WWIUMtt»UIIUUM8UW|» '«!CT CM^WM>^ ^ THE UNIVERSITY OF NORTH CAROLINA LIBRARY THE WILMER COLLECTION OF CIVIL WAR NOVELS PRESENTED BY RICHARD H. WILMER, JR. t: ~ ' 6-Sf *M^.f^^^'^^ iK >^' II # (W i" «e^ Sr. 9<»- '^Uuui CQU^ th Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2010 with funding from University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill http://www.archive.org/details/lilypearlmistresOOgort Ida Glenwood, (The Bliud Bard of Michigau.) LILY PEARL THE MISTRESS OF ROSEDALE IDA GLENWOOD, "The Blind Bard of Michigan." AUTHOR OF 'THE FATAL SECRET," "KATE WYMANS AND THE FORGER'S DAUGHTER," "BLACK FRANCE," ETC. EDITED BY MAJOR JOSEPH KIRKLAND. CHICAGO : , DIBBLS PUBLISHING CO. 1892. COPYRIGHT 1893 BY DIBBLE PUBLISHING CO, CHICAGO. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. PREFACE. It matters but little to the average reader whether a book be wholly historical or purely im- aginary if it be of sufficient interest to hold the at- tention in a pleasurable excitement to its close. There are those however, who will be glad to know that the following work was wrought out of historical facts gleaned from a large parcel of let- ters written by a son while a soldier in the army of the rebellion, to his widowed mother, then in Springfield, Mass. Graphic were his descriptions of scenes and inci- dents coming to his personal knowledge during that memorable march from "Atlanta to the sea." These I have woven into a web of fiction ming- ling their Hghts and sliadows, blending them as best I could amid denser shades, hoping that per- adventure their coming to you, gentle reader, may prove as great a pleasure in the perusing as the author has enjoyed in the weaving. Ida Glenwood. Fenton, Mich. 602925 EDITOR'S PREFACE. My editing of this most interesting story has been little more than proof-correction. On reading the manuscript in in advance of the type-setting I soon found it safer to leave the author's style to take care of itself, sure that it will strike the public, as it struck me, with renewed respect and admiration for one who, sightless, can excel so many of us having all the senses. It is touching to observe how the blind narrator dweils on outward things, — color, light and shade, sunset skies, human features and expressions, — which must come to her only in imagination. She seems to dwell with peculiar' intensity on a world of beauty which we others, sated by abundance, pass by unrecorded if not unnoticed. Sightless slje is not, for in her the mind's eye is of a brilliancy that seems to make our mere physical vision use- less by comparison. Better the soul's sight without eyes, than the eyesight without soul. Joseph Kirkland. 9 PUBLISHERS' ANNOUNCEMENT. We would be pleased to have the reading public patron- ize "Lily Pearl and The MistrEvSS of Rosedale," because of the benefit to the author, ' ' The Blind Bard of Michigan," and for the pleasure it will give the following gentlemen and firms, who have freely and generously given their time to the production of the work : Major Joseph Kirkland, editor; G. M. D. L,ibby, printer; L,. Braunhpld, artist; A. Zeese & Co., electrotypers, and Donohue & Henneberry, binders. But the best reason for buying will be found in the charming story itself. 11 CONTENTS. CHAPTERS. I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII XIII XIV XV XVI XVII XVIII Midnight AT " Cliff House," - 17 The Little Mariner Alone Upon THE Ocean, , - - - 29 The Waif After the Storm, - 39 Reception Night at the New Home, 50 Death in the Little Cottage, - 61 "Crazy Dimis" and the Twilight Scene, - - - 71 Changes in the Cottage Home, - 81 Out Into the World, - - gi An Upper Room in the Hotel, - 99 The Opening of a New Life, - 108 Rosed al^, - - - - 118 Heart's Secrets Revealed, and Un- revealed, - - - 128 The Mother's Curse, - - 138 The Mysterious Letter, - 147 Scenes Upon the Plantation, - 157 The Birthnight Entertainment, 167 The Thrilling Revelation, - 177 The Little Party at the Wash- burns, - - - - 189 13 14 CONTENTS. XIX XX XXI XXII XXIII XXIV XXV XXVI XXVII XXVIII XXIX XXX XXXI XXXII XXXIII XXXIV XXXV XXXVI XXXVII XXXVIII XXXIX XL XLI Death OF " UxcLE Bob," 201 The Abduction, - 211 Breaking of Home Ties, • 225 Leading Her On - . - 237 A Day in the Hospital, •• •• 247 The Dark, Dark Wave, - 259 The Recognition, - •• - 271 The "Phantom" Removed, - 283 New Resolves and New Adventures, 295 Flight of the Southern Spy, - 307 A Night Upon the Billows, - 319 The Shadows As They Fly, - 331 Changing Clouds, - ■• - 343 The Darkness Thickens, - - 355 Light Through the Rifted Cloud, _ 367 A Storm About the Widow's Cottage, 375 A Proud Spirit Broken, Unfoldings and Revealings, The Golden Clasp Re-linked, Changes and Revolutions, The Hazy Mists Are Lifting, Aunt Vina in the New Home, "Good Bye," 387 397 407 417 427 441 450 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. Ida Glenwood, the Blind Bard of Michigan, Midnight, ------ ly The Cli£fs, . - . . . . 28 By the Sea, ------ 38 " Look at her, Shipmates," » . _ 42 At the New Home, - - - - - 60 The Church Yard, - - " - - 70 The Brook, - - - - - - go " Oh, Mrs. Gaylord, I am so Lonely I " - - 104 The Inn at Kirkham, - - - - 136 Park Scene, - - - - 145 " Give Me That Paper ! " - - - - 146 Nest-building, - - - - - 200 The Death of Uncle Bob, - - - - 207 The Haj'stacks, - - - - - 210 " She Placed the Cup to His Lips," - - 253 15 16 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. The Capitol in War Times, ... 258 Scene in the Dismal Swamp, - - - - 294 Camp Fires, _ . . . - ^06 " Did You Say Her Husband ?" - - - 312 The Night Train, ----- 31S The Billows, ------ 329 Lily Pearl, .... - 342 Mrs. St. Clair, - - - _ - 354 Scene on the Schuylkill, ... 365 Lillian, - - - - - - 373 Plantation Scene, .... 385 Arrival at Kirkham, ----- 406 Meeting of Lily Pearl and Her Mother, - - 408 Aunt Vina, .-.--- 426 Midnight CHAPTER I. MIDNIGHT AT "CLIF? HOUSE." It was a dismal night out upon the ocean where the huge billows tossed high their foaming crests, or dashed with maddening fury upon the rocky shore as if unwilling longer to submit to the powers that shut them in ; while ever and anon the deep-mouthed thunder answered back through the darkness "thus far shalt thou go, and no farther." Then ran the echoes along the shore and up the ragged cliff on whose summit one feeble ray of light struggled through the narrow crevice of a curtained window out into the midnight gloom. The howling winds made sad music through the long corridors and curious wrought lattice work that partially enclosed it ; slamming the heavy iron gate that had broken loose from its fastenings and kept swaying to and fro upon its rusty hinges, wakening by its unusual noise the huge watch dog in his kennel, who growled menacingly at being disturbed at such a late hour. The rain beat furiously against the windows and ran in rapid cas- cades down the steep declivity into the sea, falling on the sandy shore that extended along the beach at the foot of the cliff. It was October, and the cottage on the summit was usually deserted before this time, for the inva- 17 18 THK ^IISTRESS OF ROSEDALE. Hd who had resided there during five successive seasons could not well endure the autumn breezes when the frost-king had chilled them. To-night, however, a tall, richly-dressed lady sat alone in the spacious parlor, her black gown lying in heavy folds on the white matting that covered the floor, her head drooping weariU' upon her hand as her elbow rested on tlie table where the wasting candle flickered low in the socket ; but she heeded it not. Now and then she would raise her head with a sudden start and look intently at the door opposite and then sink back again into the same posture as before. Tliere was sadness upon her face, such as awak- ens the deepest sympathy of a human heart ; but in the keen, glistening eye there was a deeper, sterner look that-^would send a sister's tenderest love back to its secret chamber, chilled and trem- bling ! There are hours made so big with actions and resolves that yea/s full of circumstances and results are made to hang their heavy weights upon them. Such an one was now passing, bearing away on its dark wings the fearful impress made by a silent finger, 3'et in characters that in after years will reflect back upon the soul, filling it with horror and disma}^ ! A loud peal of thunder echoed through the apartment and then rolled away in the dis- tance, leaving behind the mingled voices of the winds and waves, with the fast falling rain on the roof above. The door suddenly opened and a servant girl stealthil}^ entered with a newlj^ lighted candle, placed it on the table exchanging it for the one almost spent, and then as stealthily retired. MIDNIGHT AT CUFF HOUSE. 19 The lady did not seem to notice the intruder, as she did not enter the door where her expectant eyes had so often turned with a wild, weird look, and she remained as motionless as before. Two o'clock. The little silvery bell on the man- tel proclaimed the hour, and the tall bent figure at the table gave a sudden start, as though a new pang had penetrated her sensitive brain. A few moments after, the door toward which her eyes had so often wandered slowly opened and a little girl scarcely ten years of age, timidly entered and approached the lady. " Mother would like to come in," she said, with a faltering voice, while her pale blue eyes were fixed on the matting at her feet. " Tell her to come," was the laconic reply, and the child hurried away with a much quicker step than that with which she had entered. Immediately a small, nervous little woman appeared, with a cold, rigid, sallow face, small gray eyes and sandy hair, bearing in her arms a bundle of soft white flannel, which she pressed mechan- ically to her well-rounded bust, and without any salutation seated herself upon a wicker chair, and with the utmost sang froid commenced unrolling the white flannel she had laid upon her lap. " It's a wee darling," she said, after a lengthy pause, during which time she had exposed a little red face and a pair of diminutive fists all ready to begin the fierce battles of life, and towards which the lady did not deign to look. " But it's a pretty thing," she continued. "Look at it, ma'am ; it's as fat and plump as a baby three weeks old, and sleeps as quietly as though it had 20 THE MISTRESvS OF ROSKDALE. not been born in such a terrible storm. The pretty dear!" "How is she?" cooly interrupted the stately lad3^ " Your patient above stairs, I mean ; is she comfortable ?" " Of course she is — the}^ always are, ma'am." And she chuckled a low, unmusical laugh which accorded well with the mingled murmurings of the expiring storm without. " Tell me more of her," demanded the lady im- periously. " Will she recover soon ?" " I think so ma'am ; but she will need a long rest. She is sleeping now as gentle as a kitten. But she was pert enough, I can tell you, when she knew she had a little girl. She actually laughed and said she was ' so glad,' and was going to call it Lily Pearl. ' That will be our pet names joined ; he called me Lil}' and I called him Pearl. Lily-Pearl, that shall be her name.' And I thought I would name her as she wished, it will do no harm. It will be a queer thing to fix into Blunt ; but we shall get used to it." The lady frowned, but there might have been seen a moisture in her large dark e3'es, as though the heart had sent up a little maternal love from its hidden depths, yet her stern cold words checked them, and they did not reveal it. " You remember our contract?" she interrogated. " O 3'es, ma'am ; I am to have two hundred dol- lars upon the spot, and a hundred and fifty every year until the child is five years old ; and then we are to have a new bargain, and if I keep the girl I shall expect you to do something handsome, for you know she will be of no earthly use to me before that time, nor after for that matter, if she is no MIDNIGHT AT CUFF HOUSE. 21 better than my Maria." Here the woman paused, for the infant on her lap threw up its tiny fists and uttered a feeble cry. " Poor thing. It's cold, and will want something to eat pretty soon," she continued as she folded the soft flannel again around it. " I see you have not forgotten the reward; your duties, I hope, are equally clear to your memory." " O yes, ma'am." "Well then, I do not want her to see the child again ! It will be so much easier for her to forget that she ever had one. It is no doubt a lawful child as she asserts, as far as her age can make it so — but as I told you she is only fifteen and a few years will cover up this night forever! As soon as it is light, take it to your home and care for it as you will; that is, be a mother to it and /will take care of the rest. But remember one thing ! I demand you to forget that she ever mentioned the silly name of 'Lily Pearl !' Call her anything else you please ; let me see, — Phebe, yes — that will do! Phebe Blunt! Now leave her with me for a few moments and return to the chamber, she may need you by this time. But stay a moment ; " and the lady reached out her hands to receive the little bundle. "Can you not keep her dozy — sleepy^ I mean for a short time until she gains a little strength? She will need it you know in order to bear the news, she will be obliged to hear ! Are you sufficiently skilled in your profession to do this without in- jury?" "To be sure I am ma'am I It's what she needs, and if we don't there will be no pacifying her about her baby." 22 THE MISTRESS OF ROSEDALE. "You can tell her;" replied the lady, "If she is troublesome, that she is not able to see it at pres- ent; she must wait awhile! Now go!" The woman obeyed and with a cat-like tread left the room a very significant smile lighting her hard features; and the little babe who had jnst entered upon a life of storms and tempests lay still and mo- tionless upon the rich dress of the beautiful lady who should have wound her jeweled arms about the tiny form and vowed to protect the helpless one in whose veins her own blood was coursing; from the terrors of the threatening blasts. But pride and an unnatural ambition had taken the place of the love that had once ruled her heart and better na- ture, and the good God had give her knelt in hum- ble subjugation at their feet. She uncovered the little features before her and gazed long and fixedl}^ upon them, while her thoughts ran back over the short path which had wound so pleasantly along through the last fifteen years since her own beautiful Lillian lay upon her lap, the idol of him wdio had fallen by the flowery way over which her memory was wandering ; and for a time it stopped by a grassy mound at which she often knelt in the twilight hour under the shadows of the fir tree, and a tear fell upon the in- nocent upturned face; and a low wail penetrated her ear. For a moment she pressed the tiny form to her heaving bosom and her heart whispered, "She shall not want — / will care for her — my Lil- lian's babe !" She took the little hand in hers and pressed it to her lips, and then with an impulse un- premeditated she unfastened its dress and exposed the pretty pink shoulders to view. She started, and a faint cry broke from her lips which awoke MIDNIGHT AT CLIFF HOUSE. ^o the slumbering echoes in the room. Upon either shoulder a little purple spot was plainly visible, the same over which her maternal pride had lamented sixteen years before ! There the}/ were — the very same ! With a tremor of deep regret she hastily covered them again and wrapped the soft warm blankets about it tenderly as she laid it down once more upon her lap. A few moments later the timid Maria entered to take the babe to the kitch- en, and with an assumed hauteur the lad}' yielded up her charge and it was carried from the room. The fury of the storm had passed, though there were clouds still lurking in the sky and the dismal At- lantic kept up its fitful roar; but the winds had ceased and the rain drops fell leisurely from the eaves down upon the gravel walks, and the- old house-dog slept quietly in his kennel by the gate. But greater than the storm without had been, was the tumult of emotion that was still raging in the bosom of her who now walked with unsteady step up and down the spacious parlor with folded hands and care-worn expression on her handsome face, which many long years with all their changes and bereavements could not have placed there. "It must be !" she exclaimed at last, and slowly leaving the room she ascended to a distant chamber where her daughter, — her beautiful Lillian, lay pale and restless on her bed in an unnatural sleep. The mother drew aside the thick folds of the curtains which shut her in and gazed fixedly upon her waxen features. How wan they looked ! The rose tints were all faded from her cheeks and lips; and face seemed as cold and white as though just chiseled from the unfeeling marble by the cunning 24 THE xAIISTRESS OF ROSEDALE. hand of art. By and by the white lips moved and a few audible words escaped them. " She is dreaming" the mother thought, and bent her stately head to listen. " It is ours — my Pearl — our sweet Lily — ou7-s^ I am dying — dying — Pearl — Ivil}^" The curtains fell again around the uneasy sleeper and with a wildly throbbiug heart the wretched mother sank down upon a chair and buried her face in her hands, while the angel of maternal pity came and rolled away the stone from the sealed fountain of her tears, and she wept ! Three days with their glooni}^ nights dragged laggardly and wearil}^ by, and the tall lady in black bent tenderly over the pale languid form on the bed, bathing the white brow and striving to arouse her from the long stupor by endearing words and soft caresses. " Mother," she said at last; " bring my babe to me will you? I want to see her sweet face before I die! Love her mother, and call her your own precious Lillian, — give her my room and tell her when old enough to understand that there the life began which withered and died when its beautiful blossom budded into life! Will you motlier?" " You are not going to die my daughter ! You are very weak now, it is true, but 3'ou will soon be stronger. Wait until then, for it would be disas- trous for you to see her now. The excitement might overcome you. Wait dear — your mother knows best. Close your eyes and rest. Just as soon as it is proper you shall see your babe." And she kissed the pale brow with hot quivering lips, and turned away to gain new strength from the vile spirit within for the conflict through which it was to lead her. MIDNIGHT AT CLIFF HOUSE. 25 A week more and the cry of the mother's heart for its first born would not be hushed, " My daughter," whispered the weeping mother, "believe me, my ^oor, poor child! This is the bitterest hour of my life, for the words your en- treaties compel me to utter will fall sadly on your heart my poor Lillian ! But it must be done ! Bear them my daughter with all the fortitude of which you are capable!" The lips that were al- ready polluted with the falsehoods they were about to utter pressed the white ashy ones of her child as the demon of remorse was introduced into the chamber of her soul which was to poison ever after the fountain of her existence, and people her mid- night vigils with spectral fears. " It is all for the best! Think so my darling and do not grieve that God has transplanted your beautiful Lily to a more genial clime before its purity was soiled by the contaminations of this tainted life. It is safe now ; and by and by it shall be given back to you, and with this assurance do not murmur!" Her words fell unheeded upon ears that were sealed from all earthly sounds; but they were heard! The dark, dark falsehood was regis- tered in letters of fire where no mortal hand could ever blot them out. How true that " upon the wicked he shall rain snares, fire and brimstone, and a horrible tempest, and this shall be the por- tion of their cup." '^I have killed her ! I have killed her!" almost shrieked the miserable mother, and with a tremb- ling hand she frantically rang the bell. Little Maria immediately appeared, and with as much composure as she could command the lady asked if mother was still in the house. 2G THE MISTRESS OF ROSEDALE. " No ma'am, she's just gone," was the reply. "Then run for her! Hasten, O hasten!" pleaded the miserable woman, and the child obeyed. Rapidly did she chafe the cold hands of the insen- sible Lillian, but no "comforter" came to the sin- stained heart to drive away its despair. Many moments passed and she was alone with the motionless form of her for whom she wonld sixteen years before have laid down her life. What agon- izing thoughts burned themselves into her brain as she watched the feebl}^ returning breath and saw with a bound of joy the soft tint steal again into the closed lips. At last the eyes were slowly opened and fixed themselves on the blanched face bending over her. Then came a whisper so feeble that the stately head bent low to listen. "I am better now. Kiss me mother. Let me lay my head on your bosom, and sing to me as 3^ou used to do ! Hark ! how the ocean roars ! Listen — it is calling — calling — my Lily, my noble Pearl. O my hus- band, when may he come to me? We are not children ! Am I not a mother? Is he not the father of my child?" " Do not^ Lillian, you are very ill ! Have you forgotten what your father told you? He is where your babe has gone you know; but his last words were: 'My daughter; trust 3^our mother alwa3'-s, and be guided by her superior wisdom.' I am older than you and know what is best for one in your present position; and if 3^ou will wait and be quiet all things will come out right at last." "Yes, mother. Let us go home where the odor of the orange-blossoms will bring me back to life, and old auntie can tell me all about it ! Her little ones were all taken, and I never knew how her MIDNIGHT AT CLIFF HOUSE. 27 poor heart aclied. I think I dreamed mother, for I saw my pretty Lily carried away from me and I could not reach it although I stretched out my arms to possess her ! O mother ! mother ! is ?ny child deadr"^ and the large eyes looked with a steady gaze into the blanched face of her only parent, who was chafing with a caressing motion the little white hand that was lying so lifelessly in her own. In vain did the pallid lips strive to answer but no word came to them. " h my child deadf'' she asked again without removing her eyes. " Dcad^ my daughter," at last fell from her icy lips, and another sin-stain was stamped on her al- ready polluted soul that an ocean of tears could never wash away. " Dead''' she murmured, and the beautiful eyes again closed while the wretched mother sat by and trembled. In the darkness that enveloped her how gladly would the soul have looked up for one little ray of light and comfort, but the pall of sin, the thick darkness of an abiding ' remorse' had settled down over every glimmering hope and not a gladsome beam of light could penetrate its dense folds. Poor soul ! More terrible than the storm that had swept over the sea, when the words of the dark falsehood were registered where no mortal hand could *blot them out, were the commotions of the tempest tossed soul as the mother watched on and the moments went wearily by ! "Dead!" again whispered the pale lips. "My Lily, my Pearl ! Gone — all, all are gone ! Take me home mother — the ocean roars — the dark waves are rolling over your poor Lillian ; — let us 28 THE MIvSTRESS OF ROSEDALE. go home," and tlie beautiful head turned wearily upon its pillow and the wretched watcher moaned in her anguish ; for she was alone! CHAPTER II. THE LITTLE MARINER ALONE UPON THE OCEAN. Six years ! How short each succeeding round appears when one has almost reached the moun- tain's top-most peak of life's upward course and knows that soon his feet must be going rapidly down upon the other side, where his journey ends ! But almost interminable their length to the weary little foot-sore traveler who wanders alone at its base ever looking upward to the green spots on the hillside with restless longings. Poor little Phebe ! The first words that fell upon her un- appreciative ear were mingled with the requiem notes over departed summer, and it had come for the sixth time since that eventful night with its soft breezes and sweet melodies — with its beautiful flowers and singing birds, and filled the heart of the lonely child full of the glorious sunshine. Now she could sit upon the^ beach and watch the white sails that floated away over the waters where the golden beams kept dancing and skipping about upon the waves, and listen to the deep, low mur- murings of the sea that seemed to sing to her mysterious songs, until the angry passions within would grow calm and fairy forms would lead her away to that far-off land where in dreams she often wandered. Poor little Phebe ! She was an un- fortunate child " always in the way, never good for 29 30 THE MiSTRESvS OF ROSED ALE. anything, doing nothing she onght'but always the ver}^ thing she shonld uo/y Never in favor, at least with her foster-mother, who almost dail}^ de- clared " that the paltry hnndred and fifty dollars didn't begin to pay for the trouble and expense of the disagreeable child," and 3'et it would have been no very easy task to compute the cost of the scanty meal which twice each da}- fell to the little outcast child to whom the thriving, ambitious j\Irs. Blunt gave a shelter. Sure it was that a goodl}- sum was stored away in the old oak chest which would never have been there had the " trouble- some child " not found her way into the fisherman's cottage. True, there was nothing that was winning about the diminutive figure with the sunburnt face. An unusual growth of thick dark-brown hair was kept conveniently "cropped," in defiance of science or taste, close to her well-rounded head, and a pair of large hazel QyQS seemed to be alwaj^s penetrating the secret depths of hearts where no welcome greeted them. Her dress too did not set off her little dump3^ figure to the best advantage, although it was often of the finest material, being generally the cast-off garments of the " misses " of the Cliff House, which were duly sent ever}^ season by a servant who was commanded to " inquire after the little girl " and alwa3'S returned with a favorable report. These the child wore regardless of size or fitness, and as she wandered alone upon the beach wdth her sad face and thoughtful eyes turned up- ward gazing into the deep blue sky or aw^ay in the dreamy distance one might have been pardoned ior calling the queer little figure gnome, or witch, as the fanc}' struck him. ALONE UPON THE OCEAN. 31 " Where under the sun has that little imp gone to now!" exclaimed Mrs. Blunt entering the room one day where her daughter Maria, a pale, sickly girl of sixteen, was sitting, as she deposited her basket of vegetables upon the bare floor in no very amiable mood "I do declare! She's the most provoking crea- ture I ever saw ! I told her to have all the knives scoured before I came in from the garden and positively there has only two of them been touched and they are lying out there in the sun growing blacker than ever and she is nowhere to be seen ! I don't know what to do with her ! It don't do a bit of good to whip her — not a bit — and I don't know as anything but killing would effect her at all ! She smiled feebly as this last observation fell from her lips, while the daughter laughed out- right. " No it don't !" said the girl, quickly seeing that the fury of the storm had for the time passed and the mother was about to lift the basket and pass into the kitchen ; "it don't do a bit of good to whip her ! It only makes her mad and more willful ! Suppose we try coaxing for a time just to see how it will work. I think there is good in her but cross words will never bring it out !" " There is one thing about it ! If we don't hear from that woman before a great while she may go and find some one to coax her besides 7ne\ I don't like her well enough to begin !" " I presume she has not come back from Europe yet," said the daughter musingly ; then she spoke more audibly. " I wouldn't send her off yet, mother ; remember we have almost enough for father to buy a fishing smack of his own, then we 32 THK ^IISTRKSS OF R0SE:DALE. shall be quite rich," and the blue eyes of the pale face lighted up with the anticipation. " HnnipJi! Well she has got to do better than she has if she wants to stay here!" and with this satisfactory conclusion she disappeared with her basket through the narrow door into the kitchen. Maria quietly laid aside her knitting and went out where upon a wooden bench standing on one side of the humble cottage lay the neglected knives which she in a very short time polished and put away in the narrow wicker basket on the dresser, then taking her neatly starched sun bonnet from its nail in the entry and placing it on her head passed out through the garden down a narrow foot- path across the common to the sea shore. She was in quest of the truant Phebe, and well did she know where to find her. Walking along a few rods by the sandy beach she came suddenl}- to the foot of a steep ascent whose side facing the sea was almost entirely composed of precipitous rocks unevenly thrown together, while here and there a stunted pine or a yellow clump of moss struggled for existence. Here too, half way down the rugged descent Phebe lay concealed in her coz}^ retreat, sheltered from the summer sun b)- the rocks above her, with an uninterrupted view of the boundless ocean spread out to her delighted gaze. In a few moments Maria was sitting by her side. She did not seem at all surprised at the presence of her visitor, but raising herself remarked quietly: " Maria how can those birds stand on the water out there? /can't do it. I wish /could lie down on that wave that keeps rocking — rocking and singing — why can't I Maria? Hark ! Do they ALONE UPON THE OCEAN. 33 talk to 3^011 — the waves? Did they ever say ' come here? come here?' Thej^ do to ;;/<;'." "You arc a queer child !" replied Maria im- patiently, forgetting for the time the grand pur- pose of her visit. " But why don't you try to be a good girl and do as mother wants to have you? This morning she told 3'ou to scour the knives which you know is your work every day, and wJiy didn't you stay and do it and not make her so cross with you?" " 'Cause — " interrupted the child; " I don't like to scour knives and I ain't a-going to!" " You don't like to be zvJiippcd either," answered Mary; "but you know mother will do it if you don't mind her!" "/don't much care," said the child, shrugging her shoulders, as she settled herself down with calm composure. " / don't care rmich. I'll be big some day, and then she won't dare ! O Maria, see that wave dash up on the rock, and break all to pieces. Some- how — " " Never mind the waves ; I want to talk to you. Do you love me, Phebe?" " IvOve you? What is that? I don't love no- thing," and then starting up and rubbing both her dirty hands across her brown forehead, an act she always performed when some new thought flashed up from within, she exclaimed: " O, Maria! last night, when father and mother thought I w^as asleep in my trundle-bed, I heard her say that somebody had paid lots of money for me. or something; and then she laughed and said I didn't look much like a ' lily,' and guessed that if my mother could see me now, she'd be glad 'cause my name wasn't 34 THE MISTRESS OF ROSEDALE. 'Lily-Pearl.' O Maria! IV/iat did she mean? ^ Lily-Pcarl !^^ I keep saying it all the time. That's my name ; and O it's sncli a pretty one. Lily-Pearl ! Pearls come np ont of the ocean. The teacher said so the other day, and I guess tJiafs what makes 7ne love the sea so much. Who is my mother, Maria? And what makes you call me Phebe Blunt, when it's Lily-Pearl ? I don't like it, and I won't have such an ugly name. Tell me, who 2S my mother ?" Maria was a long time silent, while a deeper pallor overspread her face. But the large, wondering eyes of her interrogator were fixed intentl}^ upon it. How could she answer ? It was a secret that never was to be mentioned ; yet well did she know that Phebe would never rest with this sly peep into the exciting mystery, and it would be as well to satisf}' her now as an}- time, and so she said mildly : " I don't know, Phebe, who 3^oiir mother is ; but she was beautiful, and without doubt rich, and, I think, would have been \^ry glad to have kept 3^ou, had it not been for her proud, wicked mother, who did not think it best, and so yow came to live with us. Now, wasn't mother kind to take care of 370U when a little baby, and shouldn't j'*?;/ try to be good, and do as she tells you, to pay her for her trouble?" Phebe was silent for a moment, while her thoughtful eyes were penetrating the deep blue far away. " No," she said at last. " She might have thrown me back into the sea, where the pearls grow. But I knew she zuasii't my mother," she continued musingly, as she pointed her finger in the direction of the cottage. " What made you think so ?" asked Alaria. ALONE UPON THE OCEAN. 35 " Because, if she was, she would kiss me like Lutie Grant's mother does. She always says, 'good morning, daughter,' and kisses her when she goes to school. I wonder what good it does, though, she continued, musingly. " / was never kissed in my life." "That is one way to love," answered Maria with a smile. " Now will you be a good little girl if / kiss you and love you ?" " MaA^be so," was the laconic reply. Maria put her arms around the child's neck and drew her towards her, imprinting upon her lips a hearty kiss. " Pshaw! Thafs notning !" she replied, disdain- fully. " Is that love, Maria ?" " No ; it was a kiss. If you loved me, you wouldn't say pshaw! but kiss me as I did you. Now come, let us go to the house. Remember, I have told you a secret about your mother and this will make us friends. You must not tell any one, or even speak about the beautiful lady for mother would be very angry because I talked about it; and don't forget that you promised to be just as good as you can be, which I am sure will be all right, and by and bv we shall all love you. Come!" " I shan't go ! She will want me to wash pota- toes, or something, and I zvojiH do it." " But you promised that you would be a good girl if I would love you, and this is not keeping 3^our promise." "O you don't love me; you only want me to go home and scour knives, and I don't like to scour knives, and I won'^t^ either." 36 THE MISTRESS OF ROSEDALE. " But mother will whip you wheu you do come home, and I don't like to see you whipped ; why won't you come now?'' Phebe looked at her companion with surprise. She had never heard her talk so gently and feel- ingly before. For a moment she was almost tempted to yield. Maria saw her advantage and once more urged the willful child to accompany her. Phebe's eyes turned again towards the sea. "O Maria, Maria! see that big wave chase the other clear up on the sand !" And the little dumpy form swayed to and fro while her large eyes glistened. Maria turned hopelessl}^ away. Her experiment had failed. "The child is past redemption," she thought, as she walked moodily home. Phebe sat a long time gaz- ing out from her rocky " eyrie " by the sea, think- ing over and over again the little stor}^ to which she had just listened, and wondering how the beau- tiful lady looked ; and if she really was her mother, and if, instead of being brought by an angel, as Lutie Grant said her little sister was, she had been picked up from off the ocean b}^ somebody she had never seen, and so they called her " Lily-Pearl !" By and by a sudden impulse took possession of her. " I must go and see where that sail boat was going that had just rounded the point yonder!" It had disappeared from sight, but zvJiere had it gone ? With rapid steps she ascended the rocks, and ran up the hill with her utmost speed and then descended into a broad, thick woodland, where for a time she forgot her haste, listening to the music of the birds and gathering wild flowers that were growing all about her. Still she wandered on. It ALONE UPON THE OCEAN. 37 was past noon-day when she emerged from the woods and espied just before her, on a slight ele- vation, a beautiful house — the house where she was born ! There was nothing here, however, to reveal the interesting fact to the little wan- derer, and so she traveled on, stopping only for a moment to peep through the heavy iron gate at two pretty children who were playing in the yard, skip- ping and jumping along the gravel walk ; and then, as if fearful of being discovered, started off as fast as possible, leaping down the edge of the cliff until she reached the sandy beach far below. Here she stopped. The pretty sail boat that had allured her hither was nowhere to be seen, and weary and heated, she threw herself upon the ground and watched the rising tide as it came dashing upon the beach. It had risen rapidly, when suddenly she became aware that a dark object was floating near her on the water. It was a small row boat often used by the inmates of Cliff House, but which the tide had washed from its moorings, and was now with its bow still clinging to the sandy beach, swaying impatiently at her feet, restless as her own adventurous spirit. With a scream of delight she sprang into the frail bark, and soon found herself floating steadily and rapidly away from the shore. Now, for the first time, she was out upon the waves where she had so longed to be, amid the sparkling gems which the sunbeams were scattering all around her, while the huge billows just beyond beckoned her to follow. A small oar lay by her feet, and with this she caressed the ripples and drew, now and then from the unknown depths, the dark-green seaweed that floated by. 38 THE MISTRESS OF ROSEDALK. Thug she was borne away, uiiiiiinclful of the dan- ger into which her wild spirit was leading her, and heeding not the sun descending into the dark, gloomy clouds that hung about his ocean bed, for she was happy now ; alone upon the boundless sea, her life had become the fair}' dream in which she had so often revelled while closeted in her rocky retreat, from which she was floating forever. She was no more a child, but a wave — a billow — one of those which had sunof to her so often while she sat and watched them, and her low, sweet voice joined in the anthem of the sea as if it said — " Rock iiie, niotlier, gently rock me, Sing the songs I love so well." CHAPTER III. THE WAIF AFTER THE STORM. Phebe listened to the rolling music with an ectasy never before experienced in her wildest dreams, and as the winds moaned on the distant shore and the sea-birds shrieked their sad ac- companiment to the chorus of her song, she fell asleep hungry and weary. Little slumberer, who shall guide thy frail bark, unseen by mortal eye, over the trackless waves? Who shall check the rising storm and temper the fury of the winds to the poor lone lamb? An eye is upon thee and thou cans't not perish ! A sure hand is at the helm, and the frail bark shall ride gloriously over the angry deep, and a sweet voice near thee shall whisper ^' peace, be still !" It was quite dark when the rolling thunder awoke the sleeper, and with a scream of horror she sprang to her feet to find her alluring dreams, her fancied bliss, all dispelled as the realities of danger burst upon her. She called loudly, but the sea gave only a dismal echo to her ears ; she shouted but the deep-toned thunders alone sent back a reply. Where now was the brightness that had so dazzled her? The sunbeams had gathered up all their sparkling gems and with them had dis- appeared ! The music of the waves had died away, the little song which a few hours before had 39 40 THE MISTRESS OF ROSEDALE. bubbled up in her jo3'ous heart was hushed, and all was darkness and gloom. Ah, little mariner, life is full of just such changes! Sunshine and tempest — nooiida}' and darkness ; all interming- ling their lights and shades ! Thy first great lesson is a sad one, but it will never leave thee. Better so than that it should be onl}- half learned. Phebe lay in the bottom of the boat famished with hunger, wet with the drenching rain, pale and sick, when the captain of a gallant yacht which had "laid to" during the storm, espied from its deck a little speck far away to leeward, appar- ently l3'ing still upon the waters. " I say, Thornton," he remarked to a shipmate near him ; " isn't that a boat off 3'onder? Here — take the glass ! I can liardl}^ make it out. But it's something, whether there's any life about it or not." " Yes, it's a boat clear enough," replied his com- panion ejxing it intentl}' ; " but I imagine it's one that has been washed from some ship during the storm for there is nothing alive about it as I can see." " I think you are right so we'll leave it to its fate." In a few moments the beautiful craft had disap- peared and the little boat with its helpless occu- pant was left unheeded except by Him who permits not a sparrow to fall to the ground without his notice. Ah — th}^ fate was near thee, little one but the unseen hand has removed it and it is well ! Through the waves the yacht ploughed its wa}^, for the breakers were rushing back from the shore and all on board save one returned to their berths for the rest that had been deprived them by the AFTER THE STORM. 41 howling winds and the tossing of the staunch hull which the day before had seemed so sure and safe in its strength, but which the billows bore high on their foaming crests, then dashed as a helpless thing into the dark furrows the storm-king had ploughed out from the angry deep as he marched onward ! O the horrors of a night spent amid a " storm at sea !" Seated in one of the state rooms was a tall, queenly woman, robed in a rich desJiahille of gray silk, with her elbow resting on the window sill, her hand supporting the head that bent wearily upon it, while her dark eyes gazed through the heavy plate glass out upon the black waters that kept dashing and surging against the victorious yacht proudly crushing the intruding waves that pre- sumed to cross its pathway. " ]\Iother," said a winning voice near, "why will you not lie down awhile before breakfast? The danger is all over, and listen ! Hear how calmly the seamen walk the deck! I presume everyone has concluded to make up for the fearful lying awake and will not be astir for. two hours at least. Come mother !" " No — I can rest here ! We shall be out another night, and it may be two^"^ was the desponding re- ply. "You used to sing ' life on the ocean wave' mother, and I remember your saying once that you had no sympathy with Headley who declared that ' to sing that song by a good warm fire and being in it were two very different experiences,' iox you rather enjoyed the one you passed through during your first voyage." 4:2 THE MISTRESS OE ROSEDALE. " Yes, child, I remember ! I was not as old then as now ;" and she might have added " and not as guilty then as now;" but they passed on. It was nearly noon before a coasting vessel came in sight, and spying the little boat that was float- ing amid the waves the kind-hearted captain ordered three sturdy tars to go and capture it. " Not so great a job as we've had sometimes," remarked one playfully " Pull away boys, see — there is something in the bottom ! Steady, — " and as they came alongside the speaker sprang into the boat. " Och — but she's dead !" exclaimed Mike, as he raised the insensible child in his arms. "She is ! lyook at her, shipmates," he continued bringing her forward as he would a coil of rope. " There isn't a bit of color in her face under the dirt ; poor wee thing !" and he passed her over to a man with a very brown, weather-beaten face, who laid her tenderly on some blankets and began chafing her hands. " She is alive, boys," he said a few minutes after; "here Mike — pass me that little bottle I saw you put in your pocket this morning, it looked to me like very good brandy," he continued with a laugh, at the same time reaching out for it. " Sorra a bit of brandy P'' " Never mind, pass it over, whatever it is. For once I'll not expose you for the good it may do now." The small bottle was passed and the kind man placed it to the lips of the insensible girl. " Drink it, child," he said in tones as low and soft as a woman's ; " it will make you well." She did not hear him; yet she did swallow the few drops that were turned into her mouth, and Si a < O o AFTER THE STORM. iS the good mau's predictions proved correct, for in a few moments she opened her eyes, but turned her head, hid her face in the blankets on which she was lying. " She is afraid of our hard old faces," remarked the sailor who was bending over her; " but we will soon be where there will be more agreeable ones. Give way, boys, they are waiting for us," and ris- ing, he left the " wee " stranger to herself. " I should think she would have got used to ugly faces if she has been where there's a glass," remarked the third of the party, rather cruelly, but laughing and good-natured. They reached the schooner, and the wearied child was handed on board, amid many exclamations and intermin- gling remarks of sympathy and astonishment. There were two women down in the small cabin ; one the wife of Mike, who, in accordance with the kindness natural to her people, took the little out- cast mariner under her especial care, and, with feminine instincts, provided for her wants. The next few days the diminutive figure of Phebe Blunt sat upon the dark, dingy chest be- neath the small narrow window in the cabin, look- ing out upon the blue, blue sea her beating heart so much loved, as it gathered up the jewels of em- erald, and gold, and crystal pearls which the sun- beams scattered upon the wavelets' snowy crests, and with them her fancy built a palace of its own, to which in after years memory would often return and bear away some precious stones to adorn her sober real life. " Ye're a strange child," said Cathreen, one day, after watching her for a long time, as she sat coiled up on the heavy chest, her large eyes peering from 44 The mistress of rosedale. the window at the dark waters over which they were sailing. " What makes ye look so much at the sea? I'd rather see the land any time ; and I wouldn't care a farthing if I never put my eyes on a bit of water again as long as I live." The child turned her beaming face towards the speaker with an expression of wonder and incredulit}^ pla3dng over it. ^^ How can it?" she asked at last, as her little brown hands brushed back the mass of dark hair from her broad forehead. "Can what?" and the two women laughed heartily. " Walk on the water. I couldn't, and I don't believe He could," and the bewildered gaze was turned again out of the narrow window. " IV//0, child? Are you beside yourself?" " Jzfe ! Lutie Grant's mother said He walked on the great sea, but / don't believe it. How could He? /can't." " Ye don't know what ye're talking about." " Yes she does," interrupted the other. " It's Christ, the Bible tells about." " And he used to love little girls, and took 'em up and kissed 'em; she said so ; but, pshaw! that's notliing ! Maria kissed vie once, but 'twasn't much. I'd like to walk on the water, though," and again the eyes sought the far-off, and dropping her head upon her arms sat motionless as before. " She's a puzzle," remarked Cathreen as she went about her work. " I'd just like to know who she is and where she came from," remarked her companion, musingly. " I can almost believe that she did come up out of the sea, as she says, and that her name is ' Lily- Pearl'," and she laughed. AFTER THE STORM. 45 There was a third one who had been listening to the conversation from the narrow stairway that led to the deck, and entering at this moment, said, gently : " I think I know some one who would enjoy working out this 'puzzle '," and he laid his hand tenderly on the bushy head of the little girl. " Would you like to go home with me and live ?" he asked. " You will find one there who can tell you all about Him who walked on the sea and loved little children, and I imagine he would love you^ too, for there is more in this little heart and brain than is generally given to one so 3'oung and ignorant," he continued, as he turned to the won- dering women who were listening. " Ye're not going to take her home with ye sii7'e^ Mr. Evans ? Mike said that he guessed we'd take her; she's no trouble and likes the water." Phebe shrugged her shoulders and looked toward her friend who said, pleasantly : " I think I will take her home with me ; and perhaps we will hear from her mother or somebod}^ who will want her, some day," and patting the rounded cheek, left the cabin and ascended to the deck while Phebe went on with her musings, and the two women commented on her future and the " strange conduct of the mate." Yet, all unseen a hand was tenderly leading the little stray lamb back to its fold through "pastures green " and " by the still waters," where the thorns and the briars were scattered along its banks, and where the poor feet would many times get torn, and the heart grow faint ; but her way is onward, for the Father lead- eth her. Somebody has said that " God will make the blind bird's nest," and Faber once declared that 46 THE MISTRESS OE ROSEDALE. " there is hardly ever a complete silence in our souls. God is whispering to us well nigh contin- ually. Whenever the sounds of the world die out, then we hear these whisperings of God. Was He not doing this to our little mariner ? " They talk to me," she would sa}^ and in her innocence it was the waves that talked — it was the billows that called, but the Father's tender voice was whis- pering, and his loving care was continuall}' over her, " The wind is coming up again pretty brisk, mate, and I guess we shall have another rough night," said the captain, as he met the other on his rounds just as the darkness began to settle down about the vessel. " If it will keep in the northeast, all right ; we will reach the harbor b}' to-morrow," and he walked thoughtfull}' on. This prediction was true. In less than a half hour the gale was tossing the billows high about the ship, and the sk}^ was dark and lead-colored. Phebe would not leave the little window, although the white foam dashed against the small panes and the gloom without was impenetrable. "Come awa}^, child," commanded one of the wo- men, sharply, "what makes you keep sitting there, when 3'ou can't see the nose on your face?" "I don't want to see it," was the quick reply; " I want to see them roll and tumble over each other. He couldn't walk on it now?" she queried, turning to the mate who had entered. "But He could do something more wonderful than that," he said, coming to her and laying his hand on her head. AFTER THE vSTORIM. 47 The wondering eyes that were looking into the face of the speaker grew larger and brighter and she said — " I don't believe it!" "The Bible says so, Phebe, and Willie believes it. Hark — how the wind blows and the waves roar ! but He could say to them all, ' Peace, be still I ' and they would mind him." "Stop blowing?" " Yes, and the sea stop rolling." She looked at the smiling face for a moment and then with a shrug of the shoulders turned her eyes again out of the window. The ship was plunging madly in the darkness, and the occupants in the little cabin were obliged to hold tightly on to the railing around it to prevent being dashed together, but Phebe kept her seat on the old weather-beaten chest, clinging to the window for power to hold her position, yet her face did not lose its quiet expres- sion for a moment. " Well, little girl, I see you are not afraid," re- marked the mate, pleasantly, as he turned to go above. " I didn't know but the storm would make you think of your ride all alone, and would want some of my help again." "It don't rain and thunder now," she remarked quietly. " It was awful ; the waves talked, and some- thing said, ' Poor little Phebe ! the pearls are look- ing at you, and will take you down in their beauti- ful home, where you belong, if the storm don't stop ' — but it did, and I went to sleep. Where are the pearls ? It's cold down there, and what made them throw me on the waves?" Thus Phebe mused while the winds died away and the waves were calmed, and as the ship settled down into 48 THE MISTRESS OF ROSED ALE. quiet on the dark sea, she turned to the frightened inmates of the cabin with the expression : " Guess He didr and getting off her seat crept softly to her bed. In the elegant yacht seen in the morning, an- other pair of dark eyes was gazing through the window of the stateroom into the rapidly gather- ing storm. Evidently it had changed its course, and instead of making its way southward along the coast, it was now laboring to gain the open sea. The eyes were wild in their burning excitement, as the blackness became more intense and the bil- lows roared as they dashed against the brave craft. There was no gathering of the " precious gems " into the soul of the stately lady, for her memory was full of a sad record, from which she could not shut her thoughts. She turned almost fiercely towards the calm figure reclining on the sofa opposite, exclaiming : "Lillian, you anger me. What are you l3^ing there for, when such a terrible storm is out upon the sea ? Do you not know that we are not going towards Alobile at all,, but are sailing as rapidl}^ as the winds can drive us out into — nobody knows where?" " Eternity, perhaps," was the quiet response. " Are you trying to torture me, child ?" " This should not do it, mother, for j^our pallid, pinched face tells me that I have given yoVi no new thought. We are in danger, as you know, and many have come where we are never to a shore again." Mrs. Belmont was silent. Her wild gaze turned once more out of the window, and the daughter mused on. At last. " If Pearl only knew, I could lie down under a friendly billow peacefully — yes, gladly." AFTER THE STORM. 49 " Will you persist, Lillian?" " He is my husband and the father of my child." A moment's silence. " How terrible ! That peal was directly over us !" The stately head dropped upon the white arm extended across the heavy bar of iron to which she was clinging, while the shouts and heavy hurried feet made a dismal accompaniment to the confus- ion all about her. Lillian spoke. "Mother, with death in the air and on the sea, tell me, where is my child ?" " In heaven. I hope," and for once she spoke truly. " If not there, do you know where she is ? "She is there. I will not endure your suspic- ioks, Lillian ! Never ask me concerning your child again." The stately lady attempted to rise, but fell back insensible upon the chair. When consciousness was restored the fury of the storm was passed, and Mrs. Belmont, weak and dispirited, moaned upon her bed until the sea-sick passengers landed safely at their destination. CHAPTER IV. RECEPTION NIGHT AT THE NEW HOME. Not maii}^ miles from Boston there stands a small, white cottage a few rods back from the main road, with a cool, shad}^ lane leading to the lawn b}^ which it is surrounded. Around this stands many wide-spreading maples, which cast their shadows over roses and honeysuckles when the sun is hottest, while the summer breezes linger among the branches to fan the noonday loungers, who, weary with their morning's toil in the field, seek rest beneath their shades. In the rear a gar- den stretches its way down to a little brook, which winds itself hither and thither through the tall meadow grass, singing softly to the gay lilies which hang their heads over its banks. The brook passes on through the narrow strip of pines that had carpeted the path on its margin with soft matting until it reaches a fair and picturesque lake, lying snugly nestled • in the bright green basin the surrounding hills have made for it. Trees stand upon the water's edge and dip their long, pendant branches playfully into the blue beneath them, and white waxen lilies with their pure pet- als deck the bosom of the sleeping beauty, and rise and fall mechanically as the breezes pass over the surface. 50 AT THE NEW HOME. 51 It was to this home, surrounded by green fields and nature's beauties that George Evans, the kind- hearted sailor, brought the unpromising prize whom he found floating upon the waters. It was a beautiful, calm summer evening when the two stepped from the cars at the small village of Kirkham and began their pleasant walk of some two miles to their journey's end. The road lay over a varied country of hills and dales, on which the setting sun was throwing an additional charm of golden hues, lighting up the tree tops and gild- ing the quiet lake and brooklet with tints of changing glories, crowning the distant mountain with a chaplet of beaut}^, as the retiring king sank lower and lower in his chamber of purple and crimson behind a western cloud. The sailor was walking slowly with bowed head, holding the little brown hand Qi\vvs protegee tightly in his own, un- heeding the departing splendors of the dying day, for his thoughts were busy and his face denoted a " mind ill at ease." "Look — look!'' exclaimed his little companion, pulling away her small hand from the weather- beaten one that was so gently leading her. " Ihat is 'most as pretty as the sea: But it don't talk to me," she continued, after a moment's pause. He did look as she requested, but not where her finger pointed, for his attention suddenly became riveted upon the little upturned face beside him. " If they could only see her now^^ he thought; " what eyes ! But it will be all gone when we get there, and nothing but the old look of impishness will remain." A smile passed over his bronzed features as he continued to gaze at her who was hurrying on before to gather some flowers that 52 THE MISTRESS OF ROSEDALE. grew by tlie road-side, and well might lie be pardoned for any remark he might be tempted to make, for a more unlovely little image could not well be imagined. Her dress, wdiich had originally been of very fine material, had lost the- most of its beauty before coming to her, and what little might have been left disappeared during the night she lay asleep in the bottom of the dirty fishing boat with the rain beating upon her. To be sure it had been washed and mended by the kind-hearted Cathreen on board the " Bay State," but even this process had failed to add new charms to it, for there were many more colors (added by the several patches) than were at first intended to be there. This outer article of apparel, with an apology for one other garment, was the sole covering of the little dumpy figure ; and her hair, which was very thick and much longer than it was generally per- mitted to grow, hung in confusion about her sun- burnt face. They had now ascended a slight eminence which overlooked the valley, and before them was dis- tinctly visible the blue lake with its green border, and a long line of struggling sunbeams linger- ing upon its bosom, while to the right, in the midst of the evening shadows, stood the neat white cottage with its numerous adornings ; still nearer and plainly discernable in the broad light was a smooth white marble slab cold and chilling as the form which had for manj^ years rested be- neath it. This stone so motionless and still told the passer-by that " Henry Wood," the former owner and proprietor of the pleasant home and those extensive fields had long ago ceased from his labors, and the soil which his hands had so pro- AT THE NEW HOME. 53 ductively tilled was now another's, yet they were not his who was now so thoughtfully looking over them. When he^ twelve years ago, stood in the place of the buried husband, by the side of the widowed wife, the reservation had been made. The farm with all its accompaniments should belong to his future companion and her heirs, of whom her only daughter stood first in the rank of all succeeding claimants. One child had been born to them, a poor crippled boy of ten years, towards whom the father's heart always turned with all its fullness of paternal love. " Come here, Pliebe," said the sailor kindly to the busy little girl, who had her hands full of gay flowers and leaves, as he seated himself on a stone by the roadside. " Come here and see that house yonder ! Don't you think you would like to live there? See that lake, it isn't quite as large as the one I found you on, but there is a boat much pret- tier, very much, than the one you took your lonely ride in. Tell me, don't you think you would like such a home as that?" he continued, seeing she was gazing thoughtfully on the scene. " I'd like to go there,'''' she answered at last, pointing to the green hills that surrounded the lake. " But who would feed and take care of you? Be- sides, why would you not like to live in that pretty house? There are flowers all around it, and smooth paths through the garden down to the meadow brook, and beside it you can walk to the lake where the bright little row-boat is fastened to the oak tree. Willie thinks it is very nice ! We always go there together when I am at home, and while rA THE MISTRESS OF ROSEDALE. we are sailing I tell liiin all about my voyage, what I saw and heard, and what I hope he will see and hear some da3\" " Won't the\^ make me scour knives and wash potatoes?" asked the child, eagerly. "I don't like to do it, and I ecj//'//'' she exclaimed emphatically. " Mother used to whip me because I wouldn't do it ; but I would run away down to the shore and talk to the waves. Do the waves talk over there ?" she said, pointing to the lake, around which the nightly shadows were densely gathering. " If tlie}^ do, the}' will tell 3'ou it is z'cv^j' naughty not to do what those who are so kind ask you to do. IMothers have to do many things that are not pleasant, and every mother's girl ought to try to please her. Don't you think so?" Phebe shrugged her shoulders, and drawing her hand across her forehead, replied cpiickly — " Well, I don't like to scour knives, and I hain't got no mother." "But I want Willie's mother to be 3'ours, and I think she will be very kind to 3'ou, if 3'OU are good and try to please her." A shadow passed over his face, and he was silent for a long time. When he once more aroused him- self to actual life it had grown quite dark and the child was nowhere to be seen. He called, but she did not answer. Hurrying down the hill he called again ; but the echoes were his only reply. For a moment a sense of relief came over him. He had pondered much how he should introduce his little charge to the famil}^ circle in her most attractive light, in order to avoid opposition as much as pos- sible. But she was gone, and he could now go to his home with the expectation of a joyful greeting AT THE NEW HOME. 55 from all, unless it be save one. Then his great heart spoke. No, he could not leave her to wander off alone to perish ; he mzis/^nd her. Besides, Willie needed a companion. Poor lonely boy, he was denied the sports of other children, and was left alone with his thoughts and books so much that he was grow- ing morbid and silent. This was pitiful in one so young, and it may be that he needed just such a play-fellow as this to draw him away from himself; and he would find her. Hurrying on he did not stop until he had reached his own door, and to his great surprise he beheld Phebe in the little sitting room surrounded by the family circle, who seemed to be enjoying their strange guest to the utmost. He stepped quickly back into the deeper shadows and listened. They were evidently trying to find out something of her history, for Willie asked : " But where did you come from ? You can tell us //2^/." " I came from way down in the ocean, where the pearls grow, that is what my beautiful mother called me Lily-Pearl for." A hearty laugh succeeded this answer, while Fanny remarked, ironically : " I should imagine she had sprung out of some dark cavern ; but there is not much of the appear- ance of the pearl family about her." " What made you come here? " inquired Mrs. Evans, kindly ; '' did any one send you ?" " I thought I'd just come and see if you'd make me scour knives and wash potatoes ; 'cause, if you would, I don't want to live here. I don't like to do it. and I won'tP^ 56 THE MISTRESS OF ROSEDALE. " What a strange child," remarked Willie. '1 wish I could keep her ; I should like her so much," " Like me ? Does tJiat mean loi'e ? Would you kiss me and say, ' Good-bye, dear,' as Lutie Grant's mother does ? j\Iaria kissed me once, but that was nothing," and she shrugged her shoulders with an impatient gesture of contempt. " Kiss her," exclaimed Fanny ; " I would as soon kiss one of our pigs/' ]\lr. Evans from the shadow saw the flash in the large dark eyes, as they turned upon the speaker, and thought it time to make his appearance known. As he entered the door Phebe ran to him with out- stretched arms, and exclamations of pleasure, while the eager hands of the little lame bo3Mvere reached out towards him, and soon clasped in the strong, loving embrace of the happ}^ father. The Avife came forward for her share of joyful greetings, but the daughter kept her seat by the table where she was sewing, extending her hand onl}^ as the father approached, but he bowed his head and kissed her brow with a fondness that was not returned. " Well, Phebe, what made 3^ou run awa}^ from me ?" he asked, turning to the little girl who was still clinging to him, and laying his hand tenderly on her bushy head. " You wanted to introduce yourself, did you ? Didn't you know I was very much frightened ? I thought, perhaps you had run away to the woods where you seemed so anx- ious to go and live." " And where 3'ou picked her up, I should imag ine," remarked Fanu}'-, without raising her e3^es from her work. "Not quite so bad as that, is it, Phebe ? But we will talk about that b}^ and by," And unfold- AT THE NEW HOME. 57 ing a large bundle which he had brought with him he handed Willie some books which made his blue eyes sparkle ; then a parcel to his wife and another to the daughter, while a third he held in his hand. " Here are some dresses for Phebe, which I think will serve to win for herself a trifle more affection than she can expect to get in her present outfit, he said with a smile. Unfolding some bright calicoes, he called the little girl to him. " Won't you look pretty when you have these new dresses on ?" he asked kindly. " Lutie Grant never wore prettier clothes than these will be !" This had the desired effect. How her eyes spar- kled and danced with the anticipation. " Why, isn't she handsome, father? Where did you find her ?'' He gave a communicating look to his son and said ; " Tell Willie where I found you, will you ?" " 'Way out on the ocean," she said, evasively. " What were you doing there ?" Willie again asked. " I wanted to go out on the waves and hear what they said. I couldn't tell what they said when I was on the rocks." " You said you came from way down m the sea where the pearls grew." " And so I did, but not now. A beautiful lady picked me up. ^\W. you call me Lily-Pearl ?" she asked, coming close to Willie and taking his soft, white hand in hers. " I'll be good, then." " And do what Willie's mother asks you to do ?" interrupted Mr. Evans ; but there was no answer. 58 THE MISTRESS OF ROSEDALE. " Let me call you Lily Evans; that's m}^ name, you know, and if 3'ou are to be \\\y sister, Ave must love each other, and I shall want to have you like my name, too. Shall I ?" Phebe shrugged her shoulders, and the old unpleasant look came back to her face. " Then 3'ou don't want me for your brother? I thought you were going to love me, and we would be happy together." Phebe stole more closely to his side, and look- ing up into the pale face whispered, timidl}^, " Will you kiss me, Willie ?" " To be sure I will, and love yon, too — I know I shall !" and the boy kissed heartily the little up- turned face just as Fanny's sneering laugh reached her. The flash of indignation darted to her dark eyes, which her kind protector had seen there more than once, and well did he understand the foe that was lurking beneath. "I think little Phebe must be tired; can you find a place for her to sleep, mother ?" he asked soothingly, at the same time drawing her towards him. " Good night, ni}^ little girl ; I hope you will have pleasant dreams, and to-morrow we will talk about the new dresses." He kissed her fondly as he sj)oke, and the face beamed with joy as she left the room. There was a long family consultation that night after the child nad been shown to her bed, and for the first time in her whole life made to repeat the simple praj^er : " Now I lay me down to sleep," which she did reluctantly, and with many shrugs. But the quiet, earnest voice of Mrs. Evans sub- dued her, and she at last submitted with a ver}^ good grace. It was finally decided before the fam- AT THE NEW HOME. 59 ily separated for the night, that the new-comer should for a time, at least, become an inmate of the home circle, and through Willie's solicitations she should be considered his exclusive property. He would be her teacher, guiding all her studies, fill- ing her little untutored mind with the knowledge he had gained, as well as endeavoring to correct her faults ; while she in return would be his com- panion, drawing him in his carriage and amusing him generally. It was with a light heart that the poor lame boy lay down to sleep that night. Bright visions of coming happiness flitted through his mind, and succeeded in driving away his usually quiet slumbers. The next morning he arose early and soon after " Lily," as he persisted at the time in calling her, notwithstanding Fanny's sarcastic protestations, appeared in a neat chintz frock and pink apron which had not been taken out from their hiding place since the baby boy had grown too large for their use. Her hair was smoothly parted back from the forehead and her face was beaming and animated. She bounded quickly to Willie's side as she entered the room where breakfast was wait- ing, and inquired eagerly: " Do I look pretty?" "To be sure you do ; just as pretty as any other girl !" " I want to tell you something," she leaned over to whisper as she was being lifted to her seat by the side of her future companion; " I love^'- THE MISTRKSS OF ROSEDALH. lay stretched out before liini, over whieli the first rays of the suiiiiiier sun eauie gently stealing, driving back the dark shadows into the thick woodland upon the hillside. He then opened the window. There was music in the maple trees near where the robins had built their nests — there was fragrance in the cool fresh breeze that came and fanned his troubled brow. Just outside the yard the hay-makers stood with laughter and jest while they whetted their glittering scj'thes preparattu'y to their dailv labor, while all the time their brown faces wore the pleasant smile of health and con- tentment. Poor Willie ! He could only sit and look at them and pra}- for j^atience and resigna- tion. A remark from Fanny recalled him, and he re- plied : " 1 would go and call her but it would be useless for she is not here !'' "Not here? What do you mean? Has she gone?" " Yes, she has gone, and it is my opinion sister that you will miss her nearly if not Cjuite as much as /." "Gone! The heartless creature! This is all the thanks one ever gets for taking care of a good- for-nothing nobody for years ! It is pretty pay now to clear out just as she uiigJii have been of some use, and without a word too !" " You must have forgotten all you have been saying to her ever since we received the sad news of father's death," replied Willie with some bitter- ness. "Still you are mistaken; she did not leave without a word. She has told me several times that she was going, although I could not believe it, and when I came out of my room I found this OUT INTO THE WORLD. 93 letter under my door. You can read it if 3'ou wish when you have time." Without a word she took it from his hand and read as follows : "I cannot say good-bye Willie, and so as soon as the gray, dawn creeps over the mountain top I shall steal from this house and go — God only knows where ! I came here eight years ago a little strange child, leaving the first real friend in all my life far behind on the road to grieve at ni}^ absence, and now I go leaving only you my brother to be sad because I am not here. Yo7c will miss me ; and when I think how lonely you will be without your ' little Phebe ' to talk to I shall shed mau}^ tears. O, Willie I It is dread- ful to leave the only one who loves us to go off alone, but I shall find friends, I know I shall ! Do not be unhappy. Tell Fanny sometime, if she ever inquires as to my welfare, that I should have been happier to-night if she had loved me, or at least had exercised more patience with my many faults. I know I have tried her. Somehow I am not like the other girls about here ; they are satis- fied, but / — yes, Willie, I want to fly — go up among the clouds or down among the pearls — I don't know which, but some spirit goads me on — God only knows where. I am looking out to- night upon the world where I am going for my new life with more fear and trembling than when in a little open boat I drifted away over a stormy ocean all alone. But it is better so. A hundred times I have shivered and shrunk before the storm of Fanny's indignation, and as I remember it, a peace steals over me even now with the great un- known future before me. I did desire to do all she asked of me, but I could not and so I must go ! 94 THE MiSTRESvS OF ROSEDALE. Perhaps she may yet think kindly of me, who knows ? I am strong to-night dear Willie, not- withstanding this paper has so man\^ tear-stains upon it! How a few days have changed me — no longer a child but a woman going forth, as crazy Diniis c^^jifrmanded me, '-to make m\^ fate, make omens.' So good-b3''e ; remember what I told you you of Mrs. Ernest. PhebE." It was finished and Fann3^ handed it back to her brother without speaking. O how long that da}^ seemed ! The sun came out hot and sultry, drinking up the dew from the grass and withering the soft petals of the flowers ; the locust sang his monotonous song in the shade and the mowers went busily on with their work, and the hours crept slowl}' b}'. Fanny was unusually silent; her bus}" hands seemed never to tire, but her face all day wore a wear}', anxious look such as betokened thought. It was late in the afternoon, just before the time for milking, that she came and seated herself on the lounge b}- her brother. Perhaps the menior}^ of that mother who once sat there on just such a bright summer evening four years before came back to her, for it was then when she told Phebe never to leave her poor lame boy, always to love and comfort him. Who was to blame that the child was now an outcast, or that the poor mother- less crijjple sat there in that very spot lonely and sad? She did not speak for a moment as if ashamed of the womanly emotion that swelled her bosom. At last she said hurriedly : " What did Phebe mean about Mrs. Ernest?" " She has told me that I could hear about her by going there occasionally." OUT INTO THE WORLD. 95 * *' Why did you not go to-da}^?" '* I thought I would wait until to-morrow, then perhaps I might hear more," was the low reply. " She can have no definite plans as yet, but I will go in the morning." " I will harness Rover any time for yoUj" con- tinued Fanny as she moved away to attend to her evening duties. Willie dropped his head upon the pillow beside him and lay there motionless and still until the twilight shadows came creeping in at the window, covering him with a thick black pall. He could have wished that night that they might have buried him forever with their sombre folds, so harshly did life's greatest joys contrast with his overwhelming griefs ! Early the next morning Willie was on his way to the village drawn by the faithful Rover. It was a long time since he had been over that road alone, and at first he felt like shrinking from the task. A carriage came and swept over the brow of the hill, drew nearer, then passed him. A lady oc- cupied the back seat alone. She was a stranger but their eyes met. Hers so full of tenderness and pity — his bright with apprehension and suspense. He was sure that a tear glistened in her blue eye, but when he turned to look again she was gone. The driver he knew. The carriage belonged to the village hotel, and " Frank" always drove that span of grays. Once more Willie turned to look. and as he did so saw that the lady had bent for- ward as if to speak to him. " She knows how to sympathize with such as /," he thought, " for her expression was so kindly and gentle. Those eyes 9() THE IMIvSTRKSS OF ROSEDALE. — the}^ were so like my motlier^s. A deep, heav- enly look as if wishing for something she had hot yet received, which fonnd its way into hers before they closed forever!" and a tear dimmed his own vision for a moment onl}' ; then his thoughts re- turned to the beauties around him and to Iir?' he was going perhaps to see again. The roads were fine and Rover was in excellent spirits, so that in a short time the village church loomed up in sight. Close by it was the parsonage — bej^ond tlie long row of neatly-painted dwellings surrounded with bright green shrubbery and a pleasant lawn reach- ing to the road, finally the hotel with its balconies and loft}^ cupola, which overtopped the principal business portion of the unassuming little town. To the farther store on the main street Willie was to go on an errand for his sister, but first of all he would call at the parsonage. How his heart bounded with the prospect of coming J03', then sank again as the uncertainty rolled over him. Where was Phebe? And where was Phebe? That morning, with her eyes full of tears she had stood in the little chamber where she had spent so many pleasant hours and dreamed so mau}^ pleasant dreams ; the room she must now leave, with all of its hallowed associations, its garnered memories, to prove the father's unfailing promises of care and protection ! " You could not have forseen all this dear, dear mother!" she mused as she turned to the window where the white marble stood so chill and comfort- less in the morning shadows, "or you would never have placed your helpless boy in my care. But I must go. This pleasant cottage is my home no more ! The flowers I have planted in the garden OUT INTO THE WORLD. 97 yonder — the bed of lilies these hands have tended so long for your sake must bloom on without me." The first rays of the morning sun crept up from behind the eastern hills and rested as a sweet pro- phetic peace on the tree-tops that reared their stately heads above the lingering night shades, and taking the letter she had v/ritten the night previously stole softly from the room and thrust it under the door where Willie was sleeping all un- conscious of the wretchedness that was wringing such bitter tears from her loving heart as she though how he would miss her, and how lonely would be his morning ride down by the little pond without her. "Farewell!" she whispered, and then descended the stairs, stopping a moment to kiss the noble Rover and quickly passed on out in the world ! The short past with its changes, its reachings and its longings were to be left behind, while the broad future with its hopes, allurements and ambitions lay before her. With a shrinking heart but firm tread she stepped into the untried path and walked steadily forward. Someone has said that "the secret of true blessedness is charac- ter^ not condition ; that happiness consists in not where we are but what we are. Our lives resemble much the Alpine countries where winter is found at the side of summer, and where it is but a step from a garden to a glacier. Our little heroine found this to be so. It had been summer in the little cottage, not all sunshine nor all storms, for the days were as ever changeful and the years scattered over her life their shadows and their peaceful calms. " Go help fate make omens" crazy Dimis had said, and with many a firm re- solve she had said to Willie, " I will do it !" There 98 THE ^IIvSTRESvS OF ROSEDALE. was a world of mysteries before her out of wliicli the " omens " were to be created, and little did she understand the waj' in which she was to be led. The perjured woman whose daughter had given birth to " Ivillie-Pearl " had listened to the whis- perings of the serpent, and the great problem of justice was to be worked out in the ever changing adventures of " poor little Pliebe," and now with a satchel in her hand she had left all she. had known of love, and was alone upon the road where the cool morning zephyrs petted and caressed her. " My life!'' she thought as she walked on towards the parsonage. " If we are God's children we need not fear the developments of his changing provi- dences," Mr. Ernest had said to her one day while speaking to him of her future, and now these words came to her as bright and cheering as the raj^s of the morning sun, for both had driven away the darkness from her faith. Years after did memory return to this early morn to tread again the sandy road and listen to the chorus of the birdling's song, or watch with palpitating heart the silvery glories as they spread themselves over the eastern sky ; and then return to the noonday scenes of an eventful life through which she had been guided. CHAPTER IX. AN UPPER ROOM IN THE HOTEL. Mrs. Kruest while bustling about in lier kitchen saw her visitor approaching, and with broom in hand came out to welcome him. He was no stranger here, and few ever came who received a warmer greeting. " How bright and fresh you look from your early morning ride," was the good lady's salutation, and throwing down a piece of carpet on the damp ground stood patting Rover and chatting merrily all the while as Willie crept into the house. " I suppose / am not to feel at all flattered by this early call, for already something tells me that Phebe is the object of your visit," she laughingly said, while following him into the house; "so I will turn you over to Mr. Ernest with all the in- dignation I can muster," and patting him on the shoulder she cheerily invited him to the study. The occupant of the quiet room was stretched in an attitude of languid repose upon the sofa as they entered, but probably in deep meditation. When, however, he discovered who had intruded into his season of reveries, he arose with a face all beaming with smiles, and took the little extended hand in his own and placing an arm about his visitor lifted him with ease into a chair close by. 99 100 THE MISTRESS OF ROSEDALE. " Now, Ella, you may go and give Rover that plate of chicken bones you saved for ' some hun- gr}' dog,' for he above all others deserves it." Here was a happy home. " There was always sunshine at the parsonage," Willie would say. If clouds ever came they were so eifectually concealed that they never fell upon another. The brightest spot on earth — the place more to be coveted than palaces or posts of honor — is the peaceful, happy home, the nucleus around which fond hearts are gathered, where the com- pact of love remains unbroken only as death comes and steals away a link of the golden chain that binds fond hearts together. " Is not Phebe here?" Willie asked after a few moments conversation. *' O no ; she did not remain with us many hours ; but she is not far away," replied Mr. Ernest, pleasantly. " I will tell you about her. There is a lady boarding at the hotel, an invalid, I believe, who has come to our village, as gossip tells us, after health, — happiness, rather, as I believe, for she seems very sad at times. I have called on her often, and at one visit she expressed an earnest wish for some one to read to her. I thought of Phebe at once, and when she came to us yesterday morning and told her story, of which we were not wholly ignorant, I thought nothing could have been more apropos^ and so I went over there with her. The lady seemed much pleased, and I have no doubt Phebe will be very happy there." *' I think I must have seen her when I was com- ing," interrupted Willie. "A lady passed me in the hotel carriage who had a sad, pensive look ; 1 am sure it was she." AN UPPER ROOM IN THE HOTEL. 101 " I have no doubt you are right, for she rides out every day. I wouder, however, that Phebe does not take the opportunity to run over here for a moaient." But she did not. Willie stayed longer than he first intended, hop- ing to see her again^ but finally started for the store on his errand, passing the place where she had found her new home without even catching a glimpse of her, although he sought diligently to do so. Had he known that she was then engaged in penning a long sisterly letter to him he would not have been so thoroughly wretched all that day and the next. It was some consolation, however, that Fanny semed so much interested in her now that she was away. She was minute in her inquires on his re- turn, yet did not appear quite pleased when told that Phebe was only to read to her new mistress. " Worse and worse," was her exclamation, " she was good for nothing before, what will she be now?" " We shall see," was Willie's quick reply. But he was thinking how much he would enjoy being there to listen as she read. He was not mis- taken in regard to his conclusions about the lady in the carriage. It was Mrs. Gaylord, in whom Phebe had found a friend and protector. She had taken rooms at the hotel only a short time before, having no other company than a young mulatto girl about Phebe's age, who seemed devoted to her mistress, and mild and affable to all, yet she an- swered very few of the questions that were put to her by the inquisitive. " They had come from Virginnj^, and would go back dare when missus had got nuff of dis 'ere 102 THE MISTRK.SS OF ROSEDALE. norf," was about the extent of the knowledge ob- tained from " Tin}' " on an}^ occasion. Three weeks passed away and Phebe liad not once seen ''dear Willie." ]\lr. Ernest had told her of his frequent visits to the parsonage, and of the pleasure that would beam in his blue eyes as he received her letters from him ; but no amount of persuasion could prevail upon him to make a visit to the hotel, which was much to Phebe's disap- pointment. She was always bus}' now. When she was tired of reading or the lady of listening, she was engaged with her needle. " Young people arc inclined to home-sickness if not employed," Mrs. Gaylord would say, pleas- antl}', and so Phebe was seldom idle. During these seasons of occupation they had talked much. Phebe had told her all she knew about her early liistor}-, and her listener had many times laughed heartily at the recital, but not a word had she ever spoken of her own life. There was a dark cloud resting upon her, it was evident, for her companion had often looked up suddenly from her book to see the tears falling silentl}^ from the calm eyes, who would brush them hurriedly away as she said " go on;" and Phebe obeyed. At one time she smiled \vlien detected, and drying her e^^es she said, mildl}- — " W^hat is jealous}^ little one? You have just been reading about it. What is your definition of the word ?" " Willie would say " an unjust suspicion ; a sense of imaginary wrong without proof;' " answered Phebe, hesitatingly. She laughed now. AN UPrER ROOM IN THE HOTEL. lOo " O you little novice ! How far you are behind the times. That definition might have done for your grandmother, but it will never do for these modern days. I will tell you, child, what it is, or what it means now. It is a wail of despair which the heart gives over the loss of its dearest treas- ure. The anguish of its desolation when the fire of love burns low ; the cry of wo when it sees the vacant chair in its most secret chamber, and deso- lation looks with hungry eyes out from aniougthe shadows of its former trysting place ! Does the poor heart murmur? Does it put on the sack- cloth and the sprinkling of ashes ? Love is not dead, but strayiug, straying! This is jealousy. The vacation of one heart for — for — well, child, yoH know nothing about it, and may you long re- main in ignorance." She bowed her head and wept long and bitterly. Phebe moved the ottoman on which she was sit- ting close by the side of the agitated lady and laid her head upon her knee. A bond of sympathy drew them together. A chord had been touched to which the heart of each vibrated in unison. Deso- lation was creeping among the shadows in the secret chamber of both hearts, and the feeble wail of wo which came from the lonely hearth-stones mingled in low, solemn cadence, and they two were united by these bonds of sympathy. A soft, white hand nestled lovingly among the braids of the young girl's hair as the bowed head still rested its heavy weight on the lady's rich dress, and from that moment a sweet confidence took possession of them both. Ah ! there is nothing so invigorating and com- forting in this ever changing life as the sweet as- lOJ: THE MISTRESS OE ROSEDALE. surance of reciprocal affection in the hour of des- pondency and gloom. A mother's kiss, a father's fond caress, soon dries the tear and soothes the pain of childhood, and can it be tliat their power grows less towards the children of accumulated years ? " Did I speak bitterly just now; my child?" the lady asked, after a long silence. " I hope I did not frighten you." Phebe looked up into the sad face that was beam- ing now with a full glor}^ of consolation as she answered: " O no; I was not frightened. Even in my short life I have seen sorrow, and know well what it means. Ever since we have been together I have believed that something troubled you, and it has made me — " " Made you what, my child ?" " Made me love you, O may I do this ? Will you let little Phebe creep into 3'our heart and find a resting place there ? O Mrs. Gaylord, I am so lonely! Nobody but Willie — and he is lost to me now." The large eyes were gazing with their far-off, mysterious look, which Willie had so often watched with a tremor of apprehension in his heart ; but ut there were no tears in them. The wail was from the secret chamber, and the lady recognized it. "Yes, dear," was her answering refrain. "You shall nestle cosily in this poor quivering heart if you desire it. I was once a lonely orphan like yourself, and I pined for a love I could not find. It is dreadful — this chilling desolation of life. At twenty I married, and was alone no longer. My yearning heart was satisfied, not because of the "1 " O, Mrs. Gaylord, I am so lonely.' AN UPPER ROOM IN THE HOTEL. 105 luxury that surrounded me, or the honors with which I was crowned as the bride of the rich young southerner. No, no. Sweeter by far than all of this was the assurance that I was loved. That was many years ago, when my face was fair and my cheeks covered with bloom. It is over now, and with my youth and beauty went the love which was more precious than all. His hair has lost its glossy hue and his step its elastic bound ; but for these my heart has suffered no reaction, 3'et it bears to- day the scars of many wounds. Some are not 3'et healed, and memory often rends them anew until the tears ivill come trickling through the torn fis- sures. But I must not grieve you, my child. The world calls me happy, for it penetrates not the covering that my proud spirit has thrown over all, and I am willing it should be deceived. I came to this quiet village to gain strength to endure ; when I have accomplished my object I shall return to my Virginia home. It is a bright spot to the looker on, full of plenty and repose for one whose soul has power to take them in ; and to this home, my sweet comforter, I would take you." Phebe started. " Smother that refusal in those bewitching e3^es, for I shall take none of it," she laughed. " You have just pleaded for my love. What good under the sun will it do you when hundreds of miles are piled up between us ? No, no. We need each other. The days we have been together have made you a necessity to me. Do not answer me now," she continued, gently placing her white hand over the lips of her companion, as she saw them move for utterance. " Take a few more days to think of it. We have plenty of time. Talk to me now 10() THE MISTRESS OK ROSEDALE. about this Willie, of whom 3011 have spoken. You did not tell me that 3'ou loved him, hut is it not so, my child?" " Yes, I love him more and better than any one else. He is a poor cripple, four years older than I, and we have been together everj^ da}- since his father brought me to him. His mother loved us both, and when she was about to die, she gave him to me, and told me never to forget or forsake him. How can I leave him to go with j^ou ? He has been such a dear l^rother to me for so mau}^ j-ears ; j'oti would lo\e him, too, I am sure, if 3'ou knew him as well as I.'' " How^ your cheeks glow, little enthusiast ! Now let me ask, is your hero drawn by a dog usually?" " Yes. I was sure 3'ou must have seen him dur- ing some of 3^our rides for he has come to the vil- lage often since I have been here." " I have met him only twice, but even these faint glimpses into his peaceful face takes awa}- ni}^ wonder at your heart's bestowal. It was pity that caused me to notice him and long for another beam from the liquid eyes, and now^ that I know who he is I can but feel hurt that you have not in- vited him to our rooms. It would do me good I know to study that character and learn resignation from its teachings." " ]\Iay I ? O — you do not know how^ much I thank you ! I will go this very day to the parson- age, with your permission, to tell him. He may be there, w^hen it is cooler, to hear from me ; and //I could meet him !" " Did I not say that it w^as i/zy wish to study him for sake of the good it might do me ?" and she kissed the glowing cheek of the young girl with a AN UPPER ROOM IN THE HOTEL. 107 passion unusual to her. " Then go at once if you hope to see him, but hasten back for I am too sel- fish to permit you to remain long away. It is lonely, darling, and I cannot understand how I ever lived without you." " You are so good !" and Phebe pressed the soft caressing hand to her trembling lips. Nothing is more sweet than to be guided into this realm of thought by the precious foretaste of the love that awaited her when the end should be reached. She had gone out into the darkness ex- pecting nothing but chilliness and gloom, but in- stead she was walking '" by the side of still waters " and there was freshness and beauty all along the way. Still a portentous cloud was floating in the clear blue of her gilded sky, for how could she ever leave Willie to go v/ith Mrs. Gaylord to her southern home ? The weeks were rapidly passing, and when the hot summer da3^s had all flitted away there would come a change, and her life had re- ceived so many already! " Where would the next one take her?" As she stepped in front of the mirror for a moment a smile of satisfaction stole over her young face. The new hat Airs. Gaylord had purchased for her was very becoming, as that lady had asserted, and she thought how it would please Willie to see her looking so well. He had often lamented during the last two years that it was not in his power to procure these little luxu- ries, and she went on her way with a happy heart. CHAPTER X. THE OPENING OF A NEW LIFE. " And whether we be afflicted, it is for our con- solation and salvation, which is effectual for the enduring of the same sufferings which we also suf- fer ; or whether we be comforted it is for our con- solation ; for as all hearts suffer, all have the power of consolation." " ]\Irs. Ga3'lord had suffered, and out of the sad experience of her eventful life had come the power to administer to others." Such was Phebe's thought when on her way to the parsonage, which stood in the suburbs of the village surrounded by its fresh green lawn that had always appeared so winning to the lovers of beauty, and peaceful to the seeker after " consolation." ]\Ir. Ernest also knew how to bestow this gift on the weary heart. His earl}' da3's had not been filled with the bright things that rightfully belong to childhood, and his after years were those of toil and strugglings. He understood well how to ap- ply the S3anpathies so consoling to those whose feet are torn with the thorns b}' the way. Our little pedestrian was walking away from one minister of comfort to another who was equally skilled, and it was with the greatest difficulty that she could keep her air}^ feet down upon the well- beaten track which ran along by the side of the 108 THE OPENING OF A NEW LIFE. 109 broad highway to the pleasant home of the village pastor, where she hoped to find Willie and extend to him Mrs. Gaylord's pressing invitation. Mr. Kruest had told her that he usually came in the early morning or in the cool of the evening, and now the sun was fast sinking down behind the western clouds. There might be a storm approach- ing, for the breezes were fresh and cool, and she could but think how the ripples were sweeping around the " sand-bar " and lifting the broad lilly- pads among the rushes not far out from where the pleasant row-boat was fastened to the old oak tree. Should she ever glide in the little boat over the lovely blue waters again ? And then, when the stern old winter had thrown his coverlet of ice across its throbless bosom, when the lilies were all asleep in their cozy beds, what delightful rides she and Willie had enjoyed on its smooth surface as Lloyd Hunter drew them on his large comfortable sled. Was all this gone forever? She reached the door, and as no one was in sight, stopped a moment while her thoughts went on. Willie was not there, for his visit had been made in the morning. " I am going by there to-morrow. '^ Phebe's eyes brightened. " May / go with you ? Mrs. Gaylord will not let me walk so far, it not being ' lady-like,' " she smiled. " She has invited him to our rooms, and I am so anxious." "Certainly, my dear; but be all ready, for I have an engagement at nine, eight miles away." There had been no need for this last suggestion, for Phebe felt quite sure that with such a prospect before her she could not sleep at all. Still, after 110 THR MISTRKvSS OF ROSRDALE. talking the matter over with Mrs. Gaylord, and getting her consent for the proposed visit, her heart lelt a reaction at the thonght of again meet- ing Fanny. It seemed long since she had been there, and the partition wall which had divided them while still together, had not been lowered by a single act, and now reall}- appeared more form- idable than ever when viewed at snch a distance. How conld she ever meet her? When the morning snn sent his bright beams into her window she sprang from her bed with the qnestion still nnanswered. " Good morning," said Mrs. Gaylord, putting her head in at tlie door at that ver}' moment. Phebe was surprised. Seldom did the lady leave her room before all of the rest had breakfasted. " O, 3'ou needn't look so wonderingl}' at me," she continued, laughing. " I only thought I would tell you to put on 3'our new white dress, as it is such a love!}- morning, and then I want you to appear 3^our best, for I know he will appreciate it," and she was gone. '' Well does she know how to be a comforter," thought Phebe. How well she remembered at that momerit the last walk she had with Willie down by the little pond, and his mournful wail of desolation as they talked of his lonely future without her ! The bell sounded along the hall telling all who desired an early breakfast that it was now read}^, so hastening with her toilet, she opened the dooi leading to Mrs. Gaylord's room, and to her sur- prise found her also read}^ to go with her. " I have had a new thought," she said gaily. " and have ordered the carriage. We will go to- THE OPENING OE A NEW LIKE. Ill gether and take him out for a little airing. Rover, I have no doubt, will be much obliged to be ex- cused for one day. Two miles and a half is a pretty long road for such a brute to draw so heavy a load." Phebe made no answer, for she was a little dis- appointed. She had anticipated the walk back and the uninterrupted talk more than she had herself been aware of. " Do you not like my arrangement ?" queried the lady, artlessly. Phebe expressed much pleasure at the prospect, and, come to think of it, " the new plan was pref- erable, as it would take away all embarrassment in the meeting with Fanny." The carriage was at the door when the two were ready, and in a few minutes they halted before the parsonage to report the change. Then away they rolled on their delicate errand of pleasure and comfort. Never had Phebe looked so fresh and pretty as now. Her plain hat of white straw sat jauntily on her heavy braids of jetty hair, from beneath which her dark eyes shone with a new brilliancy, her dress, about which Mrs. Gaylord had been so par- ticular, set off her well rounded form to the best advantage, and as she sat by the richly attired lady no one would have imagined that the two were mistress and menial. Some such thoughts must have passed through the mind of the young girl, for her cheeks glowed, and an air of worth if not superiority, sat with easy dignity upon her every movement. "There he is," she exclaimed, as tney came in sight of the white cottage among the maples. " He is waiting for us." ' 112 THE MISTRESS OF ROSEDALE. "Hurry Frank," said the lady, "lie does not yet recognize j^ou Phebe." " Willie, dear brother Willie !" she called out as the carriage drew up before the gate, and in a moment she had darted down by his side, and throwing her arms around his neck said cheerily : ^' Come, Willie, Airs. Ga3dord wants to take 3'ou out for a ride ! It is lovely, and Rover can have a rest!" His face crimsoned as he realized that strangers were witnessing their joyful meeting. Unperceived Mrs. Gaylord had approached, and holding out her hand said pleasantl}^ : " Phebe was so selfish that she was going to have 3'OU all to herself but I concluded to defeat her plans. Will 3'ou be so kind as to go with us and spend the da3^ at our rooms? We will try to make it very pleasant for 3'ou." All this was said with so much tenderness that it would have been impossi- ble for the poor bo3- to refuse. "Let me get 3^our hat, for I see that 3'ou are all ready as usual," and Phebe forgetting her dread of the " frigid Fanny " rushed into the house, meeting that important personage on the very threshold. " Good morning " was her cneerfui salutation ; " we are going to take Willie awa3' from 3^ou for a few hours, and I have come for his hat." " He has not been to breakfast 3'et," was the chilling reply. " I think you had better wait and give him time to eat." ' Perhaj)s it would be better," ejaculated Phebe as she passed her, hat in hand. " In the meantime would 3'OU not like to go with me down our pleasant walk to the pond?" asked Phebe, as she came back where Mrs. Gay- THE OPENING OF A NEW LIFE. 113 lord and Willie were conversing familiarly. The lady cheerfully consented and they were soon out of sight among the trees that skirted the meadow brook. When they returned, Willie was sitting by the side of Frank and his usually pale face was flushed with excitement. " If you like we will go around by the old town road," said the driver as the rest of his company became seated. " It will be two miles farther back but it is cool and shady." " All right!" and the happy trio were rapidly borne away. Phebe had told her friend how her "dear brother" became so helpless and his sensitiveness in regard to it, and had more than ouce seen the tears of sjmipathy glisten in the fine eves of the listener at the nar- ration. " His feet and limbs below the knees have not grown since he was a baby," she had said; " and of course they cannot bear the body, which is well developed. He can creep about very well, but is unwilling that any one outside of his own home should see him. When a mere child he has told me his manner of locomotion was to sit and hitch himself about, which gave him the appellation among the boys of ' hitch Kvans ' which so morti- fied his pride that he would not appear among them." " Poor boy!" was the low response. Now, how- ever, Mrs. Gaylord chatted pleasantly with him about the beauties of the landscape — the fading glories of the passing summer and of her own home in the sunny south, until as he said after, "I forgot that I was a mere cypher amid it all." At last they arrived at the hotel, and as Frank with his strong arms set him on the broad winding 114 THE MISTRESS OF ROSEDALE. stairway he scrambled up to the top on his hands and knees, laughing as he did so because Phebe would wait for his slow movements rather than trip forward with Mrs. Gaylord, who wanted to see if Tiny had all things in readiness. It vvas a delightful day to them all. Dinner was served in the upper room, and Phebe thought as she watched the glowing face of her brother that it was never before half so beautiful as now. Was it because Phebe was ap-ain near him? Or had the kind words and suggestions of his new friend aroused energies of which before he was not con- scious? It was true that every moment had been filled with reading and conversation and it was all so new to Willie ! "It is a fact," continued Mrs. Ga3'lord after Tiny had taken off the last dish from the table ; " that many with far less brains and more iuefficient than yourself have filled im- portant places in the world's histor3^ With exer- cise I do not see why 3'our body should not become sturdy and robust. I have a friend in Boston who has a large clothing store and manufactures his own goods, and the great object of insisting upon your company to-day was to tell you that I will, if you desire it, bring your case to his notice, and if he favors my suggestions will let you know all about it." "O — if I could!" came from his overflowing heart. " If I could only do something! I have always been told that it was no use for me to exert myself for I was helpless, and I had settled down as far as it was possible on that supposition." " But you are not ! Your present skill with the needle has its advantages and in a very short time you would be independent at least. Labor brings THE OPENING OF A NEW LIFE. 115 contentment and with it the years wonld not pass so laggardly." Phebe had come np behind him and was smoothing his brown cnrls with her gen- tle hand, and reaching up his trembling one he clasped hers tightly as he asked : " Phebe, more than sister, can I do this? Will the time ever come when I shall cease to eat the bread of dependence ? Tell me Phebe, for your words have ever given me strength ; am I truly only the long withered stalk you hold as the em- blem of ni3\self ?" " No, Willie ! Believe what Mrs. Gaylord has said and grow firm ! You can — you will ! I feel it in my heart you 'will go up the stairs' and leave some at the foot who do not now expect to stay there ! I thought of it to-da}^ and determined not to let you go ahead of me, and so kept close by your side." She laughed while he warmly pressed the hand he had been holding. " You see," interposed Mrs. Gaj'lord, " Phebe and I have talked a little about this but I did not mention, even to her, the plans which for more than two weeks I have been maturinof. To-mor- row we will go to the city, Phebe and I, and see what can be done, and if j-ou will come to us on the following day all can be decided." It zaas decided ! Mr. Bancroft of Boston would do well by him ; take him into his own home and see that his wants were attended to until he had become efficient in the business, and then give him a place in his establishment if he proved himself worthy. " Worthy?" exclaimed Phebe ; " he is noble — he will be all you can desire !" 116 THE MISTRESS OF ROSEDALE. " The hearts of young ladies are not alwa3^s re- liable in busiurss relations," replied the gentleman with a mischievous twinkle in his bright eye. " However, Mrs. Gaylord, upon 3'our maturer judg- ment I will try him, for reall}^ you have excited in me an interest for the young man ; and I see no reason why he cannot be a master workman. / began life 1)}' coiling my feet under me on the bench, and I could have done it just as well had they not been incased in No. 9's. He laughed. " His Rover will be just the thing ; he can soon be taught to bring his master to his work and return to his kennel for protection. And by the way, I shall be obliged to see that /n's animal has an ' ordinance ' of its own. They kill dogs here so promiscuously^" " / had thought of that and concluded to set Pompy at work training another for his use as soon as I return home. You know he is famous at such work." Willie received the report of their successful mission in the city with almost ecstatic joy. "Can it be true?" he thought. There would be difficul- ties ; any amount of pride must be overcome — shrinking sensitiveness subdued — but he would try ! To have aspirations — anticipations of suc- cess — what more could he desire? In three days Mrs. Gaylord would go with Wil- lie to his new home and Phebe was to accompany them. CHAPTER XI. " ROSEDALE." Come with me, gentle reader, to the sunny south, to the land of orange groves, where the air is sweetest and the sky is bluest; where nature's lyre does not of necessity get unstrung or lose her summer melodies as winter breaks in with harsh, discordant notes to jar the ear and chill the rich, warm blood. Come to the land of flowers, of poe- try, of dreams. Hard seems the fate which thrusts a " serpent into every paradise," in whose trail death follows, withering up its freshness and throwing a net-work of decay over its richest beau- ties. Yet such is the intruder blighting many homes in the cold regions of the bustling north, as well as in the clime where the sweet singers of the faded woods delight to pour out their winter's songs. Alas ! that it should be so. " Why, my Lily-Bell, how faded you look this morning ! Worse than the rose you wore in your hair last night. Now let me wager something. What shall it be? Ah! my yesterday's letter against your's of yesterday, also, that I can divine the cause. Shall it be ? Ah ! that smile ! It was like the morning zephyrs sporting with the with- ered petals of my ' Lily-Bell.' Let me kiss back its beauty, or breath some of my exuberance into it, which seems so worthless in its prodigality," and 117 118 THE MISTREvSS OF ROSEDALE. the lively little lady bent over the invalid's chair and kissed over and over again the brow of her companion. " There ! there ! Look quickly ! Two little rose leaves of unquestionably pinkish hue are flut- tering in close proximity to those lovely dimples. But they have flitted away again. What a pity that beauty is so fleeting." " I should think you would despair, dear Grace, of charming one into life who has been so long dead. The task would be more congenial to your taste, I imagine, to roll me up and la}- me away in your casket of precious relics for memory to grow sentimental over in future j^ears. Why do j-ou not do it, la Petite/ Own that yow are weary, as the rest do, and thrust me out of sight." " No, indeed ; I have no passion for must}' relics. Come, let us awa}- to the drawing-room. It is nearly time for breakfast." " Are 3'ou aware, cousin mine, of the compli- ments 3'ou have been showering upon me, ' fading, withering,' etc.? To tell the truth, I am quite un- willing, under their pressure, to appear before our brilliant guests, understanding now the full array of blemishes of which I am the possessor." '' I was only prattling, Lilj^-Bell. Nothing hu- man could be purer or sweeter than that face of yours. Let me picture it," and kneeling on the carpet before her companion, she took a little white hand and pressed it lovingly in her own. "No, no; do not call me silly. There, keep that smile. That little mouth was just made for such glowing sunbeams to play about. How I would like to tear away those lines of sadness which so mar its exquisite formation, and bring ROSEDALE. 119 back the soft tints to those lips. Not that it would enhance its perfection, but it would denote health of body and heart. Then those eyes, so dark, deep and fathomless ! I cannot look into their depths without a feeling of purity and holiness stealing into my soul, as though I had taken a peep into the land of spirits where there is no sin. What, a tear? Forgive me, darling. I should have known better. I too often pelt the door of your heart's supulcher with the pebbles of my thoughtless volubility. Thank you for that look of forgiveness. Now let me depart before I sin again. But, just a moment. Whenever I plant my tripping feet on sacred ground, bid me hush^ begone. Check me, dearest. I want to be your sunbeam, not the east wind that blows up dark clouds ; will you ?" " I will let you act and talk naturally. I like it. If at times you discover tears, it need not frighten or silence you. They seem as necessary to my existence as the rain to the summer flowers. Now begone ; / shall go out among the zephyrs awhile that they may freshen up these ' withered petals.' Do not mention me below. Good bye," and Lillian, kissing her hand to her companion, glided through the open door and away out of sight. At the time of which I write there could not be found in all Georgia a more charming home retreat from the cares and tumults of the bustling world than the home of the Belmonts. " Rosedale " was what its name would seem to designate, a garden of roses. The house was built around three sides of a hollow square in the cen- ter of which a fountain sent up its sparkling jets above the cool twinkling shadows of the trees 120 THE MISTRESS OF ROSEDALE. which surrounded it, up into the sunlight, catch- ing its rainbow tints and falling back into the mar- ble basin beneath, with a cool trickling sound that charmed the wear}^ and enervated into quiet and repose, lulling the restless spirit into dreams of future peace and rest. The open side looked to- wards the north, and as far as the e3'e could reach tlie most charming landscape was extended. A thoroughly cultivated cotton field was near by, but it wound around to the right and was lost sight of behind the orange grove. On the left the white rude huts of the negroes were just discernable. On — on, the distant hills kept rising, over which the blue sk}' seemed to hover lovingl}^ giving to the bright green fields a darker hue, and to the little busy river below the terrace, a robe of its own soft color. The constructor of this beautiful home had been sleeping for man}' years where the fir trees nestled together and the purling river sang all day its rip- pling song as if to hush to more silent repose the quiet slumberer. The widow, however, who had never laid aside her weeds, liad well maintained her position. There was no plantation in all that region more thrifty or prosperous than this. It was a pleasure to visit Rosedale, particularly now, as Charles, the only son, had returned from his European tour as reputed heir and proprietor of the beautiful estate, and of course the spacious drawing-rooms were crowded. One hour after Lillian had left her chamber she was sitting alone in a quiet summer house at the foot of the terrace looking dreamily out upon the landscape, listlessly plucking the roses which drooped about her and scattering their bright ROSED ALE. 121 petals on the ground at her feet. Perhaps she imagined who would look for her there at that hour, still when the sound of a footstep fell on her ear she started and her pale cheek flushed for a moment ; but when George St. Clair entered she smiled and extended her hand in welcome. He took it tenderly in his own and seated himself at her feet. " You have carpeted the ground for me with rose leaves which these little hands have wantonly spoiled," he said with his usual gallantry. " O, Lillian, how cruel you are!" " Do not George ; I want to talk with you ! I have spent a sleepless night trying to summon suf&cient resolution for this interview. I feel that you deserve some share of my confidence at least, and it is sweet to know that after all this strug- gling I can give it to 3^ou." " And I shall be glad to receive it, although I have a presentiment that it is my death doom !" She bowed her head and her white lips touched his forehead. " I love you, George, with the purest sisterly affection, and in my poor heart your sorrows will ever find a sympathetic response. I feel that I shall give you pain by what I must say, and God knows how gladly I would save you from it if it was in my power. But bear with me ; I have long loved another ! You have surmised it — / now confess it ! I was not yet fifteen when I met and loved Pearl Hamilton. You remember the time I went north to school? He was a Phila- delphian by birth and a nobler, truer heart never beat ! Could you see him George you would not blame me for what I did ! I was a child — a petted, spoiled child ! My wishes had never been dis- 122 THE MISTRESS OE ROSEDALE. puted aud why should they be then? In a very few weeks I became his wife. Do not look at me so wildly ! It is all true — I am a luife!^^ "Lillian, ivliy have you deceived the world and me so long? Why did 3-ou not tell me this three years ago when I returned from Europe? Had 3^ou done so I would have spared 3'ou all of the torment ni}- repeated proffers of love must have caused ; and it might have been had I known the truth at that time less bitter for me to-da3\ But I will not chide 3'ou." The 3'oung man had risen to his feet while speaking and paced to and fro the full length of the arbor, " Come and sit by me," she pleaded ; " I have not 3'et finished." He obeyed. '' It was not my fault, George, that you did not know all at the time, but let me continue m3^ narrative. It will not detain you long. I was married, not however without the approbation of my Aunt, with whom I resided. As soon as it was over a sudden fear took possession of me. I did not dare tell m3' mother. For the first time in all m3' life I had acted with- out her ajDproval, and now I was fearful of her displeasure. It came at last. After much pursua- sion from m3^ husband and friends I told her all. One bright day when Pearl was absent from home my aunt sent for me. I obe3'ed the summons, and there met m3^ mother after a separation of more than a 3'ear. Her greeting was cold, her manner stern and commanding. It seems that she had been in the cit3^ three da3^s, and during that time had accumulated legal documents suf&cient to prove to ;;/(f, at least, that as neither of us was of age our marriage was null and void. Her words overpowered me. But I will not picture the scene ROSEDALE. 128 that followed. I was a child again obedient to her will. We left the city before the retnrn of my husband, and I have never seen him since. I have written many letters, but have received none in re- turn. Only once have I heard that he yet lived. My aunt wrote that he stood very high in the esti- mation of the people and remained true to his boy- ish vows. That letter was not intended for my eyes, but they saw it, and my heart responded to his fidelity. Thus to-day you find me what I am. Now, tell me, George, do you hate me for what I have done ? I had not the power to break away form the injunction laid upon me. My mother said that in time I would not only regret but forget, my folly, and would thank her for placing me in a position to marry some one equal to myself. O George, think of these long years I have carried this aching, desolate heart. My whole being has seemed enervated. But this fresh proffer of your love has aroused me. I am a woman^ and there is injustice in all this. You are good and noble ; for this reason I have confided in you, breathed into your ear words that were never before spoke by me." " Thank you ! But, Lillian, what proof has your aunt that he remains true to his early vows ? Do you think any earthly power could keep 7ne from you were you my wife ? And yet you tell me that you have not received one answer to your many letters." " Did I not also tell you that there was injustice in all this ? And more — I am fully convinced that there has been and now is a crivtinal wrong being enacted of which / am the subject," 12J: THE MISTRESS OF ROSEDALE. " It cannot be ! O Lillian ! henceforth I am your friend and your brother. Command me at all times, and I am your obedient servant. Hence- forth my country only shall be my bride. I will wed her with good faith. I will suffer, I will die for her. But you will be my sister, Lillian. Call me brother. Let that appellation, at least, fall from those sweet lips like the refreshing dew, for I feel that my heart is withering, and then I must go. I came to bid you farewell. New duties are calling me, and I am glad that it is so." " God bless 3'ou, my brother," came like low, plaintiff music to his ear. For one moment he held her close to his heart, and gazed into the beautiful eyes where a world of love and suffering lay hidden ; then imprinting a kiss upon her fair cheek fled from her presence. He was gone. For a long time Lillian sat like one in a dream. Could it be ? Had the friend of so many years really spoken the last farewell ? How much she had prized his love ; his demonstrations of tender- ness ; and now they were to be hers no more. How much it had cost her to sever this sparkling chain of gold which the heart of woman ever covets, God only knows. But the v/ork had been accom- plished at last, and the thought brought more of relief with it than pain after all. She had pon- dered it so long and shrank from its performance until the burden of her coming duty pressed heav- ily upon her ; but it was lifted now, and a sense of peace stole into her mind as she realized the truth. Then there came a wave of apprehension that sud- denly dashed its murky waters over her. " What would her mother say ?" She had so long been ROSEDALK. 125 the submissive cJiiId in lier strength and power that it was a marvel Jiow she had dared to loosen herself from them or act for once upon her own responsibility. There was one reason why that mother had so insisted upon her wedding George St. Clair, but the daughter had never been able to obtain it from her. " But I could not — O I could not," she exclaimed, rising and standing in the door way of the arbor as she looked away down the road where her lover had ridden at full speed, taking with him, as she well knew, an aching heart, but one not more wretched than her own. " Raphael made the transfiguration a subject for his pencil, but died before it was finished, and how many of us will do the same ? We begin life with glowing tints, but the sombre colors are demanded. We lay aside the brush as incapable of the task, and other hands interfere to spoil its designs or destroy the first intention altogether. Lillian's life had opened with a few glowing outlines, but a masterly hand had changed the subject, and the canvas was yet to receive its filling up, and God was marking the designs upon it for her ; and, discovering this, she bowed her head with reveren- tial awe before the solemn realization, and with a firmer and steadier step than had been hers for years, she walked to the house and entered her own room. CHAPTER XII. heart's secrets revealed and unrevealed. " He — he — he ! Didn't Massa George make Spit- fire fly, tho' ? Gorry ! 'specks them bobolisheuis '11 have to take it now, no 'stake. He — he — he !" " O you get out. What you talk 'bout bobo- lisheuis anyhow ? Think you're mighty smart nigger, don't ye ? It's my opinion ye don't know nothin' — that's all." And Aunt Lizzy moved away with the air of one who did understand and utterly despised one who was not as fortunate as herself, as the toss of her lofty turban perfectly demon- strated. " 'Specks old woman, ye'd jus' like to know all what dis nig' duz. 'Mighty smart ! He — he — he ! Gals aint 'speeted to know nothin' no how," and Pete, who was the especial favorite of his young master, turned away from his unappreciative aud- itor with all the dignity supposed to have been handed over to him with the last suit of young massa's cast-off clothing in which he was pomp- ously arrayed. Just then the soft folds of a white dress peeped out from behind the foliage of the "Prairie Queen," which scrambled about in native abandonment everywhere over the corridor on one side of the moss-covered terrace. Pete saw it as it waved in the noonday breeze, which was scarcely sufficient 127 128 THE MISTRESS OF ROSEDALE. to move a leaf or flower, so stealtliil}' it came lad- eued with its burden of perfume. Discovering that some one was so near, the astonished slave was about to retreat in much confusion, when Grace Stanley stepped from behind the massive vine and stood before him. Evidently there had been tears in her brilliant eyes that were unused to weeping, but they had succeeded only in leaving transparent shadows over their brightness. Sad traces, to be sure, of what had been, as well as presentiments of what might be. Her soft cheek wore a deeper tint than was usual to it, and her long lashes drooped lower, casting a sombre shade beneath them, and that was all. Yet the little heart, all unused to sorrow, throbbed beneath the pure white bodice with a wound it seemingly had not the power to bind up. She had come to Rosedale as free and joyous as the birds that flitted among the orange blossoms where the zephyrs were then gathering their sweets, and the future over which her feet would gladly tread decked with the brightest and sweetest flow- ers, among which the trailing serpent had never for a moment showed his treacherous head ; but she had found that the blossom of hope will wither and the golden sunshine fade ; and this conscious- ness had pierced her sensitive nature as a cruel dart, and the pain had made her cheek tear-stained and brought shadows of disappointment. She had met George St. Clair two j^ears before her present visit, and thought him the most noble and true of all his sex, and who can tell of the dreams that came uninvited into her nightly visions as well as in her peaceful day reveries? Can you, gentle reader ? There comes a day to us all when the heart's secrets. 129 kaleidoscope of every heart's experience gives a sudden turn as it presents to view more complex minglings of brilliant colors and perplexing de- signs than has ever been seen in any previous whirl, weird fancies through which we are all looking. Grace Stanley had been watching their ever changing glow until the brilliant tints had imprinted their rosy hues over every hope and promise of her life ; but on this very morning there had been another turn, and the sombre shades were now uppermost. He loved " Lilly Bell," and had flown from her presence a rejected lover, but without one word of farewell to her. " My coun- try shall henceforth be my bride," she had heard him say, and who could tell what the terrible war might bring to them all. He was gone, and this fact alone was sufficient to sadden her future, still "no one shall know it," she thought as she walked across the garden and stepped upon the moss-cov- ered terrace. "This hour shall be covered from sight forever, even from myself." She had grown calm as she stood there listening to the conversa- tion just outside, and with a faint smile flitting among the sombre tints of sadness that were re- treating from her pretty face, she bluntly asked the bewildered Pete — " What did I hear you say about Master George?" She had drawn more closely the thick veil of in- difference, and suddenly her face was wreathed in smiles as she stood there looking into the dark, perplexed visage of the scared negro boy ; just as flowers will grow and thrive in beauty on the graves where our idols lie buried. l')0 THE MISTRESS OF ROSEDALE. " O nothin', Miss Grace — notiiin', iiothin' at all. But he did make Spit-fire look buful, sartin, sure. Goy}-y! didn't sliest*, tho' ? Dat's all, Miss Grace, sure dat's all.'^ " I thought I heard you say something about his going to shoot the abolitionists, Pete, was I mistaken ? Do 3'ou know what they are ?" " Don't know nothin', j\Iiss Grace, sartin. 'Spects dey be somethin' what hnnts a nigger mighty sharp, 'cause I heard Massa Charles say he'll pop 'em over — dat's all, young missus, sartin, sure, dat's all." " Well, Pete, let me tell yoM something. In my opinion yow will be wiser than you are now, and that before many years ; only keep your eyes open." " Neber you mind. Miss Gracy. Dis nig' '11 keep his eyes peeled, dat's what he will." Grace Stanlej^ passed leisurely into the hall which ran through the main building leading to the open court be^^ond where the fountain was throwing its cool, sparkling jets into the sunshine. She did not heed it, however, but passed on up the broad winding stairwa}^ meeting no one on the way as she ascended to the hall above. The sun had nearl}^ reached his meridian glory, and the oppressive heat had as usual driven the inmates of that elegant home to their shaded retreats, where in comfortable deshabille they lounged on beds and sofas drawn up by the open windows, that per- chance tlie}^ might catch some stray breeze that would flit up from the orange groves or come from the woodland far away on the hill side. " Grace," called a sweet voice through the half- open door of Lillian's room, " I thought it was heart's sfxrets. lol your light step I heard on the stairs. Come in here, darling. See how nice and cool it is." Grace obeyed, but Lillian did not notice the sombre shad- ows that were playing over the usually sunny face of her cousin, so absorbed was she with the hover- ing glooms that had fallen from her own passing clouds, and so she continued, pleasantly : " Per- haps you would like to make yourself a little more comfortable ?■ Put on this wrapper, dear, and then come and sit by me, will you ? I want to talk a little." This was just what her companion did not care to do ; still, remembering that her mission to Rose- dale was to cheer b}^ her lively mirth and vivacity her drooping cousin, she hastened to obey. Yet how was she to accomplish her task ? "Only three weeks had passed since her arrival, yet weeks so heavy with their weight of circumstance that her very soul seemed pressed down beneath their weight. Where now was her native joyousness ? The cheering powers she was expected to impart to others ? She must recall them. Yet she was chilled and oppressed ; what was she to do ? Act. Her retreating volubility could only be summoned again to its post through action, and it must be done ! " What a sweet little bouquet," she exclaimed, arousing herself to her work. "A delicate spray of jesamine, a few tiny rose-buds and geranium leaves. Do you know that I never could have done that? There is something so exquisite in their arrangement. Somehow as a whole they send an impressive appeal to the inner senses, my " Lily Bell." There must be such a bubbling fountain of poesy in a soul like yours. Teach me, lo2 THE MISTRESS OE ROSED ALE. dear cousin, to be like you." And the pensive speaker dropped upon the floor at the feet of Lil- lian, where she most delighted to sit, and drooping her head wearily upon her companion's knee. Both were silent. One heart had that morning drawn back the rusty bolt on the door of its inner chamber and rejoiced to find itself strong enough to drive out at last, its long imprisoned secret of gloom that had made it so wretched through the revolving changes of many years, while the other was even then busy with the fastenings of the se- cret closet where the unsightly skeleton of her lost love was to be hidden from the world, from herself. Yet so doing might eat the bloom from her cheek and the joy from her bouyaut nature. Why did she wish to be like Lillian ? She had not asked even her aching heart this question, but all uncon- sciously to herself a response came up from the hidden recesses of her soul where a fresh grave had been dug by trembling hands and into it a dead hope had been lowered and closely covered, while the damp earth was trodden down hard about it, and the low whisper said, " If like her, this poor heart to-day would not be draped wath its sombre emblems of bereavement." To be as she was, to possess the power to win. O the poor throbbing hearts all over the world that must keep on through the 3^ears with their wounds and pains, for in them are many graves hidden away among the cypress shades, where the passer-by can never spy them out ; but the eye of the eternal one sees them all, and at every burial the tear'of sympathy mingles with the liquid drops of bereavement that must fall on the stone at the mouth of the sepulcher which b}^ and by will be rolled away at His command. heart's secrets. 133 Lillian aroused herself after a long silence. " You give me more praise, darling, than I de- serve," she said. " I am as incapable as yourself in performing these little touches of the fine arts which you see every day on my table. Black Tezzie can alone teach you the mysteries of a skill she so fortunately possesses. Do not look so in- credulous, or I shall be obliged to prove it to you," she smiled. "I am not unbelieving, sweet Lily Bell," she an- swered, " but I confess that you have surprised me. I should sooner have suspected either of the other servants of such a gift as that ungainly biped," Grace laughed, but Lillian remained silent. " This only proves that it is sometimes impossi- ble to read the soul from the outside, my pretty cousin. I learned long ago that there was more beauty and a brighter reflection of heavenly glory shut up in that ebony casket, so unprepossessing in its general make-up, than in half the more graceful and elegant ones. But perhaps you are among the number who believe that these dark forms we see every day have no souls within them ? " Why, Lilly Bell ! what a suspicion. Still, how am I supposed to. have any knowledge regarding the matter, seeing I have never dissected one of them ?" A gesture of impatience followed this remark, but her companion did not appear to notice it, for she continued : " I believe that old auntie has as pure and white a soul as ever inhabited an earthly tenement. I have laid my head on her bosom with a deeper sense of rest than it was possible for me to obtain l;U THE MISTRESS OF ROSEDALE. elsewhere. Her prayers that have gone up so con- tinually for ' de poor wee lamb ' have imparted more real comfort and hope to this tempest-tossed soul of mine than any that could have ascended from consecrated temples. No soul ? What could I ever have done without her in this life? And ni}^ an- ticipations regarding the brighter one to follow are stronger to day because of her." Grace Stanley arose from her seat and walked to the window, while her companion did not fail to perceive that a cloud had risen and was spreading itself over her features. Not wishing to press the subject further, she remarked calmly: " Some of our company are leaving to-day, and George St. Clair wished me to hand over to you his adieus, as he departed in great haste, regretting the fact that he was not able to meet you again." At the first sound of her voice Grace had re- turned to her seat upon the carpet, and Lillian, taking the sweet face between her little hands, gazed tenderly into it, as she continued : " You will pardon me, darling cousin, I know, but did you not hear our conversation in the rose arbor, at the foot of the lower terrace, two hours ago ?" The dimples stole out of the cheeks the soft, white hands of the interrogator was pressing so lovingly, and the light jo3^ousness in her bright, sparkling eyes became dimmed, while a veil of crimson spread itself over it all. The head bowed low as it released itself from its imprisonment, and tears that had long been struggling to be free came now unrestrainedl3^ " I do not chide you, darling ; I knew j^ou were not far away, for I had espied a portion of your heart's secrets. 135 white dress fluttering through a crevice of the vine outside of the trestle-work, and rejoiced that it was so." " I would not have remained, Lillian, had not iny dress become so entangled that I could not loosen it without revealing my presence. Believe me, cousin, I was not a willing listener. You will not doubt this ?" " Certainly not ; and, darling, let me assure you that my heart is lighter for the circumstance, for we are confidants now. I have had such a long- ing to tell you all ; but this one secret had become habitual to me. The very thought of revealing it filled me with a nervous horror. But it is over now, and by and by I want to impart to your ten- der sympathies half of the burden I have so long carried. You do not know how unendurable its weight has become. O Grace, it is dreadful to be obliged to endure for years the pains of a wounded heart. To feel its throbbings day after day without the power to claim a panacea from an- other's love." Grace started. " It must be true," she thought, " and am I to thus endure ?" Ah ! little did she know how the first deep wounds, that seemingly "will never heal," can be soothed in some hearts, while in others no power can assuage the pain. Grace Stanley could for- get, for the sunshine of her nature was salutary. At this juncture Tezzie appeared in the door- way, and announced that "Missus wanted do young ladies to dress fine for dinner, for Massa Charles was coming back wid a strange gemman." 136 THE MISTRESS OF ROSEDALE. " Very well, we will be ready in good time," re- plied Lillian. " Now go and call Agnes to arrange my hair." The dark, dumpy figure disappeared from sight, and Lillian, bowing her head, kissed again the pure white forehead of her companion. " To-morrow, dear, I want your little heart to beat in sjnnpath}^ with my own. Good by," and Grace left the room. CHAPTER XIII. THE mother's curse. "There, Agnes, you may go now. How do you like my looks ? Will I do to appear before the the strange gentleman ?" " Look, Miss Lily ? Why you look like the buful cloud I seed lyin' so soft and still in de sun- shine, honey. But I like the white dress more, for den you look just like de angels, waiting for de wings." " That will do. You have imagination sufi&cient for a poet, Agnes, but you may go now.'' She smiled as she waved her hand towards the door with a delicate movement, and she was alone. Only a moment, however, for the faithful servant had just disappeared when the door re-opened and Mrs. Belmont entered the apartment. She was still graceful and queenly in her bearing, and her long black dress swept the rich carpet with an impe- rious air. Time had been very gentle with that fair face, touching lightly her brow with his un- welcome traces, neither quenching the fire in her dark eyes nor dulling the lustre of her glossy hair. Yet her regal head had a habit of drooping, as if weary of its weight of thought, and her lips be- came more and more compressed as their color faded and lines of anxious care grew deeper as the years rolled by, 137 138 THE MISTRESS OF ROSEDALE. " I came to tell you that there was to be com- pany at dinner?" " Not before ? I understood Tezzie to say there would be a stranger here at lunch." " It may be so; Charles is to bring home a col- lege friend, I believe/' This would have been very unsatisfactor}' under some circumstances, but Lillian was not curious. As her mother entered the room she discovered that strange, wild light in her e3'es which she had seen there mau}^ times before, and well knew that beneath it a hidden fire was raging. Mrs, Bel- mont had not once looked into the face of her daughter, but had seated herself by the open win- dow, her elbow on the heav}' frame-work, while her head rested wearily upon her hand. A soft, warm breeze came softl}' and caressed her with its per- fumed wings, fanning her heated brow, and whis- pering all the time the sweetest words of purity and peace through the interwoven branches of the luxurious vine outside. In her heart, however, were discordant notes to which she was listening, having no ear for other sounds, were they ever so melodious. " Lillian," she said, at last, " did you reject George St. Clair this morning ?" " I did, mother." " You did ?" "Yes, I did?" The daughter spoke quietly and calmly, but Mrs. Belmont arose hurriedly from the chair and stood before her. Lillian did not quail before the burning look which was fixed upon her, but returned it with a determined gaze, out of which pity and filial affection beamed their gentle rays. THE mother's curse. 139 *' Child ! child ! this must not — cannot be ! I command you to recall him. It is not too late. He loves you, and would, without doubt, overlook this unparalleled freak of foolishness in which 3^ou have been so unaccountably indulging. Recall him, Lillian ; your whole future happiness depends upon it " " You are mistaken, mother ; I never could have been happy had I accepted that true, noble heart, and given in exchange my poor broken and divided one, and certainly he never could have taken me into his great love after knowing me as I am, which he surely must have done, or I, at least, would have been eternally wretched." " You did not tell him ?" was the quick inquiry. " I told him that / was a wife. That my heart was forever bound up in those matrimonial vows still unsevered, and that I loved him as a brother, and no more." " You are mad ! a fool ! You know not what you do," and trembling with excitement she sank back on the chair from which she had risen. Lillian did not speak or move, but tears came welling up through the freshly opened wounds in her poor heart, and filled her large pensive eyes with their bitter moisture. Again the mother spoke. " I feel disposed, just now, to enlighten you a little in regard to your future prospects if you per- sist in this silly sentimental mood, which you seem to think so becoming ! I have striven hard to keep it from you and your brother for many years, and to surround you with every luxury your inherited station really demanded. More than this, I have planned, wrought, and guided with true maternal 140 THE MISTRESS OF ROSEDALE. skill and instinct the fortunes of you both in such a manner that you might, if 3^ou would, ever retain your enviable position in the social world, for which I have exerted myself to fit 3^ou." " I do not understand you, mother. Be merci- ful and enlighten me, as you offered to do." " Yes, I will ; but you will not find much mercy in it. Know, then, that we are not owners of this beautiful estate. On the contrary, it was mort- gaged to the father of George St. Clair by your own father some time before his death. Think, if you can, of the long years of toil I have exper- ienced since that time, and ask if you are right in pulling down about our heads the whole structure of prosperity and affluence that I have been so long in building." "I discern your intricate plans, my mother, and pity you." " Pity me? Do you then persist in your folly? I have proven to you then that it is in your power to avert this ruin ! ]\Ir. St. Clair told me not long since that Rosedale would eventually belong to his son, and he was happy to feel quite sure that my daughter would share it with him. I cannot much longer keep the Gorgon from devouring us ! All we can then call our own will be the negroes, and these, without doubt, will depreciate much in value if the anticipated war of the North really comes upon us ! Decide Lillian ! Tell me that you will accede to my wishes in recalling George St. Clair ! That northern mud-sill has, without doubt, long before this returned to his native element. He is dead to you — as wholly, truly so as though you had never been guilt}^ of so great an indiscretion !" Lillian started to her feet. THE mother's curse. 141 " Mother, one question ! Did you not receive a letter from my aunt in Philadelphia not many months ago saying that my husband had risen high in the estimation of the people and was true to his early vows ? Has that information ever been contradicted ? I read in the pallor of your face that it has not ! His heart beats as truly for me to-day as it did sixteen years ago — and I am his wife! He is the father of my sweet Lily-bud, and this bond can never be severed ! No, no ! I cannot, I will not^ wed another!" " The curse of the heart-broken then rest upon youP'' She had moved away with rapid steps while speaking, and although Lillian reached out her hand imploringly the stately figure disappeared through the open door. O the speechless agony of the next hour! O the suffering in that lonely, sad, luxurious chamber ! All the misery of her eventful life came rushing over her 1 Spectral thoughts, that she had supposed were long since banished forever, haunted her brain ! How vivid and real they now appeared in this new darkness. Then the future ! Where was the black hand of destiny to lead her? Even now she could see it reaching out its bony fingers from among the mysteries that enveloped her hidden path ! The thick folds of an interminable gloom seemed to have fallen about her, and everywhere she beheld that " mother's curse " written in letters of fire ! A rap was heard on the door and she arose mechanically and turned the key. Soon the sound of a heavy tread was heard along the hall — then down the winding stair-case and lost in the dis- tance. It was Tezzie, and she was alone again ! By and by the echoes of music and laughter came 142 THE MISTRESS OF ROSEDALE. floating up tlirougli the open window and mingled harshly with the dreariness which pervaded that silent chamber! There was a merry group in the spacious drawing-room before the dinner hour ar- rived. Where was the wretched mother? Could it be that those rigid features which disappoint- ment, consternation and rage had blanched with their inhuman concoctions was covered with a mask of conviviality and pleasure? Lillian wept! It was well that tears came at last or the poor brain would have become parched with the fever of its wild despair! The sunshine at last departed from the window and night let dov.'u its black, silken curtains around a weary tumultuous world. O, how many hearts sink helplessly beneath their weight of woe, crushing under it the jo}^ from the outside world with its wealth of pomp and gaiety ! Yet there are those who, when the da}- departs, throw aside the sackcloth with which they hide their misery and come with all their sorrows to the feet of Him whose smiles alone have the power to dis- pel their gloom. Lillian did not know how to pray! In all her years of perplexity and doubt she had not reached out her hand to the only one who could have led her safely out of it all. Now iier heart called for something it had not yet divined, but the perplexed soul was wistfully gaz- ing upward through the thick clotids that drooped so closely about her, and a feeble wail issued from beneath the sombre darkness. Another low tap was heard on the door which again aroused her. There had been many during the hours of her self-imprisonment, but she had not heeded them. However, a low, sweet voice penetrated her soli- tude and fell with soothing cadence upon her ear. THE mother's curse. 143 " It's auntie, lioney — open the door, poor lamb ;" and Lillian's quick step revealed the willingness with which she complied. The faithful old slave came in and the door was relocked. " What fo' you killin' yo'self here all alone, honey? I know'd dar was trouble all day and I just been askin' de good Lord to take care of you ; but I did want to come and see if he'd done it — poo' lamb !" Aunt Vina had drawn her chair close to the side of Lillian, and the weary head with its heavy weight of sorrow had fallen upon the shoulder of her faithful friend. " Dar — bress you honey — cry all yo' trouble out. Dat's de wa}^ de bressed Lord helps us to get rid on 'em. By an' by sweet lamb He'll wipe 'em all away ; den ye'U hab no mo' sorrow, honey, bress de Lord !" " But I have now more than I can bear ! You don't know what a terrible load I am being crushed beneath !" " I know a good deal, chile. Missus told me to- day dat you wouldn't marry Massa St. Clair, and she 'spects you was pinin' at somethin' she said ! I axed her if I might come and see you and she didn't care, but wanted I should make you ' 'bey yo' mudder' ; now de Lord knows better dan she do." "Did she tell you that she cursed me? O — auntie ! I could bear all the rest, even the misera- ble future she has pictured to me ; but it is dread- ful to carry through life the terrible burden of a mother's curse." •' Nebber you min', honey ; de Lord'll pay no 'tention to such cussin', an' it won't hurt ye a bit, if ye dont keep thinkin' on it. Why can't ye tell Him all about it, poor chile, den t'row it all away ? 144 thp: mistress of rosedale. He'll take good care ob it, sure, and it won't hurt you." " Do you believe, Aunt Vina, tliat God cares anything about me ? Would He listen if I should ask Him to take my cause into His hands?" '' Sartin He would, honey. He lubs you ten times mo' dan old auntie, and wouldn't she take ebery bit ob it if she could ?" The rough hand of the slave woman touched with soft caress the tear-stained cheek that was resting so near her own, and the cheering words fell into her aching heart with a soothing influence. " Pray for me, auntie, and I will try to do as you have bidden. The road is very dark and gloomy where my faltering feet are standing, but it may be as you say, that God will drive it all away." " O bress de Lord, bress de Lord! Auntie knows ye'll fin' it. Never mind nothin', go tell Him ebery thin', and see how de dark will all go 'way. Dar, honey ; old Vina'll go and get ye a good cup o' tea, and bring in de lamp and make it more cheery like. De good Lord'll take care ob de lamb!" "Where is Grace?" was the plaintive query, " O Miss Grace, she's 'most crazy 'bout you. I seed her alone in de little arbor cryin' dreadful awhile ago ; but den she puts 'em 'way quick, and her pretty face looks all happy agin. She was singin' at de planner when I come up." " Tell her, auntie, not to come to me until to- morrow. I wish to be left alone to-night. You may bring me a cup of tea, then tell Agnes that I shall not want her," was the pleading wail of the sor- rowing heart as the slave woman disappeared on her errand of love and tenderness. THE mother's curse. 14 b Fold thy wings lovinglj^ over the bowed form of the humble suppliant, O angel of pit}', for the Father hears the cry of his suffering children ; not one ever pleaded in vain, and Lillian prayed ! Gi"'.'E yiE THAT PAPER." (See page 153). CHAPTER XIV. THE MYSTERIOUS LETTER. It was not until late the next day that Lillian granted the oft repeated request of her cousin to be allowed to come to her, and not a moment was lost ere the two friends were together " It was cruel in you, my sweet Lillian, to banish me so long, but how ill you look," and Grace Stan- ley clasped her arms about the dear form and kissed the pale cheek tenderly. " You are mistaken, prett}^ cousin, in my general appearance, for I have not been so well in a long time. In fact, your ' poor despondent cousin ' is almost happy to-day." Lillian was looking into the face of her compan- ion while her pure liquid eyes were overflowing with the new-found joy that was filling her heart. " I have been troubled, Grace. Yesterday a heavy wave rolled over me, that came near bury- ing your ' Lily Bell ' beneath it. But it has passed on, and I was left out of the tempest, and a hand reached out to hold me as I was going down be- neath the roaring billows. At any rate I am stand- ing firm to-day, and have no fears of winds or storms. Somehow I feel secure in the belief that I shall be shielded and brought through it all," and the fair head drooped for awhile on her hand, and the joyful tears came and baptised afresh her 147 148 THE MISTRESS OE ROSEDALE. trembling new-born hope. Grace had no word of trust to lay on the altar of consecration, and could only sit at the feet of her who was casting her all upon it, and be silent. " Forgive me cousin, my heart and thoughts have been straying. I wanted to talk with 3^ou that I might, if possible, break the last cord that binds me so tenaciously to the dark scenes of the past that I would bury forever." " Are you able, Lillian, to bear the agitation such a conversation would subject yon to ?" inter- posed Grace, with much feeling. " It would make me ver}^ happj^ to know 3'ou had opened wide the door of your poor heart and taken me into its sacred places, yet I would not give you the slightest needless pain." " Thoughtful as ever, darling ; but I feel quite sufficient for the task. Yesterday you heard me tell George St. Clair of my marriage, and how my mother came to the city and influenced me to go with her. No doubt you think it strange, as he did, that no greater effort has been made by m}^ husband to reclaim his lost bride. I could not tell him all, the old habitual fear made me silent. I am free to-day, and my confidence is unfettered. No power could have kept him but the one this guilty hand set up between us." "You, Lillian?" " Yes, Grace, I did it. Not willingly, not quite consciously, yet I did it." Grace looked puzzled, and her bright eyes were fixed intently on the sweet face she so loved, then she said, "Goon." THE MYSTERIOUS LETTER. 149 " It was the night before our departure from Philadelphia when, seeing the postman coming- down the street, I ran out to meet him, for some- thing seemed to tell me he had a letter that would gladden my poor heart. I was not mistaken. It was from Pearl, and O what a wealth of love it con- tained. He would be at home in a week. The bus- iness that had called him away was almost finished. " Then, dearest," he added, " no king was ever more ecstatic over his crown than I shall be with my own pure Lily." "'Pure!' How that word thrust itself heme to my poor quivering heart. I had run with the pre- cious missive to my room, and there, as the evening shades settled down about me, I raved in my agony with the madness of delirium. / wo^dd not leave him! Alone that night I would fly into the dark- dess leaving behind me forever those who would tear me from him. By and by my mother came in with her soft, soothing tones, she pitied and caressed me. It was not at all strange, she said, that I, a child, should struggle in the arms of wis- dom. I was weak now, but by-and-by I could walk alone, then would come her reward. She was la- boring for my good only, and when I could look at it I calmly would bless her for it. We would go to England, where my father's relatives were liv- ing, and she would cause pleasure to fall around me as bountiful as summer rain. After a few years of travel and study, if I then should find my heart still clinging to its ' imaginary ' love, I should re- turn to the object of my tried devotion O how gradually but surely did my silly heart yield to this sophistry ! In a few hours I was her submis- sive tool. The fascination of a European tour, the 150 THE MISTRESS OF ROSEDALE. pictures of Parisian frivolities, and the glitter of pomp and fashion in the society into which I might plunge and come forth sparkling ^ith its polished gems for all future adorning, captured my bewild- ered senses and stilled m}^ whirling tiain. In the morning we were to start on our journey, would I like to leave a few words for him who would piob- ably for a while grieve at my absence and mourn over his disappointment? It would not, hc^ACver, last long, such troubles never do with these of his sex, she said, and I should not certainly make my- self uncomfortable about it. Nothing could be more to my wishes, and then I was told that she had written a short letter which 1 had better copy, as my head was not clear enough to think intelli- gently. It would help him to forget his disap- pointment and make him happy, just as I wished him to be, O tJiat letter! I can onl}- give you its purport ; that I can never forget. It tcld him that terrible falsehood that I went from him willingly believing it not only to be ni}^