The day wore on. Everything was in a state of preparation in the old mansion-house. The last ovenful of cake had been placed by an open window in the pantry, that its frosted surface might harden into beauty. The ice-cream freezers, ready to yield up their precious contents, were set away in a cool place, and Victoria, a pretty mulatto girl who had come to the house an orphan child, was busy carving red and white roses out of a little pile of turnips and delicately shaped blood-beets, intended to ornament divers plates of cold turkey and chicken salad. This pretty fancy work was carried on in the front basement or housekeeper's room, while a bustle of preparation gave promise of great things from the kitchen. Clorinda, the moving spirit of all this commotion, rushed from basement to kitchen, and then to pantry and store-room, in a state of exhilaration that set fresh currents of air in circulation wherever she went. This was the great day of the faithful servant's life, and she felt its importance in every cord of her heart.
"Now," she called out, addressing Victoria with a pompous lift of the head, "yer can come up stairs and help about thar. Them roseys ain't so bad but that I've seen wuss; but there's 'nuff of 'em, so cum 'long o' me, and shut up de draw'n'-room winder-blinds."
Victoria ran up stairs, two steps at a leap, and, in a breath, was shutting out the beautiful sunset, and quenching a thousand flashes of arrowy rays that scattered gold over the plate-glass.
"Now," said Clorinda, as the last shutter was closed, "yer can take the spy-glass and see if any pusson is comin' up from the pint."
Victoria was only too glad. She sprang across the tessellated pavement of the hall, and seizing the glass, swept the shore with a slow movement of her slender person from right to left.
"Nary a pusson coming," she said, laying down the glass, with a disappointed air.
"Don't talk," snapped Clorinda, snatching up the glass and levelling it fiercely at the ocean. "Jes like yer, now—can't see yer hand afore yer face. There's a boat put inter the cove whilst yer was looken, and here am Caleb Benson."
"So thar am," cried Victoria, snatching the glass, "acomin' full split across the medder. Now for it!"
The lithe limbed mulatto gave a hop on to the portico, and another bound to the soft grass of the lawn, whence she ran, like a deer, to meet our sea-loving friend, with the high shoulders, who was crossing towards the house at a far brisker pace than was usual to him.
"Hav yer give the instergations?" cried Victoria, out of breath with swift running. "Am the folks a coming to our party?"
Caleb looked wonderfully grave, and attempted to shake his head; but Vic saw, by the gleam in his eyes, that it was all pretence, and clapping her hands like a little gypsy as she was, dashed into a break-down on the grass, calling out, "Hi, dic-a-dory, I told yer so—I told yer so!"
"Well, what am all dis muss 'bout?" exclaimed Clorinda, sailing out to the lawn with a broad straw flat overshadowing her like an umbrella. "Well, Caleb, I 'low ebbery ting am pernicious 'bout de party."
Caleb, who was ah old fisherman, reared at Cape Cod, and not to be put out of his way easily, occupied plenty of time before he answered. The afternoon was warm, so he took the oil-cloth cap from his head, and wiped its baldness vigorously with an old silk handkerchief. Then he deposited the handkerchief in the crown of his cap, and settled himself into his garments with a shake, sailor fashion.
Clorinda's broad flat vibrated with its wearer's impatience, and Victoria was stamping down the grass, and menacing the old man with her fist during the whole of his slow performance.
"Now," she said, "now."
"Wal, the long and the short of it is, they're all a coming, especially from Squir Rhodes. Miss Jemima wasn't willing at first, but the Squir sot in and said his colored people hadn't much chance for fun anyhow, and shouldn't be kept back from what come along in a nat'ral way."
"Squir Rhodes was ales a pusson as I s'pected," said Clorinda. "Let's see how many of 'em will count up."
She made rather bungling work in counting her fingers, going over them three or four times, and getting terribly puzzled in the end.
In the midst of her confusion, Victoria gave a little cry of dismay, and made a rush for the house, where she frantically tore off her apron and tucked it under one of the hall mats.
Clorinda, filled with indignation by this strange proceeding, turned in search of the cause, and lo! there was Dolf, Mr. Mellen's own man, crossing the lawn, with two other gentlemen of color, evidently from the city.
Clorinda snatched the broad straw flat from her head, and began to arrange her Madras turban with both hands, thus unhappily exposing some tufts of frosty gray that had managed to creep, year after year, into her wool. After this rather abrupt toilet, she drew herself up with a grand air, and marched forward to receive the strangers in a glorious state of self-complacency.
"Mr. Dolf, yer welcome as hot-house peaches—and these gemmen, may I 'quest an interdiction?"
Dolf had just been informing his companions that the lady approaching them was not to be sneezed at in any particular whatever, as she ruled the roost of Piney Cove, and had, everybody said, laid up lots of rocks; besides, as for cooking—well, he said nothing, it was not necessary; they would see what Clorinda was in that line when the supper came on. She had learned down South where people knew how to live.
This speech prepared the strangers to receive their sable hostess with great distinction, and when she launched a stupendous courtesy at them in acknowledgment of their elaborate bows, the mutual admiration that sprang up among the whole group then and there, was an oasis in the desert of human nature.
"Miss Clorinda—Mr. Sparks, of the Metropolitan Hotel; Mr. Hannibal, private attendant of an upper-crust gentleman, who is going to stop at the Sailor's Safe Anchor, fishing and shooting."
Clorinda had just recovered herself from one courtesy, but she took the wind in her garments and fluttered off into a couple more without loss of time.
"I 'low de neighborhood am obligated to any gemmen as brings sich pussons inter de serciety ob Piney Cove. If yer hasn't had deceived an invite from Mr. Benson, dat white pusson yer sees up yunder, remit me de ferlicity."
Clorinda took two buff envelopes from her bosom as she spoke, and gave them to Mr. Sparks, of the Metropolitan, and Mr. Julius Hannibal, private, with a smile that flitted across her face like smoke from a furnace.
"It speaks ob pumps and yeller gloves as bein' indispenserable, but dem as comes promiscus as yer friends dus, Dolphus, can't be spected ter imply."
The gentlemen smiled in bland thankfulness, exhibiting a superb display of ivory and second-hand white kids in the operation.
"You didn't expect me," whispered Dolf, joining Clorinda when she turned to conduct the party to the house, "but the hart will pant after clear water. I couldn't stand it three days longer; so when the master told me to come over and see that every thing was ready, I jumped at it. Hope you're not offended at my bringing these fellows?"
"'Fended!" exclaimed Clorinda, stepping upon the grass as if it had been egg-shells, that she had resolved not to crush. "When was yer Clo ebber fended wid yer, Dolphus?"
"Poor fellows," said Dolf, looking back at his friends, "They see my ferlicity and are ready to burst with envy."
"Am dey?" exclaimed Clorinda, bridling—"poor souls; but no pusson can be spected to cut up inter half a dozen, so dey am bound ter suffer."
The whole group had reached the front portico by this time. Vic, who had stolen behind the hall-door and stood watching their approach through the crevice, came forth now, blushing till the golden bronze on her cheeks burned red. Clorinda flamed up at the sight.
"What hab yer done wid yer apron, chile? jes march right 'bout an' get it ter once. Who ebber hearn bout a chile ob yer age widout apron?"
Victoria's black eyes flashed like diamonds; she drew aside, leaning against the wall, with the grace of a bronze-figure, half-frightened out of her wits, but defiant still. What right had Clorinda to tell about her apron, or drive her down stairs? She cast an imploring glance at Dolf, but he looked resolutely away.
"Come in, gemmen, out ob sight ob dis obstinit chile," cried Clorinda, almost sweeping poor little Vic down with a flourish of her skirts.
"No," interposed gentlemanly Dolf, who had a genius for keeping out of storms. "The gentlemen were just saying, as we came up, how much they would like a walk towards the woods. So with your permission, Miss Clorinda, we will leave you to the feminine duties of the toilet; though beauty when unadorned is most adorned."
"'Cept when de gray hairs will peek out. Hi! hi! look dar!"
These audacious words were uttered by Victoria, whose pouting wrath could no longer be restrained.
The two city gentlemen fell to examining their gloves with great earnestness. Dolf made a hasty retreat through the door, calling on them to follow him, and Clorinda left five handsomely defined finger-marks on Victoria's hot cheek before she darted off to a looking-glass, and fell into a great burst of tears over the state of her treacherous turban.
"Now," said Vic, gathering herself up from the wall, and rubbing her cheek, down which great hot tears were leaping with passionate violence—"Now I'se gone and done it, sure; she won't let me—"
"Vic! Vic!"
It was the treacherous voice of Dolf, who came stealing in from the portico.
"Vic, don't be so audacious, you lovely spitfire; go this minute and make up with her, or we've lost all chance of that new cotillion I was learning you."
"I can't! I won't!" burst forth the pretty, bronze fury, stamping down the mat and her apron under it. "She's a—a—she's fat cattle, thar!"
Dolf snatched the little sprite from the rug, and stopped her mouth with—no, it wasn't with hishand. And I'd rather say no more about it.
Five minutes after, Victoria went demurely in search of Clorinda, found her sitting before the glass in utter humiliation, and protested that the whole thing was nonsense. That she hadn't seen a gray hair, and if the turban was awry, it must have happened when Clorinda ran up stairs in such hot haste. Victoria was sorry: oh, very, very sorry. Would Miss Clo only overlook it this once, and begin to dress for the ball?
Clorinda's heart swelled like a rising tide under Vic's hypocritical condolence, but she could not be quite convinced about the turban; she was a woman of resources, however, and felt that the evil was not without its remedy. So she kindled an immense quantity of wax-lights, crowded them before her looking-glass, and at once commenced the mysteries of a full toilet. The result was so satisfactory when she took a survey of her pink barege dress, covered with innumerable small flounces, and the gorgeous white gauze scarf, glittering with silver, which formed a turban, with long sweeping ends falling to the left shoulder—that she melted at once towards the girl who had helped to make her so resplendent.
"Jes see what splendiferous idees that chile Miss Elsie hab, Vic," she cried, shaking the flounces into place over her enormous crinoline. "Now 'serve she never wore dis sumptious dress more en once, but sent it down here good as new; 'sides de turban, jes see it shine. Yes, Vic, I forgives yer, so don't rub dem knuckles in yer eyes no more."
Vic darted away, and in a marvellously short time came back glorious, her hair braided in with scarlet ribbons, and a dress of several gorgeous colors fluttering with every joyous movement of her slender person. She was pluming herself before the glass when Clorinda started up.
"What am dat?"
"Dat? why it am a carriage. Oh, golly, golly, they'm coming," cried Vic, wild with delight; and away the two darkies went down the great staircase and into the hall, where the honors of the house were extended with astonishing elegance.
Two or three wagons sat down their sable loads, and directly the sounds of a brace of fiddles rang though the basement story, and the laundry floor vibrated to the elastic tread of dancers, whose natural love of music gave grace and spirit to every movement. The two fiddles poured out triumphant strains of music, and in every particular Clorinda's ball was a success.
At last Clorinda disappeared from the laundry, and Dolf followed her into the supper-room, where he fell into raptures over the gorgeousness of the table.
"Yes," said the housekeeper, modestly, "but how am we to get 'long without wine; Marse Mellen carried off de keys, and without dat—"
"Jes look here!" cried Dolf, holding up a key which had been resting in his pocket; "catch me unprepared; I thought about the wine."
Clorinda almost embraced Dolf in her delight, but in his haste to reach the wine-cellar, he did not seem to observe the demonstration.
When her lover came back with his arms full of long-necked bottles, Clorinda's happiness was supreme, and directly after there was a rush of feet and abrupt silence with the two fiddlers. The company had gone in to supper.
After the rush and bustle had subsided a little, Dolf placed himself at the head of the table, with a corkscrew in one hand and a bottle in the other.
"Oh, my!" whispered Virginia, "I hope dar's lots of pop in it."
A rushing explosion, and the rich gurgle of amber wine into the crowding goblets satisfied her completely.
Dolf lifted his glass and prepared himself for a speech.
"Ladies of the fair sect and gentlemen—"
That moment Mr. Julius Hannibal, who had allowed himself to be crowded towards the door, stole out and went softly up stairs. With the stealthy motion of a cat, he crept along the hall and opened the front door.
A man came out from the shadows of the portico, and glided into the hall. It was Mr. North, Hannibal's master.
A crowd of carriages stood in front of the church—a throng of richly-dressed persons filled it, with such life and bustle as sacred walls never witness, save on the occasion of a grand wedding. Mrs. Harrington had done her pleasant work famously. Not a fashionable person among her own friends, or a distinguished one known to bridegroom or bride, had been omitted. Thus the stately church was crowded. Snowy feathers waved over gossamer bonnets; lace, glittering silks, and a flash of jewels were seen on every hand, fluttering in the dim religious light around smiling faces and gracefully bending figures.
A buzz of whispered conversations rose from nave to gallery; for a large portion of that brilliant throng had never seen the bride, and curiosity was on thequi viveregarding a person so utterly unknown to society, who had carried off the greatest match of the season.
In one of the front pews a friend of Mrs. Harrington was sitting with a group of her own confidential acquaintances. Of course she knew all about it, and could tell them why Mr. Mellen had chosen a wife so utterly unknown to their set.
Certainly Mrs. C. knew all about it—had the particulars from her sweet friend, Mrs. Harrington, who was, they all knew, a sort of lady patroness to the affair. Would she tell? Of course—why not? There was no secret about it now, and it might be ten minutes before the bridal party came in.
"Well, this was it. Mr. Mellen was—"
Oh they all knew about Mr. Mellen; he had been in business down town before that worthy old gentleman his uncle died, and left him so enormously rich that there was no guessing how many millions he was worth. Did they know his sister? Of course: what a sweet pretty creature she was! Strange that the old uncle forgot to make her an heiress,—cut off a relative whom he had almost adopted, and left everything to Mellen, who did not expect it. Sweet Elsie was quite overlooked, and had nothing on earth but her beauty. But the bride, the bride, what about her?
"Well," said Mrs. C——, coming out of this storm of whispers smiling and flushed, "there is no great mystery in the bride. Indeed, so far as she was concerned, everything was rather common-place—such people had been done up so often in romances that it was tiresome."
"You don't mean to say that she was that eternal governess who is continually travelling through magazines and marrying the rich young gentleman of the house?" cried a voice, almost out loud.
"No, no, nothing quite so bad as that," answered Mrs. C——, with a low soothing "hush," and shaking her head till all the pink roses on her bonnet fluttered again. "She came from somewhere in New England. The father was thought to be a rich man. At any rate he gave her a splendid education, and travelled with her in Europe nearly two years, when she was quite a missish girl. He also educated her cousin, the young man who is to be groomsman, and gave him a handsome setting out in life; but when the father died there was nothing left—all his property mortgaged or something—at any rate Elizabeth never got a cent, and her cousin would have been poor as a church-mouse but for the money which had set him up in a splendid business. He wanted to make that over to her at once."
"Generous fellow!"
"You may well say that," continued Mrs. C——, hushing down the enthusiasm of her friends with a wave of her whitely gloved hand. "She would not take a cent of his money, but came here to the very school where she had been educated, and hired out as a teacher; it is said—but I do not vouch for it—that her bills at the school were left unpaid, and she worked the debt out."
"Is it possible!"
"Dear me, how noble!"
"But how did she get acquainted with Mr. Mellen?" cried a third voice; "make haste, or they will be upon us before we know a word about it."
"His sister, Miss Elsie Mellen, was a pupil in the school. Her love for Miss Fuller was perfect infatuation. The brother worshiped her—sweet creature, who could help it?—and so the acquaintance began in the parlor of a boarding school, and ends—Hush, hush!"
There was a slight commotion at the door, followed by the soft rustling of silks and turning of heads. Then a gentleman of noble presence, calm and self-possessed, as if he were quite unconscious of all the eyes bent upon him, came slowly up the broad aisle with the object of all this conversation leaning on his arm.
Certainly the bride gave no evidence of her low estate in that rustling white silk, which shone like crusted snow through a sheen of tulle; or in the veil of Brussels lace that fell around her like a fabric of cobwebs overrun with frostwork. You could detect intense emotion from the shiver of the clematis spray, mingled with snowy roses, in her black hair; but otherwise she seemed quiet and remarkably self-sustained.
Following close upon this noble pair, came a tall, loose-jointed young man, glowing with pride of the lovely creature on his arm; and, really, any thing more beautiful, in a material sense, could not well be imagined than that youthful bridesmaid. Like the stately girl who had passed before her, she moved in a cloud of shimmering white, with just enough of blue in the golden hair and on the bosom to match the violet of her eyes.
Once or twice Tom Fuller missed step as they were going up the aisle, when Elsie would make a pause, look ruefully at her gossamer skirts, and only seem relieved when her partner stumbled into place again. Then she followed the bride, her cheeks one glow of roses and smiles dimpling her fresh, young mouth, as if she were the Queen of May approaching her throne.
The bridal-pair knelt at the altar, and a solemn stillness fell upon that brilliant multitude as the vows which were to unite that man and woman for all time were uttered. Even Elsie looked on with shadowy sadness in her eyes; as for Tom—the noble-hearted fellow made a fool of himself of course, and was compelled to shake the tears surreptitiously from his eyes, before he dared to look up from the long survey he had been taking of his patent-leather boots.
It is almost frightful to remember how few moments it takes to bind immortal souls together in a union which may be for happiness, and, alas, may be for such misery as eternal bondage alone can give.
The feeling of awe befitting that sacred place had scarcely settled on the gay assembly, when the altar was deserted, and Grantley Mellen led his wife out of the church. Agitation had brought a faint glow of color to her cheek, softened the mouth into its sweetest smile, and whenever the clear gray eyes were lifted, one could see the timid, shrinking happiness, which made their depths so misty and dark.
Grantley Mellen was a proud, somewhat stern man, and at the church-door he betrayed, in spite of himself, some annoyance at theeclatwhich Mrs. Harrington had given to the affair, in spite of his express wishes. But whenever he looked at the lovely girl at his side, or felt the clinging touch of her hand upon his arm, his face cleared and softened into an expression of such tenderness as changed its entire character.
Elsie followed close, dexterously keeping her dress from under Tom's feet; indeed, she looked so lovely and fairy-like, that it made the awkwardness and embarrassment of her great, honest-hearted companion more apparent.
Tom Fuller knew that he appeared dreadfully out of place playing a part at this imposing ceremony, but he had never in all his life refused a request that Elizabeth made, and during the last three months, the mischievous sprite by his side had kept his blundering head in a state of such constant bewilderment, and so stirred every chord in his great, manly heart, that he would not have minded in the least stumbling over red hot ploughshares for the pleasure of walking with her even the length of a church aisle.
The group had reached the porch and lingered there a moment, waiting for the carriages to draw up. The shadows were all gone from Grantley Mellen's face now; he bent his head and whispered a few words, that made Elizabeth's cheek glow into new beauty. Suddenly her glance wandered towards the crowd on her left—a sudden pallor swept the roses from her cheek—her hand closed convulsively on Mellen's arm; but in an instant, before even he had noticed her agitation, it had passed—she walked on to the carriage graceful and queen-like as ever.
Standing among the throng at which she had cast that one glance, stood the man who had rescued her from danger only a few days before. He was gazing eagerly into the faces of the newly made husband and wife, with an expression upon his features which it was not easy to understand. But after that quick look, Elizabeth never again turned her head, and the stranger shrank back among the crowd and disappeared.
The guests were gathered about the sumptuous table which Mrs. Harrington had prepared, and the fair widow herself, in a dress which would have been youthful even for Elsie, was in a state of flutter and excitement which baffles description.
She was gay and coquettish as a girl of sixteen; but there was enough of real kindliness in her character to make those who knew her forgive these girlish affectations and the little delusion under which she labored—that certain specially-favored people, like herself, never did get beyond eighteen, being so sensitive and fresh of soul, that age never reached them.
I doubt if there ever was a wedding reception that did not prove a somewhat dull affair, and though this was as nearly an exception as possible, Mellen seized the first opportunity to whisper Elizabeth that it was time to prepare for their departure.
"And so I shan't see you for a whole week," said Tom Fuller, ruefully, as he accompanied Elsie out of the room, when she followed Elizabeth up stairs to change her dress. "What shall I do with myself all that time?"
"A whole week!" repeated she, laughing merrily; "it's quite dreadful to contemplate—I only hope you won't die, and put poor Bessie into mourning before the honeymoon is over."
"Oh, you are laughing at me," said Tom, heaving a sigh that was a perfect blast of grief.
"How can you fancy that?" cried Elsie; "I thought I was showing great sympathy."
"You always do laugh at me," urged Tom, "and it's downright cruel! I know I am awkward, and always do the wrong thing at the wrong moment, but you needn't be so hard on a fellow."
"There, there!" said Elsie, patting his arm as she might have smoothed a great Newfoundland dog; "don't quarrel with me now! Next week you are coming down to Piney Cove, and you shall see how nicely I will entertain you."
"Shall you be glad to see me—really glad?" pleaded Tom, red to the very temples.
"Oh, of course," cried Elsie, laughing; "you are a sort of cousin now—it will be my duty, you know."
Elsie danced away, leaving him to pull his white glove in a perplexed sort of way, by no means certain that he was satisfied with being considered a relation, and treated in this cavalier manner.
Mrs. Harrington had run up stairs for an instant, and stopped Mellen and his bride on the landing for a few last words.
"I hope you are satisfied, Grantley," she said; "I have done my best; I do hope you are pleased."
"My dear friend, everything has been perfect," he answered.
"I can't thank you for all your kindness to me," Elizabeth said, holding out her hand; "but believe me, I feel it deeply."
"My dear, don't speak of it! Grantley and Elsie are like relatives to me," cried Mrs. Harrington, "and I love you so much already! You looked lovely—what a mercy we came off so well from our fright—"
"There is no time for pretty speeches," broke in Elsie, giving her a warning glance, and pulling Elizabeth towards their dressing-room; "go back to your guests, Mary Harrington; what will they do without you. Besides, you must cover our retreat. We don't want to be stared at when we go out."
But Mellen stood still after they had entered the chamber, and detained Mrs. Harrington.
"What fright?" he demanded; "what did you mean?"
She was too thoroughly confused to remember her promise.
"Oh, nothing, nothing!" she said; "I have sold the horses, so it doesn't make any difference."
"What do you mean?" he asked. "Have you had an accident?"
"No, no; the gentleman saved us—such a splendid creature! But it was so odd. The moment Elizabeth looked in his face she fainted dead away—courageous as a lion till then—just like a novel, you know. But she said she never saw him before; it was really quite interesting."
Grantley Mellen turned suddenly pale; doubt and suspicion had been his familiar demons for years, and it never required more than a word or look to call them up.
He controlled himself sufficiently to speak with calmness, and Mrs. Harrington was not observant; but he did not permit her to return to her guests until he had heard the whole story.
"Don't mention it," she entreated; "I promised Elizabeth not to tell; she thought you would be frightened, and perhaps displeased."
Mrs. Harrington hurried down stairs, and Mellen passed on to the chamber which had been appropriated for his use. But his face had not recovered its serenity, and Master Dolf, who presided over his toilet, did not at all approve of such gravity on a man's wedding-day—having drank quite champagne enough in the kitchen to feel in as exuberant spirits as was desirable, himself.
The leave-takings were over; Tom Fuller had given his last tempestuous sigh as Mellen drove off with his sister and his bride towards the home where they were to begin their new life.
The journey was not a tedious one; the swift train bore them for a couple of hours along one of the Long Island railroads, to a way station, where a carriage waited to carry them to the quiet old house in which they were to spend the honeymoon.
There was to be no journey, both Mellen and Elizabeth wished to go quietly to the beautiful spot which was to be their future home, and spend the first weeks of their happiness in complete seclusion.
The drive was a charming one, and the brightness of the Spring day would have chased even a deeper gloom from Mellen's mind than the shadow which Mrs. Harrington's careless words had brought over it.
From the eminence along which the road wound, they caught occasional glimpses of the silvery beach and the long sparkling line of ocean beyond; then a sudden descent would shut them out, and they drove through beautiful groves with pleasant homesteads peeping through the trees, and distant villages nestled like flocks of birds in the golden distance.
The apple-trees were in blossom, and the breeze was laden with their delicious fragrance; the grass in the pastures wore its freshest green, the young grain was sprouting in the fields, troops of robins and thrushes darted about, filling the air with melody, and over all the blue sky looked down, flecked with its white, fleecy clouds. The sunlight played warm and beautiful over this lovely scene, and through the early loveliness of the season, the married pair drove on towards their new life.
At a sudden curve in the road, they came out full upon the ocean, and Elizabeth, unacquainted with the scene, uttered an exclamation of wonder at its dazzling loveliness.
Below them stretched a crescent-shaped bay, with a line of woodland running far out into the sea; away to the right, at the extremity of the bay, a little village peeped out; its picturesque dwellings were dotted here and there, giving a home look to the whole scene. At the end of the shady avenue into which they had turned, the tall roofs and stately towers of the Piney Cove mansion were visible through the trees.
"The dear old house!" cried Elsie, clapping her hands. "The dear old house!"
Grantley Mellen was watching his wife, and a pleased smile lighted his face when he saw how thoroughly she appreciated the beauty of the place. He did not speak, but clasped her hand gently in his, and held it, while Elsie uttered her wild exclamations of delight. They drove up to the entrance of the house.
"Welcome home!" exclaimed Mellen, and his face glowed with tenderness as he lifted his wife from the carriage and conducted her up the steps, Elsie following, and the servants pressing forward with their congratulations, headed by Clorinda: and for the first few moments, Elizabeth was conscious of nothing but a pleasant confusion.
From the hall where they stood, she could look out upon the ocean which rolled and sparkled under the sunshine. She could even hear the waves lapsing up to the grounds which sloped down to the water's edge in a closely shaven lawn, broken by stately old trees and blossoming flower-beds. The view so charmed her with its loveliness, that at first she hardly heeded the magnificence of the different apartments through which they led her.
There were quaint, shadowy old rooms, full of odd nooks and corners, and heavy with antique furniture, where one could idle away a morning so pleasantly; and in the modern portion of the dwelling, a long suite of drawing-rooms, with a library beyond, which had been fitted up with every luxury that wealth and refined taste could devise.
"Be happy," Grantley Mellen whispered, when his wife tried to find words to express her delight. "Be happy—peace, rest and affection is all I ask."
He looked in her face, eager for the smiling surprise which he had expected to find there. It was sadly grave. She too had her after thought.
Elsie took Elizabeth up the broad flight of steps which led from the hall, and conducted her to the suite of rooms that had been prepared for her reception. "I had them arranged close to my little nest," she said, "because I knew Grantley would never be content unless I was within call. I hope you will like them, Elizabeth?"
Elizabeth answered that they were beautiful, as indeed they were. But it was a grand, lonely splendor that she looked upon, which almost chilled her. The chamber was large and richly furnished. Every thing was massive and costly. The carpet soft as a flower-bed and as brilliant in tints. Wherever she turned, her eyes fell on exquisite carvings reflected by limpid mirrors; curtains of richly tinted satin shut out a perfect view of the ocean, and Elizabeth could not help remarking that the principal windows faced northward, away from the bloom and glory of the grounds. Even her dressing-room, which was in one of the octagon towers, looked out on the only barren spot in view—a storm-beaten grove of cedars that stood, ragged and bristling with dead limbs, on the beach.
Spite of herself, Elizabeth was chilled. She loved the morning sunshine like a worshiper, and felt as if all the grandeur which surrounded her was shutting it out from her own portion of this new home.
"Did Mr. Mellen arrange these rooms?" she asked in a faltering voice. "Was it his taste?"
"Dear me, not at all," answered Elsie. "He exhausted himself in fitting up my snuggery. The rest was left to me. I hadcarte blanche, you know, as to money; and it was splendid fun going about and ordering things. Don't you remember how much I used to be away from school?"
Elizabeth smiled, and made an effort to appear thankful and pleased.
"See what close neighbors we are," said Elsie, lifting a curtain that seemed to drape a window, but revealing a door which she pushed open.
Elizabeth stepped forward, and in contrast with the rich gloom of her own chamber, saw a suite of the brightest, sunniest rooms, that ever a capricious beauty inhabited.
The dressing-room which she entered, was hung with bright, cerulean blue, overrun with what seemed to be a delicate pattern of point-lace. The carpet was thick, soft, and almost as white as ermine, with a tangled vine of golden water-lilies and broad, green leaves running over it, as if the water they grew in had been crusted with snow, and the blossoms, soft, fresh, and bright, frozen upon the surface. The couch, easy-chair, and general furniture, were of polished satin-wood, cushioned with delicate azure silk shot and starred with silver. A luxurious number of silken cushions lay upon the couch, chairs, and even on the floor; for two or three were heaped against the pedestal, on which a basket of flowers stood, and upon them lay a guitar, with its broad, pink ribbon hanging loose. Every table was loaded with some exquisitely feminine object of use or beauty, till the very profusion was oppressive, light and graceful as every thing was.
Two of the windows were open, and their lace curtains held back, one by a marble Hebe that mingled her cold stone flowers with the lace; the other by a Bacchante, whose garland of snow-white grapes was seen dimly, through the transparent folds it gathered away from the glass.
Through these open windows came glimpses of the flower-garden, green slopes on the lawn, and farther off the wind swept up perfumes from a distant orchard, and sifted it almost imperceptibly through the delicate network of the curtains. Back of this boudoir was a bed-chamber, and beyond that a dressing-room. Elizabeth could see through the open door a bed with hangings of blue and white, with all the objects of luxury which could please the taste of a pampered and fanciful girl.
"Grantley chose these rooms for me long ago, before he went to Europe," said Elsie, looking around with quiet complacency. "He would not hear of my giving them up; besides, I knew you would like something a little darker and more stately," she said. "Are you pleased with the house, Bessie?"
"Very, very much. I did not expect any thing so magnificent," she answered. "It overpowers me."
"I had not seen it for years," said Elsie, "till I came down with Grant to decide about the new furniture. Now you must be happy here. You ought to be! Just contrast this place with that old barn of a school; it makes one shudder to think of it! You must be happy, Bessie, for I hate discontented people."
"I trust so, dear; I believe so; we shall all be happy."
"Oh, you can't help it," pursued Elsie; "Grant is always a darling! But you must love and pet me, you know, just as he does."
"You exacting little thing!" said Elizabeth, lightly.
"Yes, but you must," she urged; "you never would have had all this but for me."
"No," murmured Elizabeth; "I should never have known Grantley but for you."
"I told him that day, you know, just what I had set my heart on," pursued Elsie, shaking her curls about, and chattering in her careless, graceful way. "I said I loved you like a sister, and I should die if I was separated from you. That settled it."
Elizabeth had seated herself in a low chair, with her back towards the window; she looked up quickly as Elsie paused.
"Settled it?" she repeated.
"Yes, exactly!"
Elsie flung herself on the carpet at her sister's feet, and caught one of her hands, playing with the wedding ring so lately put on that delicate finger, in her caressing fashion.
"How do you mean?" asked Elizabeth, quietly, though there was a sudden change in her face which might have struck Elsie could she have seen it. "Settled it; how do you mean?"
"Why he never had refused me anything in all his life," said Elsie; "it was not likely he would begin so late! Nobody ever does refuse me anything; now, remember that, Bess."
"Yes, dear! So you told Grantley you were very fond of me—"
"And that I wanted him to marry you—of course I did."
It was only Elsie's childish nonsense; Elizabeth felt how foolish it was to heed it, and yet she could not repress a desire to question further.
"That was long after he came home, Elsie?"
"Yes; but I had written him all sorts of things about you; and you remember when he came to the school to visit me, how I made you go down without telling you who was there."
"Yes—I remember."
"He praised you very highly, and I told him what a dear you were; and how sad it was for you to have lost all your fortune and be obliged to teach."
The color slightly deepened on Elizabeth's cheek; was it possible that in the beginning Grantley Mellen had been interested in her from a feeling of pity and commiseration?
Her engagement had been a brief one; during it, the days had passed in a constant whirl of excitement and happiness, and she had found little time to question or reflect: up to the last hour there had been no shadow on her enjoyment—she had resolutely swept aside everything but her deep happiness.
But it was strange that in the very first flush of her married life this conversation with Elsie should come up. She knew it was only the girl's heedlessness and pretty egotism that made her talk in this really cruel fashion, she was sure of that; still her nature was too proud and self-reliant, for the idea that Mellen had been first attracted towards her from sympathy at her lonely condition, to be at all pleasant.
But Elsie was going on with her careless revelations, playing with the rings which Mellen had put one after another on those delicate fingers during their engagement, making each one precious with kisses and loving words.
"So, when I saw how sorry he was for you, I knew that I should have my own way. I longed to see this dear old house open once more; it had been given up to the servants ever since he hurried off to Europe; and I wanted you for my companion always, you darling."
"It was fortunate for your wishes that Grantley's heart inclined in the direction you had marked out," said Elizabeth.
"Oh," exclaimed Elsie with hasty recklessness, and her usual want of thought, "Grant had no heart to give anybody; all his love was centred on me; after the experience he had years ago, I don't suppose he could ever love any woman again—he is just that odd sort of character."
Elizabeth gave no sign of the blow which struck her this time cruelly on the heart; she drew her hand away from Elsie, lest its sudden coldness should rouse some suspicion of the truth in the girl's mind, and asked in a singularly quiet voice—
"What experience, Elsie?"
"Oh, I didn't mean to say that," she replied; "I am always letting things out by mistake; Grant would be really angry with me; don't ever mention it to him."
"I will not; but what experience has he had that can prevent a husband's giving his heart even to his own wife?"
"Dear me, I oughtn't to tell you; but you'd surely find it out sometime; only promise me not to open your lips."
"I promise," replied Elizabeth, a cold, gray shadow settling over her face, out of which all the bloom had faded.
"He had a friend, a cousin you know, that our rich old uncle had partly adopted, whom he was very, very fond of," pursued Elsie, "and he was engaged to be married into the bargain. This man treated him dreadfully—ran off with the girl Grant loved, and cheated him out of a great deal of money—money that he could not afford to lose, for he was not rich then. Grant was nearly mad. I was a little thing, but I remember it perfectly. When his uncle died he sent me to school, and started to Europe; he has been there all these four long years; but his cousin was punished; his uncle gave everything to Grant."
And of all this grief, this disappointment, he had never told her one word. Elsie spoke the truth—he had married her that his sister might have a companion, and his house a mistress.
A prouder woman than Elizabeth Mellen never existed; but she sat motionless and gave no sign, while her brief dream of happiness fell crushed and broken at her feet under this revelation.
"There," cried Elsie, "that's all, so don't ever think about the thing again. What a fortunate creature you are! how happy we shall be, shan't we, dear?"
She attempted to throw her arms about Elizabeth in her demonstrative way, but the woman rose quickly, and avoided the caresses which would have stifled her.
"It is time to dress," she said; "I am going to my room."
She passed into her chamber with that dreary chill at heart, which, it seemed to her, would never leave it again! How could she endure that fearful pang of humiliation and self-abasement that wrung her soul, and would grow stronger with every proof of kindness that her husband could give?
No love—no heart to give her under all his goodness and attention. She kept repeating such words to herself—they would never cease to ring in her ears—there could be no pleasure so entrancing that they would not mar it by their whispers—no grief so deep that they would not torture her with the recollection that she was powerless to comfort or aid the man who had made her his wife.
But she must bear it all in silence; hers was one of those deep, reticent natures which could resolve on a painful thing and carry out her determination to the very end. She would weary him with no sign of affection.
The playful exactions of a young wife, which are so pleasant to a loving husband, must be carefully avoided. He must be allowed to endure her without revolt—not finding her much in his way.
That was the first thought upon which she settled, even while this earliest whirl of pain and tremble made her head dizzy and her heart sick.
She heard Elsie's voice ringing out in a gay song: she went mechanically on with her dressing, listening to that merry song in the midst of her bewildering thoughts with a dreary feeling of desolation.
If she could have sat down in the midst of her new life, and died without further trouble or pain—that became her one thought! If that man who was her husband, and his sister could enter the room and find her dead, they might feel regret for a time, but very soon even her memory would pass away from that old house, and out of their hearts, where she had so shallow a resting-place, and in the grave she might find quiet.
Elsie came dancing in, and exclaimed—
"Oh, you are dressed! I hear Grant on the stairs. May I open the door?"
Elizabeth was seemingly quiet, but the change in her manner would have been apparent to any one less self-engrossed than Elsie.
"Open it," she answered; "I am ready."
Grantley Mellen entered the room, and led them both away down stairs; but he felt the sudden tremor in his young wife's hand, the sort of shrinking from his side, and his suspicious mind caught fire instantly. He noted every change in her face, every sad inflexion in her voice, and at once there came back to him the conversation he had held with Mrs. Harrington.
Could Elizabeth have known this man? Was there a secret in her past of which he was ignorant? The bare idea made his head reel; though he might banish it from his mind for a season, the slightest recurrence would bring it back to torture him with inexplicable fear and dread.
So their new life began with this shadow upon it—a shadow imperceptible to all lookers on, but lying cold and dim on their hearts nevertheless, slowly to gather substance day by day till it should become a chill, heavy mist, through which their two souls could not distinguish each other.
Grantley Mellen was still a young man, only thirty-three, though the natural gravity of his character, increased by certain events in his life, made him appear somewhat older.
His father had died many years before, and as Elsie had told his bride, an uncle had left him in the possession of a fine property, which had increased in value, till he was now a very wealthy man.
His mother died when Elsie was a girl of about fourteen, and on her death-bed Grantley Mellen had promised to act the part of parent as well as brother to the young girl. He had never once wavered in his trust, and the love and tenderness he felt for her were beautiful and touching to witness.
He was never suspicious, never severe with her, though these were the worst failings of his character. Elsie was to be treated as a child; be petted, and indulged, and allowed to live in the sunshine, whatever else might befall himself or others.
Although her health was good, she had always been rather delicate in appearance, and that made him more careful of her. He was haunted with the fear that she was to fade under their family scourge, consumption, though in reality she was one of those frail looking creatures who are all nerves—nerves, too, elastic as tempered steel; and who always outlive the people who have watched them so carefully.
It was true Grantley Mellen had met with a humiliating disappointment in his early youth, which had embittered all his after years, and increased the natural jealousy of a reticent disposition almost to a monomania. These were the facts of his history:
He had a college friend of his own age, a cousin twice removed, whom from boyhood he had loved with all the strength and passion which made the undercurrent of his grave, reserved character. He had helped this young man in every way—befriended him in college, been to him what few brothers ever are.
The time came when Mellen found the realization of those dreams which fill every youthful soul: he loved, with all the fire and intensity of a first passion. His cousin was made the confidant of this love; he shared Mellen's every thought, and seemed heartily to sympathize with his feelings.
It is an old story, so I need not dwell upon it. Both friend and betrothed wife proved false. There came a day when Grantley Mellen found himself alone with a terrible misery, with no faith left, no trust in humanity to give a ray of light in the darkness of his betrayal.
The friend whom he had trusted eloped with his affianced bride, and cheated him out of a large sum of money. With that sudden treachery and bitter grief, Mellen's youth ended.
He left Elsie at school and went away to Europe, wandering about for years, and growing more saddened and misanthropic all the while.
He returned at last. Elsie was eighteen then. She had a school-friend, to whom she had been greatly attached; a girl older than herself, and so different in every respect, that it was a wonder Elsie's volatile character had been attracted to her, or that her liking had been reciprocated.
This was the state of events when Mellen returned from Europe. Elsie's account of her friend interested him in the unfortunate girl. When he made her acquaintance that sympathy deepened into a feeling which he had never thought to have for any woman again,—he loved her, and she was now his wife.
It was a restless, craving affection, which threatened great trouble both to himself and its object. He had no cause for jealousy, but his suspicious mind was always on the alert—he was jealous even of her friends, her favorite studies—he wanted every look and thought his own, yet he was too proud to betray these feelings.
Elizabeth's character was not one easy to understand, nor shall I enter into its details here. The progress of my story must show her as she really was, and leave you to judge for yourself concerning it, and the effect it had upon her life.
She was singularly reticent and reserved, but impetuous and warm-hearted beyond any thing that the man who loved her dreamed of. He saw her gay, brilliant, fond of society, yet apparently content with the quiet life he was determined to lead. Still there was something wanting. He felt in the depths of his heart that he was not master of her whole being. That sometimes his very kisses seemed frozen on her lips, and she turned from his protestations of love with sad smiles, that seemed mocking him. And she, alas, the woman who believes herself unloved by her husband, is always in danger—always unhappy.
The first weeks of this strange honeymoon had passed, and Tom Fuller was able to gratify the chief desire of his honest soul, and rush down to the island to bewilder himself more hopelessly in the spell of Elsie's fascinations, like a great foolish moth whirling about a dazzling light.
She had never scrupled to laugh at him and his devotion, even to Elizabeth herself; but just now she was not sorry to see him. The stillness of the house and the seclusion of those slow love weeks, was not at all in unison with her taste, and she was already regretting that Mellen had not allowed her to accept Mrs. Harrington's invitation to remain with her during the first period of that dreary honeymoon.
Mellen and Elsie were standing on the porch when Fuller drove up to the house, and dashed in upon them with such an outpouring of confusion and delight that it might have softened the most obdurate heart.
"I couldn't stop away another day," he cried, wringing Mellen's hand till it ached for half an hour after.
"We are very glad to see you," replied Mellen; "very glad."
"I am much obliged, I'm sure," exclaimed Tom, "and you're just a trump, that's the truth."
"I suppose that's the reason you keep him so carefully in your hand," interposed Elsie, laughing.
Tom was instantly covered with confusion, and let Mellen's hand drop. He knew there was a joke somewhere, but for the life of him he could not see where it come in.
"You are beginning to laugh at me before you have even said 'How do you do?'" cried he, ruefully.
"And am I not to laugh at you, if I please?" exclaimed Elsie. "Shake hands, you cross-grained old thing, and don't begin to quarrel the moment we meet."
Tom blushed like a girl while he bent over the little hand she laid in his, holding it carefully, and looking down on it with a sort of delighted wonder, as if it had been some rare rose-tinted shell that his fingers might break at the slightest touch.
But Mellen was not looking at them; he stood there wondering if this man could have been of any consequence in Elizabeth's past. Could she have loved him, and been prevented from marrying him in some way? No, it was impossible; he felt, he knew that it was so; but the idea would come into his mind nevertheless.
"When you have done examining my hand, Mr. Tom Fuller, please give it back," said Elsie. "It don't amount to much, but, as the Scotchwoman observed of her clergyman's head, 'it's some good to the owner.'"
Tom dropped the little hand as if the pink fingers had burned his palm.
"I'm always the awkwardest fellow alive!" cried he, dismally. "And how is Bessie, dear girl?"
Mellen roused himself.
"I will call her," he said; "she is quite well, and will be delighted to see you."
He went into the house in search of his wife, and Elsie began to tease her unfortunate victim, a pastime of which she never wearied. It seemed to her the funniest thing in the world to make that great creature blush and stammer, to lead him on to the perpetration of absurd things, to laugh at him, to bewilder his honest head; for any pain he might suffer, she considered it no more than she did the sorrows of a Fejee Islander, or the chirp of her canary.
"Have you come down here prepared to be agreeable?" she asked. "Remember, I expect you to devote yourself completely to my service—to wait on me like the most devoted of knights."
"I'd stand on my head if you asked it," answered Tom, impetuously.
"How deliciously odd you would look!" cried Elsie; "you shall try it some day; I only hope it won't leave you with a brain fever, but then it couldn't, Tom,—where is the capital for such a disease to come from?"
"You may tease me as much as you like," said Tom, "if you'll only say you are glad to see me."
"Oh, you will be invaluable," replied Elsie; "I was getting bored with watching other people's love-making. Can you row a boat and teach me to play billiards, and be generally nice and useful?"
"Just try me, that's all!" said Tom.
"Don't be afraid. I shall put you to every possible use; you may be quite certain that your position will not be a sinecure."
"Then you'll make me the happiest fellow alive!"
"You don't know what you are saying; you don't know what your words mean," cried Elsie, with one of her bewildering glances.
"Indeed I do! Oh, Miss Elsie, if you only could—"
Elsie interrupted him, as her sister came out on the portico, followed by Mellen. "There is Bessie!"
Elizabeth was rejoiced to see honest Tom; he was the only relative she possessed, and she loved him like a sister. She was thoroughly acquainted with his character, and honored him for the sterling goodness concealed by eccentricities of manner which made him so open to laughter and misconception.
"I'm so glad to see you!" cried Tom, shaking hands all round again, and growing redder and redder, to Elsie's intense delight. "I've been like a fish out of water since you all came away; I just begin to feel like myself again. Bessie, old girl, are you glad to see me?"
"We shall always be glad to see you, Tom," Elizabeth said, glancing at her husband.
"Indeed we shall," he said; "you will always find a room at your service, and a sincere welcome."
No, Elizabeth never could have cared for him—the idea was simply absurd—he would never think of it again, never!
"I can't tell you how much obliged I am," said Tom, twisting about as if his joints were out of order, and he was trying to set them straight.
"Your chamber is ready," said Elizabeth; "we expected you to-day."
"He doesn't need to go up now," interposed Elsie; "that checked coat is bewitching, and he is going to take me out to row. Come along, Don Quixote—come this instant!"
Elsie ran off, and he followed, obedient as a great Newfoundland dog.
Elizabeth looked after them a little sadly, and smothered a sigh of anxiety. She saw what Elsie was so heedlessly doing, and knew Tom well enough to understand how acute his sufferings would be once roused from his entrancing dream.
So things went on during the whole time of his stay, and there was no help for it. Elsie made him a perfect slave, and Tom no more thought of disputing her wildest caprice, than if he had been some untutored fawn, made captive to the spells of a Dryad.
Elsie saw plainly enough that he loved her, but she regarded that part of the affair very lightly. She was accustomed to being loved and petted—it was her right. The idea that it could be cruel or unprincipled to encourage this young fellow as she did, never entered her mind. Indeed, if the misery she was bringing upon him had been pointed out to her, she would only have laughed at it as a capital jest, a source of infinite amusement.
When Tom Fuller went back to town, Elsie was taken with a strong desire to visit dear Mrs. Harrington. Tom was a sort of cousin, now, and would make a capital escort. Besides, she was sure Grantley and Elizabeth would be much happier alone. Perhaps Mellen thought so too. At any rate, he made no objections, and Elsie went.
The husband and wife were alone. The days were so pleasant—those long, golden, June days!—they might have been so happy in the solitude of that beautiful spot, but for the chasm which lay between the souls of these married people, scarcely perceptible as yet, but widening every hour!
Elizabeth watched her husband incessantly. She tortured every evidence of affection into a forced kindness, an attempt to hide his want of love; he was trying to make all the atonement in his power, to give her everything that could make life pleasant, except the place in his heart which was her right. How her soul revolted against the thought!
She was mortally hurt and grieved that he could have deceived her. If he had only spoken the truth, only left her to decide whether she could be content to accept an outer place in his regard, to make his home happy, to guard and cherish his sister—if he had only left this decision in her hands, the matter would have worn a different aspect.
But that he should have been silent—that even now he should guard his secret, practising this daily deception, and meaning to let it lie between them all through life—was a never-ceasing thorn in her heart.
Mellen, in turn, was watching her; watching her with that morbid suspicion which made the groundwork of his character. Observant of the change in her manner, and trying always to account for it, but only making himself restless and anxious to no purpose.
He had loved her, he did love her, and the only reason she was, as he supposed, ignorant of the humiliating story of his past, was because he had put it resolutely out of his mind; and it hurt his pride too much to go over the detail of the deceit and treachery from which he had suffered, even in his own thoughts.
Elsie's absence was prolonged to a fortnight, and when she returned, Mrs. Harrington and Tom Fuller came back with her.
The girl was in more joyous spirits than ever; more bewitching and beautiful, if possible; and Elizabeth could see plainly that Mellen's love for her fell little short of absolute idolatry.
She was not jealous. If Elsie had been her own sister, she could not have become more attached to her than she had grown during their year of companionship. But it was very hard to see of what love her husband was capable, and to remember that no part of it could be won for her; that between her soul and his, rose the image of that false woman, whose treachery had steeled his heart against such love as she thirsted for.
Tom Fuller was a more hopeless lunatic than ever; but Elsie had begun to grow impatient of his devotion. She often treated him cruelly now. The poor fellow bore it all with patience, and still clung to his beautiful dream, unable to realize that it was a baseless delusion, which must pass away with the summer that had warmed it to its prime.
The weeks passed on with all-seeming pleasantness, and in many respects they were pleasant to both husband and wife, though the secret thoughts in the minds of both, kept them aloof from the perfect rest and happiness to which they had looked forward during that brief courtship.
But a sudden change and a great break were nearing their lives, and unexpectedly enough they came.
Mellen owned a large mining property in California, an immense fortune in itself, and ever since his return from Europe, he had been much occupied with a lawsuit that had sprung up concerning the title. He had sent out his man of business, but the case did not go on satisfactorily, and letters came which made his presence there appear absolutely imperative.
He could not take his wife and sister; the discomforts to which they would be exposed, the dreadful fears where Elsie was concerned, from her apparent delicacy, entirely prevented that idea.
He informed them that he might be obliged to go; he had written other letters by the steamer; the answer he might receive would decide.
Elizabeth pleaded to go with him, but Elsie frankly owned that she could not even think of a sea voyage without deathly horror. Mellen pointed out to his wife the necessity there was that she should remain with Elsie, and she submitted in silence.
"He married me to take care of her," she thought; "I will do my duty—I will stay. Perhaps this absence will change him: but no, I am mad to hope it. Elsie says he never changes. That woman's memory must always lie between his heart and mine." So she turned to her dull weary path of duty, and gave no sign.