Mrs. Harrington plunged into her natural element at once; Mr. Rhodes was a rich widower, vulgar and pompous as could well be imagined; but that made no difference, the lady spread her flimsy net in that direction and put on all her fascinations at once, leaving the younger men to their fate. This was splendid sport to Elsie, for Miss Jemima, the daughter, a gaunt, peaked-nosed female, had been Miss Jemima a good many more years than she found agreeable, and when any woman ventured even to look at her stout parent, she was up in arms at once and ready to do battle against the threatened danger, resolved that one man at least should own her undivided dominion, even if that man was her pompous old father. Mr. Rhodes was at once captivated by the widow's flattery, and Elsie mischievously increased Jemima's growing irritation by whispers full of honied malice, that almost drove that single lady distracted.
"Quite a flirtation, I declare," said she; "really, Miss Jemima, widows are very dangerous, and she is so fascinating."
"It's ridiculous for a woman to go on so," returned the spinster, shaking her head in vehement agitation; "you may just tell her it's no use, my pa isn't likely to be caught with chaff like that."
"Oh, but Mrs. Harrington is considered irresistible."
"Well, I can't see it for my part," retorted Jemima; "She's a tolerable specimen of antique painting; but my pa isn't given to the fine arts."
"Oh! Mrs. Harrington," called Elsie, "I wish you could induce Mr. Rhodes to give us a picnic in his woods before the weather gets too cold—they are delightful. I daren't ask him, but you might venture, I'm sure."
Miss Jemima looked as if she had three minds to strangle the pretty torment on the spot.
"Excuse me, dear," said Mrs. Harrington, "I am sure I could have no influence."
"Oh, you painted humbug!" muttered Jemima.
"I should be delighted—charmed!" exclaimed Mr. Rhodes. "Madam, it would be a day never to be forgotten that honored my poor house with your presence," he broke off, puffing till the brass buttons on his coat shook like hailstones.
"Oh, you are a dreadful flatterer, I see!" answered the widow, quite aware of Jemima's rage, and delighted to increase it.
"Madam," said the stout man, "on the honor of a gentleman, I never flatter. Miss Elsie, defend me."
"Not unless you promise to get up the picnic," said the little witch. "Miss Jemima is anxious to have it——"
"Me," broke in the acid damsel, unable to endure anything more, "I am sure I never thought of such a thing, don't speak for me, if you please."
"But you will be delighted, you know you will."
"Pa's got to go to Philadelphia," said Jemima, sharply.
"But I could defer the trip, Mimy," said her parent, appealingly.
"Business is business, you always say," retorted the damsel.
Elsie gave a little scream.
"Why, how odd," said she. "Mrs. Harrington goes to Philadelphia next week you can escort her, Mr. Rhodes, she is a sad coward about travelling alone."
"I shall be delighted," said the widower, "delighted."
Jemima fairly groaned; she made a strangling effort to turn her agony into a cough, but it began as a groan; both Elsie and Mrs. Harrington were convinced of that, and it delighted them beyond measure.
"It would be very, very kind of Mr. Rhodes," said the widow, "but Elsie, you are inconsiderate, to think of him taking so much trouble only for us, and I a stranger."
"It would be an honor and delight to me," insisted Rhodes.
Jemima resolutely arose from her chair, and planted herself in a seat directly in front of her parent—he could not avoid her eye then—the wrath burning there made him hesitate and stammer.
"Miss Jemima," said Elsie, "come and look at my geraniums; I think they are finer even than yours."
But nothing short of a torpedo exploding under her chair would have made the heroic damsel quit her post, not for one instant would she leave her parent exposed to the wiles of that abominable widow.
"My dear, I am so tired," said she, "you must excuse me."
"Perhaps you'd like to go and lie down," persisted Elsie.
"You look fatigued," said Mrs. Harrington.
"Do I, ma'am; you're kind, I'm sure," snapped the spinster, trying to smile. "I never lie down in the daytime; I'm very comfortable where I am, thank you."
She might be very perfectly at ease herself, but she made her father very uncomfortable, while Elsie and the widow never gave over teasing for a single instant, till Elizabeth returned to the room.
Luckily dinner was announced, and the asperity of Miss Jemima's feelings softened a little by that, especially as she reflected that her father would be obliged to lead Mrs. Mellen into the dining-room. But that dreadful Elsie destroyed even that forlorn hope.
"Bessie," said she, "we must ask Mr. Rhodes to play host and sit at the foot of the table, so he shall lead Mrs. Harrington in."
Even Elizabeth could not repress a smile at the little elf's malicious craft, and there was nothing to be said. The wretched Jemima grew fairly white with rage, but she was obliged to control herself, and the dinner passed off in the most social, neighborly fashion.
At a very early hour Miss Jemima insisted upon returning home, but Elsie had a parting shaft ready for her.
"I have persuaded Mrs. Harrington and these gentlemen to stay over to-morrow," said she. "May I promise them that we'll all drive to your house and take luncheon, Miss Jemima, by way of returning your visit."
The spinster was compelled to express her gratification. She could do no less, after having invited herself and her father to dinner at Piney Cove, but her face was a perfect study while the pleasant words fell from her compressed lips, like bullets from a mould.
"We shall be in ecstasy," said Mr. Rhodes.
"You will be in New York," retorted Jemima; "you have to go early in the morning."
"My dear, the day after will do as well."
"Now, pa, you know you said——"
"Oh, Miss Jemima," broke in Elsie, "I shall think you don't want us to come!"
"And I," said the widow, "shall be mortally offended if Mr. Rhodes runs away the very first time I have the pleasure of visiting his house."
"Of course, of course!" said the stout man. "My daughter, Mimy, is a great business woman—girl, I mean—but on an occasion like this even business must wait. Ladies, I go home to dream of the honor to-morrow will bring."
"Well, pa, if we're going at all, I think we'd better start," cried the spinster; "we are keeping the horses in the cold."
She made her farewells very brief and carried off her parent in triumph, darting a last defiant look at the widow as she passed.
The moment they were gone Elsie went into convulsions of laughter, and clapping her pretty white hands like a child, cried out:
"She'll poison you, Mary Harrington, I know she will."
"My dear, I'll eat luncheon before I go."
Even Elizabeth was forced to laugh at the absurd scene. Elsie mimicked the spinster, and turned the affair in so many ridiculous ways that it afforded general amusement for the rest of the evening.
The whole party did drive over to Mr. Rhodes's house the next day, and Miss Jemima was tormented out of her very senses; while Mr. Rhodes was made to appear ridiculous as only a pompous old widower, with a keen appetite for flattery, can be made look.
The question of the picnic came up again, but Elizabeth settled that matter by refusing to have any share in it. She was in no spirits for such amusement, and had decided to refuse all invitations during Mr. Mellen's absence.
From that day Miss Jemima always felt a liking for Mrs. Mellen, who had so quietly come to her rescue, and she was the only one of the party to whom the claret would not have proved a fatal dose if the spinster's sharp glances or secret wishes could have had their due effect.
From some caprice Mrs. Harrington prolonged her stay at Piney Cove for an entire week, and all this time she protested against either of the gentlemen who had accompanied her there returning without her. Elsie, in her careless, childish way, seconded the widow, so these two men dropped into such easy relations with the family that it seemed difficult to assign any period to their visit. Nothing could be quieter than Mr. North's mode of life during his sojourn at the house. If he joined in the light conversation so prevalent at all times, it was with a quiet grace that modified it without offering rebuke. He seemed to give no preference to the society of any one of the three ladies, but most frequently attended Mrs. Harrington in her walks and rides. To Elsie he was reserved, almost paternal, and in his society the young girl would become grave, sometimes thoughtful, as if his presence depressed her childish flow of spirits.
If North ever had more than ordinary intercourse with his hostess no one witnessed it, yet a close observer might have seen that he watched her with a quiet vigilance that bespoke some deep interest in her movements. Those who have seen this very man creep into the mansion house at night and wander cautiously from room to room, as if to fix a plan of the dwelling in his mind, will understand that his visit, which seemed so purely accidental, had its object; but no one could have discovered, by look or movement, what that object was.
At last the party broke up and returned to the city. Elsie went with them. At first Mrs. Mellen opposed her going, but the pretty creature was resolute enough when her own wishes were concerned, and would listen to no opposition.
"I am not going to live in this stupid place, like a nun in a convent, just because my brother desires to amuse himself in California," she said, when Elizabeth would have dissuaded her from leaving home. "I tell you, Grant would not wish it. I am not married and obliged to shut myself up and play proper like you. It's downright cruel of you wanting me to stay here. I'm half dead with grieving already. The house isn't like home without Grant. At any rate, I'm going; you are not my mother!"
She carried her point; Elizabeth had no absolute authority which could enforce obedience on a creature at once so stubborn and so volatile. So she made no further opposition, fearing that anything like violent measures might prove distasteful to her husband.
But one day now remained of Mrs. Harrington's unwelcome visit. The whole party, except Elizabeth, were to start for New York in the morning, where Mrs. Harrington had resolved to open a splendid succession of receptions and parties in Elsie's behalf.
This last day Elsie declared should be the crowning pleasure of Mrs. Harrington's visit. They would ride down to the sea-side tavern on horseback, have a chowder party on the precipice behind it, looking out upon the ocean, and return home at dusk or by moonlight, as caprice might determine. Mr. Rhodes and Miss Jemima were to be included, and some of the colored servants were forwarded early in the morning to superintend the arrangements.
The dew was hanging thick and bright on the lawn when Mr. Rhodes and his daughter rode up to the Piney Cove mansion. A group of horses were gathered in front of the veranda, and a little crowd of ladies, in long sweeping dresses, gauntlet gloves and pretty hats, stood chatting around the door.
Mr. Rhodes preferred to sit on his handsome bay horse, and wait for the party to arrange itself, for it was rather inconvenient for him to mount and dismount the high-stepping beast oftener than was absolutely necessary. As for Jemima, she rode a long-limbed, slender-bodied horse, and sat him in grim dignity, as the dames of old occupied their high-backed chairs. Her beaver hat towered high, and the stiff tuft of feathers that rose from it in front gave a dash of the military to her usually defiant aspect, grimly imposing.
She drew her horse up to the front steps, and sat viciously regarding the city widow, as that lady shook out the folds of her riding-skirt, pulled the gauntlets to a tighter fit on her shapely hands, and kept her cornelian-headed riding-whip in a constant state of vibration, for the benefit of that evidently too admiring widower on the great bay horse.
The party mounted at last, and cantered in a gay cavalcade across the lawn, leaving the mansion behind them almost in solitude. It was a lovely day, bright with sunshine, and freshened by a cool breeze from the ocean. Mrs. Mellen that day seemed among the most joyous of the party. Whatever care had hitherto possessed her she evidently threw off; her sweet voice rang out pleasantly, and her face grow beautiful in the animation of the moment.
For a while the party moved on at random; but when the road branched off into a long tract of the woodland the equestrians naturally broke up into pairs, and, either by chance or design, Mr. North joined Elizabeth, who was riding a little in advance. It was almost the first time that he had seemed to prefer her society during his whole visit, and this movement naturally created a little observation. Elsie looked after the splendid pair as they rode under the overhanging trees, with an expression of subdued wonder in her blue eyes, which amounted almost to dismay. Mrs. Harrington laughed with as much meaning as her small share of intellect could concentrate on one idea, and said in a low voice to Elsie:
"Did I not tell you they had met before? She has been playing dutiful like a martyr. See how she breaks out now. Look! look! she is turning down a cross road; it is a mile farther round."
"We will go on direct," said Elsie. "If my brother's wife chooses to ride off alone with any man through the woods, let her. It was decided that we should take the highway, and we will."
Elsie spoke with decision, a cold light came into her blue eyes, and the expression about her lips was almost stern; for a moment the girl was transfigured before her friend.
At the cross roads there was a little debate. Miss Jemima turned her horse in the direction Elizabeth had taken. The generally obedient papa was following this lead, when Mr. Hawkins was sent forward to arrest him.
"Straight ahead, that's the programme," he called out, taking the gold head of his riding-whip from his mouth long enough to speak clearly, "Miss Elsie told me to call you back."
"And the—the other lady," stammered Rhodes, flushing red, to the intense scorn of the spinster.
"Oh, she's gone ahead."
"Then I take this way," exclaimed Jemima, with emphasis; "come, pa."
Mr. Rhodes had wheeled his horse half round, and was casting irresolute looks towards the two ladies riding slowly along the shady road.
"But, daughter, we cannot leave them to ride on alone."
"This—this—person is with them, and they seem to count him as a man," answered Jemima, with a gesture of intense scorn.
Mrs. Harrington here was seen to draw up her horse in the shade of a huge chestnut, and playfully beckon the widower with her whip.
"Jemima, I must. It would be underbred," cried the desperate man, riding away to the enemy.
Jemima sat upon her horse, petrified with amazement. Her father looked anxiously back when he reached the widow, with sad forebodings of the tempest that would follow, but there the spinster sat at the cross roads like an equestrian statue.
"Come, come," said the widow, touching him playfully with her whip. "Elsie is getting impatient. Now for a race."
Her spirited horse dashed forward at a run. The ponderous steed of the widower thundered after, making the forest reverberate with the heavy fall of his hoofs.
Mr. Hawkins fell into a dainty amble, and away the whole party swept into the green shadows of the woods.
Jemima looked right and she looked left. Should she ride on and leave her pa in the hands of that designing creature? Perish the thought, better anything than that! She touched her horse. It turned sharply, and swept down the highway like a greyhound. She struck him on the flank, then the tiny lash of her whip quivered about his ears till he dashed on, flinging back dust and stones with his hoofs.
The party was riding fast. Mr. Hawkins by Elsie, Mr. Rhodes close to the widow—so close, that somehow her right hand, whip and all, had got entangled with his. They were on a curve of the road, around which Jemima came sweeping like a torrent. With a single bound her horse rushed in between them, leaving the widow's gauntlet glove in the grasp of that frightened man, and the cornelian-headed whip deep in the mud of the highway.
Not a word was spoken. The widower sank abjectly down in his saddle, and with his apprehensive eyes turned sideways on the spinster, surreptitiously thrust the stray glove into the depths of his pocket. The widow, convulsed with mingled laughter and rage, gave no doubt of genuine color now, for her face was crimson. Thus, like two prisoners under military guard, they moved on, with Jemima riding in grim vigilance between them.
The spot chosen for the chowder-party commanded a splendid sea view and a broad landscape in the background, of which the distant mansion of Piney Cove was a principal object. It was an abrupt precipice, clothed, except in the very front, with a rich growth of trees; splendid masses of white pine and clumps of hemlock darkened with the deep green of their foliage such forest trees as cast their leaves from autumn till spring time. The broken precipice in front was tufted here and there with clumps of barberry bushes and other wild shrubs, which might have aided a daring adventurer to climb up it, had the temptation been sufficient.
Between this precipice and the shores of the ocean, stood the little tavern we have before spoken of, from which the negroes of Piney Point were now bringing up a huge iron pot wherein to cook the chowder, which would be nothing if not culminated in the open air, over a fire of sticks, and eaten beneath the hemlock trees.
A bridle path led to the top of this precipice, winding along the back slope of the hill, and by this route the highway party rode to the summit, some fifteen minutes before Elizabeth and Mr. North joined them. Whatever evil feelings had sprung up on the road, at least a majority of the company resolved to enjoy themselves now. Jemima entered heart and soul into the preparations, keeping a sharp eye on her father all the time. He, poor man, scarcely required her vigilance, for when a chowder was to be concocted, the stout man forgot all his gallant weaknesses, and gave his whole being up to the important subject.
Mrs. Harrington had no great talent for cookery, and feeling beaten and awed by Jemima's dashing generalship, hovered around the outskirts of the preparations, and flirting a little with Hawkins, from languid habit, rather than any special regard for the young gentleman.
During the bustle of these preparations, Elizabeth, Mr. North and Elsie had dropped out of the party and wandered off, no doubt, into the shady places of the woods; no one had observed how or where they went. Hawkins had been with Elsie at first, but she had sent him down a ravine for some tinted ash leaves, and when he came back to the stone on which she had been sitting, it was vacant. Probably she had become tired of waiting, and had gone in search of the forest leaves herself; as for Mrs. Mellen and North, of course they were all right somewhere, and would be on hand safe enough when the chowder was ready.
While Mrs. Harrington and Hawkins were talking in this idle fashion, they sat on a large ledge of rock that crowned the very brink of the precipice; and chancing to look down, saw two persons near the foot moving towards the tavern. One they recognised, even from that distance, to be Mr. North, for his tall, grand figure was not to be mistaken. The other was a lady; the dark riding-dress and floating plumes might belong to any female of the party, there was no individuality in a dress like that. The couple had evidently found some passage down the brow of the precipice, for it would have been impossible to reach the spot where they stood by any other route.
"Well," said Mrs. Harrington, "if that isn't a sly proceeding; what on earth does it mean? How Mrs. Mellen can drag her long skirts down that hill, just to look at a common tavern, which she's seen a hundred times, I cannot imagine."
"Perhaps they are going down to the beach," said Hawkins, who had no more malice in his composition than a swallow.
"No, no! they are turning toward the house," said the widow, considerably excited. "What can they want there?"
"Oh, very likely they have gone in to rest. You know North lives there when he comes on the island to fish or shoot."
"What! Mr. North, he live there and never tell me! I thought he was a perfect stranger on the island."
"As to that," answered Hawkins, a little startled by her earnestness, "he only comes down for a day now and then. It's nothing permanent, I assure you."
"There! there! they have gone in!" exclaimed the lady. "I wonder where Elsie is; I must tell Elsie."
"Why, what nonsense!" answered Hawkins, with some spirit; "can't Mrs. Mellen step into a house to rest herself a moment without troubling her friends so terribly?"
"Just be quiet, Hawkins, you don't know what you are talking about," answered the lady, keeping her gaze fastened on the tavern. "Turn an eye on the house while I look at the time. It must be five minutes since they went in. Dear, dear, what a world we live in!"
Mrs. Harrington kept the little enamelled watch, sparkling with diamonds, in her ungloved hand full ten minutes, only glancing from it to the door of the tavern in her vigilance. At the end of that time Mr. North and his companion came out of the house and disappeared in the undergrowth which lay between that and the precipice.
Mrs. Harrington watched some time for them to appear again, but her curiosity was baffled, and her attention soon directed to other objects. At last she was aroused by Elsie coming suddenly upon the ledge, flushed, panting for breath and glowing with anger. She turned upon Hawkins like a spiteful mockingbird.
"A pretty escort you are, Mr. Hawkins, to leave a lady all alone in the woods. I declare, Mrs. Harrington, he lost me in one of those dreadful ravines, and I scrambled up the wrong bank and have been wandering everywhere, climbing rocks and tiring myself to death. Only think of dragging this long skirt over my arm and tearing my way through the bushes. I heard the servants laugh and that guided me, or I might have been roaming the woods now."
"My poor dear," said the widow, full of compassion, "how heated and wearied you look! Hawkins, can't you find something to fan her with?"
Hawkins broke off a branch full of leaves and offered to fan her with it. But she snatched it out of his hand and flung it over the precipice.
"Where is Elizabeth? Go tell Elizabeth I wish to speak with her, if you want to make up with me."
"We have not seen Mrs. Mellen since you went away; nor Mr. North either. They have finished that ride by strolling off together," said Mrs. Harrington.
Elsie started, and the warm color faded from her face.
"What! Elizabeth; has she been roaming about? and—and——"
"With Mr. North, Elsie."
The tone in which this was conveyed said more than the words. At first Elsie looked bewildered; then, as if her gentle spirit had received the shock of a painful idea, she fell into troubled thought.
"And you saw her go away," she said, in a low voice. "In what direction?"
"We did not know how or when she went, but certainly did see her and Mr. North together."
"Where?"
"Down yonder, going into that low tavern."
Elsie gazed into her friend's face, startled and astonished.
"She would not go there. You must be mistaken, Mrs. Harrington. No person could be recognised from this distance—it's all nonsense."
"Ask her," said Mrs. Harrington, "for here she comes."
Elizabeth came up from a hollow in the woods and joined the party. She seemed completely worn out, and sat down on a fragment of rock, panting for breath. She was very pale, as if some great exertion had left the weariness of reaction upon her. She had evidently rested somewhere before joining them.
"Elizabeth, where have you been?" said Elsie, looking anxiously at her sister-in-law.
"Down in the woods."
Elizabeth pointed to the forest that sloped back from the precipice.
Before Elsie could resume her questions Mrs. Harrington broke in with a faint sneer on her lips.
"And where did you leave Mr. North?" she said, fixing a cunning, sidelong glance on Elizabeth.
"I have not seen Mr. North," answered Mrs. Mellen, with apparent indifference, though the hot color mounted to her face, brought there either by some inward consciousness or the perceptible sneer leveled at her in the form of a question.
"Not seen Mr. North," exclaimed the widow, "dear me what things optical delusions are!"
Elizabeth did not hear or heed this, for that instant Mr. North came up to them very quietly and sat down near the widow.
"Have you had a pleasant ramble?" he said, addressing Elsie. "I saw you and Hawkins in the woods and had half a mind to join you."
"But changed your mind, and went—may I ask where?" said Elsie, with a shade of pallor on her face; for it seemed as if the man had surprised her with bitter thoughts of his deception in her mind, and she could not refrain from revealing something of distrust.
"Oh, I took a ramble around the brow of the precipice," he answered, carelessly, "and went into the tavern for a glass of water."
"And the lady," said Elsie, looking steadily in his face. "What lady was it in a riding-dress who bore you company? Mrs. Harrington saw one from her perch here on the ledge."
North cast a quick glance on Elizabeth, who did not speak, but sat looking from him to her sister-in-law, as if stricken by some sudden terror.
"It was a mistake. No lady shared my rambles," said North.
"But there was a lady," cried Mrs. Harrington, a good deal excited. "I saw her with my own eyes. Mr. Hawkins remarked her too."
North smiled and shook his head.
"She had on a riding-habit and an upright plume like——"
"Well, well," said North, gently, "it is useless going on with the subject. I assure you that I went down the precipice alone and came up alone."
Mrs. Harrington looked at Elsie and smiled.
"Of course he is in honor bound to say that," she whispered.
Elsie seemed disturbed and answered quickly, "I, for one, believe that he speaks the truth. It is folly to say that you saw any one in that dress; besides, it was just as likely to be me as Elizabeth—our habits are alike."
"Poor generous dove!" whispered the widow, "you know better; but if you are satisfied it's no business of mine, only if Mellen asks me about it I must tell the truth."
"Mary Harrington, you must have better proof than this before you dare to make mischief between my brother and his wife," said Elsie, with a force of expression that made the widow open her eyes wide. "Don't be slanderous and wicked, for I won't bear that, especially against Elizabeth."
"Dear me, what a storm I have raised. Well, well, I did not see a lady, that's enough. And there comes that wonderful colored person of yours, to say that the feast is spread and the chowder perfect. Come, come, one and all."
The whole party had assembled on the ledge by this time. At Mrs. Harrington's invitation, it moved off, and went laughing and chatting towards a large flat rock, that gleamed out from among the surrounding grass and mosses, like a crusted snow bank, so white and crisp was the linen spread over it. Here a dainty repast presented itself, for the smoking dish of chowder that stood in the centre gave its name to what was, in fact, a sumptuous feast. Directly the noise of flying corks and the gurgle of amber-hued wines, with bursts of laughter and flashes of wit, frightened the birds from their haunt in the great maple-tree overhead, and made its rich yellow leaves tremble again in the sunshine that came quivering over the forest, and rippled up the broad ocean with silvery outbursts.
Whatever had gone before, all was hilarity and cordial good-humor now. North, for one, came out resplendently; such graceful compliments, such bright flashes of wit no one had ever heard from his lips till then. It aroused the best talent of every one present. When the party broke up and its members went to the covert where their horses had been fed, it was joyously, like birds flying home to their nests.
A ride through the golden coolness of a lovely sunset brought the party back to Piney Cove, and all that had gone wrong during the day seemed forgotten.
The visitors were to start for New York early in the morning, and, as all were somewhat fatigued, the house was closed somewhat earlier than usual.
Elsie had retired earlier than the rest, having some preparations to make for her little journey. She busied herself awhile about her boudoir and bed-room, selecting a few articles of jewelry and so on to be packed, then sat down and read awhile; tired of that, she turned down the lights in the alabaster lily cups, which one of the statues held, sat down in the faint moonshine, with which she had thus flooded the room, and fell into a train of restless thought; a pale gleam darted up now and then from the lilies, and trembled through the floss-like curls under which she had thrust her hand, revealing a face more earnest and thoughtful than was usual to the gay young creature. Whether it was that she had become anxious from the dart of suspicion that had been that day cast at her brother's wife, or was disturbed by some other cause I cannot say, but her eyes shone bright and clear in the pale radiance that surrounded her; now and then she would start up and listen at Elizabeth's door, as if about to enter and question her of the things that evidently troubled her mind. At last she fell into quiet, and lying on the couch, scarcely seemed to breathe. It was almost midnight then. The house was still, and she could hear the distant waves beating against the shore. She closed her eyes and listened dreamily, reluctant to seek any other place of rest, yet changing the azure cushions of her couch impatiently from time to time.
At last, as she half rose for this purpose, a noise from the outer room, which was a square passage or hall, in which were placed some bronze statues and antique shields, arrested her attention. Resting on her elbow, she held her breath and listened.
The noise came again more distinctly. It seemed as if a door had been opened with caution. Elsie arose, stole softly across the carpet, turned the lock of her dressing-room door and entered the passage, carrying a little night-lamp in her hand, which she had kindled among the alabaster lilies. She had half crossed the hall, casting frightened looks around, when a cry of dismay broke from her lips, for close by the door which led to her sister-in-law's apartments she saw Elizabeth standing, pale as death, but with her eyes burning like fire, turned upon a man who stood leaning against one of the statues. It was Mr. North.
The two women stood face to face, regarding each other in dead silence, while North smiled upon them both. The lamp trembled in Elsie's hand, her face became white as snow. Without uttering a word she turned, entered her room and locked the door.
The next day she left Piney Point with Mrs. Harrington. Mr. North left also, but he went alone.
Months had passed since Grantley Mellen's departure for California; the winter had gone, the summer faded, and though his absence had been prolonged almost two years, there was little hope of his speedy return.
The business upon which he had gone out was not yet settled, and however great his anxiety to meet his family, he would not endanger his worldly interests so vitally as he would have done by any neglect or reckless inattention in that affair.
Since the night of that unpleasant scene in the hall at Piney Cove, Elsie Mellen had been at home so irregularly that all intimate relations had died out between her and her sister-in-law. Some dark thought seemed to possess the young girl, since the night of that strange adventure; and, though the subject was never mentioned between her and Elizabeth, Elsie's demeanor towards her brother's wife was one of cold, almost hateful distrust, while Elizabeth grew more pensively sad each day, and seemed to shrink from any explanation with painful sensitiveness.
At last Elsie almost entirely absented herself from the house. The very premises seemed to have become hateful to her. Without deigning to consult Elizabeth, she had been visiting about among her former schoolmates, making Mrs. Harrington's house her headquarters. This was all the announcement of her movements that she chose to make to the woman who had been left her guardian.
How this fair, thoughtless girl lost all respect for her brother's wife so completely that she refused to remain accountable to her for anything, no one could tell, for she never mentioned the affair of that night to her nearest friend. It evidently worked in her heart, but never found utterance.
So the winter wore away drearily enough at Piney Cove; for with all her waywardness, Elsie had been like a sunbeam in the house; and Elizabeth pined in her absence till the dark circles widened under her eyes, and her voice always had a sound of pain in it. But with the most sorrowful, time moves on, and even grief cannot retain one phase of mournfulness for ever.
The second spring began to scatter a little brightness about the old house, and in this fresh outbloom of nature Elizabeth found some sources of enjoyment. Since her virtual separation from Elsie she had received no company, but lived in utter seclusion. Letters from her husband came regularly, but her replies were studied, and written with restraint. She never folded one of these missives without tears in her eyes, and when his letters spoke of coming home, she would ponder over the writing with a look of strange dread in her face.
One lovely spring morning Elizabeth Mellen was alone in that quiet old mansion. Elsie had not been home for months, and only brief notes announcing some change of place, or anticipated movements, had warned Elizabeth of her mode of existence. These notes were cold as ice, and the young wife always shivered with dread when she opened them.
It might have been a package of these letters that she had been reviewing. She was alone in the library; quite alone, of course, but the repose and silence about her brought no rest to her soul. Her whole appearance was in strange contrast to the quiet of the scene; her face so changed by the thoughts which kept her company, and forced themselves upon her solitude, that it hardly seemed the same.
She walked up and down the room in nervous haste, her head bent, her eyes looking straight before her, full of wild bewilderment which follows an effort at reflection when the mind is in a fever of unrest. Sometimes she stopped before the table, on which lay a package of open letters; she would glance at them with a shudder of horror, wringing her hands passionately together at the time, and uttering low moans which sounded scarcely human in their smothered intensity.
Then she would glance towards the mantel, upon which lay a letter with the seal still unbroken, though it had reached her early that morning. It was from her husband, and she had not yet dared to read its contents!
She had been thus for hours, walking to and fro, sometimes sweeping the package on the table away, as if unable longer to endure it before her eyes, only an instant after to recover it as if there were danger in allowing it out of her sight. Then she would take up her husband's letter and attempt to open it, but each time her courage failed, and she would lay it down, while that sickening trouble at her heart sent a new pallor across her face, and left her trembling and weak, like a person just risen from a sick bed.
It was growing late in the afternoon; the sunlight played in at the windows, and cast a pleasant glow through the room; but the glad beams only made her shiver, as if they had been human witnesses that might betray her fear and misery.
At last she took up the package, resolved to put it resolutely away where she could no longer look at it; as she raised it a miniature fell from among the papers, and struck the floor with a ringing sound. She snatched it up quickly, crushed the whole into a drawer, locked it and put the key in her bosom.
Then, with a sudden struggle she started forward to the mantel, caught up her husband's letter, and began to read. A sharp cry broke from her lips; she dropped slowly to her knees, and went on reading in that attitude, as if it were the only one in which she could venture to glance at those kindly words:
"Not coming quite yet," she gasped at length; "thank God, not yet—not yet."
She allowed the letter to drop from her hand, and for a few moments gave herself completely up to the horrible agitation which consumed her.
It would have been a piteous sight to the coldest or most injured heart to have seen that beautiful woman crouched on the floor, in the extremity of her anguish, writhing to and fro, and moaning in mortal agony, which could find no relief in tears.
She remained thus for a long time; at last some sudden thought appeared to strike her, which brought with it an absolute necessity for self-control and immediate action.
She rose to her feet, muttering:
"He will be here again soon; he must not find me like this!"
She walked to the mirror, arranged her disordered dress and hair, and stood gazing at her own features in a sort of wondering pity; they were so death-like and contracted, with suffering that she felt almost as if looking into the face of a stranger.
At length she caught up a cloak which lay on the sofa, wrapped herself in it and went out of the house.
She took her way through the woods, walking rapidly, quite regardless that the moisture from the damp earth was penetrating her thin shoes, not feeling the keenness of the wind, which was growing chill with the approach of evening.
The expression of her face changed; she was deadly pale still, but a look of resolution had settled over her features, and a naturally strong will had begun to assert itself.
Beyond the shrubbery that thick grove of evergreens extended to the very shore, and into their shadow Elizabeth walked with a determined step.
Evidently waiting for some one she paced up and down among the trees, the dry leaves rustling under her tread and making her start, as if she feared being surprised in that solitary spot by some curious wanderer.
It was growing almost twilight, but still she kept up that dreary promenade, struggling bravely with herself, and trying to restrain the agonizing thoughts which threatened to overwhelm her forced composure.
"He will not come," she muttered; "I must wait—wait—he will not come to-day."
She shuddered at the very sound of her own voice, but it seemed to have disturbed some one else; for a step sounded on the grass, and a man came out from the deeper recesses of the grove, and paused for a moment, glancing on either side as if uncertain which path to pursue.
It was Mr. North.
Elizabeth saw the man and yet neither moved or spoke, but remained standing there in dumb silence, gazing at him with an expression in which so many diverse emotions struggled, that it would have been difficult to decide which feeling was paramount.
The flutter of her cloak caught his attention, and he came hurriedly forward with a smile on his lips, holding out his hand in an easy, reckless fashion.
"Ten thousand pardons," he exclaimed, "I fear that I have kept you waiting—I shall never forgive myself."
She put up her hand as if to check him, feeling, perhaps, some mockery in these words which was not apparent in his voice.
"We need not make excuses to each other," she said, in a cold, hard tone, "neither you nor I came here for that."
"Scarcely, I believe," and he laughed in a reckless way, which appeared natural to him.
Elizabeth Mellen shuddered in every limb at that repulsive sound; an absolute spasm of pain contracted her features, she gave no other sign of emotion, but clenched her hands hard together, forcing herself to be calm.
"I only received your letter this morning," he continued, watching her every movement carefully, while standing there with his back against a tree with apparent unconcern; "I should have been earlier, had it been possible."
She made an impatient gesture.
"No more of that," she exclaimed, "enough!"
He looked at her with the same careless smile that lighted up his somewhat worn face into an expression of absolute youthfulness. He was still a splendidly handsome man; a type of rare beauty which could not have failed to attract general observation wherever he appeared.
He was tall; the shoulders and limbs might have served as a model for a sculptor; the neck was white almost as a woman's; the magnificent head set with perfect grace upon it, and was carried with a haughty air that was absolutely noble. He might have been thirty-eight, perhaps even older than that, but he was one of those men concerning whose age even a physiognomist would be puzzled to decide.
The face was almost faultless in its contour; the mouth, shaded by a long silken moustache, which relieved his paleness admirably, and lent new splendor to his eyes, which possessed a strange magnetic power that had worked ill in more than one unfortunate destiny.
It was a face trained to concealment, and yet so carefully tutored that at the first glance one only thought what an open, pleasant expression it had. Even after long intercourse and a thorough knowledge of the man's character, that face would have puzzled the most skillful observer.
Elizabeth Mellen was looking at him in a strange silence; whatever might have been in the past there was no spell now in those glorious eyes which could dazzle her soul into forgetfulness; shade after shade of repressed emotion passed over her features as she gazed, leaving them at last white and fixed as marble.
"You are pale," he said, "so changed."
She started as if he had struck her.
"I did not come here to talk of my appearance," she said.
"True," he replied, "very true; but I cannot help wondering. I think of that day when I saved your life——"
"If you had only let me die then!" she broke in passionately. "If God had only mercifully deprived you of all strength!"
"You were blooming and gay," he went on as if he had not heard her words. "Yes, you are changed since then."
"I will not hear these things," she cried; "I will not be made to look back upon what we all were then."
She closed her eyes in blind anguish; his words brought back with such terrible force the time of that meeting—the day but one before her marriage, when he had started up so fatally in her path, and never left it till this terrible moment.
"Then to change the subject," he said. "In our brief conversation the other day we arrived at no conclusion whatever, nor was your letter any more satisfactory; will you tell me exactly what you have decided upon?"
A sudden flash of anger leaped into her eyes above all the suffering that dilated them.
"Now you are talking naturally," she said, "now you are your real self!"
He bowed in graceful, almost insulting mockery.
"It is your turn to pay compliments," he answered; "but I shall not receive them so ungraciously as you did mine."
She passed her hand across her throat as if something were choking her, then she said in a hard, measured tone:
"Have you considered the proposition I made you—will you go away from this country, and remain away for ever?"
He stood playing with his watchchain in an easy, careless way, as he replied:
"It is cruel to banish me—very cruel!"
"Listen!" she exclaimed passionately; "I know more than you think—your residence here is not safe!"
He only bowed again.
"It may be so, but I leave few traces in my path. If you do indeed know anything which could affect me, I am very certain that in you I have a friend who will be silent."
He opened his vest slightly and drew forth from an inner pocket a small paper, at the sight of which Elizabeth grew whiter than before. She made a gesture as if she would have snatched it from him, but he thrust it back in its hiding-place with a sarcastic smile.
"Secret for secret," said he; "but never mind that. After all, you treat me very badly. I wonder I am in the least inclined to be friends with you."
"Don't mock me!" she exclaimed. "Friends! There is no creature living that I loathe as I do you! No matter what the danger may be, I will speak the truth; tell you how utterly abhorrent you are to me, and brave the result."
"Yet once——"
She interrupted him with an insane gesture; perhaps he knew her too well for any attempt at trifling further with her just then, for his manner changed, and he said:
"You will take cold here; it is growing dark and the wind is very chill."
"It doesn't matter," she replied, recklessly. "Let us finish what there is to say, then I will go."
The wretched woman could stand upon her feet no longer, she was shaking so with agitation and exhaustion that she was forced to sit down on a fallen log. He seated himself by her side, regardless of her recoiling gesture, and began to talk earnestly.
For a full hour that strange interview went on, their voices rising at times in sudden passion, then sinking to a low tone, as if the speakers remembered that they spoke words which must not be overheard.
At last Elizabeth arose from her seat, folded her cloak about her, and said, quickly:
"Be here to-morrow at the same hour."
Without giving him time to answer, or making the least sign of farewell, she darted rapidly through the darkening woods and disappeared in the direction of the house.
North rose, began whistling a careless air, and walked slowly back along the path by which he had entered the grove.
When Elizabeth came in sight of the house she saw a light in the library window.
"Elsie is back at last. God help us all!" she muttered.
She moved near the low casement, looked in and saw the girl standing on the hearth, and hurried towards the entrance.
Elsie had returned home a full hour before, and had searched for Elizabeth vainly about the house. She entered the library, and was walking restlessly about the spacious room, slowly and sadly, as if oppressed by this cold welcome home.
Suddenly her eye caught sight of a paper lying under the table; it was one of the letters which had fallen unnoticed by Elizabeth when she put away the package.
Elsie caught it up, glanced her eyes over it, uttered a faint cry, then read it in a sort of horrified stupor.
"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" broke from her lips.
The discovery which she had made froze the very blood in her veins, and left her incapable of thought or action. She sat shivering, as if struck with a mortal chill, and at last crept close to the fire, clutching the letter in her hands, but holding them out for warmth. Sometimes her sister's name broke from her lips in a horrified whisper, and low words died in her throat, the very sound of which made her shudder.
At length the darkness and the solitude seemed to become insupportable to her; she started forward and opened the door, with the intention of fleeing from the room. It had suddenly become odious to her. She took one step into the hall and met Elizabeth face to face. The woman saw the letter which Elsie held in her hand, caught the recoiling gesture which she instinctively made, then for an instant they both stood still, staring at each other.
Suddenly Elizabeth caught Elsie's hand, drew her back into the library, and, once there, closed and locked the door.
For more than an hour the pair were alone in that darkened apartment. When at last they emerged from it they were both deadly white, and exhausted as if by passionate weeping. Not a word was spoken between them, but they turned away from each other like ghosts that had no resting-place on earth.
When North left Mrs. Mellen in the woods he took a moment for consideration, and then walked quickly towards the shore tavern. As he turned a point which led from Piney Point to the bluff which overhung it, his servant, the young mulatto, who had spent most of the season at this retreat, came to meet him with a letter in his hand.
"It had a foreign postmark," said the man; "so I started to meet you the moment it came in, according to orders."
"Right, boy, you are very right," cried North, tearing at the envelope as a hawk rends its prey; "never let a scrap of writing from abroad rest a moment out of my hands."
The man read the letter—only a few lines—and his hands shook till the paper rattled again.
"Boy—boy, what day of the month is this?" he questioned, trying to fold the letter, which he crushed instead.
"The tenth, sir."
North went into a mental calculation, then the cloud on his face broke away and he almost shouted:
"It is in time—it is in time! Any other letters?"
"One for the Cove. Shall I slip it into the old man's parcel or would you rather——"
"Give it to me," said North, cutting the servant short, and snatching at the letter, which was in Mr. Mellen's handwriting and bore the California postmark.
He was too eager for caution, and broke the seal recklessly.
"He, too—he coming, too! By Jove, this is glorious sport! Made his will before sailing, ha!—provident man!—one half to his dear wife, the other to his darling sister, Elsie Mellen. A safe precaution, for ships will get lost at sea."
North crushed the two letters into his pocket, and walked with rapid steps towards the tavern. But he only remained long enough to get a telescope, with which he reappeared, and turned into a path leading to the bluff. Once upon the ledge, high above the house, he levelled his glass and took a hasty sweep of the ocean with it. Nothing was in sight that seemed to interest him, so he turned the glass a little landward and levelled it on the Piney Cove mansion, which made an imposing feature in the landscape. From the eminence on which the mansion stood the grounds sloped down to the water's edge in a closely-shaven lawn, pleasantly broken up by flower-beds, and knots of old trees that looked aged and mysterious enough to have watched that distant sweep of sea for whole centuries.
North seemed to be counting every clump of trees, and calculating the value of each broad field that stretched back from the crescent-like Cove.
"It is a glorious old place, and we might live there like monarchs. If I could only command the winds and waves for one week, now, we might defy the rest. Half his property! Why, it is splendid; and the will safe."
With these words he turned his glass again. On a clear morning there was a glorious view from the bluff, showing the full extent of the curving bay, with its long line of steep woodlands stretching along the coast and the bright rush of waters beyond, till the eye was lost in the white line of the distant ocean.
Other mansions peeped out from among the trees, or stood boldly down on the shore, and on the right hand a small village nestled in at the furthermost extremity of the bay, forming a pleasant life picture. The man cared nothing for these things, but turned his glass directly oceanward, and searched the horizon with keen interest.
A ship hove in sight, like a great white bird, beating up from its nest in mid-ocean. The heart in that bad man's bosom made a great bound, and the blasphemy of a thanksgiving sprang to his lips; but the joy was only for a moment. Dropping his glass, he muttered:
"Madman! to suppose, of all the ships on the ocean, it must be this one. But if it should—if it should!"
He sat down on a fragment of rock, rested his glass on the drooping branch of a tree, and watched the ship as it swept through a bank of luminous fog and took a more definite form. Hitherto it had seemed floating between a curve of the sky and the blue line of water, but now it came out clearly, and as North looked he saw a dark pile of storm-clouds muster up behind it with slow, threatening danger.
Hour after hour the man sat and watched that one object. The glass was a powerful one, and seconded his keen vigilance. At length he was rewarded, a burst of sunshine fell upon the vessel, the last that illuminated the horizon that day, and he saw her name on the stern. The telescope dropped from his hand, his face turned pale; the cry that leaped to his lips perished there. The man was frightened by the completion of his own wishes. Had some evil spirit performed a miracle for him?
All the time this man had been watching, a tempest blackly followed the homeward-bound ship. The ocean began to dash and torment itself into a fury of wrath. A high wind came roaring up from the bosom of the waters, and over all gathered a world of lurid gloom, kindled fiercely red by the sun when it went down, and slowly engulfed the ship, which was last seen struggling fearfully in the wild upheaving of the elements.
North seemed possessed of a demon that night. He left his telescope on the earth, and went desperately to work, gathering up dry wood and brush, which he stacked on the overhanging ledge, never pausing till a great mound was created sufficiently large to keep a fire blazing all night. By the time this was done the darkness became profound. Now arid then he could see drifts of foam tossed upwards, like the fluttering garments of a ghost fleeing from the storm. The little tavern at the foot of the rock was lost in the overwhelming darkness. The lights from the village seemed put out, and there was no vestige of Piney Cove visible. No rain, as yet had fallen; and at this North rejoiced, for his stock of wood was like tinder in its dryness, and the wind came fiercely from the ocean, so fiercely that it threatened the death of any vessel approaching the shore.
With all these elements of terror surrounding him, North worked till the perspiration dropped from his forehead like rain. That cliff had been blackened before with wreckers' fires, but never had a man heaped wood upon wood with so vivid a conviction of the crime he meditated, with such earnest desire for death to follow his toil.
When the evening had reached its darkest gloom, this man struck a match, which he took from his pocket in a little case of enamelled gold—for even in his crimes he was dainty—and thrust it among the yellow pine splinters with which he had laid the foundation of his deathfire. The blue light of the match flashed close to his face, revealing it white as death, but smiling.
Directly a column of flame shot upward, first in fine quivering flashes, then in long, curling wreaths of fire, that the wind seized upon and tore into hot, red tatters, laughing and wrangling among them with fearful grotesqueness.
North retreated from the blaze, and ran back into the woods, hiding himself, for he feared to be seen from the tavern below. Now and then he would start forth, toss a handful of fuel on the flames, and plunge back into the darkness, where he listened greedily for some token to come out of the storm and prove that his evil work was well done.
It came at last—a gun boomed out from the tempest. The man started and began to tremble. Still he listened. Another gun, with loud cries cutting sharply through the storm, then dead silence, followed by a tumult upon the shore, as if men were gathering in haste.
North was not surprised at this. When a vessel struck in these days on the Long Island shore, wreckers appeared in dozens, not eager for death, for they would rather have avoided that, but keen for plunder. Now the cries of these men made the storm terrible. Blue lights from the stricken ship revealed her struggling fiercely among the breakers, which were rending her like wild beasts.
Then North trampled out his death fire and went down to the beach among the crowd of wreckers that stood waiting, with horrid patience, for the ship to go to pieces and give its treasures into their greedy keeping.
"No boat could live among the breakers three minutes, I tell you," said old Benson with gruff decision, when North, horrified by the terrible shrieks that rang up from the sinking ship, was seized with an awful fit of remorse, and cried out fiercely for help which no man could give. He would have undone his work then had it been possible, for the last faint light that went up from the wreck revealed a woman, with outstretched arms and hair streaming back on the storm, pleading so wildly for help that a fiend would have pitied her. It was this woman's life he had sought, but with the sight of her his heart failed utterly.
But an evil deed once written in the eternal book of God cannot be recalled. While this man stood in dumb helplessness on the beach, the ship sunk. Out of the whirlpool which it made, the wretched woman was tossed back among the breakers, that seized upon her, fiercely hurled her to and fro against the rocks, then gave her over to a great inheaving wave, which left her shrouded in a drift of seaweed almost at her murderer's feet.
Daylight had broken on the wreck before it went down. Leaden and cold it fell over the corpse of that poor woman as it was borne up to the tavern, with the seaweed trailing from it and the wet garments clinging to the limbs like cerements. Two rude seamen carried her away, for North fled from the first sight of his work and plunged madly into the water, where many a poor wretch was buffeting with the waves. He called on the wreckers to help him, and dragged two or three exhausted creatures to the beach, for he was ready to brave death in any shape rather than look upon that cold form again.
They carried the lifeless woman up to the tavern, and, careless of ceremony, laid her on the bed in North's room. Here they left her, with the salt sea-water dripping in a heavy rain from her garments, soaking the bed and forming dreary rivulets along the uncarpeted floor.
Deep in the morning North came up from the beach pale and staggering from exhaustion. He went into his chamber and was about to cast himself on the bed, when, lo! that face on the pillow met his gaze, ghastly and cold. The heavy dropping of the water struck upon his ear like the fall of leaden bullets. He stood paralyzed yet fascinated. A shudder colder than spray from his garments shook his form from head to foot; and, turning, he fled down the stairs again out upon the beach, and helped the wreckers to haul in their plunder, till he fell utterly exhausted on the sands.