The hour of parting came swiftly—was over—and Elizabeth, sundered from the past, completely, even in name—her father called her Annie—set out to recross those desert plains to the unknown realms of the great world which lay beyond—so near, so far away—so long dreamed of, so utterly unknown.
Buckskin Joe insisted upon being one of the party across the plains; he could not give up his oversight of the maiden whom he had taken in such special charge since the first glimpse into her young face had won him into her service; and when, after duly and safely seeing her as far on her way as the first steamboat landing on the route, he bade her farewell, tears stood in his eyes, as he gave her, with extra fervor, his parting benediction:
"The Lord bless and preserve ye, and keep ye from the bite of a rattlesnake!"
CHAPTER X.
AN UNEXPECTED DECLARATION.
I know it—I feel it—he loves me at last!The heart-hidden anguish is over and past!Love brightens his dark eyes, and softens his tone;He loves me! he loves me—his soul is mine own!Mrs. Osgood.
Inamong curtains of amber silk, which made the sunlight more sunny still, came the glow of an October afternoon. The rich atmosphere lay slumberously over the books and pictures and luxurious furniture of Dr. Carollyn's library. He was notin; but occupying his easy-chair, drawn up near the pleasant window, reclined his daughter, motionless, with half-shut eyes, lost in a soft reverie:
"With her head at ease reclining,On the cushion's velvet lining,On the velvet, violet-lining, with the sunlight gloating o'er."
"With her head at ease reclining,On the cushion's velvet lining,On the velvet, violet-lining, with the sunlight gloating o'er."
The little volume of blue and gold in which she had been reading had fallen away from her hand, and lay half-hidden in the fragrant folds of her dress; some strain of Tennyson's delicious music had thrilled her heart with memories more than hopes, for the dreamy luster of her eyes had a light more of tears than smiles. There was a light shadow on the clear, smooth forehead, a slight compression of the beautiful mouth—as if a word might startle that breathless dream into a shower of tears.
"Dear as remembered kisses after death."
"Dear as remembered kisses after death."
this was the line at which she had dropped the poem, and sunk away into the past. The year just gone slipped out of her life and fell into the sea of oblivion with a sparkle—this house, this home, this father, these splendors, these pleasures slid away—she was not Annie Carollyn, rich, lovely, and flattered—but Elizabeth Wright, a sun-burned, forlorn, and starving girl, sinking down in a pitiless desert, with only a pair of strong arms to link her to life—only a long, long kiss of love and despair to hold her flitting soul until relief came. And where were the arms and where the lips that held her then?
"Dear as remembered kisses after death."
"Dear as remembered kisses after death."
Ah, holy were the memories of that first, last kiss to the maiden—deep down in the most secret chamber of her soul they lay, so sacredly reserved, so sadly precious, that not even her quick-eyed father knew how they were enshrined.
In October Dr. Carollyn had arrived in his native city with his recovered treasure; and it was now the month of gold again. In that year he had grown many years younger. He found profound happiness in the possession of his lost child—peace after years of harrowing misery.
When that great calamity had befallen him in the days of his youth, he had shut up the house in which the brief scenes of his married life had been enacted, and had gone away from his practice and his friends, spending most of his time in restless travel from land to land, coming back occasionally to haunt the deserted house for a few weeks. As the tide of fashion moved up town he was advised to sell his mansion; but he would allow neither occupants, nor other changes than such as were necessary to preserve it from premature decay. The old housekeeper, who had been his mother's, and who welcomed his bride to her home, was left in charge of the furniture as long as she lived. This ancient friend had passed away, leaving everything to darkness and silence, before the return of the Doctor with his child.
Then came a change. The house was no longer upon a fashionable street, but it was quiet and respectable, and he would have no other. Inthishouse he would begin life again. Sunshine was let into the long-closed rooms—the moldering curtains and carpets were replaced—an air of joy and luxury was given to the desolate mansion—only one room was left untouched and unseen save by the hand and eye of the master. When arrangements were complete, he took his daughter from the hotel where they had stopped, and brought herhome—to be its star and queen.
Uncultivated as she necessarily was from her manner of life, his affection received very slight shock from his pride; for her beauty was of that refined and indisputable type to which all people yield obedience, and the grace of her beautiful nature gave a charm to her manners which surpassed the polish of finishing schools. She glided into her new estate as naturally as a swan into the water—she was only in her element.
Dr. Carollyn did not think of sending her from him to study; masters waited upon her at the house; pride and duty did not urge her to study more than her mind craved enlightenment. The interest she took in her books was a safeguard, had she needed any, against her becoming too much engrossed by the flatteries and gayeties of society; but her mind was of that noble order which could be affected by no such trivial dangers. She enjoyed, as youth and beauty should enjoy, the pleasures surrounding her; it was pleasant to be so loved and attended upon; but she was in no manner spoiled by indulgence. A fear of her own deficiencies gave a slight dash of humility to her otherwise rather queenly address; she was sweet, and proud, and fair, and quiet, the wonder and admiration of many. All this time, though not in the least morbid or melancholy, she carried with her a constant regret—a sorrow which shaded her too brilliant lot.
Dr. Carollyn guessed something of this; but since the source of this sorrow was one which could never interfere with himself, and since it made her so indifferent to the adulations of the young men of their circle, since it did not seriously interfere with her health and spirits, but only promised to keep her the more entirely his, that selfish instinct of jealousy caused him to no longer regret its existence.
A ray of sunshine creeping aslant the slumberous atmosphere, fixed itself in the purple braids of the young girl's hair like agolden arrow. But she knew not how the cunning hand of the sun was bewitching her—she wist not how beautiful was the lustrous repose of her face, and the silken gleam of her garments—her soul was far away. The faint tinkle of a bell sounded through the quiet house, the outer door was openedand closed; she did not hear any thing; she did not even stir when the noiseless door of the library swung back and the quiet footman entered with a card.
"Shall I tell him you are at home, Miss Carollyn?"
She started and glanced up, taking the card which he handed her with a little surprise at his doubting air. His knowledge of the proprieties did not extend to a recognition of the name upon the pasteboard—it might be that of the Embassador of Spain—he did not know—the gentleman who gave it looked passable, certainly. Mechanically, for she had not shaken off the spell which the poem had wrought on her, she read:
"Golden Arrow."
Confused by the unknown name, the footman had failed to close the door into the apartment which he entered, and the audacious stranger, in the hall, had obeyed an irresistible impulse to approach the end of the hall, and look after the fate of his card. He had a full view of the maiden dreaming in the "violet-lined" chair; had noted the rich clearness of her rounded cheek, the glossy smoothness of her hair, the tremulous, sorrowful depression of the dark eyelashes and red lips; had absorbed with an eager glance the grace of her drapery, the elegance of her surroundings—and now, he watched her, startled from her reverie, listlessly look at the card, turn red and pale, and throw a wild, bewildered look toward the entrance where he stood.
"Let him come in," she said, rising to her feet.
The footman bowed, and retiring, sent the visitor in. As he came forward, she stood, slightly leaning forward, pale as death, doubt, fear and startled surprise in face and attitude, and a look of bewilderment over all.
A moment the two stood looking full into each other's eyes; then the stranger smiled, and she cried:
"Nat!"
A mutual impulse, such as thrills from breast to breast of man and woman like an electric shock, moved them both. He held out his arms appealingly, but not sooner than she sprung forward to be clasped in them. They were alive, face to face, heart to heart—that was enough.
For a few moments this blissful truth was all they cared to realize. Presently they stood apart, wondering at their own impulses, their own joy. If Elizabeth—wemustcall her Elizabeth to the end of the chapter—had been beautiful before, she was radiant now. Her clear, dark complexion and expressive features were made for just such light and color as filled them now. Her lover gazed upon her in rapture, and her own timid glance sought to repay his admiration in kind.
This was indeed Nat Wolfe, the hunter of the plain, towering in frame, erect in carriage, dashing and chivalrous in manner—this his frank smile and kindling eye; but the roughnessof his wild life was smoothed away. The gleaming rifle, frightful knife and hunter's frock were exchanged for a civilized dress, at which the scrupulous footman at the door could not have carped. Only one peculiarity of his adventurous life was retained—he wore that long, bright hair of his as loosely as ever. It streamed about his neck in a fashion unknown to Broadway; but it accorded so well with his unusual hight and manly bearing that it gave him the dignity of the famous men of old.
Suddenly Elizabeth said, with a return of the doubting air:
"Are you really alive, Nat?"
"I hope so," he answered, laughing, but very earnest, "since I am so blessed. If you do not believe it, sit here, will you, by my side, and let me tell you just how it is that I have come, a sound spirit in a sound body, to inquire after the welfare of the little girl whom I found once on the great prairie."
They sat side by side upon the sofa, hand clasped in hand.
"On that awful night in which I wakened in the heart of the forest to find myself surrounded by a sea of fire, my first impulse was to alarm my companion. I groped about in the suffocating smoke; but I am since convinced, by comparing notes with Joe, that, confused and blinded as I was, I worked in the wrong direction. I was probably the one who was first awake, as he says he is certain he reached the spot where I ought to have been before making efforts for his own escape. Failing in all attempts to join him, and at times half insensible from the oppressive smoke, I made a desperate effort to preserve strength and reason for an escape from the frightful ocean of flame which roared and surged around, above, everywhere, except down in the hell of heat and vapor through which I crawled. The same idea which came to Buckskin Joe, of attempting to reach the gorge, occurred to me; but I was now so bewildered by the search for him, that I no longer was certain in which direction it lay.
"I crept along on my hands and knees, feeling the heat each moment more intolerable. I struggled for breath, until I finally sunk, and lay helpless, my eyes upturned to that strange, fearful, yet gorgeous vision of leaping and flickering fire in the tree-tops, surging in the wind, against a black, starless sky. I yielded to the dangerous enchantment of the light; a deadly languor and drowsiness crept over me—at that perilous momentyouseemed to call me, dear Elizabeth, and gave me superhuman energy. I struggled against death—against fate; I would not yield—I would not die! Once more I crawled along; thank God, a breath of air, cool, sweet, delicious, struck my face; the next instant the bed of grass and pine-tassels beneath me gave way, and I fell into darkness and insensibility.
"How long I remained unconscious I could never tell. WhenI recovered a memory of my situation, I felt about me in the darkness, and was convinced that I had dropped through the opening of a cave on to the earth and rocks within. It might be that I was immured in some cavern from which there was no outlet—that I had escaped death by fire to find here a more lingering but not less certain destruction. No matter; to have escaped from that terrible torment above me was enough for the present. After I had fully recovered my presence of mind, I recollected that I had a match-box in my pocket, well supplied; I lighted one of the frail tapers, and by its brief flare had an instant view of a wide and wonderful cave, stretching away into unfathomed darkness, and glittering here and there with fanciful stalactites. It was a weird place in which to be entombed.
"Groping at my feet I scraped together the dry leaves and sticks I had brought down in my fall, and lighted them; before they burned entirely out, I had gathered by the light they gave, quite an armful of fuel, which, from time to time, had apparently fallen through from the fissure above. With these I built a fire, in the hope that its flame would enable me to detect some opening, by which I might trace a path out of this perilous place. The flames arose brightly, throwing crimson gleams athwart the gloom, revealing marvelous crystals flashing from columns which seemed built of ice and marble, and shining against what looked like cascades fixed in the very act of pouring from the hights above.
"Anxious as I was, and bent only on finding an outlet, I could not withhold a curious and admiring gaze from the splendid shapes half revealed in the flickering light. The roof was fringed with glittering crystals; but, though I saw the openings of many chambers, caverns within caverns, stretching into darkness where I dared not venture, I saw no gleam of the day which I knew must be shining over the blessed world outside.
"When all the fuel I could gather was nearly exhausted, I made a splendid discovery. I found a good pine-knot, which would burn for an hour or two, and might light me either further into the hopeless intricacies of a living tomb, or out into safety. I lighted this welcome torch and immediately started upon an exploring expedition, such as I had never before undertaken. I could only trust to fate at the best. Out of all the passages inviting me there were many chances that I should take the wrong one, when probably only one was right. Eagerly I pushed forward along what appeared to be the main hall of this majestic cave. For at least a half mile my path was clear; then I heard the sound of running water, and presently came to a stream which I thought completely blocked the narrowing way between lofty rocks; but I ventured upon a rough and slippery path, and by much climbing, passed the worst of it, and came out again to a wide, subterraneous chamber.
"Here I was astonished to observe traces of human labor and handicraft. I came upon various tools, which seemed intended for mining purposes, and were made of hardened copper. As they were not like those in use by our own miners, I was forced to the conclusion that I had stumbled upon some of the relics of the ancient people of this continent. I looked about curiously, and by the glare of my torch fell upon a heap of ore, piled up on a dry rock in the corner of the chamber—a heap of glittering ore, washed from the soil and gravel, and ready for the crucible. I examined it—it was gold! gold in crumbly dust, in irregular lumps, in broken quartz, enough of it gathered and heaped in that long-neglected pile to make me, dear Elizabeth, a much richer man than I had ever aspired to be.
"For a few moments my breath came hard; I was excited, as men are at the sight of countless wealth. But my torch began to flicker and wane. Gold was not bread, nor water, nor sunlight—it was not life—I was fighting for life. I pressed on; but in less than half an hour my pine-knot was consumed.
"Exhausted, I sat down a few moments to rest, and to nibble the dry biscuit which chanced to be in my pocket. This little refreshment gave me new energy. I groped along, following the stream—I had a strong hope that that noisy babbler would lead me out of this cavern sometime, provided I did not drown myself or break my neck before that happy time should arrive.
"I was not wrong in my conjecture. After suffering mental and bodily torture which I will not distress you by speaking of, suffice it that I emerged, the second day of my entombment, into the light of the sun once more.
"I found myself in one of the wildest gorges of the Rocky Mountains. How I supped that night on a prickly pear—how I killed a wild animal the next day with my hunting knife, and lived on its flesh during the rest of my adventures—how I took care to mark the devious and intricate path, by which, after nearly a week of travel, I found myself upon familiar ground again—how I finally worked my way to Pike's Peak—of all this I will some day give you the particulars.
"I will only say now how stricken I felt when I heard of the departure of my little girl, only two days previously, and that I was too proud to follow when her father had kept me at such distance. I will only say, sweetest, how my heart burned when good Mrs. Wright told me of the blow it had been to you when you thought me lost. I believed that you loved me, and I blessed you in my inmost soul. I resolved to go some time and ask you if it were not so. But not just then. I would go in such guise that your haughty father should not discard me—at least with good reason.
"I returned upon my tiresome journey back to that wonderful cavern, but this time I went well armed, provisioned and escorted, with a few chosen men to share the dangers and the spoils. I led my little band to the exact locality, and, by following the subterraneous stream as I had done at my exit, I made my way to those old chambers where unknown miners of an extinct race had toiled centuries ago, laying up riches to help me in my little plot for happiness.
"We brought away the accumulated gold which by some purpose or accident had been left concealed in the cavern; I had the lion's share, but there was enough for all. Your good uncle, Mr. Wright, was one of the fortunate ones.
"I left Pike's Peak several months ago. I met Buckskin Joe on the plains. He wished me good-luck, told me to 'fear for the best,' and sent you, as a token of his everlasting friendship, this golden arrow, which he had manufactured from a lump of the precious metal which he took from that ravine. May I put it in your hair, dear Lizzie?
"I have been a long time at my father's home in this State—a home which I deserted years ago, driven forth into the wilds of the West by a silly and heartless girl that I have seen, this summer, fat, frowsy, and commonplace, boxing her children's ears. My dear mother was dead. But my father was alive and still preaching to a loving and devoted congregation. You wouldn't have guessed I was a minister's son, would you, little one? And a minister's son is almost as respectable as a doctor's daughter—particularly when he is worth half a million. Besides, I have shorn my shaggy coat. I'm not quite such a bear as I used to be. Do you think I am?"
She smiled as he bent his handsome face to look into her eyes; then her head drooped, until her face was hidden in his arm.
"I should have loved you as much, had you been just the same," she said. "But why did you stay away so long?—so near, and never to let me know?"
"Was it wrong, Lizzie? Perhaps it was, but I wanted to give you a chance to make a different choice if your taste inclined. When you knew me, you did not know the world. I would not take advantage of your ignorance. I came to this house with fear and trembling, but your sweet eyes told me the truth the moment I looked in them. Those eyes of yours! Well, my little girl, I don't know as they are any more beautiful than they were the first time they looked at me from under that faded sun-bonnet. They took Golden Arrow captive at the first glance."
Her head lay upon his breast.
"Those were strange days," she murmured.
And a sweet silence fell upon both. Up in the horizon ofmemory crept the herds of bison, whistled the midnight hurricane, rode the shy bands of stealthy savages, crept the long day of solitude and starvation, in which their love first spoke from mute eyes and clinging lips.
Dr. Carollyn admitted himself to the house with his night-key and stepped lightly into the library, with a kiss on his mouth ready for his daughter. He paused, as thetableau vivantof the happy lovers met his gaze; the smile suddenly died out and an awful frown gathered in its stead.
"Annie!"
She started at the cold, crisp word; for an instant she shrunk, then springing up, still clinging to her lover's hand, she said, softly, but with a firmness borrowed from her father's blood:
"This is Nat Wolfe, dear father. He has come back to life and me. You must take both or neither of us!"
"Must!"—humph! it had come to that, had it? That was too bitter a pill for Dr. Carollyn to swallow, albeit it was a favorite prescription of his.
A moment his dark eyes blazed at the young couple standing before him, neither of whose faces flashed less resolute than his own; then turning abruptly upon his heel, without the courtesy of a word to the unwelcome visitor, he retreated to his chamber, and Elizabeth saw no more of him that evening.
Plainly the evil spirit had not been so finally driven out of him as he had hoped. That night he wrestled with it again, in the solitude of his room, knowing well that while he struggled, the child, dearer to him than his own life, must be wetting her pillow with tears which himself alone was causing to flow.
CHAPTER XI.
THE BIRTHDAY AND THE LETTER.
I took the scroll; I could not brookAn eye to gaze on it save mine.But oh, to-night, those words of thineHave brought the past before me;The shadows of long-vanished yearsAre passing sadly o'er me.—Miss Landon.
Dr. Carollynarose late the next morning; a night of unrest had hardly decided him to obey his better nature. With the breakfast which he ordered in his chamber came two or three packages left at the door that morning from the princely establishments of merchants and jewelers which he had visited the previous day. They were presents for Elizabeth. Thisvery day was her eighteenth birthday; and these were some of the costly gifts he had pleased himself selecting for his daughter.
The blue silk dress—her mother's favorite color—of a new and lovely shade, rich and lustrous; the coronal and necklace of pearls, the cashmere shawl, the dainty perfumes in bottles filagreed with gold—he set the packages before him on the table, not offering to untie them, staring at them coldly, as he trifled with his coffee and toast.
Unreasonable as the black jealousy which had once blotted the sunshine out of that house was the anger with which he thought of the man who had yesterday intruded himself into his new-made Paradise. "Was he never to have any peace?"
We are afraid peace is not purchased with such a temper as yours, Dr. Carollyn.
In the mean time Elizabeth had gone down to the solitary breakfast room, tremulous with love and tears, meaning to throw herself upon her father's breast and speak for Nat the words he was too proud to urge for himself. When she found herself alone at the meal, of course appetite and courage failed; she went to her chamber, and gazed out at the golden sunshine as if it had been a great gray cloud drifting up and obscuring her birthday—her birthday! yes, she was eighteen, and she remembered with a thrill the faded yellow envelope lying carefully locked amid her most precious treasures, which had held for so many years the letter of her dead mother awaiting this very day.
With a reverend touch she now drew forth this missive, and with careful, trembling fingers broke the seal; a mist swam before her eyes as she first gazed at this delicate, indistinct chirography, but it cleared away with the kiss she pressed upon the paper.
Between herself and her father there had never been any explicit understanding as to the melancholy causes of the separation of the parents; the subject was one so painful that it had been avoided, with the confession of Dr. Carollyn that all the fault had been his, and that sometime her child should know all that he could tell her of the life and character of her adored, her angelic mother.
A desire to understand the mystery mingled with the reverent affection with which the young girl began the perusal of the letter:
"My own dear Child—my Daughter:—I tremble while I write the word daughter, for I feel how much sadder, more deadly perilous it will be for my poor orphan, that she is born to the heritage of woman. Before you came to me I prayed that you might be a boy, and if I regret that my prayer was not answered, you will know that my love and solicitude are in proportion to my regret."When you read this, if you ever do, you will have come to woman's estate; now, while I write, you sport in the grass and flowers at my feet, scarcely able to balance yourself on the unequal ground, your bright hair blowing about your face in little rings, your eyes trying to catch mine, full of laughter and love, so innocent, so gay—yet, oh God, so like his own—yes, darling, they are his eyes which look at me constantly through my baby's. I stop, to catch you to my heart, to hold you there till you cry with the cruel fondness, and I set you down, and push you softly away—for I would not hurt you even with my love! ah, no! it is so dreadful to love only to be killed by love. It is strange that I love him yet, seeing that he has wronged me in such a manner that I can never go back to him, never have any more happiness or faith; but I do—I do, and the very perfectness with which I loved him makes the impossibility of my ever going back to him again, who gave me my death-blow so pitilessly."Yesterday I chanced upon some lines—written by a woman. I know they were—which told my story partly—all but the love—the despair—for it was the hand dearest to me in the world which sent the arrow, andthatis what murdered me."A whisper woke the air,A soft, light tone, and low,Yet barbed with shame and woe.Ah! might it only perish there,Nor further go!"It was the onlyheartit found—The only heart 'twas meant to find,When first its accents woke.It reached the gentle heart at last,And that—it broke!"Low as it seemed to other ears,It came a thunder crash to hers—That fragile girl so fair and gay.'Tis said a lovely humming-bird,That dreaming in a lily lay,Was killed but by the gun'sreportSome idle boy had fired in sport;So exquisitely frail its frameThe verysounda death blow came:And thus her heart, unused to shame—Shrined in its lily too—Her light and happy heart, that beatWith love and hope so fast and sweet,When first that cruel word it heard,It fluttered like a frightened bird—Then shut its wings and sighed,And with a silent shudder, died!""I was not so happy as that poor girl to die so quickly, but the wound was none the less fatal that it was the more lingering. I thought I could not, would not live—and perhaps it was you, growing in my life and soul, whose expected coming heldme back. But I am going now and soon.NowI wish that I were to live. I would be willing to endure years of worse sorrow, for the privilege of shielding my poor little baby flower from the world's harshness. But the desire comes too late. I must leave you, leave my little helpless orphan girl to the mercy of every wind that blows."My darling, you will surely think your mother mad or foolish. I began this letter because I could not go away from earth without leaving you some token of the unspeakable tenderness I feel—some message fromyour mother. And I have only been talking of myself and of griefs with which I should not have saddened your girlish heart."It has been a question which I have debated long and anxiously, whether I ought to send you to him upon whom you have a child's claim—whether I have any right to keep you from the name and fortune and the paternal care to which you are entitled. God forgive me if I have chosen wrong—if that which I have suffered has so clouded my vision that it seems better to me that you should take the risk of happiness in this humble, secluded home, rather than in that brilliant sphere which has proved not so bright as it is cold and pitiless."Heremy soul has never been wounded;heresuspicion, distrust, has never been manifest—only the kindness and affection of honest, unsophisticated hearts. Am I wrong, then, in leaving you to such guardianship, sure to be true and unpretending, even though I wrong you out of a more splendid heritage—out of worldly wealth and fictitious tenderness? It seems to me, who have been hurled so suddenly from my pinnacle of bliss, as if the lowest rest were the safest. And who knows?—it might even be if I sent to him the child ofour lovethat he might deny you, my innocent little angel babe, the claim upon him which you have? Would it be more cruel than the wrong he visited upon his wife? No! I will not trust you to him—to your own father, Elizabeth!—though I love him still as completely as the day he led me to our wedding rites."But if fate should throw you into his care—if he should seek you and find you and seize upon you ashis, absorb you into himself, fatally, as he has me, I will pray to the Heavenly Father, in whose presence I shall be dwelling, that he may never darken your life as he has mine—that he will cherish you, not for his own, butyoursake, love you, as your mother loves, self-forgetting, for your happiness and not his own glory. I will pray that that iron will of his, to which I delighted to yield, which I felt only as a band of flowers, because I loved him so, may never tighten about your heart, as it did about mine. I will pray and trust—God will be good to my little orphan girl. I leave you toHim, rather than to any earthly father."And now, I have said nothing, can say nothing. Only thatI love my child—that I go away from her with a pang which only dying mothers feel—that I will, if it is permitted me, still watch over her from the blue hights of heaven—that I expect to meet her, some happy future day, in the pure eternal city."The little mementoes which I shall be able to leave you will be dear to you because they have been dear to your mother. Among them is my wedding-ring. Keep it for your bridal. Good-by, my daughter—it is so hard to say good-by."If it should prove, by the time you read these words, that you have found your father, I need not tell you to love him, for none can help that; you will be a good daughter; but, if he stands between you and happiness, plead with him, formy sake, to deal gently with my child. And so, again, good-by. God bless and keep you, my darling. Good-by. You will come to me sometime, after you have done with this brief world. Till then, God will be with my child."Your mother,"Annie St. John Carollyn."
"My own dear Child—my Daughter:—I tremble while I write the word daughter, for I feel how much sadder, more deadly perilous it will be for my poor orphan, that she is born to the heritage of woman. Before you came to me I prayed that you might be a boy, and if I regret that my prayer was not answered, you will know that my love and solicitude are in proportion to my regret.
"When you read this, if you ever do, you will have come to woman's estate; now, while I write, you sport in the grass and flowers at my feet, scarcely able to balance yourself on the unequal ground, your bright hair blowing about your face in little rings, your eyes trying to catch mine, full of laughter and love, so innocent, so gay—yet, oh God, so like his own—yes, darling, they are his eyes which look at me constantly through my baby's. I stop, to catch you to my heart, to hold you there till you cry with the cruel fondness, and I set you down, and push you softly away—for I would not hurt you even with my love! ah, no! it is so dreadful to love only to be killed by love. It is strange that I love him yet, seeing that he has wronged me in such a manner that I can never go back to him, never have any more happiness or faith; but I do—I do, and the very perfectness with which I loved him makes the impossibility of my ever going back to him again, who gave me my death-blow so pitilessly.
"Yesterday I chanced upon some lines—written by a woman. I know they were—which told my story partly—all but the love—the despair—for it was the hand dearest to me in the world which sent the arrow, andthatis what murdered me.
"A whisper woke the air,A soft, light tone, and low,Yet barbed with shame and woe.Ah! might it only perish there,Nor further go!"It was the onlyheartit found—The only heart 'twas meant to find,When first its accents woke.It reached the gentle heart at last,And that—it broke!"Low as it seemed to other ears,It came a thunder crash to hers—That fragile girl so fair and gay.'Tis said a lovely humming-bird,That dreaming in a lily lay,Was killed but by the gun'sreportSome idle boy had fired in sport;So exquisitely frail its frameThe verysounda death blow came:And thus her heart, unused to shame—Shrined in its lily too—Her light and happy heart, that beatWith love and hope so fast and sweet,When first that cruel word it heard,It fluttered like a frightened bird—Then shut its wings and sighed,And with a silent shudder, died!"
"I was not so happy as that poor girl to die so quickly, but the wound was none the less fatal that it was the more lingering. I thought I could not, would not live—and perhaps it was you, growing in my life and soul, whose expected coming heldme back. But I am going now and soon.NowI wish that I were to live. I would be willing to endure years of worse sorrow, for the privilege of shielding my poor little baby flower from the world's harshness. But the desire comes too late. I must leave you, leave my little helpless orphan girl to the mercy of every wind that blows.
"My darling, you will surely think your mother mad or foolish. I began this letter because I could not go away from earth without leaving you some token of the unspeakable tenderness I feel—some message fromyour mother. And I have only been talking of myself and of griefs with which I should not have saddened your girlish heart.
"It has been a question which I have debated long and anxiously, whether I ought to send you to him upon whom you have a child's claim—whether I have any right to keep you from the name and fortune and the paternal care to which you are entitled. God forgive me if I have chosen wrong—if that which I have suffered has so clouded my vision that it seems better to me that you should take the risk of happiness in this humble, secluded home, rather than in that brilliant sphere which has proved not so bright as it is cold and pitiless.
"Heremy soul has never been wounded;heresuspicion, distrust, has never been manifest—only the kindness and affection of honest, unsophisticated hearts. Am I wrong, then, in leaving you to such guardianship, sure to be true and unpretending, even though I wrong you out of a more splendid heritage—out of worldly wealth and fictitious tenderness? It seems to me, who have been hurled so suddenly from my pinnacle of bliss, as if the lowest rest were the safest. And who knows?—it might even be if I sent to him the child ofour lovethat he might deny you, my innocent little angel babe, the claim upon him which you have? Would it be more cruel than the wrong he visited upon his wife? No! I will not trust you to him—to your own father, Elizabeth!—though I love him still as completely as the day he led me to our wedding rites.
"But if fate should throw you into his care—if he should seek you and find you and seize upon you ashis, absorb you into himself, fatally, as he has me, I will pray to the Heavenly Father, in whose presence I shall be dwelling, that he may never darken your life as he has mine—that he will cherish you, not for his own, butyoursake, love you, as your mother loves, self-forgetting, for your happiness and not his own glory. I will pray that that iron will of his, to which I delighted to yield, which I felt only as a band of flowers, because I loved him so, may never tighten about your heart, as it did about mine. I will pray and trust—God will be good to my little orphan girl. I leave you toHim, rather than to any earthly father.
"And now, I have said nothing, can say nothing. Only thatI love my child—that I go away from her with a pang which only dying mothers feel—that I will, if it is permitted me, still watch over her from the blue hights of heaven—that I expect to meet her, some happy future day, in the pure eternal city.
"The little mementoes which I shall be able to leave you will be dear to you because they have been dear to your mother. Among them is my wedding-ring. Keep it for your bridal. Good-by, my daughter—it is so hard to say good-by.
"If it should prove, by the time you read these words, that you have found your father, I need not tell you to love him, for none can help that; you will be a good daughter; but, if he stands between you and happiness, plead with him, formy sake, to deal gently with my child. And so, again, good-by. God bless and keep you, my darling. Good-by. You will come to me sometime, after you have done with this brief world. Till then, God will be with my child.
"Your mother,"Annie St. John Carollyn."
Elizabeth's tears were dropping upon the faded letter—that wayward, fond, not overly-wise letter which had evidently torn itself out of the mother's heart, whether she would or not, and written itself down, without thought of wisdom or plan. And yet, as by some strange, prophetic foreboding, had she not pictured forth the future precisely as it now stood?
Again and again she read the passage:
"If he should seek you and find you and seize upon you ashis, absorb you fatally into himself, as he has me, I will pray to the Heavenly Father," etc.; and as she brooded over it, her tears ceased to fall, a light came into her face, and she whispered, looking up:
"My dear mother is praying for me now; she is watching over me, softening my father's pride, blessingourlove—yes! she approves my love for Nat—shewill plead our cause. I will not go proudly away from my father, as I intended, when he so insulted my lover last night. I will take him my mother's letter, and that shall be our peacemaker."
With the letter in her hand she went to her father's door; but her knock remained unanswered. She had not heard him leave the house, and stood irresolute, half-minded to intrude, without being bidden, into his presence. While she hesitated, the door of the room adjoining was partially unclosed. She looked up in surprise, for it was the chamber forever closed, into which she had not been permitted to look since she entered the house—the chamber where only the master went, alone, at night, to surround himself with ghosts of the past—her mother's bridal-chamber.
"Come in here, Annie!"
She hardly knew her father's voice, oppressed with emotions which his pride endeavored to subdue; but she caught aglimpse of his face, troubled, and wet with tears, and she sprung forward, forgetful in an instant of her own wishes, flinging her arms about his neck. Softly he closed the door, and the two were in the apartment, haunted by the long-vanished presence of one, the young, the beautiful, the happy—the dead wife and mother—the tragic close of whose brief dream of bliss had overshadowed the luxury and beauty of this spot with a darkness which could be lifted in this world—"nevermore!"
Timidly Elizabeth looked around, moved by a curiosity that was all reverence and love. The blinds of one window were flung open and the sunshine burst through, melting into the amber drapery of the heavy silk curtains like topazes into gold. Save that the furniture was kept scrupulously free from dust, proving the frequency of her father's visits, scarcely an article seemed to have been moved from its place in all those years. Curtains of amber silk corresponding with those of the windows draped the bed, faded by time, but otherwise unchanged. The party-dress which the bride had worn that fatal evening, lay across the pillows where she had thrown it when she exchanged it for the traveling suit in which she made her escape. The little satin slippers of the same color as the dress, stood side by side on the carpet near by. The sight of these touched the young girl beyond all else; she sprung to them, took them up, kissed and pressed them to her bosom, all unreflecting of the pang the impulsive action inflicted on another, until a sound like that of a strangled sob, caused her to replace them, and return to Dr. Carollyn, who had sunk into the chair nearest him—her favorite chair, a dainty, cushioned thing of amber satin brocade, well fitted for a lady's chamber.
"Dear father," she said, holding his hand, and looking into his eyes with a love which ought to have satisfied him.
"Yet you wish to throw me away—you love another better than me," were the words he said.
He had not meant to say them; he had come into that room for the purpose of obtaining complete mastery over the tyrannous part of himself, and he thought had conquered it forever; and he had no more than said them, before he was ashamed, adding quickly:
"I do not blame you for it, little one. I shall not oppose you—only I have had you such a brief time to myself. Is it strange I was disconcerted to find myself put away so soon?"
"Not put away, dear father—not loved any less, but rather more than ever. Oh, father, I know you will not condemn a happiness which you once knew so sweet. Do you know I am eighteen to-day? I have been reading my mother's letter; here it is—read it, too, will you not?"
She thrust it into his trembling hand; she dared not look at him, but went and sat at the window while he read.
The silence was long and oppressive; at length she ventured to turn to her father, and saw him sitting motionless, with bowed head, great tears rolling silently down his face and dropping upon the paper clutched in his hand. She stole to his feet, knelt, and clasped her hands over his knee, looking up at him with a glance full of sympathy and confidence—she trusted to the power of the mother up in heaven who had said that she should watch over her at this crisis.
"She knew me better than I knew myself," muttered the proud man; "I do not wonder that she wanted to hide you away from my selfishness, Annie."
"Yet she loved you so, through it all," murmured the young girl.
"She did. The letter is like herself—her goodness is more than I can bear. But it is not too late for me to prove myself worthy of that love yet. No, my child, I will not wring the life out of your warm young heart with this steely will of mine. Where is this lover of yours? Send for him. Be he bear or buffalo, wild Indian or adventurer, he shall be my son. You shall share with him all that I have to give."
"He is neither bear nor buffalo," cried Elizabeth, smiling through her tears. "If you will only take a good look at him, papa, you will see what he is—you will not be ashamed of him."
"Pshaw!" muttered Dr. Carollyn, rising, and shaking himself. "But where did you say he could be sent for, little one?"
"At the Metropolitan, I am quite sure he said."
"No doubt of it, then. Come, I will send Pomp with an invitation, in my own name, for him to dine with us this evening. Come into my room, and while I am writing the note you can be examining these parcels, which seem to be directed to you."
They passed out into his bedchamber, and while he quietly indited quite a lengthy note, for an invitation to dinner, Elizabeth untied the precious packages one by one. It was not the beauty and splendor of these birthday presents, however delightful these were, which gave that rich bloom to her cheek, that lustrous gladness to her eyes. One stolen glance at her radiant countenance half repaid her father for the sacrifice he was making.
That was a memorable evening in the household calendar. When the three sat down to the repast—which, in honor both of the birthday and the betrothal, was served with the most sumptuous appointments of which the establishment was capable—the haughty physician, divesting himself of the ugly green spectacles of jealousy, looked at his guest with fair, appreciative eyes. He was forced to admit that this great, overgrown, self-willed son of his was no unfit match for his daughter; in fact, that he was really a magnificent man, with brain and talentenough for half a dozen; and, what he liked better than all else, with self-respect enough to know and maintain his rights.
"No danger of my hurting him with my iron will," smiled Dr. Carollyn to his own thought, as he measured the strength of his whilom antagonist, but now friend and son.
And he liked the idea—for proud people respect pride in others; and, since Annie would fall in love and be married, he could not remember any young man in the whole circle of his acquaintance, who, all things considered, was so satisfactory.
So he made himself very agreeable at that little dinner; and after it was over, and they had talked together awhile in the library, he made an excuse to withdraw to his own room, leaving the young girl showing her gifts to her lover, and the two were alone with their happy hopes.
Youth and beauty, and love and peace—let us leave them upon the threshold of the promised future. We can see the light which shines out of the opening door; the twain step over and disappear in the enchanted atmosphere within.
THE END.
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