"So fails, so languishes, grows dim and dies,All that this world is proud of. From their spheresThe stars of human glory are cast down.Perish the roses and the flowers of kings,Princes and emperors, and the crowns and palmsOf all the mighty, withered and consumed.Nor is power long given to lowliest innocenceLong to protect her own."
"So fails, so languishes, grows dim and dies,All that this world is proud of. From their spheresThe stars of human glory are cast down.Perish the roses and the flowers of kings,Princes and emperors, and the crowns and palmsOf all the mighty, withered and consumed.Nor is power long given to lowliest innocenceLong to protect her own."
"So fails, so languishes, grows dim and dies,
All that this world is proud of. From their spheres
The stars of human glory are cast down.
Perish the roses and the flowers of kings,
Princes and emperors, and the crowns and palms
Of all the mighty, withered and consumed.
Nor is power long given to lowliest innocence
Long to protect her own."
"Hardin, don't you remember the old fortune-telling hag that used to keep office in a heap of rocks in that deuced rough hole called Scraggiewood?" asked a gay, reckless-looking young man, as he lighted a cigar, and settled himself in a comfortable armchair with feet elevated on the fender.
"Indeed I do," responded Hardin, quickly. "You and I made her a visit one evening, you know, and she drew forth rather ominous fortunes for both of us from her teapot of destiny. Ha, ha! what was it the hag told me, Sumpter?"
"That you would be a wicked fellow, marry a lovely woman, who wouldn't care a picayune for you, and live after you wished you were dead, I believe, or something to that import, wasn't it?"
"Well, I reckon 'twas some talk of this sort; but what brought this incident to your mind now, Jack?"
"It was recalled by sight of that young lady at your father-in-law's. Don't you remember, that night we were at the rock den in Scraggiewood, there was a child, a little girl, sleeping on a pallet in the room?"
"Yes, perfectly."
"Well, that child and this young lady are one and the same."
"It cannot be!" exclaimed Hardin, quickly.
"It is so, I'm positive. But stop; what is this girl's name?"
"Annie Evalyn."
"Exactly. I asked the old crone that night what was her child's name, and she told me the one you have just repeated."
"Is it possible?" ejaculated Hardin in a ruminating manner.
"It is easy to convince your doubts. Just engage her in conversation and allude to her early life. She'll betray herself, my word for it. Besides I've heard of her since you left the east. She had a beau there at Scraggiewood, one George Wild; and after picking up some education at a country parson's, came west as governess in a wealthy family. These several things have recurred to my memory since beholding her at Dr. Prague's last evening; for, depend upon it, this fine lady, who captivates all hearts, is the old Scraggiewood witch's daughter."
After this speech from Sumpter a silence ensued. Hardin was revolving in his mind whether to divulge his plan of revenge to his companion, and enlist him as a co-worker to assist in the completion of his schemes. He saw this accidental information would aid in furthering his plans. How should he use it? He rose and paced the floor.
"Jack," he said at length, giving him a slap on the shoulder, "can I trust you?"
"Always, Hardin," was the ready response. "I am yours to command."
Another pause, and Hardin continued to pace the floor with nervous, uneven steps. At length, as he passed the large, oval window, he caught a glimpse of his wife walking in the conservatory. Approaching, he tapped slightly on the glass to arrest her attention. She turned, and a frown gathered on her features as she met his earnest, affectionate gaze. O, Marion! why couldn't you have smiled then? What might not one genial look from your sweet eyes have averted?
Hardin turned away, his heart cold and callous.
"Fool am I to hesitate!" he muttered; "who cares for me, and whom should I care for?"
Drawing a chair close to Sumpter's, they conferred in whispers for the space of an hour. Then both arose.
"Now make yourself presentable, Jack," said Hardin, "and we'll proceed forthwith to put our scheme afoot."
"I shall be ready in due season," was the answer.
There was a select company assembled at Dr. Prague's mansion, enjoying the evening in music and conversation. Annie had just sung a song that elicited much applause, and Sheldon had contrived to draw her aside to whisper some word of tenderness in her ear.
"Frank," said she, "I feel strangely to-night."
"Why, Annie, are you not happy?"
"Yes, but I tremble; I'm frightened. I feel as if some awful danger were impending."
As she Spoke thus, the door opened, and Esq. Hardin, and his friend, Mr. Sumpter, were announced. They mingled with the company and soon approached the group in which Sheldon and Annie had chosen a place. Hardin presented his friend to the several ladies and gentlemen composing the circle, and passed on, leaving Sumpter sitting opposite Annie. Glancing casually toward him, she found his gaze riveted on her face.
"May I ask, miss," he said, "if you are not from the eastern country?"
She replied in the affirmative.
"Well, I thought I could not be so much mistaken. How are you contented away out here?"
"Very well, sir," she answered.
"Ay, indeed. I've heard say old loves were hard to forget; but I suppose new ones will obliterate them if anything will."
By this time the attention of the group was drawn to them.
"Do you ever hear from your old Aunt Patty, now?" he continued, in the same bold, familiar manner.
Annie was startled to hear these words from one who was a stranger to her; but as so many eyes were on them, she thought best to answer courteously, and said, "I do sir, frequently."
"Does she live there in the old rock heap at Scraggiewood, and tell fortunes and bewitch sitting hens yet?"
"Sir!" exclaimed Sheldon, "how dare you thus insult a lady in company?"
"O, be cool, my good fellow! I never yet heard it was an insult to inquire after one's honest relations, and I've done nothing more, as this lady I'm sure will admit. I can perhaps give you some information respecting your former lover, George Wild, Miss Evalyn," he continued; "he is good and true yet."
A scream from Annie arrested his words. She had fainted. Sheldon bore her from the room amidst a buzz of voices, in which Sumpter's was loudest, declaring he "did not mean to embarrass the young lady. He did not know but what they were all acquainted with her early history."
Sheldon did not rejoin the company, and during the remainder of the evening Sumpter disseminated an exaggerated account of Annie's low birth and disgraceful parentage among the guests. The tale found too many willing ears; and Annie was pronounced a vile, artful deceiver, by those who envied her talents and beauty.
CHAPTER XII.
"Alas, the joys that fortune bringsAre trifling and decay!And those who prize the paltry things,More trifling still than they.And what is friendship but a name,A charm that lulls to sleep;A shade that follows wealth and fame,But leaves the wretch to weep?"
"Alas, the joys that fortune bringsAre trifling and decay!And those who prize the paltry things,More trifling still than they.And what is friendship but a name,A charm that lulls to sleep;A shade that follows wealth and fame,But leaves the wretch to weep?"
"Alas, the joys that fortune brings
Are trifling and decay!
And those who prize the paltry things,
More trifling still than they.
And what is friendship but a name,
A charm that lulls to sleep;
A shade that follows wealth and fame,
But leaves the wretch to weep?"
When Annie Evalyn recovered consciousness, Sheldon was bending over her, bathing her temples with cologne. As the memory of the recent scene rushed over her, her cheeks flushed, and she glanced timidly in his face. It was cold—stern, she fancied.
"Annie," said he, in a measured tone, "you are better now. I will leave you for to-night, and to-morrow shall hope for an explanation of what, I must confess, seems strange and mysterious to me at present. Good-night!" and he turned to leave the room.
"Good-night!" she faintly articulated, her eyes following his retreating figure till the door closed and excluded him from view. "Yes, and a long good-night too, Frank Sheldon!" she continued, when she was alone; "if you can thus coldly turn from me,—thus lightly suspect me of artifice and deceit. O, my God, what a blow! and to fall at such a moment, when I believed myself almost at the pinnacle of happiness! Surely, the arch-fiend directed the hand. Such words to be spoken in a fashionable circle; and they'll all accredit it, for they have,—Heaven knows why!—long been seeking something to my dispraise. And besides, I cannot contradict the man's words, for are they not too true? and yet, O must I be blamed for my humble parentage? O aunty, aunty, I'll not cast a single reflection! You say you've left off fortune-telling formysake—but it is too late now; and perhaps you'll need resort to it again to support your poor, unfortunate Annie. I'm going to you, aunty; the rough roof of old Scraggiewood will be above me in a few weeks. Would I had never wandered from beneath its homely shelter! Truly, the worldisa hard, cold place, aunty, as you forewarned; but I could not believe it then."
Annie rose and proceeded mechanically to place a few necessary articles of clothing in a small satchel; this done, she sat down by the window to wait till all was quiet below. The rich clothing, the wages and presents she had received during her two years' residence beneath that roof,—she would leave them all behind; they were bestowed when she was deemed a worthy object, andnowthey would consider it was a vile, artful deceiver that had sought to ingratiate herself into their favor to accomplish her own low, selfish designs. She was a fool for going abroad in the great world; a fool to think she could ever become respected and loved.Love!There was no such thing! Had not Frank Sheldon, thirty-six hours after he vowed to love her forever, turned coldly away at a moment when she most needed his comforting attentions? And, as she thus thought, a groan of agony escaped her breast. There came a light tap on the door, and Kate entered hurriedly.
"O, Annie, Annie!" she exclaimed, embracing the suffering girl warmly, "I don't believe a word that man said, nor does father either. He says if you are Satan's daughter, you are better and prettier, and wiser, than the best of them. As for Frank, he has not spoken since the company left, and I believe he is struck dumb. I was going to follow him when he brought you out, but mother prevented me."
"She is enraged at me, of course," said Annie.
"O, she is hasty, you know!" returned Kate. "I dare say all will be right in a day or two; so dry your eyes and go to sleep, and wake up as merry as if that ugly Mr. Sumpter had never come here with his impudent stories. For my part, I wonder Lawrence should bring such a monster into genteel society;" and with a kiss they parted.
Annie sat motionless another hour, and then, cautiously opening the door, listened breathlessly a few moments. All was still; and, taking her satchel, she glided noiselessly down the stairs and into the street. Her heart sank within her as the cold wind struck her cheek; but she moved rapidly forward, eager to place a distance between her and the scene of her abasement. Soon she was on the broad, rough prairie road, over which a waning moon cast pale, sickly beams. By daylight she reached a settler's cabin, and learned that a stage-coach would pass there in a few moments, bound eastward. She requested the privilege of waiting its arrival, which was readily granted, and also such refreshments placed before her as the cabin afforded; but she could not eat. The coach soon appeared, and she rejoiced to find herself the only passenger. The door was closed, and the hard, jolting vehicle rumbled on its way. And here was Annie Evalyn, the beautiful, the gifted, the admired Annie Evalyn of yesterday, flying like a guilty outcast from the scenes amid which she had been so happy.
Great was the surprise at Dr. Prague's mansion, on the following morning, when Annie's flight became known. No token was left by which a clue to her course might be discovered. Sheldon carried himself like a crazy one. The old doctor bustled about, and said he would search the world over to bring her back. Kate cried, and the children loudly bewailed the loss of their dear governess. Mrs. Prague seemed the only calm and rational one in the household; she declared herself glad to get rid of the baggage, and considered her flight proof positive of her guilt.
This view seemed rather plausible certainly. If innocent, why did she not remain and boldly refute the tale Sumpter had told?
When the news of her flight was made known to Esquire Hardin, he laughed heartily, and called up Sumpter to join him. The latter expressed himself "sorry if he had unwittingly been the cause of an unpleasant occurrence in Dr. Prague's family."
"What, the deuce!" said Hardin, "do you suppose they wish to harbor a young witch?"
"Why, no,—but this gentleman, Mr. Sheldon."
"Give yourself no uneasiness in regard to me, sir!" said Sheldon, sternly. "I will manage and control my own affairs."
"Bravely spoken, Frank!" remarked Hardin, "Now let us adjourn to the dinner-saloon and drink a merry bout over fortunate denouement."
CHAPTER XIII.
"It was a bitter painThat pierced her gentle heart;For barbed by malice was the dart,And sped by treachery's deadliest art,The shaft ne'er sped in vain."
"It was a bitter painThat pierced her gentle heart;For barbed by malice was the dart,And sped by treachery's deadliest art,The shaft ne'er sped in vain."
"It was a bitter pain
That pierced her gentle heart;
For barbed by malice was the dart,
And sped by treachery's deadliest art,
The shaft ne'er sped in vain."
The wild winds wailed wofully over the lonesome prairie, smiting sadly upon poor Annie's heavy heart as she sat in the hard, jolting coach, which, owing to the bad state of the roads, made but sorry progress. It was already dark, and the driver said they had yet ten miles to ride in order to reach the nearest post town. They entered a dense timber land, and the wheels struck deep into a loose, gravelly sand, so the poor horses could scarcely drag on at a slow walk. The coachman hallooed and cracked his whip about their ears, but all to no effect; the animals were worn down by a hard day's travel; and Annie, annoyed by his boisterous vociferations, at last put her head out the window and begged him not to beat the jaded animals, but let them proceed at their own pace.
"All one to me, miss," was the answer; "did it to please you; thought you mought be a hungry, or mebbe sort o' tired, a settin' in there all alone so. Whoa, Johnny! take it easy since it is the lady's wish. We shall be just as well off a hundred years hence, I dare say, and supper will be sweeter, the longer delayed."
With this philosophical reflection, he relapsed into silence, and for two hours they continued to drag through the heavy sand, with nothing to relieve the monotony, save the shrill bark of the wolf, far in the deep forest, answered by the deep growl of the bear, or piercing cry of the ferocious catamount.
Annie shivered with nervous terror at these wild, savage sounds; and when at last, as they reached the open prairie, and struck a harder bottom, the horses mended their paces, she felt sensibly relieved. At length they entered a small, new town, and drew up before a large, awkward building. The steps were lowered and Annie alighted, and soon found herself in a long, dingy apartment, with a bright pine-wood fire blazing and crackling in a huge, yawning fire-place at its farthest extremity. She was chilled, and sat down before the glowing hearth to warm her benumbed fingers. Presently a tall woman, in a short-sleeved frock and large deer-skin moccasins, strode into the room, and with a deep, ungainly courtesy asked, "What the lady would be thinking to take for a bit of supper?"
Annie answered she would take a biscuit and cup of tea, if she pleased, and then retire to her apartment, as she was much fatigued.
"And won't you have a chunk o' venison, or cold 'possum, to make your biscuit relish, miss?" asked the woman.
"No, I thank you," said Annie; "I don't feel much hungry to-night."
"Why, I reckoned you must be well-nigh starved, a ridin' all day long, and nothing to lay your jaws to; but, howsomever, you know your own wants best."
The woman went out, and soon returned with Annie's supper spread on a pine board. Annie could hardly repress a smile at sight of the novel tea-table. Her meal was quickly despatched, and she again signified her wish to retire. It was a rough, dismal apartment into which she was ushered, but, tired and jaded, she threw herself on the hard couch, and, despite the trouble at her heart, slept soundly till morning.
On rising, her first thought was to examine her little stock of money, and she found it amounted to only seventeen dollars and a half, out of which she must pay her coach and tavern fare. It was evident that she must seek some employment to assist in defraying her travelling expenses. The question was, whether she should remain where she was, or go on as far as her scanty means would carry her. She went out to make some inquiries of the woman who had waited on her the night previous.
"Get some work to do, miss!" said she in a tone of surprise. "What can you do? Can you cut fodder, or cradle rye, or catch 'possums?"
Annie smiled, and said, "No, but I can teach school, do sewing, or housework."
"Wall, I don't know; you look a mighty fine lady to be asking for work; but then it is none o' my business to be pryin' into other folks' concerns. We are new settlers here, and have to get along as close as we can. I don't reckon you'll find anybody rich enough to hire ye in these diggins. You'll do better along further east, where folks are richer and more 'fined."
Matters looked unpromising, and Annie concluded to follow the woman's suggestion, and travel on as far as the small funds would carry her. But in the two years she had been at the west, the facilities for travelling had improved, and prices were also reduced, so that her little purse carried her much further on her route than she had expected. When it finally gave out, she with great joy found she was but fifty miles from her destination, and with a courageous heart resolved to perform the remainder of the journey on foot.
Accordingly, she set forward. The weather was fine, and she did not doubt her ability to accomplish the distance in two days, at farthest. Every mile passed inspired her with fresh courage, for was she not so much nearer a heart that loved her? O, how she longed to be clasped to that warm, beating bosom, and weep her sorrows forth to one she knew would pity, sympathize, and strive to heal!
CHAPTER XIV.
"Do you come with the heart of your childhood back,The free, the pure, the kind?Thus murmured the trees in the homeward track,As they played at the sport of the wind."
"Do you come with the heart of your childhood back,The free, the pure, the kind?Thus murmured the trees in the homeward track,As they played at the sport of the wind."
"Do you come with the heart of your childhood back,
The free, the pure, the kind?
Thus murmured the trees in the homeward track,
As they played at the sport of the wind."
The autumn evening stole calmly, sweetly on. Again October's harvest moon rode through the liquid ether, and poured her silvery beams over the wild, old forest of Scraggiewood, as we saw it long ago when Annie Evalyn's years were calm and golden-hued as Luna's gentle rays. She was coming now to the low, cottage home. With weary, languid step, she threaded the old, familiar path, and it seemed to have grown rougher, and the forest looked wilder and darker than in the days gone by. Poor Annie! the darkness and gloom were in thy weary, world-tossed heart. That heart beat wildly as she drew nearer the wished-for spot. What if she should see no light gleaming through the aperture in the rocky walls? What if the door should be fallen away, and no aunty there to welcome the wanderer's return? She quickened her pace, and a few moments banished all fears. The cottage came in view, and a bright light streamed through the rough-cut window. Now Annie clasped her hands, and thanked God that her journey was well-nigh ended. She saw her aunt bending over the embers on the hearth, as she paused a moment on the threshold. Then, entering softly, she stole to the side of the old lady, and, passing an arm round her neck, whispered in a low, trembling tone: "Here's Annie, come home to love and you, dear aunty."
The old woman sprang so suddenly from her kneeling posture as nearly to throw the slender form upon the floor, and gazed wildly in the speaker's face.
"Why aunty, don't you know me?"
"Bless me, it is her voice! but how could she rise up here on my hearth-stone to-night, like a witch or fairy?"
"No, aunty; I am no witch or fairy that has risen on your hearth. I walked all the way through the dim old forest to reach you, and it looks just as it used to, only darker and more frightful."
"Come here, darling, 'tis you! I know that voice. O how many times I've dreamed I heard it in the long, lonesome nights!" and she wept, laughed, and kissed her recovered child in a perfect abandonment of joy. "And so you have come home at last to see your old aunty? I've had awful feelings about you lately, hinney, and boding dreams; and ofttimes I've been sorry I let you go into the evil world; 'for if it should use her hard, would it not break both our hearts?' I said to myself. 'But, then, Annie is so pretty and good, and has got so much book-learnin' and so many accomplishments,' something would say. 'Ay, that's the mischief of it. Such things always make bad folks envy those that possess them, and Annie is so tender-hearted and shrinking, I'm afeard, I'm afeard for her.'"
Annie sunk her head on her aunt's shoulder while she was speaking thus, and the tears, she had been striving to suppress since her entrance, began to roll over her cheeks thick and fast. The excitement and anxiety of the journey had in a measure diverted her mind from the events which caused it; but now that she had gained the wished-for haven, her aunty's words brought the past before her vision; that mortifying humiliation—all she had enjoyed, all she had hoped for, and O, all she had lost!—rushed upon her recollection, and she sobbed aloud.
"O, mercy, mercy, it is as I feared!" exclaimed the old woman, in an agonized tone; "something has hurt my darling, and now I mark how pale and thin she is grown. Annie, Annie, tell your aunty what's the matter."
Annie made a strong effort to calm her emotion.
"I am fatigued and overcome," she said.
"Ah! it is something more than that, child—I can tell; but you shall rest till to-morrow. I'll make you a nice cup of tea, and then you shall lie in your little cot-bed once more. I've always kept it dressed white and clean, and often been in there nights before I laid my old bones down to rest, and wished I could see my darling there, breathing long and sweet, as she used to, in happy dreams."
Annie was glad to retire, for she was indeed fatigued. Her aunt tucked the counterpane snugly around her, and hung a shawl before the window, "for hinney looked too pale and slender to bear the cold air now," she said. Then she insisted on sitting by the cot till her darling slept; but Annie begged she would not.
"Go to bed, aunty, and get a good sleep, so as to be rested and fresh to hear a long tale of my adventures to-morrow," and the kind old soul, after kissing the white brow, bade Annie good-night, and sought her pillow.
It was long ere Annie slept, and when at last she did so, hideous shapes and direful omens floated through her dreams. Once she awoke, when all was dark and still, to find a burning fever on her cheek, and dull, throbbing pain in her temples. At peep of dawn the old woman rose and stole into the apartment. She wanted to see her little pet sleeping in her cot-bed, as she used to years before. There she lay, her arms thrown above her head as when a child, and the rich chestnut curls lying in dark relief on the snowy pillow. But the deep, sweet respirations, and the healthful glow of childhood were not there. A blue circle surrounded the closed lids, and a fever-flush burned in the centre of each cheek. The aunt saw her darling was ill. She took one thin, hot hand in hers, and felt the pulse fluttering fast and wild. The sleeper woke and started up, turning her eyes quickly round the apartment.
"Don't you know where you are, Annie?" asked the aunt. "This is your old room at Scraggiewood, and I'm your aunty."
"O, yes! I remember now; but I think I'm sick, my poor head aches and throbs so badly. You used to cure all my pains, aunty."
"I hope I can cure you now, hinney. I'll go and prepare you a cooling drink of herbs. You must be very quiet, and I trust you will be well in a few days."
Annie submitted patiently. A week passed by ere she was able to make her aunt fully acquainted with her woful tale. The poor woman seemed as much afflicted as Annie, but she strove by every means in her power to soothe and comfort the suffering heart. Netta Gray had been married to George Wild a few weeks before her return, and was now absent on a visiting tour, and Annie's health continued feeble. It could hardly be otherwise with a mind so heavy and depressed. For several months she remained in seclusion at the lowly cot in Scraggiewood.
CHAPTER XV.
"For the weak heart that vainly yearnedFor human love its life to cheer,Baffled and bleeding has returned,To stifle down its crying here."
"For the weak heart that vainly yearnedFor human love its life to cheer,Baffled and bleeding has returned,To stifle down its crying here."
"For the weak heart that vainly yearned
For human love its life to cheer,
Baffled and bleeding has returned,
To stifle down its crying here."
"Thou shalt go forth in prouder mightAnd firmer strength e'er long."
"Thou shalt go forth in prouder mightAnd firmer strength e'er long."
"Thou shalt go forth in prouder might
And firmer strength e'er long."
Up to the clear blue sky, when the sun was gone down on the silent earth, clad in the pure white snow-mantle, and away over the tops of the forest-pines, at the diamond stars hung in the far-off heaven, gazed Annie Evalyn through that long, dreary winter, from the window of that rude hut in the solitary depths of Scraggiewood. How she mourned o'er her shattered idols, all fallen and wasted on their shrines! What a blow had been dealt her sensitive nature! "O, it was so bitter cruel!" she thought; "and what had she done that she should suffer thus?"
In vain her aunt tried to soothe and solace, by telling her time would bring better hopes. Parson Grey would sometimes drop in of a Saturday evening to coax and encourage his former pupil, and bring some nice tit-bit to tempt Annie's delicate relish.
"You will regain your health and spirits when the spring opens, my child," he would say. "Netta will come home, and we shall have you over to the Parsonage, and all will seem like old times again. Then you must resume that pen of yours, Annie, and let it write down those speaking thoughts that lie in your inventive brain. You know my old doctrine; it is a glorious thing to do good, and you can exert a happy and extensive influence upon society. I know you will not abuse the noble faculties given you by the great Creator."
"Ah, he does not know all!" Annie would think. "I once was vain enough to suppose I possessed faculties and powers to act a brave part in life; but they've been bruised and broken in the very outset. I've no energy, no aspirations; because there's nothing in the future to beckon me on. Wherever I turn is desolation; and I despise my weakness as much as I lament my misfortune. But I'll no more of a world that has dealt me my death-blow. Here, in this solitude of nature, let me die and sink to oblivion."
Thus she ruminated, while the shadowy wintry days sped on; and reason, weak and powerless in the headlong tide of passion that swept and swayed in her breast, was buffeted and submerged in the furious waves; and yet, when the storm had spent its fury, should it not arise clear and brilliant, and over the subsiding tumult be heard to utter a calm, proud jubilate of triumph and redemption?
Spring came at last. The snows disappeared; buds swelled on the tall trees, and burst forth into canopies of leafy-green, and the feathered songsters came hieing from southern bowers, with wings of light and songs of gladness. Annie began to brighten; slowly, and almost imperceptibly at first, and without her own knowledge or consent. Those faculties she had fancied killed were only stunned.
When she found herself, one sunny April day, at her little, rude table, inditing her beautiful thoughts on paper, she grew angry at her folly, as she termed it, and tore the sheet. "And was she again seeking what had once blasted her happiness? Let the desolation of the past deter her from all intercourse with the heartless world again."
But the sunny gleams from the beauty-fraught robes of the spring-queen had fallen on the chilled fountains, and they began to melt and flow again. And their musicwouldbe heard. As the brook down in the forest seemed to send sweeter, more joyous echoings on the ear after its winter sleep, so Annie's soul poured softer, holier strains of melody from its deep well-spring of chastened, purified feeling. Yet the struggle was not all over. Some tears, some regrets, some rebellious thoughts, yet lingered. The wildest storm oft passes the soonest by; but traces of its effects may remain to the end of time.
Netta returned from her travels, and the two friends, so long parted, sat together in the old study again, and with clasped hands poured out their hearts to each other.
Annie could not avoid saying, "My life-happiness is wrecked, Netta!" as she completed a rehearsal of her misfortunes, "O, that I had been less confident and aspiring! Then I had not suffered thus."
"Do not speak thus, Annie!" returned Netta, tenderly. "Your happiness is not lost. With a mind so brilliant as yours, you must not yield to despondency. I will do all in my power to render your life pleasant, and so will George. He says your influence made him all he is. You rebuked his slothful habits and urged him to activity. He felt the truth of your words, though it wounded him deeply to have them come from you. I know all, Annie. George loved you once, but I've forgiven him, and love you all the better for having made me so good a husband." Here Netta laughed and kissed her friend's cheek.
Annie returned the caress. "If I've unwittingly done you any good, Netta," she said, "it is no greater pleasure to have done it than to hear it acknowledged so prettily."
"But don't you think it very singular you have never received your property from Dr. Prague?" asked Netta, turning the conversation back to her friend's affairs. "I should have thought it but common honesty in them to have forwarded your clothes and wages."
"O, why should they trouble themselves to give a thought to so vile and artful a wretch?" responded Annie, bitterly.
"There, there, Annie, hush!" said Netta. "Vengeance will overtake them for thus treating worth and innocence. And Sheldon, have you never heard from him?"
"Never!" answered Annie, and a tear fell as she spoke.
"Not once!" said Netta. "He who could thus shamefully neglect one, so lovely and beautiful, is not worthy of one precious drop from these eyes."
"And yet he seemed so noble and good, it is hard to cast blame on his conduct. O, Netta, I cannot forget him!" she exclaimed, bursting into tears.
Ah, the love was there yet!—a little chastened and subdued, yet wanting but a kindly touch to rouse it to all its early strength and power. A bitter chastisement had tamed, but not conquered or expelled, the coy truant from her breast. Should it aye sleep on, or one day know an awakening?
CHAPTER XVI.
"Go on, go on: you think me quite a fool;Woman, my eyes are open."
"Go on, go on: you think me quite a fool;Woman, my eyes are open."
"Go on, go on: you think me quite a fool;
Woman, my eyes are open."
In their sumptuous drawing-room, before a sparkling grate, sat Dr. Prague and his amiable lady, in genial after-dinner mood; he burly, and easy-natured, enjoying his oranges; she, majestic and oratorical in her rustling brocades.
"Doctor," said she, after a brief silence, "I wish to call your attention to an important subject."
"Ah! what may it be?" he inquired, in a careless tone.
"Why, our Catherine's approaching union with Mr. Sumpter."
"Is the girl going to marry Sumpter? I don't like it, madam, I don't like it;" and the usually placid doctor displayed considerable impatience in his tone and manner.
"Why not? he is a wealthy, accomplished gentleman."
"Humph! a conceited, tricksy villain, you mean."
"Dr. Prague, is he not the friend and partner of my son-in-law, Esq. Hardin?"
"What of it?"
"Why, a good deal of it, I should say. Is not Esq. Hardin one of the first men in the city? I made the match between him and Marion, and I'm proud of the alliance. You cannot say that it was not a wise and judicious one."
"Whew! I don't know. Marion as melancholy as a mummy, and a child that shrieks in terror whenever its father approaches. Perhaps a wise match, but far enough from a happy one, I should say."
"The world calls it a nice match."
"Indeed."
At this point of the conversation Kate entered the room.
"Come hither, child," said her father; "do you love this Mr. Sumpter?"
"Why, no, father. I've never been able to conquer my aversion toward him, since he vilified Annie's character, and caused her flight," said she, wondering at her father's question.
"Then you do not wish to marry him?"
"Heavens! no."
"All right then. I'll see that you don't. Now run away, child."
"Dr. Prague, I'm astonished at you," exclaimed Mrs. Prague, in her most towering style, as the door closed after Kate, "thus to pamper to the follies of your offspring. Young people never know what is for their interest. They should be held in perfect subjection to their parents' wishes, and taught to obey their slightest commands."
"Very pretty, Mrs. Prague," remarked the doctor, carelessly, as his wife paused for breath.
Whether he alluded to her logic or her face, we cannot say.
"Had Sheldon been discreet and saved his fortune," she resumed, "he would have been the proper man for our Catherine."
"But he blundered and fell in love with Annie Evalyn."
"Faugh! don't mention that minx to me," said Mrs. Prague, with a sneer; "but it must be confessed, Sheldon has very limited knowledge of business, or he might have saved a part of his fortune at least. My son-in-law, Esq. Hardin, by his alacrity and far-seeing judgment, secured himself from material loss in the great land crash."
"Humph! quite as likely by his cunning and artful machinations."
"Dr. Prague, I'm astonished to hear you detract from the worth and honesty of your son-in-law, even in our private conversation."
"I may repeat here what I've of late heard broached in public places, that Hardin involved Sheldon in the speculations with the intention to effect his ruin."
"Such groundless insinuations are worthy their originators," said Mrs. Prague, in an angry, vehement tone.
"May be time will render us all wiser than we are now, madam."
"I hope it will," she answered, significantly, as with a lofty air she rose from the luxurious sofa, and remarked, "I will now go down to Marion's, and pass an hour in conversation with my son-in-law."
"Do so, madam," said the doctor, "and as you pass the office door, send Kate up here with my cigar-case, if you please. It lies on the table there."
And the majestic Mrs. Dr. Prague rustled her brocades into the private parlor of her daughter Marion, just as the latter was hushing the shrieks of a chubby little boy, who seemed nearly frantic with affright.
"What is the matter of him, Marion?" asked she.
"His father kissed him in his sleep and woke him. You know he always screams at sight of Lawrence."
"Strange he should be afraid of his father; but he will doubtless get over it as he grows older."
"I think it increases upon him."
"Is not Lawrence at home?" inquired Mrs. Prague.
"He is in the office with Mr. Sumpter, I believe," was the reply.
"Would you think it, Marion? Your father is opposed to our Catherine's marrying Mr. Sumpter."
"Indeed, I do not wonder. I do not consider him a proper person for any young lady of taste and refinement to marry."
"Why so? Lawrence extols him."
"Does he?"
The child had grown quiet, and now slept in its mother's arms. As her son-in-law did not appear, Mrs. Prague soon retired.
Hardin was having a stormy scene with Sumpter. The latter had of late grown bold and impetuous. Admitted in confidence to all Hardin's nefarious schemes and plottings, he gained a power over the wicked man, and began to exercise it with arbitrary sway. He was a reckless, unprincipled gambler, and, having recently encountered heavy losses, came with a bold demand on Hardin's purse.
"You are getting to use me shabbily," he exclaimed, angrily; "with all Sheldon's fortune tucked away in your pocket, to say nothing of—you know what—you refuse me so small a favor as a cool thousand. Come, hand over, or, by Heaven, I'll inform against you!"
"You can hardly do that, without marring your own good fame," said Hardin, ironically; "and I know you would shrink from doing that."
"None of your sneers, Hardin," growled Sumpter, fiercely; "will you give me the money?"
"No!" thundered Hardin, with an oath; "you shall not ride rough-shod over me in this way. Now begone from my sight!"
"Very well; good-evening, Esq. Hardin," said Sumpter, with a savage, revengeful leer on his countenance, as he went out, slamming the door spitefully behind him.
Hardin was alarmed, after the wretch was gone, as he reflected how far he was in the monster's power, and in what ruin he might involve him if he chose.
CHAPTER XVII.
"Now mark him in the tempest hour,Will he be calm, or will he quailBefore the fury of its power?——Read ye the tale."
"Now mark him in the tempest hour,Will he be calm, or will he quailBefore the fury of its power?——Read ye the tale."
"Now mark him in the tempest hour,
Will he be calm, or will he quail
Before the fury of its power?
——Read ye the tale."
There are those that know not the extent of their powers till they are called forth and tasked to the utmost by trial and misfortune. Such an one was Frank Sheldon. Disposed to ease and quiet in the hour of prosperity, when adversity came, it aroused him at once to vigorous, decisive action. Though bereft of love and fortune at a blow, as it were, his manly spirit did not cower and sink beneath the strokes; that he suffered is true, but he bore up bravely under the adverse fortune. He was proud, as all great minds are, and the blight so publicly cast on Annie Evalyn's good repute, cut him to the quick; but he hoped she might be able to refute the aspersions cast on her by Sumpter, for he was loth to think ill of a being that had appeared so amiable and exalted in her nature, so lofty in soul and intellect, and was beautiful as an angel in person. But, instead of this, she fled by night from the scene of her confusion, leaving behind all her effects, and no clue to her intended course. Did not this wear the appearance of guilt? Still he did not condemn her, but learned from Dr. Prague the place of her former residence, and wrote a letter, assuring her of a continuance of affection, and asking an explanation of Sumpter's strange tale. No answer was returned,—indeed, the letter never reached its destination; but this Sheldon did not know, and was forced to regard the silence as another proof of her cupidity.
With this view of the matter he found it less difficult to subdue his passion. He could not,wouldnot love a guilty, artful thing.
And now fell another blow in quick succession; his land investment proved worthless, and at a sweep his fortune went past power to recover. Hardin expressed much regret, but Sheldon could not avoid noticing that he clutched at every opportunity to save his own affairs, and exposed him to the most uncertain hazards.
Old Dr. Prague loudly bewailed Sheldon's ill luck, and declared he would never forgive himself for having advised the young man to embark in the cursed speculations. But Sheldon begged him not to be unnecessarily distressed, as it was no fault of his that the schemes proved abortive; and the good doctor finally coincided, and settled down to his oranges with tolerable serenity.
Sheldon did not long remain inactive; he left those scenes amid which misfortune had overtaken him, and repaired to the eastern cities, where he readily found employ in an extensive printing establishment, and applied himself assiduously to his duties. In a short time he was admitted to the firm, and became assistant editor of a popular magazine. This was an occupation congenial to his tastes, as it afforded him not only an opportunity of writing, but of reading, and becoming intimately acquainted with the polite literature of the day.
He was one day in the editorial sanctum, examining a quantity of manuscripts lately received, when one, in a clear, delicate female hand, attracted his eye. There was something in the light, fairy tracery which instantly riveted his attention. He read it through; "Woodland Winne," was the signature,—anomme de plume, of course. He wondered who could be the fair authoress of this beautiful production.
While thus occupied in conjectures, a gentleman entered the apartment.
"Here, Wilberforce, do you know this MS.?" said Sheldon, holding it toward him.
"O, yes!" answered the gentleman, glancing it over; "beautiful hand, is it not?"
"Yes; but who is the writer?"
"O, I don't know that! I have had several communications from the same pen in the last three months, all exquisite in their style and diction, and eliciting warm commendation from the literary press."
"And cannot you discover the fair unknown?"
"No, I have addressed her under hernomme de plume, and desired her true name remitted, in confidence, if she objected to publicity; but she has never seen fit to gratify my curiosity."
"Strange one so deserving should shun notoriety," remarked Sheldon.
"So it seems to me," said Wilberforce, who was the senior editor; "but I came in to call you to the Literary Association; it meets at three o'clock. Come, let's be off, or we shall be too late;—these MSS. we can look over to-morrow."
They closed the office and went out in company. But Sheldon forgot himself several times in the debate, as a semblance of that delicate manuscript, enwrit with those clear, sparkling fancies, rose often before his mental vision.
There seemed to be a spell about it, to charm and lead captive his imagination.
CHAPTER XVIII.