CHAPTER XIX.THE BETROTHAL.
“It is not much the world can give,With all its subtle art;And gold and gems are not the thingTo satisfy the heart.But gentle words and a loving heart,And hands to clasp my own,Are better than the fairest flowersOr stars that ever shone.”
“It is not much the world can give,With all its subtle art;And gold and gems are not the thingTo satisfy the heart.But gentle words and a loving heart,And hands to clasp my own,Are better than the fairest flowersOr stars that ever shone.”
“It is not much the world can give,With all its subtle art;And gold and gems are not the thingTo satisfy the heart.But gentle words and a loving heart,And hands to clasp my own,Are better than the fairest flowersOr stars that ever shone.”
“It is not much the world can give,
With all its subtle art;
And gold and gems are not the thing
To satisfy the heart.
But gentle words and a loving heart,
And hands to clasp my own,
Are better than the fairest flowers
Or stars that ever shone.”
For the next few days there was great bustle and excitement at Blackheath Hall over the expected departure of Jess.
“She might as well begin her preparations at once,” Lawyer Abbot had said, as he left, “for I feel sure there will be no doubt as to the Trevalyn family receiving her. I will write at once, and have a reply to that effect in the course of two or three days. In the meantime, Jess can make her preparations to be ready to start on the next northern-bound express after I have heard from my old friend.”
Accordingly, Mrs. Bryson went at once to the nearest town and purchased all that was needful for the journey, opening her purse-strings so far as to procure a creditable outfit for the girl. She was determined that Jess should not look like a veritable dowdy before the New York people, whom Lawyer Abbot assured her were millionaires.
But, alas for hopes which are perched too high! Quite as soon as the mail could bring it, a reply was received from Lawyer Trevalyn, saying that his wife and daughter, Queenie, were away from home, and would not return for a month, possibly not for six weeks, later; and at that time he would be more than pleased to receive as his guest the young girl of whom his friend had written to him.
Jess’ disappointment was intense when the lawyer brought the letter over to Blackheath Hall and made known its contents to them.
“I ought to have known how it would be,” sobbed Jess, throwing herself downward, face forward, on the carpet, and weeping as though her heart would break.
“My dear child, don’t do that!” exclaimed Mr. Abbot, nervously. “You try my nerves terribly—you do, indeed. Stop that crying, and we will see if we cannot discover some loophole out of the difficulty. I have it!” he cried, in the next breath. “I wonder that it did not occur to me before. I have a brother, a farmer, living at the junction of the roads a little over a hundred miles north of here. He has a daughter, Lucy, and you can go there, if you like, and pass the time until the Trevalyns, of New York, are home, and ready to receive you. It will be exchanging one farm, as it were, for another. Still, it will be a little change.”
Jess dried her eyes at once.
“I don’t like a farm,” she declared, ruefully. “Still, anything will be better than humdrum life at Blackheath Hall.”
“I need not accompany you there, my dear child, as I would have done had you gone on to New York. I can simply place you in charge of the conductor, whom I know quite well. My letter, explaining matters, will have arrived a few hours in advance, and they will be down to the station to meet you. Will that arrangement meet with your approval, little Jess?”
“Yes, sir,” responded the girl, quickly, smiling up at him like a rift of April sunshine through her tears.
“I am glad that we have found a way out of the dilemma,” he said, heaving a sigh of relief, for the care of Jess, who was so suddenly thrust upon his guardianship, was a sore trial to him.
The next morning, bright and early, saw Jess taking her departure from Blackheath Hall.
“There is no one here who will miss me much—except the birds and squirrels about the place, and the stray dogs,” and a very bitter little smile crept up about her mouth, to note how much Mrs. Bryson and all the servants were making of her now, after neglecting her so pitifully during all the long years of the past in which she roamed about as uncared-for as the stray dogs that creptthere when the wildness of the night forced them to seek shelter.
Jess had left no one behind her who loved her, or whom she loved.
As the train moved away from the station, the girl’s new life began. Surely, the strangest fate that any young girl was ever to know. Who shall say after that that the hand of fate does not guide us along the path which destiny has marked out for us to follow at the time of our birth?
Jess paid strict heed to Mrs. Bryson’s warning to keep her veil drawn carefully over her face; but through its heavy folds she could see the green fields and silvery streams, the villas and towns, as the lightning express whirled by them, and she was lost in wonder at the great world that lay beyond Blackheath Hall.
In her wildest imagination, she had never pictured the world so wide as this. The hours flew by as quickly as the miles did, it seemed to her, and her daydreaming came to a sudden end by the appearance of the conductor, who began gathering up her bag and parcels.
“This is your station, miss,” he said. “I am going to place you in charge of Mr. Abbot’s brother-in-law, a Mr. Caldwell, who telegraphed me to the station below that he was already at the station to meet you.”
It was like a dream to Jess, she was so little used to traveling, and was so bewildered, of being bustled out of the train, and led toward a portly, old gentleman, who was advancing in all haste to meet the conductor and herself.
“Is this the little girl, Jess, whom my brother-in-law placed in your charge, conductor?” she heard him ask, in a hale, hearty voice.
She was too dazed to hear the reply.
The next instant she was standing alone with the old gentleman on the platform of the station, the train having suddenly dashed away and hidden itself behind a curve in the road.
“Come right this way to the carriage, my dear,” he said, wondering why the girl trembled so, and why her little hands were as cold as ice on this glorious October day.
“See, there is the carriage, and there is my daughter, Lucy,” he said, and glancing in the direction in which he was pointing, Jess saw a roomy, old vehicle, and in the front seat, holding the reins over a restless horse, a young girl of about her own age—a buxom, rosy-cheeked girl, whom she liked immensely—on sight.
The girl handed the lines to her father, and sprang out of the carriage to meet the newcomer, saying:
“We received uncle’s letter only this morning. I am Lucy Caldwell; and you are Jess—Jess what?” she queried, in the same breath. “Uncle forgot to tell us that. But, dear me, I must not stand talking. Jump right into the back seat, and we can talk away to our hearts’ content as we ride home. We haven’t far to go, and we wouldn’t have thought about hitching up if it hadn’t been for your trunk.”
Miss Lucy had been so busy rattling on in her voluble fashion that she did not notice the flush that stained her companion’s face from neck to brow as she questioned her concerning her name, which poor Jess had none to give. Nor did she note that her query remained unanswered.
“I am so glad to have a girl companion of my age,” declared Lucy, settling herself back among the cushions. “Ma has settled it that you are to share my room with me. I hope you won’t object to that?” she rattled on, adding:
“We have a spare room, as uncle knew, but he did not know that there was one in it just now; not a visitor, oh, no, though he is ever so much nicer than any visitor that comes here. To make a long story short, he was one of the passengers who was on that train which met with the terrible accident a few weeks ago, and was brought to us to care for, more dead than alive. He progressed wonderfully, however, and is nearly well now. I shall feel very sorry when he goes,” she added, her voice dropping to a low key and faltering ever so slightly. “His name is Moore, and, oh, he is so nice. See,” she cried, as they neared the farmhouse, “there he stands at the gate, waiting for us, and to see what you are like, most probably, for he heard uncle’s letter read aloud at the breakfasttable, and he, who has seemed so little interested in anything, immediately took the liveliest kind of an interest in your coming.”
Jess’ eye followed the direction in which Lucy’s finger pointed, and beheld a picture which was to be engraven on her memory while life lasted; and this is what she saw:
A tall, graceful figure leaning against the gatepost, his folded arms resting upon it, his face, pale through illness, turned expectantly in the direction in which they were advancing.
“Odd,” he was muttering, between his compressed, mustached lips, “that this girl, above all others, is coming here.
“I suppose she is like the rest of her sex, false and fickle as she is fair. It is well that I gave the name of Moore to these quiet farm people, when consciousness after the railway accident returned to me, in order that the affair might not get into the New York newspapers.
“Unknown to her, I will study this girl, whom I was going down to Greenville to see; ay, study her at my leisure, and find her—like all the rest.” And he heaved a sigh which told plainly that he was bored with life, its failures and regrets.
“I suppose it is fate that I am to meet this girl whom my uncle was so desirous that I should wed that he cuts me off in case I refuse to comply with his insane wishes; otherwise, I would have fallen a victim to Ray Challoner’s bullet, which came near enough to plowing my heart, or to death in this railroad wreck, from which I was saved, by almost a miracle. It would seem that my time has not yet come. It is strange, when life has no gladness left in it for a man, that he should still be compelled to live on. When I lost all hope of calling Queenie Trevalyn my bride, I lost all that was dear in this world to me. I have hated all womankind because of her falsity ever since. Even the farmer’s daughter, Miss Lucy, bores me terribly with her many kindnesses.”