October comes, and scarcely four months after his marriage, Mellen was compelled to leave his wife and home, it might be for a year. Elizabeth grew white and cold when this certainty was forced upon her, yet she made no protestation, and uttered nothing like regret or complaint. Grantley was chilled through and through the heart by this. He had been so lonely, had longed for the warmth and happiness of love with such intense yearnings, that her calm stillness wounded him terribly. Was she of marble? Would nothing kindle affection in that proud heart? Had he married a beautiful statue?
No wonder Elizabeth was proudly cold. She did not believe in the necessity of this journey. His indifference had grown into dislike, she thought, and, yielding to inevitable repulsion, he was going away to avoid her.
But Elsie was loud in her expressions of grief. She had floods of tears to give—protestations and caresses without end. Her sweet voice was constantly reproaching Elizabeth for want of feeling. She was forever hovering about her brother in atonement, as she said, for his wife's coldness. But the roses on her cheek were always fresh, and her blue eyes never lost a gleam of their brightness, while Elizabeth grew thin and white beneath the withering ache of a famished heart.
"Oh, the desert of these months! Oh, my God, my God, I shall perish without him! Alone here—all alone with this child—what will become of me! How shall I endure, how resist this wild clamor of the heart?"
Elizabeth had flung herself upon the couch in her own room, her face was buried in the purple cushion, and she strove to smother the words, which sprang out of a terrible pain which had no business in that young heart. As she lay, convulsed and sobbing, on the couch, the door opened, and her husband came into the room. The thick carpet smothered his footsteps, and he stood by the couch before she knew it—stood there a moment, then fell upon his knees, and softly wound his arm around her.
"Elizabeth, my wife."
She started up with a cry; her face was wet with tears; her large grey eyes wild with sorrow. He lifted her to his bosom, put back the thick waves of hair that had fallen over her face, and kissed her forehead and her lips with gentle violence.
The pride went out from her heart as she felt these passionate kisses rained on her face. She clung to him, trembling from the new joy that possessed her.
"Is it for me that you are weeping, sweet wife? are you sorry to part with me?"
"Oh, yes, yes! you are my life, my salvation."
"Ah, how hard you make it for me to go!"
"And you must? you must?"
"It is inevitable; my duty to others demands it; but it shall not be for long."
The door of Elsie's boudoir was opened, the curtains held back, and the smiling young creature looked in. Elizabeth saw her, struggled out of her husband's arms, and sat with the wet eyelashes sweeping her cheek, which was hot with blushes.
"Oh, ho! one too many, am I?" she cried, entering without ceremony. "Why, sister Bessie, I haven't seen you blush so since that day when Mrs. Harrington would insist on it that you recognised a certain person."
Elizabeth was so confused by the sudden rush of joy sweeping through her whole being, that she did not remark this speech; but her husband did, and withdrew his arm gently from her support. She looked up, and saw that he was changed within the minute.
"I'm glad to find you looking so amiable," said Elsie, going up to the glass, and threading her curls out into fluffy and beautiful confusion; "for I've thought of something that would make this place delightful, just as you are going away, Grant. Besides," she added, looking down and coloring a little, "people will get such ideas into their heads, and say such things. It is quite necessary to let them see how very happy you and Bessie are together, or they never will believe that you are not running away from her."
"What!" demanded Mellen almost sternly,—"What are you saying, Elsie?"
"Oh, it's dreadful; I've been crying about it half the night; but a splendid ball, or something of that sort, will put everything on velvet. Nothing like champagne and theet ceterasto stop people's mouths."
"A ball! Why, Elsie, what is your mind running on?"
"The idea is dreadful, I know; and just as you are leaving us, when every moment is precious as a grain of gold. But it's really necessary. If you go off without seeing people, Grant, they will be sure to say that you and Bessie have quarreled, and all sorts of horrid things about her being melancholy, and you—well it's no use repeating these speeches, but the ball we must have. Bessie shall entertain them like a princess; as for poor little me, I'm good for nothing but dancing."
She gave a waltzing step or two, and whirled herself before the mirror again.
"Well, who shall we invite?" she said, gazing at the pretty image that smiled back her admiration. "I made out a list this morning in my room; shall I bring it?"
She ran into her room and came out again with a handful of engraved cards, some of them already filled in.
"I knew, of course, that the ball was to be, so had the cards struck off. Tom Fuller brought them down. Just add what names you please, Bessie, and we will leave the rest to Mrs. Harrington."
"Why, Elsie!" began Mrs. Mellen.
"Well, what is it?"
"How can you think of—"
"Oh, it's settled, so don't discuss it. What! looking cross? Why, Grant dear, I—I—did not think you would be offended."
"But I am, Elsie."
She dropped into a chair, pressed both hands to her side, and shrunk away into a grieved, feeble little thing, that had been crushed by a single blow.
"Why, Elsie!"
Her eyes filled with tears, and she covered them with both hands.
"I am not angry, child, only surprised."
"But you will be—you will be very angry when I tell you that some of the invitations are sent out. Oh, I wish I were dead!"
Her lips quivered like those of a grieved and half-frightened child. Her cheeks were wet, and their color had left them.
"Oh, Grantley, Grantley, don't—don't look at me in that way. Dear Bessie, tell him how sorry I am."
Mellen was walking the floor in considerable agitation. He had hoped for a little peace in his own home—a few days of tranquil confidence with his wife. Now everything was broken in upon. There would be nothing but confusion up to the very hour of his starting.
Elsie watched him furtively, and with sidelong glances. She knew how terrible his anger was when once aroused.
"Oh, if my poor mother had lived."
"Peace, Elsie! I will not have that sacred name dragged into an affair like this. Have your way, but remember it is the last time that you must venture on the prerogatives of my wife."
Elsie left the room really frightened, and sobbing piteously, but the moment she found herself in her boudoir a smile broke through her tears, and she laughed out.
"Well, I don't care, we shall have the ball. I wonder if Bessie put him up to that. Hateful thing, he never scolded me so before. Her prerogatives, indeed."
As for Grantley Mellen, this untoward intrusion had broken up the happy moment which might have given him an insight into all that his wife felt and suffered. The interview which had promised such gentle confidence only ended in mutual irritation.
The evening of the ball arrived; the house was crowded, and for the scores it was impossible to accommodate, Mellen had made arrangements in his usual lavish way, for a conveyance back and forth in a steamer chartered for the occasion.
The old house was a beautiful sight that evening. The long suite of drawing-rooms were flung open, and in the far distance a noble conservatory, half greenness, half crystal, terminated the view like some South Sea island flooded with moonlight.
It was not alone that these noble rooms were shaded with richly-tinted draperies, and filled with costly furniture; any wealthy man's house may offer those things; but Mellen had thrown his fine individual taste into the adornments of his home. Antique and modern statues gleamed out of the general luxuriousness. Pictures that made your breath come unsteadily broke up the walls, and groups of bronze gave you surprises at every turn. The works of art, sometimes arrayed in one long dreary gallery, were here scattered in nooks and corners, completing each room with their beauty.
And all this was kindled up into one brilliant whole. There was no crowding in those rooms. Each rare object had its peculiar light and appropriate space. A master mind had arranged every thing.
In these almost palatial saloons Elizabeth stood by her husband, receiving their guests as they came in.
Elsie was in brilliant spirits that night, and her buoyant gayety formed a singular contrast with the quiet repose of Elizabeth.
Tom Fuller followed the pretty elf about everywhere in spite of her cruel rebuffs, for he was sadly in her way that night; and when she refused to dance with him, peremptorily ordering him away to entertain dowagers, or perform any similar heavy work, he would take the post she assigned him, and watch her with fascinated eyes as she floated down the dance or practised her wiles on every man who approached, just as she had once thought it worth while to entrance him.
On that evening Tom Fuller woke to a consciousness of the truth; he understood the confusion and bewilderment which had been in his mind for weeks past; he loved this bright young creature with the whole force of his rugged nature, and began dimly to comprehend that she cared no more for him or his sufferings than if his heart had been a football or shuttlecock.
He captured Elizabeth, and there, in the midst of the lights and gayety, told her of his wrongs, with such energy that it required her constant effort to prevent him from attracting general attention.
"I love her," he burst out, "I do love her! She might run my heart through with a rusty bayonet, if she would only care for me."
The beginning was not at all coherent, but Elizabeth perfectly understood what he meant. Several times during the past weeks she had attempted to open his eyes to the truth; but he would neither see nor hear, and had insisted upon rushing on to his fate like a great blundering bluebottle into a spider's web.
"Do you think there's any hope, Bessie, do you? I ain't handsome, and I ain't disgustingly rich; but I'll give her all my heart! I'll work for her, die for her; I'd lay my own soul down for her to walk over, only to keep her little feet dry, upon my honor I would."
Elizabeth drew him into a window recess, and tried to soothe his agitation.
"Poor old Tom!" she whispered; "poor dear old Tom!"
"I know what that means," he said, choking desperately; "you don't think there is any hope. You know there is not!"
"I have tried to talk to you, Tom, but you wouldn't listen—"
"Yes, I know, I know! It's my own fault—I'll—I'll turn up jolly in a little while—it's only the f-first that's hard!"
And Tom blew and whistled in his efforts to keep his composure, in a way that was irresistibly ludicrous. In the midst of his distress the poor fellow could not help being comical. Even in the suffering which was so terribly real to him he made Elizabeth smile.
"I'm a great fool!" he exclaimed. "Just pitch in and abuse me like smoke, Bessie, I think it would do me good."
"Only wait till to-morrow," she said, "I will talk with you then—we shall be overheard now."
"Oh, I can't help it if the whole world hears," he groaned; "I can't wait! The way she's going on with those dashing young fellows drives me mad! Why couldn't I have been a dashing fellow too, instead of such a great live-oak hulk! I can't stir without stumbling over somebody, and as for saying those dainty things that they are pouring into her ears, and be hanged to 'em—I can't do it. No wonder she scorns me!"
Tom dealt his unfortunate forehead a blow that made it scarlet for several moments, and quieted him down somewhat.
"What would you advise me to do, Bessie?" he asked. "You're so sensible and so good—just give a fellow a hint."
"Dear Tom, there is nothing for it but to wait—"
"That's pretty advice!" he burst in. "You might as well tell a person in a blaze of fire to wait! No, I shan't wait—I shan't, I say!"
Tom ran his hands through his hair till it stood up, quivering as if he had received an electric shock.
"Oh, you needn't look so black at me, Bessie; I know just what a humbug I am as well as you."
"I wasn't looking black at you; I am very, very sorry, Tom."
"Don't pity me; I shall break right down if you do."
"I must go back, Tom," she said; "I can't stay here any longer."
"I know it; of course you can't. I'll just wait a minute and then——there, go! What a nuisance I am!"
Elizabeth went back into the ball-room, where she saw Elsie whirling through a waltz, looking as happy and unconscious as if she had not just crushed a warm, loving human heart under her pretty foot.
Mrs. Mellen stood a moment arrested; no one seemed to heed her.
She saw Mrs. Harrington forcing Mellen to walk through a quadrille, and felt certain that he was as restless as herself.
"But it is for Elsie," she thought; "he will not mind so long as it is for her. None of them will miss me."
Tom Fuller stood in the bay window for some time trying to collect his scattered faculties. Any thing like rational thought was quite out of the question with him; he felt as if a great humming-top were spinning about in his ears, and his heart was in a state of palpitation that utterly defies description.
Finally he passed through the drawing-rooms where people were busy over their cards or their small-talk, and entered the ball-room from which he had rushed in such frenzy.
There was a pause in the music, and Elsie was standing surrounded by a group of gentlemen, not even seeing Tom as he approached. He managed to edge himself into the circle at last, and stood watching Elsie very much like a sheep-dog that wanted dreadfully to worry something, but knew that he would get himself into difficulty if he even ventured on a bark.
But speak with her, he would; Tom had reached that point where his feelings must find vent or explode, and scatter mischief all around.
Finally a brilliant idea struck him, and he got near enough to whisper—
"Bessie wants to see you a moment."
Elsie turned away impatiently.
"Now, this moment," added Tom, growing very red at his own fib, but following it up courageously.
He knew very well that the dandies were quizzing him; he saw that Elsie was provoked; but though he trembled in every joint, and his face had heat enough in it to have kept a poor family comfortably warm from the reflection, he resolutely held out his arm, and the young lady took it, pouting and flinging back smiles to her forsaken admirers.
"My sister wants me," she said, in explanation to her friends. "Tiresome, isn't it? for there is no guessing when she will let me come back."
Tom led his captive away, but he was dreadfully frightened at the success of his own manoeuvre.
"Where is Bessie?" asked Elsie, impatiently, as they walked down the ball-room.
"This way," faltered Tom; "we shall find her in a moment."
Elsie never deigned him another word; she was very angry, as she could be with any thing or anybody that marred her selfish enjoyment, and Tom walked on towards one of the parlors which he knew was empty, feeling like a man about to charge a battery single handed, but determined to persevere nevertheless.
Tom led his captive into the parlor. Elsie looked about in surprise—there was not a soul visible.
"Are you crazy, Tom Fuller?" cried she; "Bessie is not here."
"She shall be here in a minute," stammered Tom; "just wait, please."
"Indeed I will do no such thing," returned Elsie, sharply, snatching her hand from his arm. "Did she send you for me, Tom Fuller?"
"No," cried Tom, with sudden energy, "I told a lie! I couldn't stand it any longer; I must speak with you; waiting was impossible!"
Elsie turned on him like a little kingbird darting on a hawk.
"What do you mean by this unwarrantable liberty!" she exclaimed. "Have you no idea of the common usages of society? Don't come near me again to-night; don't speak to me."
She was darting away, but Tom caught her hand.
"Oh, wait, Elsie, wait!"
"You ridiculous creature!" said Elsie, beginning to laugh in spite of her vexation. "What on earth do you want?"
"Laugh at me!" groaned Tom; "I deserve it—I expect it—but I can't live this way any longer! You are driving me crazy. I love you, Elsie! Only speak one kind word—just say you don't hate me."
He was holding out his two hands, looking so exceedingly energetic in his wretchedness, that Elsie burst into perfect shrieks of laughter.
"You silly old goose!" she said; "don't you know you mustn't talk in that way to me! You have no right, and it is very impertinent! There, go along—I forgive you."
Tom stared at her with his astonished eyes wide open.
"You can laugh at me!" he exclaimed. "Why, all these weeks you have let me go on loving you, and never hinted that it was so very disagreeable."
"Now, Tom, don't be tiresome!"
Tom groaned aloud.
"Why I never saw such conduct!" cried Elsie, impatiently. "It's too bad of you to behave so—you are spoiling my whole evening! You are just as disagreeable as you can be. Oh, I hate you!"
"Elsie! Elsie!"
"Let go my hand; suppose anybody should come in! Oh, you old goose of a Tom—let me go, I say."
"Just one minute, Elsie—"
"To-morrow—any time! Don't you know civilized beings never behave in this way at a ball."
"I don't know—I can't think! I only feel I love you, Elsie, and must speak out. I will speak out."
A few weeks earlier Elsie would only have been amused at all this from general lack of amusement, but now it vexed and irritated her. Girl-like she had not the slightest pity on his pain. He was keeping her sorely against her wishes.
"I am served right for treating you as a friend," she said; "I looked upon you as a relation, and thought you understood it; now you are trying to make me unhappy. Bessie will be angry, and tell Grant. Oh, you ought to be ashamed."
"I won't make you any trouble," shivered Tom; "I won't distress you! There—I beg your pardon, Elsie, I am sorry! And you don't—you never can, Elsie, Elsie—"
"No, no, you silly old fellow, of course not! Now be good, and I'll forget all about this folly. Let me go, Tom, I can't stay here any longer—let me go."
Tom still held her hand.
"This is earnest!" he said.
"Yes, yes! Tom, if you don't let me go I'll scream! You are absurd—why, you ought to be put in a straight jacket."
Tom dropped her hand, and stood like a man overpowered by some sudden blow.
Elsie saw only the comical side of the matter, and began to laugh again.
"Don't laugh," he said, passionately; "for mercy's sake don't laugh!"
There was a depth of suffering in his tone which forced itself to be realized even by that selfish creature; but it only made her begin to consider herself exceedingly ill-used, and to blame Tom for spoiling her pleasure.
"Now you want to blame me," she said, angrily, "and I haven't done a thing to encourage you."
"No, no; I don't blame you, Elsie," he said; "it's all my own fault—all mine."
"Yes, to be sure," cried Elsie. "Who could think you would be so foolish. There, shake hands, Tom, for I'm in a hurry. You are not angry?"
"Angry—no," said Tom, drearily.
"That's right! Good-by—you'll be wiser to-morrow."
Elsie glided away, and Tom watched her go out of the room, and realized that she was floating out of his life forever, that the dream of the past was at an end, and he was left alone in the darkness.
Poor old Tom! It was very hard, but no one could have resisted a smile at his appearance! When Elsie left him, he dashed out of the room, and hid himself in the most out of the way corner he could find.
As he crossed the hall, he heard Elizabeth call—
"Tom, Tom!"
He stopped, and she came towards him. One look at his face revealed the whole truth. She did not speak, but took his hand in hers, with a mute expression of sympathy which overpowered him.
"Don't! don't!" he said. "Let me go, Bessie! I'm a fool—it's all over now! There, don't mind me—I'll be better soon! I've got a chance to go to Europe for awhile, in fact it's to Calcutta. I shall be all right when I come back."
"Oh, my poor old Tom! Elsie is a wicked girl to have trifled with you so."
"She didn't!" he exclaimed, indignantly. "Don't blame her. I won't have it. There's nobody in fault but me. I deserve it all! I'm a blundering, wrong-headed donkey, and she's lovely as—as—"
Here Tom broke down, and going to a window looked resolutely out.
"But you won't go away, Tom?" said Elizabeth following him.
"Yes, I will. I shan't be gone but a few months. Don't try to keep me. I'll be all right when we meet again."
"Oh, Tom, Tom!" said Elizabeth.
"Now, be still; that's a good girl; I don't want to be pitied. It's of no consequence, not the slightest."
He broke abruptly away, and disappeared, leaving Elizabeth full of sympathy for his distress, and regret at the idea of losing her old playmate—she had depended on him so much during her husband's absence.
There had been a lull in the music, but it struck up again now, and the saloons reverberated with a stirring waltz. Elizabeth stood a moment listening to the crash of sound and the tread of light feet, but her heart was full and her brow anxious. She went to the window and looked out. It was a lovely night, but the eternal roll and sweep of the ocean seemed to depress her with some terrible dread. In all that splendid tumult she was alone. As she stood by the window her husband came down the hall smiling upon the lady who hung upon his arm. He had not missed her, would not miss her. There was no fear of that. She glided away with this dreary thought in her mind. Mellen almost touched her as she turned into a little room opening upon the conservatory, but she went on unnoticed.
Tom Fuller had retreated into the conservatory, and was sitting disconsolately in an iron garden chair, sheltered by a small tree, drooping with yellow fringe-like blossoms, when a lady entered from one of the side doors, and passed out towards the gardens.
Tom started up, and called out, "Bessie! Why, Bessie, is that you? What on earth—"
The lady made no response, but looked over her shoulder, and sprang forward like a deer, causing a tumult among the plants as she rushed through them.
Tom stood motionless, lost in amazement; for over a ball dress which seemed white—he could discover nothing more,—the lady was shrouded head and person, in a blanket shawl, which he knew to be Elizabeth's, from the broad crimson stripes that ran across it.
After his first amazement Tom sat down again, heaving a deep sigh, and retreated further behind the flowering branches, that no one might look upon his unmanly sorrow.
"Poor Bessie, poor thing," he muttered, "I suppose she feels just as I do, like a fish out of water, in all these fine doings. I'd follow her, and we'd take a melancholy walk together in the moonlight, if it was not that Elsie might happen to get tired of dancing with those fellows, and come in here to rest a minute, when I could hide away and look at her through the plants."
Tom had in reality startled the lady shrouded in that great travelling shawl, for once out of doors she stood full half a minute listening with bated breath, and one foot advanced, ready to spring away if any sound reached her. Then she walked on with less desperate haste, bending her course through the shrubberies towards a grove of trees that lay between the open grounds and the shore.
It was a balmy October evening, moonlight, but shadowed by hosts of white scudding clouds. The wind blew up freshly from the water, scattered storms of gorgeous leaves around her as she approached the grove which was still heavy with foliage, perfectly splendid in the sunlight, but now all shadows and blackness. On the edge of the grove, just under a vast old oak, whose great limbs scarcely swayed in the wind, the lady paused and uttered some name in a low, cautious voice.
A spark of fire flashed down to the earth, as if some one had flung away his cigar in haste, and instantly footsteps rustled in the dead leaves. The branches of the oak bent low, and behind it was a thicket of young trees. The lady did not feel safe, even in the darkness, but moved on to meet the person who advanced in the deeper shadows, where even the edges of her white dress, which fell below the shawl, were lost to the eye.
As she stood panting in the shelter, a man's voice addressed her, and his hand was laid upon her shoulder.
"How you tremble!"
The voice sounded, in that balmy October night, sweet and mellow as the dropping of its over-ripe leaves. The female did indeed tremble violently.
"Look, look! I am followed," she whispered.
The man stepped a pace forward, peered through the oak branches, and stole cautiously to her side again.
"It is Mellen!"
She darted away, dragging her shawl from the grasp that man had fastened upon it,—away under the old oak, and along the outskirts of the grove. She paused a moment in breathless terror at the narrowest point of the lawn, then darted across it, huddling the skirt of her ball dress up with one hand, and sweeping the dead leaves in winrows after her with the fringes of her shawl. She avoided the conservatory, for Tom was still visible through its rolling waves of glass—and, turning to the servants' entrance, ran up a flight of dark stairs into the shaded lights of a chamber. She flung the heavy shawl breathlessly on a couch, shook the snowy masses of her dress into decorous folds, and stole to the window on tip-toe, where she stood, white and panting for breath, watching the lawn and grove, with wild, eager eyes, as if she feared her footsteps in the leaves might have been detected even in the darkness.
The evening passed drearily enough to Grantley Mellen. He was in no spirits for society and the gay bustle; the lights, the music, the constraint he was forced to put upon himself, and the cheerfulness he was obliged to assume, only wearied him.
A strange and unaccountable dread of his approaching journey possessed him. It had grown stronger as the days passed on, and that night was more powerful than ever.
Sometimes he was almost ready to think it a presentiment; perhaps he was never to return from that voyage; some unseen danger awaited him in that distant land, and he should die there, far from the sound of every voice, the touch of every hand that was dear to him.
He was vexed with himself for indulging in this superstitious weakness; but, in spite of all his efforts, the thought would recur again and again, oppressing him with a dreary sense of desolation that made the brilliant scene around absolutely repulsive.
He left the lighted rooms at last, and passed through the hall on to the piazza which overlooked the sea.
It was a beautiful evening; the moonlight, escaping from under a bank of clouds, lay silvery and broad upon the lawn, and broke a path of diamonds across the rippling waters, lighting them up to wonderful splendor. The air was balmy and soft as spring, the wind rippled pleasantly among the trees, but there was no melody in its tones to his ear; it seemed only a repetition of the mournful warning which had haunted his thoughts.
He walked on across the lawn, anxious to get beyond the sound of the music and gayety which followed him from the house, for it jarred upon his ears with deafening discordance.
He entered a little thicket of bushes and young trees, in the midst of which rose up a dark, funereal-looking cypress, that always waved its branches tremulously, however still the air might be, and seemed to be oppressed with a trouble which it could only utter in faint moaning whispers.
As he stood there, looking into the gloom, with a sense of relief at finding some object more in unison with his dark thoughts, he saw a figure glide away from the foot of the cypress, and disappear in the shrubbery beyond.
It was a woman wrapped in some dark garment—in movement and form like his wife—could it be his wife wandering about the grounds at that hour?
"Elizabeth!" he called; but there was no answer.
He hurried forward among the trees, but there was no object visible, no response to the summons he repeated several times.
It might be some guest who had stolen out there for a few minutes' quiet; yet that was not probable. Besides, the movements of the slender form appeared familiar to him. In height and shape Elsie and Elizabeth resembled each other; it was possibly one of them, but which?
Elsie it could not be, she had a nervous dread of darkness and could not be persuaded to stir off the piazza after nightfall. It must have been Elizabeth, then; but what was she doing there!
He started towards the house with some vague thought in his mind, to which he could have given no expression.
His wife was not in any of the rooms through which he passed, and he hurried into the ball-room. The music had just struck up anew; he saw Elsie whirling through a waltz; but Elizabeth was nowhere visible.
He drew near enough to Elsie to whisper—
"Where is Bessie?"
"I don't know," she answered. "I have been dancing all the while, and have not seen her for some time."
He turned away; but, just then, Mrs. Harrington captured him, and it was several moments before he could escape from her tiresome loquacity.
The moment he was at liberty Mellen hurried through the parlors and up the stairs, opened the door of Elizabeth's dressing-room, and entered. There she was, standing at the window, looking out. She turned quickly, and in some confusion at his sudden entrance.
"Is it you?" she asked.
"Yes; I have been looking for you everywhere!"
"I came up here for a moment's quiet," she answered. "I am very, very tired; I wish it was all over, Grantley."
"Have you been out?" he asked.
It seemed to him that she hesitated a little, as she answered—
"Out? No; where—what do you mean?"
"I thought I saw you in the grounds a little while ago."
"I should not be likely to go out in this dress," she replied, glancing down at the point lace flounces that floated over the snowy satin of her train. "Come, we must go down stairs; our guests will think us careless hosts."
Mellen felt and looked dissatisfied, but could not well press the matter farther.
"Are you coming down?" she asked.
"Yes; of course," he replied, coldly. "Don't wait for me."
She walked away without another word.
"She avoids me," he thought. "I see it more and more."
The ball was over at last. Even Elsie was completely tired out, and glad to nestle away under the azure curtains of her bed when the guests had departed.
With the next morning began preparations for Mellen's departure; and during the bustle of the following week, no one found much time for thought or reflection.
Tom Fuller came down suddenly, and opened his heart to Elizabeth. He was going to Europe; he did not ask to see Elsie; lacking the courage to meet her again for the present—once more, perhaps, before he went away; but not yet.
Elizabeth did not reproach the girl for her share in the honest fellow's unhappiness. She merely said—
"Tom is going to Europe on business; he sails next week."
"Oh, the foolish old fellow," replied Elsie; "and he never could learn to speak a French word correctly—what fun it would be to be with him in France."
"You will miss him," Mellen said, quietly.
"Oh," replied his wife, with a forced smile, "I must make up my mind to be lonely. I shall live through the coming dreary months as I best can."
"It's horrid of you to go, Grant!" cried Elsie.
"I know it, dear; but there is no use in fighting the unavoidable."
"Mind you write to me as often as you do to Bessie," she said. "If she gets one letter the most, I never will forgive either of you."
As she said this, the girl ran up to her brother, and stood leaning against his shoulder, with a playful caress, while he looked down at her with such entire love and trust in his face, that Elizabeth crept quietly away, and left them together.
The few days left to Mellen passed in a tumult of preparation. Sad doubts were at his heart, vague and so formless that he could not have expressed them in words, but painful as proven realities.
Elizabeth was greatly disturbed also; her fine color had almost entirely disappeared. She trembled at the slightest shock, and her very lips would turn white when she spoke of her husband's departure. She seemed stricken with a mortal terror of his going, yet made no effort to detain him. She, too, had presentiments of evil that shocked her whole system, and made her brightest smile something mournful to look upon.
But the husband and wife had little opportunity to observe or understand the feelings that tortured them both. Elsie's cries, and tears, and hysterical spasms, kept the whole household in commotion. She should never see her brother again—never, never. Elizabeth might not be good to her. Sisters-in-law and school-friends were different creatures; she had found that out already. If she could only have died with her mother!
These cries broke out vehemently on the night before Mellen's departure. The spoiled child would not allow her brother to spend one moment from her side. So all that night Elizabeth, pale, still, and bowed down by a terrible heart-ache, watched with her husband by the azure couch which Elsie preferred to her bed. It was a sad, mournful night to them both.
At daylight, Elsie's egotism was exhausted, and she fell asleep. The first sunshine came stealing up from its silvery play on the water, and shimmering through the lace curtains, fell on the young girl as she slept. There was trouble on that sweet face—genuine trouble; for Elsie loved her brother dearly, and his departure agitated her more deeply than he had ever known her moved before.
How lovely she looked with the drops trembling on those long, golden lashes, and staining the warm flush of her cheeks! One arm, from which the muslin sleeve had fallen back, lay under her head, half-buried in a tangle of curls; sobs broke at intervals through her parted lips, ending in long, troubled sighs.
Mellen was deeply touched. Elizabeth bent her head against the end of the couch, and wept unheeded drops of anguish. The heart ached in her bosom.
Elizabeth Mellen shuddered visibly when the first sunbeam fell through the curtains. Only a few moments were left to them. Sick and faint, she lifted her head and turned her imploring eyes on her husband's face—eyes so full of yearning agony, that his heart must have leaped through all its doubts to meet hers, had not his glance been fixed upon Elsie. The long, black lashes drooped over those gray eyes when she found their appeal disregarded, and the young wife shrunk within herself, shuddering at her own loneliness.
A servant came to the room, and by a sign announced breakfast. It was the last meal they might ever take together. This thought struck them both, and brought their hands in contact with a thrilling clasp. He drew her arm through his, and led her down stairs. She felt his heart beating against her arm, looked up, and saw that he was regarding her with glances of searching tenderness. Her eyes filled; her bosom heaved; and, but for a wild struggle, she would have burst into a passion of tears before the servant, who held the door open for them to pass into the breakfast-room.
How bright and cheerful it all looked—the crusted snow of the linen; the delicately chased silver, and more delicate china; and this was their last meal. She sat down and poured out his coffee. Her hand trembled, but she tried to smile when he took the cup and praised its aroma. She drank some herself, for the chill at her heart was spreading to her face and hands.
Little was said during the meal, and less was eaten. Elizabeth looked at the clock as a convict gazes on the axe that is to slay him. She counted the moments as they crept away, devouring the brief time yet given to them, while he glanced at his watch, nervously every few minutes.
Then the husband and wife went up stairs again. Elizabeth turned from Elsie's door and went into her own dressing-room. With all her magnanimity she could not give her husband up to his sister during the last moments of his stay. He followed her into the room, but directly lifted the curtain and went into Elsie's boudoir, where the young girl lay profoundly sleeping. Elizabeth would not follow. Her heart was swelling too painfully. She sat down, clasped both hands in her lap, and waited like a statue.
He had only crossed the boudoir, bent over Elsie, and pressed a cautious but most loving kiss on her forehead. She did not move, but smiled softly in her sleep, and he stole away, blessing her.
Elizabeth's heart gave a sudden leap when he came into her room again and sat down by her side. He felt how cold her hand was, and kissed it.
"Elizabeth!"
She turned, frightened by the tone of his voice. It was hoarse with emotion.
"Elizabeth, I have one charge to give before we part."
She bent her head in sorrowful submission.
"Elsie, my sister!"
He did not notice the red flame that shot up to her cheek, or the shrinking of her whole frame, but went on.
"The child is so precious to me. The dearest human being I have on earth—" He hesitated a moment, and added, "Except—except you, my wife."
She was grateful even for this. Was it that she was conscious of deserving nothing more, or did the hungry yearning of her heart seize on this sweet aliment with thankfulness after the famine of her recent life?
He saw the tears spring into her eyes, and drew her closer to his side.
"Be careful of her for my sake, Elizabeth. She was given me in solemn charge at my mother's death-bed. She has been the sweetest solace of my barren life. Let no harm come near her—no evil thing taint the mind which I leave in your hands pure as snow. Guard her, love her, and give her back to me, gentle, guileless, and good, as she lies now, in the sweetest and most innocent sleep I ever witnessed."
"I will! I will!" answered Elizabeth, conquering a sharp spasm of pain with the spirit of a martyr. "If human care, or human sacrifice can insure her welfare, I will not be found wanting."
Grantley bent down and kissed his wife gratefully.
"Remember, Elizabeth, my happiness and honor are left in your keeping."
Did he mean that honor and happiness both were bound up in Elsie, or had he really thought of her rightful share in his life?
This question flashed through the young wife's mind, but she would not accept it in a bitter sense then. The parting hour was close at hand. She trembled as each moment left them.
"I will be kind to Elsie as you can desire; indeed I will," she said. "You can trust me."
"If I doubted that, harassing as the voyage is, I would take her with me."
"Oh, if you only could take us both! It terrifies me to be left alone, surrounded with—"
"That is out of the question now. But when I come back, we will try and make this life of ours happier than it has been."
She looked at him—her great, mournful eyes widening with pain.
"Have you been very unhappy, then, Grantley," she faltered.
"Unhappy! I did not say that; but hereafter our bliss must be more perfect. We shall understand each other better."
"Shall we—shall we ever? Oh, Grantley, without love what perfect understanding can exist?"
Her fine eyes were flooded with tears; every feature in her face quivered with emotion.
A clock on the mantel-piece chimed out the hour of his departure. On the instant Dolf knocked at the door.
Elizabeth started up, trembling like a wounded bird that struggles away from a second shot.
"So soon! so soon!" she cried, wringing her hands. "I had so much to ask; everything to say, and now there is no time."
Grantley took her in his arms, and kissed her very hurriedly, for the servant was standing in sight.
"God bless you, Elizabeth, I must go!"
She flung her arms wildly around him. Her pale face was lifted to his in mute appeal. Was it for pardon of some unknown offence, or the deep craving of a true heart for love?
Grantley put her away, and went hurriedly into Elsie's room. He came out pale and troubled. Elizabeth stood by the door gasping her breath; he wrung the hand she held forth to stop him, and was gone. She heard his steps as they went down the walnut-staircase, and they fell upon her like distinct blows. The great hall-door closed with a sharp noise that made her start, and with a burst of bitter, bitter anguish, cry out. Then came the sound of carriage-wheels grinding through gravel, and the beat of hoofs that seemed trampling down the heart in her bosom. As these sounds died off, she attempted to reach the window and look out, but only fell upon the couch which stood near it, and fainted without a moan.
A day or two after Mellen's departure, Elizabeth, who was taking her solitary promenade on the veranda, was surprised by a visit from Mrs. Harrington, who came fluttering across the lawn between two gentlemen, with whom she seemed carrying on a right and left flirtation. She came up the steps with her flounces all in commotion, her face wreathed with insipid smiles, and her hair done up in a marvellous combination of puffs, curls and braids under a tiny bonnet, that hovered over them like a butterfly just ready to take wing.
"I knew that you would be moping yourself to death," she cried, floating down upon Elizabeth with both hands extended; "so I gave up everything and came in the first train. Now do acknowledge that I am the kindest friend in the world."
Elizabeth received her cordially, and with a great effort shook off the gloomy thoughts that had oppressed her all the morning. Mrs. Harrington did not heed this, she was always ready to welcome herself, and in haste to secure her full share of the conversation, and before Elizabeth could finish her rather halting attempts at a compliment she presented her companions.
Elizabeth had hardly glanced at the gentlemen till then, but now she recognized the elder and more stately of the two as the person who had probably saved her life on the Bloomingdale road.
"I need not ask a welcome for this gentleman, I am sure," said Mrs. Harrington, clasping both hands over Mr. North's arm, and leaning coquettishly upon him. "He is our preserver, Mrs. Mellen,—our hero."
North smiled, but rejected these compliments with an impatient lift of the head.
"Pray allow Mrs. Mellen to forget that this is not our first meeting," he said; "so small a service is not worth mentioning."
He looked steadily at Elizabeth as he spoke. She seemed to shrink from his glance, but answered,
"No, no; it was a service I can never forget—never hope to repay."
"Now let me beg a welcome for my other friend," interposed Mrs. Harrington. "Mr. Hawkins. I told him it was quite a charity to come with me and rouse you up a little, besides, he is dying to see your lovely sister-in-law."
Mr. Hawkins, a very young Englishman, was leaning against a pillar of the veranda in an attitude which displayed his very stylish dress to the best possible advantage. He appeared mildly conscious that he had performed a solemn duty in making a perambulating tailor's block of himself, and ready to receive any amount of feminine admiration without resistance. He came forward half a step and fell back again.
"Such a charming place you have here—quite a paradise," he drawled, caressing the head of his cane, which was constantly between his lips. "I trust—aw—the other angel of this retreat is visible?"
Elizabeth replied with a faint smile. She had borne a good many similar afflictions from Mrs. Harrington's friends, but it was too much that they should be forced upon her just then.
"Where is Elsie?" cried the widow, with vivacious affection, shaking her gay plumage like a canary bird in the sun.
"In her own room," replied Elizabeth. "Pray walk in, and I will call her."
"Oh, never mind, I'll go!" said Mrs. Harrington. "Gentlemen, I leave you with Mrs. Mellen; but no flirtation, remember that!"
She fluttered, laughed a little, and shook her finger at the very young man, who said "Aw!" while North seemed absorbed in the scenery. Then away she flew, kissing her hand to them, and leaving Elizabeth to gather up her weary thoughts and make an effort at entertaining these unwelcome guests.
Mrs. Harrington found Elsie yawning over a new novel, and quite prepared to be enlivened by the prospect of company.
"But I can't go down such a figure," she said; "just wait a minute. One gets so careless in a house without gentlemen."
"Poor dear! I am sure you are moped."
"Oh, to death. It's dreadful!" sighed Elsie. "I feel things so acutely. If I only had a little of Bessie's stoicism!"
"Yes, it's all very well; but you are made up of feeling," said the widow. "Change your dress, dear. Oh, you've made a conquest of a certain gentleman."
"What, that Hawkins! He's a fearful idiot!" cried Elsie. "But he'll do, for want of a better."
The sensitive young creature had quite forgotten her low spirits, but dressed herself in the most becoming morning attire possible, and floated down to greet the guests and quite bewilder them with her loveliness.
Hawkins had been mortally afraid of Mrs. Mellen, but with Elsie he could talk, and Elizabeth sat quite stunned by the flood of frivolous nonsense and the peals of senseless laughter which went on about her. As for Mr. North, Elsie scarcely gave him a word after the first general salutation.
After awhile Elizabeth managed to escape, on the plea that household duties required her presence, and stole up to her room for a little quiet. All at once she heard Tom Fuller's voice in the hall; opened her dressing-room door, and there he stood in his usual disordered state.
"I've come to say good-bye," were his first words.
"Then you are really going, Tom?" she said, sorrowfully, taking his hand and leading him into the chamber. "Oh, how sorry I am."
"Yes, I'm off to-morrow," he said, resolutely, running both hands through his hair, and trying to keep his courage up. "A trip to Europe is a splendid thing, Bess—I'm a lucky fellow to get it."
"I shall be all alone," she said, mournfully; "and I had depended on you so much."
"Oh," cried Tom, "It's good of you to miss me—nobody else will! But there, Bessie, don't you set me off! I wanted to bid you good-bye—I—I—well, I'm a confounded fool, but I thought I'd like to see her just once more."
"And those tiresome people are here," said Elizabeth.
"Who do you mean?"
"Oh, Mrs. Harrington and two men she has brought to spend the day—one of them is the person who checked our horses that day."
"I thought I heard the widow's voice as I came through the hall," said Tom. "Well, well, it's better so! You see I don't want to make a donkey of myself."
"Tom, you are the best creature in the world," cried Elizabeth.
"Oh, Lord bless you, no," said Tom, rubbing his forehead in a disconsolate way; "I ain't good; there's nothing like that about me. 'Pon my word, I'm quite shocked lately to see what an envious, bad-hearted old wretch I'm getting to be."
"We won't go downstairs yet," said Elizabeth; "sit down here and let's have a comfortable talk, like old times, Tom."
"Well, no, I guess not, thank you—it's very kind of you," returned he, getting very red. "You see I can't stay but an hour—I must take the next train, for I've lots of things to do."
"Oh, I thought you would spend the night."
"Now, don't ask me—I can't—it wouldn't be wise if I could," cried Tom, giving his hair an unmerciful combing with his fingers.
"No," she replied, regarding him with womanly pity; "perhaps not. And you would like to go down stairs?"
"I'm a fool to wish it," he answered; "those fine people will only laugh at me, and I know when I see that magnifico and his popinjay friend about Elsie I shall want to wring their conceited necks. But I'll go—oh, it's no use telling lies! You understand just what a fool I am—I came because I feel as if I must see her once more!"
Tom was twisting his hat in both hands, his features worked in the attempt he made to control his agitation; but Elizabeth loved him too well for any notice of his odd manner—she was entirely absorbed in sympathy for his trouble.
"Oh, Tom, Tom!" she said, "I do hope absence—the change—will do you good."
"Yes," he broke in, with a strangled whistle that began as a groan; "yes, of course, thank you—oh, no doubt! You see, there's no knowing what good may come. But Lord bless you, Bess, if the old ship would only sink and land me safe as many fathoms under salt water as was convenient, it would be about the best thing that could happen to me."
"Don't talk so, Tom; you can't think how it pains me."
"Well, I won't—there, I'm all right now! Ti-rol-de-rol!" and Tom actually tried to sing. "I say, Bessie, she never—she don't seem, you know—?"
"What, Tom?"
"To be sorry I was going, you know?"
"Elsie? She has been so engrossed with her brother's journey——"
"Yes, of course," Tom broke in; "oh, it's not to be expected—nobody that wasn't a flounder ever would have asked! Ri-tol-de-rol! I'm a little hoarse this morning, but it's no matter—I only want to show I'm not put about, you know—that is, not much."
He moved uneasily about the chamber, upset light chairs and committed disasters generally; but all the while looked resolute as possible, and kept up his attempt at a song in a mournful quaver.
"Well, I can't stay," he said; "I mustn't lose the train! Now, don't feel uncomfortable, Bessie; Lord bless you, I shall soon be all right—sea-sickness is good for my disease, you know," and Tom tried to laugh, but it was a dismal failure compared with his former light-heartedness.
Elizabeth saw that he was restless to get once more into Elsie's presence, painful as the interview must be to him, so she smoothed his hair, straightened his necktie and accompanied him downstairs.
"Oh, you dear, delightful Tom Fuller!" cried Mrs. Harrington, pleased to see any man arrive, for Elsie had carried off both her victims into the window-seat, and was making them dizzy with her smiles and brilliant nonsense.
"I—I'm delighted to see you," cried Tom, frantically, thrusting his hat in her face, in a wild delusion that he was offering his hand, for he was so upset by the sight of Elsie that he felt as if rapidly going up in an unmanageable balloon.
"I'll just say good-bye at the same time," pursued Tom; "for I'm rather in a hurry, thank you."
"Why, you're not going away directly!" cried the widow. "Oh, you must stay and entertain me. Elsie has left me quite desolate."
"Thank you; it's of no importance; I'm not quite on my sea legs yet," gasped Tom, growing so dizzy that he was possessed of a mad idea he was already on shipboard.
"Why, you look quite white and ill," said the widow.
"Yes; oh, not any, thank you," cried Tom, stepping on the widow's dress, dancing off it and dealing Elizabeth a blow with his hat.
Mrs. Mellen felt herself grow sick at heart; she glanced at Elsie; the girl was laughing gaily, and chatting away with young Hawkins, regardless of Tom's presence. North stood by, looking at her with his deep, earnest eyes, as if searching her character in all its shallow depths. Elizabeth felt bitterly indignant, and exclaimed—
"Elsie, my cousin has come to wish us good-bye, if you can spare him a moment."
"So you are really going?" called Elsie. "You oughtn't to run away so. It's so unkind of you."
Tom lifted his eyes mournfully to her face.
"My lap is so full of flowers," cried Elsie, glancing down at a mass of roses that glowed in the folds of her morning dress, "I can't possibly get up; come and shake hands with me."
It was well for Tom that Mrs. Harrington seized his arm, and afforded him a few instants to regain his composure, while she asked all sorts of questions about his journey and its object.
"Mary Harrington," said Elsie. "Just let Mr. Fuller come here; you mustn't assault peaceable men in that way."
"La, dear, what odd things you do say! I was just talking with Mr. Fuller about his journey."
Elsie glanced at North and whispered to his companion, who laughed in a very polite way. Tom knew it was at him, and grew more red and awkward. Elizabeth recognised the silly insult, and darted a look of such indignation towards the offender that the youth was quite subdued, although it had no effect whatever on Elsie.
She rose, dropping her flowers over the carpet, put her hand in Mr. North's arm, left Hawkins to follow, and caress his cane in peace, and moved towards the group.
"Good-bye, Mr. Fuller," said she, touching his shoulder with the tips of her fingers. "If you bring me a beautiful lava bracelet perhaps I'll forgive you for going away,—and some pink coral,—don't forget."
Tom was a sight to behold between confusion, distress, and his superhuman efforts to be calm.
"I'll bring you twenty," said he, recklessly.
"Oh, that would be overpowering," laughed Elsie. "Good-bye. I'm sure you'll look touching when you are seasick."
"He! he!" giggled Hawkins, as well as he could for the cane.
Tom turned on him like a tiger.
"You'll ruin your digestion if you laugh so much over that tough meal," said he, and for once Tom had the laugh on his side.
"Good-bye, Miss Elsie," he continued, determined to get away while he could still preserve a decent show of composure; "good-bye."
"Good-bye, Tom Fuller, good-bye!"
She flung some of the flowers she was holding, at him. Tom caught them and hurried out of the room, pressing the fragrant blossoms against his waistcoat, and smothering a mortal pang.
Elizabeth followed him into the hall, but their parting was a brief one, spoken amid bursts of laughter from within, and in a broken voice by the warm hearted young fellow.
"Good-bye, Bessie—God bless you."
"You'll write to me, Tom? I shall miss you so."
"Oh, don't; it ain't worth while! I'll write of course; good-bye."
Tom dashed down the steps and fled along the avenue in mad haste, and Elizabeth returned to her guests.
It seemed to her that the day would never come to an end. Mrs. Harrington and Elsie scarcely heeded her, but fluttered from room to room with the two guests, doing the honors with great spirit, and urging them to extend their visit some days. Elizabeth was offended at the reckless offer of hospitality.
Elsie saw this and whispered, "It wasn't my fault; don't blame me, dear! Grant is gone, and he told you not to be cross with me."
So Elizabeth controlled herself; perhaps the girl had done all this harm unconsciously. She would believe so, at least; no cloud must come between them. These almost strange men were invited, and must remain if they so decided.
As if she had not enough to bear already, Elizabeth's inflictions were increased towards the dinner hour by the arrival of a Mr. Rhodes and his daughter, who lived at an easy distance, and thought it a neighborly and kind thing for them to drop in to dinner with Mrs. Mellen, and console her in her loneliness.