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Title: Em's husband

A sequel to "Em"

Author: Emma Dorothy Eliza Nevitte Southworth

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

Language: English

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

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

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

Transcriber’s Note:

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

EM’S HUSBAND

A Sequel to “Em”

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

Author of

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

A. L. BURT COMPANY

PUBLISHERS      ::      ::      NEW YORK

EM’S HUSBAND

CHAPTER I

TO THE ISLAND

On the cliff-bounded stream!

When it is summer noon,

And all the land is still,

But on the water’s face

The merry breeze is playing,

Whitening a ripple here and there.

H. ALFORD.

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

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

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

They had a beautiful run down the river.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Em. followed his direction and landed dry-shod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Em. could scarcely believe it.

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

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

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

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

Faith, Love, Works.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Em. turned inquiring eyes upon old Josias.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come, honey.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh! would I not?” exclaimed Em.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, honey.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is it, then?” she repeated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sereny?” questioned Em.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They reached the park gate at last and passed through.

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

A heavy thunder-cloud was on her brow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, honey, dat’s right, too! Be dutiful to yer parients. Thanky agin, Miss! And if ebber, so be, yer want my ’Sias to take yer a rowin’ or a sailin’, he’ll do it, or I’ll know the reason why he don’t. Come in, ’Sias, honey, yer dinner’s all ready for yer,” concluded Sereny in a tone of such good will that the old man smilingly followed her into the lodge, while Em. hurried home feeling that all was well.

CHAPTER II

THE AGENT

A man in middle age.

Busy, and hard to please. TAYLOR.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All the family started up.

“‘Sich is life,’” said John.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sir?” inquired John in a bewilderment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So I say, so I say.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh! I think it’s just nice!”

“It’s real jolly!”

“It’s first-rate fun!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s what she means, Susan. Law, I understood the girl!” said Palmer heartily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All else was still in the place.

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

Hush! What was that?

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

Horror of horrors! What is this?

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER III

THE RED WING

Face to face with the true mountains,

Standing silently and still,

Drawing strength from fancy’s dauntings,

From the air about the hill,

And from nature’s open mercies,

And most debonair good will.

E. B. BROWNING.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” demanded John.

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

“But who the mischief is Sereny?”

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

“And left you in this condition?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yet the faces were the same.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why, what’s the matter now?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

’Sias shook his solemn old head and said nothing.

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

They visited the attic and the back buildings.

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

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

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

CHAPTER IV

RED WING

A rude dwelling, built by whom or when,

None of the ancient mountain people knew.

SCOTT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You and ’Sias twins?” exclaimed Susan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The young uns would like it.”

“’Mazingly, John.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why, laws, no, honey! none.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER V

RONALD BRUCE

Handsome as Hercules, ere his first labor.

ANON.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?” inquired Em.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“‘Fun!’ You think I am jesting?”

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

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

Em. flushed and paled and began to tremble.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“In-deed!” slowly responded Ronald Bruce.

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

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

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

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

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

Em. laughed.

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

“How do you like living at the Wilderness?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, yes, I must. Good-by.”

“No, I will see you to your boat.”

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

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

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

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

“Yes, why should I not?”

“Suppose an accident had happened?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shall I go?” inquired Ronald Bruce.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How will you get back?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Young Bruce lifted his cap and advanced.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VI

THE GUEST

Welcome he is in hut and hall,

To maids and matrons, men and all.

PRAED.

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

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

Ann Whitlock and old Monica got up and followed her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

“Have you a loving for the sea?”

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

Ronald Bruce laughed, but did not commit himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Susan accepted it and marched in.

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

“OH, MY!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

John saw all and understood half, saying to himself:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, doubtless,” mused Ronald Bruce.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VII

A PROPOSAL

I see a small, old-fashioned room,

With paneled wainscot high;

Old portraits round in order set,

Carved, heavy tables, chairs, buffets,

Of dark mahogany.

And there a high-backed, hard settee

On six brown legs and paws,

Flowered o’er with silk embroidery;

And there, all rough with filigree,

Tall screens on gilded claws.

CAROLINE SOUTHEY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Old Monica waited on them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The young lovers were alone.

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

She dropped her eyes, but did not reply.

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

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

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

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

Ronald dropped Em.’s hand and turned away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“To think that he should have remembered me so long! To think he, a cultured and refined man of good family, should care for me so much—for me, the child of a workman; a poor, half educated girl! Yet he does care for me. But, oh! I wish he had not held my hand so long or dropped it so suddenly when poor mother came in. If there was any harm in his holding my hand, why did he hold it? Or if there was no harm, why did he drop it so quickly? I don’t understand! I wonder what will come of it all! Oh, how I do wish I could look into the future!”

“EM.!”

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

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

Susan was at the foot of the stairs.

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

“Only upstairs, mother.”

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

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

So the family routine was taken up again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where is she now?”

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

No more was said at the time.

Weeks passed and nothing more was heard of Ronald Bruce.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suddenly she called out:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, indeed,” said Susan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is she a neat and skillful seamstress?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, dear, I will.”

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

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

“No, I cannot. But I will give you one little simple rule, easy to remember and easy to follow for your safe guidance among your new companions: Never do or say anything that you would not like your mother to see or hear.”

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

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

CHAPTER VIII

Em. AT THE COMMODORE’S

That lonely mansion stood upon a cliff,

By a great mountain spring—just elevate’

Above the winter torrents did it stand,

Upon a craggy brink; and now it wore

One sober hue; the narrow cleft which wound

Among the hills was gray with rocks, that peered

Above its shallow soil; the mountainside

Was loose with stones bestrewn, which oftentimes

Clattered adown the steep, beneath the foot

Of struggling goat dislodged.

SOUTHEY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is your mistress in?” inquired John.

“Yes, sar.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah, then you wished to come to me.”

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

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

“And so your mother sided with yourself?”

“Yes, madam.”

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

A good-looking young colored girl answered the call.

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

“Oh, yes’m,” replied the servant.

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

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

“Cuba?” echoed Em. in bewilderment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER IX

“THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE”

The course of true love never yet ran smooth;

For either ’twould be different in blood,

Or else misgrafted in respect of years.

Or else it stood upon the choice of friends;

Or, if there is a unity in all,

War, death or sickness will lay siege to it.

SHAKESPEARE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Em. repeated her assertion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As for Em., she was bewildered with happiness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Em. obeyed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes! in the presence of the whole world, if necessary.”

“Well, then—say on,” whispered Em.

“Em. Palmer, I haven’t been like other young fellows, falling in and out of love with almost every pretty girl I ever saw since I was five years old! No! I have been to sea ever since I was a child, and I never, never, never knew what it was to love a girl, the least in the world, until I met you.”

“Oh! do please don’t talk so! I know you wouldn’t talk so to me if my mother was sitting there right before us!” murmured Em., beginning to tremble.

“May I never be saved if I would not! I would tell you I love you if all the mothers, fathers, aunts, and uncles, and guardians in Christendom were sitting on stiff, high-backed chairs in a circle around us! There! For it is the blessed truth! I do love you, Em., with all my heart and soul and life! I began to love you from the first moment I ever saw you! Yes, and I perceived that you also began to love me about the same time!” he added triumphantly.

“Oh, Ronald,” breathed Em., her face dyed with blushes, “was I so forward?”

“‘Forward!’ No. You little, sensitive plant. The opposite of all that—so shrinking you were! But, oh, Em., I began to love you from the first moment I ever saw you, and I have loved you more and more ever since; and the more I have loved you the more my spirit has gone forth in good-will to all the world. My heart was as pure and fresh as your own, Em., and no heart could be purer and fresher when I gave it to you; and that heart has remained as true and constant as your own, Em., through these years of absence and silence, when no word of love or of plighted faith had passed between us!”

“Oh, Ronald, Ronald, I am so frightened,” she murmured.

“Why should you be even uneasy? Listen, love! Listen, loveliest! By all the signs I have told you do I know that ours is the real, true, holy, heavenly love, and not one of its plausible counterfeits.”

“Oh, Ronald, is it right for you to talk to me in this way?” she breathed.

“Right? It is righteous!”

“Ah, how can it end? You are a young gentleman of rank and wealth; I, a poor, half educated girl, the child of a man of the laboring classes.”

“I do not care! I will tell you how it will end, Em. It will end in our happy marriage. In the first place, let me tell you that I am of age, and NO ONE, however near and dear, however rich and influential, shall control my choice in that which would be the most important act of my life and the nearest to my heart. I will not lead you into any disobedience, Em. If the old folks do object to our union I will wait until you are of age, and then I will marry you, love—I will Em., I will, ‘Though mammy and daddy and a’ gang mad!’ Yes! though my crotchety old kinsman here should disinherit and turn me out of the house, get me discharged from the navy, and leave me to earn our living by breaking stones on the highway. If you will only be constant, Em., as I know you will be, I will marry you in spite of them all. I will marry you in spite of fate and fortune; and I don’t care a button who hears me say so! OH!”

This last exclamation was called forth by the sight of old Commodore Bruce sitting straight up in his chair, very wide awake, and staring at them.

CHAPTER X

SURPRISE

The spell,

The mightiest upon earth—the spell of love,

Familiar, mutual, requited love—

Shall be upon thee; and its charmed power

Shall at each moment, at a wish, call up

More wealth than ever crossed the desert sands,

Gems, purer, costlier far than Araby’s;

Unsunned treasures from that richest mine,

The human heart. POCAHONTAS.

“OH!” echoed the old man, while the young people looked at him aghast. “Eh? What? It seems I’ve been nodding and you’ve caught me! Very rude of me to fall asleep while you were reading, my dear! You might have won a pair of gloves, eh?”

It was evident from the commodore’s words that he had not heard a word of Donald Bruce’s reckless talk, but had indeed but just at that instant waked up.

“I hope you had a refreshing nap, sir,” said Em., who was the first to recover her self-possession.

“Yes—yes—yes—yes! I had a very refreshing nap! Brief, but very refreshing. ‘Forty winks,’ as the saying is, you know, my dear; just lost myself, that is all!” said the old man, apparently unconscious that he had been sound asleep for two hours.

“I hope you feel revived, sir,” said Ronald, now plucking up heart.

“Yes—yes, quite so! But how the deuce did you come here, Ronald? What do you want?” demanded the commodore, bethinking himself now of the unexpected presence of his nephew.

“I want to go to Greyrock this afternoon. Will you let me have Warlock?” inquired the young man with quick invention.

“Now, Ronald!” testily exclaimed the elder, “why will you reiterate a request that you know, for your own sake, I must deny? No! You cannot have that four-legged fiend! No! I will not have your neck broken during my lifetime by any concession of mine. No! Once for all, you can not, and you never can have Warlock! You may ride any other horse in the stable—in fact, you may ride any other four-footed creature on the estate, and you know it. But you sha’n’t risk your life on Warlock,” emphatically declared the commodore, bringing down his doubled fist with force upon the table as a finality.

“Very well, sir; of course you must be obeyed,” said Ronald with a slight shrug of his handsome shoulders. “I shall not, however, take any of the other horses. If I cannot have Warlock I do not care to take a ride to-day.”

“No! I thought you only wished to go to Greyrock for the sake of risking your precious neck on Warlock’s vicious back. But you shall not do it. I shall sell that horse the first chance I get. Now, then, go about your business, Ronald, and send my man here. It is time to dress for dinner. You may go, also, my dear; but don’t go back to my sister-in-law and sit down to sewing, I command you. And, mind, my commands are paramount on this ship! You have been sitting enough to-day for a young one. Go now and take a turn in the fresh air of the grounds. There! Be off with you both. ’SCAT!!”

The conscience-stricken young pair hurried from the library by different doors—Ronald going out into the hall, and Em. descending the steps through a French window that opened upon the front yard.

That yard so widely different from all the other houseyards she had ever seen in her life; that yard so savage in rocky desolation, so sublime in magnificent prospect.

The house, as I said, stood upon a natural plateau about half way up the front of the precipice, directly overhanging the river. The yard extended some thirty feet to the extreme edge of the precipice, which was defended by a stone wall about breast high. There was no gate or outlet from this front wall. The approach to the house, as I told you, was from behind, and the entrance to the yard was at the side.

Em. walked to the wall, leaned over it, and looked down the sheer descent of a wooded steep a thousand feet to the river that flowed at its foot. What abysms of darkness and mystery were in the depths of the shadowy foliage so far below! There, in those deep caverns, doubtless, the wildcat made her lair and reared her young; there, among those gray crags, the eagle built her nest and brooded over her eggs. No gentler creatures of the earth or air could surely find their homes among such savage desolation, though Em. as she stood there leaning over the wall and gazing down the dreadful descent.

At length she raised her eyes and looked around, and beheld a prospect magnificent beyond all words to portray. Spread out before her was the beautiful valley, with the river flowing in the midst, and the undulating, wooded hills rising beyond, all now royally arrayed in the gorgeous hues of autumn, and refulgently lighted up by the glorious rays of the setting sun.

Ah! how brief are the moments of such splendid effects!

Even as Em. gazed the sun sank down behind the mountains at her back, and all the valley faded into twilight.

Em. turned away and walked around the side of the house and passed to the rear.

There the precipice presented a different aspect. Instead of descending to the river it ascended to the clouds, and from a fissure in the rock, to the left of the stables, sprang a fountain that grew in volume as it fell from rock to rock, and rushed roaring into the river below.

Em. knew—because she had heard, in the conversation between Ronald Bruce and her father on that evening when the former had stayed all night in the old manor-house—that the cultivated farms belonging to The Breezes estate were all in the valley below, and that these mountain ranges were only valuable for their quarries of blue limestone; but she wondered exceedingly at the eccentricity of the first proprietor, who had built his dwelling-house on this mere shelf of rock half way up the mountain side, with an ascending precipice behind it, and a descending precipice before it.

She remained out until the twilight faded into darkness, and then she went into the house and ran up to her attic chamber, where the care of the little colored girl Liza had already lighted two wax candles and set them on the toilet-table, and had mended the wood fire which burned brightly on the hearth.

Em. brushed her hair and ran a narrow blue ribbon through its brown ringlets, then put a blue bow to the meeting of her linen collar; and so, having made the best toilet she could for dinner with well-dressed ladies she put out her candles and left the room to go downstairs.

The upper halls were dimly lighted, each by a little lamp at the back end.

Em. had just reached the landing on the second story and was hurrying down the hall when a door on the left opened and a tall, dark, handsome woman, richly dressed, but looking older than either Mrs. Bruce or Mrs. Templeton, came out and carelessly approached Em.

They stood face to face. The lady lifted her eyes haughtily to those of the girl that for the moment stood in her way. But when their gaze met the lady’s great black eyes dilated wide with terror, with horror! Her face blanched to the pallor of death, her frame shook as with an ague.

“BEGONE!” she shrieked. “Why do you come to haunt me?”

And with these words she fell to the floor.

Em., paralyzed by amazement, stood speechless and motionless over the woman whom she had so involuntarily appalled and overwhelmed.

But the shriek and the fall had startled others. Four opposite doors flew open and four women rushed out of their rooms to see what was the matter and to behold Em. standing like a statue of Fear over the prostrate form of Malvina Warde.

“In the name of Heaven, what does all this mean, Miss Palmer!” demanded Mrs. Bruce, stooping to examine the condition of her guest, while Mrs. Templeton, Hermia, and Belinda gathered around them.

“She has fainted,” said Mrs. Templeton.

The four women raised the unconscious form and laid it on the hall lounge.

“How did this happen, Miss Palmer?” inquired Mrs. Bruce while they all began to use the common methods of reviving a swooning woman—bathing her head, beating her hands, and applying sal volatile to her nose.

“Why don’t you answer, Miss Palmer?” demanded Mrs. Bruce without pausing in her efforts.

“I—I don’t know,” stammered the frightened girl. “I had just run downstairs and turned around when I met this lady coming out of that door. We came on each other suddenly, and she stared and screamed and fell. I think she took me for a ghost.”

“It is very strange,” said Mrs. Templeton; “but, then, Malvina has had heart disease for some years, and a little thing startles her.”

“Do not be alarmed. Mamma is subject to these fainting fits,” said Belinda Warde; “lay her head quite low and she will soon recover.”

They followed the daughter’s advice, and the mother gave signs of returning consciousness.

“You had better go down, my dear. Since it was the sight of you that first startled her you had better not be one of the first objects that her eyes meet on opening,” said Mrs. Templeton.

Gladly enough Em. left the circle and went downstairs. A feeling of repulsion had come over her at the sight of that woman for which she could in no way account.

“It is strange, and unjust, and sinful,” said the girl to herself as she tripped downstairs. “That woman never did me any harm in all the days of my life! She never even knew me any more than I did her, and yet it is true that I feel such a loathing of her as I never felt for any living creature before. I must pray it away! It will not do! I will not have hatred in my heart—particularly such a wicked, unnatural, and unreasonable hatred as this. I will do that lady every kind service I possibly can, and I will try to overcome this sudden hatred of an inoffensive stranger.”

In the lower hall she found Ronald Bruce, standing and staring upward.

“What is the row upstairs? Was it a mouse, or a spider, or a candle moth that caused all that screaming and running?” he inquired.

“Oh! Ronald, it was I,” said Em. compunctiously.

“You! What did you do?”

“Oh! I suppose I came running down the attic stairs too swiftly and too silently——”

“Were you expected to creep down noisily, like an old cripple on crutches?” laughingly demanded the young man.

“Nonsense, Ronald! You must know I glided down and met Mrs. Warde in the gloom, and she screamed and fainted.”

“Was that it? Ha, ha, ha!”

“Don’t laugh, Ronald. She took me for a ghost.”

“Then she must have a bad conscience, that is all I can say about it! Em., I hate that woman!”

“Don’t, Ronald. That is wicked, even supposing she ever injured you, which perhaps she never did.”

“No, she never did. Nor did ever snakes or scorpions injure me, yet I hate them; and I hate that woman as I hate them, with an instinctive hatred.”

“We should not hate anything; we should not permit the feeling of hate to take any root in our hearts,” began Em., but before she could preach her bit of a sermon she was interrupted by the appearance of Commodore Bruce, who came out of his study to cross the hall on his way to the drawing-room.

“What was the matter just now? Which of the women was in hysterics?” he carelessly inquired.

“Mrs. Warde met Miss Palmer in the twilight, and taking her for a ghost, screamed and fainted,” replied Ronald.

“Humph! I don’t wonder, seeing that she persecuted to death one who was as much like Miss Palmer as though they had been twin sisters. Ah, well!” said the old man to himself as he passed on his way, “I am only a little less culpable than herself, seeing that I should have looked after the orphan girl whom my poor lad loved and committed to my charge with his parting words. I have often wondered what he meant when he said that he would have something to tell me which would surprise and please me, but that his lips were sealed by honor until he should return from his three years’ voyage—that voyage, ah, Heaven! from which he never came back! I often suspected that that unfortunate child was——But what is the use of speculating? The poor boy is gone, the girl is lost, and the child is dead. The past is beyond recall, and therefore beyond regret,” concluded the commodore as he passed to his arm-chair in the drawing-room.

Em. had followed him, and naturally Ronald had followed Em., and while she busied her nimble fingers by arranging the books and bijouterie on the center-table Ronald stood by her side.

The dinner-bell rang.

“Now, where are all these women? Unpunctual as usual. I wish I had them all on board a man-o’-war in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean! I’d train ’em into punctuality! Where are they, I wonder?”

“They are attending to Mrs. Warde, I think, sir,” said Em. soothingly.

“Attending to Mrs. Warde? Does it take four able-bodied women to attend to a single hysterical one? Let ’em throw a pitcher of cold water over her head—that will fetch her to,” growled the old man as he arose from his seat and took his cane and crept towards the dining-room, followed by Em., who was pursued by Ronald.

“You always run after uncle! You never stay behind a moment to let me have a word alone with you,” complained the young man.

“No, because it is not right far me to do so,” replied Em.

“What! Not when we are engaged to be married?” he whispered.

“We are not engaged. We cannot be engaged without the consent of parents and friends,” said Em.

“Eh! Why, did I not swear to marry you, whether or no?” he hurriedly whispered, for the ladies of the household were hastening downstairs, and before Em. could reply they were close behind the lovers.

They all entered the lighted dining-room together and seated themselves at the table.

“Well! How is Malvina? Got over her fainting fit?” inquired the commodore as he seated himself at the foot of the table.

“No, not entirely; but she is lying down in her room carefully watched over by Liza. She will not be able to join us this evening,” replied Mrs. Bruce.

“Humph!” exclaimed the commodore, neither very sympathetically nor credulously.

When dinner was over the family adjourned to the drawing-room. The old man settled himself in his arm-chair and went to sleep. Belinda Warde placed herself beside Ronald Bruce, and with something like her mother’s powers of fascination held him bound for hours. The three other ladies drew around the center-table with their fancy work of embroidery or crochet. And Em. spent the very dullest evening she had ever passed in all her life.

At ten o’clock precisely Commodore Bruce rang up all the servants, sent for the old family Bible and conducted the evening prayers.

Then he peremptorily sent every one off to bed.

Em. was glad to reach her attic, which had already begun to seem like home in its privacy.

It remained just as she had left it four hours before, except that the fire was burning so low that it scarcely half lighted the large room with its lurid glow.

There was a box of wood in one corner near the fireplace, and Em. took a few sticks and laid them on the smoldering logs, and soon had a cheerful blaze.

Then she took down one of the candles from the mantelpiece, and was about to light it when she started to hear a voice behind her exclaiming:

“Dere now! I jes’ dis minute got ’lieved offen duty to Miss Melwiny Warde, which I had to set by her and watch her until Miss Belindy came up to bed and let me go, and den I ran right up here fas’ ever I could to fix your fire and light your candles, and you gone and done it all yourself ’dout de slightest ’sideration for my feelings.”

“I didn’t know that you were coming, Liza,” said Em. in a gentle tone.

“Now, see dere, now! Didn’t know I was coming; didn’t have no conf’ence in me. Course I was coming, on’y I was ’tained so long dere tending to Miss Malwiny Warde. Takes all de house to ’tend to she?” grumbled Liza as she went about her duties, mending the fire, lighting the candles on the dressing-table, turning down the bed and so on.

When she had completed her work she stopped and said:

“Now, Miss Em., ef you’s afeard to sleep by yourself I’ll fetch a little mattriss from t’other room and sleep down here ’fore the fire to keep you company.”

“Oh, no, thank you. You are very kind to think of it, Liza, but I am not at all afraid.”

“You know dere ain’t nobody sleeps up here in dis garret ’sides you.”

“Is there not? But it is of no consequence.”

“Now, you better let me stay up here long o’ you, Miss Em. ’Deed you had.”

“Oh, thank you, but it is not necessary that you should. Besides, what would Mrs. Bruce say to your changing your sleeping place?”

“Oh, she! Lor’ bless you, Miss Em., ole Marse Commodo’ he’s marster and mist’ess, too, in dis house, and he ax me to-day, he say, ‘Lizer, where dey put dat young girl to sleep?’ I say, ‘Up in the garret.’ He say, ‘I thought so. Now you sleep on a pallet in her room if she is afraid to stay by herself, you hear?’ I say, ‘Yas, marster.’ And so, Miss Em., I come up faithful to offer my services.”

“You are very kind. And so is your dear old master. He shows very great consideration for me. But, as I said before, I do not need you, Liza. By the way, where do you generally sleep?”

“Oh! out’n de house in a room ober de stables, which dere are six rooms dere, where de servants sleep, ’cept de cook and de two kitchen-maids. Dey sleep in a room ober de kitchen.”

“Very well, then, Liza, perhaps as it is late, you had better go now. Shall I come downstairs and lock the door after you?”

“Oh, lor’, no, Miss! I locks de door and takes de key ebery night myself, so as to let myself in in de morning to wait on de ladies! But it ain’t so awful late, after all, Miss Em. It ain’t no more an’ a quarter arter ten o’clock, so wouldn’t you like to go through de other rooms in this garret and look at ’em? ’Sides which, it would be good to ’xamine, and be sure as dere ain’t no robbers nor nuffin’ hid away in dese rooms, and you up here by yourself,” persisted Liza.

“Why, what a wise little woman you are! I’m not afraid of ‘robbers nor nuffin’,’” said Em., smiling; “but I have ‘a cat-like love of garrets,’ and so we will look at these other rooms, Liza. You take one candle ond I will take another, so we will have light enough.”

CHAPTER XI

HIDDEN LOVE

They seem to those who see them meet,

The worldly friends of every day;

Her smile is still serene and sweet,

His courtesy is free and gay;

Yet if by one the other’s name

Should in some careless hour be heard,

The heart we thought so calm and tame

Would struggle like a captive bird.

MONCTON MILES.

The colored girl did as she was directed, and led the way to the hall.

“We calls de hall Canady, ’cause it’s so big and cold,” said Liza, holding up her candle that Em. might view it.

There was nothing at all to be seen in it, except bare floor and bare walls, the head of the stairs, at one end, a large front window at the other, and two doors on each side leading into the four rooms. These rooms were not connected with each other, but opened only on the hall.

“Yur room is de sou’west room, Miss Em., and called Cuba, ’cause it’s warm and dry. Now less us go in de sou’east room, next to your’n, which we call Louisiany, ’cause it’s warm and damp.”

They entered that room, which had a musty and mouldy atmosphere of age and decay, and was furnished with a miscellaneous assortment of old furniture that seemed to have served its time out in the state chambers below, and had been retired to the rest and seclusion of the attic.

“I would like to look out of the window,” said Em., going to the front one and throwing open the shutters.

But she only looked down on the same scene by starlight as she had beheld by sunset—the descent of the precipice, the river, and the undulating, wooded hills beyond.

“Now, less look in de rooms on de north side,” said Liza, going across the hall. “Now this nor’east room we calls Newfoun’lan’, ’cause it’s so cold and damp,” she added as she led the way in.

It was filled up, as the other two were, with furniture that had once been very handsome and costly, but was now worn out and dilapidated.

A glance into the room sufficed.

“Now, Miss Em., I sorter to think as you’ll like dis last room better’n all de rest—dis nor’west room which we do call Alasky, because it is bofe cold and dry. It’s de lumber-room for de whole ’stablishment, and dere’s ebber so many funny and cur’us objects in it,” said the little maid as she admitted Em. into the fourth room.

“It is ‘a curiosity shop!’” exclaimed Em., looking around upon a heterogeneous multitude of articles that seemed to be the collection of a century—as most likely it was.

There were costly fragments of furniture, curiously carved chair-backs without seats; elaborately embroidered cushions without chairs; richly gilded frames without pictures; old, disfigured pictures without frames; busts without heads; statuettes without hands or feet; vases without pedestals; or pedestals without vases, and an innumerable quantity of other things too bewildering to contemplate.

Em. took up one object after another with curious interest, until at length her eyes fell upon a frameless, dusty, dark-looking picture, half hidden among broken vases and crippled statuettes.

It was the portrait of a youth in a midshipman’s uniform.

Em. took her handkerchief and wiped the dusty face and looked at it.

A bright, frank, boyish face; a pair of merry black eyes; a smiling lip, shadowed by a slight mustache; a brown complexion and short, curling black hair, met her gaze.

The eyes seemed to meet hers with a mischievious, conscious twinkle, so that she herself smiled into the smiling face.

Her heart warmed and melted before it.

“Oh, Liza,” she said, “is this a portrait, or is it a fancy sketch? Oh, how life-like it is. And to be pushed away with all this rubbish! Is it a portrait, Liza?” she eagerly inquired.

“Which, Miss Em.? That? Oh, yes! That’s poor, dear Marse Lonny’s pictur’,” replied the girl, approaching and holding the candle to it.

“Who is Marse Lonny, Liza?”

“Marse Lonny Bruce, miss, which was ole Marse Commodo’s onliest son, and was lost at sea on his fust v’yage, in de Benighted States man-o’-war Eagle, which it broke his mother’s heart to that degree as she pined away and died in less than a year afterwards.”

“I do not wonder, indeed,” said Em., gazing almost fondly on the bright frank face before her.

“And dey do say de commodo’ have never been de same man since. I don’t memorize poor Marse Lonny as well as I ought to, he being ole marster’s onliest son, and lost at sea; but, den, Miss Em., it ain’t my fault, ’cause I wasn’t born den; hows’ever, mammy memorizes all about him, and de very day he got his middy’s new uniform, and de fust time he ever put it on, which it is de self-same his portrait is painted in.”

“And this is his portrait,” murmured Em. in a low voice as she knelt down before the picture to get a nearer and a better view.

“Yes, miss, de onliest portrait as he ebber had took, and it was took that spring, jes’ ’fore he sailed on dat misfortnit v’yage whar he was lost.”

“And why is it poked away in the lumber-room? It seems a cruel slight.”

“Oh, my dear Miss Em., ’cause de ole marster he nebber could endure de sight ob it arter poor Marse Lonny was drowned. If ebber he come across it by accident it would knock him ober for all day. His onliest son, you know, Miss Em. So Mrs. Bruce, which hab kept house for ole marse ebber since his wife died, Mrs. Bruce she put de picture—hung it up on de wall, you know, miss, first in one room and den in t’other, but ole marster was sure to come upon it in his rambles about the house some time or other, and be upset for a whole day; so den de madam put it in dis here garret lumber-room, whar nobody nebber comes, not eben ole marster.”

“Oh, Liza,” eagerly exclaimed Em., “since it is pushed away in this rubbish room, do you think I might not have it in my room? If I were to ask Mrs. Bruce do you think she would let me have it while I stay here?”

“No call to bother de madam ’bout it. De madam gib me my orders to fix up your room comfortable and ’tractive, and to take anything out ob de lumber-room dat might be useful. And didn’t I take de fender and de handy irons out ob de lumber-room and mightn’t I take de picture? Yes, miss! I’ll take de picture and de ’sponsibility bofe!” said Liza; and suiting the action to the word she gave Em. her candle, pulled away the impedimenti from before the portrait, lifted it from its place and carried it away to the southwest room, followed by Em., bearing the two lights.

Em.’s looking-glass stood upon the dressing-table. There was no glass on top of the old chest of drawers, but a good, vacant place for the portrait, and there they set it.

“Now, to-morrow, Miss Em., I’ll hunt over de lumber-room to try and find a frame dat will fit it. It used to have a frame of its own, but de old madam took it to put another pictur’ in. Hows’ever, I know I can find one to fit it there, ’cause you see, Miss Em., whenever I wants anything as I haven’t got, and can’t get anywhere else, I takes a broomstick and I goes up into the lumber-room, and I tosses up everything till I finds what I want. So now, Miss Em., I bids you good-night, and to-morrow we’ll frame de pictur’ and hang it up anywhere you like,” said the kind-hearted colored girl as she left the room.

Em. went to the door and watched until she heard Liza go all the way downstairs and leave the house, locking the back door behind her.

Then she returned to her own room, fastened herself in, and fell to the contemplation of the portrait.

The bright, frank, joyous face that seemed to smile in hers fascinated her to such a degree that she could scarcely withdraw her gaze for a moment from it.

“I have read, or heard, that every one fated to die by any sudden or violent catastrophe carries the shadow of the coming ill on brow or cheek; but surely no prevision of early death darkens this glad young face!” she murmured to herself as she gazed with infinite sympathy, tenderness and compassion on this counterfeit presentment of the unfortunate young midshipman.

The sonorous hall clock began to strike eleven. Like hammer on anvil its strokes rang through the house. Em., with a long, lingering gaze, left the portrait and prepared for bed.

So ended her first day at the mountain house.

Em., wearied with the various fatigues and excitements of the time, slept soundly until morning.

She was finally awakened by a rap at her door and the voice of her little maid calling:

“It’s half-past seven, Miss Em., and de ladies has breakfas’ at eight.”

“Quite right! I will be ready in time,” said Em. as soon as she had collected her scattered senses and remembered where she was; for, indeed, on being first aroused from her sleep she could scarcely “place herself.”

“Please to open de door and let me in to make your fire, Miss Em.,” said Liza.

Em. jumped out of the bed and complied with the request.

Then her eyes fell upon the pictured face of Lonny Bruce—brighter, gladder, more joyous looking by the morning light than it had seemed the evening before.

Em. greeted it with such a smile as she would have given to a living and beloved face, and then while her little maid kindled her fire she made her simple morning toilet.

She made such good haste that when she reached the breakfast-room she found none of the family except Ronald Bruce.

“Good-morning, Em. I was in hopes you would be down first, so I came here on purpose to wait for you, Em. I want you to promise to marry me.”

“Oh, Ronald, you know I cannot do that without the knowledge and consent of all your family and all mine,” replied Em.

“Well, but with their knowledge and consent,” urged the young man.

“They will never, never give it, Ronald! Your family are too proud to consent to receive the daughter of a poor overseer as a relative. And my family are much too proud to permit their daughter to enter any household where she would not be most welcome.”

“But, Em., what in the Blue Dees do you mean? Is the wicked, diabolical pride of your old folks and mine to interfere with our lives, so as to make us both miserable all our days?”

“I don’t know, Ronald; but we must do what is right.”

Ronald’s impatient reply was checked by the entrance of Commodore Bruce, who greeted his nephew and the young girl kindly, and then growled as usual at the punctual unpunctuality of the ladies of his household.

“You can never rely on them but for one thing, and that is for always being behind time. Ah! here they are at last!”

The ladies entered, interchanged the morning salutations, and then they all went to breakfast.

It was not until they were all seated at the table that Commodore Bruce missed Mrs. Warde, and said:

“Well, how is Malvina? Is she not sufficiently recovered from her hysterics yet to come down?”

“Mamma does not feel strong enough to rise this morning, but she will try to join us at dinner in the evening,” Belinda explained.

The breakfast was then discussed, and when it was over and the family party arose from the table, Em. was about to leave the room when again the old commodore stopped her, saying:

“My dear, don’t run away! I want you to finish reading the papers for me, and I will promise not to go to sleep. I never go to sleep in the forenoon, however.”

Em. looked at Mrs. Bruce for directions.

“Go with the commodore, child,” said that lady condescendingly.

Em. followed the old man to the library, where he seated himself in his easy-chair, lay back at rest, and pointed to another chair, telling Em. to draw it up, seat herself and commence reading.

Em. obeyed him and spent the whole forenoon in perusing the papers.

It was nearly two o’clock when she got through.

“Well, now, my dear, you have given me a great deal of pleasure, and I thank you; but I will not trouble you again until Friday. The mails come in but twice a week to Greyrock—on Tuesdays and Fridays. Then I get my papers, and you shall read them to me. Go now and take a run in the fresh air until luncheon. Young blood requires a great deal of oxygen. Go.”

Em. wished to say something, but could not think what. She turned to go; then looked over her shoulder, and seeing the pale, gray, feeble old man, with his chin bowed upon his breast in an attitude of depression, weakness and sorrow, her heart was filled with compassionate tenderness for him, and she lingered, looking lovingly on him.

One thin, white, withered hand hung down by his side. With a sudden impulse of strange affection she stepped forward, raised the hand to her lips, dropped it, and would have hurried away; but the hand she had kissed was laid in benediction on her bright young head as the old man murmured:

“God bless you, my child! How kindly that was meant. Go now and take your walk.”

Em. left the room, ran up to her attic chamber for hat and shawl, and then ran downstairs out of the house to the stony front yard overlooking the descent of the precipice.

Here she was quickly joined by Ronald Bruce, who had seen her from the front drawing-room windows and ran out into the place.

“Em.,” he whispered as he joined her, “you have not answered my question yet. Are we both to be made miserable all our lives by the sinful pride of our relatives?”

“Yes, I did answer you, Ronald; but I will answer you again. We cannot tell how this will end; but whatever other people do, we must do what is right. And, Ronald, if you do care for me, as I believe, please do not follow me about or try to meet me anywhere. It is not discreet. Now do but look! There is Miss Belinda Warde watching us from the front parlor windows!”

Ronald turned to catch a glimpse of the lady’s face, which was withdrawn the instant it was detected.

“I am going in,” said Em.

“So am I,” said Ronald. “I only came out here to speak to you, and I don’t care if all the fine ladies in Christendom watch me. I will let them see that I love you, Em.; for I do love you, and I will marry you in spite of them all.”

They returned to the house and Em. ran upstairs to get ready for lunch.

Ronald went into the drawing-room, sulkily threw himself into a chair, took up a book and pretended to be absorbed in reading, in order to escape any interchange of words with Miss Warde.

But still he did not feel any more at ease when Belinda, with an offended air, arose and left the room.

The family met at luncheon.

Commodore Bruce treated Em. with more than previous kindness; but the sensitive girl perceived a shadow of coldness in the manner of the ladies towards her, and she wondered whether Miss Warde had not been making mischief by certain misrepresentations.

After luncheon, just as the ladies were about to leave the room, Mrs. Bruce called to Em.:

“Miss Palmer, I wish to speak with you alone. Follow me to my room.”

“I was going there, madam, to resume my needlework,” replied Em. as she obeyed the directions of the lady.

When they had reached Mrs. Bruce’s chamber the latter inquired:

“When is your father coming for you, Miss Palmer?”

“On Saturday evening, madam, when he will take me home to stay over Sunday, if you please,” modestly and respectfully replied the girl.

“Very well. It pleases me quite well. And you need not take the trouble to return on Monday. I shall have no further occasion for your services after this week,” said the lady with cold hauteur.

Em. turned deadly sick at heart and ghastly pale with mortification and disappointment.

But before her faltering lips could form a reply another voice came from the open door, saying defiantly:

“I am very glad to hear that, madam; for after this week I shall require all the young lady’s society all to myself. Yes, and with her consent I mean to retain it just so long as we both shall live.”

CHAPTER XII

LOVE IN THE TOILS

You may as well go stand upon the beach

And bid the main flood bate his usual height;

You may as well use question with the wolf

Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb;

You may as well go bid the mountain pines

Still their high tops and make no further noise,

When they are fretted with the gusts of heaven;

You may as well do anything most hard,

As seek to alter that (than which, what’s firmer?)—

His stubborn heart.

SHAKESPEARE.

The speaker was Commodore Bruce, who stood in the doorway, with one hand leaning on his ivory-headed cane and the other against the frame of the door.

“Oh, it is you, uncle! You quite startled me. Please come in,” said Mrs. Bruce, recovering from her momentary panic.

“Thank you. I intended to,” said the old man, advancing and sinking into the great cushioned arm-chair which Em., rallying from her shock, had wheeled for his accommodation.

“Sit down, child; it is not good for young spines to stand up too much,” he added as he settled himself comfortably.

Em. took a chair at a little distance and picked up the needlework on which she had been engaged the day before.

“You say you will not require the services of this young lady after next Saturday?” inquired the commodore.

“Yes, I have told her so; the work we have on hand will be finished by that time, and I shall have no more for her,” answered Mrs. Bruce, considerably modifying the tones of haughtiness and contempt with which she had spoken to the poor girl.

“I am very glad to hear you say so, for I would like to have her services all to myself, to read or write for me.”

“But, my dear uncle, Ronald would be most happy to do all this for you.”

“Yes, and look confoundedly bored all the time. No; I want this girl.”

“If you must have a young girl, I am sure our niece, Hermia, would be delighted to——”

“Well, I shouldn’t, then; there!”

“Or I, myself, if you would accept my services, would be——”

“Thanks, very much, my dear, I will not trouble you.”

“Well, then, there is Mrs. Warde, who really is a very fine elocutionist——”

“But I don’t want to be elocutionized; particularly by Mrs. Warde. Malvina is a fine woman for her age, but she has a voice between a trumpet and a hand-saw. I want Miss Palmer and no one else,” persisted the veteran.

“One would really think the poor fool was in love with the girl and meant to marry her! But, still, that is not very likely,” said Mrs. Bruce to herself with a shrug of her handsome shoulders.

She did not, however, proffer the services of the only remaining lady of the household—Miss Belinda Warde; for she could not tell what other matrimonial whim might enter into the old man’s mind or be put into it by the constant presence of the handsome brunette.

“I am sure, uncle, if you will permit me, I could find a much more suitable companion than this young girl,” rather sulkily persisted Mrs. Bruce.

“Thanks, very much, my dear; but I think the companion that suits me best is the most suitable. I say I will have Miss Palmer. Let the question rest. Come here, my child.” (This was to Em.)

The young girl laid down her work and came to the side of the old man, who took her hand and looked benignly in her face.

Em. smiled, though her tears were ready to start.

“Where did you get my Lonny’s smiling eyes, my dear? You are like a boy I lost long years ago, Miss Palmer—a brave boy, and a handsome one, or you could not be like him. You are very like him, my dear—with one of those accidental likenesses that are sometimes found to exist between those of no kin. It is not in your complexion or features, for you are fair and fragile, while my poor lost Lonny was dark and strong—but it is so in your smile—so in your whole expression of countenance, that I could almost fancy my Lonny’s purified soul looked from out of your blue eyes. It is very strange; but I cannot endure the sight of his portrait, though I love to see his likeness in you. I think I partly understand the reason, however,” continued the veteran, dropping his head in meditation, while his white beard flowed to his waist. “Yes, I think I see it, ‘as in a glass, darkly’—that portrait was the perfect image of his material body, as I used to see it—the material body which has perished; and which, because it has perished, I cannot bear to see in its ‘counterfeit.’ But that which looks at me from your fair face is the likeness of my son’s living soul; therefore I love to contemplate it.”

“How the old dotard drivels!” thought Mrs. Bruce. “He’ll soon be a subject for the lunatic asylum.”

“But that is not the point now, my dear,” continued the old man, still holding the hand of Em. “The question at issue is whether, when you have completed your term of service with my sister-in-law, you will enter mine, as my reader and writer?”

Em. paused for a moment and then, raising her blue eyes full of the reverential, filial tenderness she felt for the childless old man, answered earnestly:

“Indeed, I should be so very happy to do so, if only Mrs. Bruce and my mother will consent.”

“Ha! ha! ha! Mrs. Bruce will consent! I’ll swear to that! And if you have half the influence with your mother that I have with Mrs. Bruce, she’ll consent. If she does not I’ll try my ‘’prentice hand’ at persuasion, and it will go hard but she shall give you up to me,” chuckled the old man.

“As for myself, uncle, you know that your will has always been my law,” said the lady.

“Oh, I know it; I know it, my dear,” said the commodore. “And now, little one,” he continued, turning to Em., “go and take a run in the grounds. Too much house is not good for little girls. I want to talk with my sister-in-law.”

Em. turned to her employer for direction.

“Come! Run away! run away!” exclaimed the veteran.

“Do as you are bidden,” loftily commanded Mrs. Bruce.

“SCAT!” stamped the commodore.

Em. laughed and ran out.

“Now, then, madam, what the demon does all this mean?” demanded the commodore.

“All what mean? I don’t understand,” replied Mrs. Bruce.

“Oh, yes, you do. Yesterday you could not, any of you, be too kind to that poor girl. To-day you, all of you, so overwhelmed the child with your studied coldness and contempt that she looked as if she were going to expire at the lunch-table. I could scarcely stand it myself, and so, to counteract the effect of your combined rudeness, I was obliged to be obtrusively attentive to Miss Palmer. I knew perfectly well when I saw you leave the lunch-table and order that girl to follow you to your room you were sharpening your claws and whetting your teeth and licking your chops in anticipation of a meal off her!”

“Commodore Bruce! What MONSTROUS ideas you have!” exclaimed the horrified lady. “Am I a vampire, or a cannibal?”

“Well, yes; in some sense you are. I do not mean to say that, having lunched on chicken-pie, cold ham and custard, you are going to dine on Em. immediately. No, but you were going to glut your pride and surfeit your anger and satisfy your selfishness on her, all the same, which is a wickeder sort of cannibalism than the other, since it devours the spirit. That child has most innocently offended you all. Now I want to know in what manner. And I will know; for while I am captain of this ship—master of this house, I mean—no woman shall be treated with coldness and cruelty while under my roof, and especially when at my table. Come.”

“Well, uncle, since you will have it, I acknowledge that Miss Palmer has offended me—has offended us all; therefore I really do not think that you should keep her here as you propose to do, or that you will keep her when you have heard all about her.”

“I’ll be shot to death if I don’t,” said the commodore. “But how has that harmless girl offended you? By her beauty, grace and sweetness? I know of no other cause. In what way has she offended you, I ask?”

“In a way that would have offended any woman with a proper sense of modesty and decorum.”

“But by what means? By what means?” impatiently demanded the veteran.

“By the general indiscretion of her conduct,” coldly replied the lady.

“By Jove! I will not take such an answer!” roared the old commodore, bringing his fist down upon the table like a hammer upon an anvil, and making every article on it dance. “You would ruin an innocent girl’s reputation with a few generalities like that! I—will—know,” he continued slowly and emphatically, telling off every word with a thump of his stick. “I—will—know—every detail of—time, place, and company—word, act, and look of the indiscretion with which you charge this child! Yes, and I will have them established by more than one competent witness! None of your unsupported generalities for me! I have made myself the advocate of this innocent girl, and will see that she suffers no wrong. No, by Jove! While I’m commander of this ship—captain of this house, I mean—no woman in it shall suffer injury unavenged! No, in a few words tell me distinctly what the girl has said or done!”

“Well, I do not think that you will be any better satisfied when you have heard,” said Mrs. Bruce maliciously. “This is her offense, then: She has been here but two days, and has been detected several times in private conversation with my son, your nephew, Ronald Bruce, who follows her about wherever she goes! There! now you have it!”

“He—he—he! Ha—ha—ha! Ho—ho—ho!” laughed the commodore. “That’s a great offence, now, isn’t it? As if it wasn’t perfectly natural and right for a young man to follow a young girl around when they are both shut up in a lonely country house with a lot of old ladies!”

“Hermia Templeton is not old, at least, and I think she is more interested in this matter than any one else,” gravely replied Mrs. Bruce.

“That is true,” mused the commodore—“I beg Hermia’s pardon. She is not old. She is young and pretty and attractive enough for any man, and a great deal too good for my young rascal of a nephew: but as she is to marry him, whether or no, of course she has more at stake in this running than any one else! But now tell me the particulars—the particulars! Time, place, and circumstance! You know I told you that I would have the details and have them proved!”

Mrs. Bruce told the whole story of Ronald’s and Em.’s meetings and talks, in the drawing-room, in the dining-room, in the library, and in the grounds. She told it, not as it is known to you and me, reader, but with many an exaggeration and much false coloring, as she had heard it from Mrs. Warde and Miss Belinda—for, ill as Malvina was, or affected to be, she was not too ill to play the part of an eavesdropper and a detractor. And since Em. had been in the house there was no harmless interview she had had with her honest suitor to which either the designing mother or daughter had not been an unseen listener.

“This must be looked into,” said Commodore Bruce, very much more gravely than he had yet spoken. “Yes, this must be seen to. I must give that young scamp a sound lecture! for, mind you, it is he who is in fault, though, woman-like, you put the whole blame upon her! It is he who is to blame, and very much to blame, for he is pursuing her and trifling with her when he knows very well, the rascal! that he must marry my niece, Hermia Templeton, or go to the deuce! While I am commander of this ship—I mean master of this house—I won’t have it! Still, let me tell you, madam, that I despise the means by which these women have detected these interviews. They could have done so only by eavesdropping! And, oh, Lord! how I do loathe and detest eavesdroppers!” exclaimed the veteran with every expression of disgust and abhorrence disfiguring his fine old face as he arose from his seat and, leaning on his stick, turned to depart.

Before leaving the room he paused and said:

“I shall say nothing to Ronald to-day. I have had quite enough of excitement for one day—more of it would spoil my dinner and my night’s rest—perhaps ruin my digestion and my nervous system! So no more of this subject for the present. I want to relish my turkey and enjoy a good night’s sleep. To-morrow morning after breakfast I will take my young gentleman in hand, and we will go over the chart of his life voyage together, and I will show him his course. To make things surer, I will also speak to my young lady. But, in the meantime, I desire you and your friends in the house to treat this young girl with consideration and kindness. Let them know, if you please, that such is my will. I shall see in a moment, by the look of that child’s face, whether she has been treated with contempt while out of my sight.”

With these words the veteran left the room.

Mrs. Bruce cared very little for the brusquerie of the old sailor, so that he had given his promise to break up the intimacy between her son and her seamstress.

Indeed, her reason for the severe course she took towards Em. was rather the desire to put a prompt and final stop to the acquaintance between the young people than any dislike to the girl herself.

Meantime Em. had gone out to the grounds for a walk, but seeing Ronald Bruce approaching from the house she quickly passed around to a side door, entered it, and ran up to her room, where she arranged her simple toilet for dinner.

Em. dreaded meeting the family again at the table; but when the bell rang and she went down and found them all assembled in the dining-room, and Commodore Bruce advanced, took her hand and led her to her seat, and all looked kindly or with perfect indifference on her, she felt more at her ease.

“Mrs. Warde, permit me to name to you my young friend, Miss Palmer here, who has not had the privilege of being presented to you before,” said the commodore with somewhat stilted politeness to a tall, dark, haggard-looking woman, with great black eyes, who sat opposite to Em., and who was richly dressed in black velvet, lace and bugles, and whom Em. immediately recognized as the lady who had fainted at the sight of herself in the upper hall.

Em. arose from her chair and bent her head.

Mrs. Warde stared and returned the salutation with a slight and haughty nod.

That was all. They were as much strangers as before the introduction. The dinner went on; other people spoke to Em. from time to time, but Mrs. Warde scarcely noticed her at all, or only by a furtive, nervous glance.

As soon as the dinner was over the family party adjourned to the drawing-room—with one exception, that of Ronald Bruce—who sulkily absented himself from the domestic circle that night.

The old commodore, seated in his soft-cushioned, big arm-chair, made a point of talking to Em. until he fell fast asleep.

The ladies of the house gathered around a large center-table that stood under a lighted chandelier, and before the ruddy open fire of hickory logs, where, having few intellectual resources, they busied themselves with crochet and gossip.

Em., having no taste for either of these pursuits, sat apart, near the sleeping old man, and wondered what they were all doing at home, and whether Ronald Bruce would make his appearance at all in the drawing-room that evening.

He did not; and, therefore, upon the whole, Em. spent another one of the dullest evenings she had ever passed in her life.

When the hour of ten, their sober bedtime, struck, and the circle broke, Em. was glad.

But as she was about to leave the room the old commodore, awakened by the general movement, aroused himself, got up from his chair and took her hand, saying kindly:

“Good-night, and may the Lord bless you, my dear child!”

“And you, too, sir,” replied Em. in a low, timid, but earnest tone as she bowed over his wrinkled hand and then left the room.

She glanced up and down the hall in the hope of seeing Ronald Bruce, to give him good-night. She could scarcely help doing this; indeed, she was scarcely conscious of doing it; for if she had met him, waylaying her, to speak a word, she would certainly and very properly have rebuked him for doing so.

Yet she heaved a deep sigh of disappointment when she had passed all the way upstairs without seeing him.

When Em. entered her cheerful room in the attic she found the candles on the dressing-table lighted, the fire burning brightly, and the little maid, Liza, waiting.

“Cold night, Miss Em., ain’t it? ’Spect dere’ll be a mighty heavy frost, if not snow, ’fore mornin’. We had snow airlier’n dis last year,” said Liza as she pushed up a chair nearer the fire.

“Then I suppose you must have winter much earlier on these mountains than we ever have on the plains where I was brought up,” answered Em.

“Well, you see, miss, I dunno nuffin’ ’tall ’bout de wedder ’way down dere. I nebber libbed on de plains, myse’f. Dunno how anybody can lib so far, far down below de sky! You was right to come up here, Miss Em. Well, I only just waited till you come, Miss Em., to see if you has everything you ’quire. Has you?”

“Oh, yes, indeed, Liza; thank you.”

“Well, den, I must go. I got to go to Miss Melwiny Warde’s room and rub her feet till she goes to sleep, the Lord help her; She’s an awful bad sleeper, she is, and sometimes I has to set at de foot of her bed and rub her feet half de night ’fore she gets quiet. Wonder to me is how she can’t read her chapter in de Bible, and say her prayers, and go to sleep like a Christian. Well, good-night, Miss Em., I reckon you can go to sleep ’dout having of your feet rubbed, can’t you?”

“Oh, yes,” smiled Em. as the girl left the room.

The bright fire shone on the portrait of Lonny Bruce, so that the merry, mischievous young face beamed out in full light.

“Ah, you beautiful and happy boy, what a dreadful fate was yours!” murmured Em., standing before the picture. “And your poor, bereaved old father fancies that I look like you; and so he loves me for your sake! I wonder if I do look like you—I, who am so fair, while you are so dark—I, who am so steady, while you look so wild! But, perhaps, you had your grave seasons as I sometimes have my gay spells! Oh, dear me, I wonder why Ronald Bruce did not come in the drawing-room all the evening! And did not even try to bid me good-night! I know it is on his account that Mrs. Bruce gave me warning to leave her service so suddenly. But the dear old commodore, whom I love so much, likes me, and is kind to me. I wonder, oh, I wonder, if he will ever consent that his nephew may marry me! What is the use of thinking about that? I will say my prayers and go to sleep.”

And so she did.

CHAPTER XIII

“OLD HEADS AND YOUNG HEARTS”

I must be cruel only to be kind.

SHAKESPEARE.

The next morning Em. awoke to the memory of the preceding day’s events—her unkind dismissal by Mrs. Bruce; her immediate engagement by Commodore Bruce; Ronald’s unaccountable absence from his mother’s drawing-room circle, and his strange omission to appear somewhere about the halls of the staircases to bid Em. good-night on her way to her room.

She felt a strong impulse to arise and dress quickly and hurry down to the breakfast-room, in the probability of seeing Ronald before any one else should be there.

She acted on this impulse; but by the time she had finished her simple toilet, reason had come to check impulse, and prudence to warn her that she must not seek an interview with her lover, and, furthermore, that she must not even risk an accidental meeting with Ronald Bruce if she would avoid giving new cause of offence.

So, instead of hastening down to the breakfast-room, Em. seated herself at her chamber window with a piece of needlework in her hand and sewed until the breakfast bell rang, and then, to make sure of not meeting Ronald alone, she waited five minutes after the bell had stopped ringing, for she concluded that it would be better that she should be a little late at the table than that she should give umbrage by a tête-à-tête with Ronald.

She went leisurely downstairs and entered the breakfast-room, expecting to find all the family at the table.

She found no one present except Ronald Bruce, who stood on the rug with his back to the fire impatiently waiting for her.

“Em.!” he exclaimed, stepping forward and taking her hand, “I have been here half an hour, hoping you would be down early, perhaps earlier than usual, because we could not see each other last night. Why are you so late?” he inquired reproachfully.

“I am not late, Ronald. None of the family except yourself have yet come down. But, oh, Ronald! please do not plan to see me alone. Your having done so has already caused trouble. That was the reason why at lunch yesterday the ladies treated me so coldly——”

“Impertinently, insolently, I call it! I saw it all, Em., and my blood boiled! But what can a man do with such women, except to avoid them?”

“But they were kinder to me at dinner,” said Em. apologetically.

“‘Kinder!’ They behaved towards you with proper politeness, that was all, and I know to whose power that must be attributed! The old commodore had ‘put his foot down’ to that effect, I feel sure. But, Em., I could not join those women in the drawing-room last night, when I felt that I should not be able to play the hypocrite and treat Miss Warde or her mother with the respect I could not feel for them, with the respect a man should always, and under all circumstances, show women. So to avoid them I absented myself from the drawing-room. I went up to my chamber, locked myself in, hated all my fellow-creatures except you, Em., and read satires in the original Greek all the evening.”

“And so that was the reason why you did not come to bid—any of us—good-night,” said Em.

“That, yes, that was one reason why I did not come to bide—any of you—good-night. But that was not the only reason. I was making up my mind and coming to a conclusion that I shall act upon to-day.”

“Oh, Ronald!” exclaimed Em., startled by his expression, “I hope you will never do or say anything to distress your good old uncle! His past life has been so full of trouble. His remaining days are few. Let them at least be filled with peace.”

“I must speak to him to-day, however, for your sake, Em.”

“Oh, no, no, no! It were must better that you should give me up altogether than bring discord to the last days of one to whom you owe so much!” exclaimed Em.

“To give you up, Em., would be to give up my freedom of choice in a matter where the whole happiness of my life and that of my chosen one is concerned! That would be too heavy a price to pay, even for the great benefits I have received at my uncle’s hands. No, Em., I will never, never give you up!” said the young man earnestly.

“WHAT!” exclaimed the voice of the commodore.

Both the young people started as at a thunder-clap and looked around to see the old man, leaning on his stick, as he advanced slowly into the room.

“No one down but two? But, then, you are always down first, and ought to have a medal for punctuality!” he continued as he paused and leaned more heavily upon his stick.

Ronald stepped quickly to his side and gave him the support of an arm, while Em. wheeled the big arm-chair to the fire.

Both the young people were filled with painful doubts as to whether or not the old commodore had heard the concluding words of Ronald’s impetuous speech. Their countenances were full of confusion, nor were their minds set at rest by the next words of the old man, who, as soon as he had sunk into his seat, turned a rather severe eye upon his nephew and said:

“‘My handsome young man,’ I have something very serious to say to you. Come to my room immediately after breakfast; I will meet you there.”

“Very well, sir. I will be punctual, the more so because I have an important communication to make to you,” replied Ronald.

“Oh, indeed!” exclaimed the old commodore.

The entrance of the ladies here put an end to the topic.

They greeted the party in the breakfast-room, received the commodore’s rebukes for their tardiness very good-humoredly, and gathered around the table.

As the meal progressed Ronald was taken to task for his desertion of the preceding evening.

He coldly excused himself by saying that he had been engaged in reading Greek and trying to solve a problem.

Miss Belinda hoped that he had succeeded in doing so.

Ronald said dryly that he hoped he had.

When breakfast was over Em. followed Mrs. Bruce to her sitting-room, where that lady filled her hands with needlework enough to last her all day long and left her alone.

Meanwhile Ronald Bruce repaired to his uncle’s study, fully resolved to avow his love for Em. and ask his uncle’s consent to marry her; but he thought that, as in duty bound, he would defer his communication until he should have heard what his uncle had to say to him.

When he entered the study he found the old man seated in his big leathern chair by the long study table.

There was an empty chair placed exactly opposite to him.

“Take this seat before me, that we may look each other in the face as we speak,” said the commodore with an emphatic rap upon the one indicated.

Ronald sat down, folded his hands before him, and waited with the air of a rebellious child about to be catechized or reprimanded.

The old commodore on his part dropped his head on his chest and reflected for a few moments before opening the discussion.

At length, however, he looked up, drew a long breath, and began:

“Ronald, I asked you to come here that I might talk to you on a very painful and very delicate subject, and I scarcely know how to open it.”

He paused and looked at his nephew; but that young gentleman said nothing to help him out.

“Perhaps you yourself may have some suspicion of the subject?” suggested the commodore.

“Is it Miss Palmer?” sulkily inquired the young man.

“Yes, it is Em. Palmer. Ronald, I do not wish to be hard on you. You are but a young man, shut up in a very dull country house with a very beautiful and attractive young girl. You could scarcely help falling a little in love with her, so I cannot blame you for that; but, Ronald, if you have let her perceive your love you have done wrong; and if you have won her love in return you have done very wrong.”

Ronald started, flushed, and was about to speak, when his uncle raised his hand and said:

“Hear me out, your turn will come presently.”

“But I must speak now. I never intended any wrong to Em.—never, so help me Heaven!” burst forth Ronald.

“I quite believe it,” the commodore promptly admitted. “Yet you have already wronged her more than you know.”

“How? how?” impetuously demanded the young man.

“By your thoughtless pursuit of her since she has been in this house. By following her, lying in wait for her, meeting her in the breakfast-room, in the study, in the grounds, anywhere, in short, where you could find her alone. And this you have done without her connivance, I firmly believe!”

“Heaven knows that is true! Em. herself has rebuked me for pursuing her; and yet I meant her no wrong, as I soon hope to prove to you.”

“I need no proof. I know you, Ronald, and, therefore, I am sure you meant no harm; and yet, as I said before, you have by this conduct done her grievous wrong. You have drawn upon her the invidious notice of evil-thinking women. Do you know what happened yesterday?” suddenly inquired the commodore, breaking off in his discourse.

“I know that our lady guests presumed to treat Miss Palmer with insolence! But they will find——”

“Never mind what they will find. There was something worse than that happened! these women’s tongues obliged my sister-in-law to dismiss the girl from her service.”

Ronald sprang to his feet.

“Did my mother have the cruelty to do that?” he exclaimed.

“She could not help herself, with those two women nagging her on! But I was determined the child should not be sent back to her mother in that discreditable manner, and so I immediately engaged her as my reader and writer, and conveyed a hint to those ladies that they would oblige me by treating her with proper consideration. Since that, I must say, they have behaved better.”

“I thought the improvement in their manner to Miss Palmer was brought about through your interference; but I had no idea that she had passed from my mother’s service into yours,” said Ronald.

“She has not yet done so. She was warned to leave Mrs. Bruce’s employment on next Saturday, when her father will come for her. She is to come back and enter mine on Monday—unless her parents should raise some objection, which I do not think likely—or, unless you should persist in your dangerous pursuit of her.”

“‘Dangerous!’ sir?” echoed the young man.

“Yes, dangerous! Dangerous to her peace, honor and reputation!”

“But, sir, you misunderstand me, quite. I love Em.!”

“Then you are very foolish.”

“I have told her that I love her!”

“You were very rash to do so.”

“And, moreover, I know that I have won her love!”

“Then, Ronald Brace, you have been very much to blame. How will you ever answer to her, or to your own conscience, for that child’s disappointed heart and lost happiness?” sternly demanded the old commodore.

“My good uncle, I told you that you totally misapprehended me, and I repeat it. I do not intend to disappoint Em. Her happiness shall be the first object and fondest care of my life,” earnestly exclaimed Ronald.

“What—in the deuce—do you mean?” slowly demanded Commodore Bruce, staring at his nephew with distended eyes.

“What do I mean, do you ask, sir? What does any honorable man mean when he says that he loves a good young girl, that he has told her so, and that he intends to marry her?” exclaimed Ronald Bruce somewhat impatiently, as at his hearer’s want of comprehension.

“Eh? What? What the foul fiend are you saying to me, Ronald?” demanded the provoked and puzzled old man.

“I say that with your consent, sir, I will marry Em. Palmer,” firmly replied the young man.

“Marry—Em.—Palmer?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are raving mad! You are fit for nothing but a strait jacket and a lunatic asylum! Marry Em. Palmer! Why, even if she were your equal in birth, position, and education you could not do so; for you are to marry Hermia Templeton, you know.”

“Indeed, I did not know it! No word or look of love has ever passed between me and Hermia. We like each other well enough as cousins, but not enough to marry—especially as she loves another man and I another woman!” recklessly replied Ronald.

“Then you are a very disobedient, rebellious, and unmanageable young couple! That is all I have to say. But I shall talk to Hermia and bring her to reason. And as for you, Ronald, I shall expect you to give up this insane whim and make up your mind to marry Hermia Templeton. You two are my heirs, and you should marry and keep the property together.”

“I should be very sorry to disappoint you, uncle; but honor as well as love is engaged in this, and I cannot and will not give up the girl I love. I must and will marry Emolyn Palmer,” firmly responded Ronald Bruce.

“Come, come, now, nephew!” said the old man as soothingly as he would have talked to a sick and delirious patient. “Come, come, listen to reason! I can understand and appreciate your feelings! yes, better than you can yourself. This love of yours is a delusion of the senses, a mere hallucination that is sure to pass away whether you marry the object of it or not! If you were to marry that young girl under your present illusions they would pass away in a few months. You would cease to love her; but you would never cease to regret that you had so hastily married her. Unfitted for each other in birth, culture, position, and everything, your wedded life would be a life of misery to both! Think of this while there is yet time, and withdraw from this contemplated and most insane idea of marriage! I will say no more to you at present. Go and think of what I have said to you, and said with the most unselfish desire to promote your happiness,” said Commodore Bruce, rising as a signal that the interview was ended.

“I thank you, sir, for your great kindness to me in this as in all other matters. But I must not leave you under any false impressions. I love Em., and have won her love. I am of age and can do as I please. My pay as a lieutenant in the navy will support my wife in moderate comfort. Therefore, I shall certainly marry Emolyn Palmer just as soon as I can induce her to fix a day. I say this not in defiance of your wishes, sir, but that there may be no misapprehension of my intentions,” concluded the young man as he bowed and retired.

“Stubborn as a mule,” said the commodore as he sank back in his seat. “I must see the girl. With her I shall have more success.”

CHAPTER XIV

CRUEL TO BE KIND

When I had seen this hot love on the wing,

As I perceived it first, I tell you that,

If I had played the desk, or table book,

Or given my heart a winking mute and dumb,

Or looked upon this love with idle sight—

What might you think? No, I went round to work,

And my young mistress thus did I bespeak:

“This must not be”; and then I precepts gave her,

That she should keep herself from his resort,

Admit no messengers, receive no tokens,

Which done, she took the fruits of my advice,

And him repulsed.

SHAKESPEARE.

Em. was sitting alone in Mrs. Bruce’s room, her hands busily engaged with needlework and her thought with something else, when the little maid, Liza, entered and said: “Miss Em., ole Marse Commodore sent me to ax yer how he want to see yer in the study.”

The young girl, who thought that Commodore Bruce only wanted her to read to him, promptly laid aside her work and arose, saying:

“Very well. I will go at once; and, Liza, will you please to tell Mrs. Bruce that the commodore has sent for me, so that she may know why I am absent?”

“Yes, miss, I’ll tell her; but, la! marse is marse and missus bofe here! Nobody ain’t no call to make no ’scuses to any missus when ole marse wants ’em, I tell you that,” replied Liza as she followed the seamstress from the room.

Em. went down to the study.

She found the old man still in his dressing-gown and skull-cap, seated in his leathern arm-chair beside the table.

The chair just vacated by Ronald Bruce still stood before him.

As Em. entered he leaned back wearily and sighed.

“You sent for me, sir,” said the girl as she drew near.

“Yes, child. Take this seat in front of me. I wish to talk to you,” he answered gently.

Em. sat down, feeling somewhat embarrassed to be so near and so directly under the eyes of Commodore Bruce.

But the old man gazed kindly down on her drooping face and thought how much it looked like that of his poor lost boy, Lonny, when the latter was a lad and was under rebuke for some childish fault.

“Do not be afraid of me, my dear,” he said gently, as he observed her confusion.

“I am not afraid, only——” Em. began and stopped.

“You are not afraid, only you are afraid. You think I am going to talk to you of Ronald. Is it not so?”

Em. could not speak; she bowed and caught her breath.

“You are right, my child,” answered the commodore, and then he dropped his head upon his chest until his long gray beard swept to his waist, and he fell into silent thought.

It had been hard to open the subject with the young man; it was very much harder to do so with the young girl.

At length he raised his head, and looking at her very kindly, said:

“Little Em., I do not know that I can give you a wiser lesson or do you a greater service than by telling you two little incidents in my life’s experience as examples. Will you listen?”

“Yes, sir,” breathed the girl in tones so low that the words scarcely reached his ears.

“When I was a young man I fell desperately in love. You smile, Em.; but fifty years ago I was a young man of twenty years, and, as I said, desperately in love with a pretty, amiable but illiterate and humbly-born girl. I wished to marry her, but my father and mother were bitterly opposed to the match. The controversy ran high. It almost estranged me from my parents. At length there was a compromise. I agreed to wait a year until I should be of age before proposing to my love. And they agreed, in the event of my continuing to desire the marriage at the end of that time, to withdraw their opposition. I was soon after ordered to sea for a three years’ voyage. The end of that time found me at the antipodes—at the port of Canton—more interested in the manners and customs of the Chinese than in the image of ‘the girl I left behind me.’ Even if it had been practical for me to do so, I know that I should not then have claimed my parents’ promise of their consent to my proposal of marriage to her. I had got over my ‘puppy’ love, as they probably anticipated that I would when they enticed me into that compromise which was our salvation.”

As the old man uttered these words he looked wistfully at Em.

She had been rosy red under his scrutiny before, but now she was marble white; her eyes were fixed upon the floor, and her fingers were clasped tightly together on her lap.

He gazed at her pityingly for a moment, then sighed and took up the thread of discourse.

“I say ‘ours’ child, for when I returned from my three years’ voyage I found my fair one the happy wife of a handsome young workman and the proud mother of a bouncing boy. It was a shock to my vanity, but it was a relief to my heart. I was all right; but I felt a little anxious to know whether she was. I called to see her as an old friend. She received me with frank cordiality, and showed me her baby and made me stay to tea to see her husband. When he came home she met him and hurried him upstairs ‘to clean himself,’ as she told me. And when at length he joined us at the tea-table, she took my breath away by introducing me as ‘an old beau’ of hers, who had been ‘awful spoony’ on her at one time, adding, with more frankness than delicacy:

“‘And, you know, I’d married you then if the old man and old woman hadn’t raised such an awful row and kept you from asking me! But, Lord! ain’t I glad they did! For soon after that I met my Charley here at a picnic, and we were married three weeks afterwards. And every day, when I think of it, I feel so awful glad, for I wouldn’t give my Charley for a Secretary of the Navy, let alone a little middy, who would be rushing off to sea every whipstitch and leaving me alone nearly all the time. One better be a widow at once than sich a wife!’ she concluded with a loud laugh.

“Well, Em., I was, at the same time, and by the same means, humbled and relieved. Two years after that I met the woman who became my wife. Our marriage was so happy that one of my brightest anticipations of the next life is that of meeting her, with whom I hope to spend eternity. As for the well united young couple who are the subjects of my story, they lived and prospered. In the course of years the young workman rose to be a partner in the firm in whose service he had commenced as porter. They are still living, though both over seventy, and—a curious coincidence, Em.—their son, the Honorable —— ——, is now Secretary of the Navy and my superior officer. Now, what do you think of my first love, Em.?” cheerfully inquired the commodore.

“I think—I hope—I pray,” faltered the girl, keeping her eyes fixed upon the floor and twisting and untwisting her clasped fingers, “that all first love is not so fickle as yours and hers.”

“Ah, humph! humph! I might have expected that answer, of course. But now, my dear, as I began by saying that I had two incidents in my experience to relate to you for your instruction, and as I have told you the first story, which does not seem to have edified you much, I will now tell you the second. Will you listen?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” sighed Em.

“Well! At the very time that I was so insane on the subject of my first and most ill-placed love, I had a schoolmate, a young medical student, who was madder than I was. He loved to frenzy the beautiful daughter of a poor, ignorant workingman. She was beautiful, but beauty was her only attraction. Her intelligence was very low and her temper unhappy. But notwithstanding this, my young friend, ensnared by her beauty and his own eyes, and in defiance of all his family and friends, married her. I do not know how much or how little of happiness they enjoyed in the first years of their marriage, for I was at sea, and our paths lay apart. But in after time, when they had a growing family around them, they had gone so far apart that they were completely estranged. They hated each other with a deep and grievous hatred. They often reproached each other with great bitterness and venom. She was a ‘millstone around his neck,’ pulling him down and keeping him down in the social scale. She could not, perhaps, help being so. But he blamed and despised her for this, and she hated and upbraided him because he blamed and despised her. The children of that wretched household were both in temperament and in position very unhappy. They left home as soon as through marriage or employment they could escape from it. Not one of them has succeeded in life. Much of this family misery might have been hidden from the world, for the man, in this respect, was wise and reticent, but the woman was silly and blatant, and flaunted her domestic troubles in the face of every friend who came near her. The worst was——”

“Oh, please, please tell me no more!” exclaimed Em., instinctively putting her hands to her ears.

The commodore looked at her and smiled.

“Oh, I beg pardon, sir; but it was so dreadful,” said the girl apologetically, as she took down her hands.

“My child, if this state of things is so dreadful to hear, what must it be to bear? inquired the old man with incisive earnestness.

“Oh, why do you tell me these sad stories?” said Em., almost on the verge of tears.

“For an example and a warning, my child. Listen, little girl. My nephew, Ronald, loves you, or fancies that he does.”

Em.’s complexion, that had been marble white before, now suddenly flushed scarlet all over face, neck and bosom. The old man noticed it, but continued ruthlessly:

“Ronald is of age, is his own master, and has a profession that will enable him to support a wife in decent competency. He can therefore marry whom he will, and in open defiance of his family and friends, if he pleases. He will probably ask you to marry him, Em. If so, what will be your reply?”

“I will wait until he does ask me, sir, and then I will give him my reply,” said Em. with gentle dignity.

“Humph! humph! humph! I hope it will be a proper one, Miss Palmer. If you consent to marry Ronald Bruce, I will tell you what then will be your fate. It will be that of the woman I have just described to you. Ronald loves you now, or thinks he does. He will marry you if he can; but his love, such as it is, will not last—cannot last. He will tire of you in a few weeks or months at longest; he will then dislike you—perhaps hate you—because, by having accepted his first offer of marriage, you will come between him and his inheritance, as indeed you will have done; for I will never leave this place to my nephew except on the condition that he marries my niece; for those two are my only heirs, and I will not have the property divided. Should Ronald marry any other than Hermia I shall leave the estate to her. So you see, my dear girl, into what depths of ruin you will cast both Ronald and yourself by accepting him. He will be an impoverished, disappointed and regretful husband. You will be that most miserable of all women—a despised wife.”

Em. uttered a little impulsive, half-suppressed cry and hid her face in her hands.

But after a few moments she recovered herself, and with something of gentle dignity arose and stood before the old man.

Resting one hand on the table, she raised her eyes to his, looked him steadily but modestly in the face and said:

“I do not think that this would be the result of our marriage should Mr. Bruce renew his offer and I accept it. If I should ever marry, my husband should never despise me. Be sure of that. But, Commodore Bruce, have no fears of me. Set your heart at rest. I would never enter any family who were opposed to receiving me; nor, were I inclined to do so, would my father and mother consent; nor, finally, could I take any course against their will. To-morrow my father will come for me to go home and spend Sunday. I shall take leave of you and then depart, not to return.”

She ceased to speak, and was about to go away when the words of the commodore arrested her steps.

“Now I have hurt you, my child. I did not mean to do so. I beg your pardon, Em. Ah! it was very cruel to wound you.”

“No—yes—no,” said the girl in some distress. Then raising her eyes to his, and seeing the pale, old, anxious face, her heart melted towards him. She lifted his withered hand and pressed it to her lips, turned and left the room.

“She has the spring of a fine spirit under all her downy softness. I don’t wonder at poor Ronald. Upon my sacred word and honor I don’t! What a pity!” sighed the old commodore to himself.

Meanwhile Em. fled to her attic chamber. And not until she had locked herself in did she give way to the storm of emotion that overwhelmed her.

She threw herself, weeping, on the bed and wept long and bitterly.

The summer gust of tears refreshed her, as a thunder gust refreshes nature. With a healthful reaction she felt better after it had passed.

She arose and rearranged her disordered dress, and went downstairs to Mrs. Bruce’s room and resumed her needlework and sewed diligently until luncheon time.

There were two vigilant eavesdroppers in that house, and all the walls had ears. So it had already become known in the family that Em. was going away the next day, not to return, and so throughout the hour of lunch they all, with two exceptions, treated her with distinguished kindness. The exceptions were Commodore Bruce, who always had used her well, and now made no change, and Ronald Bruce, who spoke to no one if he could help it, but sat and sulked through the whole meal.

After lunch Em. hurried up to Mrs. Bruce’s room and took her work, being desirous of doing her whole duty by her employer.

And for the short remainder of her stay the girl worked very diligently, confining herself all day long to Mrs. Bruce’s room, and even taking her work to the attic and stitching half the night.

She never saw Ronald Bruce except at meal times, and then never spoke with him beyond the conventional greeting.

Before Saturday evening at six o’clock she had completed her last piece of work and handed it over to Mrs. Bruce.

Then she packed her trunk and her handbag, dressed herself for her journey home, and sat down before the portrait of Lonny Bruce to gaze at it and enjoy it while waiting for the arrival of her father.

At a few minutes after six o’clock Liza entered the attic chamber and said:

“If you please, Miss Em., your father has come for you. And my missus sent you dis, and ax you will you send her a deceit for it. And Mose is outside de door, waitin’ to carry down your trunk to de wagon.”

“Very well, Liza, tell Mose to come in,” said Em.

Then, while the man was carrying down her trunk, she opened the blank envelope that had been handed to her by Liza and found in it three dollars—her week’s wages.

Now Em. could never have told why, at the sight of that money, the blood rushed to her head and flooded all her face and neck with fiery flushes. But certainly she quickly replaced the notes in the envelope, dampened the gummed edges with her lips and sealed it, and then took a pencil from her pocket, turned the envelope face up on the mantel-shelf, and standing there, directed it to Mrs. Bruce.

“Here, Liza, take this to your mistress,” she said, handing it to the girl.

“Is this the deceit?” inquired Liza.

“It is the best sort of receipt,” replied Em.

Then she gave Liza a belt and buckle for a keepsake and sent by her a woolen neck-scarf to Mose.

“Now I’ll go down,” she said to herself, and take leave of the dear old man, for somehow I love him, though he breaks my heart.

She ran nimbly down the stairs and into the study, but, instead of the commodore, there sat Ronald Bruce in the big leathern chair.

“Oh, Ronald! I expected to find your uncle to bid him good-by!” exclaimed Em., glad but frightened at this unexpected meeting with her lover at the last moment.

“Oh, Em.! Do you grudge me these few minutes? My uncle went out to speak to your father to try to prevail on him to come in. I knew you would come here to take leave of him, and so I just slipped in to receive you. Ah, Em., are you indeed going for good?”

“Yes, Ronald, in every sense of the word, I am going for good. It is not good for either of us that I should remain here. Good-by, Ronald! I know my father is waiting for me.”

“Good-afternoon, but not good-by! I will see you to-morrow, Em., and see your father also! What! not one parting kiss?” he complained, as she firmly repulsed his offered salute. “Then I will see you to your carriage, ‘whether or no,’” he added with a rueful smile, as he followed her out of the house.

CHAPTER XV

HOME AGAIN

Now soon your home will greet you

And ready kindness meet you,

And love that will not flee.

PERCIVAL.

They found John Palmer standing at the head of a powerful white mare, before a large, old-fashioned gig.

Em. had not seen her father for a week, and during that separation from him she had, for some incomprehensible reason, thought of him only from first impressions—as she had known him in Laundry Lane—gaunt, sallow, dark, stooping. She was now, for the first time, struck with the change that had come over him since he had lived the more wholesome life of the mountaineer, as he stood there, erect, tall, strong, handsome, and, in spite of his hair turning “sable silvered,” younger looking than she had ever known him.

He stood, listening to the discourse of Commodore Bruce, hat in hand, in deference to age, not rank.

A thrill of fear shook the girl’s nerves as she saw them. What were they discussing so earnestly? Ronald and herself? Oh, why would old folks interfere so much with poor, young lovers? It was like picking the hearts out of flowers, she thought to herself, as she shrank for a moment before approaching them.

But no! what a relief! They were not talking of Ronald or herself. They were talking of crops, stocks, finances—or at least Commodore Bruce was talking and John was listening.

As Em. came up the commodore ceased to speak, and John turned toward her, saying:

“Well, my dear, are you all ready? I am glad to get you back again, lass, I tell you. I never knew how lonesome a house full of people could be, Em., until you were gone. But ‘sich is life,’” he added, as he kissed her and gave his hand to lift her into the gig.

“And, oh, I am glad to see you again, father, dear, good father! There is Lieutenant Bruce,” she whispered, as he settled her comfortably in her seat.

“Ah, how do you do, Lieutenant? Happy to see you, sir. Very happy! You have been away since I saw you last?” heartily exclaimed John, as he seized and shook the young man’s hand, adding: “Sorry I cannot stop to have a good talk with you now; but it is getting late. It will be dark before we get home, and the roads are dreadful.”

“Yes, yes!” exclaimed the old commodore, who did not approve of this friendliness under all the circumstances. “Yes, the roads are very dangerous to be traveled after dark. Don’t stand talking to Mr. Palmer and keeping him here all night, Ronald.”

Ronald had not said a word up to this moment. John had done all the talking. Now, however, the young man warmly shook the hand of the overseer, saying:

“I will not detain you now, much as I should like to do so, but I will drop in on you very soon.”

“Do, do, do, now; and the sooner you do the better! You’ll always find a plate at the table and a bed in the house heartily at your service,” earnestly exclaimed the unsuspicious John, as he stepped into the gig, seated himself beside his daughter and took the reins in his hands.

“Good-by, Commodore Bruce,” said Em., bending from her seat and holding out her hand. “Please make my excuses and adieux to the ladies. I did not see any of them as I came out. They were all in their rooms.”

“Dressing for dinner—a fearfully long task for them, my dear. I will give them your message, though they don’t deserve it. Good-by, and God bless you, my dear,” said the old man, pressing a kiss upon her bent forehead and withdrawing.

“Good-by, Lieutenant,” said Em. in a lower and less assured tone, as she doubtfully held out her hand.

“Good-night; but not good-by. I shall see you very, very soon. To-morrow afternoon,” he added in a lower tone, as he raised her hand and pressed it to his lips and in his turn withdrew.

“They seem main fond of you at that house, Em.,” said John Palmer, as they drove through the end gate and took the roundabout road leading down the mountainside. “But, Lord! who wouldn’t be fond of her,” he mentally added in a meditative mood.

“They were very kind to me, father,” answered the girl, who found it a hard task to speak steadily and without tears.

“Why, yes; the old man and the young one took leave of you as lovingly as if you’d a-been the sister of one and the daughter o’ t’other.”

“Are they all well at home, father?” inquired Em.

“Every one as well as con be,” heartily responded John. “And now, little daughter, I know how hard it is for a girl to hold her tongue under any circumstances, especially when she has been away a week from home; but just try to keep quiet, my dear, until we get to the foot of this mountain, for it will take all my attention to look after Queen Bess,” said John, as he tightened the reins of the mare to hold her up in going down hill.

“Very well, father; but remember, I am loving you all the time, although I am not telling you so,” said Em., with an attempt at a smile, which, even if she had succeeded, could not have been seen by him for whom it was intended, for the short though brilliant twilight of the autumn had faded away, and it was growing dark in the wooded mountain road.

They drove on slowly and in silence, winding down the mountainside.

An hour’s careful driving brought them down to the foot of the precipice and to the banks of the river.

Then John paused for a few moments to rest his horse.

“The old commodore was main fond of you, Em.”

“Yes, father, and I of him, too.”

“Indeed! Were you now? That’s odd! He said he wanted you to stay with him as his reader and writer after you had got through with Mrs. Bruce’s sewing, but you declined.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I am glad of it! Why, Em., what on earth should an edicated old gentleman like him, with a good pair of spectacles, want of a reader and writer, especially a young girl like you? It is all in my eye, Em.! The old man wanted to marry you! A thing as your mother and I never would have consented to, no, not if he had been as rich as Creases!”

“Oh, oh, oh, father!” cried Em. in a perfect ecstacy of horror. “It was nothing like that! Nothing, nothing like that! He never would have dreamed of such a dreadful thing! Oh, no, no, no! Oh, father, how could you dream of such—oh, father!”

“I don’t know, Em. These aged old gentlemen, when they are widowers, are perfect wampires after young wives, and think they can buy a pretty one for money, just as easy as a heathen could go buy a girl in one o’ them slave markets in London or Paris, or some o’ them Pagan nations where they sell young women for wives. Wish one on ’em would come after you, Em.! I would send him home with a wasp in his ear that would make him dance livelier ’n he did in his boyhood’s days! Would be almost as good for him as a young wife! Are you cold, child? Wrap your shawl closer around you; you are shivering.”

“No, father, dear, but this talk is horrible,” said the girl, shuddering.

“Glad to hear it! It was so intended! And now I hope you won’t think any more of marrying a rich old dotard and being made a lady of that way! said John sturdily.

“Oh, father, I never did think of it; nor no one else that I know of except you!”

“Glad to hear that, too! Hope you never will! No, Em., no rich old husbands for you! I want you to have a happy life, my girl. By and by, when the proper time shall come, I hope you will wed some good and good-looking young fellow of your own rank, with whom you will be as happy as your mother and I have been all our lives. Yes, the Lord knows, and I thank him,” said John, reverently raising his hat, “that we have been very happy in spite of poverty, sickness, death and the common ills that come to us all. For what is this life but a climbing-place to the higher? And what are these troubles but the stones that must sometimes bruise our feet, and the thorns that may pierce our flesh? When a faithful, loving pair travel this upward road together, Em., they do not mind these troubles by the way. So I hope, my girl, that some day you may be the wife of some honest young fellow of your own class, and not the toy and slave of a rich old husband. But there, I won’t preach any longer. Queen Bess is tossing her head and shaking her ears in impatient scorn of my discourse. She wants to get home to her stall and her oats,” said John, laughing, as he started the white mare.

“And she is no better tempered than her namesake,” said Em., as they went along.

The rest of the road home was short and easy, leading along the banks of the river, with the woods on one side and the water on the other, and then by a short angle leading through the thicket up to the park gate, which was wide open to receive them, with old ’Sias on the watch to welcome them.

Little old ’Sias grinned literally “from ear to ear” as he bowed and continued to bow while the gig rolled through the gate.

“I am so glad to see you again, Uncle ’Sias! Come up to the house and talk with us this evening,” said Em.

“So I will, miss! ’Deed I feel as you’d been gone a year, more or less!” returned the old man.

But they were soon out of hearing, for Queen Bess, finding herself so near home, mended her pace, nor thought of slacking it until drawn up in front of the old red wing.

It was soon quite dark, but a cheerful firelight gleamed through the open doors and unshaded windows of the house.

All the family came forth to meet Em. with joyful welcomes, as though she had been absent on a six years’ tour in a foreign country instead of a six days’ sojourn in the immediate neighborhood.

Mother, sisters and brothers took her in their arms in turn and warmly embraced and kissed her, while the little Italian girl danced frantically around, among them all, waiting for a chance to get at her “Caressima,” as she continually called Em.

“Now, Tom, run and put up the horse and gig. You can do the rest of your welcoming after you come back,” said John.

The youth ran off to obey his father, and the family party entered the house and passed on into the sitting-room, where a fire of pine logs and cones was blazing up the chimney, lighting up the whole house.

Here Ann Whitlock and Aunt Monica were both engaged in putting finishing touches on the neatly-set tea-table, where extra dainties had been placed in honor of the daughter’s return.

But both the old women left off work and ran to welcome their favorite.

“No, let Em. go upstairs and take off her things—do!” said Molly, carrying her sister off in triumph.

“See now what a nice fire Ned kindled for you, Em. Isn’t it just splendid to have such a grand plenty of wood that we can make a roaring fire to warm a great room like this?” said Nelly, who had followed her sister to the attic.

“I brought all the cones to kindle with, myself,” added little Vennie, who came creeping up behind all the rest.

Em. turned and kissed the little creature, and then unpacked her trunk, which her father and Ned had already brought up to her room.

Assisted by busy and affectionate little helpers, Em. soon got through her task, and leaving her chamber in perfect order, and followed by a bevy of little sisters, she hurried downstairs to the sitting-room, where all the rest of the family were waiting for her.

As soon as she entered tea was placed on the table, and they all sat down to it.

The father of the family asked a blessing, and then they all fell to with good appetites and fine spirits.

Ah, how different was the atmosphere of this lowly, loving, merry party to that proud, cold, gloomy circle she had left behind! Coming from one to the other was like passing from purgatory into Paradise. It was almost worth parting with Ronald to experience such a change.

Almost! not quite, as the aching from the depths of her heart seemed to assure her.

She had loved Ronald Bruce from the first hour she had met him—when he had saved her life by laying her brutal assailant stunned at her feet. She had loved him involuntarily, secretly, silently—never dreaming that her love was but the response of his own unspoken passion.

Now she knew he loved her, and had loved her from their first meeting. Ronald Bruce, who had traveled all over the world, and had mixed with the best society in many countries, and who from his position and prospects might have chosen his wife from almost any class—had overlooked all others to choose her, Em., above all other women—to choose her, who had neither wealth, position or accomplishments—nothing but herself. And if she had loved him at first she adored him now! Oh, how she longed for all the advantages that might make her as acceptable to Ronald’s family, as, without any of them, she was to him!

Even seated in the sweet circle of this pure, unselfish family affection these thoughts troubled her peace.

No wonder then that in the solitude of her own attic chamber, when she had retired to rest that night, that they should destroy her repose.

Em. lay wide awake all night thinking, dreaming.

Now tempting thoughts came to the troubled, wakeful dreamer, “in the waste and middle of the night.”

Em. remembered Ronald’s last words whispered in her ear just as he left her seated in the gig by her father’s side.

To-morrow afternoon, he had said.

To-morrow afternoon, then, Ronald would be sure to make his appearance. He would be sure to ask her father for her, as he had declared he would.

Her father liked Ronald very much, she knew; but he would never listen to his suit for her hand unless that suit came authorized by Ronald’s uncle. And so it would never come. And so her father would refuse her to Ronald, and would probably request him to refrain from visiting the house.

Then Ronald would be sure to seek an interview with her, and he would press her to end all their trouble by marrying him at once.

Now why—the tempter asked her—should she not take him at his word? These old people—the evil-one whispered—whose pride and stubbornness were separating Ronald and herself, were interfering with their loves beyond all reason and justice. They had no right to make two young people wretched all their lives. They could not do so, if Ronald should have his own way. And nothing obstructed that but Em.’s own scruples. Ronald’s and her happiness now depended upon herself alone. Why should she not make sure of it by accepting him as her husband? A few hours’ travel would take them into Maryland, where they could be legally married, although she was not of age. Then they would instantly return to the manor-house and ask forgiveness.

Her gentle father, her tender mother, would be sure to forgive them on the asking. Then they would be happy.

Yes; but that father and mother! Should she wound those gentle and tender hearts by an act of disobedience that would be nothing less than a cruel insult to them, receive it however charitably they might?

And then her promise to Commodore Bruce, whom she loved, though he did almost break her heart!

Em. could come to no decision on her future course of action.

Act as she might, she could not escape suffering in herself and causing suffering to others.

Thus thinking and dreaming, she lay wide awake all night, and was glad when she saw the dawn of morning through the uncurtained eastern windows of her room.

She arose and mended her fire, replenishing it from the box of fuel in the corner. Then she bathed and dressed, offered up her morning prayers and went downstairs.

It was now sunrise, and the sunshine was filling the sitting-room, where all the family were assembled for morning worship.

They greeted Em. affectionately and then seated her among them.

The father opened the family Bible and read a chapter and then reverently closed it and led their devotions.

After this breakfast was placed upon the table.

It was while handing her daughter a cup of coffee that Susan Palmer looked in Em.’s face and exclaimed:

“I do declare, child, that your week’s stay at the old commodore’s hasn’t improved you much! I didn’t notice it last night by candle-light, but now I see you by daylight, you are as pale as a ghost.”

“Yes, that she is,” chimed in several of the others.

“It is sitting so much over her needle! She sha’n’t do it again, that is certain,” said John positively.

“No, she sha’n’t, and I am glad this is Sunday, so she may have a complete rest,” added Susan.

The nearest church was thirty miles off; so John Palmer’s family could only attend it once a month, on communion days, when they had to take a Saturday afternoon’s journey and stay over until Monday morning.

But whether they were privileged to go to church, or compelled to stay at home, the Sabbath was always conscientiously observed by them.

After breakfast, when order was restored, John Palmer assembled his family and read the morning service, every member of the household taking part in it.

They had always a nice, appetizing Sunday dinner, though no cooking was ever done beyond boiling water to make tea or coffee and warming over the soup and meat that had been prepared the day before.

After dinner each individual pleased himself or herself by reading, walking, talking or sleeping.

This particular Sunday afternoon, however, all the family were assembled around the fire in the sitting-room, questioning Em. concerning her week’s sojourn on the mountain, and she was telling them all she could communicate without unveiling the mystery of her own heart.

While they were all thus engaged the old gatekeeper, ’Sias, put his head in at the door and said:

“Young Marse Lieutenant Ronald Bruce have come to see you, sar, and would like to pay his dispects, if conwenient.”

“Mr. Bruce! Well, I declare!” exclaimed Susan Palmer in surprise.

“Humph! I thought as much!” said Ann Whitlock significantly.

“Am I to denounce de young ge’man into de house?” inquired old ’Sias.

“Yes, certainly,” cordially responded John Palmer, while Em.’s heart bounded with delight.

CHAPTER XVI

PROPOSALS

Heaven, forming each on other to depend,

As master, or as servant, or as friend,

Bids each on other for assistance call,

Till one man’s weakness makes the strength of all.

Wants, frailties, passions closer still ally

The common interest, or endear the tie.

To those we owe true friendship, love sincere,

Each home-felt joy that life inherits here.

POPE.

Ronald Bruce came in smiling. All the family arose to receive him.

“Don’t let me disturb you, pray. How do you do, Mr. Palmer! And you, madam!” said the young man, shaking hands with John, bowing to Susan, and then pressing the hand of Em. before he finally subsided into the chair set for him by Tom.

“Hope you left the commodore and all the family well, sir?” hospitably inquired John.

“Quite well, thank you, Mr. Palmer. And I have no doubt, if they had known I was coming here, they would have sent kindest remembrances to you and your daughter,” replied Ronald Bruce.

“Oh! They didn’t know you were coming, then?”

“No. They were all taking their Sunday afternoon naps in their chambers when I left home.”

“Ah! Well, I am very glad to see you, Lieutenant, I am sure! Always take such pleasure in your sea stories! It’s almost like going to sea myself to hear you! And—well, I was thinking only to-day that the first time I should see you I would ask you how you spend Sundays on board ship. How do you, anyhow?”

“Well,” laughed the young man, “as variously as you do on land. It depends on the character of the captain of the ship at sea, as it does on the master of the house ashore. Of course, much of the routine of ship duty must go on, just as some housework must be done. If the captain of the ship is a religious man we have divine service in the forenoon. In the afternoon every one spends his leisure as he pleases. I remember one Sunday afternoon——”

And here, to please his desired father-in-law, Ronald Bruce launched into a sea story that soon absorbed all the attention of the family party.

Even old ’Sias and Aunt Monica stepped in and sat down in an obscure corner to listen. And not until it was finished could Mrs. Whitlock make up her mind to steal away and prepare an extra supper for the guest.

Then old Monica and Uncle ’Sias followed to lend their aid.

“I never see such idiwuts as John Palmer and Susan is! Do they think as that young hossifer comes here for the pleasure of seeing them, I wonder? Why don’t they all make some excuse and leave the young folks together and give ’em a chance!” burst forth Mrs. Whitlock as soon as she found herself in the kitchen.

“If he comes here after Miss Em., dey is right not to give him a chance to court her, ’cause no good can’t come out’n that; he being of a rich young gentleman, an’ she——”

“A lady, every inch of her,” broke in Mrs. Whitlock, cutting Aunt Monica’s speech short.

“And so she may be in her ways an’ manners, an’ I don’t deny so she is. But, la! dat ain’t what his people would look at. Ole Marse Commodore Bruce is particular. Why, chillun, I used to know dat ole man good, an’ hear him talk, when he came to our old Marse Captain Wyndeworth’s oyster suppers. Bless patience, honeys, blood was his first ’sideration an’ money was his second, an’ dat was all he would look at. An’ ’less our young gal had blood an’ money, he’d never ’sent to ’ceiving her inter de Bruce famberly.”

“I’d risk it,” said Ann Whitlock, as she addressed herself to the task of preparing a dainty supper for the guest to tempt him to repeat his visits, if other inducements besides Em. should be necessary.

Meanwhile, in the parlor, John Palmer engaged the visitor’s attention exclusively, keeping him so busy in telling sea stories that the young man was in peril of having to draw upon his imagination, as well as upon his memory.

Ronald got no opportunity of speaking a single word in confidence to Em.

Even when supper was announced and he drew the girl’s arm within his own to take her to the table, the family massed so closely that he could not even get a chance to breathe a syllable in her ear on the way to the dining-room.

While the family were at supper Ann Whitlock busily prepared the spare room upstairs for the accommodation of their guest, saying to herself as she laid hickory logs across the andirons to build a cheerful fire:

“I will make everything as pleasant as possible for him, anyhow, so as to ’tice him to come often. And I’ll ’courage ’em to get married, too, no matter what nobody says. Once they’re safe married nobody can’t unmarry ’em. That’s so!”

After supper, when the family were regathered around the parlor fire, the sea stories were resumed, and never had a story-teller a more attentive and appreciative audience than had Ronald Bruce in John Palmer and his household.

When the usual bedtime came, however, Susan Palmer began to grow restless, and as soon as Mr. Bruce came to the end of the tale he was then telling she got up and lighted a candle and put it in the hand of her husband, saying:

“I reckon, John, as Mr. Bruce is about tired, and you’d better show him to his room.”

“Now I do reckon he can find it for himself!” said John, laughing, as he passed the candle over to Ronald, and added: “It’s the same room you occupied before, sir, and you know the way to it.”

“Certainly,” replied the young man smilingly; and then more gravely he added: “I came here, Mr. Palmer, especially to seek a private interview with you on a matter of very great importance to me, at least. Can you give me a few moments alone before I leave here to-morrow morning?”

“Why, of course I can,” said John, staring with surprise and curiosity.

Mr. Bruce then bowed good-night to the circle, raised the hand of Em. to his lips and left the room.

“Now I wonder what in the name o’ sense he’s got to say to you, John? Do you know?” eagerly inquired Susan Palmer as soon as their visitor had disappeared.

“Oh, something about crops, or stocks, or something! You know his uncle wants him to give up the sea and attend to agriculture, and he knows no more o’ that than I do of navigation,” said John.

“Yes, I s’pose that’s it,” concluded Susan.

“I never did see two such old goneys in my life!” muttered Ann Whitlock to herself. “Between them both, they’ll ruin that gal’s fortin, I know they will!”

But nothing more was said, as the family were even then separating to retire.

As Em. went up to bid her father good-night she whispered these enigmatical words into his ear:

“Oh, father, please, please don’t deny him!” And she was gone before the startled and perplexed John could gather his scattered senses and ask what she meant.

Early the next morning Ronald Bruce arose, dressed in haste and hurried downstairs to seek the promised interview with his host.

He found John in the parlor waiting for him.

“Good-morning, Mr. Bruce! Fine, bright morning, sir, though we had heavy frost last night. Hope you slept well, sir,” said Palmer.

“Thanks, yes, very well,” replied the young man, telling an involuntary fib, for he had not slept a wink and had not meant to say so.

“I’ll just turn the key of this door, and we’ll be safe from interruption,” said John, suiting the action to the word.

Then placing a chair for his guest and taking another for himself, he sat down and said:

“Now I am ready to hear all that you have got to say, Lieutenant; but I warn you that I don’t know much more about crops and stocks than you do yourself.”

“‘Crops and stocks!’” echoed the young man in surprise.

“Yes! Wasn’t that what you wished to consult me upon?”

“Bless me, no!”

“What was it, then?” inquired Palmer in surprise.

Young Bruce hesitated in some confusion. The fact that the father-in-law-elect seemed so utterly unprepared to hear the honor that was intended him, had the natural effect of making the proposal doubly embarrassing to the suitor.

He paused for a few moments longer and then broke the ice suddenly by saying:

“Mr. Palmer, I love your daughter Emolyn, and I have reason to know that she likes me. I came here to pray you to make us both happy by consenting to our marriage.”

If I were to tell you that John’s hair stood on end, I should not much exaggerate. His eyes fairly started from his head as he stared at the speaker, and faltered forth:

“Now look a here, young gentleman, look a here! Quiet yourself like and think a bit. You can’t know what you’re a-talking about!”

“Yes, I do!” impatiently replied the young man, giving his dark head an irritable shake.

“Well, then, maybe I didn’t understand you right,” said John helplessly.

“Then I will repeat what I said. I asked you if you would do me the honor of giving me your daughter for a wife,” repeated Ronald.

“Dear me! Dear me! What a pity! I never thought of such a thing! I am very sorry,” muttered John in a meditative way.

Ronald Bruce sat watching and waiting until he lost the last remnant of patience and broke forth with:

“Mr. Palmer, do you understand my question now?”

“Yes—yes! Don’t get excited! I know what you said! And I know, too, what my girl meant when she asked me last night not to deny you! Lord help me! I feel awful cut up about it!” sighed John, running his fingers through his shock of “pepper and salt” hair.

The young officer looked somewhat fallen in his selfesteem as he gazed upon the overseer, who evidently did not feel the honor conferred upon him as he should have done, and he inquired somewhat sulkily:

“Why should you feel ‘cut up,’ as you call it, by my proposal?”

“Oh, because it is like you have been making love to my child, and maybe getting her to be fond of you!” replied John with a profound sigh that seemed to come from the depth of his heart.

“Well, that is just exactly what I have been doing—in the hope of winning her for my wife, with your consent. I come now to ask that consent; I only wait for that!” said Ronald earnestly. “And I don’t see why you should take the matter so very deeply to heart,” he added rather sullenly.

John groaned and sighed, but answered nothing.

“May I hope for your consent to my proposal, Mr. Palmer?” at length inquired the suitor.

“No, Mr. Bruce! It can’t be, and it oughtn’t to be! I am hurt to the very bottom of my heart to have to say it, but I must say it. No, Mr. Bruce, you can’t have Em. for your wife!” said John Palmer firmly.

The young man turned pale with astonishment, mortification and anger.

“May I ask you why you reject me? Have you any objection to me personally?” he hotly demanded, as he arose and stood before John.

“To you personally as you stand there, sir, I could have no possible objection. You are a very well made young man, sound in wind and limb, of steady habits and good temper, though a little spirited. No, to you personally I would have no objection. And if you were only a young journeyman mechanic, or a young workman, I do not know any man in the world to whom I would sooner give my girl as a wife, or whom I would sooner welcome as a son-in-law; because I like you, Lieutenant Bruce! And if it would not sound queer from a man’s lips, I might almost say, I love you! That is what makes it so awfully cutting to have to refuse you! Oh, I wish you were a workman!”

“So do I, since you seem to consider it an indispensable condition; but if you approve of me as I am, why not accept me as I am?” inquired the young man, now half inclined to laugh and half to weep.

John shook his gray-black head in sorrowful silence.

“I can’t help being an officer in the navy; but I can help continuing to be so, and I will resign my commission and take up farming if you will give me Em.! I’ll do it at once, next week, to-day!”

“Yes, and repent week after week, or even to-morrow! No, it will not do, Mr. Bruce! You are a gentleman born and not fit for Em. You can’t unmake yourself and make yourself over again, and therefore you can never be fit for Em. You must give up all thoughts of her at once and forever! I say it, and by all my soul’s hopes I mean it, young sir.”

“But, good Heaven! I can not and will not give her up! To do so would be the ruin of our lives’ happiness!” exclaimed Ronald.

“Nonsense, young gentleman. To marry would be the ruin of your lives! Listen to me, sir. You and Em. are both too young to know yourselves, or to know life. Of course, you think now that if you could marry you would be perfectly happy. And so you might be for a few short weeks, while the novelty lasted. But you are a gentleman—she a poor man’s child. You have been differently brought up; these differences would crop out in course of time. You might repent of your marriage, think you could have done so much better if you could have married a lady of your own class, and so on——”

“Believe me, sir——” began the suitor.

“Stop! hear me out,” said the father. “You might even come to despise my child, and to make her feel that she was despised. That would break her heart, and then—why, I might break your head!”

Ronald Bruce sprang to his feet and began to stride up and down the room in a sort of frenzy.

“What in the deuce do you take me for, Mr. Palmer,” he indignantly exclaimed, “that you should think me capable of such baseness! Or what do you take your daughter for, that you should deem it even possible that any man should ever ‘despise’ her! If you were not her father, I would not stand quietly to hear her maiden dignity so affronted!”

“You’re not standing so very quietly just at the present speaking, young gentleman, unless tearing up and down the room like a madman means your idea of standing quietly! Come, Mr. Bruce! Come, Mr. Bruce! You have no better friend on earth than I am. And the very friendliest thing I could do for you would be to put my foot down on the notion of you marrying my daughter. And what’s more, no girl ever had a lovinger father than Em. has in me, and the kindest thing I can do for her is to prevent her from becoming your wife.”

“I swear by all my hopes of salvation that I will make Emolyn Palmer my wife in the face of all the world and in defiance of all opposition!” exclaimed the young man, so transported with fury that he lost all self-command and sense of propriety.

“Now I wonder why I don’t lift him by the scruff of his neck and the slack of his pants and pitch him out of the window?” thought John Palmer to himself. “Why? Because, with all his impudence, he loves my Em., poor fellow, almost as hard as I did her mother, and I am sorry for him. So I’ll be gentle with him.”

“You have no right,” broke forth the young man once more, as he strode up and down the floor—“you have no right—no one has any right to separate two young people who love each other as I and Emolyn do! No right to ruin both our lives for the sake of gratifying your own particular whims of pride or prudence! I told my uncle and my mother so yesterday, and I tell you so to-day.”

“Whe-ew!” exclaimed John. “So you mean to marry my daughter whether I will or not?”

“I will marry my Emolyn in defiance of all insane opposition!”

“Very well. We’ll see. Please sit down here. I am going to send for Emolyn,” said John Palmer.

Ronald Bruce threw himself into the chair and waited.

John Palmer went to the window, tapped upon it and called one of the boys who was chopping wood in the yard and who immediately approached.

“Ned, tell your sister Em. to come in here. I want to speak to her,” said the father.

The boy ran off to do his errand.

John Palmer unlocked the door and set it open.

In a few moments Em. entered the room.

She looked very much flushed and embarrassed, and her color came and went as she glanced from her lover to her father. She seemed to feel that her fate was being weighed in the balance of the moment, and that a second might decide it for weal or woe.

“Good-morning, father. Good-morning, Mr. Bruce,” she faltered in low tones, compelling herself to this act of politeness, although her very heart seemed fainting within her for fear.

Ronald Bruce bowed low to her salutation, while John Palmer held out his hand and said:

“Come here, my girl, I have something to say to you.”

Em. went to him.

He encircled her with one arm and drew her close to his side while he said:

“Em., my child, this good young gentleman here has done us the honor to ask me for you as his wife—as most likely you know.”

Em. gave a quick, short nod and caught her breath.

“You did know, of course. Well, my daughter, there is no young man in the world that I like better than him—just as there is no young woman in the world that I love better than you. So, having the lasting happiness of both in view, I must decline this marriage for you, my Em.”

“Oh, father!” she breathed almost under her breath.

“His friends would never consent to receive my child as a relative, Em. I would never consent for you to enter any family who would not be as proud to receive you as I should be to give you. Besides this, unequal marriages never end well. Where a gentleman marries a poor girl, however much he may seem to have loved her at first, he grows tired of her, perhaps ashamed of her, and ceases to love her, maybe begins to hate her——”

“Oh, father! father!” moaned the girl in a low tone of anguish.

“Mr. Palmer, you must not say these things to your daughter! They are cruel, unmanly, and what is more, untrue, as far as I am concerned,” hotly interposed Ronald Bruce.

“They are hard and bitter words, I know, young people,” said John Palmer, keeping his temper. “But bitters are tonics to cure weakness. Now, my Em., to you I speak. You are my child. This young gentleman here declares that he will marry you in defiance of his relations and yours, and all the world and the rest of mankind, as the late General Taylor used to say. The question, then, is this, my child: whether you will marry him without my consent and against my wishes? Answer, Em.!”

“Emolyn, pause! Do not commit yourself hastily by a promise that will drive me mad and make yourself miserable!” impetuously exclaimed the lover. “Take time to consider, Emolyn! Tell your father that you must have time!” he earnestly pleaded.

Em. raised her head. Her face was pale, and her eyes were full of tears; but she answered firmly:

“Ronald, you know my heart; I must not take time to consider whether I shall obey my dear father or not. I must not marry without his consent—I will not, dear father! Ronald, listen and be sure of this—if it should ever be right that we should marry, my dear father will consent; for he has nothing except our welfare in view. But do not mistake me, be sure of this also, that I will never marry without his consent,” Em. added, and covered her face with her hands to conceal the tears that were ready to stream from her eyes.

“There, young gentleman, you have your answer from her as well as from me. She will not marry without my consent. If it should ever happen to be proper for you to marry I will give my consent. As that is not at all likely to occur, why, you had better not hope for it. And let me repeat, in this I have nothing but your happiness and hers at heart,” said John in earnest kindliness.

Ronald Bruce stamped viciously, exclaiming:

“If there is anything in the world I detest, it is to suffer a grievous wrong and to be told that it is intended as a benefit.”

“Yes, I know,” said John. “Children always rebel ag’in the physic that is to cure ’em, or the whipping that is to reform ’em, although we always tell ’em it’s for their good. But ‘sich is life.’”

CHAPTER XVII

THE RESCUE

She took the fruits of my advice;—

And he, repulsed—a short tale to make—

Fell into a sadness, thence into a fast,

Thence to a watch, thence into a weakness.

SHAKESPEARE.

“Mammy says, how if you don’t come in to breakfast it will all be sp’ilt,” were the prosaic words that cut short this trying interview, as little Molly put her smoothly-brushed black head into the door.

“Run and tell mammy we will be there immediately,” said John.

The little lass sped away on her errand.

“Come, sir! Come!” exclaimed John cheerfully. “Our boys were out among the partridges on Saturday afternoon and bagged a rare lot of fat ones. The mother has dressed them for breakfast, and we mustn’t let them spoil by waiting! Come, Em., little woman, cheer up! Nobody’s dead and nobody’s dying!”

Now it was the first impulse of Ronald Bruce to decline John Palmer’s further entertainment, and to hurry away without waiting for breakfast, but a glance from Em.’s imploring eyes restrained him, and he sulkily followed John and herself to the dining-room, where Susan, with the brightest smiles, bade him good-morning.

As they seated themselves at the table Em. purposely took a chair with her back to the window so that her troubled face might be thrown into shadow and escape the notice of her mother.

But if Susan Palmer failed to observe the tearful eyes of her daughter, she did not neglect to watch her guest and to see how he slighted her delicious broiled partridges and cream rolls.

“I am afraid you are not as hearty as usual this morning, Mr. Bruce!” she said at length.

“Oh, quite so, thanks! But this is rather earlier than I am accustomed to take breakfast,” said the young man ingeniously.

Susan had the good sense to seem satisfied with the explanation; but she remembered all the while that the early breakfast hour had not prevented Mr. Bruce from making a valiant onslaught upon the edibles on the occasion of his last visit.

As soon as breakfast was over Ronald prepared to take leave of the family.

His horse was brought around to the door by ’Sias.

“Now I hope you will come to see us just as often as you can conveniently, Mr. Bruce! Why, a visit from you, with your sea stories, is as good as a voyage round the world to John and the boys, penned up as they are in this here wally with a wall of mountains round them! Come often, sir! And la! why, if breakfast at seven o’clock in the morning is too airly for you, we might have it at eight or nine, or any time,” said Susan Palmer cordially, as Ronald Bruce took leave of her.

“Thanks, very much; I shall remember your kindness,” returned the young man, without committing himself by a promise.

He took a light and cheerful leave of the younger members of the family, and then went to the window where Em. stood looking out.

She turned as he joined her.

He took her hand and said:

“I do not know when I shall be permitted to see you again, my dear and only love; but be sure of this—I will never give you up, Em.! Never, as I hope for heaven! God bless you, my darling!”

And so saying, he pressed her hand and turned away.

John Palmer went out with him.

“I am sorry, sir, that I cannot join in my wife’s invitation to you. But under the circumstances I think you and Em. had better not see each other again. I am grieved to the soul, I am, about all this. And—see here! I cannot let you go in this way! I’ll tell you what, now, listen! If you will agree not to see, or to speak to, or write to Em., or to hold any sort of communication with her, for the space of one year from to-day, and if at the end of that time you and Em. retain your partiality for one another, and you come to me with the written consent of your lady mother and your gentleman uncle, why, then I will take back all my objections to the match! There, now! I can say no more than that. What do you say?” demanded John in a frank, hearty, almost joyous manner.

The countenance of the young man was not, however, gratefully responsive.

“I ask no concessions of you, Mr. Palmer, because I can make no promises. I must have Em. for my wife if I can, and as soon as I can. Her happiness, as well as my own, depends upon it!” he answered, as he placed his foot in the stirrup and threw himself into the saddle.

“Very well! Then my hope is in Em. She is a dutiful daughter, and she will obey me,” concluded John Palmer, as he waved his departing guest adieu and returned into the house.

He looked around for Em.; but the girl was nowhere to be seen. He inquired for her and was told that she had gone upstairs to make the beds.

“And I would just like to know,” said his wife, who had been his informant, “what they have been doing to Em. up there at the commodore’s to make her look so ill. I take my oath she does not look like the same child. I just think I’ll march myself up to the grand house and ask them what is the meaning of it all!”

“Come here, my good woman. I’ll tell you all about it, and then we must drop the subject forever and a day and try to employ and amuse Em. and make her forget it,” said John, as he beckoned Susan to follow him into the parlor, where they would be more secure from interruption.

There John shut the door, put his wife into the big arm-chair, and taking another for himself, sat down before her and told her the whole story of Ronald Bruce and Emolyn Palmer’s love.

Susan listened in breathless astonishment.

“To think of such a thing! It never once entered my head!” she exclaimed. “And Em. nothing but a child, hardly out of her short frocks and pantalettes! And he, you might say, almost a middle-aged man by comparison! And quite belonging to another world! But, oh, my poor girl!”

“Well, my dear, I considered the best thing to do in such a case was to put my foot right down on it, and that I did. Though if I had thought as he’d a-made her happy in the long run I’d a-given my consent; but I knew he’d soon repent sich an unequal marriage, and that would break my girl’s heart, and so down I put my foot upon the whole thing! And now, Susan, we must never allude to what’s past, but try to comfort and cheer the child up.”

Mrs. Palmer agreed to that, and then they left the parlor and set about their several duties.

As for Em., she went hard to work—her panacea for all mental troubles. They all heard her singing as she shook up beds and swept floors.

But when all the work was done, then came the reaction of artificial excitement—the life weariness, the heavy-heartedness, that she could not shake off.

So many industrious hands about that house left so little to do!

Her hands could now find nothing.

She thought she would walk down to the pier and take the little boat and make a visit to the island. She had not been to Edengarden for some weeks past; and this golden October day tempted her to the excursion.

She went to find Susan and said:

“Mother, I am going out for an hour or two, if you would not mind.”

“No, of course not, child. But where are you going, Em.?”

“To Edengarden, mother. I have not been there for so long a time.”

“Very well, Em.; but, oh, my dear, don’t attempt to row the boat yourself! I know you can do it; but still for this once take old ’Sias with you! Will you?”

“Yes, mother, if you wish me to do so; but you know, dear, there is no danger. I can use an oar as well as I can a broom. And for the rest, you know what the country people about here say—that it requires a great deal of perseverance and presence of mind to drown one’s self in the ‘Placide.’”

“Oh, I know, Em.! But still, for this once, take old ’Sias with you.”

“I will do so, mother,” replied the girl as she turned away.

Em. quickly wrapped herself in her black and white-checkered shawl, and put on her gray felt hat and left the house.

She walked briskly down the leaf-strewn road that led through the thicket to the gate-house.

Here she found old ’Sias sitting on the step before the closed front door, smoking a stumpy clay pipe and basking in the golden sunshine of the autumn morning.

“Oh, Uncle ’Sias, I am so glad to see you at leisure. Will you row me to Edengarden this morning?” she inquired, pausing before the old man.

“Miss Em.! Well, I ’clare to my goodness! De sight ob you down here axing me to go wid you a-rowing is good for to cure blindness!” exclaimed old ’Sias, taking the pipe from his mouth and rising to his feet. “Why, you hasn’t been here—less see—not since las’ Augus’, I do believe. Yes, honey, to be sure I’ll take you a-rowing, and glad to do it, too,” he continued, as he emptied his pipe and put it into his pocket, and walked on beside Em. out of the gate and through the forest road leading to the river.

“You are quite at leisure to go with me, Uncle ’Sias, I hope?” said the girl considerately.

“Oh, la! yes, honey! I hadn’t nuffin ’t all to do, and what’s more, I hadn’t no place to go to. You see dat dere shet-up door, didn’t you, honey?”

“Yes, of course,” said Em., wondering to what that led.

“Well, chile, dat shet-up door was bolted on the inside,” said ’Sias mysteriously.

“Why, how was that?” inquired Em.

“Sereny been performing, honey! Sereny been performing, chile! Thanks be to goodness, Miss Em., dere ain’t much ha’r left on my head for her to twist her fingers in now! Lord, if Miss Abishey performed on King David like Sereny do on me, no wonder he wrote so many sollum sams! She’s been performing, honey, and arter she’d done performing she kicked me out and clapped the door to and bolted it! Dere, dat’s what Sereny did, and I feel as if I could write a sollum sam myself!”

“It is really too bad!” cried Em.

“Now ain’t it, dough, honey? And de most aggravokingest part if it is to think as I’m her lawful lord and marster, as she swore beore de holy altar to lub, honor and obey! But law! what’s de use o’ talking? De wimmen don’t ’member dem wows no longer’n dey get out’n de church! Leastways, I know Sereny didn’t! Purty way she lub me to pull all de ha’r out’n my head! Purty way she honor me to kick me out’n de house and slam de door and bolt it on me. And I her lord and marster! But you see, chile, dough I is her s’preme ruler, she’s de strongest ob de two, and dat’s de way she gets de better ob me! Now, I tell you what, Miss Em., if it should please de Lord to take Sereny, I think as I should be ’signed to His holy will, and I never would get another young wife to keep me warm in my ole age, ’cording to King David nor no other king! So dere, now! ’Cause de way dey hab o’ keepin’ you warm is by pummeling and scalpin’ of you, and I don’t like it! So no young cullered gal needn’t be coming arter me if ebber I’m a widderer ag’n! ’Deed and ’deed needn’t dey!”

They had by this time reached the water’s edge, where the little boat lay moored and rocking.

“Shall I put up de sail, Miss Em.? But dere ain’t a breaf ob breeze, neider!” said ’Sias as he began to unmoor.

“Oh, no! We will row. You take the oars, I the tiller, and we shall skim the water like a bird,” said Em.

“So we will, Miss Em., and won’t that be sociable?” cried old ’Sias gleefully as he threw the chain ashore and took up the oars and placed them in their rests.

Em. nodded, entered the boat, seated herself, took the tiller and steered for the island.

Old ’Sias laid himself sturdily to the oars, and the little boat sped on its way down the river.

“Oh, how glorious this is in autumn!” exclaimed the girl, as, forgetting all her troubles in the moment, she gazed with enthusiastic delight on the magnificent scene before her.

The mighty river, rolling on in calm strength to the sea; the lofty precipices on the left, with their gray rocks dappled with clumps of evergreen trees and parterres of variegated moss, and brightened by springs and fountains of sparkling water dancing down their sides and losing themselves in the river; the undulating, wooded hills on the right, now changing into all the most brilliant colors of the autumn foliage—crimson, orange, purple, golden, scarlet—all blended and contrasted on the shore, and reflected in the shining river; the distant island, midway between the banks, resting on the bosom of the river and looking in the autumn dress of its groves like an immense bouquet of gorgeous exotics.

Em. sat and absorbed the beauty and glory of the scene into her soul, and never spoke again until they had reached the landing at Edengarden.

“Now, Miss Em., my honey, if you don’t mind walking up to de house by yourself, I think I’ll jes’ set here in de boat and smoke my pipe and think o’ King David and Abishey till you come back,” said old ’Sias as he steadied the boat to let his passenger step out.

“Very well, Uncle ’Sias, I will not keep you long.”

“Never mind ’bout de ‘long,’ honey. I could stay here all day, willin’! It’s so quiet like here, and clean out’n de reach o’ Sereny,” replied the old man as he settled himself in his seat and took out his pipe and began to fill it.

Em. walked on through the belt of silver maples that had now turned in their autumn tints so that they formed a golden girdle around the shores of the beautiful island.

Passing through and out of them she walked up the ornate terraces where the clumps of trees in their fall dress of crimson, orange, and purple, looked like gigantic posies, and the parterres of flowers were rich in late roses, dahlias, chrysanthemums, and other autumn blooms.

Up, past arbors, statues, and fountains, to the white, colonnaded piazza that surrounded the white palace.

“This might be the ‘Island of Calm Delights,’ and the fairy palace of the Princess Blandina, for its beauty and its solitude,” said Em. to herself as she went up the marble steps that led to the main entrance.

She had intended to walk around the piazza to the rear of the house to get the key from the solitary housekeeper; but as soon as she stepped upon the porch she saw that the front door was open.

It was not an unusual circumstance—Em. had twice, on former visits, found the door open when other sightseers happened to be present.

Therefore, without the least surprise or hesitation, she entered the beautiful hall and passed directly to the saloon, where that wondrous portrait of the “White Spirit” hung, which had, for her, so powerful a fascination.

To her slight surprise now she saw no one present. The room was vacant. She went and opened one of the windows to throw a better light upon the lovely portrait, and then she turned and stood before it.

How perfectly proportioned was the slender, elegant form! How stately and graceful the attitude! How soft and flowing the drapery! How fair and delicate, how refined and spirituelle the lovely face, seen through the misty tissue of the falling veil, which seemed so real that Em. felt tempted to lift her hand and draw it aside that she might get a clearer view of the beautiful vision.

As she gazed a new light broke upon her.

“Why, this is a bridal dress!” she said to herself. “Strange it never struck me so before, but I suppose it was because I had heard the lady always appeared veiled. But here she must have been painted in her bridal dress, for that is certainly a bridal veil.”

“Yes, she was painted in her bridal dress,” murmured a voice, soft, sweet and low as the notes of an eolian harp.

Em. started and turned around, to be transfixed by a pair of soft, deep, dark-blue eyes, whose gaze held hers spellbound.

The “White Spirit” stood before her.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE LADY OF EDENGARDEN

And scenes long past of joy and pain

Come wildering through her wondering brain.

SCOTT.

Yes! There, holding the girl’s eyes spellbound by her mesmeric gaze, stood the Wonder of the Wilderness, the mysterious being known as the “White Spirit,” yet not in the traditional white robe and veil.

No! The Lady of Edengarden was attired as any other conventional gentlewoman of the period with artistic tastes might have been.

She wore a long flowing soft gray silk dress, with fine white lace about the throat and wrists, and with a knot of light-blue ribbon mixed with lace on her bosom, and another of the same materials among the braids of her sunny golden-brown hair.

But the face, with its delicate patrician features, its fair transparent complexion, and its soft, dreamy, dark-blue eyes, was the very same.

“I—I beg your pardon, madam,” stammered Em. with an effort to recover herself.

“My child!—Who are you?” interrupted the lady, taking her hand and turning her around to face the full light of the window.

“I am the daughter of John Palmer, the overseer at the Wilderness Manor, madam, Emolyn Palmer, and I thought——”

“Em—olyn—Palm—er,” slowly repeated the lady, again interrupting the girl and gazing steadily on her face.

To escape this searching gaze into her soul Em. first lowered her eyes and then raised them.

Between the two front windows near which they stood hung a long pier glass. Em. caught a full view of the lady and herself as they stood together, reflected in the mirror, and started at the marvelous likeness revealed—in all except dress the two seemed almost duplicates. In the two faces there was scarcely even the perceptible difference that age should have made.

“Emolyn Palmer!” slowly repeated the lady. “Yes, yes, to be sure, I know! Emolyn Palmer. Come here, my dear, and sit down.”

And the lady led Em. to a tête-à-tête sofa, placed her in one corner, and took the other herself.

“I wish to beg your pardon, madam. I am very sorry—I did not know you were here—or I should not have presumed to intrude,” faltered Em. in painful embarrassment.

The lady did not answer, only continued to look at her thoughtfully, kindly.

“I—I had understood that you were so good as to let the neighbors come in and look at your beautiful pictures and statues when you were away from home, and so I used to come very often last summer, though I was always in a dread for fear I should happen to come while you were here.”

The lady smiled on the young speaker, but made no answer.

“And now I have done what I had feared to do, and intruded on your privacy, madam. I am sorry, and I hope you will forgive me,” continued Em., half ashamed of having to say so much before receiving an answer, yet reassured by the lady’s sweet, silent smile.

“You have done nothing that requires excuse, my child. You could have had no reason to suspect that I was present. I have never been here in the autumn before. I always came the first of May and went the last of September. Only this summer I went to Canada instead, and then came here on the first of October to spend the autumn. So you see you are blameless. Besides, Edengarden, with its house and grounds, is open to the neighbors at all seasons. Even when I am here only my private suite of rooms is reserved. They are at the top of the building; so you might have roamed all over the house if you had wished to do so without the fear of intrusion. And now let us talk of yourself, little one. Your name is Emolyn Palmer,” said the lady, taking the girl’s slender white hand in her own.

“Yes, madam; but everybody calls me Em.,” shyly answered the girl.

“Do not be afraid of me, my child! This is not the first time we have met.”

Em. started and gazed at the speaker in surprise.

“No, my child, not the first time we have met. I held you in my arms and blessed you when you were a babe of only a few weeks old,” continued the Lady of Edengarden.

Em.’s startled gaze of surprise softened as she lowered her eyes and reflected that this might easily have been the case, as her mother had many customers among fine ladies, whose little girls used to notice her babies.

“Do you know for whom you were named, Emolyn?” gently inquired the lady.

“Oh, yes, madam. I was named for Miss Emolyn Wyndeworth, a saint, an angel; but she has been in heaven these many years.”

“How do you know that?”

“My mother has told me so all my life.”

“Your mother cherishes her memory, then?”

“Oh, yes, yes, and speaks of her as pious Catholics speak of their patron saints.”

“Tell me of your mother, my child. I used to know her very long ago, when I lived in the world. Does she enjoy good health, and is she much more prosperous and much happier now at the Wilderness manor-house than she used to be in Laundry Lane?”

“To think you should know anything about Laundry Lane, dear lady! Why, even to me it seems like a place in a past existence, that I had died in and risen out of,” murmured Em.

“And yet it is scarcely six months since you left it, while it has been over sixteen years since I saw it. But about your mother, Emolyn.”

“Oh, mother, too, is just as if she had died in Laundry Lane and risen to Paradise! She is just as healthy and hearty and happy as any human being can be. And she looks younger now than I ever saw her look. And so does father. Did you ever know father, madam?” cheerfully inquired Em., who was growing more and more at ease in the presence of the lady.

“Yes, I knew your father, too, my child,” breathed the latter in a low tone.

“Well, father looks younger, too. He is not sallow now, and he doesn’t stoop. He’s ruddy as a red apple and straight as an arrow. And they are all as well and as happy as they can be at the Wilderness Manor. They have everything that heart can wish. Without being wealthy, they have all the enjoyments of wealth. And it is like Paradise after the purgatory of Laundry Lane.”

“I thank the Lord that one family, at least, is made happy,” breathed the lady in low and earnest tones.

“And we owe all that happiness to you, dear madam; for although they have never seen you, yet of course we know that you are our Lady of the Manor, Mrs. Lindsay,” said Em.

“‘Lindsay?’ ‘Mrs. Lindsay!’” repeated the lady in a tone of surprise.

“Yes, Lindsay—is not that your name?”

“No; but it does not matter. Tell me more of your mother. Has she any other children, younger than yourself, I mean?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am, as many younger as there are older. The four elder ones are all married and settled in the city where we came from, and we hear from them about once a month. They are all doing well. And the four younger ones are—in Paradise with us. And now, dear lady, may I ask you a question?”

“Yes, certainly. Have I not asked you many?”

“Well, then, was it because you knew my dear father and mother that you caused your agent to engage them to take charge of the old manor?”

The lady hesitated for a moment, and then replied:

“Yes, though at the time I did not care to be known in the transaction, and so acted only through my agent, Carmichael, and my friend Mrs. Willet.”

“Oh! you knew Mrs. Willet, too! How many people and places you knew that we knew!” exclaimed Em. in glad surprise, losing all the shyness she had first felt in the presence of the strange lady.

“Yes, a good many. And in this very transaction I found a coadjutor in a friend of yours, whom, however, I did not know.”

“A friend of ours?” said Em. thoughtfully.

“Yes; Lieutenant Ronald—Bruce,” said the lady, hesitating and then pronouncing the last word in a low tone and with a falling inflection.

“Oh!” breathed Em.

“It appears that he had some time before appealed to the Willets to throw anything they could find to suit him in the way of John Palmer and his family. So, when the proposal came from my agent, John Palmer and his wife would have got the first offer upon Mr. Bruce’s standing recommendation, even if his name had not been mentioned in my private instructions.”

“Then it is to you that we owe all our happiness! Oh! how grateful we should be, and are, madam, for we know that we enjoy many privileges not usually accorded to overseers and their families,” said Em., raising the lady’s hand to her lips.

“It was my happiness to make you happy,” replied the latter in a low tone.

“Oh! how glad my mother will be to know that it is to a former friend she owes her present prosperity. But, dear lady, you say your name is not that which the country people have given you. Will you tell me what it is, so that I may rejoice my mother’s heart with the knowledge, that we may know whom to name when we invoke blessings on our benefactress?”

“Perhaps, my child. My name has never transpired in this neighborhood. None know it but the people of the legal profession who are my agents. The country folks here have given me more than one name—Lynn, Lindsay, and so forth—all being somewhat akin to my own name, to which they may have got some slight clew. But never mind about my name for the present; I wish to speak of yours. Have you any middle name?”

“Oh, yes, madam. I am Emolyn Wyndeworth Palmer. That is a very fine name for a poor girl; but mother wished to give me the whole of her angel’s name, she said, and so she had me baptized Emolyn Wyndeworth.”

“And you say that she for whom you were named died many years ago?”

“Yes, madam, so many years ago that it was before my recollection. Oh, I often wish that I could have seen her once, only once, to have her image in my mind.”

“How came she to die so young, my child?” inquired the lady in a low tone.

“I do not know, madam; but mother says she was a martyr; that she had suffered a grevious wrong that broke her heart; but who had wronged her, or how she was wronged, mother never would tell—only she said there were some wrongs too great, and some sorrows too deep to be spoken of in this world.”

“Yes, yes, yes, yes,” murmured the Lady of Edengarden in a low voice.

And then silence fell upon the two and lasted some minutes.

Finally Em. rose to take leave.

“You are going?” said the lady.

“Yes, madam. I have only time to get home before dark. If I should be out later my mother would fear something ill would happen to me. I am very grateful, dear lady, for your kindness to me to-day, as well as for your great goodness to our whole family. I wish you good-evening,” said Em., lifting the lady’s hand to her lips and then turning to depart.

“Stop,” said the Lady of Edengarden.

Em. obeyed, and stood waiting.

“You wish to tell your mother the name of her unknown friend?”

“Oh, yes, madam—if you please,” eagerly exclaimed Em.

“Tell her, then, that I am one whom she used to know and love as Emolyn Wyndeworth.”

Em. uttered a half-suppressed cry, reeled, and might have fallen, but that the lady sprang and caught her, supported her to the sofa, and sat her down in the corner, where she leaned back deathly pale and faint.

“My child, I am very sorry for this; but I could not have supposed that my announcement would have startled you so much,” said the lady as she applied a small vinaigrette to the nose of the girl.

“Oh, is it possible—can it be possible?” murmured Em. to herself. Then with an effort she sat up and said: “Forgive me, madam; but it is indeed as if one had returned from heaven to earth. It is not a dream? You are——”

“I am Emolyn Wyndeworth, my dear, and more convinced than ever of the fond and faithful remembrance in which I have been held since the mere announcement of my name and presence has produced such a effect upon you, who had no personal recollection of me,” said the lady in a soothing tone as she passed her hand caressingly over the girl’s bright ringlets.

“Ah, how happy I shall be when—when I can realize all this; but now—now I am afraid of waking! Oh, I am, indeed, madam!” added Em. with a nervous little laugh.

The lady dropped her hand and left the room for a few moments, and then returned, bringing a glass of wine which she made Em. drink.

“You are almost hysterical over this surprise, my dear,” she said as she placed the empty glass on the table.

“I was never so before. I should not have been so under any other surprise—but—to see one whom I had always been taught to reverence as a patron saint, or a guardian angel, standing bodily before me—oh! you know, madam, it seemed as if—almost as if a seraph had descended from heaven! Oh, how delighted, how past all delight my dear mother will be! And father, too! And Mrs. Whitlock! And Aunt Monica! Poor old Aunt Monica! Oh, I know, you used to know her! And, oh! how dearly she loved you! How fondly she talks of you to this day! Oh! what a jubilee there’ll be when I go home with my news—if I don’t wake up first and find it all a wild dream!” exclaimed Em., much revived by the wine she had tasted.

“My impetuous child, how you run on! Uttering names that seemed to have been once as familiar as ‘household words’ to me, in that long past existence out of which I have died and risen! ‘Whitlock!’ ‘Monica!’ One was my dear old guardian’s housekeeper, and the other his nurse in his last fatal illness! But what can you know of them?”

“Why, they live with us—Mrs. Whitlock ever since I can remember, and old Aunt Monica ever since we moved out here. Father takes care of them both. And they both love you and mourn you, dear lady! And, oh! how enraptured they will be, past all expression, when they find out that—that—you still live in this world and they may look on your face again!”

“Is it possible they are so near me? Old Aunt Monica, I shall be happy to see again. But for Mrs. Whitlock, I scarcely remember her, except as my guardian’s attendant. It seems strange that she should remember me at all. She saw so little of me.”

“Oh, dear lady, you were so good, believe me, many, many poor people remember you whom you most likely have forgotten.”

“Now may Heaven forbid!” breathed the Lady of Edengarden in a low, earnest tone. Then, speaking to Em., she said: “My child, you must not flatter any one, and least of all me.”

“But, dearest madam, I do not know how to flatter! I speak only the very truth,” said Em. with a certain childish dignity.

“Truth sometimes flatters. Do not praise me, little girl. I do not deserve it, and—I cannot bear it. I wish to be forgiven, not praised. To be forgotten, not remembered—except by the very few who love me. I have talked to you, young namesake, longer than I have talked with any one these fifteen years past. My heart seems strangely and tenderly drawn towards you, little girl. Perhaps it is because you are the child of one who was my most steadfast friend in a time of terrible trial. Perhaps, also, it is because you were named for me, and I held you in my arms and blessed you, when I myself had ‘most need of blessing.’ But all that would hardly explain the yearning of my soul towards you, my child! my child!” said the lady as she took the hand of the young girl and drew her to her bosom.

“Oh! May I tell you something? May I tell you something?” muttered Em. in tones half smothered with emotion as she leaned on the bosom of the lady, held there in a close embrace.

“Tell me anything you please, my child.”

CHAPTER XIX

THE GOOD FAIRY

Better to hope, though the clouds hang low,

And to keep the eyes still lifted,

For the sweet blue sky will soon peep through,

When the ominous clouds are drifted.

There never was a night without a day,

Nor an evening without a morning;

And the darkest hour, the proverbs say,

Is just before the dawning.

BALDWIN’S MONTHLY.

“Well, the first time I ever saw your portrait—that one hanging there in the bridal dress and veil—I loved it. Oh! I loved it so I could have sat all day and gazed upon it! And every time I have come back to the island it was not to see any of the beautiful objects, it was to spend all the time I had to spare in sitting before your portrait and gazing on it. And now I have you!” concluded the girl with a convulsive clasp of the lady’s form.

“Yes, now you have me,” replied the latter, once more reseating Em. on the sofa and sitting down beside her. “Now you have me. Therefore I feel the less hesitation about disabusing your mind about that picture. It is not my portrait, though very like me. It is my mother’s portrait, taken in her bridal costume.”

“What! that picture the image of you, dear madam, and yet not you! But it is beautiful! Beautiful, for all that,” exclaimed Em., gazing from the face of the lady to that of the picture.

“My mother was a most beautiful woman,” murmured the lady.

“And the portrait which hangs in the long drawing-room of the old Wilderness manor-house—the portrait of a lady in the costume of the time of Queen Elizabeth—whose face so much resembles yours and your mother’s?” said Em. interrogatively.

“Oh, the portrait of a remote ancestress, so remote that even tradition has little to say about her, except that Sir Walter Raleigh wrote sonnets in praise of her beauty.”

“That beauty has been faithfully handed down,” said Em.

“The resemblance has, at any rate. But, my child, who told you that the picture there was my portrait?”

“Oh! Several persons, I think; but the first person who said so was old ’Sias, the gate-porter at the Wilderness Manor.”

“Ah! I know—a little shriveled old man who refers everything back to the time when he was a boy, several hundred years ago, ‘more or less?’”

“Yes,” laughed Em., “the very same.”

“What other marvels did he tell you about me? I would like to know. I have never seen the old creature, nor any one else belonging to the old Wilderness estate, although I am their lady; but I have heard about them through my agent, and I am aware that many strange reports are afloat respecting myself, merely because I appear here only a few months in the year, and then live a strictly secluded life. Come! What have you heard respecting your namesake, Emolyn?”

“Oh, dear lady, many absurd rumors, that I now perceive must have been false. That you were a semi-supernatural being—a ‘White Spirit’; that your form was seldom visible, but when seen it was clothed from head to foot in long, white robes; that your face was never seen by any one, for it was always hidden beneath a white veil that flowed over your whole figure.”

“I could laugh, Emolyn, were not my laughing days past. White, indeed, is my usual dress when here in summer. It is the most convenient and comfortable wearing apparel. Often, too, when walking about the grounds of my isolated island home I have thrown over my head, instead of hat or bonnet, a white gauze scarf. From their boats on the river, or even when sightseeing on the island, or in the house, the marvel-mongers have seen me so, and so reported me. You know how a story grows by repetition where there is nothing to contradict it? I was never seen in any way but this, for I never left my island home except to leave the country, and I never received any visitors. Behold the mystery of the White Spirit!”

Em. sighed. It is not always and to all persons an unmixed pleasure to have a beautiful supernatural illusion dispelled. She would have liked to tell the lady her vision of the radiant woman, on the first and second night of her stay in the old Wilderness manor-house; but she felt that the time had not come for such confidences; and, furthermore, that the time had come half an hour ago for her to take leave of her new friend and start for home.

“And what more do they say of me, child?” continued the lady.

“That you are the benefactress of the neighborhood and—White Spirit, or what not—you are an angel of benevolence.”

“It shames me to be over-praised, little girl. Tell me something they say which is not praise.”

“Well, some scout the White Spirit; they say you are a childless widow, and that your name is Mrs. Lynn.”

“They do know quite a great deal about me, it seems. Well, my dear child, as to this last rumor, it is not for you to set them right by making any explanations. You could not even do it properly, because you do not know the circumstances. Let people continue to speak of me as widow, and to call me Mrs. Lynn! They will not be so far wrong. Lynn is only an abbreviation of my rightful name—however they came by such a fractional part of the truth! So, my dear, let me still be Mrs. Lynn to those who like to call me so. And mark me—to no one except your father, your mother, and old Monica, must you reveal the secret that the Lady of Edengarden is no other than the poor Emolyn Wyndeworth. They will respect my wishes and keep my secret. The world thinks that I am dead, and it thinks truly, for I am dead to the world. I come out of my grave only for the sake of the few who love me.”

“You dream beautiful dreams in your grave, dear lady! you who dreamed this Edengarden into existence!” murmured Em.

“Do you love this beauty so much, fair child? Then perhaps you will come and share it with me. You are my little namesake. I shall beg you of your mother some of these days. She has so many daughters she might spare you to me!”

“Oh, she would! she would! My dear mother would give you anything in her possession that you might ask of her! And as for me—oh, how I should love to live with you!” exclaimed Em. with a burst of enthusiasm.

“What! and leave your own mother?” wistfully inquired the lady, as if to test the girl.

“Oh, my dear mother has father and so many other boys and girls, as you said, she can spare me; and you have no one to love you,” answered Em. in a voice of ineffable tenderness and pathos.

The lady stooped and kissed her for all reply.

“Oh, how hard it is to get away! How I dislike to go. Yet I must. I have overstayed my time. Dear lady, good-evening,” said Em. as she arose and lifted the lady’s hand to her lips.

“Stay! Who is going to take you home?”

“Old ’Sias, the gatekeeper, madam.”

“He of the ‘hundred and fifty years, more or less?’ Where is he?”

“Waiting below, madam, in his boat—The White Dove.”

“Then come, my dear, and I will walk with you as far as the Silver Circle, for so we call the grove of maple trees that surrounds the shores of the island—though it is a golden circle now, for the leaves have put on their autumn livery,” said Mrs. Lynn, as she lifted a light shawl of shining silky white gauze from a table near, threw it over her head and shoulders and led the way from the house.

“That is a beautiful girdle of maples around the island—silvery in the summer and golden in the autumn,” said Em. as she walked beside her conductress down the marble steps that led from terrace to terrace from the summit to the plain.

“Some day you shall see that golden circle from the top of the observatory, for from there you can see the whole of it and the effect is very fine,” answered the Lady of Edengarden as they crossed the beautiful grounds and entered the circular grove.

“Now I shall wish to come so often, for now it will not be the likeness but the living lady that I shall long to see,” said Em.

“You shall come as often as you like, and stay as long as you like. And tell your mother, dear, that I never leave the confines of the island, except when I leave the country. So I cannot go to see her; but I would be very happy to see her here—and your father and old Aunt Monica. They could come, as others come to see the island, and then they should see me.”

“And Ann Whitlock? Poor Ann Whitlock?” pleaded Em. as the lady paused to take leave.

“No, my child, I do not know much about her; and my secret must not be confided to any one but the three faithful friends in whom I can utterly confide. Not that there is anything at stake, either; only, you see, poor Emolyn Wyndeworth was stoned to death many years ago, and she is dead and in her grave, and she will rise only for the two or three who love her.”

“Oh, but you dream such beautiful dreams in death. You have dreamed this once barren rock into a blooming paradise, you have dreamed blessings all around you! Oh! how I wish I could dream such beautiful dreams as you do! Especially that I could dream such blessings on all the poor!”

“Stay, my child! I have just thought how I may employ you. You shall realize the dreams of blessings. My almoner is somewhat indolent with declining years, and not quite equal to her duties. You shall be a ministering angel to the needy, and find out all who are poor, sick, or suffering in mind or body, and bring them to my knowledge, and afterwards take them relief according to their requirements. I am sure such occupation would suit you.”

“It would make me happier than I ever hoped to be in this world!” exclaimed Em. with enthusiastic delight.

“Come to me, then, to-morrow. And let the others that I have named come then, or at any other time. See! the sun is on the verge of the horizon. You must hasten home. Oh! my darling, I am so thankful you wandered over my grave and raised me from it. Good-night! God bless you!” And the lady drew the maiden to her bosom and kissed her and turned away.

Em. watched the receding figure until it was lost in the grove, and then she hurried down to the shore, where she found the boat tied to its post and rocking on the water, and old ’Sias sitting in the stern fast asleep.

She woke him up, and then said:

“I have kept you waiting too long, haven’t I, Uncle ’Sias? I have been gone more than three hours.”

“Oh, no, honey; I has had a lubly quiet time here by myself! And I had such a hebbenly dream! I dreamed how de Lord had tuk Sereny—or de debbil had got her, I didn’t know which; ennyhow she had ’parted dis life, and I was libbin’ alone at de gate-house and smokin’ my pipe in peace ’dout de fear o’ being scalped or performed on enny more, and how you and Marse Lieutenant Ronald Bruce, Esquire, was de lord and lady ob de manor libbin’ up at de hall, and you was a-gwine out for a drive in a cherryrout and four, and you called me to open de gate, and I jumped to do it and woke up and found it was all a dream! How dese dere ’cevin’ dreams do cheat us, Miss Em.,” said the old man as he busied himself untying the boat.

“They do so, Uncle ’Sias! But don’t let this dream cheat us into being out after dark. Make haste, please,” said Em. as she stepped into the boat and seated herself and took the tiller.

The old man laid himself heartily to the oars, and the little boat shot from the shore and soon left the island far behind it.

The sun had sunk behind the mountains that formed the west bank of the river, and cast their deep shadow far across the water; but Em., for the first time, took little notice of the changes in the face of nature—she was absorbed in thoughts of the strange discovery she had made that day—the White Spirit, the Wonder of the Wilderness, the Lady of Edengarden, no other than Emolyn Wyndeworth, who had disappeared from the world so long ago, that she was supposed to have been many years in Heaven.

How amazed, how incredulous, and at length how delighted her mother would be to hear the news!

But the strangest truth in the girl’s experience now was the sudden and perfect love and trust she already reposed in Emolyn Wyndeworth, the Lady of Edengarden! She felt that near that lady was rest—rest for her own troubled heart; that on her bosom, as on some angel mother’s, she could lay her weary head and tell all the secret thoughts and affections, faults and temptations that troubled her.

She even resolved as she sat silently meditating in her seat, while she mechanically steered the boat, that some day she would tell this lady all about her ill-starred love affair with Ronald Bruce, for surely the sympathetic Emolyn Wyndeworth would be a disinterested umpire between the old and young. And who knew? she was so wonderfully powerful she might even find a way to make them—the poor young lovers—happy.

“Here, Miss Em.! Whar yer gwine? Here we is op’sit’ de landin’, honey! Turn in!” were the words of old ’Sias that woke Em. from her deep reverie.

She steered for the landing and in a few minutes reached it.

Old ’Sias drew in his oars and secured the boat.

Em. jumped out and stood waiting until the old man joined her.

Then they walked through the woods together. It was growing dark and there was no moon.

When they reached the park wall and the gate-house Em. took a silver half dollar from her pocket and said:

“Here, Uncle ’Sias, give this to Sereny from me.”

“Yes, Miss Em. Thanky, honey! I understands! You give me this for Sereny ’cause yer think maybe it’ll save me from a performance. Which you may be sure it will, honey. But I ain’t a-gwine to leabe you here, Miss Em. I gwine to see yer safe t’rough dese woods and in sight ob de house ennyhow,” said old ’Sias as he persistently trotted by the young girl’s side, guarding her with the fidelity of a Newfoundland dog.

It was surprising, too, to see how fast the little old man could get on with the aid of his short, thick stick, which, at every step, he put down with the vim of a third foot.

They soon came out of the thickest woods to where the trees grew farther apart, under the walls of the manor-house. They diverged to the right, where the broad gate leading to the rear of the premises stood open, and through which they could see the firelight gleaming from the windows of the Red Wing.

Here the old man stopped and said:

“I’ll bid yer good-night here, Miss Em., and hurry back home. No use to try Sereny’s temper more’n necessary, if I has got a silver half dollar to satisfy her. So I’ll bid you good-night, and de Lord bless you, honey.”

“And you, too, Uncle ’Sias, good-night, and thanks,” answered Em. as she entered the gate and walked rapidly towards the lighted windows of her cheerful home.

CHAPTER XX

REVIVAL

’Twas many and many a year ago,

In days when we were young,

And o’er all life’s coming morning, lo!

Hope’s magic glory hung.

PERSEVER.

“Well, Em. Palmer, and where have you been? I had been expecting you home for more’n an hour, and was just thinking of sending Tom to look for you, for fear something had happened to you!” exclaimed Susan Palmer on seeing her daughter enter the house.

“I have been nowhere but to Edengarden, mother,” answered the girl as she threw off her shawl and bonnet and prepared to help the busy housewife, who was actively engaged in preparing the supper, while the three little girls were all employed in setting the table.

“But what kept you so long? It’s dangerous for a young girl to stay out so late in these woods!”

“Oh, dear mother, I was safe enough! Old ’Sias came with me up to the gate; and as for what kept me,” said the girl, coming up close to the side of the woman, “I will tell you that as soon as we are alone.”

“I—I hope it was no harm!” whispered Susan anxiously.

“None in the world, dear mother, but something that you will be glad to hear, and, hush, I can’t tell you here! But where is Aunt Monica that you should be getting supper?” inquired Em. aloud.

“Oh, Aunt Monica is a fixture at the bedside of Ann Whitlock!” answered Susan.

“Ann Whitlock! What, is she sick? She was well enough when I left home!”

“She’s sick enough now, then. She fell down in a fit this afternoon as sudden as if she’d been shot or struck with lightning! She was sitting at this very fire, knitting, when it happened. If I hadn’t been on the spot and picked her up in a minute she might ’a’ been burnt to death!”

“Oh, how shocking! Oh, how sorry I am! What was it, mother? What sort of a fit?”

“Monica says it is a paralytic stroke, just like that what laid her own old marster low. You see, Monica was in the room when it happened, and she helped me to tote the old woman to the settee and lay her on it. And then, while we ’plied hartshorn to her nose and beat her hands and that, I sent all the children in different directions to hunt for their father, for I didn’t exactly know whether he was in the barn or the stables, or where. But, law; we might as well ’a’ beat a dead corpse! She didn’t give no more signs of life, nor nothing!”

“Oh, how dreadful!” cried Em., sitting down and clasping her hands.

“Well, so it is; but you know Ann Whitlock was quite aged.”

“She never had a spell of sickness in her life before, though!”

“No, if she had had she might have died. As it is, she has lived to this old age until all her body is worn out at once, and down she draps!”

“Has a doctor seen her? But, oh, of course not! There has been no time to get one here! But has a doctor been sent for, mother?”

“I was just a-going to tell you, Em. The boys found their father in the stables and told him what had happened, and he told them to saddle one of the fastest horses and bring it round to the door for him, and he, you see, hurried on to the house as hard as ever he could to see exactly what was the matter. When he see Ann Whitlock lying in that state on the wooden settee he said how we must get her up to her own bed as soon as possible, and so he helped me and Monica to tote her upstairs, and, law, Em., it almost broke the three backs of us, she is such a heavy old woman, poor soul!”

“Poor soul!” echoed the girl with a sigh.

“Well, child, John left us to undress her and get her between the sheets as well as she could, and he mounted Queen Bess, and off he went for Greyrock to fetch a doctor, and as that is thirty miles off, he said he didn’t expect to be back much before to-morrow morning.”

“And, oh, will she have to wait all that time for attendance?” exclaimed Em., clasping her hands in dismay.

“She might have had to do so; but, thank fortune, she didn’t; for what do you think—as your father was tearing along for life and death on the river turnpike he met Dr. Willet full tilt in the road!”

“DR. WILLET!” exclaimed Em. in astonishment.

“Dr. Willet!” repeated Susan. “Yes, Dr. Willet, who, it seems, and reached Greyrock in the stagecoach this morning, and after resting himself had hired a horse and started to ride to The Breezes, where he was going to pay a long promised visit to his friend and neighbor, Commodore Bruce! There! what do you think of that? If your father, or if the doctor had been five minutes earlier or later they must have missed each other, for the doctor had just reached that part of the road where it turns from the river ’pike to enter the mountain pass leading to The Breezes! There! and if your father had missed him he would have to have ridden thirty miles to Greyrock, and thirty miles back, making sixty altogether, before he would have got a doctor to poor old Ann Whitlock. But there he met Dr. Willet right in the very nick of time. Now, what do you think of that, Em?”

“It was astonishing and most fortunate,” said the girl; but her thoughts reverted to the more astonishing news she had in store for her mother.

“Well, you know as both was a-going of it as hard as they ever could go, they all but rid over each other before they knew it; and then they were so glad to see each other, and John thanked Dr. Willet for the hand he had in getting of him such a good situation as he’s got now; and Dr. Willet asked John how all the family was, and then when John told him all was well and hearty save Ann Whitlock, which had just fell down in a fit, why, Dr. Willet just turned his horse’s head immediate, and said he would come and look after the poor woman, whom he had known in old times as a skilful sick-nurse. So about an hour after I had seen John ride away, to be gone all night, after the Greyrock doctor, you may just fancy my astonishment to see him come riding in with Dr. Willet. Why, I rubbed my eyes—as much expecting to see the President as he!”

“But what did he say about poor Auntie Whitlock? Did he say her attack was dangerous—fatal?” anxiously inquired Em.

“He said it was a paralytic stroke. She might get over it or she might not; and he gave most particular directions how to treat her, and said as how he would see her every day during his stay at The Breezes. We will all do the best we can for her, Em., the same as if she was my mother and your grandmother; but, Lord! child, when a woman gets to be seventy-five what can you expect but her removal to a better life?”

“Yes, mother,” sighed Em; for she was as yet too young, too much in love with this present life to think very seriously of that which is to come.

“Here’s father and the boys. Now put supper on the table, Em.!” said Susan Palmer as John and his two lads entered the kitchen, which, since the weather had turned cold, was used as a dining-room as well.

“Now, Miss Runaway! And where have you been all day?” inquired John Palmer good-humoredly as soon as he saw Em.

“Only to the island, father, dear,” she answered.

“She says she’ll tell me what kept her by and by. Some poor folks, I s’pose, that she stopped to do something for. Come, John, sit down and begin, or your supper’ll be cold,” said the practical housewife.

John was an obedient husband besides being a hungry man, and so he sat down, asked a blessing, and then made a vigorous attack on the viands before him.

They were still at the table when there came a rap at the kitchen door.

Em., being the nearest, left her seat and opened it.

Then, to the surprise of every one, Lieutenant Ronald Bruce walked into the kitchen. Yes, walked in with the innocent and delighted air of a child who was doing a voluntary good deed for which he expected to be praised and rewarded. And then—just as if he had not been forbidden the house that very morning, and had not departed both in sorrow and in anger—he shook hands with Em., saying:

“Good-evening, Miss Palmer. I hope you are quite well;” and then impudently walked up to John and Susan, shook hands with them both, nodded to the young ones, and said:

“Mr. Palmer, I come to you from The Breezes on an errand. Dr. Willet was remarking that your sick woman, Mrs. Whitlock, needed brandy, and that none good was to be found in the neighborhood. So my uncle sent down to his own cellar at once and had up two bottles of this rare old cognac—vintage 1781—and he sends it to you with his good wishes. Here it is!” concluded the young man, taking from each side pocket a long brown paper parcel, unrolling them and displaying two dusty, mouldy, cobwebbed bottles, which he stood upon the supper table.

Now what could John or Susan do or say?

I will tell you what Em. did. She set a chair before a vacant place at the table and said:

“Will you join us and take a cup of tea, Mr. Bruce?”

“Thanks; I will gladly do so if Mrs. Palmer will permit me,” smilingly answered the young man, as, taking this permission for granted, he seated himself in the offered chair.

“I’m a thousand times obliged to Commodore Bruce, and so would Mrs. Whitlock be if she was conscious enough to know anything about it. But I must say I am sorry, sir, that you should have taken the unusual trouble to bring it over yourself,” said John, divided as to his emotions between gratitude and indignation.

“Now who was to bring it but me? The commodore is too old, and the doctor too tired to turn out after dinner. And as to trusting one of the men servants—why, see here! I’d trust any of them with any amount of money or of jewels, and they would carry either safe as a bank. But when it comes to old cognac brandy, why all the saints and angels in heaven couldn’t prevent one of them from drinking half the contents of the bottles and filling them up with spring water! And then you know the brandy would never get here at all. The messenger would have been dead drunk before night, and dead, dead before morning, and honest from that time forth, having made a meal for many crows! Now do you see? The affair is in a nutshell. I had to bring the brandy myself.”

“And I am sure it was very kind of you, sir, and we are all very grateful,” said Susan Palmer politely as she handed the unbidden guest a cup of tea.

John sighed.

“I tried to put a damper on this here; but it’s no use. ‘Sich is life,’” he muttered in confidence to his own grizzled black beard.

“And you’ll not turn me out to-night, I feel sure, my kind hostess?” said the young man as he bowed in accepting the cup and the compliment.

“Indeed, no! Your room is ready just as you left it this morning! Turn you out, indeed! What! to ride up that breakneck mountain-pass in the dead of night? Not likely. Even if you wanted to go ever so much I wouldn’t let you do it, no, not if I had to keep you by force and violence!” said Susan.

“Quite right. I shall give you no trouble, my gentle jailer,” laughed Ronald Bruce.

As soon as supper was over Em. slipped away and went upstairs to inquire how her poor old friend, Mrs. Whitlock, was.

Ann Whitlock’s chamber was over the dining-room. As Em. entered it she saw that it was at once warmed and lighted by a blazing wood fire in the fireplace, near which sat old Monica in a big arm-chair.

The sick woman lay on her comfortable bed, apparently asleep.

Em. closed the door noiselessly and crossed the room on tiptoe. When she had reached the side of old Monica she whispered:

“Will my whispering disturb her?”

“Oh, no, honey; nothing ’sturbs her. She don’t take no notice ob nothing,” answered the old nurse, not in a whisper exactly, but in that low tone that well-trained people use in a sick-room.

“Is she very ill, Aunt Monica? You know as well as anybody.”

“Oh, no, honey. Not near so bad as what old marster was. Why, she can swallow and look at you; dough she can’t move or speak.”

“Do you think she will get over it?”

“Yes, honey, dough I doubt she will ebber be as well as she was before. And whenebber she hab another ’tack like dis it will be sure to finish her, honey! But she’s gettin’ de best of ’tention now, you may be sure, honey.”

“I know she is. Now, Aunt Monica, I will take your place and watch here until you go down and get your supper.”

“No such thing, Miss Em.! I heard young Captain Bruce come in just now, and I ain’t a-gwine to take you away from his company for de sake o’ my supper. So you go right straight downstairs and entertain de young gentleman as you ought for to do!”

“No, Aunt Monica; you know that I will not. Mrs. Whitlock has always been a kind friend to me, and I must help to wait on her. Go now and get your supper.”

“Well, Miss Em., when you have once said a thing I know you’ll stick to it; so I’ll go down,” replied the old woman, getting up and leaving the room.

Em. went to the bedside and looked at the paralytic.

Ann Whitlock lay there like one placidly sleeping; there was no sign of suffering about her.

Em. knelt beside her and offered up an earnest prayer for her recovery, and then she returned to her arm-chair before the fire, sat down and lapsed into thought. She had so much to think of! Her meeting with the Lady of Edengarden; her discovery of the identity of this lady with that of the long mourned Emolyn Wyndeworth; the strong, mutual attraction that seemed to draw and bind her to that lady and that lady to her; the fatal attack of Ann Whitlock; the unexpected arrival of Dr. Willet; the sudden reappearance of Ronald Bruce;—all these unexpected events that seemed to have in them something of the nature of destiny took hold on her imagination, filled her mind and occupied all her thoughts.

Time passed unheeded until the re-entrance of old Monica, who unceremoniously said:

“Now, honey, if you please, I’ll jes’ take my old rocking-chair, and you’ll go downstairs to your young man! Young man for young gal, and ole rocking-chair for ole ’omen. Behold de beauty ob de ’daptations!” concluded Aunt Monica as she settled herself in the depths of the softly-cushioned arm-chair and put out her feet to the fire.

Em. stepped on tiptoe from the room, noiselessly closed the door behind her and went downstairs, where she found the family circle gathered around the kitchen fire listening to one of Ronald’s sea yarns.

The young man arose and gave her his chair and went and got another, which he took good care to place beside her as he seated himself.

How Ronald taxed his brain that night to invent marvelous stories of voyages, storms, battles, fires, shipwrecks, rescues, pirates, barbarous shores, desert islands, deliverances, and treasure-trove!

And how John listened with eyes wide open and mouth often agape to swallow such huge prodigies.

In a short pause, while John mended the fire, Ronald found time to whisper to Em.:

“If everything else goes by the board, my dear, and you and I have to go to housekeeping together in a cottage I can keep the pot boiling by writing stories for the papers, can’t I?”

“Oh, Ronald! Then it is not all true?” whispered Em.

“I suppose it is—of some other people on some other seas and shores, on some other planets in this boundless universe, or it never would have come into my head; but it is not true of this world, as far as I know!”

When the last wonderful tale was told the family separated and retired to bed, leaving only Em. and her mother to settle up the kitchen.

CHAPTER XXI

THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE

Heaven has to all allotted, soon or late,

Some happy revolution of their fate;

Whose motions, if we watch and guide with skill,

(For human good depends on human will,)

Our fortune rolls as from a smooth descent,

And from the first direction takes its bent.

DRYDEN.

“Do you think they are all in bed and asleep?” whispered Em. as, having covered up the kitchen fire, the mother and daughter stood for a moment on the hearth, each with a short candle in a brass candlestick in her hand.

“They are all abed, I’ll warrant you. I can’t say about their being asleep, though. Why do you ask?” inquired Susan.

“Because one or another of the boys, or father, is sometimes going around after some door or window they have forgotten to look to, or something else, long after we have supposed them to be abed and asleep, mother.”

“Well, what of it, Em.?”

“Why, mother, I have something to tell you that I do not wish to have overheard by anybody.”

“Is it the reason why you have stayed out so long?”

“Yes, mother.”

“Well, now, Em., that can keep till to-morrow morning. I know it’s about some poor family you have been visiting and want me to help, without your telling me, and I can attend to it to-morrow. I am too tired to-night for anything but my bed. There!”

“But, dear mother, it is not about any family that needs help, or anything of the sort! Oh, mother, it is something I cannot speak to you of in the morning, when there is so much going to and fro, and we have no privacy.”

“Well, then, I do suppose it is about Ronald Bruce you want to talk to me. But it is of no use, Em.! I agree with your father. You must give that young man up and forget him. And after to-morrow he must not be allowed to come here again! He got his walking papers this morning, and he ought to have been guided by them and not returned. Though, of course, as he did so, and brought that rare old brandy for the sick woman, I had to attend to him and treat him with politeness. And, besides, to tell the truth, he has a way with him that nobody can resist. That’s the reason I say he must never come here again! I told your father that he must put him on his honor not to come again unless he came with Commodore Bruce’s authority to marry you. As that’s impossible, he’s sure not to return.”

“It was not of Mr. Bruce I wished to speak, mother,” said Em. in a low tone.

“Well, then, what in the name o’ sense was it?” demanded Susan Palmer somewhat impatiently, for she was tired and sleepy, and wearying for bed.

Em. drew nearer, put her lips to her mother’s ear, and whispered:

“Of Emolyn Wyndeworth! I have heard something of her fate!”

“EH!” cried Susan Palmer, starting and dropping her candlestick. She was wide awake now, with every vestige of weariness departed, and the longing for bed turned into the longing for news.

“Come up with me to my attic room, dear mother; there is a good fire burning there, and we shall be safe from interruption; and, oh, I have so much to tell you!” said Em. as she stooped and picked up the fallen candlestick and replaced the candle in it.

“Em.! are you sure of what you are saying?” exclaimed Susan Palmer as soon as she could speak.

“Quite sure, mother. Come,” said the girl, leading the way from the kitchen.

“But how on the face of the earth could you have heard anything about it?” breathlessly inquired the mother as she followed her daughter upstairs.

“Dear mother, just wait till we get out of hearing of any of these rooms, and then I will tell you everything,” replied Em. in a whisper.

“Where did she die? How long has she been dead? What was the matter with her besides a broken heart? Tell me that if you can,” persisted Susan Palmer as she tugged breathlessly up the attic stairs after her daughter.

“Mother, she is not dead!” whispered Em.

“EH!” cried the woman.

“Hush-sh-sh—here we are at my room. Come in, mother, and when I have shut the door I will tell you all about it,” said Em. as she entered, followed by her eager listener.

Em. secured the door, rolled the easy-chair up before the cheerful fire, made her mother sit down comfortably in it, drew a low stool to her side, seated herself, and prepared to commence her narration; but was vehemently interrupted by Susan’s breathless inquiries:

“You say she’s not dead? Are you sure? How do you know? If she is not dead, where has she been all this time that no one has ever heard of her?”

“Mother, dear, I do not quite know, except that she has been at Edengarden, and traveling. But, though living, she has been dead to the world, she says.”

“‘She says!’ Why, for Heaven’s sake, girl, have you seen her and heard her talk, yourself?” exclaimed Susan in a transport of wonder almost as great as if she had heard Em. tell of seeing and hearing a spirit from Paradise.

“Yes, mother, dear, how else could I have known anything about the lady?” said Em., who would then have delivered a “plain unvarnished tale” of her day’s adventures had not Susan’s impetuous cross-examination precluded all possibility of a consecutive narrative.

Em. was put upon the witness-stand and compelled to answer as she was questioned.

“When did you see her? Where was she? How came you to meet her? How did she look? What did she say?”

“I met her by accident this afternoon on the island, while I was looking at one of the pictures in the house. She looked thin and white, but young and beautiful as any angel for all that. She asked me my name, and when I told her she seemed to know all about me, and was very kind to me, and sent her love to you and wishes you and old Aunt Monica and father to come with me to see her to-morrow, if possible, or, if not, as soon as you can,” answered Em., pouring out her news as rapidly as she could to satisfy the ravenous demands of the inquirer.

“Well—well—well! Wonders will never cease in this world. Why, this beats Mr. Ronald’s sea yarns, Em. Emolyn Wyndeworth alive! Emolyn Wyndeworth the Lady of Edengarden! So near us, and not to let me know—me, who loved her so dearly, and had good cause, for the child sold her very clothes to buy my children bread!”

And here Susan Palmer began to cry, though she could not for her life have told whether it was for present joy or remembered sorrow. It was probably from both causes.

“Not to let me know she was living, and so near—me, who named my prettiest child after her!” sobbed Susan.

“But, mother, she has let you know. She has sent you word by me. Remember, she has only been here for a few days—since the first of October.”

“Oh! You didn’t tell me that, Em. I thought she had been here all the summer, as the people say she generally is. I wish you would tell a straight story, Em., and then I could understand things better,” said Susan Palmer as she wiped her eyes on her clean apron.

“That is just what I have been trying to do, mother; so, if you will let me, I will begin at the beginning and tell you every particular so plainly that it will be as good as if you had gone there with me yourself and seen and heard everything.”

“Well, then, so do, Em., and I’ll not interrupt you,” said Susan, settling herself comfortably back in the old easy-chair and stretching out her feet to the fire.

And, having had her first ravenous and devouring cravings of curiosity satisfied, the good woman kept her word, and sat and listened with patient attention while Em. gave her a careful and detailed account of her visit to the island and interview with the Lady of Edengarden.

Even when Em. had finished her narrative her mother showed no disposition to retire. All sense of weariness and drowsiness seemed to have vanished. Susan Palmer appeared to be disposed to sit up all night before the fire in her daughter’s chamber, talking of Emolyn Wyndeworth.

“I wonder what she has been doing all these years when she has not been at Edengarden? Traveling all over the world, I do suppose, scattering blessings wherever she passed, I know; for the good of others was her only object, thought of self was never in her heart. I hardly think she ever felt she had any self until that sharp trouble of hers pierced her through and through, and drove her out into the desert places of the world.”

“What trouble was that of hers, dear mother, can you tell me?” inquired Em.

“No, I can’t tell you. I think she will some day, as she has taken such a wonderful fancy to you. You say she wants you, Em.?”

“Yes, mother, dear, she wants me to live with her as companion, I suppose. She must be very lonely, you know.”

“Would you like to go, Em.?”

“Oh, dear mother, yes, indeed, if you and father are willing to part with me.”

“It would hardly be like parting with you to lend you to her, so near us, too! And it would help you to forget that young man, whom you must forget, Em. Well, child, if she wants you and you want to go to her you shall go; so that is settled. Your father would never dream of making any objection when anything as much for your good as that is in every respect turns up.”

“I was sure you would like me to go, mother.”

“Why, of course. Now I tell you what we will do. To-morrow morning, if no change for the worse takes place in poor Ann Whitlock, we will borrow old ’Sias’s boat, and me and your father, just us three and no more, will start for Edengarden. And when we get safe in the middle of the river, out of hearing of every one but the water-fowl, we will tell father all about it! And, oh, won’t he be astonished? But we won’t drop a word of it to him, or any one else, until then. As to old Monica, although we have the lady’s leave to do it, we will not say anything to her yet awhile either. It would only distract her mind from the sick woman, who needs all her attention. What do you think, Em.?”

“Dear mother, I think you are quite right. Oh, let us be very cautious; for though I cannot imagine why that lovely Lady of Edengarden should wish to keep her identity as Emolyn Wyndeworth concealed beyond that it is from the memory of some great sorrow suffered in her youth—still, I know she made such a strong point of our keeping her secret when she gave me her confidence that I would not for all this world could offer me even seem to betray the trust!”

“Don’t be afraid o’ me, Em.! I can be as secret as the grave,” said Susan Palmer.

The clock in the hall clanged out twelve.

“I declare, it is midnight! Good-night, Em.! I must go to bed, though I don’t believe I shall sleep a wink this night with thinking of Emolyn Wyndeworth!” said the good woman as she lighted her candle and left the room.

Em. did not go to bed, however. She drew the brands together to make them safe, laid a log upon them to keep the fire, and then blew out her candle and tripped downstairs to Ann Whitlock’s room, which she entered.

She found the sick woman either sleeping or unconscious, and old Monica sitting in the arm-chair before the fire, wakeful and watchful.

“I have come to tell you that you must lie down and sleep. I will take your place until daylight,” said Em., leaning over the chair.

Old Monica resisted this mandate; but Em. insisted, and finally the nurse compromised matters by simply lying down on the outside of the bed behind Ann Whitlock, where she soon fell fast asleep.

Em. herself felt very drowsy, so, for fear of following old Monica’s example if she should sit in the old rocker over the fire, she drew a very uneasy, hard, and high-backed chair to the side of the bed and sat down to watch her patient.

When feeling herself almost overcome by sleep she would rise and walk noiselessly up and down the room.

If her patient stirred she would give her a teaspoonful or more of beef tea and brandy, which the sick woman would swallow mechanically.

If the fire burned low she mended it by putting on fresh logs.

And so she passed the night in the sick-room.

When morning dawned she did not wake old Monica; but the aged are never long or heavy sleepers; so, as the first rays of the rising sun streamed through the open slats of the window shutters, the old nurse opened her eyes, sat bolt upright on the bed, took an instant to collect her faculties, and then got down and said:

“Lord bless you, honey, for dis ’freshing nap as I have had! Now, tell me how you bofe got along ’dout me.”

“You bofe” being supposed to signify the young nurse and her patient, Em. gave Monica a full and satisfactory report of the night’s watch.

Then the girl went up to her own room, took a refreshing wash in ice-cold water, and after brushing her hair and changing her dress she felt as wide awake as if she had slept instead of watching all night long.

She went down into the parlor, expecting to find some part of the family there in honor of their guest.

She found no one but Ronald Bruce, standing with his back to the wood fire.

He sprang to meet her.

“Dear Em., I have been here since daybreak, hoping some good spirit favorable to poor, unfortunate lovers might whisper in your ear and send you down to see me,” he exclaimed as he took both her hands and drew her towards him.

But she slipped away and evaded the kiss he meant, as she said to him:

“Ronald, I am glad to speak to you alone for a moment, and for the last time, dear Ronald, until our meeting shall be sanctioned by my parents and your uncle.”

“Little prude! Little prig!” muttered the young man, half sulkily, half lovingly.

“I wanted to tell you, Ronald, that my mother and father both love you very dearly. Indeed, you ought to know that.”

“Perhaps I do know it and presume on it a little.”

“But for all that, Ronald, for reasons that you know of my father intends this morning to put you upon your honor never to come to this house or seek my presence again until you can come with your uncle’s sanction.”

“As if my uncle had a parent’s authority over a man twenty-three years old!” impatiently burst forth the youth.

“However that may be, my father insists that you seek my hand only with your uncle’s sanction. And now, Ronald, I must be brief in what I have to say to you, for some one may come in at any moment. It is this, dear Ronald: Submit to my father’s terms patiently. He loves you as well as me, and he would not do anything that he did not believe would be for your good as well as for mine.”

“I wish to the Lord in heaven that people would mind their own business and leave us and our good alone!” vehemently exclaimed the vexed lover.

“Ronald! Ronald! How can you say such things in reference to father? He has a right to be obeyed by his own daughter and in his own house! But listen, dear Ronald, for this is what I wished to say to you: Be patient. I am convinced that all will soon be well.”

“Em., my dearest, what do you mean by that? Have you——”

But before the young man could utter another word John Palmer entered the room, bid his guest a cordial good-morning, and invited him to walk in to breakfast, which was waiting for them.

Ronald returned the greeting, and then openly gave Em. his arm and took her in to breakfast.

They no longer treated the young lieutenant as a stranger, so all the family were assembled around the table, only waiting for his entrance to take their seats.

After greetings had been exchanged they sat down.

Susan dispensed the tea and coffee; John the broiled venison steaks; and Em. the buckwheat cakes.

Love had not taken away the young man’s appetite, for he did full justice to the food set before him.

When breakfast was over he took leave of his kind hostess and her family, gave Em.’s hand a prolonged squeeze, and, attended to the yard by John Palmer, went out and mounted his horse and started for The Breezes, wondering as he rode slowly away what Em. could have meant by her cheerful prophecy that all would soon be well.

CHAPTER XXII

HOPE

Hope bids me hope! In that consoling word

Is peace and comfort to my soul restored.

None without hope has loved the brightest fair.

For love can hope where reason would despair.

LORD LYTTLETON.

“Did you ask that young gentleman not to visit here again? Did you put him on his honor not to come?” anxiously inquired Susan Palmer of her husband as he re-entered the kitchen after seeing his guest off.

“Well,” said honest John, hesitating and looking down, “to tell you the plain truth, Susan, I didn’t.”

“You didn’t!”

“No: I have been trying to tell him all yesterday and this morning, but he was so very kind and pleasant all the while that I hadn’t a chance to break in anywhere, even edgeways, to say he must never come back again. Well, I hadn’t the heart to do it—there! Why, I coud as soon have struck a friend in the face while he was smiling up into mine.”

Em. went up to her father, put her arms around his neck and kissed him quietly.

“Yes, but you know I ought to have forbidden him the house, though, all the same, Em.,” whispered John Palmer, shaking his head.

“Oh, no, no, no, dearest father, no! Your kind heart led you right,” exclaimed Em.

“I know I can trust you, Em. You will not disobey me, my girl?”

“Oh, never, never, father! I will never do anything you disapprove.”

“I know it, my darling. You are safe enough.”

“That’s not the question,” snapped Susan. “It’s the girl’s peace and quietness I’m thinking of, and if that young man is to be allowed to come here whenever he pleases, how is she ever to forget him, I’d like to know? Being as things are, the sooner Em. leaves home the better.”

“Well,” sighed John, “’twas you, Susan, as gave him the heartiest welcome last night, and now you blame me—but ‘sich is life.’”

Having finished with his favorite bit of philosophy, John took his pipe from the mantelpiece and walked out to the orchard, where the negroes were gathering winter apples for storing.

He had scarcely left the house when Dr. Willet arrived on his morning visit.

He tied his horse and walked into the open door of the passage without ceremony.

Em. met him as she came out of the kitchen.

“Well, my dear, how do you do? How do you like living in the country? It is only a few months since you left town, yet I dare say now it seems to you quite a long while,” said the good doctor cheerfully as he shook hands with the girl.

“It seems a lifetime, sir, since we lived in Laundry Lane! Longer even than that. It seems—that period, I mean—to belong to some remote state of pre-existence!” answered Em.

“I thought so! I thought so!” said the doctor with evident satisfaction. “So you don’t pine to return?”

“Oh, no, sir, no! And yet the old lane and the poor, dear children who still live there!” said Em. compassionately.

“Yes, yes. Ah, here comes your mother! Well, Mrs. Palmer, how is our patient to-day?”

“Oh, doctor, good-morning to you! She is better, I think. I have just come down from her bedside. She can move her hands and feet, but can’t turn over yet. She can also chew and swallow, but she can’t speak. And she seems to understand every word we say to her, but she can’t answer except by signs.”

“Just so, but all that is a very great improvement since yesterday. I will go up and see her.”

“Oh, doctor, wasn’t it a Providence you being in the neighborhood just at this time?”

“It was fortunate,” said Dr. Willet as he followed Mrs. Palmer upstairs.

Em. took her workbasket and sat down to sew until the return of her mother and the physician.

After an absence of about twenty minutes they came down the steps, talking cheerfully, the doctor more than confirming the hopeful report of the nurse as to the old patient’s amendment.

When Dr. Willet had taken a kindly leave of all the family and had ridden away Em. said to her mother:

“Don’t you think now that we might trust Mrs. Whitlock with Aunt Monica and Aunt Sally, and get father to take us to Edengarden, mother?”

“Yes, child, yes, I was planning the very same thing myself! I’ll send one of the boys to fetch Sally, and you can throw your shawl over your head and run down and meet your father in the orchard and speak to him about taking us. And, mind, girl, be cautious! Not one word about the Lady of Edengarden until we three are on the boat alone together in the middle of the river, out of earshot of every human being except ourselves.”

“Oh, mother, never fear me!” said Em. as she took her shepherd’s plaid shawl from its peg, wrapped it around her head and shoulders, wearing it as gracefully as ever Andalusian beauty wore her fascinating “rabousa,” and tripped out of the house on her way to the orchard.

“Father, you are not very busy to-day?” she said interrogatively as she came up to John Palmer, standing amid a group of busy apple-pickers.

“Well, no, Em., not particularly. Why did you ask, my lass?”

“Because, if you can spare the time, mother and I wish you to take us in the row-boat down to Edengarden Island.”

“Well, there! If I have asked your mother once to go to Edengarden I have asked her fifty times this summer, and never could get her to go. No, she wouldn’t trust herself on the water! But now she will go! Well, ‘sich is life.’ Of course I’ll spare the time, my dear! When do you want to go?”

“Now.”

“That’s short and sweet. Now, then, run home and get ready, and I will send word down to old ’Sias to have the boat out.”

Em. went home as fast as she had come out, and told her mother to prepare for the trip.

As for Em. herself, her preparations were soon made; they consisted only in lowering her shawl to her shoulders, putting a little brown felt hat on her head, and drawing a pair of gloves on her hands.

Susan only waited to receive Aunt Sally and place her in charge of the house, and then went with Em. out to join John, who, in his Sunday clothes, was waiting for them out of doors.

The three walked briskly down the leaf-strewn road that led to the park gate.

“Long time since you and I have had an outing together, Susan! And this came so unexpectedly it has all the pleasure of a surprise as well as of a holiday,” said John gayly, for he seemed honestly to enjoy his “outing,” as he called it, in company with his wife and his favorite child.

“I’m sure, John, this time yesterday I had as much idea of going to Europe as going to Edengarden.”

“Well, and what put it into your head to-day, my dear?”

“I—I changed my mind,” replied Susan evasively.

“You did? Surely. Well, ‘sich is life.’”

“Here we are at the gate, and it is propped open. Old ’Sias is down on the shore with a boat, I suppose, and as for Sereny, she’d see us stand here forever before she would take the trouble to open the gate. The only way in which she ever exerts herself is in whacking old ’Sias,” said Susan as they passed through the gate, which John carefully locked behind them. Then he put the key in his pocket, with the intention to give it to old ’Sias down on the shore.

A rapid walk through the thick woods brought them down to the banks of the river.

Old ’Sias was there, standing in the boat and looking out for the expected party.

John Palmer greeted him kindly, delivered the keys of the gate, and cautioned him against ever leaving it open again.

Old ’Sias remarked that “Jordan was a hard road to travel for any poor pilgrim who had duties to perform on the one hand, and a Sereny to perform on him on t’other.”

But he resigned the command of the boat to John Palmer and made the best of his way to his special post of duty.

John helped Susan into the boat and seated her comfortably.

Em. entered, unassisted, seated herself in her accustomed place and took the tiller.

John laid himself to the oars and rowed swiftly from the shore, while Em. steered for the island.

“What in the name o’ sense makes you hold on to that stick, Em.?” inquired Susan, impatient of every motion she did not understand.

“This stick, as you call it, mother, is the rein that guides our water-horse down the river.”

“I wish you would talk straight sometimes, Em.!” exclaimed her mother.

The girl laughed and then explained the simple action of the tiller.

When they had reached the middle of the river Em. said:

“Dear father, rest on your oars for a little and let us drift slowly down stream. We did not bring you out to-day for pleasure only, but to tell you a secret that we feared the very leaves might hear, and the birds repeat, if we told it on land.”

“Eh! What! A secret! A dangerous secret!” exclaimed John, pausing in his work and staring at his daughter. “None o’ the boys ain’t been up to doing nothing wrong, have they?” he continued in growing anxiety.

“No, dear father, nor the girls, neither,” said Em.

“Whatever trouble you may have to bear in this world, John Palmer, you may be sure of one thing—that your children will never bring it on you,” added Susan.

“But—what’s the matter?” inquired puzzled John.

“Tell him, mother,” said Em.

“Well, then, listen and never breathe it to a human being—Emolyn Wyndeworth is found!”

John instinctively opened his mouth to speak, but found no word to express his astonishment.

“But I thought she was dead and gone long, long ago,” he said at length.

“No, she was only dead to the world, and gone far out of the ken of all who ever knew her before,” replied Susan.

“She is the Lady of Edengarden,” added Em.

“Eh! What! The Lady of Edengarden! Then she must be our Lady of the Manor as well!” exclaimed John in growing amazement.

“She is, and just as soon as this Manor of the Wilderness came into her possession through the death of her relative, old Mr. Elphine, don’t you see, she thought of us at once? Yes, and through Dr. and Mrs. Willet she managed to get us all out here without appearing to have anything to do with it.”

“Well,” said John meditatively, “I often wondered how such a thundering great piece of good fortune ever did come to us, who wa’n’t much blessed with rich friends! And now I know. But why should the lady wish to keep her existence a secret?”

“Oh, John! you are a man, or you never could have asked that question! Do you think she could ever get over the cruel wrong that was done her, innocent as she was? Why, even the poor wounded dove goes away and hides itself from all eyes to die. She was wounded to the very death, and yet she could not die, and she would not kill herself; but she went away and hid herself—innocent as an angel though she was!” answered Susan with emotion.

“I’d faced it out if I’d been her!”

“Of course you would; but you wa’n’t her! And now, John Palmer, do you listen to me,” said Susan solemnly. “Nobody but you and me, in this neighborhood, knows anything about the awful affliction that drove this innocent lady into the wilderness. And we must be cautious! We must never speak of her even to each other, unless we find ourselves in a boat in the middle of the river, as the only place where we can be quite sure of not being overheard.”

“But—how on earth did you find all this out?” inquired John, scratching his head.

“I will tell you all about it,” said Susan.

And she forthwith gave him a detailed account of Em.’s visit to the isle, her unexpected meeting with the Lady of Edengarden and the ensuing interview between them, during which the lady had revealed herself to the girl and sent messages to the parents requesting the latter to visit her at Edengarden.

While Susan eagerly narrated and John earnestly listened Em. steered the boat as it floated slowly down stream.

“Now what do you think of that?” said Susan when she had finished her story.

John did not know what he thought, and so he could not tell her.

“Why don’t you speak?” demanded Susan.

John had nothing new to say, so he said:

“‘Sich is life!’”

And he took up both oars and laid himself to them with such vigor that the boat soon cleared the intervening water and grounded on the sands at the landing of Edengarden Island.

“Now you two just walk up to the house. I’ll stay here with the boat until you come back,” said John Palmer as he helped his wife and daughter to land.

“Now, John, I do think that is too queer of you! Why can’t you walk up with us when the lady sent you an invitation to come, too?” exclaimed Susan, with an injured air.

“Now look here, dear woman, s’pose the lady did invite me along of you and Em. It was just out of kindness and politeness to your husband and Em.’s father, not that she cared about seeing me. And don’t you see, if she was ever so friendly to me, as she is, and has shown herself to be bringing us all to the Wilderness manor-house, still, in this first meeting, don’t you think she’d prefer to see you without me? You’ll have such a deal of woman’s affairs to talk about, you know!”

“Father is right, mother,” said Em.

“Well, then, come along,” exclaimed Susan. “And John, you had better fasten the boat and walk up and down in the sunshine on the beach. If you sit there you will take cold.”

With this parting advice Susan followed her daughter, who led the way up the narrow path leading from the landing through the belt of silver maples, and through the ornamented grounds, and up terrace upon terrace, until they reached the middle and highest part of the island upon which the mansion of white stone stood.

Susan was loud in her expressions of admiration at the beauty of the place.

When they reached the marble steps that led to the main entrance, Em. passed up quickly before her mother and rang the bell.

A colored boy about sixteen years old opened the door.

“Is Mrs. Lynn at home?” inquired Em., after she had recovered from her momentary surprise at the unexpected sight of a stranger.

The page took a deliberate view of the mother, and then inquired in his turn:

“Name o’ Palmer?”

“Yes, Mrs. Palmer and her daughter,” answered Em.

“My mist’ess is at home. Walk in,” said the boy, opening wide the door.

CHAPTER XXIII

EMOLYN’S WEIRD

We maun a’dree our weird.—MEG MERRILES.

They entered the beautiful white hall, with its rainbow windows, around on which Susan Palmer stared with open-eyed admiration and wonder.

“Mrs. Palmer!” exclaimed the page, throwing wide open a door leading into an elegant little parlor on the right-hand side of the hall, opposite the grand saloon.

A lady dressed in gray rose from a sofa and advanced to meet the visitors.

“Oh, Miss Emolyn!” exclaimed Mrs. Palmer, so overcome with emotion at the very sight of the lady that she sank down at once into the arm-chair which Em. quick as thought wheeled to her side.

Meantime Mrs. Lynn took the girl by the hand and kissed her before turning attention to Susan.

“Oh, Miss Emolyn! That I should live to see you again! Thank Heaven! Oh, thank Heaven! And you are not changed so much! Oh, no, indeed!” exclaimed Susan Palmer in almost hysterical excitement.

“Nor are you changed much in all these years, dear old friend, or, indeed, changed at all, except for the better! You are plumper and rosier than you used to be, Mrs. Palmer,” said Emolyn, as she stood by her chair, took her hand and kissed her gently.

“It is the good living, my dear young lady. It is the pure air and fresh water and abundant food. It is the good living that has given us all new life, which we owe to your sweet, kind heart, Miss Emolyn!” said Susan Palmer, weeping for joy while she covered the hands of her benefactress with kisses.

“It makes me so happy to see you so well and prosperous,” said the lady, as she gently withdrew her hands from Susan’s clasps and kisses, and seated herself in the nearest chair.

“Em. has told me all you told her, but, oh, my dear young lady——”

“I am not a young lady any longer, Susan,” said Emolyn, smiling sadly. “I am thirty-two and a half years old.”

“That don’t seem possible, to look at you, Miss Emolyn, yet it must be so. You must be thirty-two, for you were sixteen when I saw you last, and that was nearly seventeen years ago! La! Em. was a baby then, and now she’s a young woman. And, Miss Emolyn, do you know we all think Em. the very print of you, as why wouldn’t she be when for months and months before she was born I did nothing but think of you and your troubles in your tyrant’s house, my poor, dear young lady, and your image was never out of my mind. But, oh, my dear child, where have you been all these years when we thought you in heaven?”

“Oh, Susan Palmer, it is a long story! When I left the city after passing through that ordeal of fire and water, my guardian, dear Uncle Lewis Berners, took me to Dranesville for a few days. Then, when Pony came out to me, he wished to take us home with him to Virginia; but I could not bear to go. So he took me to Europe. But lay off your bonnet and shawl, dear old friend, for if I tell you all you wish to know, it will be some time before I get through.”

“I am very much obleeged to you, Miss Emolyn, but I left my old man down in the boat, so it ain’t worth while to take off my things.”

“Oh, why did he not come up?”

“Well, honey, he thought we’d like to have a little talk by ourselves first.”

“And he was right, ma’am, wasn’t he? And, mother, don’t be troubled. Father’ll fasten the boat and take a walk around the island, where he will see enough to interest him for hours yet,” said Em., as she took off her own hat and shawl and went up to Mrs. Palmer to take hers.

“Now do you see the cool manner in which that girl takes her own way?” said Susan, as she gave Em. her bonnet and wraps.

“Give them to the boy in the hall, my dear; he will put them away for you. And now, Susan Palmer, be easy until lunch time, which is not far off, and then I will send your daughter to fetch her father, and by the time he comes we will have got through all our confidential talk.”

“Well, my dear young lady—for I shall call you my young lady until I see some signs of middle age come over you—my dear young lady, have your own way! You can do just as you please with me! And why not, seeing how heavenly good you have been to me! I’ll stay, ma’am, and very glad to stay, I don’t deny it,” said Susan with a sigh of satisfaction as she sank back comfortably in the most luxurious arm-chair she had ever sat in during her life.

“Draw your chair near me, little namesake, so that I can hold your hand in mine while I talk,” said Emolyn, as she turned a glance full of tenderness on Em.’s sympathetic face.

The young girl did as she was requested, and then, with Em.’s hand clasped closely in hers upon her lap, Emolyn began the story of her exile.

“I say, after I had passed through that fiery trial my guardian took me out of the city secretly and hid me at Dranesville, an obscure hamlet, where I remained in my room at the quiet little hotel, unknown, until the arrival of Pony with my trunk. Then my guardian wished to take me home with him to Blackville. But I could not bear the thought of remaining in my native country, or seeing any one whom I had ever known before.”

“I don’t wonder, my dear! I don’t wonder, indeed!” sighed Susan Palmer, half weeping.

“My guardian was very tolerant of my weakness—very tender of my suffering. He had retired from the practice of law, and having no family but his aged sisters, he found it easy to go abroad. So after a little delay necessary to the arrangement of his affairs he took me to New York and thence to Liverpool. We were attended only by my nurse, Pony, and his man-servant, Prince, who, coming from Blackville, knew nothing of the ordeal through which I had just passed.”

Here Emolyn’s glance falling on the upturned face of Em., she said:

“You are looking at me with eyes full of wonder and pity, my child! Well, let it be so for awhile. You are too young even to hear the horrors through which I had to pass when I was younger than you are now. Yet I feel sure, Em., that some day I shall tell you all.”

A convulsive clasp of her hand by the girl’s fingers was her only answer.

The lady resumed her story.

“It was near the last of July when we landed in Liverpool. It was perhaps the very best season in which to see England. Better even than the spring, for midsummer is never intolerably hot and dry there as it is here. Well, we spent two months in traveling through England, Wales, Scotland and Ireland. In the latter part of September we went to France, where we also spent two months in traveling. We did not stop in the cities nor enter any society. Early in December we went to Italy, spent six weeks in traveling through that loveliest of lands, and then we settled down in Rome for the winter.”

“Oh! Oh! And did you see the Pope? And does he really wear three crowns on his head, one upon top of the other?” eagerly interrupted Susan Palmer.

“I did not see the Pope. We never tried to see anybody. But I saw the Vatican—the palace where he lives, and I also saw many grand cathedrals and palaces.”

Here again Susan Palmer interrupted the narrator with a number of questions that compelled Emolyn to describe the Vatican, the other palaces, cathedrals and churches at some length.

“In the spring, just before Lent, we saw the carnival in Rome.”

“Yes! I have heard mention made about that. It is something like a circus and a panorama and a procession, isn’t it?” inquired Susan.

“Like all of them together, with a great many other spectacles, all on a tremendous scale.”

“Oh, please tell me all about it,” exclaimed Susan.

So Mrs. Lynn had to recall and describe all the grotesque and gorgeous phantasmagoria of the carnival at Rome before her hearer could be satisfied.

“Dear, dear me, what it is to be a traveler!” said Susan.

“As the month of May approached I became very nervous and filled with a horrible despair that threatened my reason. You know it was the anniversary of my great agony, Mrs. Palmer. Why, even after all these years I cannot pass it calmly. And that was the first anniversary.”

“I know, and I do not wonder at anything, my dear child, except that you were ever able to live over it at all.”

“My guardian was very good to me; may Heaven bless him! He took me to Venice, the most beautiful and wonderful city in the world, where there are canals instead of streets and gondolas instead of carriages.”

“Lord bless my soul, Miss Emolyn, how was that?” cried Susan.

Emolyn explained as briefly as she could the building of Venice upon its cluster of small islands, and then continued:

“We left Italy about the first of June. We spent the summer in traveling through Russia, Germany, Sweden, Norway and the Shetland and Orkney Islands. On the first of September we took a steamer from Glasgow to Constantinople——”

“Constantinople!” eagerly interrupted Susan. “Constantinople! Oh, my goodness gracious me alive! That’s better than the city of the Pope, or the city built on the sea, either! It is the city of the Grand Turk! Did you see the Grand Turk? And does he always sit cross-legged on a gold-fringed rug, with a long shawl rolled around his head for a turban, and smoking a long pipe, with a golden bowl and a room full of beautiful girls dancing before him? And has he really a thousand wives?”

“I don’t know. I did not see him, but I think it quite likely,” said Emolyn, with a slight smile.

“Think of that now! The pagan Turk to have a thousand wives, more or less, and the Pope—the poor Pope—to have not one. The laws ought to be changed! But tell me what you did see in the city of the Grand Turk. Though it do seem to me, my dear, that in all your travels you saw nothing but places and things, not people.”

“I did not want to see people,” sighed Emolyn.

“Ah, I know. How thoughtless I am. Go on, my dear young lady.”

Emolyn described Constantinople, with its splendid seraglio, its magnificent mosques, its squalid streets and mean dwellings.

“Seems to me there’s as much dif’rence between the rich and the poor in pagan cities as there be in Christian towns.”

“Just as much,” said Emolyn with a sigh; and then she continued—“From Turkey we went to Greece and to the Ionian Islands, where we spent the second winter of our travels. In the spring we returned to the United States because I had come of age and it was necessary for certain legal forms to be observed by my guardian in turning over my estates to me. We reached New York about the middle of May, and went down to Wynde Slopes in Maryland. But, oh, my dear friend, I was scarcely put in possession of my property before I lost my beloved guardian and last remaining friend. He passed away at Wynde Slopes after a short and painless illness, and it is my comfort to think he entered at once into his eternal rest. You know, by the terms of my father’s will, I was to be considered of age at eighteen. I was but a few weeks over that age when my dear guardian left me.”

“Oh, Miss Emolyn! He was a good man. I heard from Pony of all his devotion to you while you were in your trouble. Do go on, Miss Emolyn, and excuse my interrupting of you.”

“Well, my dear Susan, what I have to tell you now cannot be dwelt upon in detail. I sold Wynde Slopes, for I could not bear that my name, all blurred as it was with falsehood and wrong, should remain connected with my father’s old ancestral home.”

“But however came you to find out about this beautiful island, honey?”

Emolyn smiled.

“It was not a beautiful island when I found it, Susan; but the way was this: In my restlessness I was a rambler. I had besides a feeling of affectionate curiosity to see the old Wilderness manor-house, in which my mother had been born and been brought up. I came to Greyrock, accompanied by Pony, and rode over to the Wilderness. I saw the house. It had long been vacant, the master being then in Europe. I did not divulge my name to the old servants, nor my relationship to their master; yet, with the courtesy they always show to strangers, they took me all over the premises, showed me all I wished to see, told me all I wished to hear. I returned to Greyrock that night. I had intended to leave the place early the next morning; but both in going to and coming from the Wilderness I had taken the river road, and seen from its banks the desolate, rocky island. It took my fancy and haunted me even after I had gone home to Greyrock and gone to bed.”

“And so you thought you would like to make that desert bloom and blossom as the rose, Miss Emolyn?”

“Yes, Susan; and I thought I would like to make a home there, where I and Pony could come and rest sometimes, ‘the world forgetting, by the world forgot.’ In a word, before I left the neighborhood I had purchased the barren island for a mere trifle, but all that it was worth at the time. It would never have paid as a plantation, Susan; but it was well adapted to the metamorphosis I made of it, by the three potent genii—Labor, Time and Money. Fifteen years ago it was a barren rock. You see what it is now.”

“It is a paradise now,” said Susan with enthusiasm.

“Yet a paradise that could not hold my restless spirit long. After spending one year here I left it in careful hands and resumed my travels, this second time accompanied only by Pony and such stranger guides and couriers as I could pick up en route.”

Emolyn here paused so long that Susan Palmer inquired:

“And where did you go, Miss Emolyn? Seems to me as you had seen all the world before.”

“Not a hundredth part of it, Susan. But I did not go over the same ground. I sailed for Glasgow and then, without even landing, took ship for Christiana, Norway, and traveled over the extreme northern part of Europe, dwelling in the huts of the Lapps and Finns and making reindeer journeys from place to place. I saw the midnight sun.”

“THE MIDNIGHT SUN, MISS EMOLYN!” exclaimed Susan in open-mouthed amazement.

“Yes, Susan—it is a sublime and wonderful sight in those regions of eternal snow.”

“Oome, I feared the poor lady was just a little demented, and now I know it,” thought Susan mournfully.

“I passed through Russia and into Siberia, a voluntary exile. I spent a long summer on those savage steppes——”

“Steps!” muttered Susan to herself with a sigh.

“And then I moved southward without stopping until we reached Alexandria, in Egypt.”

“‘Alexandria, in Egypt!’ Ah, dear, dear, how her mind wanders. Everybody knows Alexandria is in old Virginy,” moaned Susan to herself.

“I am fatiguing you,” said Mrs. Lynn, perceiving her companion’s uneasiness. “I must be brief, Susan, and tell you in a few words that since that time, with the exception of an occasional summer of rest on the island here, I have spent all my days in travel. I have been all over the civilized and uncivilized world. I have been where few men and no women have ever gone before me—from Greenland to Terra del Fuego; from Behring Straits to Bermuda Isles on this hemisphere; from Cape North to Cape Colony, and from the coast of Guinea to the Sea of Kamtschatka on the other.”

“What a life!” exclaimed Susan with a great sigh. “But of all the countries and the people that you saw, which did you like the best, Miss Emolyn?”

“You will be surprised when you hear—I liked best to dwell among the Lapps and Finns!”

Susan was not surprised, for she had got so “mixed in her mind,” as she said, that she really did not know but that the Lapps and Finns were the most enlightened of European people instead of being northern barbarians.

“I have been to this island more regularly to spend the summers for the last few years until this year, when business connected with my inheritance of the Wilderness Manor detained me elsewhere until the first of October.”

“And to think, Miss Emolyn, that the very first thing you did after entering upon that inheritance was to think of us in our poverty, that poor, squalid Laundry Lane, and to bring us to this beautiful, wholesome country,” said Susan Palmer gratefully.

“It is true that my very first thought was of you,” admitted Emolyn.

At that moment a distant clock chimed out musically the hour of noon.

“Now, my little namesake, go find your father and bring him to the house to lunch with us,” said the lady.

Em. immediately arose and left the room to do this errand. She went into the hall, where she found her hat and shawl hung on an artistic tree carved out of malachite. She put them on hastily, and ran out to seek her father, whom she expected to find near the boat-landing.

Meantime the two women, left alone together, looked into each other’s faces as if each expected a confidence from the other.

Susan was the first to speak.

“Now, Miss Emolyn, that she is gone and we are by ourselves, tell me why you have never been able to get over your trouble during all these long years?”

Emolyn shuddered and covered her eyes with her hands.

“Oh, I have hurt you, Miss Emolyn. I am so sorry. I beg you to forgive me. I ought not to have asked you a question. But, dear Miss Emolyn, still you ought not to take that old sorrow so much to heart, innocent as I know you to be.”

“Oh, Susan, Susan! No one could ever entirely recover from such a blasting affliction as mine was!” cried the unhappy lady.

“Not even when you know you was innocent, Miss Emolyn?”

“No—not even then! But, Susan, there is the horror of it. I do not know that I am innocent!” exclaimed Emolyn, with a low moan of anguish.

“Oh, my dear young lady, whatever do you mean?”

“Oh, Susan, Susan! After all I may have—hurt my child!”

“Oh, Miss Emolyn, you never, never did! I would stake my soul that you never did. (This is an awful symptom of derangement.) You never did, Miss Emolyn. You have thought about it so much that you have got heartsick and brainsick, and ready to accuse yourself. Don’t think about it any more, Miss Emolyn. You were right to travel, after all. Oh, pray don’t let your thoughts dwell upon it any longer, Miss Emolyn. Put it out of your mind!”

“But, Susan, I cannot. It is a haunting horror. I could—I think I could get over even the diabolical memory of my trial if only I were quite sure I never harmed my child. But oh, Susan—on that awful night when she was born there were hours of agony, followed by hours of unconsciousness! There may have been between the agony and the unconsciousness moments of delirium in which I might have harmed my innocent, helpless child! I do not remember. But then, you know, Susan, that people recovering from delirium never know or recollect what passed during the fit. I might have killed my own child! Oh, Heaven! Oh, Heaven! What a haunting horror that thought is to all my days and nights!” moaned the miserable woman, swaying herself back and forth and covering her face with her hands.

“Miss Emolyn, my child, be comforted! You are clear of that sin! As sure as I am a living woman you have only brooded and brooded over this until you have got almost insane! Now think of this, Miss Emolyn! When you were first accused your mind was clear enough on the subject. You knew then that you had never hurt your child, and you affirmed it most positive and distinct to every one; and everybody believed you, too! Now this crazy notion of yours has only come of brooding over it.”

“Oh, Susan, is that possible?”

“Why, yes, ma’am! I have heard of such cases often and often! You aught to speak to a physician, Miss Emolyn. Here’s Dr. Willet quite convenient. Did you know he was in the neighborhood, Miss Emolyn?”

“Yes, I knew he was there. He has been to see me on this island.”

“Well, then, honey, speak to him.”

“Perhaps. But, oh, Susan, who can ‘minister to a mind diseased?’ And, Susan,” she continued, sinking her voice to a whisper, “if I did not harm my child, who did? The child was strangled, Susan! Who did it?”

“Ah, dear knows, Miss Emolyn, honey!” sighed the woman. “You must pray!”

“I ‘must pray.’ Perhaps some late remorse—some deathbed confession—may bring out the truth and give me peace!”

CHAPTER XXIV

A GOOD FAIRY

A smile of hers is like an act of grace;

For when she smiles, a light is on her face,

A clear, cool kindliness, a lunar beam

Of peaceful radiance, silvering o’er the stream

Of human thought with an abiding glory,

Not quite a waking truth, nor quite a dream—

A visitation bright and transitory.

H. COLERIDGE.

The conversation between the Lady of Edengarden and her visitor continued until the return of Em., conducting her father.

“This is my husband, madam. John, this is our Lady of the Manor,” said Susan Palmer, presenting the new arrival to her hostess.

“I am very glad to see you, Mr. Palmer. I remember you quite well. You are not at all changed, except for the better. You are stouter and—taller, I almost think,” said Emolyn, holding out her hand.

“I am stronger, madam, and more erect, thanks to the mountain air and your bounty,” said John, as he respectfully received and bowed over the little hand held out to him.

Em. placed a chair for her father, and as he sat down upon it she took his hat from his hands and carried it out to the tree in the hall.

At the same moment Emolyn touched a bell that brought her page to her presence.

“Order luncheon to be served at once,” she said.

The young Mercury flew on his errand.

Emolyn filled up the short interval by talking to her visitor about the old Wilderness manor-house and its historical associations.

And then the boy returned and announced the repast in readiness.

“Come, friends,” said Emolyn, drawing the arm of her young namesake within her own and leading the way, followed by John and Susan.

The lady conducted her guests through a suite of sumptuous rooms, each succeeding one seeming more splendid than the other, until at length they reached a small but elegant dining-room, in the midst of which stood the lunch-table, laid for four, covered with the finest white damask, furnished with Sèvres china, Bohemian glass and silver, and provided with substantial fare, as well as with delicate viands.

The lady of the house made Em. sit on her right hand, on one side of the oval table, while John and Susan sat opposite on the other side.

The young page waited on the party.

The unaffected kindness and simplicity of Emolyn’s manner put her visitors quite at their ease, so that perhaps never was a repast more enjoyed than was this lunch by John and Susan.

As for Em., girl-like, she keenly appreciated dainty items in the feast—the potted meats and fish, the West India preserves and fruits and the French confections and chocolate.

When the collation was over Emolyn led her friends back to the parlor, and calling her little page to her, said:

“I want you to tell Pony to come here and see an old acquaintance.”

The boy left the room, and the party in the parlor had scarcely settled into their seats when the door opened and a tall, stout, handsome mulatto woman, becomingly dressed in a scarlet French calico, with a black silk apron, white collar and cuffs, white turban and large gold hoop earrings, entered.

“Why, Pony! Oh, Pony, I am so delighted to see you!” gushed Susan, starting up and holding out her hand to the newcomer.

“So is I, you, Mrs. Palmer! ’Pon my word, how well you does look, to be sure!” exclaimed the woman, heartily shaking the offered hand.

“Is that young gal your darter?” she then inquired, turning her bright black eyes on the girl.

“Yes—that’s Em.! named after your mistress, Pony. Come here, Em. and get acquainted with the best friend I ever had in the world except Miss Wyndeworth,” continued Susan, beckoning to her daughter.

Em. came up and offered her hand, saying:

“I have heard about you all my life, Aunt Melpomene, and you look just as I supposed you would. I never did hope to have the pleasure of seeing you face to face; but, oh, I am so glad to meet you now!”

“So am I you, miss. But, law—did anybody ever see such a likeness in this world?” exclaimed, the woman, almost staring the girl out of countenance.

“As between this lady and myself?” she replied, with a blush and smile of embarrassment. “Oh, yes, I have heard it commented upon by so many people—all, I think, whoever chanced to see us both.”

“Yes,” added Susan, laughing, “and I have expounded and explained how it was until I am tired. Why, Pony, woman, why shouldn’t my child be the very image of your young mistress when I had her face in my mind for months before this child arrived.”

“Well, it’s made her mighty pretty, and that’s the solemn truth,” said the woman gravely. “But I’ll tell you what, Miss Em., beauty is a great snare to the young, and unless it is supported by Christian grace, my honey, it is likely to fetch more misery than happiness.”

“‘Sich is life,’” said John sententiously.

“Oh, I declare I forgot—Pony, you remember my husband, don’t you?”

“Who—Mr. Palmer? Why, to be sure I do! I hope I find you well, sir! But my, how stout and portable you have got to be, sir!” exclaimed Pony, turning her attention now to the overseer.

“I am sure I can return the compliment,” said John, laughing.

“Well, you see, sir, we colored female women folks, when we keeps in good health, and is in peace with the Lord and the neighbor, is most in general ’clined to wax fat as we grow old,” replied Pony, showing all her teeth.

“‘Sich is life,’” said John solemnly.

“Indeed, and that is very true, sir, if we could only live up to it,” remarked Pony.

“You have seen a great deal of the world since I saw you, Pony,” put in Susan.

“I b’lieve you, ma’am! Me and my mist’ess ’mind me more of ole Satan in Job than anything else in de world—a ‘walking up and down in the earth and going to and fro in it.’ Yes, ma’am, me and mist’ess has been all over the universe, from Dansheba to de Debbil’s Icy Peek!”

“She means that I have been the tormenting Satan and she has been the patient Job,” explained Mrs. Lynn with a smile, adding: “Now, Pony, we will detain you no longer from your lunch.”

The woman took a laughing leave of her old friends and left the room.

Then Emolyn turned to Mr. and Mrs. Palmer, and addressing both, said:

“Now, my dear old friends, I wish to make a proposal to you that I earnestly hope may meet your views. I have a pleasant home here—very pleasant and healthy at all seasons of the year—but I am very lonely. I want a young and agreeable companion to share my solitude, and for such a one I should try to provide a happy home and instructive and profitable occupation and amusement. Your sweet girl here suits me precisely. If only I can make myself and home as attractive to her as she is to me, and if I can gain your approval, I wish to receive my young namesake in my house, on the footing of a daughter, a younger sister, pupil, companion—anything you wish, and on any terms you may please to suggest.”

“You know, my dear Miss Emolyn, as far as I am concerned, you are heartily welcome to Em.’s company on your own terms. It is not for us to dictate to you,” said Susan Palmer cordially.

Emolyn, smiling, replied:

“You shall never have cause to regret the confidence you repose in me, Mrs. Palmer.”

“Oh, I know that, Miss Emolyn. I know that.”

John Palmer as yet had said nothing.

Em., watching her father, felt a growing uneasiness.

Emolyn came to the rescue by turning and inquiring of the silent man:

“What do you think, Mr. Palmer?”

“I think, my dear lady, that we are all of us under very deep obligations to you; more, indeed, than we can ever hope to repay. As to our girl, I feel that you wish to take her quite as much for her own sake as for yours. But, madam, this is sudden, and under your favor, I think we all of us—your honored self as well as the rest—had better take a day or two to reflect before deciding,” replied John.

“Very well. How long will you want to reflect on this, Mr. Palmer?” inquired Emolyn.

(“Oh, the old aggravating, cud-chewing cow! He’ll diddle Em. out of her good fortune yet with his reflection,” thought Susan Palmer to herself, feeling more impatience at her patient husband than she had ever felt before.)

John thought a moment before answering the lady’s question, and then lifting his head, he inquired:

“Will to-morrow evening suit you, madam, to receive our decision?”

“Thanks, yes, quite well, and I trust it will be a favorable one.”

“I hope, my dear lady, that you know we are all very sensible of your great kindness to us,” said John, rising from his seat.

“Oh, say no more about that, my good friend,” replied Emolyn.

“I thank you, madam. We will think the more then if we speak the less. And now, my dear lady, we must say good-by, and be getting back to the manor-house,” said John respectfully.

“Must you, indeed? I had hoped to detain you all day. I do not like to part with this dear child, who, I feel sure, reciprocates my affection,” said Emolyn warmly.

Em., who was sitting by her side, impulsively raised the lady’s hand and pressed it warmly to her lips as in confirmation of the words.

“Oh, why can you not stay till evening? There is no moon, to be sure, but then the clear starlight nights are very brilliant, and the river is as smooth as a mirror,” pleaded Emolyn, with more earnestness than the occasion seemed to warrant, as she clasped and held Em.’s hand.

“Well, you see, ma’am, we left a very sick woman in our house, Ann Whitlock, who has been with us so long that she seems like a relation,” Susan explained.

“Ann Whitlock?” inquired Emolyn musingly.

“Why, my dear young lady, she was the sick-nurse that was with your uncle in his latter days, you know.”

“Yes, to be sure!” said Emolyn thoughtfully.

“And after that she was nurse in the same hospital where I was a patient. And she saved little Em.’s life, as I explained to you once, ma’am.”

“Oh, yes, I remember,” sighed Emolyn.

“And since then me and John have felt she had a claim on us, and we have taken care of her in her old days.”

“That was very sweet of you, Susan Palmer! And she is sick now, you say?”

“Yes, ma’am, very much so. She had a paralytic stroke yesterday while Em. was here. To be sure, she has rallied a little, and the doctor thinks there’s no present danger of death. Still, nobody can tell. So you see, ma’am, we must not leave her all day.”

“I see,” said the lady thoughtfully. And she touched the bell that brought her young page to her presence.

She gave him an order in a low voice, and he left the room.

“Em., get our things,” said Susan Palmer.

The girl went and brought them.

While Em. and her mother were putting on their shawls and hats the page returned, bringing a hamper of wine, which he set down on the carpet before his mistress.

“Susan Palmer,” said the lady, “when my uncle was paralyzed the doctor ordered him to drink champagne as freely as water. You know it kept him alive for many months, if it could not cure him. Take this to your invalid and give it to her freely. When it is nearly gone let me know and I will send another hamper.”

“Oh, Miss Emolyn, how thankful I am! And how grateful poor Ann Whitlock will be! Heaven bless you, my dear! How like you this is!” exclaimed Susan fervently.

“The boy will take it down to the boat for you.”

“Much obliged, my dear lady, but I am a deal better able to carry it than the boy, and with your good leave I will do it,” said John.

“As you please, Mr. Palmer.”

“Good-by, my dear Miss Emolyn. May you be very happy for all the rest of your life! Oh, for years and years after we lost sight of you my prayers went up day and night that I might see you once more before I died until at last we all gave you up for dead; then I stopped praying for you. But now, Miss Emolyn, that I have the joy of seeing you again, I shall pray day and night to the Lord to bless you and to make you happy!”

“Yes. Pray for me, dear good woman. Oh, how I need your prayers!”

“Good-by, dear lady. I feel that you will be happy some of these days. Unhappiness cannot last forever in any one experience. There must be change. ‘Sich is life,’” said John, as he shook hands with his gracious hostess.

Em. approached also to take leave; but the lady drew the girl to her bosom and kissed her fondly, saying:

“You must persuade your parents to let you come to me, my darling. Strange how near you feel to me; but perhaps that is my own egotism because you bear my name and some striking resemblance to me.”

“I shall be sure to come back to you, dear lady. I never broke a promise in my life, and I promise to come back to you,” whispered Em.

“I shall rest on that promise. Now go; your parents are waiting for you,” said Emolyn, as she pressed a kiss upon the girl’s brow and so dismissed her.

Em. followed her father and mother as they left the house, John carrying the hamper of wine.

“I don’t see why you could not have given Miss Emolyn her answer about Em. at once. You needn’t have put on airs with that lady, John, talking about taking time for reflection and all that—when you know very well that you intend to let her go,” said Susan, as the three walked rapidly toward the boat.

“Indeed, then, Susan, I am not sure that I shall let her go at all!” said John very gravely.

“Oh, father!” exclaimed Em. in a voice of despair.

“I think is most likely I shall do so, though, my dear. So don’t be troubled. I think I shall let you go; but there is nothing certain in this world; and I must have some conversation with your mother first.”

They walked so rapidly that they soon reached the landing.

John Palmer hastened to place his wife and daughter in their seats and then to unmoor the boat and push it from the shore.

Em. took the tiller and steered for the Wilderness landing.

John laid himself vigorously to both oars, and they sped swiftly on their way home.

Susan talked incessantly on the way up the river, and the burden of her conversation was “Miss Emolyn Wyndeworth” and her strange and tragic story.

“The people about here call her Mrs. Lynn! That’s their mistake, not Miss Emolyn’s doings. But I always did call her Miss Emolyn, and I suppose I shall to the end of my days,” she said, among countless other observations.

John said but little in response and Em. nothing. She was absorbed in her own reflections.

The sun was low when they reached the Wilderness landing.

“It has taken us the whole day, after all; but Lord knows, we needn’t regret it, after what we have seen,” said John Palmer, as he drew in his oars, laid one down in the bottom of the boat, and using the other as a pole, pushed it up on the sands.

“No, indeed, we needn’t regret our visit if only we find our poor, old, sick woman hasn’t suffered through our going,” added Susan, as she climbed upon the shore, followed by Em.

Leaving the father to secure the boat, the mother and daughter walked rapidly up the weed-grown, leaf-strewn path that led through the autumn woods to the park gate.

Here they were met by old ’Sias, whom they found standing, leaning over the bars, talking to his sister Sally.

“Dr. Willy waitin’ for you up to de house, honey, and I jes’ run down here to de gate to see if you was coming,” said Sally, while ’Sias opened the gate to admit them.

“Dr. Willet here again! Is Ann Whitlock worse?” inquired Susan in alarm, as she entered the park.

“Laws, no, honey; it is only his goodness to come ag’in. He’s a nice, quiet ge’man, honey, as ever I see in my life. I warrant you now he never does nuffin to nobody,” said Sally.

“And jes’ as ’tentive to ole Miss Whitlock’s if she was a p’incess in her own palace, ’stead o’ being of a poor ’pendent hanging on to you. I ’clare I never see nuffin like it in all de days of my life, and dat’s a hundred and fifty years, more or less, honey, more or less,” solemnly exclaimed the old gatekeeper.

“Now go away from here, Josephias Elphine! Hundred and fifty years, indeed! We is twin sisters, you and me; and I know I ain’t no hundred and fifty year old, neither more nor less, I tell you all good,” indignantly protested Sally.

“Come, mother, let us go on to the house,” said Em., anxious to see her patient.

“Don’t run away, honey,” exclaimed Sally, mistaking the young girl’s motives. “Don’t be feared of me. I don’t mean no harm. I never does nuffin to nobody, honey, only I must chastise ’Sias for his braggin’ lies.”

“Come along with us, Aunt Sally, I want you,” said Susan, as she followed Em., who was walking rapidly up the grass-grown drive toward the house.

The three were soon overtaken by the long strides of John Palmer, who came up with the hamper of champagne on his shoulder.

At the house-door they were met by Dr. Willet, who cordially shook hands with John and Susan and patted Em. on the head in a fatherly fashion.

“I think the old woman is doing very well under the circumstances,” he said in answer to Susan’s inquiry.

Then Mrs. Palmer spoke of the timely present of wine, made by the Lady of Edengarden, and asked the doctor if it might be freely given to the patient.

“Indeed, yes, it is what I should have ordered if I had dreamed of its being attainable here,” he replied.

And then, resisting all kind invitations to re-enter the house, he mounted his horse, that stood waiting, bowed adieux and rode away.

John carried his hamper of wine into the kitchen, followed by Susan and Em.

He put it down on the floor, opened it and drew out a bottle.

“Here, Susan,” he said, “take this right up to the old woman and give her a drink at once.”

“Come, Em.,” said the good mother, hurrying from the room.

They found Mrs. Whitlock conscious, though unable to speak.

They gave her a large goblet full of the sparkling wine, Em. holding her up while Susan placed the glass at her lips.

Then they proceeded to arrange her bed and room and to mend the fire, and make all comfortable.

It was not until all the family had retired to bed, with the exception of the parents, that John and Susan discussed the subject of Em.’s removal to Edengarden.

“Now you have a chance, John, I want you to tell me why you stood shilly-shallying and hem-hawing about letting Em. go to that lady?” said Susan, as they drew their chairs in to the fire.

“Well, you see, Susan, I like that lady, and pity her, and thank her, all in one; and I would do a great deal for her—anything for her, but send our daughter to live with her unless—unless—Susan—well, unless you can insure me that she was as innocent as our girl herself of all the wrong-doing——”

Poor John had meant to put his question as delicately, as mildly and as gently as he could possibly do; yet Susan flew at him before he could complete his sentence.

“John Palmer, what do you mean? Have you clean taken leave of your senses? But men are such fools! Innocent? Miss Emolyn innocent? Oh, there is not a single speck on her soul’s white garments, man!”

“Now don’t get excited, Susan, my dear. If you feel sure she was innocent, then we will let her have our girl. That was all I wanted to know,” said John deprecatingly.

“I know that she is as pure as an angel! I would stake my salvation on her purity! And besides, John Palmer, didn’t you hear me yourself say, over and over again, how anxious I was to have Em. go? Yes, you did. And now do you dare to suppose that I, her mother, would be less careful of my daughter than you, who are nothing but just her father? I am astonished at you, John Palmer! But, as I said before, men are such fools we can hardly hold ’em to ’count for what they say and do, so women must be patient with ’em,” said Susan, rising to cover up the fire.

“Nobody but my wife never called me a fool; but ‘sich is life,’” sighed John Palmer, as he relieved Susan of the shovel and covered up the fire himself.

CHAPTER XXV

EM.’S NEW HOME

Oh, brightly is bedeck’d your bower, and gorgeously your halls;

Here treads the foot on springing buds, and there on velvet falls:

The massive curtains’ graceful flow, the vase, the painting warm;

Those household echoes, mirrors bright, revealing the fair form;

Exotics that perfume the air with odors sweet and strange,

And shells that far in foreign climes mid ocean wonders range,

With countless gifts of taste and art, in classic beauty rife,

Are laid upon your household shrine, and grace your daily life.

GILMAN.

Tired as she was with her unusual exertions, before she slept that night Susan Palmer ran up the attic stairs to her daughter’s chamber to communicate the good news that was to make Em. so happy.

The door was closed, but not locked, so she opened it and walked in.

She found that Em. had gone to bed but not to sleep. She immediately sat down beside the bed, and in answer to the girl’s eager, questioning eyes, she said:

“Yes, my dear, your father has given his consent for you to go.”

Em. started and threw her arms around her mother’s neck, exclaiming:

“Oh, how glad I am! It was you, dear, I know it was, who got him to consent at last. But oh, dear mother, you will not think I love you any the less because I want to go to that desolate Lady of Edengarden, will you, mother dear?”

“Nonsense, girl, of course not! You’ll love us as much, and even more, when you get away from us than you do now. Why, law! when I was younger than you are now I was crazy to go out to service; and when I did, I found that I loved my home and my mother better than I had ever done before. I sha’n’t be jealous, Em.,” laughed Susan.

“I don’t know why I should want to go, either; but that dear lady is so lonely, so desolate, my heart goes out to her, mother. Think of it, she has no family circle, no visitors, no society, no one but her colored servants!”

“It is her own choice, Em.; yet I do wonder at the shyness that makes her keep herself unknown even to old Commodore Bruce, who used to know her when she was a child, and who was just as fond of her as if she had been his own. I do wonder at that!”

“Mother dear,” exclaimed Em. suddenly, “don’t you remember she said Dr. Willet had been to see her?”

“Oh, yes. Dr. Willet was one of her oldest and best friends, and stood by her manfully in her worst troubles. But for a long time after she disappeared not even he knew what had become of her; however, I dare say she notified him afterward, although he never said anything about it, being bound over to secrecy, most likely.”

“Well, but, mother dear, Dr. Willet is staying at Commodore Bruce’s, and don’t you think he will tell the old commodore, who has so long mourned Emolyn as dead, that she is really alive and within his reach?”

“Oh, no, no, Dr. Willet will never do so without the lady’s consent—never!”

“Oh, what a pity it is that she so secludes herself from all who would love her!”

“Yes, it is, Em., a crying pity. If you should get any influence over her, Em., you must try to coax her out of all that.”

“Oh, I will, I will, dear mother. I will do all in my little power for that lady. It is so strange, but she feels inexpressibly near and dear to me,” said the girl tenderly.

“I am glad to hear you say so, Em. And now, my dear, as you sat up all last night with Mrs. Whitlock, you must really go to sleep. Good-night, and God bless you, my dear,” said Susan Palmer, as she kissed her daughter and left the room.

The next morning, true to his promise, John Palmer authorized Em. to write a note of acceptance to the Lady of Edengarden, and to send it by the old gatekeeper in his boat.

Em. joyfully obeyed, and penned the grateful missive, inquiring at its close when the lady would like that she should come.

Old ’Sias took charge of the note and started to deliver it.

But the old man was feeble and slow at the oars, so that he took nearly the whole day to do his errand, and the family had finished supper, cleared up the kitchen and gathered around the blazing wood fire, occupied with their evening work—the women and girls knitting and sewing, the men and boys mending harness and carving out wooden bolts—when ’Sias walked in, bringing a letter, which he handed to Em.

“Did you see the lady?” she eagerly inquired as she opened the note.

“No, honey, I didn’t see nobody but a mons’ous handsome, bright ’latto ’oman. Handsome as a queen, honey—de Queen o’ Sheba in all her glory—which she tell me, honey, as her name was Mellow Ponies. ’Deed, if I had cotch my eye on her ’fore I ebber seed Sereny——But ’tain’t no use talking ’bout dat now. On’y if the ’Vine Marster was to ’flict me wid de loss ob Sereny——But all dat’s wanity and wexation of de sperrits,” concluded the old man with a sigh.

Meanwhile Em. read her note, which she presently passed to her mother, saying:

“She wants me to come on Thursday, mother, and this is Tuesday evening, you know.”

“Well, my girl, that will give you a day to get ready, and I will help you,” answered Susan. Then quickly turning to the old gatekeeper, said:

“’Sias, stop! I want to send a message by you. Tell your wife Sereny that if she will come and sit up with our sick woman to-night she shall be paid well for it.”

“Berry well, ma’am, sartin. And dat will be a great deliverance for me of one night, anyhow!” exclaimed the old man as he retreated.

The following day was spent by the mother and all her daughters in looking over, doing up and packing Em.’s simple wardrobe, ready for use in her new home.

That night, being the last one previous to her departure, Em. sat up with Ann Whitlock until near day, when she was relieved by Monica.

It was a glorious autumn day, near the last of October, when Em. took leave of her mother and sisters to set out for her new home.

“Now you know, dear mother, the lady said in her note that she hoped you would come and spend a day with us just as often as you could, the oftener the better,” said the girl, lovingly lingering over her leavetaking.

“Yes, Em.,” replied Susan.

“Also she said that whenever I should feel the least homesick, I should come to you for a few days.”

“Yes, Em.”

“And whenever you might feel like wanting me at home you were to send for me and I should come.”

“Yes, Em.”

“Then you won’t feel lonesome for me, mother dear?”

“No, you goose! There, don’t worry about me! You didn’t make half so much fuss about leaving home when you went to The Breezes, though that was the very first time you ever left us! There! God bless you, my good child, good-by. I shall come to hear the blind preacher of the island Sunday, and then I shall see you and your sweet lady, too,” said Susan, pressing her daughter to her heart in a final embrace.

Em. turned away, and, escorted by her father, walked quickly down the leaf-strewn road leading through the park.

It was true! Em. felt more disturbed at leaving home now on this second time than she had done on the first—even though now she was going to live with one to whom her affections were strangely and strongly attracted. It may have been that in the depths of her spirit she had unacknowledged previsions that this was a final departure from her home, that never again would she re-enter her father’s house except as a visitor.

John walked on silently for a while, but just before they got to the park gate, where old ’Sias stood in attendance, he said:

“Em., my child, don’t forget us in your fine new home.”

“Oh, dear, dear, good, best father, never, never, never! How could you think I would? No, I will write to you twice a week, at least, and send the letter by a special messenger, for I feel that my lady will indulge me in that!”

“No, Em., don’t you do it! Don’t give so much extra trouble in a strange house. I am satisfied with what you say, my girl. I know you will not forget us!”

By this time they had reached the gate, which ’Sias had set wide open for their egress.

“Good-by, Uncle ’Sias. You must sometimes get in your boat and come to see me in my new home,” said Em., holding out her hand.

“Good-by, Miss Em. Surely I’ll come to see you. Give my despectful compliments to Miss Mellow Ponies! If ever de ’Vine Marster was to ’flict me wid de ’reavement ob Sereny—but dere! I won’t say nuffin more ’bout dat. It’s permature!” added the old man, as he flourished his hat in a final adieu.

The father and daughter walked down to the shore, where they found the two boys mounting guard over Em.’s trunk, which they had carefully brought down from the house and deposited in the boat ready for transportation.

Em. took leave of her brothers and seated herself in the boat.

“Get in, dad, and make yourself comfortable; we’ll unchain her,” exclaimed Tom.

Mr. Palmer followed this advice and took up the oars, and as soon as the boat was free he pushed off.

Em. steered.

There was a strong current down the river, and they made very rapid progress, and soon touched the island strand.

“The lady will send two of her men servants down for my trunk, father. We can safely leave it here in the meantime,” said Em., as she stepped upon the land.

John nodded and joined her, and they walked together through the silver girdle, as the belt of maple trees was called, and thence through the acacia groves and up the beautiful terraces to the summit of the island, crowned with its white palace.

The Lady of Edengarden stood at the portal to receive her new inmate. She came down the steps, greeted John Palmer courteously, and then took Em. in her arms in a warm embrace and kissed her on the forehead and lips.

“Don’t spoil my girl by petting and indulgence, ma’am,” said John Palmer, smiling.

“She cannot be spoiled. Nothing can spoil her,” said the lady earnestly. “But now come in and rest and refresh yourself before returning, Mr. Palmer.”

“Thank you, ma’am, but I haven’t time,” replied John, with a how; and resisting all the lady’s entreaties, he took leave of her and of his daughter, and retraced his steps to the boat, followed by two boys whom Emolyn had sent to bring up her young companion’s trunk.

“Come on, my lads, you will have to step into the boat. There, each of you take hold of the handles at each end and lift it out. There! All right. Now go on!” said John Palmer cheerfully.

And having seen the boys start with the trunk, he re-entered his boat and rowed rapidly for home, feeling content because Em. was happy.

CHAPTER XXVI

A FAIRY BOWER

Marble walled and crystal windowed,

Vailed with silken drapery,

Dressed with ornaments of silver,

Interlaid with gems and gold;

Filled with carvings from cathedrals,

Rescued in the times of old;

Eloquent with books and pictures,

All that luxury can afford;

Warm with statues that Pygmalion

Might have fashioned and adored,

In the island’s groves and grottoes,

Lovely are the light and gloom,

Fountains sparkle in the grotto,

And exotics breathe perfume.

MACKAY.

“Come, my darling, I wish to show you something,” said the Lady of Edengarden, as she took the hand of Emolyn Palmer and led her out of the front door and down the marble steps to the first terrace, which was still green and fresh, though all around was touched with frost. Then she turned her around, and they stood facing the beautiful windows glistening in the morning sun like alabaster and rainbows.

“Look,” said the lady, pointing to one high, airy white tower with many windows, whose summit seemed to be almost up among the clouds.

“Oh, I have often gazed at that tower, dear lady! How elegant it is!” exclaimed Em.

“Look at the top,” said the lady.

“Oh, how lovely, with its crystal windows shaded with rose-colored silk and opening upon marble balconies. It is like a chamber in Paradise surely. I have often gazed at it while on my solitary visits to the island, and thought it was too beautiful, aerial and ideal ever to be used, and often wondered if any one ever lived in it! The white tower is the most elegant part of the palace, and that aerial chamber in the clouds the most beautiful part of the tower.”

“It has never been occupied. It is a virgin bower. But come in and I will take you at once to your apartment,” murmured Emolyn, as she drew her young companion’s arm within her own and conducted her into the hall and up the fairy flight of stairs leading to the upper floors.

“I think I know your taste in lodgings. You have a cat-like love of garrets,” said the lady, smiling.

“Oh, yes, indeed I have; but I wonder how you know it, madam?” exclaimed the girl in open-eyed astonishment.

“I think I should have known it by intuition even if your mother had not told me, as she did,” said the lady, as she passed the second landing and led her companion still higher.

They went up to the attic hall, with a floor inlaid of maple and black walnut; with broad, stained glass windows at each end, which threw a cathedral light over all, and doors on each side leading into closed rooms; and, lastly, with one tall and narrow door in the corner, toward which the lady led her guest.

They passed through it and up a narrow but very pretty flight of stairs that led them to an upper door, which the lady opened.

Em. made an exclamation of surprise and delight.

“This is your apartment, my little love,” said Emolyn.

The simple maiden gazed around her in a perfect ecstasy of admiration.

The sudden transit from the staircase to this radiant scene was almost like the work of enchantment.

Now I wish my readers to see this beautiful room in their mind’s eye as clearly as I saw it.

It was at the top of the highest tower of the Edengarden Villa. It was a large, lofty, octagon-shaped room, whose eight sides were filled with high, broad mirrors and windows, alternating with each other, and all alike draped with rose-colored silk and white lace curtains to give uniformity. The floor was covered with a carpet which, from its hue and softness, seemed formed of blush roses and water lilies. Elegant cabinets, stands and tables of white satinwood, inlaid with flowers formed of malachite, mother-of-pearl, coral and turquoise, stood near the silver-gilded pillars between the windows and the mirrors.

Sofas, divans and luxurious chairs of white satinwood, upholstered in rose-colored velvet and white chenille fringe, sat about in convenient places, inviting repose. Statuettes of Parian marble—miniature copies of the great masterpieces of sculpture, and vases of rare Sèvres china, Bohemian glass, or alabaster, loaded with choice exotics, adorned the brackets which were attached around the walls.

The ceiling was a cupola, painted in fresco, of opal-tinted clouds on a pale blue morning sky. But the central summit of this cupola was a skylight composed of one solid sheet of thick, clear plate-glass, through which the heavens could be seen by day or night.

Em. gazed around on this fairy chamber, too much lost in admiration even to ask herself whether it were not too rare and costly, too dainty and delicate for daily use.

“This is your boudoir, my bird. It is the topmost room in the high tower. But this tower, as you may have observed from seeing it on the outside, is flanked by four turrets, each with its row of long, narrow windows.”

“Oh, yes, madam, I have seen them all, and this chamber lifted up among the clouds, as it seemed to be.”

“Well, my dear, now look here. First, these four windows give you a wide view of the country toward the four points of the compass. Then these four mirrors between the windows are on hinges, and behind their silken curtains open into turret chambers belonging to your suite of apartments. See here!” she said, gently pushing one of the mirrors outward and revealing an alcove of pure white silk and lace in which stood a fairy bed of soft white draperies.

“Oh, how lovely!” exclaimed the delighted girl.

“Now look here,” the lady said, opening a second mirror and revealing a dressing-room fitted with marble bath, basins, ewers, bureaus, presses and all conveniences for the toilet.

“Here is everything that even a princess might desire!” exclaimed Em.

“And here!” continued the lady, turning in a third mirror, showing a little room fitted up as an oratory, library or study.

The floor was covered with a carpet of shaded green, like forest leaves; the walls were lined with white satinwood shelves, filled with choice books; in the middle of the room stood an elegant rosewood writing-table, covered with a richly-embroidered green cloth. Near the table stood an ebony-backed reading chair, cushioned with green and gold; under the window, which was draped with green and gold fringe velvet, stood a lounge in the same colors.

“Oh, this is like the inside of an elegant casket!” exclaimed Em. with enthusiasm.

“Yes, it is a casket, and there are the jewels,” said the lady, pointing to the books. “And now let me show you the fourth turret room,” she continued, leading Em. to the only remaining mirror. Turning it inward, she revealed the fairy-like, spiral staircase by which they had ascended to this floor, and by which she now proposed that they should mount still higher to the observatory.

Em. followed her conductress up an aerial flight of steps and through a stained glass window, which the lady slid aside, and thence out upon the top of the tower.

It was round. The center was formed of the clear glass crystal that gave light to the chamber below. Around this crystal was a slender ring of white marble balustrades; around that a marble walk; outside the walk a row of white benches, and around the edge of the tower a circular colonnade so massive as to insure the safety even of a sleepwalker, if such should venture upon the giddy height.

But the grand view, north, east, south, west, from that high and central point! There was the island immediately beneath, with its lovely grounds; the river all around; the wooded banks; the distant mountains!

“Em.,” exclaimed Mrs. Lynn, “you can see The Breezes, Commodore Bruce’s place, and the Wilderness Manor-house, and even the spire of Gray Rock church from this point.”

“Oh, it is grand! It is glorious!” exclaimed Em. in delight.

“When you wish to leave the world far below you, you can come up here to meditate, read, sew, sketch, dream, do as you please.”

“It is like a place in a vision!” murmured Em.

“And now, dear, we will go down,” said Mrs. Lynn, leading the way.

When they had reached the beautiful octagon chamber, Em. said:

“The season is late autumn, and the weather seems cold outside, yet the temperature in here is that of summer, although I see no means of heating this charming place.”

“Do you not?” inquired the lady, smiling.

“No, indeed.”

“What do you take this to be?” she asked, pointing to a piece of furniture that looked like a large pedestal and vase of alabaster and Bohemian glass and stood near the center of the room.

“That? Why, an elegant flower stand, to be sure!” said Em., wondering.

“Why, so it is in summer; but in autumn and winter we put it to a different use. Lay your hand on it—lightly, Em.”

The girl placed her hand on the pedestal and quickly withdrew it, exclaiming:

“It is hot!”

“Yes, and it heats the room. It is one of those porcelain stoves, such as those with which the Russian palaces are partly heated. And see, dear, the vase on top is kept full of rose-water, which diffuses both moisture and perfume throughout the atmosphere.”

“Oh, how perfect! I could not have conceived of a place so perfect, if indeed it is not all a dream!” breathed Em.

“And now, love, I will leave you to make your toilet for dinner. There, in those drawers and wardrobes of your dressing-room, you will find an outfit, such as I wish you to wear. Youth should always dress in white while in the house, Em. At least I think so, even at this time of the year. And you may do so with impunity, for, as you say, although the season is autumn, the atmosphere is summer. It is always summer at Edengarden,” the lady added with a smile as she pressed a kiss upon the lips of Em. and left the room.

Em. stood for a moment looking about herself, still dazzled and bewildered by the novelty and beauty of her surroundings, and then, child like, she went to each rosesilk and lace-draped window and in turn opened it and stepped out upon the marble balcony. There were four of these, be it remembered, each affording strict privacy and commanding a magnificent view. While she was still standing on the balcony outside of the east window she was startled by a voice in the room calling out:

“Miss Em.! Where is yer, honey? Come out here, honey.”

“I am ‘out here,’ Pony,” laughed the girl, “but I will step in, if you want me.”

“Oh, I t’ought you was in your bedroom, maybe. My mist’ess has sent me up here to help yer to dress, chile.”

“Thank you, aunty,” said Em. as she came into the room.

Pony herself went into the dressing-closet and began to overhaul the fresh wardrobe, saying:

“There’s your nice gauze flannels in this bottom drawer, honey, and yer cambric skirts in this, and yer dresses in the wardrobe, and yer——”

“Pony,” interrupted Em., “I have not known your dear and lovely mistress for a week, and here she has a complete outfit for me. How on earth could she have got it?”

“Oh, chile, maybe she may tell you herself some o’ dese days. I ain’t at liberty to explain, Miss Em. Only this I’ll say, dat dis wardrobe wasn’t got for you, nor was dese rooms prepared for you, nor was——”

“For whom, then, were the rooms fitted up and the wardrobe selected?” inquired the wondering girl.

“I can’t tell you, Miss Em. It ain’t my secret, but de madam’s. ’Haps, as she has taken sich a fancy to you, she may tell you herself.”

Em. looked so puzzled, and even distressed, that Pony hastened to say:

“But you have got the beautiful rooms and the beautiful dresses all to yourself now, honey, with no one to dispute them with you.”

“I am afraid, though, that my gain is somebody else’s——”

“No, indeed, Miss Em.! There you are very much mistaken, for I can tell you this much——” eagerly interrupted the woman; and then she suddenly paused.

Em. waited for her to go on, grew impatient, and then demanded:

“What, Pony?”

“These beautiful rooms and most beautiful raiment was never designed for no mortal girl!”

“Pony! WHAT do you mean?” breathlessly exclaimed Em. as a mental vision of the radiant White Lady of the Wilderness Manor-hall sent an electric thrill through her veins.

“I daren’t tell you, honey, what I mean. ’Haps she’ll tell you some ob dese days, since she’s took sich a liking to you, which I hopes, honey, you’ll be a blessing to her and win her away from de solitary life as I think has all but turned her brain. I has hopes of you, honey, ’cause you’s de berry first person she has ever bided to make a companion of for dese seventeen years or more. Your folks is de berry first people in all dese many days as she has ever ’vited to her house.”

“Oh, how lonely must such a life have been!” sighed the girl.

“Yes, honey, but it was her own choosing. Why, dere was even Dr. Willet, her ’ticklerest old friend! When he came here t’other day she seed him, to be sure, but she didn’t ax him to stay to dinner!”

“Oh, I am so glad she let me come!” said Em.

“Yes, so am I. My hopes is all in you, Miss Em. My hopes for my dear mist’ess is all in you! Why, honey, she is so young to shet herself up from deciety! She ain’t more’n thirty-two years old, and she don’t look nigh that even. She don’t look so much older’n you, Miss Em. And if she would go out she might marry happy! She might, indeed, for dere’s many and many an unmarried single young lady of her age what passed theirselves off well for a miss in her ’teens! And nobody know to de contrary!”

“Oh, if I could only do anything to make her happy! To make her forget the past, whatever it is! To win her back to her fellow-beings!” sighed Em., clasping her hands prayerfully.

“I ’pends on you for to do dat, Miss Em. And now, my honey-bee, come dress yerself as pretty as ever you can, for my lady loves to look at pretty things. So dress yerself pretty, Miss Em.”

“In the ghost’s clothes?” inquired Em., half jestingly, half shudderingly.

“No, honey, not de ghost’s! Don’t be afeard—dere’s no ghost. In de angel’s clothes, more like.”

“Whatever do you mean, Pony?”

“I daren’t say no more’n dis, honey—what I said afore—as dese things, dese lovely rooms and lovely raiments, was never prepared for you, nor for no mortal lady, dough you has got dem now! So, my honey, don’t ax me no more questions, ’cause you wouldn’t have me ’tray my mist’ess’ trust, would you?” seriously inquired Pony.

“Oh, no, no, no!” earnestly exclaimed Em., who had not considered the subject in that light before.

“Well, den, honey, don’t ax me no more questions on dat subject, ’cause talking is my weakness, anyhow; but, come, now and dress yerself pretty as a fairy, to go down and sit wid my mist’ess.”

Em. looked over her simple and elegant wardrobe and selected a costume of embroidered white India muslin, lightly trimmed with pale blue ribbons.

When she was ready she followed Pony down to the presence of her mistress, whom she found in a little boudoir connected with the long saloon on one end and a small, elegant dining-room on the other.

The lady had changed her own dress, and wore a silver-gray silk with point lace falls, and no jewelry.

“We dine early here, my dear girl,” said Mrs. Lynn as she touched the bell.

No one answered it, for the signal at that hour was understood, and in about five minutes dinner was announced.

No more need be said of this than that it was a dainty little dinner for two, elegantly served in the small but sumptuous dining-room.

After dinner Mrs. Lynn took Emolyn into the library, where they spent a few pleasant hours seated in luxurious chairs at a table covered with books of engravings after the old masters.

When tired of this amusement at the lady’s suggestion they drew their chairs to the fire and fell into a confidential chat.

The lady drew Em. out to speak of her childhood, of Laundry Lane, of her journey to the mountains, and of her first impressions of the new home.

In the course of her narrative Em. spoke of the radiant vision she had seen in the moonlit hall on the first night of her stay at the old manor-house.

“Life is full of mysteries,” muttered the lady thoughtfully—then, seeing Em. watching breathlessly, she added—“But your vision was probably a dream, inspired by the stories you had heard about the so-called ‘haunted hall.’”

“But I never heard any stories, dear lady. To be sure, old ’Sias, the gatekeeper, startled mother by hinting that no one who knew the house could be induced to go into it. But he absolutely refused to explain his words, so we heard no story,” said Em.

“What? Why should you have dreamed of the bride’s ghost if you never had heard the story?”

“Dear lady, I did not dream. I saw the radiant spirit.”

“You think you did, my dear, at all events, and it is very strange that your dream should have corresponded so well with the legend you never heard.”

“No, but please tell it to me, dear lady,” said Em., who had all a child’s eagerness to hear a story.

“It is very old; but one of my remote ancestors was a terrible domestic tyrant, and had, among many sons, only one beautiful daughter. She loved a poor young man, but was ordered by her father to marry an old one. Parents did not trifle in those days. Ethelinde was to be forced to obey. She was locked in her room and guarded till the wedding night.

“The time came. The guests were assembled, the feast was spread. The bridegroom and his attendants waited in the hall, the bishop and the rector were ready in the drawing-room. The bride was dressed in splendid bridal array; but every once noticed how pale she looked, even to her lips.

“At length the summons came and she went down, followed by her bridesmaids.

“From the lower end of the hall her aged bridegroom came to meet her. He was bowing and smiling and holding out his hand.

“But as he touched her she fell at his feet—DEAD!

“The overtaxed heart had broken. There, those are the facts, Em.! The fiction is that on every anniversary of that fatal day the bride goes through her death march again, sometimes followed by a faithful attendant, sometimes alone. You must have heard the story and forgotten it, else why should you have dreamed the dream?”

“It was no dream, dear lady. Yours is a veritable ghost story, and I have seen a veritable ghost,” said Em. in a voice of awe.

“Come, let us go to bed and sleep off such morbid fancies,” said Mrs. Lynn as she arose and rang for bedroom lights.

CHAPTER XXVII

EM.’S DAYS AT EDENGARDEN

Within the island’s calm retreat

She leads a sort of fairy life,

Careless of victory or defeat,

In the word’s ceaseless toil and strife.

ANON.

Our little heroine’s life in Edengarden seemed to her something like that of a princess in fairyland.

She lived in ease and luxury, surrounded by beauty and splendor.

No services were required from her.

The Lady of Edengarden made out for her the programme of a course of reading which she recommended the girl to pursue, and Em. gratefully and gladly devoted a few hours of every morning to these studies. Mrs. Lynn also instructed her chosen pupil in the French and German languages, and in vocal and instrumental music, and in sketching and embroidery.

Em. was very happy, or she would have been but for one tormenting thought which presented itself again and again—the thought that she herself was making no sort of return for all these benefits—no, nor doing any useful thing, as far as she could see, for any human being.

This thought sometimes made Em. so unhappy that at length she felt forced to speak of it to her benefactress. She watched for an opportunity to do so, and it came at length.

She was sitting with Mrs. Lynn in the boudoir of the latter and engaged on a beautiful piece of satin embroidery, mere useless “fancy” work, such as Em. in her practical life had never “fancied.”

“You look very thoughtful, my child. Are you homesick, Em.?” inquired the lady.

“Oh, no, dear madam, no!” earnestly replied the girl.

“What is the matter then, my love! Do you not enjoy yourself here?”

“Yes, dear lady, but——”

“But what?”

“I am not doing any service for you in return for all the great benefits you lavish on me. I am not doing anything for anybody in the world, and——”

“Well, Em.?”

“Well, dear lady, I feel as if I were doing wrong. I have been taught that life was not given us for mere selfish enjoyment, and I have been trained to a busy and active life.”

“And you think that you are doing no good here?”

“I am living a life of self-indulgence, dear lady.”

“Instead of the life of self-devotion that you have been used to, I suppose. Now listen to me, dear girl, and I will show you how mistaken you are. When I first saw you, child, I was drawn to you as you admit that you were to me. In my seventeen years of utter isolation from all society I have never met any one to whom my heart went out as it did to you. In the short time I have known you, my child, I have learned to love you more and more. I keep you near me. I direct your education. It is a happiness to me to do this.”

“But I do nothing for you, dear lady.”

“Yes, you heal me, child. You heal me of a long, long heart-sickness.”

“Oh, madam, if I could think myself so privileged, so honored and blessed as to be able to do that, I should indeed feel that my life were well spent!” exclaimed the girl with enthusiasm.

“Then content yourself, my child, for I have told you the truth. It can be summed up in two words—I teach you. You heal me.”

And indeed it was so. The lady was educating the girl and the girl was drawing the recluse out of herself, out of her morbid thoughts, out of her solitary life.

A proof of this soon occurred.

Dr. Willet came to the island. The recluse Lady of Edengarden not only received him, as indeed she did on his first visit, but also pressed him to stay and dine.

The good doctor did not need much persuasion. He readily consented to remain. He brought Em. news of her father’s family, who were all well with the exception of Ann Whitlock, whom he reported to be very much in the same condition in which Em. had left her.

It was in the afternoon of that day when Em., having left the room for a few moments, and Dr. Willet, finding himself alone with his hostess, said:

“That little girl is doing you good.”

“Yes, she is a healing angel to me,” answered the lady.

“Well, now, let me tell you one thing. It is from no peculiar merit in the girl, although she is a good child. It is only because she is not yourself. She is somebody outside of yourself. She is company, in fact. That is the reason why she has done you good. Now, dear friend, let me assure you that the more company you see, within certain limits, the more good you will receive,” said the doctor.

The lady did not reply. The doctor, encouraged by her silent toleration of his argument, continued:

“There is your old friend and neighbor, Commodore Bruce, with whom you know I am staying. How rejoiced he would be to hear news of you. He has never ceased to mourn you as dead, Emolyn Wyndeworth! Let me tell him, at least, that you live and are well and near him.”

“Oh, no, no, no!” exclaimed the Lady of Edengarden suddenly and vehemently—“if you wish to break up my home here and send me forth again a wanderer and a vagabond on the face of the earth, you will betray my secret to him of all men!”

“My dear lady, say no more! say no more! Your secret is as safe with me as with the dead!” hastily answered the doctor.

The return of Em. put an end to the conversation, and Dr. Willet soon after took his leave.

In the course of the same week Susan Palmer came to see her daughter, and at Mrs. Lynn’s cordial invitation spent the day.

On bidding good-by to the lady she said:

“I fear, dear madam, as you are a-sp’iling that girl for a poor man’s wife, with all the luxuries and elegancies as you are a-pampering her up with.”

“Do not fear. If nature has not, from the beginning, spoiled her for a poor man’s helpmate, education, at this late day, cannot do it. Besides, Susan Palmer, why should she ever be a poor man’s wife?” inquired the lady.

This question arrested Susan’s attention at once. Though in the act of departure she paused, turned around and exclaimed:

“Oh! now I suppose Em. has been telling you about her wealthy lover!”

“Her ‘wealthy lover?’ Indeed not,” replied the lady with an anxious glance towards Em., who blushed to the edges of her hair.

“Well, then, she will tell you, ma’am, for I haven’t got time! Em., tell the lady all about it, and she will be able to advise you just as well as anybody in this world! Tell her all, Em., and don’t blush up so, my girl! You behaved well in that business, child, and haven’t got nothing to blush for!” said Susan Palmer proudly. And then, having kissed her daughter and shaken hands with her benefactress, Susan went down to the beach to be rowed home by old ’Sias.

The Lady of Edengarden made it a matter of conscience to speak to her young protégée on the subject suggested by Mrs. Palmer. She understood well, also, how to prepare for such a confidential conversation.

There was one room, the most plainly furnished in the Villa of Edengarden, which was the favorite evening resort of Mrs. Lynn and her young companion, because it was warmed by an old-fashioned open wood fire.

In this room Em. and her patroness sat in the evening after the departure of Susan Palmer.

Pony came in to light the lamps.

“No, don’t do that yet awhile. We will sit in the firelight,” said Mrs. Lynn.

“It is cozy like, too,” Pony admitted as she retired.

“Draw your chair up to the fire, Em., put your feet on the fender; and now, love, tell me who is this wealthy lover of yours of whom your mother spoke?” softly inquired Mrs. Lynn when they were left alone in the ruddy glow of the smoldering red hickory fire.

“He is Lieutenant Ronald Bruce, the nephew and heir of Commodore Bruce, of The Breezes,” answered Em. in a low and tremulous tone, feeling well pleased that her face was but dimly visible in the glowing gloom of the firelight.

“‘Bruce!’ That name again,” murmured the lady thoughtfully. Then, after a meditative pause, she said: “My dear girl, if you feel that you can confide in me, tell me all about it.”

Thus appealed to, Em. would have told her little love story to her friend, cost what it might to her own feelings.

It was not hard for her to tell it there. She drew her low chair closer to the lady’s side, and with her head on the lady’s lap she related the circumstances of her first meeting with Ronald Bruce, when he had saved her from falling under the uplifted club of an intoxicated and infuriated ruffian. How their acquaintance progressed. How he had been her disinterested friend, and had tried to improve her condition even before he had declared himself to be her lover. How he had procured her first the offer of a situation of nursery governess in his sister’s family, which she had refused for her father’s sake. How afterwards, when her family had come to Virginia, he had managed so that his mother had offered her a situation as seamstress at The Breezes. How Commodore Bruce had taken a fancy to her himself, and when she was capriciously discharged from his sister-in-law’s service had engaged her as his reader, which post she had filled to his satisfaction until his nephew, Lieutenant Ronald Bruce, had confessed his attachment to her and announced his intention of marriage.

“That was noble and upright in the young man. What followed?” inquired Mrs. Lynn as Em. faltered and paused in her narrative.

“Commodore Bruce summoned his nephew to his presence and threatened to disinherit him unless he gave me up.”

“What next, my dear? Speak on. Speak low if you like, but do not be afraid. What did the young man say or do?”

“Ronald declined to give me up, and accepted disinheritance as a consequence.”

“That was right. And then? What then? Compose yourself, my child, and speak on.”

“Then,” continued Em. in a low and faltering voice that seemed as if it would break down at every syllable—“then Commodore Bruce sent for me and told me all that he had told him—Ronald—and threw himself on what he was so polite as to call my honor, and asked me to reject Ronald for Ronald’s own sake.”

“And you, darling, you, what did you do?”

“I—rejected—him—and went home—with my father,” said Em., utterly breaking down.

“Do not weep so bitterly, my love. This lover—he never acted on your forced rejection, Em.?” tenderly inquired the lady.

“No—no! He would not listen to it. He said he was of age, and no one had the right to control him in a matter so near his heart,” continued Em., recovering something of her self-possession.

“Go on, dear.”

“He appealed to my father; but my dear father was prouder in his way than Commodore Bruce himself. He refused me to Ronald. He said that no daughter of his should ever enter any family who would not be as glad to receive her as ever he could be to give her. And that Lieutenant Bruce must never come again until he came authorized by Commodore Bruce to ask my hand.”

“And so,” said the lady, “between these two stiff-necked old men—the haughty old commodore and the arrogant overseer—you are to be sacrificed! For, I suppose, as a dutiful child, you will abide by your father’s decision.”

“Oh, yes, madam, for I promised my dear father never to marry without his consent, and I know he will never consent to my marriage with Ronald,” said Em., almost on the verge of breaking down again, but she succeeded in controlling herself.

“So, finally, all depends upon the will of Commodore Bruce?”

“Yes, madam.”

“But, again, the young man—has he accepted this decision of your father?”

“No, indeed, madam, no more than he accepted that of his uncle or mine! He says he will never give me up!”

“He is right. Commodore Bruce must be brought to terms. Do not misunderstand me, however, my dear. I strongly disapprove of young people taking the law into their own hands in this respect, and marrying against the wishes of their parents. But Ronald’s case is an exceptional one. Commodore Bruce is not his father, nor his guardian, and has no right to dictate to him, a man of twenty-five, on the subject of his marriage, nor has he the moral right to bribe him by a rich inheritance to give up his true and honest love. With your father’s feeling on the subject I can better sympathize. I, too, if I were so blessed as to have a daughter, would object to her entering even a royal family by marriage, if they were not as proud to receive her as I to bestow her. Yes, I understand and appreciate your father’s motives. It is the old commodore who must be set right. Now, cheer up, my darling. I will be the fairy godmother who shall bring the prince back to your feet,” said the lady, pressing a kiss upon her brow.

Em. looked up—gratefully, doubtfully; for how, she asked herself, could this lady, with all her great power and good will, influence Commodore Bruce to put away those strong prejudices of caste which formed a part of his very being?

The Lady of Edengarden, watching her expressive face, read her thoughts and answered them as if they had been spoken.

“Commodore Bruce knew me and loved me from my childhood up to the time I was about sixteen years of age. I have not seen him since. The trial that blighted my life has prevented me——But I cannot speak of that! He believes me dead! But for your sake, my darling, I will burst the bonds that hold me. I will break the silence of years. I will go to Commodore Bruce in person, and I know I have the talisman which shall bring him to favorable terms. Cheer up, Em.! All will be well.”

CHAPTER XXVIII

A VISIT TO THE BREEZES

Sunrise will come next!

The shadow of the night is passed away!

BROWNING.

“Yes,” said the Lady of Edengarden to herself on the morning after her eventful conversation with Em., and while she and her young companion sat together in the blue parlor, engaged with their embroidery—“yes, though I have never left this island except to leave the country, I will try to break the strong spell that has bound me, and to cast off the dark nightmare that has oppressed me for years, and, for the sake of this gentle child, and of one who bears the name and likeness of him I loved and lost, I will seek the presence of the man whom I most dreaded to meet in this world.”

All who ever knew Emolyn Wyndeworth knew that she was sensitive, timid, and retiring in the extreme. To these weaknesses she owed all her misfortunes. To these she had so succumbed as to have died a moral and social death daily for the last seventeen years.

It required, therefore, a heroic effort in her to form this resolution. It would require an almost superhuman one to carry it into effect.

While she was still trying to

“Screw ‘her’ courage to the sticking place”

for an interview with Commodore Bruce, two cards were brought in by her page and placed in her hands.

“‘Dr. Willet,’ ‘Lieutenant Bruce,’” she read aloud.

Em. looked up suddenly, too much frightened to blush. She expected to see a frown of anger at this intrusion on the face of her who had worn nothing but smiles for her protégée.

But, no! that very grave face had not the slightest trace of displeasure on it.

“Where have you left these gentlemen?” she inquired of her page.

“In the small white saloon, madam.”

“I will see them there. Go and say so.”

The page left the room and the lady turned to Emolyn, whose color was rolling over her face like rose-leaves before a breeze.

“You are afraid I am not going to let you see your lover? Do not fear that, my child ; I shall send him in to you. I have something to say to Dr. Willet,” said the lady as she stooped and left a kiss on the brow of the girl and passed from the room.

In the small white saloon—which was a sort of anteroom to the large white saloon—the hostess found Dr. Willet and Lieutenant Bruce.

The former arose and advanced toward her with outstretched hands and deprecating smile, saying:

“I have to beg your pardon for what I fear you will consider an unpardonable liberty; but my young friend here——Allow me to present Lieutenant Bruce——”

Here the young officer approached and bowed reverentially, and the lady smiled on him and offered her hand, saying:

“I have heard of Lieutenant Bruce from a young lady who is staying with me, and I am very happy to make him welcome to Edengarden.”

The young officer bowed again and lifted the hand of the lady to his lips.

“So! the great gun is fired, and nobody killed or desperately wounded,” muttered the doctor to himself; then, aloud: “My young friend here, as I was about to say, asked me to introduce him to you, madam, and, in fact, would take no denial.”

“I am very glad to see him,” repeated the lady.

“He had, in fact, a small parcel belonging to your young protégée, which he did not care to trust to an ordinary messenger, and which I, for reasons, did not volunteer to bring myself,” added the doctor with a merry look.

“And perhaps, for the same cause, you would prefer to deliver your parcel in person, Mr. Bruce,” suggested the lady with a smile.

“If you please, madam,” replied the young gentleman with a bow, expecting that his hostess would then send for her little companion.

In fact, the lady touched the bell and brought her young page to her presence.

“Show this gentleman to the blue parlor,” she said to the boy. “You will find Miss Palmer there,” she added to the man.

Ronald Bruce arose, turned a grateful look upon the lady, and followed the page.

“I perceive that you have divined this pretty little love idyl, and do not disapprove it,” said Dr. Willet as soon as he was left alone with the Lady of Edengarden.

“I was about to make the very same observation to you. No, indeed, I do not disapprove of it. On the contrary, I wish to do everything I can to forward it. Dr. Willet!”

“Well, my dear?”

“I am going to match-making.”

“You, my child?”

“Yes. From what I have understood, her want of fortune is the only objection the lover’s friends have to his chosen bride—the only objection they can have—for the girl is beautiful, intellectual, graceful, amiable, fairly educated, ladylike, and young enough to improve in all these things.”

“But her want of fortune, my dear lady——”

“I can supply. I have ample means and no children, no, nor even near relations in this world. I have fallen in love with this little girl! You smile, but, indeed, that is the only way in which I can express my sudden and increasing affection for little Emolyn Palmer. I will endow her richly on her marriage, and make her my heiress at my death. You smile again.”

“I am thinking, dear lady, that you and your protégée seem to be so nearly of an age, that, to use a homely proverb, ‘When one dies of old age, the other may quake for fear!’”

“There is sixteen years’ difference between our ages, doctor.”

“Indeed! But, yes, of course, when I come to remember, I know there must be. And you will really endow this child?”

“Yes, Dr. Willet, and——”

“Well, my dear?”

“I wish to see Commodore Bruce myself on this subject.”

“You do! Oh, I am delighted to hear you say that you will see him on any subject! He will be so rejoiced to know that you live that I believe it will add years to his own lease of life.”

“That is very pleasant to hear. Yet I do not see why the aged commodore should take such a great interest in me! Why, indeed, he should take any interest now,” said the lady thoughtfully.

“I think it is from a morbid compunction—almost remorse.”

“‘Remorse?’”

“Yes, Emolyn! For on the last night before his son Leonidas embarked on that fatal voyage from which he never returned the boy, moved by some prophetic spirit, implored his father to watch over YOU—his own lifelong playmate and companion. The father gave less heed to this parting prayer than he afterwards had reason to suppose he should have done; and he has fostered a morbid remorse of which he has only very lately made me the confidant. He will be so glad to know that you still live, dear Emolyn, that he will be likely to yield to any wish of yours, even to the consenting that his nephew and heir shall marry the overseer’s daughter.”

“Heaven grant it,” she breathed in tones so low, so full of controlled emotion, that the doctor turned and regarded her with surprise. He could not know the depths of bitter memory in her bosom that had been stirred by the name of Leonidas Bruce.

“You take this girl’s interests very deeply to heart. No doubt you will be able to influence the old commodore in their favor. Shall I bring him here to see you to-morrow?” he inquired.

“No, no, for he is aged, and, as I have heard from Emolyn Palmer, unwilling ever to stir from his home. No; but I will ask you, Dr. Willet, to take me to see him. Will you do so?”

“Most willingly, my dear young friend. When shall I have the pleasure? To-morrow? Next day? When?”

“Can I not go to-day? Accompany you when you return?” inquired the lady.

“Assuredly you can if you wish! I shall be very happy to have you. Young Bruce and I rowed ourselves here, and we shall be very glad to row you back with us.”

“How soon do you return? Do not think me inhospitable; for I know, of course, by your bringing Lieutenant Bruce, that you did not intend to give us the pleasure of your company all day, and I only wished to know if you were going directly to The Breezes, or intending to keep on to Gray Rock?” said the lady with a deprecating smile.

“Oh, I understand perfectly, and so I am not sensitive! We are going directly back to The Breezes, my dear lady, and will be happy to take you with us,” said the doctor.

“Then, if you will kindly excuse me, I will go and put on my hat and shawl and be ready, so that when our young friends have got through their tête-à-tête I may not keep you waiting,” replied the lady as she left the room.

In the meantime Ronald Bruce passed into the blue parlor, where he found Em. awaiting him.

The girl’s countenance prompted her to rebuke her lover for his second audacious attempt to break through her father’s prohibition. But at the sight of his loving, happy, radiant face her heart condoned the offense.

“Dear Em., dear, dearest Em.! don’t reproach me! I have not seen you for a month. I could not stand it any longer. I had to make a friend of old Dr. Willet, I mean a confidant, for he was always my friend—one of my oldest and best friends—and I got him to bring me here and introduce me to the lady of the house. Oh! Em., my treasure, I am so glad to see you! Don’t reproach me!”

Indeed, she could not do so. His beaming countenance continued to shine on her, while he held her hands, rapturously kissing them from time to time as he poured forth his impetuous stream of words.

“I am very glad to see you, Ronald, but, oh! I know I ought not to be glad. Did my dear lady send you in to see me?” she inquired while he placed himself at her side on the sofa.

“Oh, yes, to be sure she did! Some good spirit must have whispered to her how much I wished to see you alone,” he said, still tightly holding her hand and pressing it to his lips.

“Don’t, Ronald, please don’t do that,” she said, withdrawing her hand, but adding, “I told the lady all about us, Ronald.”

“You! There, I said some angel had enlightened her, and you are the one!” he murmured, as he recaptured her hand and deftly slipped a ring upon her finger.

“Oh! what is this?” she exclaimed, raising the hand that he had then released and gazing upon the sparkling solitaire diamond set in the golden circle around her finger.

“It is something belonging to you,” he gravely replied.

“Belonging to me!” she exclaimed.

“Yes, it is your betrothal ring, ordered for you some weeks ago, but never received until yesterday.”

She began to withdraw the ring from her finger, but he caught her hand and prevented her from doing so as he said:

“No, Em., you must not remove it. You must wear it until it is replaced by a wedding ring. Listen, Em.! Don’t make me out a story-teller! I said I had a parcel to deliver which belonged to you, as it did belong to you, since it was ordered and made for you—and that was my excuse for wanting to intrude on the seclusion of this hermit lady! Don’t make me out a mendacious villain by refusing to take what belongs to you!”

“I don’t understand your logic, dear Ronald; but I know I must not take a betrothal ring from you in the face of my father’s prohibition of our engagement,” replied the girl as she steadily withdrew the ring from her finger and returned it to him.

“Little wooden post! Little marble pillar! Little iceberg!” exclaimed the young man half angrily. “Are we not engaged, then? Do you withdraw from your promise?”

“No, dear Ronald, not one iota! I promised never to marry any other person but you, and, of course, I never shall. It was hardly worth while to have made such a promise, though! It was altogether a word of supererogation, for in no case could I ever think of any other marriage. But notwithstanding that, Ronald, I can never marry you until my father withdraws his opposition, and so, dear, I must not take your ring.”

“It is you who are as relentless as a griffin! I do not find it so difficult to manage the old man. He did not forbid me the house the last time I went to see you there! No, although I went there on that occasion against his order!”

“I suppose he thought it was no use to prohibit the visits of a man who paid no attention to his prohibition,” said Em. gravely.

“No, that was not the reason! My father-in-law who is to be would have been more likely to have kicked out any other man but me, under the like circumstances. But I am really very much attached to the old man, and he knows it, and he could not snub me while I smiled in his face! That was the reason why he did not repeat his prohibition or even forbid me to visit you here!”

“Oh, my father would never have done the last! He had no right to say that you should not come to Edengarden. But, Ronald, he confides in your honor and in mine. And we must not abuse his confidence. He shall not be disappointed in us, Ronald. Oh, I have something so delightful to tell you, dear Ronald! I have already told you how I made known our case to my dear friend and benefactress, and I suppose that was the reason why she staid with Dr. Willet and sent you in to see me. Well, Ronald, this dear lady feels so interested in us that she is going to interfere, and she says she has a talisman—that is only her way of saying that she has power and influence with the commodore sufficient to win his consent to our marriage.”

“The Lady of Edengarden said that?” exclaimed young Bruce in surprise.

“Indeed she did, dear, and she promised faithfully to use her power in our favor.”

“I do not know what power or influence this beautiful, mysterious and most interesting lady can have with my old uncle. I am very sure that he is not even acquainted with her; for on one occasion, when I first came to The Breezes, I asked him if he knew his neighbor on the island, whose name was on everybody’s lips; he said no, he didn’t know her, and had never even heard of her until very recently; and he added in his rough way that he didn’t want to know her—that he disapproved of women whose eccentricities placed their names in everybody’s mouth! That is a dark prospect for her success with my uncle, Em., my darling!”

“Ah! but I suspect that the Lady of Edengarden knows what she is talking about. Besides, how should Commodore Bruce be able to tell whether he has ever known her before? Hardly any one knows who she was, or where she came from. For my part, I believe she has the power and influence which she claims,” said Em., speaking with confidence, although she did not feel at liberty to speak with explicitness.

“Very well, my dearest, I pin my faith on Mrs. Lynn and on your superior knowledge of that lady, only devoutly praying that my faith, as well as yours, may be justified,” said Ronald Bruce.

What more he might have said on the same subject does not appear, because the abrupt entrance of the little page stopped the conversation.

“If you please, sir, Dr. Willet bid me say to you, with his compliments, that he is ready to go,” said the boy.

“Very well! Tell Dr. Willet I will join him in a minute,” replied the young man.

The boy withdrew to carry his message.

When they were once more alone Em. said:

“Dear Ronald, do not keep the good doctor waiting.”

“I will not, darling, especially as I owe to him the introduction that enables me to visit you here; for now that an entrée has been effected, I shall come often, Em., unless my excellent father-in-law-elect should take it into his conscientious head to forbid me! Well, good-by, my precious!” he said, stooping to kiss her.

“Stop,” she said, deftly evading the caress. “I am going out with you to see Dr. Willet. I want to ask him how my dear old Aunty Whitlock is!”

“Oh, Em., was ever a girl so blessed or burdened with relations as you are?”

“Blessed—not burdened,” said Em. as they left the parlor and walked on together to the little white saloon.

“Oh, Dr. Willet, I am so glad to see you to-day. Have you been to the Wilderness this morning?” inquired Em. as she shook hands with the good physician.

“Yes, my child; and I left them all well, with the exception of Mrs. Whitlock, who is no better,” replied the doctor as he arose to take leave.

“You are going out, dear madam?” inquired Em. as she saw Mrs. Lynn standing beside the door, dressed for her visit.

“Yes, my love. The doctor’s call this morning is very opportune, since it affords me the privilege of his escort to The Breezes,” said Mrs. Lynn with a bow to the physician.

Em. exchanged an intelligent glance with her lover; but that was all they could do, for the doctor advanced and shook hands with her again, this time bidding her good-by.

“But who is to bring you home again, madam?” anxiously inquired Em. of her benefactress.

“I shall have that honor, so I will not say good-by, but au revoir,” Ronald Bruce hastened to add as he seized and pressed her hand.

The lady and her escort then left the house and walked down to the boat.

“It is only about half way to the Wilderness Manor Landing that we have to go to reach The Breezes, I believe,” said Mrs. Lynn, as she permitted herself to be assisted into the boat and accommodated with a cushioned seat in the stern.

“Scarcely so far. We shall reach The Breezes in half an hour with our rowing,” answered Ronald Bruce, as he pushed off the boat.

Then both gentlemen laid themselves to the oars and the boat sped on.

CHAPTER XXIX

BEARDING THE LION IN HIS DEN

By hope I see the landscape bathed in light;

And where the golden vapor vails the gaze,

Guess out the spot and mark the site of happy days.

BULWER.

It was a glorious autumn day. The sky, of a deep and brilliant hue, was without a single cloud. The moss-covered mountain rocks on the right hand and the wooded hills on the left glowed and burned in all the most gorgeous hues—scarlet, golden, purple, green, crimson and orange—all reflected as by a clear mirror in the calm deep waters of the river.

“Oh, surely this glowing day is a happy augury!” said the Lady of Edengarden, as the boat skimmed the water.

“Let us believe that it is so. Faith works miracles,” replied the doctor.

The young officer turned a grateful glance on his good fairy, but said nothing.

In a few more minutes they caught sight of the low, broad, gray front of the old mountain manor-house, roosted on its natural plateau of rock, half way up the precipice, and known to the country round by the name given it by its nautical proprietor—The Breezes.

In a few more minutes the boat touched the sands on the lower landing, and Lieutenant Bruce sprang out and assisted his lady passenger to do the same.

The ascent of the steep was difficult and wearisome, but not dangerous.

Dr. Willet and Lieutenant Bruce each proffered strong arms to assist the lady in climbing, but she, who in the course of her travels had ascended more than one celebrated mountain, smilingly declined their aid, and with the help of her long-handled parasol, folded and used as a walking-stick, she went up the precipitous path as safely as a kid could have done.

When they reached the plateau on which the house was built, they entered a gate in the stone wall upon the very brink of the precipice, and passing through the enclosed space went up to the front entrance.

Lieutenant Bruce being at home, did not wait to knock, but opened the door and admitted the party.

Dr. Willet led Mrs. Lynn at once into a little study, which had been placed at his disposal by the commodore on his first arrival at The Breezes.

He placed a chair for his companion, and said:

“Remain here, dear Emolyn, where you will be entirely free from interruption, while I go and find my old friend and break to him the news of your visit—indeed of your existence, which will seem to him like a resurrection from the dead,” added the doctor, as he pressed her hand and left the room.

The lady sat back in her chair, trying to gain courage for the dreaded interview. And with the strange double consciousness which we have all at times experienced, while bending all her powers of mind to prepare for the approaching ordeal, she also observed the smallest detail in the dingy little corner nook in which she waited—the faded green carpet and curtains, the old walnut table and chairs, the quaint old-fashioned escritoire, half bureau as to its lower division, and half bookcase as to its upper, whose shelves, seen through the glass doors, displayed a queer collection of old, moldy folios.

Meanwhile Dr. Willet went on to the handsome and well-appointed library where Commodore Bruce usually passed his days in reading, writing, smoking and dozing.

He found the old sailor, wrapped in his wadded silk dressing-gown and reclining back in his luxurious easy-chair, engaged in looking over a newspaper that had just been brought to him by his mail messenger.

“Ah, doctor! Back so soon? I am glad of it! There is nothing at all worth reading in the papers nowadays, and I feel as dull as a ship becalmed at sea! Well, how is your patient, sir?” demanded the old sailor. Then without waiting for reply, he burst out with: “It is disgusting to think you left your practice in the city and came here for a good rest——”

“I came here for the pleasure of your company, my dear friend, and for nothing else under the sun!” interrupted the doctor.

“Well, then, you came here for the pleasure of my company, which, by the by, is a very great and undeserved compliment to my powers of entertaining. But let that pass. You came for my company, and the rest, you know, is thrown in. But instead of a rest, you have found a free patient, whose condition requires you to ride about twelve miles a day—counting both ways!”

“No more exercise than is required for my own health. Besides, I take an interest in the old woman. She is a very old acquaintance of mine, and in former days was often my co-laborer, being a professional sick-nurse,” said the doctor.

“Well, well, as you please, but I think it would be pleasanter now for you to take an occasional ride behind the hounds with my nephew instead of that dreary daily sick call! However, be it as you will; only I hope the old crone will get well or go to heaven before long. Is she likely to do either?”

“Can’t say. She is in the very same condition as we have seen an old patient of hers and mine, and an old friend of yours. I refer to the late Captain Wyndeworth. This woman was his sick-nurse at the time that I attended him in his last illness, during that dreadful winter preceding the trial of Emolyn Wyndeworth. Ah, I have often thought what a mercy it was that the old gentleman was taken away before that disaster fell upon his house,” murmured the doctor, purposely dragging in the subject.

“Ah, so have I! That fatal year was full of disaster! First came the death of my good old friend, the—the loss of my dear boy at sea,” muttered the old commodore in a breaking voice—“then, worse than all, the terrible calamities that befell Emolyn! Ah, that poor girl!”

“Did you ever ascertain her fate?” pointedly inquired the doctor.

“Oh, no; but of course she is dead; of course she has been dead for many years. Emolyn Wyndeworth never could have survived the shame of a public trial—and such a trial!”

“But when it ended in her triumphant acquittal!”

“It was not triumphant for her. It was dishonor heaped upon dishonor from beginning to end. Her defense was based upon the theory of paroxysmal insanity. Bah! the verdict of acquittal was rendered upon the same ground. Bah! bah! It killed her, sir!”

“Perhaps not; she certainly had the consciousness of innocence to support her.”

“A very much overrated support, sir.”

“You believe her to have been innocent?”

“‘Believe,’ Dr. Willet! I know it, sir! I knew that child from her babyhood up. So did you. And I know her to have been as innocent as an infant angel. She said that she had been married. I don’t believe she had ever been married! but I KNOW she was married because she said so! she who never dreamed it possible to lie! She said her young husband was dead, and therefore, of course, I knew he was dead because she said so, she whose soul was truth! She would not give up the name of her husband even to help her own defense. She would not drag down the name of an honorable family into the mire into which her pure name had been hurled by wicked hands! How well I understood her motive! She was a Wyndeworth! She came of a race whose men were all honest, whose women were all pure! She could not be otherwise. Divine lips have told us that ‘men do not gather grapes of thorns or figs of thistles.’ Emolyn Wyndeworth was a true daughter of her noble line! When put to the test, that gentle, sensitive, shrinking girl became heroic! Yes, I repeat it, Emolyn Wyndeworth was innocent, and not only innocent, but heroic! I would to Heaven that I were as guiltless of offense toward her as she was toward all the world!” concluded Commodore Bruce, with a deep sigh.

“I am sure that you can have nothing to reproach yourself with in regard to that most unhappy lady,” said Dr. Willet.

“You don’t know anything about it, sir! You don’t know anything about it! Why, the very last night before my poor boy, Lonny, sailed on that fatal voyage, from which he was destined never to return—on that very last night, I say, in the most earnest, tender, manly way, perfectly wonderful in a mere boy like Lonny, he commended Emolyn Wyndeworth to my care. There were tears in the lad’s eyes, sir, as he spoke of her orphaned and desolate condition, and told me how he had loved her all his life long and hoped some time or other to claim her as his wife. At that time, although he was about to leave me for a long voyage, I could scarcely forbear smiling at the earnestness of the lad in speaking of a prospective wife, and commending the waiting bride-elect to my fatherly care. Of course, I promised to look after the girl, but equally, of course, I forgot my promise—forgot it—ah, yes! until the catastrophe brought it to my mind too late! too late!”

All this the old commodore had told the doctor several times before, yet with the fatuity of approaching dotage he told it again.

“Forgive me for saying that I think you exaggerate your responsibility in this matter and torture yourself needlessly.”

“No, I don’t! No, I don’t! I will prove to you that I don’t by mentioning—that which I never breathed to any human being before—that Emolyn Wyndeworth had been privately married to my son—that her child was his legitimate daughter! There, it is out! Now you know the secret of what you call my morbid self-reproach! It was my poor, shipwrecked and drowned boy who was the lost husband of whom she spoke. It was our name she refused to bring down to dishonor when the false accusation of child-murder had branded her pure name!”

“Father in heaven, can this be true?” exclaimed the doctor in much agitation.

“I firmly believe it to be as I have said. She was the wife of my son by a private marriage. But when unmerited dishonor fell upon her name she resolved, by her silence, to shield us from any share in it. She died and made no sign.”

“Commodore Bruce, for Heaven’s sake, declare to me what reason you have for believing this!”

“Every reason that ought to have opened my eyes before the catastrophe came! My son’s solemn charge. Her deep dejection after his departure. The fact that they had been the most intimate friends and playmates from their infancy to youth, so that he had no other girl playmate, she no other boy acquaintance. This should have enlightened us all if we had not been as blind as bats! Then again her declaration that her young husband had belonged to a good family and that he was dead. All this pointed to Leonidas Bruce.

“Again, in those last, sad months, when her uncle lay slowly dying and I was accustomed to visit him every morning, I recall her wistful looks into my face—the looks of a poor, hunted fawn—the pleading gaze of a poor, helpless, frightened creature that mutely prays for mercy!—the looks she would raise to my face as she stood in the front hall waiting for me to pass! Why, sir, I tell you, hundreds of times I was on the point of speaking to the poor child and asking her what her trouble was, but that Malvina Warde—may the foul fiend fire her!—was always in the way, rattling with her tongue and hurrying me along, so that beyond a nod or a word I could get no conversation with the girl. And shortly after I went to sea, and did not return until the trial of Emolyn Wyndeworth was on. It was very short, you know, and after she was acquitted she suddenly vanished from sight, nor could all my effort to trace her be successful. So many years have passed since then that I have quite given her up for dead,” sadly concluded the old man.

“And yet, for aught you know to the contrary, she may be living,” murmured the doctor.

“Bah!” exclaimed the commodore. “Julius Cæsar may be also living, but it must be in another sphere of existence. No, the opportunity of saving or helping Emolyn Wyndeworth passed out of my hands because I was, in her case, too dull of perception, too slow of action. But understand this: Even at the time of the trial I did not suspect that Emolyn Wyndeworth had been the wife of my son. I suspected it afterward, upon reflection, and then, as I recalled all the circumstances of the case, I saw them in a new light, and my suspicion became conviction and filled me with regret, that grew into remorse, for my previous dulness and blindness, which had resulted so fatally for that poor, forlorn child. Thus, you see, sir, I mourn the early and tragic fate of Emolyn Wyndeworth in a sorrow that is without hope,” said the old man, dropping his gray head upon his chest.

“But, as we have never had any proof of her death, she may be still living!” the doctor ventured again to suggest.

The commodore made a movement of disgust and impatience, demanding:

“If she is not dead, why has no one ever heard anything of her in all these years?”

“Perhaps some one has heard of her,” quietly suggested the doctor.

“Bah!” exclaimed the old sailor.

“I think—I am sure that some one has heard of her.”

“I should like to know who it is, then!” exclaimed the commodore incredulously.

“It is I!”

“EH?”

“I!”

“You!”

“Yes!”

“Heard of Emolyn Wyndeworth!”

“I have!”

“Good Heaven! You don’t say so!”

“Yes, I do!”

“When? Where? How? Speak, sir! Where is she? Living? Well?” demanded the excited old man, pouring question upon question with impetuous rapidity.

“She is living, and well, and not very far off,” quietly answered the doctor, as he arose, poured out a glass of water and made the commodore drink it.

“It seems incredible!” exclaimed the old man, as he returned the empty goblet to his friend.

“I knew you would be agitated by such news, and I tried to prepare you for it,” said the doctor.

“It fills me with joy, and joy does not hurt any one. It moves me with gratitude, and that blesses every one. Thank Heaven! Oh, thank Heaven! But where is this lady now? If she should be within five hundred miles of me, I will seek her within a week,” said Commodore Bruce, more firmly and calmly than he had yet spoken.

“She is much nearer than that. She is quite within your reach,” calmly replied Dr. Willet.

“Where? Where? Speak, friend! There is no need of farther preparation. If you were to tell me she was in the next room, it could not startle me now!” exclaimed the commodore, unconsciously touching the very truth.

Still the doctor deemed it best to be cautious.

“Have you never suspected her possible identity with that of the recluse Lady of Edengarden?” significantly inquired the doctor.

“Never! What? The Lady of Edengarden? You don’t mean to tell me——” The old man paused and gazed with amazement on the doctor.

“Yes, I do. I mean to tell you that Emolyn Wyndeworth and the Lady of Edengarden are one and the same,” the latter assured him.

The commodore dropped his head upon his chest and stroked his full gray beard.

“Is she living there at present?” he at length inquired.

“Yes; though usually she does not live there in the winter.”

“Then I will go to see her before twenty-four hours are over my head.”

“There will be no need. Emolyn Wyndeworth has come to see you!”

“EH!”

“Emolyn Wyndeworth has come to see Commodore Bruce, her father’s old friend. She only waits your pleasure to receive her.”

“Where? Where? Where does she wait?”

“In the little green study at the end of the hall,” replied the doctor composedly.

The veteran of seventy-six sprang up with the agility of a youth of sixteen and dashed out of the library, exclaiming:

“Emolyn Wyndeworth here! In this house! Oh, how I thank Heaven to have lived for this happiness!”

CHAPTER XXX

THE MEETING

A hundred thousand welcomes! I could weep

And I could laugh—I’m light and heavy! Welcome!

A blight begin at the very root of his heart

Who is not glad to see thee! Welcome!

SHAKESPEARE.

“Emolyn Wyndeworth! Emolyn, my child, can it be possible that I find you again after all these years?” exclaimed Commodore Bruce, seizing the hands of the lady as she arose and offered them on his entrance into the little study.

“You are glad to see me, then?” she murmured in low and tremulous tones.

“‘Glad?’ Oh, my Lord!” aspirated the old man with all his soul.

“Let me sit down,” she breathed in almost inaudible tones, as she sank back trembling into her seat.

“You are not much changed; not so much as might have been expected. No, indeed, you are not,” he resumed, as he stood before her, holding her hands and gazing wistfully, tenderly into her face.

“Years of life without smiles, or tears, or frowns, or any emotion that could trace a line on cheek or brow, a life in marble, a life in death, leaves no vestige of its passage on the face or form,” mournfully replied Emolyn.

“But, my child, why have you led this life? Why have you expatriated and hidden yourself from your friends all these years?”

“You ask me why? Oh, Commodore Bruce!”

“Well, I suppose I know or can surmise your motive for doing so; but, Emolyn, that motive arose from a very morbid mind. Oh, child, if you knew how I have ‘sought you, sorrowing,’ all these years!”

“Ah, why should you have taken any interest in one so lost?” she sighed, covering her eyes with one hand.

“Why? You ask me why?” he inquired, unconsciously repeating her own words. “I will tell you, Emolyn. My poor boy, my poor Lonny, with his last words, before sailing on that fatal voyage—committed you to my charge—telling me that when he should return from his voyage he meant to claim you for his wife.”

A low moan of pain escaped the lips of the lady, but she made no comment.

“Ah, Emolyn, would to Heaven I had paid that heed to his words which I afterward, but too late, found they deserved! But how could I have known?”

“How, indeed? You knew nothing. Do not reproach yourself,” breathed the lady in low, almost inaudible tones.

“But I ought to have known, or inquired, or discovered! Emolyn, child! what was the meaning of the pleading eyes you used to raise to mine when I would pass you in leaving Green Point, after a visit to your bed-ridden uncle? Tell me, dear! Tell me!”

“It were bootless to tell you now what I had not the courage to tell then,” she replied.

“And I—hard, cold and blind that I was, I never encouraged you to open your heart to me, although I had promised my poor boy to watch over you,” groaned the commodore.

“Do not reproach yourself,” she repeated. “I might never have been able to confide in any man.”

“Yet I should have drawn your secret from you, Emolyn! Tell me now, I conjure! In the name of the dead, I conjure you, tell me, were you the wife of my son?” solemnly demanded the veteran.

She paused a moment and then answered in a low, distinct voice:

“I was.”

The commodore dropped his gray head upon his open hands and groaned aloud.

“I thought so! I thought so! But not until it was too late! Not until you had passed out of my reach and knowledge entirely. Oh, child! If only you had confided in me, what sorrow would have been saved!”

“He wished to do so as soon as we were married, for boy as he was, he had a man’s intelligent and delicate sense of honor. He wished to do so, but I was afraid to consent. We were married nearly a month before he sailed; and every day he pleaded with me to let him confess his marriage; but the very idea of doing so frightened and distressed me so much that he would yield the point.”

“Fatal timidity on your side—fatal compliance on his!” sighed the commodore.

“I told you just now not to reproach yourself. I beg you now not to reproach me, for I have already suffered the bitter fruits of my cowardice, nor him, for he has passed beyond our judgment,” solemnly replied Emolyn.

“My child, I am not reproaching—I am only lamenting!”

“That, too, is vain.”

“I know it; yet, oh, how differently all this might have ended had he but confessed your marriage even at the last moment!”

“He was in honor bound to me not to do so. At the very last moment he implored me to release him from his promise and allow him to tell you and his mother and leave me under your protection. But I was afraid to consent and sent him away sorrowing.”

“Poor boy! Poor boy! Yet he did what he could. He did invoke my protection for you, Emolyn, although he was not permitted to use the argument that would have bound you to us by owning you as his wife. Ah, what a misfortune!”

“But I must tell you what more he did, that you may know how thoughtful, how loving, how earnest he was. On the last night he stayed in his own home he spent the hours which should have been given to sleep in writing a long letter of confession to you, telling you all the circumstances attending our marriage, and invoking your pardon of him and protection of me. This letter he inclosed in one to me, in which he besought me to seek your presence at once; or, if I could not summon courage to do so, at least to keep the inclosed letter carefully, so that I might be able to present it to you in case I should ever stand in need of your friendship——”

“Where is that letter? Where? Why, oh, why, my child, did you never deliver it to me?” impetuously demanded the commodore.

“At first I was afraid. Afterward, when the greater terror overcame the less, I looked for my precious parcel and could not find it. My cabinet had been rifled of that and of all my correspondence—of everything, indeed, that could have afforded the slightest circumstantial evidence to the truth of my marriage.”

“Who was the thief? Who?” indignantly demanded the veteran.

“I have no positive knowledge, and I have no right to speak of my suspicions,” replied Emolyn.

“Oh, my child! If, even without those proofs, you could have summoned resolution to have come to me and told the whole story!” sighed Commodore Bruce.

“Are you sure that you would have believed me? Yet at one time I had resolved to make a full disclosure of my relations to you.”

“I wish to Heaven you had; but when was that? Was it when you used to watch for me in the hall and look at me with large, wistful eyes as I passed out?”

“Oh, no; it was after you had gone away. I had been plunged in despair by the news of my husband’s sudden death; but it was not until I knew—what, in my ignorance, I was long in knowing—that I should become a mother, and the fate of an innocent being would depend upon mine, I was inspired with the courage to desperation and resolved to go away with my faithful nurse to her relatives and stay with them until my child’s arrival and your return, and then, if the babe lived, to take it to you and tell it was your son’s child, and that I, its mother, was your son’s widow.”

“I wish to Heaven you had done so.”

“I should have carried out my resolution if the fatal catastrophe had not fallen so suddenly upon me. Then after the death of my child and the shameful accusation——Oh, I cannot speak of this!” exclaimed Emolyn, breaking off and dropping her head upon her hands.

“I know—I know,” murmured the commodore in deep emotion—“you acted with the heroism and self-devotion of your race and nature. You refused, even for your own preservation and vindication, to tell your real story and bring our name into the trial.”

“Yet without it I was acquitted and vindicated by all but by myself.”

“How, Emolyn, how? What do you mean, my child?” inquired the old man in distress.

“I know not—oh, I know not what happened that horrible night!” she gasped with a shudder.

“You were irresponsible. You are free from reproach.”

“Oh, let us not talk of it! The thought—the doubt—has made me a vagabond and wanderer on the face of the earth, trying to hide from the world, to fly from myself. Oh, let us not talk of it! Let us talk of something else!” She shivered and buried her face in her hands.

They were both painfully silent for a few moments.

At length Emolyn raised her head and spoke:

“Commodore Bruce——”

“My dear,” said the old man.

“I did not come here with any intention of telling you my secret, nor should I ever have told you if you had not asked me the direct question.”

“I only asked you, Emolyn, that I might receive confirmation of my own convictions. I am glad and grateful that you came to see me and gave me the opportunity of making inquiries that have brought out the truth.”

“Yet I should never have had the hardihood to leave my seclusion after all these years if it had not been for one in whom I take a deep interest. I mean my little namesake, Emolyn Palmer, whose acquaintance I have recently made.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the commodore.

“I am aware that you know her quite well.”

“Oh, yes; she passed a week here—a very interesting young person. She might have had a permanent home with us if it hadn’t been for the folly of my nephew Ronald in fancying he had fallen in love with her.”

“It is of that ‘folly’ I have come to speak to you. It does not seem to me to be folly, but an honest, manly, faithful love, likely to last his lifetime,” said Emolyn earnestly.

“I am very sorry to hear you say that. I trust in Heaven, for his sake, that it is not true,” gravely replied the old man.

“What is your objection to Emolyn Palmer as the wife of your nephew?”

“Objection? My dear lady, how can you ask? My objection is not a particular but a general one.”

“She is beautiful.”

“Yes.”

“She is graceful.”

“Certainly.”

“Amiable and irreproachable in character.”

“Quite so.”

“Intelligent and fairly educated.”

“She is all that.”

“And is she not sincerely attached to your nephew and yourself, and beloved by both?”

“Yes, it is true.”

“And are not all these qualities that you would desire to find in the chosen bride of Ronald Bruce?”

“Yes, my dear lady—all these qualities are to be desired, but they are not all that are to be expected in my nephew’s wife.”

“What else would you have, you exacting man?”

“Wealth and a good social position,” curtly replied the commodore.

“Emolyn Palmer shall have both,” said the lady quietly.

“Eh! Emolyn Palmer have wealth and social position? How is that possible? You dream, my child!”

“Yes, I do dream, and I mean to realize my dream. The child, Emolyn Palmer, has interested me more than any person or anything that I have met with for the last seventeen years. I feel my heart so drawn out toward her that I begin to believe in the possibility of happiness in this life even for me, through her! For her sake I have come to see you. I told you that in addition to all her personal attractions, she should have the necessary ones of wealth and social position. Wealth I will give her. I have no children nor near relatives to share my fortune. I will, therefore, give my little namesake a marriage portion that shall make her the equal in fortune to any young lady in this State. Her marriage will give her the social position that is required, for the wife takes rank from her husband. Thus Emolyn Palmer shall have wealth and position added to all her personal attractions. Will you now consent to the engagement of these lovers?” earnestly inquired the lady.

The commodore waved his thin white hand to and fro, as if gently putting away her arguments, as he replied:

“My dearest young friend, that is all benevolent sophistry. I do not wish my nephew’s wife to owe her rank to her husband’s family alone. A beggar girl might do that. No, good birth, even before wealth or personal attractions, is what I desire and insist upon in the wife of Ronald. And let me tell you, my dear and gentle Emolyn, that this and all other desirable attributes are to be found in the lady I long ago selected for him—Hermia, my niece. They are indeed my co-heirs, and they must marry. There, my dear, there is my decision. And now, my Emolyn, you have known me of old. You know that when my judgment has decided any course of action to be the right one no power on earth can move me to alter.”

“I know! I know! That is the reason why I feared you so, and shrank from confessing my marriage to you until it was too late. Do not fear. I shall not continue to importune you, Commodore Bruce,” said the lady in a tone of pain.

“Do not be vexed with me, Emolyn, my child. It is inexpressibly distressing to me to be obliged to place myself in opposition to you on any subject at this our first reunion after so long and hopeless a separation. Believe me, dear, I appreciate the benevolence of your actions, which is in perfect keeping with the tenor of your whole life. I approve your kind intentions toward this young girl with only one exception——”

“The only vital one,” murmured Emolyn.

“Be as kind to her as your good heart dictates in all things. Give her the advantages of wealth and a higher culture. She deserves them, and will put them to good use. Do all you please for her, my dear; but do not torment yourself or me by trying to bring about a marriage between Ronald Bruce and the overseer’s daughter.”

“Fear no importunity from me, sir. I shall not recur to the subject again in your presence,” said the lady in the same tone of pain.

“Now I fear that I have angered you, Emolyn.”

“Oh, no, not angered, only disappointed me,” she replied.

Then rising and gathering her India shawl about her, she held out her hand and said:

“I wish you good-morning, sir.”

“What? Going? You are not going so early?”

“Thanks; but I must.”

“At least stay to lunch?”

“Much obliged; but it is impossible.”

“Let me then introduce you to the ladies of my family. My niece and her daughter will be happy to see you.”

“Not for the world. I came not out of my grave to make a fashionable call. I came to fulfil a mission, which has failed. Let me go in peace.”

“But, my dear, your cousins—Mrs. and Miss Ward—are here, my guests. Let me send for them and make known your presence,” said the commodore, reaching his hand for the bell.

But the lady’s hand quickly arrested his.

“No, on your salvation!” she cried in great excitement. “Not for a thousand worlds! Oh, stop! Nothing should ever induce me to meet Malvina Warde! Never could I bear to look upon her—her, the cause of all my sorrows—my enemy—my destroyer!”

“Well, well, my dear, you shall not see her! She is no great favorite of mine, although she is unhappily my guest. Calm yourself, Emolyn. Sit down and let me offer you a glass of wine. Do.”

“Thanks, no—nothing. I shall only trouble your boatmen to take me back to the island.”

“They are at your orders, Emolyn,” said the old man, once more approaching his hand to the bell.

Again she arrested his motion as she said:

“One moment. I had nearly forgotten an important point. But the mere mention of that woman so maddens me that I forget everything else for the time being! Commodore Bruce, what I must say and to impress upon you is this—that I do not wish my name mentioned, or my existence revealed to any human being, either in this house or out of it. Like Noah’s weary dove, I have folded my wings to rest in peace in the ark of my island. But the same day that reveals my name and identity to this neighborhood sees me go forth again a homeless wanderer over the face of the earth!”

“I will keep your secret, my poor, morbid Emolyn; but—Ronald and Willet, who know who you are?”

“I can trust them as I trust myself.”

“Then you are safe.”

“Now please ring the bell and order the boat for me.”

“Certainly. I may come to see you at your ‘Island of Calm Delights?’”

“Yes, I shall always welcome you.”

Again the old man approached his hand to the bell; but he was again prevented from ringing it.

CHAPTER XXXI

A STARTLING VISITOR

Much in the stranger’s mien appears

To justify suspicious fears.

On his dark face a scorching clime,

And toil, hath done the work of time—

Roughened his brow, his temples bared.

And sable hairs with silver shared;

Yet left—what age alone could tame—

The lip of pride, the eye of flame.

The lip that terror never blenched,

The eye where teardrop never quenched

The flash severe of swarthy glow

That scorned pain and mocked at woe.

WALTER SCOTT.

The interruption proceeded from the voice of the hall footman, saying in a rather insolent tone:

“Well, then, you can step in here, my man! There is no one in here, and you can go in here and wait till I go and tell my master that you want to see him,” adding in a lower tone: “There’s nothing in there he can steal, I reckon, ’cept ’tis some moldy old books.”

The door was thrown open, and while the steps of the footman were heard retreating a most disreputable-looking tramp entered the study and stood boldly up before the party therein.

Now while the commodore and the lady are gazing in stupefied astonishment at this impudent intruder, I will endeavor to describe him.

He was a tall, dark, gaunt man, whose long, thin, swarthy face was hedged in by a wild, neglected thicket of grizzled black hair and beard, and whose fierce, burning black eyes were overhung by thick, shaggy black brows. He wore an old suit of clothes that might have once been of any color, but was now of none; around his neck a dingy woolen scarf; on his feet a pair of broken shoes; in his hand a torn hat. He was altogether a wayworn, travel-strained, dilapidated and dangerous-looking customer, such as one would not like to meet on a dark night or on a deserted road.

The commodore regarded him wrathfully, frowningly—the lady, curiously, wistfully.

“Who in the demon are you? What jail have you broken out of? And what in the fiend’s name do you want here?” sternly demanded the veteran; while the lady leaned forward, gazing on the man with a strange, intense and breathless interest.

“Good heavens! Do you not know me, then?” demanded the poor tramp in a voice full of anguish.

“No! Never saw you in all the days of my life before, and never wish to see you again! Begone!” exclaimed the veteran; while the lady half arose from her seat, stared at the stranger with eyes that widened and widened in amazement, with lips breathlessly apart and color coming and going rapidly.

“Did you not get my letter, written from Marseilles, then?” inquired the stranger.

“What in the demon’s name are you talking about? You are drunk, man, or mad! Leave the house instantly!” exclaimed the irate old gentleman, starting up as if he would have ejected the intruder by main force, had he been strong enough.

“Oh, my soul! my soul! Do you not know me—Lynny?” pleaded the wanderer, turning his wild, sad, prayerful eyes on the intense, listening, breathless, eager face of the lady.

The question broke the spell that bound her.

“SAVED!” she cried, and her piercing shriek rang through and through the house as she started up, threw herself into the arms of the tramp and fainted dead away.

The sight and sound, but not the meaning, of this action met the dulled senses of the aged veteran.

Starting to his feet in a fury, he thundered forth:

“What in the demon do you mean, you cursed villain, by breaking into this room and frightening a lady into fits? Lay her down on that sofa this instant, and don’t presume to touch her again! Leave the house! Begone! If you stop another second, Satan burn you! I’ll send you to the county jail for six months! I’m in the commission of the peace, and I’ll do it!”

“Yes. I had best go for the present. She has fainted. Call her women to her,” said the tramp in a gentle tone, as he laid his burden down with tender care upon the sofa.

“If you don’t take yourself out of this room in double-quick time, you tramping thief, you’ll find yourself in a pair of handcuffs on the road to prison before you know it!” roared the commodore, as he seized and jerked the bell rope violently.

But the sad wanderer had already left the study.

The commodore continued to ring the bell furiously, peal upon peal, until the hall footman rushed in with alarm.

“Go after that tramping vagabond and kick him out of the house! Then call all the dogs and set them on him and hunt him off the premises! Do you hear?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the man as he went out, dismayed, to give place to Wren, the little page, whom the violent ringing of the bell had also brought to the scene.

“WATER!” cried the commodore, who was now engaged in trying to recover the fainting woman.

The boy vanished and soon reappeared with a silver pitcher and goblet.

The commodore poured some on his hand and threw it in the face of the lady and waited for the effect, but she showed no sign of consciousness.

“Brandy! From the beaufet! In the library!” he cried in growing alarm.

The page ran away and soon re-entered with a decanter and glass.

The commodore poured out a little of the brandy, and, holding up the head of the helpless woman, tried to force a few drops between her lips, but the liquid only tippled over the surface.

“I don’t know what on earth to do for her! She forbid me to call the ladies to see her before she fainted, and it seems hardly fair to do so now that she cannot defend herself! And I don’t know how to recover her, not I!” cried the commodore in despair. Then turning furiously on the footman, who had re-entered the study, he demanded:

“Did you do as I ordered? Did you kick that vagrant out and set the dogs on him?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the man, unhesitatingly telling a fib, for he had not sought for the poor tramp with any such cruel intention, as was afterward proved.

“Served him right! Glad to hear it!” grunted the old man, as he recommenced his efforts to recover his patient, but in vain. Suddenly he remembered the presence of the physician in the house, and wondered he had not thought of him before.

“Go and ask Dr. Willet to be kind enough to step here immediately,” he said.

“If you please, sir, Dr. Willet has gone out,” said the footman.

“Gone out! the deuce! How unlucky! Where has he gone?”

“If you please, sir, to the Wilderness Manor-house. Mr. John Palmer he came all in a hurry for de doctor, sir, to go to the ageable old woman what is dying dere and wants to see the doctor afore she goes, which dey don’t think she can last another day, sir.”

“How very unfortunate!” exclaimed the old man, who never ceased from his ineffectual efforts to recover his patient. “I do not know where to turn! She will die, and all on account of that cursed tramp!” Then bursting forth like a storm upon the head of the footman, he violently demanded:

“And what did you mean, you rascal, by sending that ruffian in here to frighten this poor lady to death? Yes, to death, you villain! And when she dies I’ll have you hanged for murder! I will, by my life! Why don’t you answer me, you scoundrel? What did you mean by showing that burglar, that robber, that cut-throat, into this room to kill this lady?”

“’Deed, ’deed, I ’elare to my Judge, marster, I never knowed nobody was in here, which dere almost never is nobody in here; and I didn’t know nothing about the lady wisiter, as she must a-come on along of Dr. Willet or Lieutenant Bruce, ’cause I didn’t let her in myself and didn’t know nothing about it, sir; and likewise thought as you was in the libery. And as for the tramp, sir, he did say as he wanted to speak to you werry particular, to bring you news of a long-absent friend——”

“An excuse to beg! An excuse to beg! Or to swindle! Or to extort money! What did the ruffian call himself?”

“He ’clined to give no name, sir, but said how you’d know him when you seed him.”

“An impudent liar! I never set eyes on him before. I wish I had committed him!” exclaimed the old man, who was all this time diligently chafing the temples of the unconscious woman with hartshorn.

“So I just put him in here to wait, sir, where I thought there wa’n’t nobody sitting, nor likewise nothing to steal, ’cept ’twas them old, worm-eaten books in the old screwter.”

“Worm-eaten books, you villain! My precious blackletter copies of the early Christian fathers? If the thief had gone off with any of them, your hide should have paid for it! Oh, Heaven! No change in her yet! I must have woman’s help here,” said the commodore, breaking off in his abuse of the servant and attentively regarding the marble face below him. “See here, sir! Go and ask my sister to come here immediately! Don’t alarm her, you rascal! Don’t say a word about the fainting lady! Just deliver my message.”

The footman, glad to escape, hurried out of the room to obey this order.

While he was gone the old man continued to chafe the temples or beat the hands of his patient and groan over her and curse the tramp.

In a few minutes the widowed sister came in, saying pleasantly:

“Did you want me, brother?” Then seeing the motionless form of a woman extended on the sofa, she started and exclaimed: “Who is that?”

“Come here, Margaret. Don’t scream nor cry, nor above all, don’t faint. One fainting woman is as much as I can get along with at one time,” said the commodore, taking his sister by the arm and leading her to the sofa.

“But who is this lady? What ails her? How came she here?” inquired the puzzled woman, bending over the unconscious form.

“Don’t you recognize her? Look again,” said the old man uneasily.

“No, I do not,” replied the lady, after a careful scrutiny.

“I believe you are right; for now I come to think of it, you never met her.”

“But who is she?”

The old man hesitated for one weak moment, and then loyally answered:

“This lady is Emolyn Bruce, the widow of my poor, dear Lonny.”

The widow’s brown eyes opened wide in amazement as she answered in a low, frightened voice:

“I never knew that Leonidas had been married!”

“I did! I knew it long ago; but I had good reason to suppose that his poor young wife had not long survived his loss. She has reappeared, however, I thank Heaven! And here she lies, fainting, dying, for aught I know. Margaret, dear woman, don’t stop to ask another question, but help me to save her!” anxiously exclaimed the old man.

Controlling the extreme curiosity awakened by the situation, the lady knelt by the side of the sofa and began to loosen the sufferer’s clothes to facilitate breathing.

“She must be got to bed at once. The parlor chamber happens to be in order. We will convey her there. Ring for two women to come and help to lift her,” were the first words with which the widow broke the silence.

The commodore complied with this direction, and then came back to the side of his sister, saying:

“For Heaven’s sake, Margaret, let all be done tenderly and very quietly. There must not be a nine days’ wonder created in the house.”

“Of course not. I should deprecate such a state of things as much as you could.”

“And, Margaret, you have a heart. I need not, therefore, beg you to be very gentle with this suffering girl when she recovers her consciousness.”

“Be sure that I will treat her as I would treat my own child,” said the widow, and her sympathetic face confirmed the truth of her words.

“Go and send Dorcas and Lydia here,” said the commodore to the little page who appeared in answer to the bell.

The child ran on his errand, and two strong colored women made their appearance.

Under the lady’s instructions Emolyn Bruce was tenderly lifted and conveyed to the parlor chamber, where she was undressed, clothed in a white wrapper and put to bed.

The old commodore, who had followed the party to the chamber door without daring to enter, hovered on the outside, waiting for news.

In a few minutes, however, his sister opened the door and beckoned him to come in.

She led him to the side of the bed, where Emolyn lay as white and motionless as a marble effigy on a marble tomb.

“I wish to consult you, brother,” whispered the widow, as they stood together looking down on the beautiful pale face before them.

“Do you think there is any danger, Margaret?” anxiously inquired the veteran.

“No, for I have known women to lay in fainting fits much longer than this and recover without injury; but her breath scarcely dims the glass held to her lips, and her pulse is scarcely perceptible; and I think you had better call Dr. Willet.”

“The deuce of it all is that Willet has gone to the Wilderness Manor-house to see that old paralytic. He could not be brought back before night, when he will come back of his own accord. Meanwhile what shall we do, Margaret?”

“Use the means within our reach and wait the issue. It must have been some terrible shock that threw her into this state. May I now inquire what it was, brother? You need not tell me if you do not wish to,” said the widow.

“It was a cursed tramp!—a black-visaged, red-eyed, elflocked cut-throat, who looked like a fiend from the Inferno, with all the sulphurous smoke and fire hanging around him! I wish I had a hand on him now! I’d break his diabolical neck and send him back to Tartarus, where he belongs!” wrathfully exclaimed the commodore.

“Hush! She moves, I think,” said the lady; and both watchers bent eagerly over the entranced form.

But they were mistaken. She did not move, nor, though her attendants continued their efforts to recover her, did she show any sign of consciousness until nearly an hour had passed away.

When at length she sighed and stirred, Dorcas raised her head while the lady placed a glass of wine to her lips so that she mechanically swallowed the stimulant.

Revived by the wine, she opened her eyes, sat up in bed and gazed around in confusion for a moment.

Then a paroxysm of sadness seemed to sweep over her. She pressed her hands upon her eyes, upon her brows, upon her temples, pushed back her hair and stared around with starting orbs and open mouth, and then suddenly shrieked forth:

“Where is he? Oh, where is he? Where? Where?”

“He is gone, my dear. Don’t be afraid. Calm yourself. It is all right,” answered the commodore soothingly; for he thought her excitement was caused by revived terror of the tramp.

At the words of the old man she turned her wildly roving eyes on him with an intense stare of astonishment.

“Gone! Gone! Did you say gone? Oh, where, has he gone? Why did you let him go?” she cried with frantic eagerness.

“I wish I hadn’t. I wish I had committed him to prison, only there wasn’t sufficient grounds. But don’t be frightened. Compose yourself, my dear. You are just as safe from him as if he was in prison. He will never come back to bother us, after being kicked out the house by the servant and hunted off the land by the dogs!” said the commodore, laying his hand tenderly on the head of the excited woman, who had not for one instant ceased to rave.

But she dashed it off, fiercely exclaiming:

“Oh, you cruel, ruthless, remorseless man! I feared you would do so! I feared you would! That’s why I never told you! Why he could never persuade me to tell you, you wicked, vindictive man——”

“She is hysterical, she does not know what she says,” said the widow, while Emolyn continued to rave in growing excitement.

“She is delirious, quite so! I wish Willet would return,” sighed the commodore.

“I am not delirious! It is you who are mad with hatred and revenge—unnatural, monstrous hatred and revenge, after all these years! Go bring him back! If he had been the prodigal son, you should have received him! But he was no prodigal! Not even a prodigal! And you turned him out! You hunted him off! Go bring him back! Go bring him back if you wish to escape perdition!” she continued to cry in what seemed to her attendants a frenzy of insanity.

“You see she had been talking about her husband when this cut-throat ruffian came in and frightened her into fits, and now she has got all mixed up in her impressions,” whispered the commodore, while the excited woman continued to rave in the same strain without a moment’s cessation.

“This must be stopped. I shall give her a dose of morphia,” whispered his sister; and she rose and left the room for the expressed purpose.

And Emolyn raved on, bitterly reproaching the commodore.

“Mad people always fly in the faces of their best friends,” said the old man, as he continued his efforts to calm the frantic woman.

The widow returned, bringing a small glass of port wine, with which she had mixed a dose of morphia.

“Here, my poor girl, drink this and compose yourself,” she said in her gentlest and most persuasive tones, as she held the glass to Emolyn’s lips.

“If I do, will you send at once and bring him back?” demanded Emolyn, fixing her wild, excited, pleading eyes on the face of the lady.

“Indeed I will,” she answered.

“Because he can go with me to the island, where we will live like Adam and Eve in Eden—without the serpent.”

“So you shall, my dear, if you wish,” said the lady.

Emolyn took the glass, drank the contents and threw herself back on the pillow.

In a few moments she was quiet, in a few more she was asleep.

“Now,” said the lady, “you must send and seek that tramp and have him brought back to the house.”

“In the name of Heaven, why?” demanded the commodore.

“First, because I promised, and I will not break a promise, even when it is given to humor a delirious patient; and, secondly, because I do think there is more in this than appears,” replied the lady.

“What should there be in it?”

“I don’t know. But find the man and bring him here.”

The commodore expostulated and swore.

The lady persisted and gained her point.

The order was given and the servants started on their quest.

Emolyn slept on, hour after hour watched by the widow.

The servants returned from their long and careful search with the news that the tramp could not be found.

“Why are you so anxious to have that ruffian brought back?” demanded the provoked commodore of his sister, as they stood together beside the sleeper.

“I have told you the reason,” said the lady—“that Emolyn shall be satisfied.”

CHAPTER XXXII

THE TRAMP’S STORY

Of most disastrous chances,

Of moving accidents by flood and field,

Of being taken by the insolent foe

And sold to slavery.

SHAKESPEARE.

“Better so,” sighed the poor tramp to himself, as, when ejected from the study, he paused in the front hall, which happened for the moment to be deserted. “Yes, better so. I came too suddenly upon them, and they had not got my letter. I did not mean to shock them so; but what did that blundering negro mean by springing me upon them in that startling manner? He told me there was no one in the study. Well, possibly he thought so. It can’t be helped now. I must be patient, though it seems harder to wait minutes now than it was to wait years in the hopeless past.”

Then instead of leaving the house, as the commodore had peremptorily commanded him to do, the “cut-throat” threw himself down into a chair, dropped his hat by his side, and stretched out his limbs with the air of a man who meant to remain and make himself at home, while he continued his mental soliloquy:

“The man I met on the road and questioned about the family told me there was an old Dr. Willet on a visit here—our old family physician, of course. If I could only catch sight of him now and make myself known, I could procure a decent suit of clothes before presenting myself to any one else. But would he recognize me? ‘Ay, there’s the rub.’ The old man did not; but then his sight is dimmed by age. Ah, he has grown very aged since I saw him last—more aged even than his years would warrant—not in temper, though! Whew! what a fury he was in when he turned me out! He would have hurled a chair at me and broken my head if I had hesitated another moment! It was hard to go and leave her fainting there, but I know to have stayed would have made matters so much worse, even for her. How lovely she looked! Yet colorless as marble, with the traces of sorrow on her beautiful face! She recognized me, my love! my own——Hallo, who comes here? Some one who will make me welcome or show me the door?” asked the tramp to himself as he saw a white-haired old gentleman slowly descending the stairs.

“It is Dr. Willet! He has grown gray since I saw him last, but I should know that eagle’s beak of a nose of his anywhere under the sun. I’ll stop him.”

The good physician was about to pass the stranger with a kindly nod when the latter accosted him:

“Dr. Willet.”

“Well, my friend, what can I do for you?” inquired the kind-hearted physician, very naturally supposing that his professional services were required by some poor patient. And he stopped.

“Sir,” said the tramp very gravely, “I wish you, if you please, to look at me well and tell me if you remember me.”

The doctor, surprised and puzzled by this address, looked long and wistfully into the face of the stranger, first to see if he could recognize him, secondly to see if he was mad or drunk.

“Well?” queried the tramp in an anxious tone.

“As far as I can recollect, I never met you in my life before; though I may have done so in some hospital, where in many years I have treated many transient patients. Was it there I made your acquaintance?” inquired the doctor.

“No, I was never in a hospital since I was born, and I was never a patient of yours, doctor—though, indeed, I believe you were the very first to introduce me to my nearest relations and friends on the occasion of my first appearance in this world, some thirty-five years ago,” said the tramp, with a gleam of that native, irrepressible humor which years of servitude and sorrow had not been able to extinguish.

The doctor looked at him long and seriously, and then said:

“I am responsible for many such introductions, my friend; though I cannot be expected to remember the faces of all to whom I officiated as gentleman usher. But you appear to be in need. Tell me how I can best help you and I will do so willingly.”

“I am no invalid and no beggar, Dr. Willet! I ask only for recognition. I can command everything else,” said the tatterdemalion, drawing himself up with dignity.

“Lord bless my soul alive!” exclaimed the astonished and bewildered doctor, as he put on his spectacles and looked again at this strange stranger, who looked like a gypsy and talked like a king.

The tramp bore the scrutiny well.

“Come nearer the light, sir,” he said, moving toward the open, sunny back door.

“Can’t you tell me who you are at once, man? Only mention your name, and if I ever heard if before it will bring you to my memory,” said Dr. Willet, as he followed him.

“No, sir; I must not name myself to you. I wish you to do that first. I wish to test your memory and prove my own identity. Come, sir, I will stand facing the open door. You will please place yourself in the most favorable position and examine my features under the full light of the sun.”

“Lord bless my soul alive, what does it all mean?” again exclaimed Dr. Willet, as he planted himself within two feet of the stranger, adjusted his glasses and stared at him.

“Now, sir, be kind enough to look in my eyes, for they change least of all. And while you do so, I may prompt your memory a little——”

“I am perplexed, but not in despair,” murmured the doctor to himself.

“You knew me from infancy to manhood. Then you lost sight of me,” continued the tramp.

“Lord—have——” slowly began the doctor, but the words died on his lips as he stared with reviving recollection of the speaker.

“I am the son of one of the oldest and dearest of your friends——”

“Mercy on——”

“Missing for many years——”

“Our souls!”

“Falsely supposed to have been lost at sea——”

“YOU ARE LONNY BRUCE!” cried the doctor, reeling back as if he had been shot.

“Yes, I am Lonny Bruce! Now don’t you go and faint—that’s a good fellow! Brace up!” exclaimed the tramp, with half a laugh.

“Lon—ny Bruce!” reiterated the doctor, as he leaned against the wall which had stopped him in his backward reel—“Lon—ny Bruce! And you are really alive?”

“I rather think I am; but are you really sure you recognize me? Because, you see, if you want any of the proofs usually required on such occasions—the ripe strawberry on my breast, or the tattooed anchor on my back, or any other birthmark or branded scar, why, it will be very awkward, for I haven’t such a thing about me—no, not even so much as a mole. Nature and Fortune left all that out. So it is extremely important that you should be able to identify me without their help. Are you sure you know me now?”

“Yes; I should know you among a thousand,” replied the doctor, who, still leaning for support against the wall, continued to stare at the returned exile.

“Could you swear to me if called upon to do so?”

“On a stack of Bibles as high as the Pyramids of Egypt.”

“One will do,” said Lonny.

“But how did you escape? Where have you been these seventeen years? Why didn’t you come home long ago or write? Have you seen your father?”

“Whist! Whist! for Heaven’s sake! To answer a tithe of your questions, doctor, would keep me here all day long. Now that you see and know me, you must perceive that I am in want of everything and everything else. First and most of all a bath, a barber and a clean shirt. I must be metamorphosed into a Christian before I present myself again to my old father, when, it is to be hoped, he will acknowledge his son. And then in good time, dear friend, I will satisfy your curiosity. Oh! you shall hear a story as long and as full of adventure as the Arabian Nights Entertainments! Oh, what a fireside treat you will have this winter if you stay with us! But come. Are you going to help me?”

The doctor, who had been thinking profoundly while the returned man spoke, now looked up and asked:

“Why not go to your father just as you are?”

“Like the prodigal son! Lord bless you, so I did! But the old gentleman didn’t fall on my neck and kiss me worth a cent! He didn’t know me from the king of the Cannibal Islands! He stormed and threatened me with the constable and a prison if I did not march double-quick! I obeyed him and an instinct of self-preservation and left the room. To have remained another minute would have been unwholesome.”

“Ah! if I were blind, I should know you now for Lonny Bruce! Should know you from that buoyancy of spirit that no misfortune could repress,” said the doctor.

“Thanks, but I want my father to know me,” said the tramp.

“Very well, I will try to help you. Come with me,” said the doctor; and he led the way to the long drawing-room, which was now closed and vacant and never opened or tenanted except on “high days and holidays.”

“Come in here, where no one will think of intruding on you, and remain while I go in search of your Cousin Ronald,” said the doctor, as he opened the door and preceded the stranger into the apartment.

“My Cousin Ronald! What! The little lad I left in the schoolroom when I went to sea? Is he in the house?” inquired Lonny, with a gleam of delight in his dark eyes, as he entered the room and dropped into the nearest easy-chair.

“Yes; but he is not a little lad now, by any manner of means! He is even a bigger lad than you, if anything. I will send him to you at once. He will take you to his room and attend to all your wants. Unluckily, Lonny, I must leave you.”

“Must you? I am sorry. I would like the circle of friends to be complete to-day,” said Leonidas with a look of disturbance.

“Why, so should I; but I am called to an old patient of mine who is lying dangerously ill at the Wilderness Manor-house. At the moment you stopped me I was even then on my way to join the messenger who was waiting in his wagon to take me away.”

“Oh, indeed, I see that you have no time to spare; so don’t let me detain you,” said the young man with visible reluctance.

“No, not a moment more even to bestow on such a joyful arrival as yours. Lord bless my soul! how strange all this is! I never was so unwilling to obey a professional call in my life. However, I will dispatch Ronald to you immediately.”

So saying the good doctor hurried out of the drawing-room and upstairs to the private apartment of Lieutenant Bruce.

Time being too precious to permit much ceremony, he entered without knocking, and found the young gentleman sitting at his table absorbed in writing a letter—to Em., most likely, as he was so deeply engaged as not to be disturbed even by the bustling entrance of the old physician.

“LIEUTENANT!” exclaimed the latter.

“Well, doctor,” cried the young man, starting to his feet. “What news? Has the lady succeeded in bringing my uncle to reason?”

“The lady is still with your uncle, I believe, though I don’t know. But I haven’t come about your sweetheart, Ronald, but about something of more pressing importance; and I haven’t time to break the news, so you must brace yourself at once for a severe shock. Are you braced?”

“Yes,” answered the young man, turning white as death and setting his teeth firmly; for he knew not what disastrous stroke he was to be called upon to bear. “Yes, I am ready.”

“Now, then, think of Alexander Selkirk, Robinson Crusoe, La Parouse, Captain John Riley, the Swiss Family Robinson, the four Russian Sailors, the——”

“In the name of Heaven, man, speak!” exclaimed the lieutenant.

“—And Lonny Bruce! there, it’s out!” said the doctor.

“What in the world do you mean?” demanded the young officer, wondering if the staid old physician, for the first time in his life, had taken a glass too much.

“Haven’t I told you? Lonny Bruce has come home.”

“WHAT!” cried Ronald, starting to his feet.

“Lonny Bruce, so long supposed to have been lost at sea, has come home, safe and sound, as many a missing man has done before him!” repeated the doctor.

Ronald stared as if his eyes would have started from their sockets.

“Do you hear me? Can’t you take it in yet? I tell you Lonny Bruce has come home! He is in this house at this present time; I have seen him and spoken with him.”

“Do I——”

“Yes, you do. You hear exactly right!” exclaimed the doctor, impatiently interrupting the bewildered speaker. “You are not dreaming nor are you mad; neither am I! You are wide awake and in your right mind, and so am I who tell you all this strange news. Now listen, Ronald Bruce, for I have got to hurry off to old Nancy Whitlock, who is in extremity. John Palmer has been waiting to take me to the Wilderness in his wagon for half an hour or more, so I have no time for further explanation. Lonny Bruce is below. No one except you and myself dreams of his presence in the house. You will find him in the long drawing-room needing all sorts of attention. Rouse yourself! Go to him! Rise to the occasion, man!”

So saying the doctor hurried off, leaving the young lieutenant standing there in a state of stupefaction from which indeed he found it difficult to rise.

The rumbling of the wagon wheels that carried the doctor off was the first sound that broke the spell that bound him.

Then he started like one awakened from a dream, walked downstairs and opened the door leading into the long drawing-room.

The place was half dark, for all the window shutters were closed; so the young lieutenant walked in slowly, peering curiously to the right and left.

CHAPTER XXXIII

WELCOME

“Oh, it fills my soul with joy

To greet my friends once more.”

“Here I am! Here is your disreputable-looking cousin! I had better proclaim my name and rank, lest the good doctor has not prepared you to meet a ragamuffin!” said a voice from a remote corner as tall and shadowy figure arose and emerged from the darkness.

The lieutenant threw open a window-shutter, let in a flood of light, and turned at once to meet his kinsman.

“You are Leonidas Bruce! Welcome! It seems incredible—impossible! but you are Leonidas Bruce! I know you at once by your eyes and smile. Welcome! Welcome! Thank Heaven, you have lived to come back to us, though at so late a day, and like one from the grave. Welcome! Welcome! Welcome!” exclaimed Ronald Bruce as he heartily shook both his cousin’s hands. If he had been of any other Christian nation than English or American he would have embraced and kissed his restored kinsman. But his greeting was felt to be sufficiently heartful.

Tears sprang to Lonny’s eyes. For a few moments he could not speak at all. Then he said, with much emotion:

“You are the very first who has welcomed me home, warmly and without doubt. My father drove me from his presence. One nearer and dearer fainted at the sight of me. Good Dr. Willet mistook me for a beggar and offered me alms. Only you knew me and welcome me at once. But are you quite sure you know me?” inquired Lonny with morbid and touching anxiety.

“Quite sure. I never forget a face. Besides, your portrait, taken just before you went away, has been familiar to me from boyhood up; and you have not changed so much from that.”

“But my father did not know me at all.”

“His sight is very dim; besides, he was not prepared to expect you, as I was.”

“Dr. Willet did not know me at first, though he recognized me afterwards.”

“His vision is also somewhat impaired by age, though not so much as your father’s, and, besides, he did not expect to see you, either, as I did.”

“I wrote from Marseilles; but it seems my letter never came to hand.”

“The foreign mails are notoriously irregular; so are the country mails; between them both your letter has been delayed or miscarried. But come, Lonny! Though I am devoured with curiosity, I will not ask you a single question, for you seem to be in urgent need of rest and refreshment,” said Ronald Bruce, turning toward the door.

“Stay! Stay! If by refreshment you mean food, I do not require any. I got a substantial meal from a hospitable farmer on the Grey Rock Road. What I do need, as I explained to Dr. Willet, is a bath, a barber, and a fresh suit of clothes.”

“You shall have them all as expeditiously as possible.”

“Take me to your own room. You are at home here, I suppose.”

“Yes; so are you; though the folks don’t know it as yet. But come with me, so that I can attend to your wants.”

Lonny turned to follow his cousin.

Just as they were about to pass into the hall Ronald saw his Aunt Margaret descend the stairs and pass into the little green study. He held Lonny back until she had disappeared.

“That was our aunt. I did not want her to see you. No one must see you till you are dressed. Come now,” said Ronald as he led the way upstairs.

Just as they passed into the lieutenant’s room a door on the opposite side opened and Mrs. Bruce came out and crossed the hall.

“That was my mother. Now we are safe from observation at last,” said Ronald as he closed the door.

These were the only risks they ran of discovery.

As soon as they found themselves alone, Ronald turned to his cousin and said:

“I know you do not wish to be seen by any one, not even by a servant, until you are transfigured and renewed.”

“No, indeed,” replied Lonny earnestly.

“All right; then I will lock the door and be your valet myself!” said Ronald as he went and turned the key in the door.

“Now look in here, Lonny,” he continued, opening an inner door. “Here is a bathroom, with every possible convenience for the toilet. Go in there and make ready, while I lay out your clothes. I am a little larger than you, but I guess mine will do for the present. Stay, however, I have a thought!”

“What is it?” inquired Lonny.

“An inspiration, my dear fellow!”

“Of what description?”

“You shall hear anon.”

And with these words Ronald unlocked the door and passed out, carefully closing it behind him.

Lonny threw himself into a chair and waited, wondering whether he or his friends were more eccentric than the rest of the world.

His wonder was not lessened when Ronald reappeared, lugging in that life-sized portrait of Lonny that had been taken in his midshipman’s uniform, just before he went to sea.

Ronald locked the door carefully and then stood the picture on the floor, leaning against it, and said:

“Do you know that boy?”

“I used to know him some seventeen years ago, and a sad dog he was, to be sure! He came to no good, I dare say,” replied Lonny with a rueful smile.

“Well, that,” said the lieutenant, rapping on the canvas, “was the last his friends saw of him, was it not?”

“Yes.”

“Well, this,” said Ronald, again rapping the canvas—“or something very like this, must be the first his friends see of him again! In other words, Lonny Bruce, you must dress to match your portrait of seventeen years ago, so that your friends may know you at a glance. Do you understand?”

“Yes, but it will be difficult.”

“Not at all! Listen now. I have the recipe, the pattern, the programme, all cut, dried, and laid out! After you have had your bath and put on fresh underclothing, we must take the plantation barber so far into our confidence as to let him cut and shave that bandit-like black beard of yours, and trim those unkempt elf locks into civilized proportions. Then you must put on my last midshipman’s uniform, which is quite new and fresh, and which, having been discarded by me two years ago, when I was promoted, will probably fit you perfectly.”

“And so, when that toilet is completed, I shall come forth a new, revised, and improved edition of the Midshipman Lonny Bruce of seventeen years ago?”

“Exactly.”

“An excellent idea! Thanks, Ronald! I am impatient to act upon it. My father will be sure to recognize me now,” said Lonny.

“All right,” laughed Ronald.

He then proceeded to open his wardrobe and bureau and to lay out from them all necessary articles of apparel required by the wanderer. Lastly, he unlocked a lumber closet and took from its peg the midshipman’s uniform.

All these things he lifted in his arms and conveyed into the communicating bathroom, saying as he came out: “Now all is ready for you in there, Lonny. Go in and get ready. I will go down and send the barber up here to you, with directions to wait in this room until you want him. Then I will go and find your father and break the news of your return to him. But, for Heaven’s sake, Lonny, do not leave this apartment until I come back for you.”

“Of course I will not,” replied the latter.

Lieutenant Bruce then left the room and went slowly down the stairs, asking himself how on earth he should ever be able to tell the commodore without killing him.

In the hall below he met his own servant, and to him he said:

“Timothy, go and find the barber, and take him to my room, and tell him to wait there until he is called. There is a gentleman there who will require his services.”

“Yes, sir. Did you hear, sir, about the robber what broke inter de house dis morning and drawed a pistol on Marse Commodore in de little green study, and scared one of de ladies into fainty fits, and jumped clear through de glass windy, and made off before any one could catch him?”

“Oh! yes, I heard all about him,” replied the young gentleman, smiling to himself to see how the poor tramp’s adventure had grown in the telling.

“We libs in awful times, marster,” added the man, who seemed inclined to linger.

“We do, indeed. But now run and find the barber. Yet, stay a moment. Where is the commodore?”

“He been tending to de fainty lady ’til jes’ dis minute, when he went to de liberary to ’ceive de mail-bag, which de mail-boy have jes’ fotched in.”

“Very well. I shall find him there. Now run on your errand.”

The boy obeyed, but the lieutenant stood still, ruminating how he could ever with safety break to the long bereaved old father the news of his son’s return, and praying that it might be given him in that hour what to speak.

“I have it!” he said to himself at length. “I have it! The mail has just come in with the Washington and Richmond papers! I will go in and take up one and offer to read it to him. I will then pretend to read the heading of an article: ‘Remarkable Return to Life.’ ‘Reappearance of a young man long supposed to have been lost at sea.’

“And then I’ll read a rigmarole about somebody, or rather nobody, that shall resemble Lonny’s arrival, and so prepare the old man’s mind to hear the fact, by presenting the possibility of such a thing. Bah! I know it will throw him in a fit, all the same,” concluded the poor lieutenant as he opened the library door and went in.

He found the old commodore seated in his big arm-chair at the table, holding an open letter in his shaking hand and staring at it with starting eyes.

The young man saw, as by a flash of lightning, what had occurred. The commodore held in his hand the long-delayed letter from Marseilles, referred to by poor Lonny, announcing his existence and intended return.

No need of breaking news here.

“Ronald! For Heaven’s sake, look at this!” exclaimed Commodore Bruce as soon as he saw his nephew. The lieutenant, instead of immediately complying with his uncle’s request, went to the buffet, poured out a glass of cognac, and took it to the old man, who received it with a trembling hand and drank it at a draught.

“Ronald! Ronald! You are shocked to see me in this state; but if you knew the contents of this letter you would wonder you had not found me stone dead in my chair, struck by a lightning flash of joy! Ronald! You may marry the girl you love now! You may do anything in the world you like to make yourself happy! I would all the world were as happy as I am now! There! Read the letter. I—read it!”

He stopped, for he was tremendously agitated.

The lieutenant took the letter. It was short and crudely written, as by a hand long unaccustomed to the use of the pen. It was dated Marseilles, September 1st, and it told, in a few brief words, of the wreck of the U. S. frigate Eagle on the coast of Africa seventeen years before; of the loss of all the officers and crew, with the exception of the writer, who was rescued by the natives and carried captive into the interior, where he had long remained; of his flight to the seacoast after many ineffectual efforts; of his escape on board of a French ship, and his voyage to Marseilles; of his failure to find friends who would listen to or believe a story that he could not prove; and finally of his being obliged to work his passage home on board of a Baltimore clipper, which would sail in a few days.

While Ronald Bruce read this letter the commodore, recovering his voice, was pouring forth his emotions in a torrent of exclamations.

“He was to follow the letter by the next ship, you see! In a few days! The date of that letter is old! It has been delayed! It was sent first to the Navy Department at Washington, then forwarded here! Good Heaven, to think of it! Even the consul at Marseilles discredited his story! A half-naked vagabond, picked up by a French ship on the coast of Africa and clothed by the humanity of the crew. Obliged to work his passage home! It is my son, Lonny, that I am talk of, Ronald—do you understand? My son, Lonny Bruce, who was falsely supposed to have been lost at sea seventeen years ago!”

“Yes, yes, dear sir, I quite understand. I am reading his letter,” said the young man, trying to comprehend through the confusion what he was reading.

“He will be here soon—very soon! Those Baltimore clippers are fast sailers. He will go to Washington first—to the Navy Department—to find out where I am. Then he will post here!”

The impetuous torrent of language poured forth by the old man in his excessive excitement made it almost impossible for the young lieutenant to get in his word “edgeways;” but at length he had an opportunity of saying:

“If Lonny has neither money nor friends he may have to tramp all the way from Baltimore to Washington, and from Washington here.”

“So he may, poor dear fellow,” said the commodore musingly.

“By the way, did not that strange tramp who came here this morning say something about a letter from Marseilles which should have preceded him?” inquired Ronald meaningly.

The old man started, looked keenly at the younger one for a moment, then doubling his fist and bringing it down upon the table, he smote it smartly, exclaiming:

“What an idiot! What a monster I have been! He was my Lonny! And she knew him! Oh! it is all clear enough now! What a jolter-headed beast I have been! No wonder strangers discredited his story when his own father disowned him!”

“Do not reproach yourself, sir! Not dreaming of seeing your son, how should you have known him after so many years and in that strange dress?”

“By nature, sir! By nature, if I had not been an unnatural monster!” cried the commodore, springing up and striking out for the bell rope.

“What are you about to do?” inquired Ronald, intercepting him.

“Ring up the whole house and start them in pursuit of him.”

“I thought that had been already tried without success.”

“True, true,” said the commodore, sinking back in his seat. “He could not be found. He has taken a temporary shelter in some farmer’s house, doubtless. But he will come back before night. He could never imagine that I would deny him!”

“No, never; and I dare say he never even left the house at all, but is waiting in some vacant room for a good chance to make himself known.”

“Nothing more likely!” exclaimed the commodore, standing up again. “They have looked for him too far away. They have overlooked him. They should have sought him nearer at hand.” And so saying he went for the bell.

“Stay! do not call a servant! Let me go and institute a search,” said the lieutenant.

“Yes, thanks, that is better,” agreed the old man.

Ronald Bruce left the library and flew, bound beyond bound, up the stairs to the chamber where he had left Lonny.

He found the “tramp” washed, combed, shaved, trimmed, dressed, and looking not like the original of his portrait, but like the elder brother of the original.

The plantation barber, having finished his work, had left the room.

“Come,” said Ronald, “he is waiting to see you. No preparation was needed; I found him reading your letter, which had just arrived. Come.”

Lonny joined his cousin at once, and both, with beating hearts, went below.

“Go in alone. I cannot intrude on such a meeting,” whispered Ronald Bruce as they reached the door.

Lonny passed into the library.

The commodore stood in the middle of the room, with a look of expectancy on his aged face.

“Father!” exclaimed Lonny, hastening towards him.

The old man started forward and caught his son to his heart, exclaiming:

“Lonny! Lonny! My son! My son! Oh, joy!”

CHAPTER XXXIV

FATHER AND SON

And doth not a meeting like this make amends

For all the long years I’ve been wandering away?

To see thus around me my youth’s early friends,

As smiling and kind as in that happy day?

Tho’ surely, o’er some of your brows, as o’er mine,

The snow-fall of life may be stealing—what then?

Like Alps in the sunset, new lighted, in fine,

We’ll wear the warm hue of youth’s roses again.

ANON.

The silence of unutterable emotion fell upon the father and son for a few moments, and then the old man held the younger one off at arm’s length and gazed wistfully into his face, saying, as he slowly shook his white head:

“You are not so much changed since I saw you last on the day you sailed on that disastrous voyage, my boy; not so much changed, after all. Somewhat taller and gaunter in form, darker in complexion, and older in aspect than formerly, but not so much as might have been expected after seventeen years of captivity among barbarians. I am more changed than you are, my son. Ah! I have grown very aged in the long years of your absence and supposed death, Lonny.”

“Yes, father, you and I are both traveling towards—eternal youth.”

“And your mother, Lonny—your mother——”

Here the old man’s voice became choked with emotion.

“Don’t, father, don’t. I heard all that in the city. Strangers to me, who would not credit my story, yet remembered—could tell me—how——”

Here Lonny’s voice broke down.

“She could not survive the news of that fatal week,” said the commodore, struggling for self-command. “She could not live to see this day, Lonny.”

“Don’t, father, don’t! Don’t say that! We know, when we think about it, that she has lived to see this day, though from a higher sphere. She has lived in heaven these many years! Father, we must believe that, because she was so good. And we shall find her there in good time if we, too, lead good lives! And now, dear sir, tell me of—of Emolyn.”

“Your wife?”

“Yes, my wife! You know it, then? She has told you? I thought so when I saw her with you, but I was not sure, so I spoke very cautiously of her to my Cousin Ronald.”

“Yes, she told me,” admitted the commodore, but he did not add how very recently Emolyn had made her appearance and taken him into her confidence. To have done so would have involved too much explanation for the moment.

“How is she and where is she now? I left her fainting. It was hard to do so——”

“But you could not help yourself, as I was in such a blind fury that I took you for a ruffian who had frightened her half to death, and so I ordered you off, and of course to have persisted in staying would have made matters much worse for the fainting woman.”

“Yes, but how is she and where is she at this moment? I am most anxious to see her. She recognized me, you know.”

“Yes, and when she recovered from her swoon she became so wild, and excitable, and reproached us so bitterly for letting you go, and urged us so strenuously to fetch you back, calling you always ‘him,’ and never using your name, that we thought her hysterical or delirious, and so your good aunt gave her a dose of morphia in a glass of port wine to compose her nerves. I left her sleeping under the influence of the opiate. You can come to her room, Lonny, and sit by her bed and wait for her awakening; it cannot be far off now.”

“Thank you, father, I will do so. Naturally, I wish to see and speak with her before I do with anybody else,” said the younger man, rising.

The commodore got up and led the way towards Emolyn’s chamber.

In crossing the hall he encountered his nephew, Ronald Bruce, and immediately stopped and hailed him in a loud voice, saying:

“Come here, you young scapegrace! I have got an errand for you! One suited to your vagrant mind!”

Ronald came, smiling, and stood before his uncle, cap in hand.

“The Lady of Edengarden cannot leave her room to-day; nor must her young companion, Miss Palmer, be left alone or with only colored servants on the island. Take the boat, therefore, and go to Edengarden, see the young lady, give my respects to her and ask her, in my name, if she will do us the favor to return with you and join her friend here, who is too much indisposed at present to leave The Breezes. And—tell her anything else you like, for I will not go back on my promise, do you hear, you mutinous young dog?”

“I hear. ‘And to hear is to obey,’” said the lieutenant, laughing, as he bowed and bounded away to order his boat.

“And pray who is the Lady of Edengarden?” inquired Lonny as they walked on.

“Your Emolyn. The country people gave her this fantastic title because she has the most beautiful island home ever seen out of Paradise. It is near this place.”

“And has Ronald a little love affair on the premises, as I should judge from your manner to him?”

“Oh, yes! An innocent little love idyl with this lady’s adopted child, protégée, or pet, whichever she may be called—a love idyl against which I set my face for a whole summer, and for no other reason than the girl is Ronald’s inferior in birth and fortune, for in almost everything else she is his superior—I can tell you that.”

“She must be an excellent girl to have won such favor from Emolyn,” said Leonidas Bruce thoughtfully.

“Yes; but notwithstanding all that, I had set my face against the affair, both for the reasons I have explained—her want of rank and fortune—and also because I wished to bring about a marriage between Ronald Bruce and his Cousin Hermia, who, failing you, would have been my co-heirs. But, bless you, the mutinous young dog would have defied me, and disinherited himself, by marrying the girl long ago, if it had not happened that her father was too proud to permit his daughter to marry into a family where she was not wanted, and the girl herself was too pious to disobey her father. So, you see, the whole affair turned upon the pivot of my will, and the rebellious young rascal was forced to obey me, whether he would or no. However, in my joy and gratitude at the news of your arrival, my son, I told the young rebel that he might marry his love if he wanted to, that I had withdrawn my opposition to his marriage, and now I have sent him to bring the pretty child here to her benefactress—your Emolyn. Not much magnanimity in that, however, for now that your joyful return has changed the face of affairs, so that Ronald is no longer my heir, of course I have no longer any right to pretend to control his freedom of action, or even any farther interest in trying to promote a marriage between him and his cousin. So I withdraw my opposition to his union with this child, and as her father has now no excuse for withholding his consent, I suppose he will give it. But whatever they will have to live on except his pay I don’t know, unless indeed your Emolyn should choose to endow her adopted child. She could do so. She is fabulously rich. But here we are at her door. There is no one but the old colored housekeeper watching her now, so we may enter.”

They went into the room together.

It was in semi-darkness, for the better repose of the sleeper. But the afternoon sun, shining against the heavy crimson curtains of the front windows facing the west, threw a deep, somber, ruddy glow over the richly furnished chamber, and even lent a little color to the marble face of her who lay in deep repose upon the white bed.

The old commodore went up to the bedside, followed by Lonny.

The colored nurse respectfully arose from her seat, and with a courtesy yielded her place to her master.

“You may go now, Liddy. I will ring when we want you,” said the latter.

With another courtesy the woman turned and left the room.

“Sit you here yourself, Lonny,” said the commodore, pointing to the chair by the side of the bed, which had just been vacated by the nurse.

Lonny, who was at that moment standing at the head of the bed gazing anxiously down on the still, pale face of the sleeper, now almost breathlessly inquired:

“Is she well, do you think?”

“Perfectly well, and when she wakes she will be prepared to see you; for, mind you, she had already recognized you, and before we could induce her to drink that glass of port wine into which your aunt had put the dose of morphia I had to promise her that you should be sought for and brought back, though little did we dream who you would turn out to be when found. So she will really expect to see you when she wakes. Therefore, all we have to do, Lonny, is to sit here and watch for that awakening, which cannot be far off. Meantime you can while away the hour by telling me some of the strange adventures that you must have had out in the wilds of Africa, or by asking me of anything you wish to know concerning what has transpired here in your absence.”

“But will our talking disturb Emolyn?”

“No, not at all. We need not talk loud.”

“Will she sleep long?”

“I think not. If she should, we may safely awaken her and give her a cup of strong coffee,” said the commodore.

Then they settled themselves down for a long talk.

But in all their conversation Commodore Bruce adroitly avoided all mention of Emolyn’s long and fatal reticence and her terrible trial; for not in that first day of happy reunion could the father darken the son’s spirit with the shadow of that long past tragedy.

No. He spoke of Emolyn’s goodness and popularity; of her benefactions to the poor; of her extensive foreign travels; of her lovely home in Edengarden; and of her affection for her pretty namesake and lately adopted daughter, Emolyn Palmer, whose cause she had been pleading, he said, at the very moment Lonny had surprised them in the study.

“Then my Emolyn will be made as happy by your consent to their marriage as the young lovers themselves,” said Lonny.

“Quite,” replied the commodore.

But at the end of that interview the long absent, lately returned husband was left in complete ignorance that a child had been born to him, and that his wife had kept the secret of their private marriage during all the long years of his absence and up to within a few hours of his return.

It was late in the afternoon when Emolyn gave signs of awakening.

The commodore whispered to his son to withdraw for a moment out of her range of vision.

When Lonny had done so the commodore stooped over Emolyn.

She had awakened calmly, as all sound persons do after an opiate.

“Have you kept your promise to me?” she quietly questioned, fixing her eyes upon those bent on her.

“Yes, of course. I always keep my promises. Every officer and gentleman is bound to do so.”

“You have brought Lonny back? Oh, where is he? Why doesn’t he come? Let me see him at once!” she vehemently exclaimed. “It was cruel! cruel!—it was mad in you to send him away at all! Why on earth——”

“Because I didn’t know him, child! My eyes are old, and I took him for a——”

The good commodore had got in so many words “edgeways” while she continued to speak; but now she vehemently interrupted him with—

“Not know Lonny! Not know your own son! I beg you to forgive me, though, for all my rudeness. I was so excited—I was almost crazy; but, oh, please, please, bring him to me at once!”

“I will, my dear, I will!” said the old man as he arose from his seat, beckoned his son to approach and then glided silently out of the room.

Leonidas Bruce went towards his wife.

She had risen on her elbow, and was eagerly watching the door out of which the commodore had passed. She evidently expected Lonny’s entrance through that way.

But he came to her from the opposite direction, and said softly:

“Emolyn!”

With a slight cry she started, turned and threw her arms about his neck as he bent over her.

“Oh, Emolyn, my beloved! This meeting pays us for all—does it not?” he said as he clasped and pressed her to his heart.

Instead of replying she burst into a storm of tears and sobs, crying between her gasps:

“Oh, Lonny! Lonny! Oh, Lonny! Lonny!”

She was thinking at this hour of the child she had borne and lost under such heart-rending, soul-harrowing disasters.

Her husband tried to soothe her. He thought she was crying in memory of their long separation, which was like the parting by death, as it was long supposed to be.

“Do not weep so! You will make yourself ill. It has been a long, dreary, hopeless absence—yes, and silent as the grave; but it is over now, forever, dearest, and surely you are glad I have come back at ‘long last?’ This meeting, I repeat it, repays us for all the past.”

“Yes,” she said with a profound sigh.

“And it is over now, dear Emolyn. That first parting and long separation shall be our last also.”

“Yes,” she sighed.

“We meet now to part no more in this world, until the Lord’s summons comes for one or the other, or both—I hope it may be for both, Emolyn—to go ‘up higher.’”

“Yes, I hope it will be ‘for both,’” she added, wiping her eyes and striving to command herself. She perceived that he had not heard of the terrible ordeal through which she had passed, and not for the world would she, any sooner than his father, darken the first day of his return with the knowledge of the blight that had fallen on her young life. Later, Lonny should know all—all! but not to-day, no, nor to-morrow. They must have a little rest before such a revelation.

“But that day of summons and departure is probably far enough off for both of us, dear Emolyn. We are both young yet. Remember, we married when we were children. You a little over fifteen, I eighteen. Just seventeen years and a half have passed. You are not yet quite thirty-three. I no more than thirty-five. Why, unmarried people at that age pass for young ladies and gentlemen! We have a long time yet to live and love, even in this world, dear Lynny.”

“Yes,” she said, smiling.

CHAPTER XXXV

A SUDDEN SUMMONS

Prythee, say on;

The setting of thine eye and cheek proclaim

A matter of moment.

I go, I go; look how I go;

Swifter than arrow from the Tartar’s bow.

SHAKESPEARE.

While the happy reunited pair spoke of future hopes and plans, Commodore Bruce passed off to the long drawing-room, rang for his servant and sent the man first, to go in turn to every member of the family and request each one to come thither, and then to call every domestic in the house to the presence of the master.

While waiting for his orders to be obeyed the old commodore walked slowly up and down the floor, muttering to himself:

“I dare say one-half of them already know the whole truth, and the other half shrewdly suspect it! However, I must make the announcement all the same, I suppose.”

In a few moments the ladies of the family began to drop in. First came Mrs. Catherine Bruce and Hermia; next Mrs. Warde and Belinda.

The commodore requested them to sit down and wait for a few minutes longer.

At length the household servants came, with faces full of interest and curiosity.

The old gentleman’s conjecture as to their knowledge and their suspicions was about half right. The crowd before him knew that something extraordinary, connected with a tramp, had occurred; but they were far from knowing what it really was.

They stood now, eagerly waiting for the master of the house to enlighten them.

Commodore Bruce did this in a very few words:

“I have to announce to you joyful intelligence. My son, Mr. Leonidas Bruce, long supposed to have been lost in the wreck of the United States ship Eagle, has returned unexpectedly to-day. He is now in this house, as is also his wife, Emolyn, whom you have all heard of as the Lady of Edengarden. They are to remain here, I hope. Those among you who remember Mr. Bruce in his boyhood shall have an opportunity of shaking hands with him after dinner. Later you shall hear more. This is all I have to tell you. No! no demonstrations—not even congratulations yet! I will have none—I——”

But before the commodore could utter another word every arm went waving aloft over every head, and a unanimous—

“Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!” burst from the crowd of servants.

“As if it were reasonable, or even possible, to prevent that!” whispered his sister Margaret, laying her hand soothingly on the arm of the exasperated commodore.

The old man swallowed his rising wrath and merely said to the offenders:

“Now, every man among you go quietly away to your duties! Next Thursday—a week from to-day—being Hallow Eve, you shall all have a thundering blow-out in honor of this joyful occasion! No! No more hurrahing, you villains! If there should be——”

“Hurrah! Hurrah!! Hurrah!!!”

“Begone!” said the commodore with a stamp.

And they hurried away, making the welkin ring as they went with:

“Hurrah! Hurrah!! Hurrah!!!”

“You really cannot expect anything else, and you should not blame them,” said Mrs. Templeton, the peacemaker.

The commodore relieved his feelings by striking his thick cane down heavily upon the floor.

“But, now that the servants are gone, uncle, for Heaven’s sake tell us all about this wonderful return,” exclaimed Hermia.

“Yes, pray do!” chorused all the other ladies.

The old man looked at them mockingly for a space, and then said bluntly:

“I WON’T! I have had excitement enough for one day, and now I am going to my room to smoke. You’ll all see Lonny and his wife at dinner. Yet stay—in this connection I would add that the young girl, Emolyn Palmer, who was our inmate a few weeks ago, is now the cherished pet of the Lady of Edengarden, in consideration of which I have sent for her to come and join us at dinner, and she will probably remain our guest as long as her benefactress is pleased to stay. Now pray ask no more questions, my dear, for I have no more explanations to make at present. Mrs. Warde, you look pale. I hope you are not indisposed.”

“Thanks, no; I am as well as usual,” answered the widow in a constrained voice.

“I am glad to hear it. I want every one to feel well on this happy day. Ladies, in good time you shall hear ‘all about it;’ but for the present I must leave you and seek needful repose.”

And so saying, with his ceremonious old bow, the commodore left the room.

Mrs. Warde stepped away to hide her agitation that the news of Lonny’s return and the mention of his wife’s name had raised in her conscious soul.

The other ladies remained for a few minutes, talking over the extraordinary event of the day, and then separated to go to their rooms and prepare a special toilet for the occasion.

Meanwhile Commodore Bruce had sought the refuge of his library, dropped with a sigh of relief into his easy-chair, and delivered himself to repose.

But his rest was of short duration. He had set too many wires in motion that day to be left long in quietness. He was soon interrupted by the entrance of Ronald with Em., just arrived from Edengarden.

They both entered the room looking so innocently and frankly happy that the old man could not but receive them very cordially.

“Well, Ronald, I never knew you to do an errand so quickly in all the days of my life before. I commend you, my lad,” he said in good-humored raillery of the young lover.

Then, holding out his hand to Em., he smiled on her, saying:

“Come hither, my child, and kiss me. Now, am I not a good-natured old muff to let that young coxcomb have you, when I am so fond of you myself?” he continued, as he put his arm around her waist and drew her to his side in a fatherly embrace. “Say, am I not very, very good to the young puppy?”

“You are ‘very, very good’ to me, sir,” said Em., raising his withered hand to her lips.

“To him, miss, to him. As for you, I do not know but that I am doing you a mischief in consenting to this marriage. But, there, I have consented and shall not retract. I suppose that fellow has told you so, and also everything else that has happened here to-day?”

“Oh, yes, sir, and I am so glad and thankful that your son has returned. Oh! if I could only tell you how glad and thankful,” earnestly exclaimed Em. as the tears rushed to her eyes.

“That tells me! And now I have something else to tell you. This dear, only son of mine is also the beloved husband of your benefactress, Em.—of your lovely Lady of Edengarden, Ronald!” exclaimed the commodore.

Both the young people opened their eyes in astonishment, and would have opened their lips in inquiry had not the commodore prevented them by nervously exclaiming:

“No questions! No comments! You will find out everything in time. Ring the bell, Ronald.”

The young man silently obeyed.

The hall footman appeared.

“Send the girl Liza here,” said the old man.

In a few moments the girl appeared.

“You waited on Miss Palmer when she was here before, did you not?” inquired her master.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then show this young lady to the best spare room in the house, and make her comfortable,” said the commodore.

Em. kissed the old man’s hand and followed the girl.

“Now, my lad, do you also go about your business! I expect to have a row with your mother about consenting to this marriage; but I guess I know how to persuade her. And now I must smoke my pipe in peace.”

“And doze, if you can, uncle! Indeed, I hope you will,” said Ronald as he turned to leave the room.

“There’s but little time left for that before dinner,” muttered the commodore as he settled for a nap.

As Em. went upstairs, attended by Liza, she asked the girl:

“Don’t you think I might have the room in the attic that I had before?”

“Surely, Miss Em., if you refers dat one; but dere’s heap betters.”

“I prefer that one.”

“Now, ain’t dat so funny!” exclaimed the girl.

“What funny? My preferring the attic chamber to a finer one?” inquired the guest.

“No, Miss Em., not dat; but I’ll jes’ tell you. It was funny. Why, Miss Em., when you went away so suddint I did feel so lonesome ’dout you dat I mos’ cried my eyes out. And den I cleaned up your room, and cleaned out de fireplace, and piled shavin’s and pine cones and pine sticks and hickory logs inter it, ready to light a fire at a minute’s warning, ’caze I ax myself maybe if I keeps de room ready for her it will work on de sperrits in some ’sterious way so she may come back! And, sure ’nough, here you is, and your room all ready for you. It is funny. Come in, Miss Em.,” concluded Liza, for they had now reached the attic landing and the chamber door.

Liza entered first, took a match from the mantelpiece and lighted the combustibles under the hickory sticks across the andirons, and soon had a bright, blazing fire.

Then she took Em.’s traveling-bag from her hands and began to unbutton her waterproof, which was fastened from her neck to her feet.

When this was done Em. threw off her cloak and unpinned a looped skirt and shook it down, and appeared in a simple but elegant blue silk dress, trimmed on the bosom and sleeves with pure Valenciennes lace.

“Why, Miss EM.!” cried the little maid in glad surprise. “If that ain’t jes’ like Cinderella!”

“Lieutenant Bruce told me there was to be company at dinner, and so I put on the best dress I owned—a present from my benefactress—to grace it,” she explained as she went to the glass to rearrange her golden auburn hair.

“Let me run to the deservatory for some white roses, Miss Em., one for your head an’ one for your breas’. I won’t be gone long!” exclaimed Liza, dashing out of the room without waiting for an answer.

She soon returned, bringing a bunch of fresh, half-open white roses, which Em., after thanking the girl warmly, arranged in her hair and on her bosom.

She had just put these finishing touches to her toilet when the dinner-bell rang.

“That’s the last bell, Miss Em. The first one rang half an hour ago, ’fore you ’rived, I reckon,” said Liza.

“I am quite ready,” said the young lady as she passed out of the room and went downstairs.

On entering the drawing-room she found the family assembled there. A group near the upper end fixed her attention.

A tall, dark, handsome man, whom she instantly recognized by his portrait to be Leonidas Bruce, stood with the Lady of Edengarden leaning on his arm. Near them stood Commodore Bruce and his sister. Not far off were all the other members of the family circle.

As Em. entered her benefactress dropped the arm of the gentleman on whom she had been leaning and advanced to meet her youthful protégée.

“Come, my love, you have heard how happy we are all rendered by Mr. Bruce’s return. I wish to present you to him,” said the lady as she drew the girl’s arm within her own and led her straight up to the gentleman.

“This is my dear young friend, Emolyn Palmer, Mr. Bruce, and I know you will love her for her own sake as well as for mine.”

“She is enough like you to be your sister. I am very glad to see her,” replied Lonny as he offered his hand to the timid child before him.

“I hope you will let me say how rejoiced I am at your return and at your happiness,” said Em. shyly.

“Thank you, my dear girl. I hope you will be as happy with us both as you have been with your friend here.”

“Oh, indeed I know I shall be even much happier,” replied the girl; and if she could have spoken her whole thoughts she would have added: “For—I do not understand it, but—I love you just as much as I do love her.”

Em.’s lips did not utter this, but her radiant face said a great deal more.

Then she received and returned the greetings of the other ladies.

“Well, we are waiting for Dr. Willet and Mrs. Warde,” said the commodore.

“Dr. Willet has not yet returned from the Wilderness, and Mrs. Warde is too much indisposed to join us. We need not wait for either,” said Mrs. Catherine Bruce.

“Very well, then, we won’t! Leonidas, bring Emolyn in to dinner. Ronald, take Miss Palmer. Catherine, allow me,” said the commodore as he gave his arm to his sister-in-law and led the way to the dining-room, where the housekeeper had laid a sumptuous feast in honor of the newly-arrived.

That was a memorable dinner. Every one enjoyed it, and no one more than the reunited couple and the young lovers.

When the cloth was removed a few toasts were drunk—to the returned traveler, to the reunited husband and wife, and finally to the commodore.

When the ladies rose to leave the table the gentlemen did not, on this occasion, linger over their wine, but followed them at once to the drawing-room.

It was nine o’clock, and they were at the height of their enjoyment of this family reunion when the clatter of a horse’s hoofs was heard rapidly galloping up the rocky road leading to the gate of the yard.

Before any one could hazard a conjecture on the subject the hall door was opened and the voice of Dr. Willet heard in excited tones demanding:

“Where is your master?”

The footman was heard to reply:

“In the drawing-room, sir.”

On this Commodore Bruce started up, exclaiming:

“What now?” and he left the room.

He met the doctor full tilt at the door.

“Commodore Bruce, there is not a moment to be lost! I ordered the carriage as I came through the stable yard!”

“But what is the matter?” demanded the commodore of the excited speaker.

“I have a most startling and important revelation from the dying woman, Ann Whitlock, who has partly recovered her speech. It is a revelation that must be received under oath in presence of a magistrate. It is in your capacity as a justice of the peace that I want you at the bedside of this dying woman.”

“I will be ready in five minutes,” replied the commodore with his old martial promptitude.

“And not only yourself, but your son, Leonidas Bruce, his wife, Emolyn, and the young girl whom we have known only as Em. Palmer.”

“What! Do you mean to say that they must go, too?”

“Yes.”

“But what have they to do with this?”

“Everything! Everything connected with their honor, prosperity and happiness.”

CHAPTER XXXVI

A STARTLING STORY

If hearty sorrow

Be a sufficient ransom for offence,

I tender it here; I do as truly suffer

As e’er I did commit.

SHAKESPEARE.

Great was the wonder in the drawing-room when Dr. Willet entered, and after a sweeping bow that took in the whole circle, went straight up to Leonidas Bruce and said:

“I am really sorry to break up this ‘goodlie companie,’ but ‘necessity has no law,’ and this particular case admits of no compromise. Mr. Bruce, I am here to ask you, your wife, and this young lady, Miss Emolyn, to come with me to the deathbed of my patient.”

“Who is it?” inquired the astonished man.

“Mrs. Ann Whitlock, the old woman whom I have been attending for the last few weeks at the Wilderness Manor-house; the same one to whom I was so suddenly called again this afternoon.”

“Oh, yes. Well, poor soul, if she is dying, I am sure I’m very sorry for her; but I can’t help it. I don’t know her the least in the world. Why, I have but just got home, you see; and I don’t know——”

“Oh, of course you don’t know anything at all about it; but your wife and this young lady both know the old woman who sends for them to her deathbed, and as they will not disregard her dying request, perhaps you will elect to go with them. Your presence is desirable, but not absolutely necessary.”

“Oh, of course I will go. Since these ladies were acquainted with the poor old creature I can partly understand her desire to see them,” said Leonidas Bruce good-naturedly.

“Then, as no time is to be lost, let me entreat the ladies to get ready for their ride immediately. The carriage is ordered,” said the doctor.

Full of conjecture as to the cause of the summons, Mrs. Bruce arose, drew Emolyn’s arm within her own, and left the drawing-room.

As the two women separated in the hall, the one to go to the parlor chamber, the other to go to the attic, Mrs. Bruce noticed that Em.’s eyes were full of tears.

“What! weeping, my love?” she exclaimed.

“Ah! she was very good to me. Always very good to me,” sighed the girl.

“‘But the angels weep when a babe is born,

And sing when an old man dies.’

You should not weep for the death of the aged, my dear. What can she want with us, Em.? Ah! I understand how she may want you; but me? Long ago she nursed my uncle, it is true, yet I scarcely ever knew her.”

“I think, dear lady, that, as she knows you have me, she only wishes to see us both together, and perhaps commend me to your kindness. She need not do that, of course, but she was always very good to me.”

“That is it!” exclaimed the lady, and then she hurried off to her room, while Em. ran up to the attic.

In the meantime the ladies left in the drawing-room, Mrs. Catherine Bruce, and Miss Belinda Warde, came around to Dr. Willet for an explanation of this sudden night summons.

The good physician parried their questions as politely as he could, and was still evading them when the door opened and Commodore Bruce came in, all booted and spurred for riding, and exclaimed:

“Well, doctor, I am ready, you see! As you have ridden so much to-day I shall give you my seat in the carriage, old friend, and take your horse. No, now! Not one word of objection! I will have it so. Besides, I have ordered a second horse for Leonidas, so that I and my son may trot side by side, as we used to do when I was younger and he was smaller,” added the commodore as he drew on his gloves.

As he spoke Leonidas Bruce, equipped for riding, accompanied by his cousin, Ronald, re-entered the room.

The two ladies soon followed—Mrs. Leonidas Bruce in the dress she had worn on her short journey from Edengarden to The Breezes, and Em. in her boat cloak and hood.

“Well, we are all ready, I believe?” inquired the doctor.

The other members of the party assented, and after bidding good-evening to the three ladies and the one gentleman left behind, they went out the front door to the place where the carriage and the saddle horses were awaiting them.

Dr. Willet handed the two ladies into the carriage, then followed and took his seat at their side.

Leonidas Bruce assisted his father to mount his horse, then leaped into his own saddle and rode after the carriage, which had already started.

The commodore was soon by his son’s side.

And so they wound down the road leading down the mountainside and through the forest to the back road, and thence to the Wilderness Manor-house.

There was no moon, but the sky was perfectly clear, and the innumerable stars shone with a sparkling brilliancy that compensated for her absence.

The three passengers in the carriage spoke but little. Dr. Willet went to sleep. It was very rude of him to do so, but he was aged and tired. Mrs. Leonidas Bruce was absorbed in reverie. Em. was silently weeping and stealthily wiping away her tears. Em. had scarcely realized how much she loved the uncouth old creature who had been her nurse and companion all her young life and until within a few weeks. Yet these were tears of tender compassion rather than of bitter sorrow; tears, too, which Em.’s cheerful faith taught her were more natural than rational, since “death is but an orderly step in life,” and to die out of this sphere is to be born in a higher one.

The two men enjoyed their ride. Neither of them took any more than a kindly interest in the dying woman they were going to see, so they talked of everything else than of her—of Lonny’s shipwreck, and rescue, and capture; of his experiences in the long years of his captivity; of his flight and escape, and his voyage home on the French ship, etc., etc., etc.

All these adventures Lonny had already related. But now, at his father’s request, he went over them again, as he was destined many times to repeat them at intervals for his father, his father’s friends and—their friends, for many years to come.

It was ten o’clock when they drew near a pile of dark buildings in the valley below them, which they recognized as the Wilderness Manor.

In a few minutes they were at the gates opening into the back courtyard under the shadow of the mountain, this being the nearer approach to the house from the direction of The Breezes.

Here John Palmer and his boys waited to receive them.

John led the party up to the house, while the boys took away the horses to the rear stables.

At the door of the house Susan Palmer received her late visitors.

She had been prepared by Dr. Willet, who had informed her of the unexpected return of the long missing Leonidas Bruce, so she showed no surprise at his appearance, and under the serious circumstances gave him only the general welcome extended to the whole party.

“Walk in here, ladies and gentlemen,” she said, opening the door of a well-warmed and lighted parlor, where a fine fire of hickory logs blazed in the broad fireplace, and two tall “mold” candles, in taller brass candlesticks, stood on the high mantel-shelf.

“Please sit down and make yourselves comfortable, while I take Em. up to see the poor soul, for so she desired me to do first of all,” added Mrs. Palmer as she placed chairs near the fire for her guests.

When they were seated she beckoned Em., who arose to follow her, then bowed to her guests, and left the room.

As soon as they reached the hall outside Susan Palmer astonished Em. by suddenly throwing her arms around the girl’s neck, bursting into tears, and exclaiming:

“Oh! my child, you’ll love us all the same! You’ll love us all the same! You’ll love us all the same!”

“Dear mother, what is the matter?” inquired the girl in alarm.

“Oh! Em., say you will! Say you will!”

“Will what? I’ll do all you wish, dear mother, only tell me what!” exclaimed the frightened girl.

“Love us just as much! Just as much, Em.! Oh, just as much!” sobbed the woman.

“My own dear mother,” murmured Em., caressing and soothing the excited creature, although she herself was frightened half out of her senses at the agitation she could not comprehend—“my own dear mother, I love you and shall always love you. Compose yourself. Do not doubt me. Is it because Commodore Bruce has consented that his nephew shall marry me? Have you already heard that, and do you think it could make any difference in my love for you? It could not, dear mother, not one bit!”

“Oh! no, Em., no! It isn’t that. I’m not such a fool as to take on so about that. Of course I knew you would marry some time. Besides, I hadn’t even heard of it. Oh! no, Em., it is not that! It is worse than that. Heaven forgive me, it is better than that. No, it is worse. Oh, Em.! Em.! Em.!”

And Susan Palmer fell to weeping.

“My own dear, dear mother, I never knew you to be so nervous in my life before. Surely you are not well. Oh, what is the matter?” exclaimed the girl, her alarm rising to terror.

“You’ll hear soon enough, Em.! You’ll hear soon enough! But oh, do promise me you’ll love us all the same, all the same, whatever you hear!” said Susan Palmer, with a great sobbing sigh as she released the girl and wiped her own eyes.

“Won’t you tell me what it is, mother, dear?”

“No, Em. It ain’t for me to tell you. But oh! you will still call me ‘mother,’ and poor, dear, good, good John, who is so fond of you, ‘father’—won’t you, Em.?” she pleaded.

Em. could only look at the distressed woman in silent dismay—thinking of approaching illness, fever, delirium.

“You know you will call the gentleman and lady papa and mamma because children in high life call their parents that. But you will call me and poor old John plain mother and father as you always did—won’t you, Em.?”

“She is distressing herself about my possible marriage and my future mother and father-in-law,” thought Em.; and then she answered earnestly:

“Always, dear mother. Always, believe me! I will never call any one else father or mother but you and father!”

“That’s my loving heart! That’s my sweet, loving heart! You can call them ‘papa’ and ‘mamma,’ you know, and they’ll like that just as well, and even better, for that is fashionable and elegant, and polite, and so on. But oh, Em!”—with another burst of emotion—“it is just as if you were dead to us! Just as if you were dead! I wish—oh, I do wish that we had taught you to call us ‘daddy’ and ‘mammy,’ for then I should know you would never call any fine lady or gentleman that. Now, come upstairs, child, for I have kept you down here too long already. But oh, Em.! It is just like closing down the coffin-lid over your face to let you go now! We part now, we will never meet again in the same way, Em.,” she exclaimed, as she began slowly to climb the stairs, followed closely by the troubled and bewildered girl.

Not a word more was spoken between them until they reached the attic landing, when Mrs. Palmer opened the door of the sick-room and said:

“Go in there, Em.! Go in alone! Oh! my Lord! It is like lowering you into the grave! We will meet again! But not the same! Oh, nevermore the same.” She sighed as she sent Em. alone into the room and gently closed the door after her.

The sick chamber, as I mentioned once before, was a large upper room. It was now in obscurity, the smoldering hardwood fire in the fireplace, and the rustic lamp on the mantel-shelf giving but little light.

Em. went up to the old-fashioned four-poster at the upper end of the room, where Dr. Willet had already taken his place, and old Monica was waiting. The latter gave way as Em. approached the bed.

The dying woman was lying very still, on her back, with her wasted face level on the pillow, and her skeleton hands folded on her breast.

“Speak to her,” said Dr. Willet.

“Aunty Whitlock,” said Em., gently, bending over her.

The woman sighed, moaned, and opened her eyes.

“Aunty Whitlock, how do you do?” inquired Em.

The poor creature made several ineffectual efforts to articulate, and finally said, in an imperfect way:

“I—am—getting—well—fast.”

“Is she delirious?” inquired Em., in a whisper and with a startled look at the doctor.

“Oh, no, it is her way of speaking. She means that she is going—dying. Hush! She is trying to speak to you again. Bend low—bend your ear to her lips.”

The girl obeyed.

“Em.,” muttered the woman, so imperfectly that the listener could scarcely recognize her own name. “Em., my child.”

“Yes, Aunty Whitlock. I am listening—I hear.”

“Have I been—good to you—my dear?” she asked, in tones so faint and muffled that Em. scarcely gathered their meaning, but rather divined it, as she answered:

“Very, very good to me always, dear Aunty Whitlock.”

“I—did—save—your life.”

“Yes, I know you did, dear aunty! Mother has often told me you did.”

A cloud of trouble passed over the face of the dying woman, and her lips writhed in their efforts to utter the next words, which Em. bent her ear and strained her sense to hear.

“Yes—but not in that way—not as she thinks—did I save your life.”

There was silence and quick breathing for a few minutes, and then, with an effort, she resumed:

“When—you know all—forgive—because—I did save your life.”

Em. stooped and kissed the old woman, and laid her fresh, living cheek against the faded and dying one.

“Now, doctor!” panted the woman.

Dr. Willet approached and bent over her.

“Let them come—quick—I’m passing.”

The doctor administered a restorative, and then left the room to bring the Bruces to the bedside of the fast sinking woman.

Em. remained standing by her, rubbing her cold hands.

In a few moments the doctor re-entered the room, bearing two lighted candles in his hand, and followed by Commodore Bruce, Leonidas and Emolyn and John and Susan Palmer.

The doctor drew a little stand to the bedside and placed the two candles upon it, and laid a folded paper beside them. Then he beckoned Emolyn Bruce to appear.

The lady put off her bonnet and shawl and went up to the bedside, closely followed by her husband.

The lady bent over the dying woman, saying:

“I am very sorry to see you in this way, Mrs. Whitlock. Do you know me?”

“You are Emolyn Wyndeworth—I saved your child’s life—I was always good to her—she will tell you so herself.”

“What does she mean?” inquired Leonidas, who had caught only one or two words of this faintly muttered speech.

Emolyn shook her head in doubt, and Dr. Willet said:

“Hush! You will know soon. Let me say a few words. When I came to this woman this afternoon she made a startling confession to me in the presence of John and Susan Palmer. I took the statement down from her dying lips, lest if I had delayed to do so it might have been too late. I took her mark and the signatures of the two Palmers as witnesses. I wish to have her acknowledge this confession to be the truth, under oath. Commodore Bruce, will you administer the oath?”

The old commodore, much wondering what he should hear next, said:

“Will you read it to her first?”

“No, there will not be time. I will read it afterwards.”

“Lift her up, then, somebody.”

John Palmer, being the strongest “body” present, went to the head of the bed, lifted the dying woman to a sitting posture, and supported her in his firm arms, with her back resting against his chest.

“This is her written statement,” said Dr. Willet, placing the folded paper in the hands of the commodore.

“Make—haste,” panted the woman, with difficulty.

The doctor poured out and administered a stimulant, which partially revived her.

“Do you know what you are about to do?” inquired the commodore.

“Yes—swear to—the truth of—my statement,” gasped the woman.

Commodore Bruce, in his capacity of magistrate, then administered the oath and exhibited the written statement with its signatures, which she recognized and acknowledged under oath.

“There! That will do! This necessary disturbance has shaken the last sands of her life. Leave her now to repose, and follow me down to the drawing-room, where I will read to you all this strange confession,” said the doctor.

John Palmer left his perch on the head of the bed and gently lowered the head of the dying woman to the pillow.

Susan tenderly adjusted the covering around her, and beckoned old Monica to come and resume her watch by the bed.

Dr. Willet took up the two lighted candles and led the way from the room, leaving the place in the twilight shadow and stillness best fitted for the sufferer.

The whole party repaired to the drawing-room, and seated themselves around the large circular center-table upon which Dr. Willet had placed the candles and the document.

When the little bustle, incident upon this movement, subsided, the doctor took up the paper and began to read the statement aloud to his almost breathless audience.

And then and there the astonished family of Commodore Bruce learned a secret they had never even suspected before, though doubtless my intelligent readers have divined it long ago.

The attested statement of the dying woman showed how she, Ann Whitlock, sick-nurse, while in the employment of Mrs. Malvina Warde, at Green Point, being tempted of the devil, did appropriate to herself certain valuable jewels belonging to the family, and being caught in the act by Mrs. Warde, did thenceforward fall, body and soul, into the power of that lady, who, by threats of prosecution and imprisonment did compel her, Ann Whitlock, to commit great sins. How, to effect her purpose, Mrs. Warde procured for Ann Whitlock, the position of sick-nurse in the Women’s Hospital in the city. How, on the thirtieth of April, 18—, she, Ann Whitlock, being driven of the devil in the shape of Malvina, procured certain drugs to be administered to Emolyn Wyndeworth, then living at Green Point, which drugs hastened the illness of that lady. How, on the morning of the first of May, while it was yet dark, and the household all in bed, she, being secretly admitted by Mrs. Warde to the sick chamber of Emolyn Wyndeworth, had, with the assistance of Malvina Warde, stolen away the new-born, healthy infant daughter of Emolyn Wyndeworth, and secretly conveyed it to the Women’s Hospital, and adroitly changed it for the still-born child of Susan Palmer, a patient in the ward then under her care. How, leaving the living infant by the sleeping woman, she had brought back the dead one and laid it on the bed with Emolyn Wyndeworth. How ever since that fatal night she had so suffered with remorse that nothing but the one thought that Mrs. Warde would certainly have destroyed the living child, if she herself had not substituted the dead one for it, could bring her any comfort; but that she compensated the child for the loss of its real mother by giving her to the best woman she knew in the world, and by being as good to her as she possibly could be. Finally, that she had meant to tell the truth on her deathbed, when she should be out of the power of her demoniac mistress.

That was all. Fortunately not a word had been said about the trial.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

CONCLUSION.

Thou art our daughter, never loved as now,

Thou gentlest maid, thou child of purity.

MATURIN.

Fortunately, I say, not a word had been said of the trial which had blighted so many years of Emolyn Wyndeworth’s life.

The reading of Ann Whitlock’s confession was followed by a deep silence of some moments, during which nothing was heard but the low sound of Susan Palmer’s weeping.

At length Em. arose softly from her seat beside old Commodore Bruce, and went over and seated herself beside Susan, put her arms around the poor woman’s neck, kissed her, and murmured:

“So that was what you meant, dear mother! How strange it all is! But do not weep so! I will love you all the same, dear, dear mother. Are seventeen years of tenderest motherhood to be blotted out by one hour’s revelation? Oh, no, no, no, my own dear mother, no! You and I have loved and worked and suffered too long and too closely together for that——”

“And John, too!” sobbed Susan. “Oh, poor John! You were his favorite child, Em. He was so fond of you!”

“Yes, and dear father, too! He is so fond of me, mother. Ah! don’t weep so! Indeed, I love you—more than ever!”

“Oh, Em., I know it is so selfish and so mean in me to cry so hard about anything that brings so much good to you, but I can’t help—help—help it!” sobbed Susan.

“No, it is not selfish, dear mother. You haven’t a selfish vein in your body. It is natural. Didn’t you cry hard when you parted with your children who went to heaven, though you knew they were so much better off? And don’t everybody do so?”

“Ye—yes, and this is almost the same, Em. Almost as hard for me!”

“Only I wish you wouldn’t, dear mother, for I shall be just the same to you as I was before, and come and help you to darn the stockings, or wash the dishes, just as I did before. And if you don’t scold me just as much as you do the other children and—and father,” added Em., with a peculiar smile, “I shall think you don’t love me half as much as you do them.”

“We always loved the child that has gone to heaven the best, Em., and you will be to me like that. You are a good girl, Em., it’s me that’s mean and selfish to cry about your good fortune, and begrudge you to that poor lady who has suffered so much in this world, and who hasn’t got no other child, but only you, while I have so many girls and boys; and another one a-coming, as sure as you live, Em.—another one a-coming. But don’t you say a word about that—it is awful! Now, there, child, go speak to your mamma. She is very patient to wait for you so long. I’ll go and comfort John by telling him what you say. Oh, poor John!”

And Susan Palmer arose and went out of the room to look for John, who had left the scene immediately at the end of the reading, to conceal all outward signs of his own inner trouble.

Meanwhile, the very first movement of Em. to join her foster-mother having broken the spell of silence that had followed the reading of the confession, the other members of the family gathering had fallen to whispering, exclaiming, or questioning Dr. Willet.

Em.’s first impulse to join them was checked by a feeling of diffidence, and she remained for some moments seated where Susan Palmer had left her, waiting the pleasure of her elders.

At length she glanced toward her parents.

They were sitting talking earnestly together in a low voice, seemingly quite absorbed in each other, though they had frequently looked across at their daughter without her consciousness of their regards.

Commodore Bruce and Dr. Willet sat together at some little distance from the other two, and somewhat nearer to Em., very gravely conversing, their gray heads bent closely together, the doctor pointing his arguments, whatever they were, with his right forefinger on his left palm; the commodore listening solemnly, nodding from time to time, and taking countless pinches of snuff.

A few words of their discourse necessarily reached Em.’s ears.

“He must hear it some time or other,” said Dr. Willet.

“True, true; most true”—from the commodore, with a nod, a sigh, and a huge pinch of snuff.

“He will bear it better now, perhaps, than at any other time.”

“Humph, perhaps, you know best.”

“If you authorize me, I will myself take the disagreeable task off your hands and be his informant.”

“Yes, yes, doctor, do! I could never tell him myself! Never!”

While the two old men were still conversing, Em. turned her eyes from them and fixed them upon her parents.

At the same instant Emolyn Bruce looked up and met her daughter’s gaze.

The lady smiled and opened her arms.

Em. arose and crossed the room and gave herself to that fond embrace.

“Now we know the reason why we loved each other so, my darling, don’t we?” murmured the lady, as she folded her daughter to her bosom.

“Yes, dear mamma, yes, for my heart was drawn to you from the very first moment I saw you. I longed for you to love me then,” answered Em., returning love for love and kiss for kiss.

“Your papa, my dear,” whispered Emolyn, in a low tone.

Em. raised her head from the lady’s bosom to see bending over them both, the dark, handsome man whose very portrait she had worshiped long before she had ever seen him.

“Have you no place left in your heart for me, little daughter?” inquired the stranger, as he drew the girl to his bosom and pressed his lips to hers.

“I loved you long before I ever saw you, dear papa,” whispered Em., half shyly, half fondly.

“How is that, my little girl? You loved me before you ever saw me?” inquired the pleased young papa.

“Yes—and even before I ever heard of you,” said Em.

“Explain,” said the object of this strange affection, with a smile and a caress.

“Well, I found your portrait in the attic at The Breezes, and I set it up in my room as an object of worship, having been struck with it before I knew to whom it belonged.”

“Who will say now that there is no instinct in natural affection?” demanded Leonidas.

That question was unanswerable; but after a little while Em. turned to her mamma and asked another.

“So it was for your lost child you always provided a yearly outfit of dainty clothing?”

“Yes, love; it was a fond, foolish fancy of mine; but not without benefit to others, since at the end of every year I gave away the raiment to those who needed it.”

At this moment Dr. Willet came up to the group, and laying his hand on the shoulder of the last speaker, said gravely:

“The commodore, Mr. Bruce, has authorized me to make a communication to you, which should no longer be withheld. Will you come with me into another room?”

The gentleman so addressed at once arose and followed the doctor, who took him into the disused dining-room of the old house, closed and locked the door, and then and there told him the terrible story of the false accusation and the trial to which his young wife had been subjected in his absence.

Leonidas was frightfully agitated while listening. He strode up and down the floor, most bitterly reproaching himself, groaning, weeping, as only brave men can weep, and bursting into exclamations of pity, rage, remorse.

It took all Dr. Willet’s skill and experience to reduce the fearfully excited man to anything like calmness and rationality.

“The dying woman was but a weak tool in this diabolical work! She has done what she could to atone for her share in it, and now she is beyond the reach of punishment. But Malvina Warde! that fiend in human shape! She shall be prosecuted to the utmost extent of the law! I will spend every dollar I am worth to engage the best counsel to be had, to send her to the State prison.”

“Leonidas, the wretched woman is a family connection! You could not punish her without——” began the doctor; but Bruce interrupted him in a voice of thunder:

“Don’t tell me about family credit, Dr. Willet! If she were my sister I should send her to the State Prison for such a cause!”

The doctor ceased to expostulate, thinking it best to let the infuriated man rage himself to exhaustion.

Presently, however, Leonidas Bruce came up to Dr. Willet and said:

“Doctor, if it had not been for you, Emolyn, poor Emolyn, could never have lived through that terrible ordeal. You, with your constant charity, your wisdom, and your medical skill, bore her up, and sustained her in mind and body, or she must have sunk and perished in that fiery furnace of affliction. Doctor! so long as I may live in this world—ay! and in the next—I shall never forget your invaluable services, never cease to remember them with glowing gratitude. I should have expressed this to you before, for it is as true as truth; but the thought of that fiendish woman’s work put everything else out of my head. But, doctor, believe me——”

“Say no more, my dear friend. I have told you this tragic story to forestall any false or garbled account you might possibly receive of it. Now, my dear Leonidas, I advise you never to speak of it again, but to forget it as fast as you can.”

(“After I have sent that fiend in female form to the State Prison,” said Lonny to himself.)

“Now then, calm yourself and clear your brow, and let us go back to the ladies, lest they should think we are engaged here in some conspiracy.”

And they returned together to the parlor.

By this time it was midnight, and the moon was up.

The old commodore, resisting all John Palmer’s hospitable entreaties to spend the night at the Manor House, and declaring that he never slept out of his own bed if he could help it, ordered the carriage and the saddle horses to be brought to the door that he and his party might return to The Breezes.

“Mamma, dearest,” whispered Em., coming to the side of her beautiful lady mother—“mamma, dearest, leave me here for a few days with my poor mother, till she gets used to thinking of this change. Her heart is almost broken, mamma. You will leave me here a little while?”

“Yes, tender soul, I will leave you here to comfort your ‘poor mother.’ My own heart bleeds for that ‘poor mother.’ I will leave you with her for the present. It will not be for long, however; Susan’s own sense of right will cause her to bring you to me very soon.”

John and Susan Palmer were touched even to tears when they learned that Em. was to be left with them for the present.

“Just when he has returned and they have found her, and the lady so fond of her even before she knew who the child was!” whimpered Susan, drying her eyes on her apron.

“‘Sich is life,’” said John, in lack of anything else to say, and never had he quoted his favorite scrap of philosophy more out of place.

When the commodore and his party were entering the carriage and mounting the horses, Susan Palmer and Em. stood with the lantern to light them.

When they had gone, Susan still lingered as if spellbound to the spot.

“What is the matter, mother dear?” inquired the girl.

“I was thinking, Em., that, after all, my poor baby did die.”

“Oh, dear mother, don’t use that word that you have so often told me isn’t true. The little baby didn’t die. It went to heaven with your own children, and instead of the baby on earth, you have another angel in heaven—an angel daughter as much fairer and brighter than she could have been on earth, as—look up, dear mother!—as that beautiful, brilliant star you see overhead, is fairer and brighter than this dull lantern we hold.”

When they re-entered the house, Em. said:

“I am going upstairs to send old Aunt Monica to bed, and to take her place by poor Aunty Whitlock. I can never believe she was wicked at heart.”

Meanwhile, Commodore Bruce and his party pursued their moonlight journey home, where they arrived about two o’clock in the morning.

To their surprise they found the family all up and the house lighted above and below.

“They must have sat up for us. It was foolish for them all to sit up for us,” said the old commodore, as he led the way into the house.

They were met in the drawing-room by Mrs. Templeton.

“Did you meet the messenger?” inquired that lady.

“No; what messenger?”

“Aleck was sent to the Wilderness to tell you.”

“What?”

“Malvina Warde is dead.”

“DEAD!” echoed the whole party in consternation.

“Yes.”

“When?”

“How did it happen?”

“It seems that she did not sleep well, and about an hour ago, hearing the clock strike one, and hearing the family still stirring below, she woke up her daughter, who was sleeping beside her, and asked what kept the family up so late. Belinda replied that they were waiting for the commodore and his party, who had gone to the Wilderness Manor-house to see the dying woman, Ann Whitlock. Whereupon Mrs. Warde got out of bed and went across the room, it was thought to procure a glass of water. In coming back to the bed she fell heavily to the floor. Belinda sprang out of bed and ran to her mother’s help, and raised her head from the floor. But she was quite dead.”

“She had organic disease of the heart. It might have been expected,” said Dr. Willet curtly.

“Vengeance is mine, and I will repay, saith the Lord,” reverently murmured Leonidas Bruce, raising his hat.

Whether Malvina Warde died of heart disease or of prussic acid self-administered, can never now be known. Her remains lie in the family burial ground in the Wilderness Manor, beside those of her tool and victim, Ann Whitlock, who penitently and peacefully expired the same night, with her hand clasped in that of her beloved foster-child, Em.

Belinda Warde was mercifully spared the knowledge of her mother’s crime. Immediately after the funeral she accepted the invitation of Mrs. Delaney Fanning, and went to make her home with that lady at beautiful “Belle Plains,” until her marriage the next year to a middle-aged colonel of marines.

Susan Palmer fully justified Emolyn’s faith in her sense of right. After keeping Em. for a few days, she voluntarily brought the girl to The Breezes, and willingly and cheerfully surrendered her to the charge of her rightful parents.

“We bring up our darters in care and toil, and if we don’t lose ’em by death, we’re most sure to lose ’em by marriage. So what dif’ence do it make anyway, Susan, my dear, when ‘sich is life?’” said John when his wife came back without his favorite child.

“Em. loves us and we love her, therefore we can never really lose her in this world nor the next,” answered Susan.

Among all who rejoiced in the good fortune of our little girl, none did so more sincerely than the poor colored people of the Wilderness Manor, whose affections her goodness had won.

“Miss Em. deserves it all,” said old ’Sias, the gatekeeper—“Miss Em. deserves all that, and more too. For I never knowed sich a little angel as she is in all the days of my yethly pilgrimage, and that mus’ be by dis time ’bout two hundred years, chillun! Two hundred years, more or less—more or less, honies; for I wouldn’t be guilty of a falsehood on no account,” added ’Sias, solemnly.

“Yes, Miss Em. was a good gal, sure enough,” put in Aunt Sally. “Miss Em. never meant no harm, and she never did nothing to nobody.”

“‘Never did nothing to nobody!’” repeated old ’Sias, in supreme scorn. “That’s your notion of an angel and of Miss Em., is it? You put my pipe out with your ‘Never did nothing to nobody!’ Miss Em. was always doing good to everybody, there!”

“Well, I thinks as people what means no harm and never does nothing to nobody is a heap gooder than them as is always a-aggrawating people,” retorted Sally.

Before taking leave of old ’Sias I must mention one circumstance of which I hope my readers will be glad, for his sake.

Sereny, to use her own words, “got religion.” She really did, if a total though gradual change of heart and life and manners for the better was any proof of it. And she became at last what she had promised to be at first, the comfort of her poor, old, patient husband’s latter days.

In the spring of the following year Ronald and Emolyn were married.

Ronald, who was, in the right of his wife, the owner and the heir of more wealth than he would ever know what to do with, resigned his commission in the Navy.

“It is all very well,” he said, “to talk of the duty of serving one’s country, but there are hundreds of men who are just as able and as willing to serve as I am, and who need my position a great deal more than I do. I must resign to make room for one of them—as well as to stay home with my bonny bride.”

Of course Em. agreed with him in this.

Their honeymoon was spent at Edengarden, while the Wilderness Manor-house, which had been given to Em. as her marriage portion, was being renovated to receive the newly wedded pair.

John Palmer and his family were to continue to live in the Red Wing and manage the estate.

Mr. and Mrs. Leonidas Bruce consented to reside at The Breezes as long as the aged commodore should live.

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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

Page

Changed from

Changed to

22

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

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

43

clapped her hands over he own lips

clapped her hands over her own lips

everywhere

Abishav or Abishag

Abishey

- Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.

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Table of Contents

EM’S HUSBAND A Sequel to “Em”

CHAPTER I TO THE ISLAND

CHAPTER II THE AGENT

CHAPTER III THE RED WING

CHAPTER IV RED WING

CHAPTER V RONALD BRUCE

CHAPTER VI THE GUEST

CHAPTER VII A PROPOSAL

CHAPTER VIII Em. AT THE COMMODORE’S

CHAPTER IX “THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE”

CHAPTER X SURPRISE

CHAPTER XI HIDDEN LOVE

CHAPTER XII LOVE IN THE TOILS

CHAPTER XIII “OLD HEADS AND YOUNG HEARTS”

CHAPTER XIV CRUEL TO BE KIND

CHAPTER XV HOME AGAIN

CHAPTER XVI PROPOSALS

CHAPTER XVII THE RESCUE

CHAPTER XVIII THE LADY OF EDENGARDEN

CHAPTER XIX THE GOOD FAIRY

CHAPTER XX REVIVAL

CHAPTER XXI THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE

CHAPTER XXII HOPE

CHAPTER XXIII EMOLYN’S WEIRD

CHAPTER XXIV A GOOD FAIRY

CHAPTER XXV EM.’S NEW HOME

CHAPTER XXVI A FAIRY BOWER

CHAPTER XXVII EM.’S DAYS AT EDENGARDEN

CHAPTER XXVIII A VISIT TO THE BREEZES

CHAPTER XXIX BEARDING THE LION IN HIS DEN

CHAPTER XXX THE MEETING

CHAPTER XXXI A STARTLING VISITOR

CHAPTER XXXII THE TRAMP’S STORY

CHAPTER XXXIII WELCOME

CHAPTER XXXIV FATHER AND SON

CHAPTER XXXV A SUDDEN SUMMONS

CHAPTER XXXVI A STARTLING STORY

CHAPTER XXXVII. CONCLUSION.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE