocative of insatiable appetite," returned
his wife, with inimitable sang-froid, staying her paper knife that
she might examine an engraving.
"Your appetite needs further excitants, then? So did mine until I
began to suspect that the history might be authentic, and not a
figment of the raconteur's imagination. The hero's name at first
disposed me to set down the entire relation as a fiction. It is
romantic enough to perfume a three-volume novel—Julius Lennox!"
Mabel's instinctive thought was for her husband, but, in turning to
him she could not but notice that Mrs. Aylett sat motionless, the
paper-cutter between two leaves, and her left hand pressed hard upon
the upper, but without attempting to sever them.
Herbert twisted his head upon the pillow until he faced the back of
the sofa, and a convulsion went through him, hardly quelled by the
clasp of Mabel's hand upon his.
"Julius Lennox!" reiterated Mr. Aylett, between the fragrant puffs,
"A lieutenant in the navy—the good-looking, but, as the sequel
proved, not over-steady, spouse of a lady who was the daughter of
another naval officer of similar rank. The latter was compelled to
leave the service on account of incipient idiocy, and retired, upon
half-pay, to an unfashionable quarter of a certain great city, where
his wife, a smart Yankee, opened a boarding-house for law and medical
students, and contrived not only to keep the souls and bodies of her
family together, but to marry off her two still single daughters—the
one to a barrister, the other to a physician. The lovely Louise
Lennox—a pretty alliteration, is it not?—remained meanwhile under
the paternal roof, her husband's ship being absent most of the time,
and the handsome Julius having unlimited privileges in the line
condemned by "Black-eyed Susan" in her parting interview with her
sailor lover—finding a mistress in every port. It is woman's nature
and wisdom to seek consolation for such afflictions as the deprivation
of the beloved one's society, and the almost certainty that he is
basking his faithless self in the sunlight of another's eyes. Our
heroine, being at once ardent and philosophical, put the lex talionis
into force by falling in love with one of her mother's lodgers, a
sprig of the legal profession. The favored youth—so says my edition
of the romance—remained preternaturally unconscious of the sentiment
he had inspired, attributing her manifestations of partiality to
platonic regard, until she opened his modest eyes by proposing an
elopement. He had completed his professional studies, taken out a
license to practise law, was about to quit her and the city, and the
no-longer-adored Julius was coming home—a wreck in health and
purse—upon a six months' leave of absence. It must be owned the Lady
Louise had some excuse for a measure that seemed to have amazed and
horrified her cicisbeo. Recoiling from the proposition and herself
with the virtuous indignation that is ever aroused in the manly bosom
by similar advances, he packed up his trunk, double-locked it and his
heart, paid his bill, and decamped from the dangerous precincts.
"Ignoble conclusion to a tender affair; but not so devoid of
tragicality as would seem. Infuriated at the desertion of this modern
Joseph, Louise, the lorn, avenged the slight offered her charms by
declaring to her youngest brother, the only one who resided in the
same city with herself, that Joseph had made dishonorable proposals to
her—a proceeding which demonstrates that the feminine character has
withstood the proverbially changing effects of time from age to age.
My narrative is but a later and a Gentile version of the Jewish
novelette to which I have referred. The role of Potiphar was cast for
the unsophisticated brother, who, being unable to immure the
unimpressible Joseph in the Tombs, attempted the only means of redress
that remained to him, to wit: Personal chastisement.
"And here," continued the narrator, yet more slowly, "I find myself
perplexed by the discrepancy between the statement I have had to-day
and one of this section of the story furnished me several years
since. In the latter the indignant fraternal relative flogged the
would-be betrayer within a quarter of an inch of his life. The other
account reverses the position of the parties, and makes Joseph the
incorruptible also the invincible. However this may have been, the
adventure seems to have quenched the loving Louise's brilliancy for a
season. We hear no more of her until after her father's decease, when
she re-enters the lists of Cupid in another State, as the blushing and
still beautiful virgin-betrothed of a man of birth and means, who woos
and weds her under her maiden cognomen—the entire family, including
the valiant brother who figured as whippee or whipper, in the
castigation exploit—being accomplices in the righteous fraud. I
might, did I not fear being prolix, tell of sundry side-issues growing
out of the main stalk of this plot, such as the ingenious manoeuvres
by which the promising couple of conspirators averted, upon the eve of
the sister's bridal, the threatened expose of their machinations to
entrap the wealthy lover. Suffice it to say that the duped husband (by
brevet) lived for a decade and a half in the placid enjoyment of the
ignorance which my sagacious sister here is disposed to confound with
rational bliss—nor is he quite sure, to this day, whether spouse No.
1 of the partner of his bosom still lives, or by clearance in what
court of infamy or justice she managed to shuffle off her real name,
and win a right to resume the title of spinster."
He lighted a fresh cigar, and for the space of perhaps a minute, a
dead and ominous silence prevailed. Mabel, pallid and faint at heart,
could not take her eyes from his countenance, with its cruel smile,
frozen, shallow eyes, and the deep white dints coming and going in his
He had judged without partiality. He would condemn without mercy.
He would punish without remorse.
Herbert still faced the back of the lounge, but he had slipped his
hand from the relaxing hold of hers, and pressed it over his eyes.
She could not seek to possess herself of it again. Winston was not
the only dupe of the nefarious fraud, the betrayal of which had
overtaken the guilty pair thus late in their career of duplicity.
Yet, however severely she had suffered in heart from their falsehood
and her brother's intolerance, no stain would rest upon her name,
while, terminate as the affair might, the disgraceful revelation
would shipwreck her brother's happiness for life, if not bring upon
the old homestead a storm of scandal that would leave no more trace
of the honorable reputation heretofore borne by its owners than
remained of the smiling plenty of the cities of the plain after the
fiery wrath of the Lord had overthrown them.
Mrs. Aylett resumed the suspended operation of cutting the leaves
of her new monthly; fluttered them to be certain that none were
overlooked; laid down the periodical; brushed the scattered bits of
paper from her silken skirt, and retaining the paper-knife—a costly
toy of mother-of-pearl and silver—changed her position so as to look
her husband directly in the eye.
"I believe I can give you the information you lack," she said, in
curiously constrained accents, the concentration of some feeling to
which she could or would not grant other vent. "Clara Louise Lennox
obtained a divorce from her first husband on the grounds of
drunkenness, failure to maintain her, infidelity, and personal
ill-usage. He came home from sea, as you have said, the battered ruin
of a MAN, fallen beyond hope of redemption. There was no law, written
or moral, which obliged her, when once freed from it, to carry about
with her and thrust upon the notice of others the loathsome body of
death typified by his name and her matronly title. She commenced life
anew at her father's death, contrary, let me say to the advice of all
her friends, if I except the mother, who could refuse nothing to her
favorite daughter. The scheme was boldly conceived. You have admitted
that it was successfully carried out. In New York the family were not
known beyond the circle with which they disdained to associate when
the lodging-house business was abandoned. There were a thousand
chances to one that in her new abode Miss Dorrance would be identified
by some busybody with the divorced Mrs. Lennox. She risked her
fortunes upon the one chance, and won. I do not expect you to believe
that the impostor was moved by any other consideration in contracting
her second marriage than the wish to seek the more exalted sphere of
society and influence which Fate had hitherto denied her. You would
sneer were I to hint, however remotely, at a regard for her high-born
suitor the dashing, but dissipated officer had never awakened—"
Mr. Aylett lifted his hand, smiling more evilly than before.
"Excuse the interruption! but after your statement of the fact that
such sentimental asseverations would be futile, you waste time in
recapitulating the loves of the lady aforementioned, and we in
hearing them. I think I express the opinion of the audience—fit, but
few—when I say that we require no other evidence than that afforded
by the story I have told of Mrs. Lennox's susceptibility and capacity
for affection. We are willing to take for granted that the latter was
"As you like!" idly tapping the nails of her left hand with the
knife. "Is there anything else pertaining to this history into which
you would like to inquire?"
It was a sight to curdle the blood about one's heart, this duel
between husband and wife, with double-edged blades, wreathed with
flowers. Mr. Aylett's attitude of lazy indifference was not exceeded
by Clara's proud languor. He laughed a little at the last question.
"I have speculated somewhat—having nothing else in particular to
engage my mind on my way home—upon the point I named just now, and
upon one other akin to it. All that the novel needs to round it off
neatly is an encounter between the real and the quasi consorts. I
cannot specify them by name, in consequence of the uncertainty I have
mentioned. One was a bona-fide husband—the other a bogus article, let
New York divorce laws decide what they will, provided always that the
fallen Julius had not bidden farewell to this lower earth before his
loyal Louise plighted her faith to her Southern gallant. Death is the
Alexander of the universe. There is no retying the knots he has cut."
From the pertinacity with which he returned to the question one
could discern his actual anxiety to have it settled. Mabel understood
that the only salve of possible application to his outraged pride and
love was the discovery that Clara had been really a widow when he
wedded her. The divorce and subsequent deception were sins of heinous
dye against his ideas of respectability and unspotted honor, but he
would never forgive the woman who had had two living husbands, freed
from the former though she was by a legal fiction.
No one saw this more clearly than did she whose fate trembled upon
the next words she should utter. With all her hardihood, she
hesitated to reply. Luxury, wealth, and station were on one side;
degradation and poverty on the other. The solitary hope of
reinstatement in the affection, if not the esteem, of him she loved
truly as it was in her to love anything beside herself, was arrayed
against the certainty of alienation and the tearful odds of
Her answer, under the presure of the warring emotions, was a
semitone lower, and less distinctly enunciated than those that had
gone before it.
"The denouement you propose for your romance is impracticable.
Julius Lennox died before the date of the second marriage."
Herbert drew himself to a sitting posture by clutching the back of
the lounge. His red eyes and tumbled hair made him look more like a
mad than a sick man.
"In the name of Heaven," he demanded hoarsely, "have we not had
enough lies, every one of which has been a blunder, and a fatal one?
I told you, years ago, that the scene of this evening was a mere
question of time; that, without a miracle, an edifice founded upon
iniquity and cemented by falsehood must crush you before you could
lay the top-stone. You would not be warned—you held on your way
without hesitation or compunction, and now you would add to sin
fatuity. Do you suppose that after what your husband has learned of
your untruthfulness he will accept your assertion on any subject
without inquiry? And, how many in your own family and out of
it—although these may not know you by the name you now bear—are
cognizant of the fact that Julius Lennox was alive for almost fifteen
months after you became Mrs. Aylett?"
Mabel's arm was about his neck, her hand upon his mouth.
"No more! no more! if you love me!" she whispered in an agony.
"Should he guess all, he would murder her!"
"You are prepared to certify that he is dead NOW, are you, Mr.
Dorrance?" queried Winston, suspicious of this by-play.
"I am!" sulkily.
"It is a pity!" was the ambiguous rejoinder.
Something clicked upon the hearth. It was the fragments of the toy
stiletto, broken by an uncontrollable twitch of the small fingers
that held it.
Then Mrs. Aylett arose, pale as a ghost, but unquailing in eye or
"May I know your lordship's pleasure respecting your cast-off
"In the morning, yes!" glancing up disdainfully. "Meantime, let me
wish you 'good-night' and happy dreams."
CHAPTER XX. INDIAN SUMMER.
"NO, no! my dear!" said Mrs. Sutton, earnestly. "I am shocked and
astonished that you should ever have labored under such a delusion.
Frederic told me the story, and a dreadful one it was, the day old
Mrs. Tazewell was buried. Wasn't it wonderful that he never knew whom
Winston had married until he saw her leaning upon his arm in the
graveyard? He recognized Mr. Dorrance in the house, but supposed him
to be a visitor at Ridgeley and a relative of Mrs. Aylett, having
heard that her maiden name was Dorrance. As to his being your husband,
it did not at first occur to him, so bewildered was he by your meeting
and the thoughts awakened by it. But at sight of HER the truth rushed
over him, nearly depriving him of his wits. He soon got out of me all
that I knew, and by putting this and that together, we made out the
mystery. I was so grieved and indignant and horrified that I was for
sending him forthwith to Winston, that he might clear himself of the
shocking charges they had preferred against him, by exposing the
motives of his accusers. But he was stubborn and independent. 'It can
do no good now,' he said. 'Fifteen years ago this discovery would have
been my temporal salvation. And Dorrance is Mabel's husband. I cannot
touch him without wounding her.' I could not reconcile this mode of
reasoning with my conscience. If wrong had been done, it ought to be
righted. I did not sleep a wink all night. I wept over my noble,
generous, slandered boy, and over you, my darling! but my chief
thought was anger at the shameless depravity, the cold-blooded cruelty
of the brazen-faced adventuress who sat in your angel mother's place.
For aught Frederic or I knew, her real husband was still alive. He had
never heard of the divorce, you see, and the circumstance of her
marrying Winston under her maiden name looked black.
"Well! I pondered upon the horrible affair until I could hold my
peace no longer. Frederic and Florence went home with Mary Trent next
morning, and knowing that Winston must pass the upper gate on his way
to court, I put on my bonnet soon after breakfast, and strolled in
that direction. By and by he rode up, stopped his horse, and began to
talk so sociably that before I quite knew what I was doing, I was in
the middle of my story. I wonder now how I did it, but I was excited,
and he listened so patiently, questioned so quietly, that I did not
realize, for several hours afterward, what a blaze I must have kindled
in his heart and home, whether he believed me or not. The next thing I
heard was not, as I expected, that he and his wife had quarrelled, or
that he was going to challenge Frederic for having belied him, but
that poor Dorrance was very ill with some affection of the brain. It
was not until a year later—just after his death—that people began to
talk about the strange carryings-on at Ridgeley; how Mr. and Mrs.
Aylett occupied separate apartments, and never sat, or walked, or rode
together, or spoke to one another, even at table, unless there were
visitors present. Nobody could imagine what caused the estrangement,
and for the sake of the family honor I guarded my tongue. She must be
a wretched woman, if all of this be true. She is breaking fast under
it, in spite of her pride and skill in concealment. I ought not to
pity her when I remember how wicked she has been; but there is a look
in her eye when she is not laughing or talking that gives me the
"She is very unhappy!" replied Mabel, sighing. "And so, I doubt
not, is Winston, although he will not own it, and affects to ignore
the fact of her failing health and spirits. It is one of these
miserably delicate family complications with which the nearest of kin
cannot meddle. They are very kind to me, and I think my visits have
been a comfort to Clara. The solitude of the great house is a terrible
trial to one so fond of company. For days together sometimes she does
not exchange a word with anybody except the servants. It is a dreary,
wretched evening of an ambitious life. I ventured to tell Winston,
last week, that this wonld probably be my last visit to Ridgeley,
since I was to be married next month.
"To Mr. Chilton, I suppose?" he said.
I answered, "Yes!"
"You must be almost forty," he next remarked. "You have worn
passably well, but you are no longer young."
"I am thirty-seven!" said I.
"Well!" he answered. "Yon are certainly old enough to know your own
"That was all that passed. But I was glad to remember, as I looked
at his whitening hair and bowed shoulder, that Frederic had not—as I
was foolish enough to suppose for a while—told him the story that had
blighted his life. Not that I could have blamed him had he done this.
He had endured so much obloquy, suffered so keenly and so long, that
almost any retaliatory measure would have been pardonable."
Herbert Dorrance's widow was, as had been said, on a farewell visit
to her native State, and after spending a week at Ridgeley was
concluding a pleasanter sojourn of the same length at William
Sutton's. In another month her home in Philadelphia was to be the
refuge of her aunt's declining years—a prospect that delighted her
as much as it afflicted those among whom this most benevolent and
lovable of match-makers had dwelt during Mabel's first marriage.
The marriage it was now her constant purpose to forget—not a
difficult task in the happiness that diffused an Indian summer glow
over her maturity of years and heart. After Herbert's death she had
continued to reside in Albany, devoting herself—so soon as she
recovered from the fatigue of mind and body consequent upon her
severe and protracted duties as nurse—to the scarcely less painful
work of attending his mother, who had contracted the seeds of
consumption in the bleak sea-air of Boston. Grateful for an abode in
the house of one who performed a daughter's part to her when her own
children were content to commit her to the care of hirelings, the old
lady lingered six months, and died, blessing her benefactress and
engaging, in singleness of belief in the affection his wife had borne
him, "to tell Herbert how good she had been to his mother."
None of the Dorrances could wag a tongue against their
sister-in-law, when, at the expiration of her year of widowhood, she
wrote to them, to announce her "re-engagement" to Frederic Chilton.
She had been a faithful wife to their brother in sickness and
imbecility; a ministering angel to their parent, and there was now no
tie to bind her to their interest. They had a way of taking care of
themselves, and it was not surprising if she had learned it.
They behaved charmingly—this pair of elderly lovers—said the
young Suttons when Mr. Chilton arrived to escort his affianced back to
Albany on the day succeeding the conversation from which I have taken
the foregoing extracts, while Aunt Rachel's deaf old face was one beam
"All my matches turn out well in the long run!" she boasted, with
modest exultation. "I don't undertake the management of them, unless
I am very sure that they are already projected in Heaven. And when
they are, my loves, a legion of evil spirits or, what is just as bad,
of wicked men and women, cannot hinder everything from coming right at
While she was relating, in the same sanguinely pious spirit, the
tales that most entrance young girls, and at which their seniors
smile in cynicism, or in tender recollection, as their own lives have
contradicted or verified her theory of love's teachings and love's
omnipotence, Frederic and Mabel, forgetting time and care, separation
and sorrow, in the calm delight of reunion, were strolling upon the
piazza in the starlight of a perfect June evening.
They stopped talking by tacit consent, by and by, to listen to Amy
Sutton, a girl of eighteen, the vocalist of the flock, who was
testing her voice and proficiency in reading music at sight by trying
one after another of a volume of old songs which belonged to her
This was the verse that enchained the promenaders' attention:
"But still thy name, thy blessed name,
My lonely bosom fills;
Like an echo that hath lost itself
Among the distant hills.
That still, with melancholy note,
Keeps faintly lingering on,
When the joyous sound that woke it first
Is gone—forever gone!"
"It is seventeen years since we heard it together, dearest!" said
Frederic, bending to kiss the tear-laden eyes. "And I can say to you
now, what I did not, while poor Rosa lived, own to myself—that, try
to hush it though I did, in all that time the lost echo was never
Her answer was prompt, and the sweeter for the blent sigh and smile
which were her tribute to the Past, and greeting to the Future:
"An echo no longer, but a continuous strain of of heart music!"