The day began; the sun was up; once more the old house awoke to life and activity.
Sitting in his chamber, Grantley Mellen heard the familiar sounds below; he knew that life must sweep on again, that he must rise once more and go forth among his fellow-men, hiding his misery as best he might, taking his place in the world and bearing the secret burden of his dishonored life. He went to the window, swept back the curtains which he had drawn over it, and looked at himself in the glass. If he had wished to know how his corpse would look after the ravages of time and disease, he could have learned it in that prolonged gaze.
It was absolutely the face of a dead man; even the eyes looked lifeless—there was only a heavy, stony expression, which had neither spirit or humanity in it.
It was late in the morning when Elsie awoke from the heavy slumber which had succeeded her swoon. For a few moments she lay still, believing that the events of the past night had been only a dream. Suddenly she raised herself with a cry of anguish—she had caught sight of the shawl which Elizabeth had wrapped about her—she knew that it was all real.
She sprang out of bed, opened the door, ran through the empty chamber and entered her sister's room:
"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"
There was no answer. She looked about—the fire had died down in the grate, the room was empty and desolate as a grave.
She hurried through into the sleeping apartment, calling still in a voice which frightened herself:
"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"
The bed-chamber was empty too—the bed untouched.
"Gone!" cried the wretched girl. "Gone! Where is she? What has become of her? Elizabeth, Elizabeth!"
She shrieked frightfully in her anguish—cried out in such terrible anxiety, that the sound reached the chamber where Grantley Mellen sat.
He went out into the hall and approached the door of the dressing-room. Elsie heard him—her first impulse was to flee but her limbs refused to move.
She heard him try the door—heard him call:
"Elsie! Elsie!"
She must meet him—there was no escape.
Again the summons was repeated, more imperatively now.
"Elsie, open the door—quick, I say!"
She got to the door, she turned the key; her brother entered quickly, and stood in Elizabeth's desolate room.
"Where is Elizabeth?" she cried. "I can't find her—I want Elizabeth."
Mellen felt a shiver of dread pass through his frame. He pushed the chamber-door open and looked in, pale with anxiety. She was not there—the bed was untouched, and gleamed upon him through the crimson light that filled the room, like a crusted snowbank. There was none of that luxurious confusion which usually marks the apartment of a sleeping lady. The rich toilet service was in complete order. There was no jewelry flung down with half sleepy indifference, no garments laying ready for use on the chairs, or across the sofa. The silken window curtains were drawn close. The carpet looked like moss in the deep shadows of an autumnal forest.
"Gone, gone! Oh, my God, what has become of her?" he exclaimed.
"Where—what has happened? Is she dead? Oh, I shall go mad—I shall go mad now," cried Elsie.
She fell into spasms, but still preserved her senses sufficiently not to speak again—she dared not utter a word more, lest she should betray her knowledge of Elizabeth's sorrow.
Mellen carried her to the sofa and laid her down upon it, wrapped shawls and eider down quilts over her, holding her hands, which trembled like frightened birds, striving in every way to soothe her, as Elizabeth had so often done in the time gone by for ever.
Elsie lay back at length, quiet but utterly exhausted.
"Where is Elizabeth?" she moaned. "What has happened?"
"Never take that name on your lips again," he said; "let even her memory be dead between us. That woman is no longer my wife—you will never see her. She shall not suffer; I will deal gently with her; but to you, my dearest sister, she is dead, forever and ever."
"You have killed her!" shrieked Elsie. "Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"
"She leaves this house of her free will, Elsie—the only condition I have made is that she takes her name far out of our lives. Have you known—have you suspected this woman, Elsie?"
"No, no! I don't know anything but what is good of her—I don't believe anything! She is good and kind—send for her! You shan't drive her away—she shall come to me now! My dear Elizabeth—I love her! You shall not do this—you are mad, mad! She is the best woman that ever lived! Let me go to her—I will go!"
She was writhing again in hysterical spasms, but Mellen forced her back when she attempted to rise.
"Be still, Elsie—try to understand me! I can't tell you the whole story—but we are parted. Do not plead for her. Do not mention her name."
"But, Grantley, Grantley!"
"No more, I say—not a word."
"She is innocent," moaned the girl; "she is innocent."
"I know what you suffer—think of all that I endure—let that give you strength."
"I tell you she is an angel—she has done no wrong!"
"I had the confession which separates us from her own lips—I tell you I would not have believed any other testimony. Don't struggle so, Elsie—lie still."
The girl fought with him like an insane creature—she had no self control or reason—it was inability to speak which kept her from shrieking out in Elizabeth's defence. She could only gasp for breath, and when words did come, it was that broken cry:
"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"
"You must try to understand me, Elsie! You are all I have left in the world—oh, Elsie, Elsie! She has gone forever, and I loved her so—I loved her so. You and I must live on as best we can—it is only for you, child, that I live at all."
"Only bring her back—clear it all up—the truth—the truth at last! Oh, Grantley, I——"
Her words were so indistinct that he could not gather their meaning; she was struggling more fiercely than ever, and it required all his strength to hold her.
"If you love me, Elsie, strive to be calm! Oh, think of my trouble, my anguish—my sister, my sister!"
"Only send for her—call her here!"
"Be quiet and I will search, but she went off last night, I do not know where!"
Elsie gave one frightful cry and sank back in his arms insensible again. Her swoon was so death-like that it seemed as if life had gone out for ever.
Just as Elizabeth had raised her and carried her into her own room, so did Grantley Mellen carry her now, stricken by a fear so horrible that his past agony paled under it. What if she were dead—if she should wake a raving maniac, and all from the evil influence of that woman.
He called no assistance; he watched over Elsie in that lonely chamber, trying every remedy he could find, but for a long time his efforts were unavailing; she lay there, white and cold, as if the snowy counterpane had been her winding sheet.
Just as he was calling her name in a last frenzied burst of grief, Elsie opened her eyes. She was too feeble for speech, but she remembered everything clearly, and made a vain effort to rise.
"You must not talk, Elsie; don't stir—you will hurt yourself!"
He searched on the toilet table, found a bottle of laudanum, and administered as large a dose as he dared; he knew that the effects could not be so dangerous as her present suffering.
He sat down by the bed, folding his arms about her, calling her by every endearing name that his tenderness and fear could suggest, striving to soothe her into slumber.
Elsie would lie quiet for a few moments, then begin to struggle and cry out, till it seemed to Mellon that she would die before the opiate could take effect.
The potion worked at length; she lay back on the pillows white and still—her eyes stared drearily about the chamber once more, and then closed—she had fallen into a heavy sleep.
For a long hour Grantley Mellen remained on his knees by her bedside, where he had fallen.
He rose at length. Victoria was knocking at the door, and warning her young mistress that breakfast was on the table.
Mellen went to the door and opened it, checked the girl's cry of astonishment with a gesture, and said:
"Miss Elsie is very ill—go downstairs at once, and let there be no noise in the house."
Vic crept away in frightened silence; Mellen followed her into the hall, gave orders to one of the men servants to get a horse ready, went into the library and wrote a dispatch to his physician in the city, and came out again.
By the time the man was starting off to the station, Clorinda and several of the servants, to whom Victoria had communicated her tidings, were assembled in the hall.
In consultation they forgot their awe of the master, and asked a thousand eager questions, which he answered with brief sternness.
"Go back to your places, all of you," he said; "Miss Elsie is asleep, and must not be disturbed till the doctor arrives."
"Is missus wid her?" demanded Clo.
He turned upon her with a frown which made her spring back as if she had received an electric shock, and entirely checked any further desire to question him where his wife was concerned.
He turned towards the stairs again, but Dolf interposed with one of his profound bows.
"'Scuse me, sar, but de brekfus is on de table."
Self-restraint must be kept up; whatever suspicions might arise when the fact of Elizabeth's disappearance became known in the house, this proud man would not expose himself to the curious eyes of his menials.
He went into the breakfast-room, drank the coffee Dolf poured out with a skillful hand, pretended to eat a few morsels, then pushed his chair back and hurried up to Elsie's chamber—he could not trust himself yet in the presence of his servants.
Below stairs all sorts of stories were rife. Victoria peeped into Elsie's room and came down with the information that "She lay dar like a beautiful corpus!"
Everybody groaned in concert, but she added new astonishment by saying:
"And missus ain't nowhars about. She ain't in Miss Elsie's room, and she ain't in her own, and her bed ain't been touched all night."
Clorinda began to nod her turban with a sapient air.
"What did I tell yer!" cried she. "Now what did I jist tell yer."
"But whar can she be?" wondered Dolf. "What do yer s'pose has happened, Miss Clorinda?"
"'Nuff's happened," returned Clo, "and more'n 'nuff! I told yer de tunderbust would break, an it has."
They urged and entreated her to speak; but it was difficult to speak when she literally knew nothing, so she contented herself with going about her work with unusual energy, while the rest stood around and watched her, deeming this an occasion when idleness was to be taken quite as a matter of course.
Clo nodded her head, muttered to herself, and made dreadful confusion among her pots and pans, exciting her fellow-servants to a fearful pitch by her air of mystery, but not a word would she speak beyond vague and appalling hints.
While the servants below stairs wore away the morning in vague conversation and surmises, growing every instant wilder and more improbable, Grantley Mellen sat in that darkened chamber watching his sleeping sister.
The physician arrived late in the evening; by that time Elsie was awake, and he looked a little grave while giving his medicines and examining into the case.
"Keep her very quiet," he said to Mellen, who followed him into the hall; "it is a severe nervous attack, but she can endure nothing more. Don't let her get up—I'll come back to-morrow. Where is Mrs. Mellen? she is so good a nurse I should like to give her my directions."
"She—she is not here," Mellen answered.
"In town, I suppose? You had better send for her, or give me her address and I will call and tell her how much she is wanted the moment I reach town. To-night I stay in the village."
"Thank you, I won't trouble you," replied Mellen. "You will be here to-morrow morning?"
"Oh, certainly! Don't be at all alarmed—Miss Elsie is subject to these nervous attacks. So I shan't call on your wife?"
"No, sir, no;" Mellen answered, impatiently. "I must return to my sister."
He bowed the doctor downstairs and disappeared, leaving the son of Esculapius to go on with some rather strange ideas in his head.
He had another patient in the village, and so drove over there in the carriage which had brought him from the station. As he was standing on the hotel porch old Jarvis Benson came up, caught him by the button-hole and began a long story, to which the physician listened with such patience as he could find.
When Elizabeth Mellen quitted the graveyard, she was for the moment insane. Mellen had left her alone with the dead and the man she had so hated. He had forsaken her there in that cold, desolate night, regardless that she had once been his wife, scorning to remember her even as a woman. This thought stung her proud soul through all its anguish. She would not return home; not a single hour would she rest under the roof which loomed up so gray and ghostly behind those weird trees. But where could she go? in all the headlands that spread away from the coast there was no shelter for her. Degraded, broken-hearted, abandoned to her fate, like a wild animal, she stood alone among the graves of those who had been happy enough to die.
This terrible blow, long as it had been dreaded, came upon the poor woman suddenly at last. At the bottom of her heart there had been all the while a desperate hope of escape. But it was over now. The worst had come, and that was almost annihilation. She looked up to the sky. The stars were all out. The soft gray clouds which had floated over them only a little while before were turning leaden and heavy, so heavy that the ocean was one mass of blackness, as if the mighty deep had veiled itself with mourning, while the throes of a coming tempest heaved its inner depths.
The man North had left her at last—she was utterly alone.
Never in this world had a human being been cast forth to such utter desolation. She looked down on the torn earth at her feet, and her poor heart ached to lie down with that other woman who had found her rest so early, and was at peace. She thought of her with strange envy, remembering that the ocean had cast her forth when it moaned and heaved as she could hear it now,—the grand, beneficent ocean, that could give death to a poor soul pining for it as she did. She bent her head and listened to the far-off voice which held her with a sort of fascination.
"I will go," she said, "I will go. It calls me—with ten thousand voices it calls me."
She started from the tombstone against which she had leaned, and swiftly treading a passage through the graves, forced her way out by the broken pickets. That moment Mellen stood in the cedar grove and saw her pass. Had he come forth all might have been well, but fierce pride rushed in and checked the noble impulse that had brought him back so far. She swept swiftly by him and was lost in the fog. Some strong impulse of love broke up through the insane fascination which drove her toward the ocean, and in spite of herself she drifted homewards. Once a break in the clouds sent down wild gleams of light, throwing up black vistas of gloom through every break in the woods, and revealing dense, gray masses of vapor, frowning over the waters. Then came darkness again, and she wandered on.
Without knowing how, Elizabeth found herself on the lawn before her old home. The odor of dead leaves and late autumn blossoms rose up from the soil, and enveloped her with sickening remembrances. All at once the woman recognised the place. That pile with its gables and towers had been her home only a few short hours before. Why had she turned that way? What mocking fiend had driven her back against her will? The thought maddened her, but she could not move. The passionate love in her heart anchored those weary feet. She flung up her arms towards a window through which a light shone dimly—the window of his room, and an agonising cry of farewell broke from her. It was his name that fled from her lips like a burning arrow, and reached her husband in the gloomy stillness of his chamber.
The window opened. She tore her feet from the earth and fled. Her husband, of all others, should not know that she was there, prowling about the home from which he had driven her. That cry of agony coming from her lips frightened back her pride.
She darted away across the flower-beds, through thickets and over the lawn, which lay moist and heavy under the fog. Her wet feet got entangled among clusters of dead heliotrope and crysanthemums, still blooming in defiance of storm and frost. The shawl blew loose from her hands, which unconsciously huddled it close to her bosom, and was torn by the thorny rosebushes. Fragments of her dress were left behind. She plunged into a swampy hollow where clusters of tall catstail, sweet flag and sedgy rushes grew around a little pond, swarming with trout and gold fish. Her feet sank into the marsh till the water gurgled over her gaiters. She stood a moment, looking out upon the black pool, tempted to throw herself in; but some water-rat or frog, frightened by her approach, made a great leap, and plunged into the black depths, giving out a horrible idea of reptile life.
Not there, not there; no one should find her after she was dead. The ocean, the great heaving ocean had called her; why was she lingering by that miserable pool of black water, full of living things? Again she plunged forward, broke through the tangled sedges, and trampled down the spicy peppermint, till she reached firm land again. Then on—on—on till she stood under the beetling cliff which frowned over the shore tavern.
It was the dark hour now which comes just before daylight. The gleam of a candle shone through one of the tavern windows, and this faint idea of warmth drew her that way. She crept up close to the building, and through the little panes of glass saw Benson with his daughter and her children at breakfast together.
When the days grew short it had always been the old man's habit to eat his breakfast by candlelight. It was a pleasant, homely picture that the wretched woman looked upon. Her haggard eyes grew wild at the sight of so much warmth, while her teeth chattered with cold, and terrible chills shook her from head to foot. A noble wood fire blazed on the hearth, filling the small white-washed room with its golden glow. The soft steam from the tea-kettle curled up the chimney, broiled fish and hot Indian cakes sent a savory odor through the ill-fitted sash.
Elizabeth had eaten nothing for the past two days, and with the sight of this comfortable breakfast, an aching desire for food seized on her. Food and warmth; let her have them and she was ready to die. This animal want drew her close to the window. A child at the table saw that white face with its wild burning eyes, and pointed its finger, uttering frightened shrieks.
Elizabeth darted away, crying out to the storm, "They will not have me; even his menials drive me forth."
The beach was not far off, and from it rose a sound of lashing waves, hoarse with the thunder of mustering storms. Afar off the moan of the deep had sounded like an entreaty, but now it came full and strong, commanding her to approach. She obeyed these ocean voices like a little child; her powers of reasoning were gone; all consciousness of pain or danger benumbed; everything else had rejected her, but the great ocean was strong, boundless. With one heave of its mighty bosom it would sweep her away forever.
She walked steadily on to the beach, forcing her way to the sands; through drifts of seaweed and slippery stones, on, on she walked, slowly, but with horrible firmness, through great feathers of foam that curled upon the sands; on and on through whirlwinds of spray, till a great wave seized her in its black undertow and she was gone.
All that day Elsie remained in bed, sleeping a good deal, but so nervous and shaken that she would not permit herself to be left alone for a single instant. Her brother's presence seemed to fill her with fear, and she shrank with a strange sort of timidity from every tender word or soothing caress; still she was wretched if he left her bedside, and there he watched the long day through.
Evening came. Mellen was compelled to go through the pretence of another meal; indeed he forced himself to eat, for he began to grow angry with his own weakness.
He had thought when the first struggle was over to feel only an icy, implacable resentment against the woman who had wronged him; he was ashamed of the tenderness in his own nature when he found that, stronger than his rage, more powerful than the horror with which he regarded her dishonor, was the love he had believed uprooted suddenly from his heart, as a strong tree is torn up by tornados.
Yes, he regretted her! It was not only that his life must be a desolate blank, he pined for her presence. But for his pride he would have rushed out in search of her, and taken her back to his heart, sweeping aside all memory of her sin.
He roused himself from what appeared to him such degrading weakness by one thought—the partner in her guilt was his old enemy; a man too vile for vengeance, even.
That memory brought all the hardness back to his face, all the insane passion to his soul, but it centered on the man now.
That night, in the woman's very presence, he could not take the vengeance that he meditated, but now he was prepared to force her from the villain's grasp—on to repentance.
Alone in his library, Grantley Mellen wrote several letters; it was impossible to tell how that meeting would end, and he must make preparations for the worst. When all was done he rose to go upstairs again; a sudden resolution made him pause. He sat down at his desk once more, and wrote these lines:
"Elizabeth—I said that even in your dying hour, I would never forgive you: I retract. If my pardon can console your last moments, remember that it is yours. I have made no alteration in my will; if you can accept the benefits which may accrue to you by my death, take them; but so surely as you ever attempt to approach the innocent girl who has been so long endangered by your companionship, my curse shall follow you, even from the grave to which you will have consigned me."
"Elizabeth—I said that even in your dying hour, I would never forgive you: I retract. If my pardon can console your last moments, remember that it is yours. I have made no alteration in my will; if you can accept the benefits which may accrue to you by my death, take them; but so surely as you ever attempt to approach the innocent girl who has been so long endangered by your companionship, my curse shall follow you, even from the grave to which you will have consigned me."
He put the note in an envelope, sealed it carefully, and addressed it—"To Elizabeth."
These were necessary precautions. The man who had twice wronged him possessed the fierce courage of a bravo. If Elizabeth was found with him, death might come to one of them—even if that followed, the woman who had been his wife should never share the degrading future of a man too vile for personal vengeance. In mercy to her he would separate them.
He found Elsie sitting up in bed. She shrank away among the pillows when he entered; he saw the movement, and it shook his heart with a new pang. This artful woman had drawn the spell of her fascinations as closely about that pure girl as she had enthralled him. Elsie shrank from the brother who had deprived her of the love on which she had leaned. Elizabeth had left him nothing but bitterness.
"Are you feeling better?" he asked, sitting down by the bed.
"Oh, I never shall be any better," she murmured; "I shall die, and then, perhaps, you will be sorry."
Mellen could not be angry with her; it wounded and stung him to hear her speak thus, but he answered, patiently:
"When you are able to reflect, Elsie, you will see that I could not have acted differently. Few men would have shown as much leniency as I have done; regardless of the consequences to themselves, they would have made that woman's conduct public, and ruined her utterly."
"She wasn't bad," cried Elsie; "you are crazy to think so. She was the best woman in the world."
"Have you forgotten what I told you this morning—what I was forced to tell you or submit to your hatred? From yon window you could look out on the spot where she had buried——"
"Be still!" interrupted Elsie, with a shriek. "I won't stay in the house if you go on so—be still, I say!"
It required all his efforts to soothe the excited girl. He longed to question her, to know if she had left Elizabeth much alone during his absence, to understand how she could have been so persistently deceived, but she was in no state to endure such inquiries then.
Elsie lay back among her pillows, refusing to be comforted:
"If you want to cure me send for Bessie—my dear, dear Bessie! Search for her—send the people out!"
"Elsie, she has gone with that man; I cannot follow her there."
"No, no; she is wandering about in the cold. Go, search for her!"
"Anything but that, Elsie—ask anything else in the world."
"I don't want anything else."
"As soon as you are better we will go away from here," he continued; "to Europe, if you like."
"But how will she live?" persisted Elsie. "What will become of her? No money—no friends. Oh, Bessie, Bessie!"
"She has plenty to live on," he replied. "There are stocks enough deposited in her name to give her a comfortable income."
"But they are gone," cried Elsie. Then, remembering the danger of that avowal, she stopped suddenly.
"Gone!" he repeated. "How do you know? Oh, Elsie, do you know more than you own—do—"
"Stop, stop!" she screamed. "You have driven Bessie away and now you want to kill me! I don't know about anything—you know I don't. Just the other day Bessie spoke something about the stocks; I thought from what she said that you had taken them back for some purpose."
He was perfectly satisfied with her explanation, but the distress and fright into which she had fallen nearly brought on another nervous crisis. Great drops of perspiration stood on her forehead, and the slender fingers he held worked nervously in his grasp.
"Don't talk any more, dear child," he said. "Try to go to sleep again."
"I can't sleep—I never shall rest again—never! I feel so wicked—I hate myself!"
"Child, what do you mean?"
She must restrain herself, no danger must come near her. Even her sorrow for Elizabeth, her stinging remorse, could not make her unselfish enough to run any personal risk of his displeasure.
"I don't know what I mean—nothing at all! But it drives me wild to think of Bessie. Where can she be—where could she go? Suppose she has killed herself! Oh, she may be drowned in the bay—drowned—drowned!"
She went nearly mad with the ideas which her fancy conjured up, but it was perfectly in keeping with her character that in the very extremity of her suffering, no word for Elizabeth should be spoken that would implicate herself. Mellen must not guess at her knowledge of his wife's fault.
"You will have her searched for," she cried; "promise me that, if you don't want to kill me outright, promise me that."
"It could do no good, Elsie, none whatever. She has chosen her own destiny."
"It might, it might! If she has no money what will become of her?"
"I will inquire to-morrow," he replied. "I will write to my agent. If she has disposed of the stocks I will see that she has means to live upon; I promise you that."
"Really, truly?"
"Did I ever break my word, Elsie?"
"No, no; but you are so hard and stern."
"Never with you, darling—never with you."
Elsie groaned aloud, but hastened to speak:
"I am only in pain—don't mind it."
"My poor little Elsie, my sister, my treasure!"
"Do you love me so much, Grant?"
"Better than ever; you are all I have now! Oh, Elsie, don't shut your heart against me, I can't bear that. Try to believe that I have acted as justly as a man could. To the whole world I can be stern and silent, but let me tell you the truth. I loved that woman so, my heart is breaking under this grief. Bear patiently with me, child."
"Oh, if you suffer, send for her back," cried Elsie. "Let her explain; you gave her no time——"
"Hush, hush! Have I not said all those things to myself?"
This man's pride was so utterly crushed that he was revealing the inmost secrets of his soul to this frail girl, scarcely caring to conceal from her how keenly he suffered.
"But try," pleaded Elsie; "only try."
"It is impossible; later you will see that as plainly as I do. Don't you see what a sin I should commit in taking a false, dishonored woman back to my heart; what a wrong to my sister in exposing her to the society of a creature so lost and fallen?"
"She is good!" cried Elsie. "Bessie was an angel! Oh, I wish I was dead—dead—dead! I can't bear this; it is too much—too much!"
Elsie wrung her hands and sobbed piteously; she had wept until nature exhausted itself, and that choked anguish was more painful to witness than the most violent outburst of tears.
"We loved her so," muttered Mellen; "she was twined round that girl's heart as she enthralled mine; she has broken both."
"What are you saying, Grant?"
"Nothing, dear; I only pitied you and myself for loving her so much."
"I will always love her," cried Elsie; "you never shall change me; nothing shall do that. She is innocent; I believe it; I would say so before the whole world."
Mellen was seized with a sudden fear.
"Elsie," he said, "if anything should happen to me; if I should die——"
She caught his hands and began to tremble.
"What do you mean? Die—die!"
"Nothing, dear; don't be frightened. But life is uncertain; what I mean is this—if you should outlive me promise never to seek that woman; never to let her come near you."
"I can't promise that; I can't be so wicked."
"You must, Elsie."
"I can't; I won't! No, no; I'll never be bad enough for that!"
"If you refuse me this, Elsie, you will sink a gulf between us which can never be filled up."
"Don't talk so; remember how sick I am."
"I do; I won't agitate you, but we must have an end of this subject. If I should die—"
"I won't hear you talk about dying," she broke in. "You frighten me; you'll kill me."
But he went on resolutely;
"Promise never to see or hear from her."
"Not that; it is too wicked—too horrible."
"Elsie," he cried, in stern passion, "promise, or I will go out of this room, and though we live together it shall be as strangers."
He rose as if to fulfil his threat; she sprang up in bed; her cowardice, her selfishness mastered every other feeling.
"I promise. Come back, Grant, come back; oh, do!"
He seated himself again, soothed and caressed her.
"We will not talk any more," he said, kindly. "Henceforth let everything connected with this subject be dead between us; that woman's name must never be mentioned here; her very memory must be swept out of the dwelling she has dishonored. You and I will bury the past, Elsie, and place a heavy stone over the tomb; will you remember that, child?"
"Yes, yes; anything! Do what you please; I cannot struggle any longer; it is not my fault."
"Indeed no, darling! You are tender and forgiving as an angel! Oh, Elsie, in all the world yours is the only true heart I have found."
She lay there and allowed him to speak those words; she suffered terribly in her shallow, cowardly way, but she could not force her soul to be courageous even then. In time her volatile nature might turn determinedly from the dark tragedy. She probably would convince herself that she was powerless; that, since it could do no good to grieve over Elizabeth and her mournful fate, it was better that she should dismiss all recollection of it from her mind, drown her regrets, enjoy such pleasures as presented themselves, and build up a new world between her and the past.
But as yet she could not do that; she was completely unnerved and incapable of any resolution. She writhed there in pitiable pain and caught at every straw for comfort.
"You won't forget your promise, Grant?"
"What, dear?"
"To send money—that she may live, you know."
"I will not forget, rest satisfied. I will attend to it this very day; don't think about that any more."
"How can I help thinking? You might as well tell me not to breathe; I must think!"
"The end has come; it can do no good to look back!"
Almost the very words Elizabeth had so many times repeated during those last terrible days; the recollection went like a dagger to Elsie's soul.
It was a long time before she could be restored to anything like composure; then Mellen forbade her to talk, fearing the consequences of continued excitement.
"You can sleep, now, darling; you will be better in the morning."
"And you will take me away from here, Grant?"
"Yes, dear; whenever you like."
"I don't care about the place—the farther the better! I cannot stay in this house—I should die here. But not to Europe—oh, you won't take me to Europe?"
He only thought the sudden terror in her voice rose from a fear of the voyage or some similar weakness.
"You shall choose, Elsie; just where you please. We will go to the West Indies—as you say, the farther the better."
"Yes, Grant, yes."
"Now shut your eyes and go to sleep."
"You won't leave me," she pleaded.
"No; I shall stay near you all night."
"It is so dreadful," she went on, glancing wildly about the room; "I should go mad to wake up and find myself alone."
"You shall not, dear; indeed you shall not."
She grew quiet then; after a little time he heard Victoria in the hall, and went out to speak with her.
"You will lie down on the bed in the room next Miss Elsie's," he said, "and be near her if she wants anything."
He had not forgotten that he must be absent in the night, and was careful to guard the cherished girl against every possible cause of fright or agitation.
He spent the evening in Elsie's sick chamber as he had passed the day. Elsie did not sleep, but she was glad to lie quiet and keep her eyes closed, shutting out the objects around her. Sometimes when her reflections became too painful to bear, she would start up, catch his hands and shriek his name wildly, but his voice always served to calm her.
Towards midnight she fell into a heavy slumber. More than an hour before he heard Victoria enter the next room, and knew that he could leave Elsie in safety.
He bent over the bed, kissed her white forehead, and stole softly out of the room.
He went down into the library and sat there drearily, starting at the least sound, almost with a belief that he should stand face to face once more with his wife who might yet return on some possible pretence. The hours passed, but there was no step from without, no sign of approach anywhere about the house.
He went to the window, pushed back the curtains and looked out—the first thing he saw was the cypress tree waving its branches as they had done the night before when their moans seemed inarticulate efforts to speak.
The moon was up now, streaming down with a broad, full glory, very different from the spectral radiance of the previous night. How vividly recollection of those fearful hours came back as he stood there! He lived over every pang, felt every torture redoubled—started back as if again looking on the dead object which had shut out all happiness from him for ever.
Suddenly he saw the figure of a man, that man, stealing across the lawn; he did not wait to reflect, flung open the window and dashed out in pursuit. He was too late—the intruder disappeared, and though he made a long and diligent search his efforts were futile.
He returned to the house, livid with the new rage which had come over him.
"I will find him," he muttered; "there is no spot so distant, no place so secret, that my vigilance shall not hunt him down!"
So the night passed, and when the dawn again struggled into the sky Grantley Mellen returned to his sister's chamber, and sat down to watch her deep, painful slumber once more.
No sleep approached his eyelids—it seemed to him that he must not hope to lose consciousness again—that never even for an instant would that crushing sorrow and that mad craving for the lost woman leave him at rest.
In the basement story of Piney Cove, the absence of Mrs. Mellen was a continued source of curiosity. But for once, that part of the household had little but conjecture to go upon; so after a time, curiosity died out and the selfish element rose uppermost, especially with the mulatto, Dolf, who had not yet found out the sum total of Clorinda's fortune.
The night after Mrs. Mellen's disappearance, there had been an anxious meeting in the neighborhood, at which Elder Spotts had held forth with peculiar eloquence, and Clorinda had been wonderfully loud in her responses, a state of things which filled Dolf with serious perplexity; in fact, it had been a very anxious meeting to him. After their return home, that young gentleman lingered in the basement, looking so miserable that Clorinda asked the cause.
"Yer knows," said Dolf, prolonging the situation as much as possible, in the hope that some bright thought would strike him by which the conversation might be led round to the subject uppermost in his worldly mind; "yer knows very well."
"Why, yer's making me out jis' a witch."
"No, Miss Clorindy, no; don't say dem keerless tings—don't! I ain't a makin' you nothin', only de most charmin' and de most cruel of yer sect."
If Clo did not blush it was only because nature had deprived her of the dangerous privilege, but she fell into a state of sweet confusion that was beautiful to behold.
"Dar ye go agin," said she; "now quit a callin' me witches and sich, or else say why?"
"Didn't I see you dis berry even'?" said Dolf.
"In course ye did; we was to Mrs. Hopkins's when de meeting was ober."
"And wasn't Elder Spotts dar, too?"
"In course he was; yer knows it well enough."
"I knows it too well," said Dolf. "Dar's whar de coquettations comes in; dat's jis' de subjec' I'm 'proachin' yer wid."
"Me!" cried Clo, in delightful innocence. "Laws, I didn't know yer even looked at me; I tought ye was fascinated wid dat Vic."
"I'se neber too busy to reserve you, Miss Clorindy," said Dolf; "wherever I may be, whatever my ockipation, I'se eyes fur you. And I seed you; I seed de elder a bending over ye, a whisperin' in yer ear."
"Oh, git out!" cried Clo. "He didn't do no sich."
"Oh, yes, he did, Miss Clorindy; dese eyes seen it."
"Wal, he was a axin' me if I was gwine to come to meetin' more reg'lar dan I had ob late."
"It took him a great while to ax," said Dolf, in a reproachful voice.
Clo laughed a little chuckling laugh.
"He's a bery pleasant man, de elder," said she; "bery pleasant."
"Dey say he wants a wife," observed Dolf.
"Do dey! Mebby he do; anyway he hain't told me dat."
"But he will, Clorindy, he will!"
"Tain't no ways likely; don' 'spec I shall knows much bout it!"
"Oh, yes, yer will," insisted Dolf.
He was serious, and Clo began to grow dizzy at the thought of so many conquests crowding upon her at once.
"I jis' b'lieve he's a sarpint in disguise," said Dolf, with great energy; "one ob de wust kind of old he ones."
"Laws, Mr. Dolf, don't say sich things; he's a shinin' light in de sanctumary, I'se certain."
"It's a light I'd like to squinch," cried Dolf, "and if he pokes himself into my moonshine I'll do it."
Clo gave a shrill scream, and caught his arm, as if she feared that he was intending to rush forth in search of the elder, and put his menace into instant execution.
"Don't kick up a muss wid him," she pleaded: "why should yer?"
"It 'pends on yer, Miss Clorindy, yer know; de 'couragement yer've ben a givin' him is 'nuff to drive yer admirers out o' der senses."
"Oh, dear me, I neber heerd sich audacious nonsense!" said Clo.
"It's true," answered Dolf, "an' yer knows it. But ye're received in dat man, Miss Clorindy, yer is! He's got both eyes fixed on de glitterin' dross. I've heerd him talk 'bout de fortin yer had, an' how it wud set a pusson up, an' what good he might do wid it 'mong de heathen."
Clo gave another scream, but this time it was a cry of indignation and wrath.
"Spend my money 'mong de heathen!" she cried. "I'd like to see him do it! comes 'bout me I'll pull his old wool fur him, I will."
Dolf smiled at the success of his falsehood, and made ready to clench the nail after driving it in.
"Dat's what he tinks anyhow. Why, Miss Clorindy, he was a tryin' ter find out jist how much yer was wuth."
"'Taint nobody's business but my own," cried Clo, angrily, "folks needn't be a pumpin' me; 'taint no use."
"Jis' what I've allers said," remarked Dolf, with great earnestness; "sich secrets, says I, is Miss Clorindy's own."
"Yes, dey be," said Clo, holding on to the sides of her stool as tightly as if it had been the box which contained her treasures.
"I've said sometimes," continued Dolf, "dat if de day shud eber come when dat parathon ob her sex made up her mind ter gib her loved hand to some true bussom, she'd probably whisper musical in his ear de secret she has kept from all de wuld."
Clo was divided between the tenderness awakened by these words and the vigilance with which she always guarded the outposts leading to her cherished secret.
"Ain't dat sense, Miss Clorindy?" demanded Dolf, getting impatient.
"I hain't said it warn't," she replied.
"Dis wuld is full ob mercenary men," Dolf went on, "searchin' fur de filty lucre; I'se glad I neber was one ob dem. I allers has 'spised de dross; gib me lobe, I says, and peace wid de fair one ob my choice, and I asks no more."
Clo played with her apron string again, and looked modestly down.
But Dolf did not know exactly what to say next without committing himself more deeply than he desired; indeed, he had been led on now considerably farther than he could wish, but that was unavoidable.
"Not but what fortins is desirous," he said, "'cause in dis wuld people must lib."
Clo assented gently to that self-evident proposition.
"Do yer know what I'se often tought, Miss Clorindy," said Dolf, starting on a new tack.
"'Spect I don't," said Clo.
"I'se wished many a time, more lately'n I used ter, dat I could take some fair cretur I lobed ter my heart, and dat 'tween us we had money 'nuff ter start a restauration or sometin' ob dat sort."
Clo sniffed a little.
"In dem places de wurk all comes on de woman," said she.
Dolf was quite aware of that fact; it was the one thing which made him contemplate the idea with favor.
"Oh, not at all," he said, "de cookin's a trifle; tink ob de 'counts; my head's good at figures."
"Dey kind o' puzzles me," Clo confided to him softly.
"Tain't 'spected in the fair sect," said Dolf; "dey nebber ort to trouble 'emselves 'bout sich matters."
Then Dolf sighed.
"Yer wonders what's de matter," he said; "I was jis lamentin' dat I hadn't been able to save as much as I could wish, so dat I could realise sich a dream."
"Laws," cried Clo, so agitated and confused she was about to speak the words he so longed to hear; "how much wud it take? Does yer tink dat if a woman had—"
"I say Clo, where be yer?"
The interruption was a cruel one to both the darkeys, though from different reasons; the voice was Victoria's.
"Clo!" she called again, in considerable wrath, "jis' you answer now."
Clo sprang up in high indignation. Dolf mounted a couple of steps and appeared to be diligently searching for something in a closet.
Victoria opened the kitchen door, looked out and tossed her head angrily when she saw the pair.
"I s'pose I might a split my throat callin', and yer wouldn't a answered," she cried.
"I'se 'bout my business," said Clo, grimly, "jis' mind yours."
"I s'pose Mr. Dolf am 'bout his business too," retorted Vic.
Dolf turned around from the closet and asked sweetly, "Did you 'dress me, Miss Vic?"
"No, I didn't, and don't mean ter. But Miss Elsie's woke up, and wants some jelly and a bird; where am dey, Clo?"
"Look whar dey be and ye'll find 'em," replied Clo.
"Ef they hain't gone down dat ol' preacher's throat it's lucky," cried Vic, slamming the door after her, thus defeating poor Dolf in the very moment of success.
Elsie was better that morning. When the physician arrived he pronounced her much improved, and confessed to Mellen that he had at first feared an attack upon the brain, but he believed now it was only the result of a severe nervous paroxysm. This time he made no inquiries of Mellen concerning his wife; the manner in which they had been received on the previous day did not invite a renewal of the subject.
Elsie was eager to get up, after her usual habit, the moment she began to feel better; but the doctor ordered her to lie in bed, at least for that day.
"But I want to get up so badly," said she, when her brother returned to the chamber; "I am so tired of lying here."
"Just have patience for to-day; the doctor would not allow the least exertion."
"He's a cross old thing!" pouted Elsie, with a faint return to her old manner, which made Mellen both sigh and smile.
"You will soon be able to put him at defiance. But, indeed, you are so weak now you could not attempt too much."
"Oh, that's nonsense! I don't believe anything about it. You shall stay here with me; if I have to be kept prisoner I will hold you fast, too."
"There is no fear of my attempting to leave the room," he replied.
Elsie felt much improved. She sat up in bed, made her brother play at various games of cards with her, talked and looked herself again.
But into the conversation, in which Mellen did his best to hold a share, there crept some chance mention of that name which those walls must no longer hear. It fell from Elsie's lips thoughtlessly, and at once dispelled her faint attempt at cheerfulness, throwing her into the gloom which she had succeeded in shutting out for a little time.
"Did you write that letter, Grant?" she asked, quickly.
"Yes; I sent it down to the village, to go by the morning's mail."
"Thank you, Grant, thank you!"
She attempted to console herself with thinking she had done something in Elizabeth's behalf, but when her conscience compared it with all that she ought to have done, her coward heart shrank back at the contrast.
"I am tired of cards," she said, sweeping the bits of pasteboard off the bed with one of her abrupt movements, which would have been rude in another, but seemed graceful and childish in her. "Cards are stupid things at the best!"
Mellen patiently collected the scattered pack and laid it away, trying to think of some other means of relieving herennui.
"Shall I read to you?" he asked.
"I don't believe I could listen," she said, tossing her head wearily about. "I don't know—just try."
There was a pile of new novels and magazines on the table in the centre of the room, for Elsie always kept herself liberally supplied with these sources of distraction, though it must be confessed that she generally carried the recreation to an extreme, reading her romance to the exclusion of more solid studies, just as she preferred nibbling bon-bons, to eating substantial food.
"There certainly is opportunity for a choice," Mellen said, glancing at the pile. "What book will you choose?"
"Oh, bring a magazine; read me some short story."
Mellen seated himself, opened the periodical and commenced reading the first tale he lighted upon. It was a story by a popular author, beginning in a light, pleasant way, and promising the amusement his listener needed. But as the little romance went on it deepened into a pathetic tragedy. It was an account of a noble-born Sicilian woman who, during the Revolution, endured, silently, every species of suffering, at last death itself, rather than betray her husband to his enemies, yet the husband had bitterly wronged her and half-broken her heart during their married life.
Elsie did not listen at first, but as the story went on her thoughts became so painful that she tried to fasten her attention upon the reading. When she began to take notice Mellen was just in the midst of the account of this Sicilian woman's martyrdom in prison, bearing up with such serene patience, faithful to her vow, firm in her determination to save the man who had injured her.
Elsie fairly snatched the volume from his hand.
"Don't read it!" she exclaimed. "What made you choose such a doleful thing; it makes my flesh creep."
He saw the change which had come over her face, and reproached himself for his carelessness in having chosen so sad a tale; but the truth was, in his absorption, he had not the slightest idea of what he was reading, his voice sounded in his own ears mechanical, and as if it belonged to some other person.
He went to the table to make a more fortunate selection.
"Here is a volume of parodies," he said, "shall I try those?"
"Anything; I don't care."
He commenced a mischievous travestie of a poem, but though it was wittily done, its lightness jarred so terribly on both reader and listener that it was speedily thrown aside. For some time they remained in gloomy silence, then Elsie began to moan and move restlessly about, then Mellen tried to rouse himself and be cheerful again.
The afternoon passed very much in the same way. At last Elsie declared that she would sleep awhile.
"Anything to wear away the time!" she said.
Mellen wondered if he should ever find anything that would shorten the hours to him, but he held his peace.
"I have such an odd, horrible feeling," said Elsie; "just as if I were waiting anxiously for something—every instant expecting it."
"That is because you are nervous."
"Perhaps so," she said, fretfully.
He was waiting. Henceforth life would be but one long waiting just for revenge, then to be free from the dull pressure of this existence.
"How white you are!" Elsie said suddenly. "I don't believe you have slept at all."
It was true. For nights Mellen had not closed his eyes, but he felt no approach towards drowsiness even now.
"You will fall sick!" cried Elsie. "What shall I do then?"
"Don't be afraid; I am well and strong."
He said the words with a loathing bitterness of his own ability to endure.
The more powerful his physical organization, the more years of loneliness and pain would be left for him to bear. His mind flew on to the future; he pictured the long, long course towards old age; the dreary lapse of time which would bring only a cold exterior over his sufferings, like a crust of lava hardening above the volcanic fires beneath.
"Don't sit so, looking at nothing," cried Elsie.
"Yes, dear. There, do you think you can go to sleep?"
"I won't try, unless you go to sleep too. Draw the sofa up by the bed and lie down."
He obeyed her command, willing to gratify her least caprice. She gave him one of her pillows, threw a part of the counterpane over him, and made him lie there, holding fast to his hand, afraid to be alone, even in her dreams.
"Do you feel sleepy, Grant?" she asked, after a pause.
"Perhaps so; I am resting, at all events."
"Don't you remember when I was sick once, years ago, I never would sleep unless I held your hand?"
"Yes, dear."
How far back the time looked—he had been a mere youth then—what a fearful waste lay between that season and the present!
Suddenly Elsie started up again.
"You sent the letter, Grant?"
"Yes, yes; be content."
She was so much afraid even to sleep, that it relieved her to turn her last waking thoughts upon some little good she was doing Elizabeth.
"Good-night, now," she said; "I can go to sleep. Kiss my hand, Grant. You love me, don't you?"
"Always, darling, always; nothing can part you and me."
She fell away into a tranquil slumber, and Mellen lay for a long time watching her repose; it was a brief season of peace to her, for burning thoughts had not followed her into her dreams.
The extreme quiet, the sight of her placid face soothed him imperceptibly. A dreary weakness began to make itself felt after that long continued excitement. At length the lids drooped over his eyes, and he slept almost as profoundly as Elsie herself. For a long time there was no sound in the chamber; the brother and sister lay slumbering while the day wore on and the twilight crept slowly around.
When Elsie awoke it was to rouse him with the cry which had been so often on her lips during the previous day—
"Bessie, Bessie!"
He started up, spoke to her, and his voice brought her back to the reality.
"I was so happy," she moaned; "I dreamed that Bessie and I were gathering pond lilies—she was wreathing them about my head—then just as I woke I saw a snake sting her—before that it was all bright. Oh, dear, if I could only sleep forever!"
The next day Elsie was still stronger and better. She consented to lie in bed all the morning, making it a condition that she might get up and be carried downstairs to pass the evening.
"That is the dreariest time," she said; "it drags on so heavily."
Mellen promised her, and she was childishly happy.
"You shall have an early dinner, Grant, and then we'll take tea in the evening, and eat toast and jam just as we did when I was a child."
"Yes, that will be very comfortable."
He had tried to say pleasant, but he could not speak the word. The day was so warm and bright that a little after noon he took her out for a short drive, then she lay down to rest again, resolved to be strong and pass the evening below. The change was pleasant to her—she felt quite elated, as she always was in health, at the idea of amusement.
They got through the day rather quietly, and Elsie did not have a single relapse of her nervous tremors.
When she awoke from her afternoon nap it was growing dark. She cried out quite joyfully when she saw Grantley sitting by the bed:
"It is almost evening at last!"
At that moment Victoria appeared at the door.
"Come in," Mellen said; "what do you want?"
Victoria entered on tip-toe, though she knew plainly enough that her young mistress was awake, and whispered in the doleful semitone she reserved for sick rooms:
"If you please, Mister Fuller's just arrived, and he's a asking after all of you in a breath."
Elsie started up on her pillows, and the brother and sister looked at each other in blank dismay when they thought of the blow that must be inflicted upon the warm, honest heart of Elizabeth's cousin.
"Go and say that we will be down," said Elsie, recovering her presence of mind.
Victoria departed, and Grantley cried out passionately:
"How can I tell him? Poor Tom, he will nearly die."
"You must not tell him yet," said Elsie, "not one word—just say Bessie is absent."
"Such prevarication is useless, Elsie, he must know the truth."
Elsie began to cry.
"There, you are contradicting me already. I won't go down—I shall be sick again—my head swims now."
"Don't distress yourself, dear, don't."
"Then let me have my own way," she pleaded.
"What do you wish? Anything to content you."
"That's a good brother," said Elsie. "Go down and merely tell Tom I have been very sick, and that Bessie has gone to New York—anywhere—not a word more."
"But he will wonder at her absence during your illness."
"No, he never wonders; it doesn't make any difference."
"I detest these white lies, Elsie."
"Oh, well, if you want to kill me with a scene, go and tell Tom," she exclaimed, throwing herself back on her pillows; "I shall be worried to death at last."
Mellen was anxious to soothe her, and against his judgment submitted.
"I'll go, darling; I'll go."
"Good Grant; kind brother! Send Victoria to me; I will be all dressed when you come back."
Mellen went out and called the servant, then he passed downstairs, and in the hall met Tom, who rushed towards him, exclaiming:
"The woman says Elsie is very sick; is she better; what is it?"
"She is much better; don't be frightened; she will be downstairs in a few minutes."
"Thank God," muttered Tom, his face still white with fears that Victoria had aroused.
Mellen was too much preoccupied to notice his extreme agitation, or speculate upon its cause if he had observed it.
"I only got back this afternoon," said Tom, "and I hurried over here at once. How is Bessie?"
"She—she is not at home," faltered Mellen.
"Not at home and Elsie sick?"
"She was gone," said Mellen, "and I did not send for her."
Tom was too much troubled about Elsie to reflect long upon anything else, and directly Mellen broke from his eager questions, saying:
"Go into the library, Tom; I'll bring Elsie down."
He went upstairs, and knocked at his sister's door.
"You may come in," Elsie called out; "I am ready."
When he entered she was sitting up in an easy chair, wrapped in a pretty dressing-gown of pink merino, braided and trimmed after her own fanciful ideas, a white shawl thrown over her shoulders, the flossy hair shading her face, and looking altogether quite another creature.
For the first time since Elizabeth's departure, a feeling of relief loosened the oppression on Mellen's heart.
"You look so well again; God bless you, darling!"
"Of course I'm pretty!" she cried childishly, pointing to herself in the glass. "I shall make a nice little visitor."
"You will always be one, my sunbeam," he said.
She shivered a little at his words, but she would not permit herself to think, determined to have her old carelessness, her old peace back, if she could grasp it.
"How is Tom?" she asked.
"Dreadfully anxious about you, poor fellow."
"Did he ask for Bessie?"
"Yes—yes."
"But you said nothing?"
"No, Elsie; he knows nothing."
"That is right," she said; "I can tell him better than you. Be kind to him, Grant."
"Yes, dear; he saved your life; Tom is very dear to me; poor fellow."
"I am to be a visitor, remember," she said childishly; "You must not forget that."
"I will forget nothing that can give you pleasure, be certain of that," he answered, kindly.
"Now you shall lead me downstairs," she said.
"You must not walk; I will carry you."
"No, no; I am so heavy."
But he took her in his arms and carried her downstairs, as he had so often done in her childhood, while Victoria followed with cushions and shawls to make her perfectly comfortable.
"I am your baby again, Grant! Don't you remember how you used to carry me about?"
"Indeed I do; you are not much larger now."
"You saucy thing! I would pull your hair only I am afraid you would let me fall."
He carried her into the library and laid her on the sofa. Tom sprang forward with a cry of terror at the change his absence had made in her appearance, but a gesture from Mellen warned him that he must control his feelings lest his anxiety should agitate her.
"I am so glad to see you, Tom, so very glad," she said, clasping her delicate fingers about his hands, and so filling him with delight by her look and words that he could not even remember to be anxious.
"It has seemed an age to me since I went away," said Tom. "And you have been sick, little princess, and Bessie gone! that is strange."
"There, there," cried Elsie; "you must not talk about my appearance or sickness or anything else! Just tell me how pretty I look, and do nothing but amuse me."
"You seem like an angel of light," cried Tom, looking wistfully at her little hand, as if he longed to hide it away in his broad palm.
The fire burned cheerfully in the grate, the chandeliers were lighted, the tea-table spread, and everything done to make the room pleasant which could suggest itself to Dolf and Victoria, in their anxiety to please the young favorite.
"It is so pleasant," she said, with a sigh of relief; "so pleasant."
Then Victoria brought her a quantity of flowers Dolf had cut in the greenhouse, and she strewed the fragrant blossoms over her dress and wreathed them in her hair, making a beautiful picture of herself in her rich wrappings and delicate loveliness.
"Now we will have tea," she said, "bring all sorts of nice things, Victy."
"Yes, 'deed. I will, Miss! Clo she's ben a fixin' fur yer! Laws, it jis' makes my heart jump to see you up agin."
As the girl left the room Mellen said:
"How she loves you! Everybody does love you, Elsie."
"They must," she answered; "I should die if I were not petted. Oh, Grant, it's so nice here; don't you like it?"
"Yes, indeed; you make the old room bright again."
Her spirits had risen, she was really quite like her old self, and that without effort or pretence.
Then the tea was brought in, and she insisted on at least tasting everything on the table. Clo was well acquainted with her dainty ways, and the varieties of preserves and jellies she had brought out from her stores was marvellous.
Elsie fed Tom with bits of toast, made him eat everything he did not want, and beg for all that he did, and was so bright and peaceful that Mellen himself grew quiet from her influence.