In the golden days of June, more than three months after the occurrences of our last chapter, Laurie Meredith returned to the scene of his love affair, and made his way to the large stone house where the Fieldings had lived last summer.
He had not had a letter from Flower for the last two months, and this had brought him to seek her earlier than he otherwise would have done, for while he had received her letters he had known that she was well and contented, but her silence filled him with such fear and discontent that he left Germany, determined to have it out with the Fieldings and take his bride away.
No rumor of the changes that had taken place since his departure had reached him. He knew not that Mrs. Fielding was the inmate of a lunatic asylum, and Flowerreported dead. His heart was full of eager joy as he ran up the steps of the old stone house, expecting in a very short time to clasp Flower to his yearning heart, and tell her that she must leave her mother and sister and come with him now, for he could never be parted from her again.
The parlor window was open, and the notes of the piano, accompanied by a sweet voice, became audible as he stepped upon the porch. He stopped a minute to hear, thinking that the musical voice belonged to Flower. Then he shivered. The voice and the words were so sad that they struck a chill to his heart.
It was only an old song, heard many a time before, but its plaintive sadness had never struck him as forcibly as now, when it came sighing through the lace curtains, and mingling with the summer breezes:
"Weary of living, so weary,Longing to lie down and die,To find for the sad heart and drearyThe end of the pilgrimage nigh;Weary, so weary of wishingFor a form that has gone from my sight,For a voice that is hushed to me ever,For eyes that to me were so bright!"Weary, so weary of waiting,Waiting for sympathy sweet,For something to love and to love me,The pleasures that are not so fleet;For a hand to be held on my forehead,A glimpse of the golden-brown hair,For a step that to me was sweet music,And a brow that was noble and fair!'"
"Weary of living, so weary,Longing to lie down and die,To find for the sad heart and drearyThe end of the pilgrimage nigh;Weary, so weary of wishingFor a form that has gone from my sight,For a voice that is hushed to me ever,For eyes that to me were so bright!
"Weary, so weary of waiting,Waiting for sympathy sweet,For something to love and to love me,The pleasures that are not so fleet;For a hand to be held on my forehead,A glimpse of the golden-brown hair,For a step that to me was sweet music,And a brow that was noble and fair!'"
Laurie Meredith's heart thrilled in sympathy with the singer. It was Flower, of course. She was thinking of him, the sweet darling, he knew. Oh, how glad she would be to see him again!
He opened the front door without ceremony, and entered the hall, reckless of the risk he ran of meeting Mrs. Fielding and encountering her angry reproaches. He would stop for nothing now, so anxious was he to clasp that sweet singer to his heart, and tell her she should never be "weary of waiting" again, never be parted from him more.
But the wide hall was silent and deserted. Very softly he opened the parlor door and stepped across the threshold. Then he saw that the girl at the piano was the only occupant of the room.
She turned around quickly, and he saw dark eyes instead of blue ones, dark locks instead of golden curls. Jewel sprung up with a thrilling cry:
"At last!"
There was unmistakable love and joy in her face and voice. She made no effort to conceal her glad surprise. Had she not been waiting for this hour for months, had she not dressed for him daily, determined that whenever he came he should find her at her best? And now, conscious of her pretty, rose-tinted mull, that was so becoming to her dusky beauty, she rejoiced that her efforts were crowned with success. Her beauty could not fail to make a strong impression.
But he started back in surprise and disappointment, and forgetting even the conventional greeting he owed her, exclaimed, eagerly:
"Where is Flower?"
"Flower?" cried Jewel, sharply, with a clouded brow. "Oh, Mr. Meredith, did you not know? Poor Flower is dead!"
Jewel had not meant to break the truth so suddenly to Laurie Meredith, but his cruel indifference to herself, andhis anxiety over Flower, piqued her into retorting upon him so suddenly. She had her revenge, for, after gazing at her blankly for one agonized moment, the young man threw up his arms, staggered wildly, then fell like a log at her feet.
The terrible revulsion of feeling from love, hope, and expectancy to despair had almost slain him, and he lay for several minutes quite unconscious, while Jewel knelt beside him in an agony of fear.
"He is dead, and all my schemes have been in vain," she thought, wildly; and in her despair she kissed the cold, white face, and laid her dark head on the pulseless breast of the man she loved so wildly, and wished that she too were dead and cold.
Presently she lifted her head and laid her cheek against his, whispering, reproachfully:
"Oh, my love, if you had given your heart to me instead of her, all this would not have happened. We should have been as happy as the day is long."
A step in the hall startled her, and she sprung up just as the door opened, and her companion, an elderly widow lady, entered the parlor.
"Oh, Mrs. Wellings!" exclaimed Jewel, wildly, and the lady screamed as she saw the apparently dead man on the floor.
As soon as she could speak she began to question Jewel volubly, and the girl explained that he was a friend of hers, and had dropped like that on entering the room.
A physician was hastily summoned, and it was found that Laurie Meredith was not dead. He soon revived, but he had received such a shock that weeks of illness followed, and Jewel declared that he must not be moved from the house.
There was plenty of room. The doctor could send an experienced nurse, she said, and she and Mrs. Wellings would do all they could.
So it followed, that when Laurie Meredith first opened his eyes, after weeks of delirium, with a conscious gaze they fell on Jewel sitting by his bed, looking exquisitely charming in a long white tea-gown with crimson silk facings, and some crimson rosebuds in her braided hair.
He looked at her bewilderedly at first, then a memory of the past began to dawn on him, and he asked her if he had been sick.
"Yes, with brain-fever, for nearly three weeks, but you are better now," Jewel replied, in a sweet, gentle voice that thrilled him in spite of himself, for it sounded something like Flower's as it had whispered to him of her love last summer. He closed his eyes a few moments, and when he opened them again he remembered all.
"Oh, Heaven! I remember all now," he moaned, "You told me that my darling was dead."
"Yes," she said, in a soft, sweet tone, "Flower is dead—poor, unfortunate girl—but I would not have broken it to you so abruptly if I had known that you would take it so hard."
"You knew I loved her, Jewel," he said, looking keenly into the beautiful, sparkling face.
"Yes, once," she replied; "but I thought it had all blown over long ago. Mamma refused her consent, and then you went away. I thought you had forgotten it, as Flower did very soon."
"No, no, she did not forget, Jewel!" he groaned; then paused, remembering that Jewel could not be expected to know anything of that secret marriage and their correspondence. Presently he said, mournfully:
"She is dead—beautiful Flower is dead! How long ago was it, Jewel?"
She named the day when Flower had run away, and added:
"She committed suicide. She drowned herself in the sea."
She feared he would faint again, so awful was the pallor that overspread his face, so she cried out, hastily:
"But it was not her love for you that drove her to despair, but her shame and grief at finding out the secret of her parentage."
And she went on to tell him of the secret old Maria had revealed on her death-bed, and which had driven her mother mad at last, and caused Flower to drown herself.
"Mamma did not tell her for a long time, and when Flower heard it at last she went almost as mad as poor mamma, and vowed she would drown herself. Oh, Mr. Meredith, you can not think how dreadful it all was!" sobbed Jewel, desolately.
He made no comment. He could not speak after the dreadful story she had been telling him. He only lay and listened in dumb horror.
Jewel recovered herself, and continued:
"There was mamma, raving mad, and at last they had to take her to the asylum. As for Flower, she fell ill, and tried again and again to take her own life. I had to watch her always to prevent her going to the sea and throwing herself in. You see, Mr. Meredith, she was my half-sister, and I could not help but love her in spite of her birth and of our father's sin. So I did not tell any one our dreadful secret, I only loved poor Flower the more, and in her sickness I tended her carefully until that awful night when I thought her dead, and rushed down-stairs to call for help. Then she revived, got out of the house, and drowned herself."
"Her body—was it ever recovered?" he asked, and Jewel replied:
"No; but we are certain she drowned herself, because some of her garments were found on the sea-shore."
"It is terrible!" he groaned, and looking keenly at her pale face, he asked: "Did Flower leave any papers, any letters, Jewel, that told you anything strange?"
"No," she answered, unblushingly; and he reflected that it would be no use to tell her that Flower had been his wife. She was dead, poor little darling; but he thanked Heaven that the misery that had driven her to suicide was at least none of his making.
"But, ah, if she had only come with me she would probably never have heard the shameful secret of her birth," he thought; and it seemed to him now that he understood Mrs. Fielding's object in refusing to let her daughters marry any one.
"She was very honorable. She was not willing that Flower's story should be known, yet she could not give her to any one who was ignorant of it," he thought, feeling an accession of pity and respect for the woman who had been so deeply wronged, yet who had remained so honest and conscientious.
Presently Jewel murmured something about nourishment, and glided lightly from the room. He closed his eyes and lay thinking of the strange story she had told him, and of his poor, blighted little Flower, who had gone to her death rather than endure the bitter shame that had come to her with the knowledge of her birth. The deep regret that she had not gone away with him last summer pierced his heart so bitterly that fever set in again, and he had a relapse that came near costing him his life.
When Laurie Meredith was well enough to go away again, the summer was more than half gone, and he felt that he owed a debt of gratitude to Jewel Fielding for her hospitality and friendliness that he knew not how to pay, since she refused money, and there was nothing else that he could give.
The situation was most embarrassing, for in spite of his sorrow, sickness, and preoccupation, he could not helpseeing that Jewel took more than a friendly interest in himself.
It was this that decided him to go away at once, that he might give no encouragement to her fancy. He said to himself that his heart was dead, that he could never reciprocate her love, so he would go away, and she was so young and gay she would soon forget him.
"If there is anything I can do for you at any time, Jewel, remember that I desire you to command my services," he said to her, when he broke to her, as gently as he could, the news that he was going away the next day.
She had borne it more calmly than he had expected. The bright cheeks grew pale, and the lashes drooped to hide the sadness in the dark eyes, but she said, eagerly:
"There is something you can do for me—now. I have a favor to ask of you."
"You have only to name it," he replied, gallantly; and she began to tell him that she was tired of her life in this quiet seaport town of Virginia.
She was rich, and she longed to live in the city and mix with its gayeties, that she might forget the sorrows she had borne here.
"You live in Boston; you have a mother and sister," she said. "Would it be wrong for me to come to Boston to live? Would it be too much to ask your family to present me in society?"
He was surprised and secretly annoyed. He saw her drift in a moment. She did not mean to lose sight of him. Her love was stronger than he had thought.
He did not answer her for a moment, from sheer surprise, and she continued:
"I have a most excellent lady for a companion, as you know. I should like to buy a handsome house in your city, and set up housekeeping with Mrs. Wellings as my chaperon and companion. There would be nothing imprudent in that, I suppose?"
He was obliged to own that, as far as he knew, such a proceeding would be quite proper.
"Then it is settled!" she cried, joyfully. "Now, will you be so kind, when you get home, as to see a real estate man and buy a handsome house for me? I shall like it all the better if it is near your home, for I know I shall be fond of your mother and sisters—that is, if they are all like you."
He could not help coloring at the frankly spoken words, and he cried out, hastily:
"But, my dear Miss Fielding, I fear I should not be able to please you in the selection of a house. It would be much better for your guardian to attend to that matter."
"He is an old stupid; I would not trust him in the selection of such a house as I want," she replied, vivaciously; and, after thinking a moment, he said:
"Then you should select it yourself. What would you say to coming to Boston this autumn as the guest of my mother?"
"I should be charmed!" Jewel declared, graciously.
"Then my mother shall send you an invitation, and then you can select a house yourself," he said, adding, with a slight smile: "I predict that you will be a belle when you enter society."
"What! a little country girl like me?" cried Jewel, with sparkling eyes; and he saw that she was delighted at the compliment, and told himself that this was the very best thing he could have thought of—inviting her to his home. In society she would see so many handsome men she would get over her penchant for him.
"And I am going abroad again, anyway. I could not bear a quiet life now. I must seek oblivion in strange scenes and a new life," he thought, sighing, as he left her and went out into the grounds, where everything reminded him so vividly of his little, lost love.
Alas! she was gone now from those scenes that her fairy form had brightened, and the low murmur of the sea, as it rolled with a sullen murmur in to the shore, tortured him with the thought that it held her in its cruel embrace.
"For the heart of the waters is cruel,And the kisses are dire of their lips,And their waves are as fire is to fuelTo the strength of the sea-faring ships,Though the sea's eye gleam as a jewelTo the sun's eye back as he dips."
"For the heart of the waters is cruel,And the kisses are dire of their lips,And their waves are as fire is to fuelTo the strength of the sea-faring ships,Though the sea's eye gleam as a jewelTo the sun's eye back as he dips."
"Who would have dreamed," he thought, "last summer, that such a tragedy would have overtaken this little family? The mother insane, one daughter dead, the other restless and unhappy because of an unhappy love! Poor Jewel! she is indeed bereaved!" he thought, as he walked down a graveled path toward the rear of the house, to get away from the sorrowful sound of the ever-restless sea.
And as his walk took him quite near the servants' quarters, he suddenly came face to face with old Maria's relict, Sam, whom he had never seen since that night last summer when he had sent him to carry that letter to Flower.
At first the mulatto looked sheepish and inclined to retreat; but, seeing Laurie's hand go into his pocket, he turned back, and was presented with a bright silver dollar, for which he returned profuse thanks.
"Ah, Sam, no more letters to carry now. She is dead, poor Flower!" sighed the young man, sorrowfully, and the mulatto gave him a strange glance, and replied, resentfully:
"Yes, she's dead, and it's your fault, too, Mr. Meredith! What made you sneak off and leave poor Maria's nuss child to bear her shame and disgrace by herself?"
"Shame and disgrace!" the young man repeated, bewilderedly, and Sam looked around, and seeing no one near, whispered:
"Guess no one hain't told you about my dream, has they, now?"
"No," Laurie answered, wondering if Sam were drunk or crazy, yet submitting to be drawn aside into a convenient arbor, where the story of Sam's return with his bride that fateful night was quickly told.
Laurie Meredith's pale face grew whiter and more haggard still, and Sam, seeing it, added, quickly: "But 'twan't nuthin' but a dream, sir, or a warnin' o' her death, for she were dead and drowndid then, pore gal!"
"But, Sam, there could have been nothing like that—a child, I mean—Flower would have written to me!" he exclaimed, incoherently.
"Lor' bless you, Mr. Meredith, there was a child comin'—hain't Miss Jewel told you?" cried Sam, and a terrible groan answered him:
"My wife, my little wife, oh, why did you not tell me!" and then he rushed wildly to Jewel, demanding to know why she had kept this from him.
"My sister's disgrace—oh, how could I tell you, who loved her, of that dark stain?" she began; but he interrupted, wildly:
"There was no stain, no disgrace; she was my wife by a secret marriage, and she promised to go away with me but she was afraid of her mother, and stayed. Jewel, this story must be published to the world, that no stain may rest on her memory," he declared, passionately to the cruel girl who had brought about all this misery.
Jewel bit her lips in anger and scorn when she learned that Laurie Meredith had found out the secret she had guarded so carefully, fearing lest he should love the memory of the dead girl better for that knowledge.
But she dared not give vent to her chagrin in his presence.She knew that she must dissemble, must keep up her deceitful rôle, and agree to his declaration that the fact of his marriage to Flower should be made public.
So she soothed him with gentle words of sympathy, and pretended to be overjoyed at hearing that Flower had been a wife, and not the guilty girl she had been believed to be.
She declared herself eager to convince every one that Flower had been his wife.
"You will give me the marriage-certificate, of course, and I will show it to the townspeople," she said.
He explained to her that he had left the certificate with his young wife.
"You will probably find it among her papers," he said, confidently; but search for it proved the contrary.
"What shall we do now?" she asked him, with pretended anxiety.
He looked puzzled for a moment, then his face cleared.
"Although the certificate can not be found I can prove the marriage by the minister who performed the ceremony."
"Yes," said Jewel; but when he said that it was the Reverend Mr. Archer, of little Episcopal Chapel, she shook her head.
"I am very sorry to tell you, but he has gone abroad. His health was failing, and his congregation sent him to Europe for a year," she replied.
He looked dismayed for a moment, then rallying, said, confidently:
"They will certainly take my word, when I declare that I was Flower's husband."
Jewel looked very dubious. She would not answer.
"What do you think?" he demanded, impatiently, and Jewel sighed, and answered:
"People are so hard and malicious—I—I—am afraid they would not listen without proof."
He knew that this was quite true. The world was so hard, especially where a woman's honor was concerned,that it would not hear the vindication of an angel without proof.
Almost unconsciously he groaned aloud:
"What am I to do? How vindicate the memory of my lost angel in the minds of those who believed her false and light?"
Much as she loved him, Jewel gloated over his suffering. She would not have spared him one pang if by lifting her hand she could have thrown off the whole burden of his misery.
"He preferred her to me! Let him bear the punishment I have meted out to him!" she thought, triumphantly; and presently she said:
"There seems only one way out of our difficulty. We can not speak until the Reverend Mr. Archer comes back to verify your story."
"That is hard—to wait a year—a whole year—ere I vindicate my darling's memory," he groaned. But Jewel remained silent, knowing that in the end he would be obliged to agree with her declaration.
He did so, and the next day he left Virginia and journeyed to the watering-place where his mother and sisters were spending the summer quietly on account of the recent death of the head of the house.
He did not tell them the pathetic story of his secret marriage, and his young wife's death. They would hear it all from Jewel soon enough, he thought, shrinking from all the questions they asked him about his altered looks, and finding it hard to ask for the invitation Miss Fielding desired so much.
But he did it at last, in spite of their haughty surprise; and, after they had heard that he had been ill for weeks in the house of the beautiful heiress, that she had tended him with all the affection of a sister, and that she was lonely and orphaned, they began to feel that they owed Jewel a debt that would be but poorly canceled by all thatthey could do. So the invitation was written and sent, eagerly accepted, and Jewel at once began to get ready for her winter campaign, as she called it to herself, feeling that victory already perched upon her banner.
Two years went by on the swift wing of time, and Miss Fielding had drained to its dregs the full cup of success, in which there was but one drop of bitter, the torturing fact that Laurie Meredith still remained abroad, oblivious to her charms.
He had gone away before she went to Boston, and so he had not seen her brilliant social triumph, for her dusky Southern beauty had carried society by storm, and Mrs. Meredith had been quite proud of her protégée.
Now Jewel had an elegant home on the same street with the Meredith mansion, and Mrs. Wellings, as her companion and chaperon, was mistress of a home where the most elegant entertainments were given, and where life was always at its gayest, for the beautiful heiress loved to surround herself with light-hearted people, and to live always in the midst of pleasure, perhaps that she might keep at bay the pangs of remorse that must sometimes have pierced her heart if she had given herself time to think of those whose lives she had ruined.
Winter was coming on again, and at last Laurie Meredith was coming home. He could not hold out longer against the prayers of his mother and sisters, so he had promised to return from that long exile, in which he had been a restless, unhappy wanderer, seeking:
"Respite—respite and nepenthe from his memories of Lenore."
"Respite—respite and nepenthe from his memories of Lenore."
Jewel contrived to make one of the home party when he arrived, and he could not help but see into what a magnificent-looking woman she had grown since he went away.
The rich, trailing robe of ruby velvet, trimmed with gray fur, was very becoming to her stately style, and her eyes were bright with welcome as he clasped her beautiful hand.
Lovers by the score she had had since she came to Boston, but none had erased from her passionate heart the image of handsome Laurie Meredith, for whose sake she had sinned so deeply and recklessly, and now she felt that her long waiting was about to be rewarded.
He had had time to forget Flower, and surely he could not longer remain cold to her love and her charms.
It gave him a pang to see her, for she always recalled Flower to his mind, and the thought of his lost love was always painful.
But he chided himself for his reluctance at meeting her, and perhaps his welcome was doubly cordial on that account; and his family, seeing it, made up their minds that the pair were fond of each other in a tenderer fashion than they had suspected.
Perhaps they hinted something of the sort to him, for the first time he found himself alone with her, he said to her:
"Miss Fielding, is it possible that you have never told my mother and sisters of my marriage?"
Jewel looked up at him with her radiant eyes, and answered:
"You might have known that I would not betray your secret."
He was nettled by her use of that word. It seemed like a tacit reproach to him, and while he paused for words in which to reply, she added:
"Of course I knew that if you had desired them to know you would have confided in them before you went away. So I respected your desire, and not a word of it has passed my lips."
"You misunderstood me," he rejoined, eagerly. "Imeant them to know—only I was weak and sick still when I went away, and it was so painful to reopen that cruel wound. I fully expected they would hear all from you." She was silent, twisting her ringed fingers slowly in and out, and Laurie Meredith continued: "I wish that you had spoken, for now the duty falls on me. I feel like a wretch and a coward, keeping this secret from my nearest and dearest."
Jewel's dark eyes sought his face with such a strange look that he said, involuntarily:
"Well?"
She answered, deliberately:
"It seems to me that the silence you have kept so long ought to be preserved still. What good would come of speaking now?"
"They ought to know," he said, uneasily.
"But why, Mr. Meredith? You would only distress them if you told your story now. They have heard from me my mother's story and Flower's. They know that she drowned herself because of the dishonor of her birth. Do you think, proud as they are, that they would be pleased to know that the daughter of poor, erring Daisy Forrest had been your wife?"
His face flushed deeply, then his brown eyes flashed.
"It was cruel of you to tell them that. Why need you have done it?" he exclaimed; and Jewel burst into tears, sobbing out that she had been so wretched, and wanted some one to sympathize with her so much, that she could not help speaking.
He waited till she had done sobbing, then asked:
"And the people in Virginia—your old home. You let them know the truth at least. You promised me you would as soon as the Reverend Mr. Archer came home from Europe."
"But he never came home," Jewel answered.
And he told himself that he was mistaken in fancyingthat there was a ring of malicious triumph in her voice. Surely she would be only too glad to have the honor of her sister vindicated, and he echoed, dismally:
"Never came home!"
"No; he died abroad," said Jewel, and, after waiting a few moments, she added: "What was the use of speaking then? No one would have believed me. Besides, very few knew anything about poor Flower's trouble at the time, and to bring it up again would have made a fresh scandal, so I thought it best not to speak."
And against his better judgment she persuaded Laurie Meredith to keep the secret of the past.
Several months after Laurie Meredith's return to Boston, the following notice appeared in the society column of a daily paper:
"It is rumored that the handsome and fascinating Laurie Meredith will soon lead to the altar the beautiful belle, Miss Jewel Fielding, and society is on thequi vivefor the magnificent festivities that will attend this brilliant social event."
"It is rumored that the handsome and fascinating Laurie Meredith will soon lead to the altar the beautiful belle, Miss Jewel Fielding, and society is on thequi vivefor the magnificent festivities that will attend this brilliant social event."
Directly beneath this interesting announcement was this paragraph:
"Lord and Lady Ivon, of Cornwall, England, with great-granddaughter, Miss Azalia Brooke, are the guests of our esteemed townsman, Raynold Clinton. The latter was handsomely entertained at Lord Ivon's London residence when he went abroad last year, and he now has the opportunity of reciprocating the hospitalities thus received. The venerable noble and his gracious lady are making the tour of the United States for the first time, and will spend several weeks here, during which they will have an opportunity of meeting some of the cultured societyof Boston. Of the marvelous blonde beauty of their great-granddaughter, Miss Brooke, wonderful stories are told, and our belles will have to look to their laurels."
"Lord and Lady Ivon, of Cornwall, England, with great-granddaughter, Miss Azalia Brooke, are the guests of our esteemed townsman, Raynold Clinton. The latter was handsomely entertained at Lord Ivon's London residence when he went abroad last year, and he now has the opportunity of reciprocating the hospitalities thus received. The venerable noble and his gracious lady are making the tour of the United States for the first time, and will spend several weeks here, during which they will have an opportunity of meeting some of the cultured societyof Boston. Of the marvelous blonde beauty of their great-granddaughter, Miss Brooke, wonderful stories are told, and our belles will have to look to their laurels."
In the elegant and luxurious library of the Clinton mansion the young lady referred to as Lord Ivon's great-granddaughter was standing alone at a window, looking out, with wistful, azure eyes, at the whirling flakes of snow that filled the air, for it had been snowing since early morn, and the earth was already covered in the short space of three hours with a deep, glistening, white carpet.
None of the reports regarding Azalia Brooke's beauty were in the least exaggerated, for she was, indeed,
"Perfectly beautiful, faultily faultless."
"Perfectly beautiful, faultily faultless."
A form of perfect mold and medium height, with a rarely lovely face, lighted by large purple-blue eyes, and framed by burnished, golden hair; hands and feet perfect enough for a sculptor's model, and a voice that was sweet as the soul of music, no wonder people raved over Lord Ivon's great-granddaughter; for as she stood there, with the rich, plush folds of her pale-blue, ermine-trimmed tea-gown falling in long, statuesque folds about her, she looked as if she had stepped down from an artist's canvas, or from the pages of a poet's book.
But as the lovely girl gazed at the snowy scene without, an expression of wistful sadness crept around the corners of her curved red lips and into her tender blue eyes, and she repeated some pathetic lines that have touched many a heart with their sweet, simple pathos:
"How strange it should be that the beautiful snowShould fall on a sinner with nowhere to go!How strange it should be if ere night comes againThe snow and the ice strike my desperate brain;Fainting,Freezing,Dying alone,Too wicked for prayer, too weak for my moanTo be heard in the crash of the crazy town,Gone mad in the joy of the snow coming down,I should be, and should lie in my terrible woeWith a bed and a shroud of the beautiful snow!"
"How strange it should be that the beautiful snowShould fall on a sinner with nowhere to go!How strange it should be if ere night comes againThe snow and the ice strike my desperate brain;Fainting,Freezing,Dying alone,Too wicked for prayer, too weak for my moanTo be heard in the crash of the crazy town,Gone mad in the joy of the snow coming down,I should be, and should lie in my terrible woeWith a bed and a shroud of the beautiful snow!"
Great pearly tears rose to the pansy-blue eyes, brimmed over, and rolled down the fair cheeks of the girl. She clasped her little hands, all glittering with diamonds, and murmured, mournfully:
"Ah, my mother, to think that you were a sinner like that!—'Too wicked for prayer,' a willful sinner for love's sake, and I, your child, with that dark brand upon my birth! Ah, what if he had lived to know? He was proud and well-born. Would he have hated me for my mother's sin? Would he have forsaken me, cast me off as one unworthy? Ah, my love, my love, it was better that you died, for then you never knew the cruel truth!"
The door opened softly, and a servant entered, placing the evening papers on the table. To divert her thoughts, which had grown dark and gloomy, Lord Ivon's great-granddaughter threw herself into a luxurious chair, and began to peruse the first paper that came to her hand. Thus she came upon the paragraph regarding Laurie Meredith and Jewel Fielding.
What ailed Azalia Brooke, the beautiful descendant of the proud house of Ivon?
When her glance fell carelessly on those two names she started, and a low cry of wonder came from her lips.
Twice over she read the paragraph, and her cheeks assumed the hue of death, her eyes were dilated widely, her lips parted and gasped, faintly:
"Jewel here—and to be married to Laurie Meredith! Laurie Meredith! Great Heaven, could there be two of that name?"
She crushed the paper convulsively in her slender fingers, and stared before her with wide, blue eyes that sawnot the luxurious appointments of the elegant room, but a picture evoked from the recesses of her brain—a picture of the past.
A rocky, sea-beat shore, with the soft breeze of summer lifting the golden curls from a girl's white brow as it rested against a manly breast. Blue eyes were meeting brown ones, hand was clasped in hand, and love was lord of that tender scene.
A moan of pain came from the lips of beautiful Azalia, and she sighed:
"Ah, love, why did you leave me, without a word, to my cruel fate? Were you false in heart? Were you only amusing yourself with the simple child who loved you so well? Was that marriage true, or only a sham, or was there treachery somewhere? Treachery! It looked at me from Jewel's eyes—treachery and murderous hate! Ah, love, you died so soon after you went away that I can not hate you in your grave, even though you doomed me to a wretched life, cursed with memories that will not die! And I—I—would give the world to know the truth—to solve the mystery of your going that night!"
The low voice broke again, and she leaned back pale and silent, and a sadder picture rose in fancy before the fixed blue eyes.
This time it was of a golden-haired, blue-eyed girl, with a wailing infant on her breast—a girl who had sought refuge from danger in an humble negro cabin. Over her was bending a plump, good-looking mulatto woman, and the girl was praying, feebly:
"Take me away from here! Hide me and my baby from our enemy!"
The mulatto woman had acted the part of the good Samaritan to the helpless, suffering girl. All night she had worked hard preparing a place in an old, unused barn, where she could hide the sick mother and the tiny babe, and care for them in secret. So it happened that,through her care and prudence, the mother and child fared well, and remained undiscovered in their miserable retreat, while weeks sped away and the world accepted Jewel Fielding's assertion that her sister was dead—drowned in the deep sea.
At last four weary, interminable weeks passed away, and the beautiful young mother was growing strong and well again. On the morrow she had planned to take her baby in her arms and fly from the place so fraught with perils. She said to the good friend who had cared for her so nobly, that she must go into the world and work for a living for herself and the child.
But when that morrow dawned—and at the picture that rose in her mind Azalia sobbed aloud—the girl awoke from slumber and found beneath her breast a little, pulseless form, from which breath had so lately fled that the body was still limp and warm. Poor, puny babe! its feeble little life was ended, she thought, as she clasped and kissed it with raining tears and breaking heart.
A few minutes later her good friend came in and found what had happened. She mingled her tears with those of the bereaved mother.
But they had little time to weep together, for presently Poky said, anxiously:
"Oh, dear, this is dreadful! I don't know what to do! Sam and me had a dreadful fuss this morning, and he said I gadded about too much, and he's gwine ter watch and see whar I goes ter. He's been a-drinkin' agin, the most owdacious raskil he is in his drams that I ever see in all my born days! Cross as a boar with a sore head, dat he is!"
The moaning girl, who was rocking the dead baby on breast, uttered a cry of fear, and Poky continued:
"De reason why he's got ter drinkin' and cuttin' up ag'in is case why somebuddy has up an' robbed him whilst he war away courtin' me. You don't happen terknow nothin' 'bout some papers dat was hid under de flatstone ob de h'arth, does you, Miss Flower, honey?" Poky whispered, anxiously.
In her great grief over her dead child, Flower could not remember for a moment, and she was about to reply in the negative, when suddenly there flashed over her a memory of the night when Mrs. Fielding had gone mad and attempted her life.
She remembered what Jewel had uttered so triumphantly that night, declaring that she had found the papers that her mother had sought in vain in the cabin—the fatal diary of Charley Fielding.
Flower hesitated a moment lest she should do wrong in betraying her half-sister; then her gratitude to this good woman overpowered all other considerations, and she told her briefly that Jewel had taken the papers, but that they related to important family matters alone, and could have been of no use to Sam.
Poky was glad to find out so much, and then she took the little child gently from the weeping mother, and, folding it reverently in her shawl, said, gently, though anxiously:
"Honey, I don't want ter skeer yer, but dis death will happen ter make trouble lessen I could bury de baby private like without anybuddy knowing. Is you willin' to trust me?"
Flower only repeated, anxiously:
"Trouble?"
Then Poky went on to explain that if the secret they had been keeping became known it might be suspected that they had murdered the baby to get rid of it.
"I—murder my little, brown-eyed boy—my precious Douglas!" the young mother cried, indignantly; but Poky persisted, adding, gravely:
"Miss Jewel Fielding would egg them on, you know,chile, and so I think you'd better run away now and leabe me to bury de poor baby."
It seemed terrible to poor Flower to leave her little one to be consigned to an unknown grave by this humble friend; but Poky's good counsel prevailed at last, and with one last kiss on the lovely little face, she stole away in the rough disguise Poky had provided for her, and began her battle with the cold world.
Poky had generously bestowed on her a little money, and with this she made her way to the little Southern town where she had been born, determined to learn something of her mother's history, and also believing that she might make an humble living here better than among the human wolves of a great city.
First of all, she sought humble lodgings at a little third-class hotel, and here she soon learned the location of the cemetery, and set out to visit the graves of her father and mother.
She had no difficulty in finding the handsome inclosure wherein all of the dead and gone Fieldings were interred. It was the pride of the cemetery, just as the Fieldings had been the pride of the town ere their last descendant, handsome, erring, wretched Charley Fielding had flung himself madly into a suicide's awful grave.
Flower sat down among the cold marble monuments, trailing vines, and sweet tea-roses, and fixed her eyes on the small, unpretentious stone that recorded the death of her wretched young father.
Out of her abundant wealth his widow had spared but little for his grave-stone. Her resentment had been too strong and enduring, and followed him beyond the grave.
Crushed and despairing, the unhappy girl sat among the graves of her ancestors, with her golden head bowedlow as she reflected that the bond that united them was one of bitter shame and woe.
It was too hard to linger there long, bowed down with shame and sorrow. She moved away presently to seek the place where her erring mother had been laid to rest, and so came upon the old sexton busily digging a grave. There were a few loiterers about, and a veiled lady sat in the shadow of a weeping willow near by, but Flower noticed no one. She went toward the old man, and asked, timidly:
"Will you tell me where to find the grave of Daisy Forrest?"
The old man looked up, their eyes met, he staggered back, and dropped his spade, uttering a cry of terror:
"Good Lord deliver me!"
The veiled lady, under the drooping branches of the willow, did not seem to notice, but some of the people who were walking about the paths came closer, curious to know what had happened to the old sexton.
He was staring at Flower with frightened eyes, as if she had been a ghost.
"My good man, I did not mean to startle you," Flower said, in her low voice, that sounded like saddest music. "I am looking for my mother's grave."
"Oh, my good Lord! this is surely her ghost!" gasped the sexton, retreating still further. "Oh, I told Mrs. Fielding it was a sin to do this, but she would not listen, she would have her way! It was a shame for me to obey her. And now I'm punished, for Daisy Forrest has come from her grave to look at me and reproach me!"
Some one touched his arm.
"Old man, you're daft. It's a living woman speaking to you."
"What, with that voice and that face?" muttered the old man, dubiously. He peered fearfully at Flower, and muttered, "If 'tain't her ghost, they're as like as twopeas! Well, ma'am, and what is't you're wanting to know?"
"To find Daisy Forrest's grave," said the low, sad voice, with a pitiful tremor in its sweetness; and with that the old man took up his spade and struck it down into the open grave.
"This is where we buried her nigh onto eighteen years ago," he said, peering curiously into her startled face, as she cried out in horror:
"Why do you thus desecrate her grave, man?"
The sound of her indignant voice reached the veiled woman. She started as from a deep trance, and came hastily forward toward the little group that had collected about the grave.
Throwing back her thick veil, she exclaimed, harshly:
"What is all this excitement, old man? I commanded you to perform this work quietly and in silence."
Flower drew back with a startled cry. It was Mrs. Fielding.
The old sexton had leaped into the grave. There was a sound as of the tearing of rotten planks. A minute's silence, then he looked up at the imperious woman, whose eyes burned like fire under her dark brows and snowy-white hair.
"The Lord has put your foolish vengeance out of your power, ma'am," he said, with stern awe. "There ain't nothin' here but a little heap o' ashes. I told you so; I told you that poor, wronged woman was dust and ashes along o' your little babby. But you wouldn't listen. Look, now, for yourself."
She moved forward, as did all the group, except the frightened, shrinking Flower, and when she saw, down there in the darkness of the grave, the commingling ashes of her dead rival and her dead child she uttered a tigerish cry of rage and hate, and fell in a swoon upon the green turf.
At that sight Flower forgot everything, except that the unconscious woman had given her for seventeen years a mother's love and received from her a child's affection. She ran to Mrs. Fielding's side, knelt by her, loosened her dress at the throat, and tore off the heavy veil to give her air.
"Come, sexton, what is all this? Why did you open Daisy Forrest's grave?" a stern voice demanded of the sexton, who was already hastening to replace the earth upon the violated grave.
The old man looked up, and saw a tall man of about fifty, stoutly built, plainly dressed, and wearing gray whiskers of an English cut. There was a gleam of stern displeasure in his eyes, and the sexton answered, sulkily:
"I don't know as it's any of your business, stranger; the lady had a permit from the authorities to open this grave."
But other voices besides those of the English-looking stranger clamored loudly for reasons, so the old sexton, with a sulky glance at his interlocutor, proceeded to explain to his friends and neighbors, giving in substance the story with which we are already familiar.
When he had finished his voluble story he drew a long breath, and added:
"Lord bless you, I knowed 'em all—poor Daisy, and Charley, and Maria, and all, for I've been sexton at Springville nigh on to forty year. So, as I was a-saying, after Maria confessed that cheat on her death-bed, Mrs. Fielding felt like she couldn't see no rest till she took her child outer the coffin with poor Daisy Forrest. So she get the permit, and just teased and teased, and coaxed and begged, until I had to give in and consent."
"And you were finely imposed on by the story of a madwoman!" exclaimed a sneering voice, and three strangers came quickly upon the scene. The one who had spoken was a medical-looking man with a sinister countenance, and he continued: "Why, my good friend, this is a mad woman who recently escaped from my asylum. I have been seeking her everywhere, and I count myself lucky in finding her at last, for she is very violent at times, and quite capable of murder."
Incredulous voices rose on the air, and Flower rose, pale and trembling, saying, in her low, clear tones:
"I do not know this gentleman, but it is quite true that the lady is mad. I know her well. She was sent to an insane asylum weeks ago."
"Then the story she has told is untrue, a figment of her disordered imagination," said the English-looking stranger, who had offended the sexton.
"No, it is the truth," Flower answered, taming her earnest gaze on his face, and adding: "It was the knowledge of that truth that turned her dark hair white in one night, and afterward drove her to madness. And I am the helpless girl she reared as her own—I am Daisy Forrest's daughter!"
No one thought of doubting her assertion. There she stood, looking at them with the face of her whose ashes slept beneath their feet, and awing all denial into silence.
Just then Mrs. Fielding stirred, and opened her dark eyes with a dazed look. Flower bent over her with infinite pity in her sad blue eyes.
"Mamma!" she murmured, using the old, familiar name forgetfully.
"Flower!" exclaimed Mrs. Fielding, wildly, and there was a note of gladness in her voice that was plainly recognized by all. For the moment the poor woman had forgotten all but the love she had borne the girl who had been her daughter so long. Her wild expression softenedinto sweetness, and murmuring, "My darling!" she held out her arms to the girl, who gently assisted her to rise.
Then Mrs. Fielding saw the half-filled grave yawning at her feet, saw the curious faces around her, and fell memory returned.
She glared wildly at Flower's gentle, pitying face, and struck out fiercely with both hands to push her away.
"Ah, I forgot!" she screamed, angrily. "You do not belong to me—you are hers! Go—go, before I strike you! Go—"
But further speech was arrested by the doctor, whom she had not before observed, but who now came in front of her, and said, sharply:
"Come, Mrs. Fielding, enough of this! You must come home now with me and these keepers who came along with me to help carry you back."
A scream of horror broke from the poor woman's lips; but they proceeded to pinion her hands firmly, regardless of the wild entreaties for freedom that she eagerly poured forth.
"Oh, be gentle; do not hurt her, if you must take her away!" Flower exclaimed, pleadingly; and at that Mrs. Fielding looked at her almost tenderly and wailed out:
"Oh, Flower, do not let them take me away! I am not mad—I am not mad! Oh, save me—you are my only friend!"
Smothering her wild cries with a handkerchief, the three men bore her rapidly away.
When Flower saw the miserable Mrs. Fielding borne away so rudely by her captors her tender heart swelled with pity for the unhappy woman, and she started to run after them to beg them to be gentler with the poor creature.
But she had not taken a dozen steps before her arm was caught in a tight grasp by the old sexton, who whirled her about, and said, sharply:
"What would you do? Run after that mad woman, who hates you?"
Tears sprung to Flower's eyes, and she answered, sadly:
"But she loved me once, before she found out how cruelly she had been imposed on, and I pity her now, for her last words sounded quite rational. Perhaps she has got over her madness."
"Humph! It didn't sound like it just now when she was rating you so soundly!" grunted the old man; and feeling her tremble as he held her arm, he looked keenly into her face, and saw that she was deathly pale and wan.
"You're just ready to faint, missie," he exclaimed, leading her to the rustic seat beneath the willow, where Mrs. Fielding had been sitting a little while ago. He brought her a draught of fresh, sparkling water, which she drank thirstily, then, with a deep sigh, leaned her aching head on her hands.
Divining that she wished to be alone, the kind-hearted old sexton returned to his task of filling up the grave of Daisy Forrest, and the loiterers about the spot slowly dispersed, with one notable exception—that of the gray-haired English-looking stranger who had offended the old sexton by his authoritative manner.
This man now approached, and said, in a bluff, hearty manner:
"Old man, I did not mean to offend by my speech just now; but I, too, knew something of Daisy Forrest's history, and I was indignant at the deed Mrs. Fielding would have done. I hope you will accept this peace-offering from one who wishes you nothing but kindness."
The kind, gray eyes looking at him enforced the speech so emphatically that the sexton melted at once, and replied in kindly terms, while gratefully accepting the offeredgold-piece which, like the donor, had an English appearance.
Then the stranger moved away and sought Flower, who was sobbing violently now in her seat under the willows. At the sound of his step she raised to his face the beautiful eyes, all drowned in tears, like purple-blue pansies wet with dew.
He stopped beside her, and said, gently:
"Miss Fielding, this is an opportune meeting for you and me."
"I do not understand you, sir," said Flower, in a sweet, timid voice, and he answered, quietly:
"Perhaps not, but I will soon explain to you. Still, this may not be a proper place to begin my story. There is my card. Will you permit me, an old man, and the friend of yourself and your kindred, to call upon you at your home?"
She looked at the bit of pasteboard, and read the name, scrawled in a bold hand:
"William R. Kelso,"London, England."
Lifting her sad eyes to his face, she said:
"Mr. Kelso, I am staying at the Springville Hotel. I have no home. I was driven from Mrs. Fielding's house, after she was sent to the asylum, by the cruelty of my half-sister. I am indebted to the kindness of a poor colored woman for the means that enabled me to reach this place. I must now seek work that I may have the means of prolonging my miserable existence."
Something like a smile crossed the man's lips at her concluding words, and a grieved look came into her eyes.
Why should he smile at her sorrows, she wondered.
"I beg your pardon for smiling. I know you think me unfeeling," he said. "But you will understand me betterwhen you have heard the good news I have to tell you."
She looked at him with a startled face, and murmured piteously, as she clasped her little hands together:
"Good news, you say! Ah, if you have anything like that to tell me, do not wait! Let me hear it now! But, alas! what good fortune could come to me?" despondently, for the quick thought of Laurie Meredith was turned aside by the remembrance that he was dead.
Mr. Kelso seated himself on the rustic bench beside her, and said, earnestly:
"What if I should tell you that I came recently from England to seek Daisy Forrest and her descendants?"
The quivering red lips parted in wonder, but Flower did not speak, and he continued:
"I suppose you have never heard that your maternal grandfather was English?"
Her lips quivered painfully as she answered:
"No, I know nothing, except that my birth was my mother's shame, and the cause of her death."
"Poor soul!" sighed William Kelso, compassionately, then he added: "Yes, he was the younger son of a noble English family. His eldest brother was heir to the title and estates, the second brother was in the army, and John Forrest, the third and last, was designed for the church. He was young and wild, and revolted against the restraints of a clerical life, and ran away to America."
Flower sat up, listening eagerly. This began to sound like one of her favorite novels.
Smiling sympathetically at the lovely, startled face, Mr. Kelso continued:
"Lord Ivon was both stern and proud. He vowed he would never forgive his disobedient, runaway son. When letters came from him they were laid aside unread, and poor John's fate remained a mystery to his kindred. Hismother pined, but her stern husband forbid her ever to think of the truant again."
"He was cruel!" Flower murmured, indignantly.
"Yes, he was very hard; but Heaven punished him!" said William Kelso. "The heir died in a few years, and the second son came home from the army to take his place. He married late in life, and his beautiful, delicate wife bore him two sons, and then died. Her husband was drowned a year later on Lake Como. His two boys inherited their mother's consumptive tendency, and one died in early boyhood, and the other just before he attained his majority. Lord Ivon's house was left unto him desolate."
Flower sighed, and he continued:
"There was no one to inherit the title and estates unless John Forrest had survived his brothers, or had married and left descendants. So the letters that had been flung aside at last were opened eagerly to discover John Forrest's whereabouts. There were scores of them, for he had never ceased to implore his parents for their forgiveness. He wrote that he was here in the South, that he had married a lovely girl, then that he had a lovely child called Daisy."
"My mother!" Flower exclaimed, sadly.
"Yes, your mother!" said Mr. Kelso.
He paused a moment, watching the long shadows of sunset as they began to creep across the grave-stones in the old cemetery; then he resumed:
"After the letter that told of Daisy Forrest's birth, no more came to Lord Ivon, and he supposed that his son had grown tired of writing, and had reconciled himself to the alienation. Alas! poor John was dead."
"Dead!" exclaimed Flower.
"Yes, although his father knows it not yet," said Mr. Kelso. "You remember all this was thirty-seven years ago, Miss Fielding. Well, to resume my story, LordIvon's heart turned to his younger son when all his other descendants were gone, and he came to me, his lawyer, and begged me to cross the ocean and seek an heir to Ivon."
"Alas!" sighed Flower, thinking of the little dead baby she had kissed and left in Poky's arms. Had it lived—her lovely little child—it would have been heir to one of the finest titles and estates in old England.
"So I came to this place," continued Mr. Kelso. "I have been here little more than a week, but I have had no trouble in tracing John Forrest, for many of the old people in the country about here remember him well. It seems he had poor luck, or perhaps his training as a rich man's son had not fitted him to encounter the hardships of life. He drifted down here from New York, and obtained employment as an overseer on a farm. Soon after he married the farmer's only child, a sweet girl named Mary. A year after Daisy was born, and her father died soon afterward with malarial fever. His wife survived until her daughter was ten years old, and, dying, left her to take care of her farmer grandparents. They died when Daisy was seventeen, and the farm was sold to satisfy a mortgage, and the beautiful granddaughter was thrown upon the world, helpless and penniless. She went into a grand family as a nursery governess, met Charley Fielding, and—the rest you know."
Her low moan of pain attested that she did, and for a moment there was a deep silence.
Then Mr. Kelso resumed:
"They told me that Daisy Forrest was dead, and her child, too, and I came here this afternoon to look at her grave before I went back to England to tell Lord Ivon with him the proud title and name must die. I am happy that I am spared this sorrowful task, for I think that after you have examined my credentials you will not hesitate to secure a maid and return with me toEngland that I may place you in the care of your great-grandparents."
He saw the old sexton, who had now replaced the turf and flowers on Daisy Forrest's grave, looking at them curiously as he leaned on his spade, and he beckoned him to approach.
Then he gave the old man a brief account of John Forrest's story, telling him that his father had been a rich man, and that poor Daisy's child was going home with him to live with her grandparents. He did not tell him that this great-grandfather was a nobleman, thinking that Flower would not wish to create too much sensation.