The storm had abated, but still the sea rose tempestuously, and broken clouds filled the sky as with great whirlpools and drifts of smoke. A good deal of rain had fallen, and this calmed the waters somewhat; but the disturbed elements of the tempest made the most experienced seaman look anxious when his face was turned oceanwards. An assistant pilot, whose duty lay in that range of the shore, had been injured in helping to save the crew of that ill-fated vessel. His comrades had carried him up to the tavern, and laid him on a settee in the bar-room, where he grew worse and worse, till it became dangerous to remove him to more comfortable quarters.
In this state North found the man on the second day after the wreck, when he came up from the village, where he had sought accommodations till the coroner's inquest should be over, and his room cleared of its mournful incumbrance.
Independent of his personal hurt, the boatman was suffering from intense anxiety regarding the duties of his occupation. It had been his employer's pride to be always first in the incoming course of the California steamers, and now his little craft lay with its sails furled in a cove below the house, waiting for a signal to put to sea. The man had been very anxious to intercept the steamers of that month, because it was thought that Mr. Mellen might possibly be on board, and he was sure of a good round sum, in that case, for bringing this gentleman on shore, while his superior, the pilot, took the steamer into port.
North heard all these muttered regrets as he sat gloomily in the bar-room, and they seemed to affect him more than so unimportant a subject should have done. It was now drawing towards night, and the man became terribly restless, for the pilot was expected every moment, and from vague conjecture the poor fellow worked his mind up into a certainty that Mellen would come, and the reward for bringing him on shore be lost.
"If there was only a man about that could take care of the craft," he said, "I'd divide with him a fair half to take my place, but there isn't, and ten chances to one the boss loses his chance with the steamer, all because of this confounded foot of mine. I wish we'd let the passengers drown; well, not quite so bad as that, but it's plaguey hard on a fellow to give up his luck in this way."
The bar-room happened to be empty just then, with the exception of North and the injured man. North aroused himself and looked around. Seeing no listeners near, he went up to the grumbler, and began to condole with him.
"Is there no one who can take your place?" he questioned.
"Not a man. These fellows do well enough in fishing boats that can hug the shore, but sometimes the boss runs his craft clear out to sea. Besides, this weather is enough to frighten a fresh hand," was the impatient answer.
"What if I should make an offer to go."
"You!"
The man laughed in spite of his pain and annoyance.
"You. I like that."
"But I can handle a boat in pretty rough waters, let me tell you, my man."
"But you look too much of a gentleman. The boss would never trust you."
"Oh, a suit of your clothes, which I see they have had sense enough to dry, and a few things I have on hand will make that all right."
"But, how much? how much?" inquired the man, anxiously.
"Why, nothing; I shall go for the fun of it, or not at all."
"That's the idea," answered the seaman, rubbing his hands—which still trembled with weakness—in sudden delight, "a real gentleman and no mistake, but bear a hand at once. It won't do for the commodore to find you in this rig."
"Aye, aye," answered North, sailor fashion, and in a voice that seemed hoarse from years of sea service.
The man started up on the settee, aroused to dangerous enthusiasm by astonishment.
"That's the time o' day," he cried in high glee.
North snatched up the seaman's clothes, and retired with them into a little room back of the bar. He had got over the first shock of nervousness regarding the dead body lying upstairs, but still shrunk from looking on it again with shuddering terror. The remembrance of his crime did not prevent the contemplation of another equally atrocious, but he did not care to look on that sight again. After a little he came out from the room, so completely changed that the sick man stared wildly at him, and called out,
"Where away, messmate; are you one of the fellows we saved from the wreck?"
North laughed, settled himself in his loose clothes sailor fashion, and walked with wide steps across the floor, as if it had been a quarter-deck. A dawning conviction of the truth seized upon the man. He fell back upon the settee, uttering broken ejaculations of delight intermingled with groans.
"That'll do. It's all right. He'll take you for one of the chaps we saved from the wreck, and ask no questions," he panted out.
"It's going to be a roughish night," said North. "I hope your Mr. Mellen can swim, if we happen to get into any trouble."
"No, no, don't depend on that, but he knows the coast, and is as brave as a lion; still I shouldn't like him to be brought into danger, remember that."
"It's not at all likely that he'll be on board," answered North, carelessly.
"Hush up," cried the seaman, "don't you hear the commodore coming? They've just told him about this confounded foot. Hear him swear."
The pilot came in while his assistant was speaking.
"What the thunder is all this about? just when I wanted you most, too, and a rough night. They'll get ahead of us, and all through this confounded wrecking business. Couldn't you keep out of it for once, you rascal?"
"Keep a stiff upper lip, commodore. It's all right," cried the man, pointing to North; "here's a chap I have done a service to, who is willing to take my night's work on himself, just out of gratitude. He's a safe hand."
"Let him bear away, then," cried the pilot, casting a glance at North, which seemed to prove satisfactory; "come on, my man, we have no time to lose."
North followed the pilot in silence, only stopping by the sick man long enough to whisper, "Don't mention this to a living soul!"
The man promised, and kept his word.
The pilot boat was soon unmoored and flying out to sea like a stormy petrel. North performed his duty well, and received a word or two of commendation from the superior, which proved the efficacy of his disguise, for he had seen this person more than once at the shore tavern.
At last they came in sight of a large steamer laboring heavily with a roughish sea and uncertain wind. She hailed them, and the little boat bore down upon her. The steamer lay to, and the pilot mounted her side, after giving some directions to his man. A crowd of persons met him as he leaped over the bulwarks, and among them North searched with burning eagerness for that one face. It appeared at last, looking down upon the boat from over the bulwarks. The bad man's heart rose to his mouth; he watched every movement on deck with keen interest.
The pilot came to Mellen's side, and made a signal for the boat to wait. Then some luggage was lowered and Grantley Mellen came down the side of the steamer, and took his seat in the little craft, which flew away with him towards the clouded shore. The wind increased as they sped along, and though not so terrible as it had been when that other vessel was wrecked, it gradually rose to a degree of violence that threatened the little pilot boat with destruction. But the gale blew shoreward, and urged the boat on till it fairly leaped over the hissing waves.
A dismal twilight came on, and the storm was rapidly increasing to its full power as they drew near the shore. The wind roared among the hills, and lashed the waters into foam, the rain beat heavily and chill as sleet, but Mr. Mellen sat cold and firm on his luggage, neither heeding the disguised boatman's ejaculations or offering to aid him in his difficult task.
It was a position to test the courage of the strongest man, and many a time it seemed that the wind and waves must conquer and swamp the light craft completely; but no matter how rude or sudden the shock, Mr. Mellen neither betrayed any anxiety, nor gave any more sympathy to the toiling boatman, than if he had been a wooden machine.
The disguised seaman now and then cast a furtive look at his passenger, who seemed almost unconscious of the increasing gale. A heavy gust sometimes seized his cloak and sent it sweeping out like the wings of a great bird, but he only pulled it impatiently about him and sat quiet again, looking out through the stern night.
This perilous voyage was a long one, and its difficulties grew fearfully as they neared the end. The wind seemed to come from every point at once, and tossed the boat about till it fairly leaped in the water, as if trying to escape from its combined enemies.
Suddenly the rain almost ceased, the clouds parted, and the moon cast a frightened glare over the scene. In the distance Mr. Mellen could see his own dwelling, with the broad sweep of woods and waters in front; then a sharp exclamation from his companion aroused him to the new dangers that threatened him.
The boat had been swept in near the shore, where a ring of sunken rocks girdled the beach, breaking the waves into whirlpools, and sending the white foam out into the storm. In this spot that good ship had gone down, yet the boatman made no effort to veer his little craft from the awful danger, but with a furious light in his eyes and a horrid smile on his lips, bore down upon the breakers. True, it required almost superhuman strength to turn the course of that light craft, for the blast was dashing it forward like a battalion of fiends.
They were close upon the breakers, when Mellen sprang up, pushed the boatman back with a violence that sent him headlong into the bottom of the boat, and seized the helm himself. Mr. Mellen struggled with all the power desperation gives a man, but his efforts were futile as those of a child. The boat spun round and round till they were fairly dizzy; another fierce blast and they were blown directly into the breakers.
Mellen's agonized cry was answered by a hoarse murmur from his companion, which sounded like a malediction. Before either could think or act, a more violent blast raging up from the sea, struck the skiff and whirled it in among the rocks.
Now Mellen's eyes kindled, and all the reserved force of his character came out. He knew every inch of the coast for miles each way. Through these boiling white breakers was a channel wide enough to carry them over, and towards that he forced the little craft, which seemed absolutely to leap through the breakers into the leaden current, where she rested one moment, trembling from stem to stern like a great crippled bird hunted to death by the elements.
North saw that they were in possible safety. He had not anticipated a storm so terrible as that, but had intended to swamp his boat in the breakers and swim ashore, leaving Mellen, who could not swim, as he supposed, to his fate. But now everything else was forgotten in a cowardly thirst for life. No man could exist for a moment in that awful riot of waters. He watched Mellen as he kept the boat steadily in the current, with the keen anxiety of a man to whom death is the terror of terrors.
The little craft swept on, reeling and recoiling along the narrow path into comparatively smooth waters. Mellen, still with one hand bearing down the helm, seized the cable and flung it towards the disguised boatman, who lifted his wild face for the orders he had not the power to ask.
"Be ready," cried Mellen, with the quick resolution which marked his character, "jump out as she nears that rock—we are safe then."
They both stood upright in the boat, swaying to and fro, but managing to retain a firm position.
Again the hope of safety seemed a delusive one; the skiff swooped away from the rock, spun more giddily about, and threw both men upon their knees. Another instant that seemed endless,—an instant which decided the fate of both, as far as this world was concerned,—these men trembled on the brink of eternity. If the skiff obeyed the counter blast that was upon them and swept towards the breakers, they were lost; still there was a hope, if it veered upon the rock which loomed out from the shore.
The moon gave light enough to enable them to watch the scene and see their danger. Again the conflicting blasts struck them; the boat reeled, righted itself and was dashing by the rock, upon which the two men sprang by a simultaneous movement. A few more vigorous leaps and they reached the shore, standing there for a moment in breathless awe. Then they commenced hauling in the crippled boat, which the blast had seized upon and was tearing out to sea.
"Safe!" cried Mellen, in a tone of hearty thanksgiving. "I did think that the brave little craft would go down, but thank God, we are on dry land."
"Safe and defeated!" muttered North, turning his face from the wind. "The storm that helped me two days ago proves treacherous now."
"Come!" shouted Mellen, lashing the cable to a stunted pine that grew in a cleft of the rock, "come up to the house, we shall find a fire there and a glass of brandy. The old man will send some of his people for the luggage."
North made no answer, but moved off towards the house, which he passed, walking moodily towards the village. Mellen went up to the tavern.
Lights shone cheerfully through the uncurtained windows of the Sailor's Safe Anchor, and the stranger could see the inmates of the dwelling gathered about the tea-table, looking comfortable enough to make a strong contrast to the chill and darkness without.
"There is not the least change," he muttered, drawing his cloak more closely about him; "I could almost think I had been gone only since morning, instead of two years."
He hurried on to the house, and hardly waiting for his imperative knock to be answered, pushed open the door and entered the kitchen. The old fisherman looked tranquilly up at the intruder, keeping his knife poised in one hand, not easily ruffled in his serenity, while the younger members of the family stared with all their might at the tall man, whose garments were dripping wet, driven by the storm into their dwelling.
"Good evenin', sir," said the old man; "it's a dark, wet night—wont you sit down?"
"I want a horse and a man," said Mellen, betraying by the haste in which he spoke, and his impatient movements, that he was too hurried for much attention to the old man's attempt at civility. "I want to go to the other end of the bay—can you let me have a horse and some one to look after my luggage?"
"What, to-night?" demanded the old man. "Why you can't want to go round the bay to-night."
"I should not have come for a horse if I had not wished to get home," said Mellen, impatiently. "Get one out at once, Benson; I am in great haste."
"'Taint a decent night to put a dog out o' doors," returned the fisherman; "it's a good deal mor'n likely you'd get swamped in the marsh, if I let the hoss go."
"Nonsense!" exclaimed Mellen. "I know this part of the country too well for that. There is no more risk than in this room."
The old man's obstinacy was roused, and he had a full share of that unpleasant quality when he chose to call it into action.
"Mebby you know more about it than I do," he grumbled; "but I've lived here a goin' on thirty years, and ort to be acquainted with this coast, and I say I ain't a going to risk my critters sich a night. If there ain't no danger 'taint fit to send any horse out in a storm like this anyhow."
"I can't stand arguing here," Mellen began, but the old man unceremoniously interrupted him.
"Where do you want to go?" he asked.
"Over to Piney Cove."
"Mr. Mellen's place! Why it's good three miles, and he ain't to hum, nor hasn't been, nigh on to two years."
"Don't you know me, old friend?" exclaimed Mellen throwing back his cloak.
The old fisherman rose in astonishment, while his married daughter, who kept his house and owned the flock of children, called out:
"Why, pa, if it ain't Mr. Mellen!"
"I thought I knowed your voice, but couldn't make out who it belonged to; but Californy ain't so nigh as some other places," said the fisherman. "So you've got back! Wal, wal! You've been gone a good while."
"So you can't wonder at my impatience when I find myself so near home," said Mellen.
"In course, in course," replied the old man. "But, dear me, you'll have to wait till Jake comes in, and I expect he'll grumble awful at having to start out agin."
"I will pay him his own price——"
"Oh, you allays was freehanded enough, I'll say that, Mr. Mellen. But sit down by the stove; Jake'll come in a few minutes. Mebby you'd try a cup of tea?"
But Mr. Mellen refused the proffered hospitality, and though he walked up to the fire, neither sat down or paid much attention to the questions the old man hazarded.
As Mellen stood there, though his restless movements betrayed great impatience, there was little trace of it visible in his face, whose cold pride seldom revealed the emotions which might be stirring at his heart. He was dressed in his sea clothes, which hung about him in wet masses. His face was bronzed by the exposure of a long sea voyage, but he was still a man of imposing presence, and retained his old, proud manner so thoroughly, that even the old man in his fever of curiosity, felt the same hesitation at questioning him too far which had always awed the villagers when Mr. Mellen formerly dwelt among them.
"I s'pose you've seen a sight sence you went away," said the old man, as he pushed his chair towards the fire. "All them gold mines; though I don't s'pose you went to work at them. People will talk you know, and they wondered at your going off in such a hurry——"
"Do you think that man will be here soon?" interrupted Mr. Mellen.
The fisherman felt ruffled and injured at having his gossiping propensities cut short in that manner, but that instant a step sounded on the stone porch without, and he said, grumblingly:
"There he is. I 'spect there'll be a touse about getting him to go."
But Mr. Mellon took the matter in his own hands when the man entered, and the liberal offer he made speedily put Jake in excellent spirits for the expedition.
"My baggage must be disposed of first," said Mr. Mellen. "Some one must get it from the pilot-boat."
"Jake and I'll fetch it in here," returned the old man.
"I will send for it in the morning," observed Mr. Mellen.
While they went down to the shore and were bringing in the trunks Mr. Mellen stood by the fire, quite regardless of the curiosity with which the children regarded him, and unconscious of several modest attempts at conversation made by the old man's daughter:
"Your clothes are wringing wet; hadn't you better get some things of father's and start dry?"
"No," answered Mellen, glancing at the water-proof carpet-bag which he had seized on leaving the boat, remembering that it contained important papers. "I have some things in here, and they will find my macintosh in the boat."
He left the room while speaking, and, knowing the house well, went upstairs, in order to change his wet garments. The young woman uttered a little cry of dismay and ran a step or two after him, but turned back, seized with terror of the dead body, about which she would gladly have given warning.
Mellen had taken a candle from the table when he left the kitchen, and entered the little room upstairs with it flaring in his hand. It did not illuminate the whole chamber, but a cold feeling of awe crept over the man as he stepped over the threshold, and a shudder, which sprang from neither cold nor wet, passed to his heart.
With a trembling hand he set the light on a little pine table and looked around. A bed stood in the further corner of the room, a great and coldly white bed, on which a human form was lying in such awful stillness as death alone knows.
Breathless and obeying a terrible fascination, he went up to the bed and drew down the coarse linen sheet. A beautiful face, chiselled from the marble of death, lay before him, with a cold smile on the lips, and the blue of the eyes, that had been like violets, tinging the white lids that covered them. Masses of rich chestnut hair were gathered back from the face; and over the bosom, struck cold in the bloom of life, two white hands were folded in an attitude of solemn prayerfulness.
As Mellen gazed on this cold vision his lips grew white with terrible emotions, for he knew that face, notwithstanding all the changes that years and an awful death had left upon it. Moment after moment crept by and he did not move. At last, reaching forth his hand, he touched the woman's hair, then a convulsion of grief swept over him, his eyes filled, his lips quivered and he fell upon his knees crying out:
"Oh, woman, woman, has he driven you to this?"
The stillness, which was his only answer, crept to his heart. He arose, covered the face of his false love, and quitted the room, leaving the candle behind. He could not bear to think of her lying alone in that grim darkness.
"Oh, sir, I am so sorry. It was dreadful to let you go upstairs to dress and findthat," cried the woman, in a tumult of self-reproach.
"When did it happen?" he questioned, in a hoarse voice. "When and how?"
"Day before yesterday. It was washed ashore from the wreck."
Mellen turned away and asked no more questions. Enough for him that the woman he had once loved to idolatry, had passed out of his life forever and ever.
The storm was still raging upon the ocean and sweeping its cold way across the island; but Mellen was not a man to rest within sight of his own dwelling, after a long absence, without an effort to reach it in defiance of wind or weather. So, heedless of all protestations, he mounted his horse and rode forward, with the wind howling around him and the rain beating in his face. His temporary attendant grumbled a little at the violence of the storm, while the darkness was so intense that both the horses went stumbling on their way like blind creatures on an unknown path. But Mellen scarcely heeded the danger or discomfort. His eyes were fixed on the lights of his own home, which twinkled now and then through the fog and rain, like stars striving to break through a cloud.
Their road ran along the coast, and they had the rushing winds and roar of the ocean all the way. Before they reached the Piney Cove grounds the blackness of the tempest began to break away overhead; the wind had lulled a little, but the rain still beat, and at intervals the moon would burst through the clouds and add to the ghostly effect of boiling foam in the distance.
They passed through the strip of woodland which extended down to the water's edge, and at last reached the grounds connected with the dwelling upon that side, and came out upon the broad lawn.
"Home at last!" cried Mellen, as a warm glow of lights shone out from his dwelling. "Ride on, my man; you shall sleep here to-night, and return in the morning."
In his exultation Mellen dashed forward, urging his horse across the open space till he was considerably in advance of his attendant. The moon shivered out again for an instant, and Mr. Mellen saw a woman shrouded in a long cloak rushing towards the house. Some instinct, rather than any real recognition of her person, made him cry out, as he leaped from the horse and left him free:
"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"
The figure paused. There was a faint cry; at the same instant Mellen heard a violent rustle in the shrubbery, with a sudden downpour of raindrops, scarcely noticed, as he hurried towards the lady, but well remembered afterwards. She was standing upright and still, as if that unexpected voice had changed her to stone; her hair had broken loose and was streaming wildly over her shoulders; one hand was lifted above her eyes, as she strained her sight through the gloom.
"Elizabeth!" he called again.
"Who is it?" she cried, in a suppressed voice, that had all the sharpness of an agonised shriek. "Who calls to me?"
He reached her side as she spoke.
"Don't you know me?" he exclaimed. "My wife! my wife! I have come back at last!"
There was one wild look—one heavy breath—he heard a low exclamation:
"My God! oh, my God!"
Before he could discover whether this was a cry of thanksgiving or not, she fell forward and lay motionless at his feet.
After that first second of stupefaction, Mr. Mellen checked the wonderment of the man—who by this time had come up—and between them they carried the senseless woman to the house.
The servant who met them in the hall gave a cry of dismay at the sight of her master thus suddenly entering the house with his wife lying like a dead woman in his arms, and was ready to believe that the whole sight was a ghostly illusion.
"Bring some wine," called Mellen; "is there a fire? Are you deaf and blind, girl?"
"It is the masther!" exclaimed the frightened creature. "It's the masther come back—oh, I thought I'd seed ghosts at last!"
Her cries brought the whole household up from the basement; but regardless of their wonder and alarm, Grantley Mellen carried his wife away towards the library, and laid her upon a couch.
It was some moments before Elizabeth Mellen opened her eyes, then she glanced about with a vacant, startled look, as if unable to comprehend what had happened.
Her husband was standing in the shadow, gazing down at her with the strange, moody look so unlike the active alarm which would have filled the mind of most men, and she did not at first perceive his presence.
"I thought I saw Grantley," she murmured. "I—I have gone mad at last."
"Elizabeth!"
She struggled up on the couch, and looked towards him with a wild expression of the eyes, forced out by recent terror or sudden joy at finding that she had not been deceived by some mental illusion.
"Is it you, Grantley?" she exclaimed. "Is it really you?"
"It is I," he said; "but it is a strange welcome home to a man when he finds his wife wandering about in the storm, and sees her faint at the sound of his voice."
Elizabeth Mellen forced her physical strength back by a sheer exercise of will. She sat upright—a singular expression passed over her face—an inward struggle to appear like herself and act as was natural under the circumstances.
"I was so frightened," she gasped; "I did not expect you for a fortnight—perhaps a month. When I heard your voice I can't tell what I thought—a dread—a terror of something terrible—something supernatural, I mean, came over me."
"But what could have taken you out of doors on a night like this?" he persisted.
She did not hesitate; she hurried to answer, but it was like a person repeating words studied for the occasion, and all the while her two hands clutched hard at the arm of the sofa.
"I don't know what drove me out, the storm made me wild. I thought of the sea—you on it, perhaps—I don't know why I went."
"You are wet," he said—"thoroughly drenched. You must change your dress."
She seemed to grasp at the opportunity to go away, and started up with such eagerness that his suspicious eyes noticed it.
"This is a singular meeting," he said, bitterly; "two years apart, and not a word of welcome."
She turned impulsively towards him, and threw her arms about his neck, with a burst of passionate tears.
"I do love you, Grantley," she cried; "I do love you! I am so glad to see you; but this fright—it was so sudden—so——"
Her voice died away in a sob, and she clung more closely to him, while he kept his arm about her waist, pressed his lips on her forehead and gave himself respite from the whirl of dark thoughts which had been in his jealous mind. The joy of reunion and the pleasure of finding himself at home after that long absence, broke through it all.
He felt her shiver all over, and remembered the danger they both ran standing there in their wet clothing.
"You are cold—shivering—and I am keeping you in these wet things!" cried Grantley, gathering her in his arms and mounting the stairs. "You are drenched, my sweet child. It was wrong to go out in a storm like this. Indeed, indeed it was, dear one."
She made no answer, but was seized with a cold shivering fit in his arms. He carried her into the little sitting-room, and, seating her in an easy chair, took off her hood and cloak, speaking soft, tender words as he removed the garments, and smoothed her hair with a caressing movement of the hand.
"You must change your dress, Elizabeth," he said. "Do it at once. I have some dry clothes in my room, I suppose, which I shall put on."
"Yes," she returned, hurriedly; "go—go at once. You are glad to get home, are you not—glad to see me, Grantley?"
There was a tone of almost piteous entreaty in her voice; she was so disturbed by the shock of his sudden presence that her nerves could not recover their firmness at once.
Grantley Mellen held his wife to his heart and whispered fond and loving words, such as he had breathed during their brief courtship before a shadow clouded over the beauty of their lives.
"There shall be no more clouds," he whispered, "no more trouble. Look up, Elizabeth! Say that you love me—that you are glad as I am."
"I do love you, my husband—with all my heart and soul I love you! Iamglad—very, very glad."
"And I love you, Bessie. I did not know how well until I went away. But we shall never part any more—never more."
Elizabeth was weeping drops as cold as the rain on her face. It was unusual for her to allow any feeling of joy or pain to overcome her so completely.
"You are weak and nervous to-night, Bessie," he said, tenderly. "I was wrong to come upon you so suddenly."
"No, no!" she cried, vehemently. But even in her denial she shuddered, remembering whom she had just left and how she had met her husband.
Then she arose to go, but staggered in her walk and held herself up with difficulty. He looked at her with such tender love in his eyes that she held out her arms to him. He drew her close to his bosom:
"Elizabeth, we will be happy now."
"Yes, yes," she said, in the same hurried manner, "we will be happy now—quite happy."
She went out of the room as she said these words and entered her chamber, locking the door carefully behind her, as if she feared that he might intrude upon her.
Half an hour after the newly-united husband and wife met at the supper-table, and Grantley Mellen saw that Elizabeth had quite recovered from the sudden shock of his arrival in that unexpected way.
"I cannot realize it yet," she said, coming into the room and walking up to the hearth where he stood; "I cannot believe you are actually here."
She stole close to his side and folded his hand in hers. For an instant there was a slight hesitation amounting almost to timidity, as if she were doing something or assuming a place to which she had no right, but it passed quickly. She was looking up into his face with a pleasant smile, a little pale yet from her recent emotion, or else those two years which had elapsed since their parting had robbed her of a portion of her girlish bloom,—but self-possessed and full of happiness.
Grantley Mellen looked at her more closely as she stood there in the cheerful light. Two years had changed her, but that was natural; he was altered too.
"Do I look very different, Elizabeth?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"You are browned, you look a little older, perhaps; but you are not really changed—you are Grantley still."
"I cannot tell if you are altered," he said; "I must wait till I have seen you a day or two. You seem paler—thinner."
She shivered a little, but quickly regained her self-control and cheerfulness.
"You cannot judge how I look to-night," she said. "I am sorry Elsie is gone."
"When did she go away, Elizabeth?"
"Only yesterday; she seemed to be getting low spirited, so I advised her to visit Mrs. Harrington for a while."
"I suppose she has not left you often—you two kept together?" he asked, the old jealousy creeping through his voice.
"Of course; she has visited a little," replied his wife, quietly, but she turned away to the table as she spoke.
A servant brought in the supper, and they sat down opposite to each other at the board; but even during those first hours of reunion the strange greeting which his return had met would linger in Grantley Mellen's suspicious mind, and, in spite of Elizabeth's cheerful manner, her color would come and go with tremulous fitfulness. Sometimes there was a restless expression in her eyes, and she seemed with difficulty to repress a nervous start at any sudden sound—she had not recovered wholly, it appeared, from her surprise.
"You will send for Elsie in the morning," he said.
"Oh, yes. One of the men will go to town early."
"Don't tell her I have come."
Elizabeth hesitated.
"She would be so startled if I did not," she said. "I really think her happiness will be greater if she expects to meet you."
"As you please," he returned, a little coldly. "I believe you are right. Surprises generally are failures."
"Where is Dolf?" Elizabeth asked.
"I sent him on with the steamer to deliver some letters I had brought for various people; he will be up in the morning. He is just the same remarkable darkey as ever. His language is even grander, I think."
When they were sitting over the fire again, Mr. Mellen said:
"Now, tell me everything that has happened; your letters were all so vague."
"I had nothing of importance to write, you know," she answered; "we were very quiet here."
"Has Elsie changed much?" he asked.
"Not at all; gay and thoughtless as ever."
There seemed a suppressed bitterness in her voice. Perhaps that gayety and frivolity had sometimes jarred upon the deeper chords in her own nature.
"Little darling!" he said, fondly, "I feel more attached to her than ever since I went away—she seems more like my daughter than my sister."
"And she loves you very dearly, you may be sure of that."
"Oh, yes; nothing could ever come between Elsie and me! I have thought of the promise I made our dying mother; I have kept it, Elizabeth—wherever else I have erred, I have kept that vow."
"Yes," she said; "yes."
But the tone grew a little absent, her eyes wandered about the room as if she were perplexed anew by some thought far away from the subject of their conversation.
"You have been happy and content here, Elizabeth?"
"Not happy," she answered, "I forced myself to be patient; but the time seemed very long."
"Then you do love me?" he cried, suddenly.
She looked at him reproachfully, with some pain stirring under that reproach.
"Can you ask me such questions now?"
"No, no; you do love me. I believe it. But you know what a morbid, suspicious character mine is."
"I had hoped—"
She did not finish her sentence, but sat twisting the links of her chatelaine about her fingers, and looking almost timidly away from his face.
"Go on," he said, "what did you hope?"
"That this long absence might have—that—I hardly know how to say it without offending you."
"You hoped I had learned to accept life more like a reasonable being, isn't that it? I think I have, Bessie; we will be happy now, very happy; you and Elsie and I."
He took her hand and held it in his own; was it true that it trembled, or only his fancy that made him think so?
"We shall be happy, Elizabeth?" he repeated, this time making the words an inquiry.
"I hope so—oh, I do hope so!" she exclaimed with sudden passion; "I want to be happy, oh, my husband! I want to be happy."
She threw her arms about his neck, and her head dropped on his shoulder; but the face which he could not see wore a strained, frightened look, as if she saw some dark shadow rise between her and its fulfilment.
Mellen strained her to his heart, and showered kisses down upon her cold face,—kisses, so warm from the heart, that her cheeks kindled into scarlet under them, and she began to weep those gentle tears that drop from a loving heart like dew from a flower.
"Our lives shall go on quietly and pleasantly now," he continued, giving himself to the full happiness of this reunion; "we will have one long summer, Bessie, and warm our hearts in it."
"I have been in the cold so long," she murmured.
"But that is over—over for ever! We will be trustful Bessie: we will be patient and loving always; can't we promise each other this, my wife?" he said, drawing her closer to his bosom.
"I can, Grantley; I do!"
"And I promise, Elizabeth, I will never be suspicious or harsh again. You and I could be so happy now."
"You will love me and trust me!" she cried, almost hysterically.
"Always, Bessie, always!"
Again he clasped her in his arms, pressing kisses upon her forehead, and murmuring words which, from a husband's lips are sweeter and holier than the romance of courtship could ever be, even in the first glow of its loveliest mystery.
Elizabeth nestled closer to his heart, and a feeling of rest and serenity stole over her so inexpressibly soothing and sweet, that she almost longed to float away for ever from the care and dimness of this world upon the sacred hush of that hour.
There was a sound without which startled them both, making Mellen turn hastily, and sending the sickly pallor anew across Elizabeth's face.
"Only the wind," he said, "blowing one of the shutters to with a crash."
"That is all, it——"
She did not finish; her eyes were fixed upon the window; she made one movement; tried to control herself; looked in the other direction before her husband could observe the eagerness with which her eyes had been strained out into the night; but all her attempts at self-control were in vain; she gave one heavy sigh, and sank lower and perfectly helpless in his arms.
For the second time that evening Elizabeth Mellen had swooned completely away.
The day was so bright and beautiful that the preceding storm seemed only to have added freshness to both the earth and sky.
The hills rose up majestic in their richest verdure, the lovely bay was at rest in the sunshine, and the long white line of distant water shone out tranquilly, as if no treacherous wind would ever again lash it into fury.
Grantley Mellen stood with his wife on the broad stone portico, looking towards the ocean. They had been wandering over the house and grounds that the master might see what changes had taken place in his absence, talking pleasantly and gaily, though even in the midst of his happiness the old restless suspicion would intrude. Grantley Mellen could not understand the strange agitation of his wife at his return. It troubled him even in his newborn joy. She was quite herself this morning; so lovely in her delicate mauvé morning dress, with the soft lace relieving her neck and wrists. Her dark hair was banded smoothly back from the grave, earnest face, and fell behind in heavy braids, rich and glossy as the plumage of a raven. Her mouth was tremulous with gladness and her whole face kindled into smiles and blushes under her husband's gaze. She was so calm that it seemed folly to vex his heart with vague fancies, instead of yielding to the full, rich joy of the occasion.
But she was changed: his jealous eyes took note of that. She was paler, thinner; there was a single line between the dark brows that had gathered there during his absence; an added gravity about the mouth, a slight compression of the lips, as if they had grown accustomed to keeping secrets back.
Then with one of those quick transitions of feeling peculiar to a mind like his, he reproached himself for that change. Why search for other reasons when he remembered many things which had preceded their parting; the last restless year of their married life, disturbed by jealousy and suspicion; the long months of loneliness which she had spent during his absence. There was answer enough for all the questions with which he had vexed himself all the morning.
"Of course Elsie will come home in the afternoon boat," he said.
"Oh, yes; I don't think it is in yet—I have not heard the whistle," replied Elizabeth. "Our people will send her across the bay in a sail-boat, no doubt. It is shameful of them to leave the shore road in the state it is; we must either go to the village by water, or take that long out-of-the-way back road."
"There is a sail-boat now," exclaimed Mellen, pointing across the bay.
Elizabeth looked and saw the tiny streamers shining like silver traceries in the sun.
"It must be Elsie," she said, bringing a glass from the hall, which Mr. Mellen took eagerly from her hand.
"Yes," he said. "I can see a woman in the boat—it is Elsie."
His face was all aglow with brotherly love; a sweet expectation kept him restless. He walked up and down the porch talking of his sister, asking a thousand trivial questions, and complaining of the slowness of the little boat.
Elizabeth stood leaning against one of the pillars, her eyes shaded with her hand, looking over the bright waters. The tranquillity and bloom faded out of her countenance, while her husband talked so eagerly of his desire to see the child—as he called her. Sometimes her face grew almost hard and stern, as if she could not endure that even this beloved sister should come between her heart and his in the first hours of their reunion.
The little sail-boat flew swiftly on before the wind—drawing nearer and nearer each instant—they could distinctly see the young girl half lying back in the stern, allowing her hand to fall in the water with an indolent enjoyment of the scene.
She saw them at last, fluttered her handkerchief in the air by way of a signal, and after that they could see how full of eager impatience she was. Every instant her handkerchief fluttered out, and when the wind took that, she unwound an azure scarf from her neck and flung it on the breeze.
When the boat neared the landing, Mr. Mellen ran across the lawn and received his sister in his arms as she sprang on shore.
Standing on the portico where he had left her, Elizabeth regarded the pair; she heard Elsie's eager exclamation of joy—her husband's deep voice—then the two blended in confused and eager conversation. An absolute spasm of pain contracted the wife's features; her eyes dilated, and a moan broke from her lips.
"He loves her so! he loves her so! He will believe anything she says," muttered Elizabeth in a tone which trembled with passionate emotions.
The sound of her own voice seemed to recall her recollection and the necessity of concealing these turbulent feelings. With that power of self-control which she was striving so hard to strengthen, in order to bear her life with calmness, she forced her features into repose, and stood quietly waiting for them to come up. There was nothing in her appearance now to betray agitation; her pallor seemed only the reflection of her mauvé draperies, and her lips forced themselves into a smile.
"There is Bessie," cried Elsie, coming up the lawn, clinging to her brother's arm with both hands, and shaking her long curls in the sunshine, till the sight of her loveliness and grace might have softened for the time even that heart filled with fear of her sisterly influence, and jealous of the love which she received with such caressing warmth.
"Oh, Bessie!" she cried, as they reached the steps, "I am so happy! When I got the news this morning I felt as if I must fly here directly. Oh, you darling brother, to come back at all; but you deserve to be punished for staying away so long!"
She raised herself on tip-toe to kiss him anew, allowed her bonnet to fall off, and her curls to trail in bright confusion over her shoulders; then she flew towards Elizabeth and showered a greeting of warm kisses on her face.
"Never mind that dark subject," she whispered; "we'll be happy now in spite of everything."
Again that singular look passed over Elizabeth Mellen's face; she listened and endured rather than returned the young girl's caress, but Mr. Mellen was watching his sister and did not observe it.
"And isn't he brown?" cried Elsie, rushing over to her brother again; "he looks like an Indian, don't he, Bess? Oh, you bad, bad boy, to stay so long."
Thus Elsie laughed and talked incessantly, begun a dozen sentences without finishing one of them, and was so demonstrative in her expressions of affection to both, so lovely in her youth and brilliant happiness, that it was no wonder her brother regarded her with that proud look; it seemed almost impossible that Elizabeth herself could help being won into happiness by her caressing ways.
"You'll never go away again—shall he, Bess? But isn't it luncheon-time? I could eat no breakfast for joy, but I do think I am hungry now."
Mr. Mellen laughed, and Elsie went on again.
"Oh, Grantley, I saw Dolf on the steamboat; he is coming over with your luggage. The ridiculous creature has more airs than ever. I wish you had forced him to come ashore in the pilot-boat, it would have been such fun, when he got among the breakers; but, oh dear! how frightened I was, hearing how near you were to getting in. It makes, me feel pale now!"
Here Elsie gathered up her bonnet and shawl, tossed her curls back, kissed her brother again, and ran, off, saying:
"I must go upstairs and brush my hair. Do come, Bessie; I never can do it myself."
"I must go and see what the servants are doing," Elizabeth said.
"Nonsense! Come with me."
Elsie caught her sister-in-law about the waist, waltzed away towards the stairs and forced her to ascend, while Mr. Mellen stood looking after them with a pleasant smile on his lips.
When they reached Elsie's room the girl drew Elizabeth in and closed the door. Mrs. Mellen sank wearily into a seat, as if glad to escape from the restraint she had been putting upon herself all that day.
"Your note frightened me so!" cried Elsie. "It was wicked of you to write like that."
"He came upon me so suddenly," gasped Elizabeth. "I was out in the grounds in the rain—I had gone to—"
"And Grantley came upon you there?" interrupted Elsie. "What did you do? what did you do?"
"I fainted in the end."
"Good heavens!"
"Oh, you would have been worse in my place," returned Elizabeth. "It was so sudden; how could I tell what he had seen?"
"But you are yourself now. You will not give way again?"
"I must not," said Elizabeth drearily. "I must bear up now."
"Don't talk in that dreadful voice," shivered Elsie; "it sounds as if you were dying. I thought you had more courage. Don't be afraid of me; if he held a bowl of poison to my lips I wouldn't tell."
"Oh, Elsie, what would death be compared to the agony of discovery?"
"Do stop!" pleaded Elsie, pressing both rosy little palms to her ears, with a piteous, shrinking movement. "We mustn't talk. I won't talk, I tell you! I can put everything out of my head if you will only let me; but if you look and talk like that I shall give way. Why can't you try and forget it? I will. Be sure of that!"
Elizabeth rose from her seat; a wan, hopeless look came over her face.
"You are right; let us be silent. But, oh, if I only could forget—but I can't, Elsie—I can't! The thought is with me day and night. The dread—the fear!"
"Be still!" shrieked Elsie, breaking into a passion of which no one would have believed her capable, and stamping her foot upon the carpet. "You'll drive me mad. I shall go into spasms, and then who knows what may happen! I won't promise not to speak if you drive me crazy."
All the youthful brilliancy was frightened out of her face, her lips turned blue, her whole frame shook so violently that Elizabeth saw absolute danger unless the girl were soothed back to calmness.
"I won't torment you any more, Elsie," she said. "I'll bear it alone—I'll bear it alone."
"One can always forget if one is determined," said Elsie; "but you won't—you will brood over things——"
"I shall be more myself, now," interrupted Elizabeth. "It was from seeing Grantley so unexpectedly, just when I was waiting for——"
"Be still!" interrupted Elsie, sharply. "I won't hear that—I won't hear anything; you shall not force unpleasant things upon me."
The sister and the sister-in-law stood opposite each other, oppressed by the same secret, but bearing it so differently. Elsie's share seemed to be only a burdensome knowledge of some mystery; no evil seemed to threaten her in its discovery, but deep sympathy appeared to have broken through her careless nature, moulding it into something grand. She was the first to recover from the cold, shivering distress which had come over both; the volatile, impressible creature could not dwell long enough upon one subject, however painful it might be, to produce the effect which even slight trouble had upon a character like Elizabeth's.
"You look like a ghost," she cried, in sudden irritation. "It is cruel, Bessie, to frighten me in this way. You know what a weak, nervous little thing I am. It is wicked of you!"
Elizabeth turned slowly towards the door.
"Be at peace, if you can," she said; "I will trouble you no more."
"Now you are angry!" cried Elsie.
"No, dear, not angry."
"Kiss me, then, and make up," said Elsie, with a return of childish playfulness. "I'll help you all I can, but you mustn't put too much on me; you know I'm not strong, like you."
Elizabeth trembled under the touch of those fresh young lips, but she answered, patiently:
"I will bear up alone; don't think about it."
"Oh, I shouldn't," cried Elsie, frankly, "only you make me."
Elizabeth looked at her in astonishment.
"You needn't stare so," said Elsie, in an injured tone; "I know I am not a deep, strong character, like you. But let me rest—let me enjoy my little mite of sunshine!"
"I will not overshadow it," Elizabeth answered, "be certain of that. But, oh, Elsie, it's so dreadful to bear this constant fear! If Grantley should find out anything—he is so suspicious——"
"There you go again!" broke in Elsie. "I vow I wont live in the house with you if you act in this way! Just as one is getting a little comfortable you begin all this again. I can't stand it; and I won't."
Elizabeth did not reply. She looked at Elsie again with a mingled expression of astonishment and fear; but a strange sort of pity softened the glance.
"There shall be no more of it, Elsie," she said, after a long silence, during which Elsie had shivered herself quiet once more. "I ought to have borne this trouble alone from the first."
"That's a nice darling!" cried Elsie. "Nothing will happen, I am sure of it. Just hope for the best; look at everything as settled and over with. Things don't keep coming up to one as they do in a novel."
Elizabeth said no more, she stood leaning against the window frame and watched Elsie as she arranged her ringlets before the glass, and called back the brilliant smiles which softened her face into something so youthful and pretty. Then they heard a voice from below, which made them both start.
"It's Grantley," said Elsie. "It sounds so odd to hear his voice! Open the door, Bessie; I am ready."
She ran to the head of the stairs, while Elizabeth followed slowly.
"Are you calling, Grant?" demanded Elsie, looking down at him as he stood at the foot of the stairs.
"Calling! I should think so! Are you both going to stay up there for ever? Dinner is ready."
"And so are we," cried Elsie, "and coming, Mr. Impatience."
Downstairs she tripped, humming a tune and making a little spring into her brother's arms when she reached the lower step.
She was such a dainty little thing, so light and graceful in all her movements, with such childish ways, such power of persuasion and coquetry, so light-hearted and frivolous, that it was quite impossible not to love her and treat her as if she were some blithe fairy, that would be frightened out of sight by a harsh word or look.
She was just one of those creatures whom everybody fondles and pets, who have sacrifices made for them which they are never capable of appreciating. The loves and fears and hates of these flimsy creatures are shallow and transient, though capable of leading them to great lengths during their first fever; creatures whom we miss as we do sunshine and flowers, or any other pretty thing; for they seem born to feed upon the froth and honey-dew of life, and from that very fact take with them, even towards middle age, a fund of light-heartedness and joyous spirits, which is, in some sort, a return for the demands they make upon others.
It seemed hard that a creature like this should have her youth burdened with any secret; it was scarcely wonderful that she grew impatient and spoke harshly to Elizabeth when she insisted upon forcing trouble on her mind, which left to itself she was able, out of the very shallowness of her nature, to throw aside so completely.
Wrong and cruel it seemed in Elizabeth to burden her thus—she should have kept Elsie aloof from all domestic mysteries, whatever they might be, and have borne her sorrow, her fears, perhaps her remorse, alone. It was not easy to tell from her face or her words all that lay back of her half-uttered despair. But she should have endured in silence things to be held as far away from Elsie's joyousness and Elsie's youth as the deep undercurrent of her character was apart from the bird-like blitheness which made the girl so pleasant. Thus the world would have judged had they seen these women standing there together.
While they were still seated at the luncheon-table the door opened, and Dolf came in with a flourish of bows to report his return to the master.
"So, there you are, Dolf," said Mr. Mellen, carelessly. "Did you lose half the letters I gave you to deliver?"
Dolf drew himself up with a great deal of dignity.
"Master knows I'se trusty as Solomon's seal," he said. "De'pistles is safe in de honorable hands for which dey was originally intended."
"I'm glad they went off at the right moment," said Elsie, laughing.
Dolf rather missed her play upon his mispronunciation of the word, but he gave another magnificent flourish.
"Jes so, Miss Elsie; you've 'spressed it beautiful."
"How do you do, Dolf?" asked Mrs. Mellen, kindly, rousing herself from the abstraction into which she had fallen while Elsie and her brother had been chatting together. "Are you glad to get back?"
"I'se ebery reason to be satisfactory with my health, and am much 'bliged by de 'quiry," replied 'Dolf, with a bow so profound that it seemed by a miracle he recovered his balance, "I'se bery glad to see de ole place again, Miss Mellen, and de faces of yerself and young Miss Elsie is like de sunshine to me."
"Bless me, Dolf," cried Elsie, "that's poetry."
Dolf gave a deprecatory wave of the hand, as if the poetry had been unavoidable, and a smile which insinuated that he was capable of still higher flights of fancy, as he said:
"Mebbe, mebbe, Miss Elsie—I didn't reserve partic'lar—dese tings takes a pusson onawares mostly."
"Now, Dolf," said his master, "try and put my things in some sort of order before the day is over."
"Yes, marster; ebery ting dat's wanting shall be toppermost."
Elsie laughed unrestrainedly, but Dolf only took that as a compliment, and was immensely satisfied with the impression he had produced.
"Don't get up another flirtation with the cook," she said; "she is old enough to be your mother, so old that she's growing rich with hoarding, Dolf."
Dolf bowed himself out of the room with much ceremony, and took his way straight towards the lower regions. His brain had always formed numerous projects on the strength of Clorinda's wealth, and he felt it incumbent upon him to have an interview as soon as possible with this elderly heiress.
He came upon her in the kitchen hall; she was walking upright as a ramrod with a large tin dish-pan in her hands, and looking forbidding as if she had been the eldest daughter of Erebus.
"Dat's de time o' day," thought Dolf; "she is parsimmony just now and no mistake, but here goes for de power of 'suasion."
He made her a bow which flattered the sable spinster into a broad smile, and almost made her drop the dish-pan, in the flutter of her delight.
"Dolf, Dolf, am dat you?" she exclaimed, growing a shade darker.
"Permit me," said Dolf, gracefully, taking the pan from her hand; "it's my expressive delight to serve de fair, and I'se most happy, through dis instrumentation, to renew your honorable acquaintance."
He followed this up with another tremendous bow; Clorinda thought it quite time that she should make a show of high breeding likewise. She gave her body a bend and a duck, but unfortunately, Dolf was bowing at the same moment, and their heads met with a loud concussion.
A wild giggle from the kitchen door completed Dolf's confusion. He looked that way, and there stood Victoria, the chambermaid, now a spruce mulatto of eighteen, enjoying Clorinda's discomfiture.
"De fault was mine," cried Dolf, in his gallantry; "all mine, so dat imperent yaller gal need'n larf herself quite to death."
"Imperent yaller gal? am no more yaller den yer is," answered Vic.
"Any how yer needn't stand dar a grinning like a monkey, Vic," exclaimed Clorinda, in wrath.
"Accidents will recur," said Dolf. "But, laws, Miss Victory, is dat you? I had de pleasure of yer 'quaintance afore me and marster started on our trabels."
"I've been alone here eber since," explained Victoria, not proof against his fascinations. "I'm sure yer haint altered a bit, Mr. Dolf."
"I guess if yer don't go upstairs miss'll know why," cried Clorinda, sharply. "Jes give me dat pan, Mr. Dolf; I kint wait all day for you to empty it."
Dolf was recalled to wisdom at once—he could not afford to make a misstep on the very day of his return. He emptied the pan, followed Clorinda into the kitchen, making a sign of farewell to Vic which the old maid did not observe. Once in Clorinda's own dominion, the darkey so improved the impression already produced that he was soon discussing a delicate luncheon with great relish, and so disturbing Clorinda's equanimity by his compliments, that she greatly endangered the pie-crust she was industriously rolling out on one end of the table where he sat.