"He then took up my husband's miniature—O, how unlike the craven face which bent over it! At last, I was choking with passion; this was the brimming drop in my cup; you might have known it by the low, calm tone with which I almost whispered as I laid my trembling hand on my treasures—'these areminenot yours—"
"They were the only words which escaped my lips, but there must have been something in the tone and in my face, before which his spirit cowered. He made no attempt to resist me as I took possession of them, but turning doggedly on his heel, muttered: 'the law says you can have nothing that is not mine.' O, how many crushed and bleeding hearts all over our land can endorse the truth of this brutal answer.
"Stahle began now to spend his nights away from home; I had never yet made a complaint or remonstrance except in the case just stated. I did not now. If it was his purpose with his usual want of insight into my character, to give me a long cord with which to hang myself, it failed, for my boy and I slumbered innocently and peacefully.
"You may ask why, with these feelings toward me,he did not desert me; for two reasons. 1st. He had a religious character to sustain; during all this time he was more constant than ever, if that were possible, at every church and vestry-meeting, often taking part in the exercises, and always out-singing and out-praying every other church-member. 2d. It was his expectation by these continuous private indignities, which many a wife suffers in silence, to forcemeto leavehim, and thus preserve his pietistic reputation untarnished. All these plans, which I perfectly understood, failed. He could find nothing upon which to sustain a charge against me, either in my daily conduct, or in my private correspondence, dated, long years before he knew me, but which thelaw allowed him to inspect.
"I contracted no debts because he would not supply my necessary wants. I took no advantage of his absence from home to forfeit my own self-respect. What was to be done? He must move cautiously, for the maintenance of a religious character was his stock in trade.
"Returning from a walk one day with my little Arthur, I found a note on my table from Stahle, saying 'that he had suddenly been called South on business, and should remain a few days.' I have never seen him since. Not that I did not hear from him, for the plan was legally concocted. Letters were written to me by him, saying 'that he was searching for a good business-situation, and would send for me when he found it.' Sending for me to join him, but makingno mention of my boy. Sending for me to come hundreds of miles away under the escort of his brother, whom I had ascertained to have uttered the foulest slanders about me (and who was to be my protector and purser on the occasion). Every letter was legally worded; 'my dear Gertrude' was at the top of the letter, and 'your affectionate husband' at the bottom. They were always delivered to me by two witnesses, that I might not dodge having received them. And yet each one, though without a flaw in the eye of the law, was so managed as to render compliance with it impossible, had I desired to rejoin a man who had done, and was still covertly doing, all in his power to injure my good name. In the meanwhile, what he dared not do openly, he did by the underground railroad of slander; insinuations were made by those in his employ; eyebrows were raised, shoulders were shrugged, hints thrown out that my extravagance had rendered it necessary for him to leave me. (I, who had never asked for a cent since our marriage, whose nimble needle had replenished his own and his children's dilapidated wardrobes.)
"Men stared insolently at me in the street; women cast self-righteous scornful glances; 'friends' worse than foes, were emboldened byhisvillainy to subject themselves to a withering repulse from her who sought to earn herhonestbread.
"Did I go out in search of employment—I was'parading to show myself.' Did I stay within doors—'there was no doubt a good reason why Idarednot go out.' Did I keep my own and my boy's small stock of clothing whole, tidy, and neat—'they would like to know who kept me in clothes now.'"
"Surely," said Rose, interrupting her, "surely, dear Gertrude, there must have been those who knew, and could bear witness, that you were good and innocent."
"True," answered Gertrude, "there were those who could do so, but admitting this fact, what plausible excuse could they make for not being my helpers and defenders on all needful occasions? No, dear Rose, the world is a selfish one, and degrading as it is to human nature to assert it, it is nevertheless true, that there are many, like those summer friends of mine, who would stand by with dumb lips and see the slanderer distill, drop by drop, his poison into the life-blood of his victim, rather than bring forward, at some probable cost to themselves, the antidote of truth in their possession. Even blood relations have been known to circulate what they knew to be a slander to cover their parsimony. And those people, who are the most greedy listeners to the slanderer's racy tale, are the people who "never meddle in such things," when called upon to refute it.
"Did these bitter taunts crush me? Was I to become, through despair, the vile thing Stahle and his agents wished?"
"No! The nights I walked my chamber-floor, with my finger-nails piercing my clinched palms till the blood came, were not without their use. I weighed every faculty God had given me, measured every power, with a view to its marketable use. I found one yet untried. I seized my pencil, and I triumphed even with the blood-hounds on my track, for God helped the innocent."
"Oh, teach me that, strong-hearted, noble Gertrude, teach me that! for I have no stay this side Heaven!" and, with sobbing utterance, Rose poured into Gertrude's sympathizing heart the checkered story of her life.
Did she whose courage had parted the stormy waters of trouble, and who had come out triumphant, turn a deaf ear to that wail of despair?
Is womanalwaysthe bitterest foe of her crushed sister? always the first to throw a stone at her?
No—God be thanked! For the first time Rose was folded to a loving sister's heart, and in the sweet words of Ruth to Naomi, Gertrude said, as she bade Rose good-night,
"Whither thou goest I will go; whither thou lodgest I will lodge; naught but death shall part thee and me."
Was the watchman's midnight cry, "All's well," beneath the window, a prophecy?
"Seems to me that you are nudging a fellow for his ticket every five minutes," said a lantern-jawed looking individual to the railroad conductor, as he roused himself from his nap, and pulled a bit of red pasteboard from his hat-band. "I feel as if my gastronomic region had been scooped out, and rubbed dry with a crash-towel; how long before we stop, hey?"
"Buy some books, sir?" said a young itinerant bookseller to our hungry traveler.
"Have you the 'True guide for travelers to preserve their temper?'" said our friend to the urchin.
The boy looked anxiously over the titles of his little library, and replied, with a shake of the head, "No, sir, I never heard of it."
"Nor I either," responded the hungry growler; "so get about your business; the best book that was ever written can neither be ate nor drank; I'd give a whole library for a glass of brandy and water this minute," and the unhappy man folded his arms over his waistband, and doubled himself up like a hedgehog in the corner.
"I am always sure to get a seat on the sunny sideof the cars, and next to an Irish woman," muttered a young lady. "I wonder do the Irish never feed on any thing but rum and onions?"
"Very uncomfortable, these seats," muttered a gentleman who had tried all sorts of positions to accommodate his vertebræ; "the corporation really should attend to it. I will write an article about it in my paper, as soon as I reach home. I will annihilate the whole concern; they ought to remember that editors occasionally travel, and remember which side their bread is buttered. Shade of Franklin! how my bones ache; they shall hear of this in 'The Weekly Scimeter.' It is a downright imposition."
In fact, every body was cross; every body was hungry and begrimed with dust; every body was ready to explode at the next feather's weight of annoyance.
Not every body; there was one dear little girl who found sunshine even there, and ran about extracting honey from what to others were only bitter herbs. Holding on by the seats, she passed up and down the narrow avenue between the benches, peeping with the brightest smile in the world into the faces of the cross passengers, drinking from the little tin-cup at the water-tank, clapping her hands at the sound of the whistle, and touching the sleeve even of the hedgehog gentleman rolled up in the corner. The child's mother sat on the back seat, looking after her askindly as she was able; but, poor thing, traveling made her sick, and she held her camphor-bottle to her nostrils, and leaned gasping against the window-sill to catch every stray breath of air.
What's that?
Crash goes the window-glass; clouds of scalding steam pour into the cars, which seem to be vibrating in mid-air; benches, baskets, bags, and passengers are all jumbled pell-mell together; every face is blanched with terror.
"Oh, it's nothing, only the cars run off the track—only the engine smashed, and baggage-car a wreck—only the passengers' trunks disemboweled in a muddy brook—only the engineer scalded, and the passengers turned out into a wet meadow in a pelting shower of rain; that's all. Not a son of Adam was to blame for it—of course not," growls the exasperated editor. "Thank Heaven the Superintendent of the road and the Directors were in the forward car and got the first baptism in that muddy brook."
"Zounds!" he exclaimed, pinning up his torn coat-flap, and punching out the crown of his hat; "they shall hear of this in 'The Weekly Scimeter.' Railroad companies should remember that editors sometimes travel."
"May! my little May!" gasped the poor sick woman, recovering herself, and looking about for her child; "where's May?"
Ah, where's May? Folded in His arms who carries the little lambs so safely in his bosom—gone with the smile yet bright on her lip.
Blithe little May!
They take the little lifeless form and bear it across the fields to the nearest farm-house, and the mother falls senseless, with her face to the damp grass—the last tie of her widowed heart broken.
"Sad accident, ma'am—hope you are not hurt," said the bustling village doctor to a lady who held her handkerchief over her mouth. "Deplorable!" exclaimed the delighted doctor. "My engagements are very pressing in the village—five cases of typhoid fever, two of chicken-pox—hurried up here in the face of promise to a lady, wife of one of our richest men, not to be gone over half an hour, incaseshe should want me. Ladies can't always tellexactly, you know, ma'am.
"Jaw-bone fractured? I'm somewhat in a hurry. Senator Scott's wife, too, was very unwilling I should leave my office—;" and the doctor drew out a Lepine watch, as if his moments were so much gold-dust—as if he had not sat in his leathern chair, week in and week out, watching the spiders catch flies, and wishing he were a spider, and the flies were his patients.
"Jaw-bone broke, ma'am?" he asked, again.
"She is not hurt at all, I tell you," growled Mr. Howe, shaking the rain from his hat, as he stoodknee-deep in the tall meadow-grass. "She lost her set of false teeth in the collision, and if you jabber at her till the last day you won't catch her to open her mouth till she gets another set."
"Mr.Howe," said that gentleman's wife, in a muffled voice from behind the handkerchief, "howcanyou?"
"How can I? I can do any thing, Mrs. Howe. Are not our trunks all emptied into that cursed brook? All that French trumpery spoiled for which you have been draining my pocket all the spring to go to Saratoga. Did I want to come on this journey? Don't I hate journeying? Haven't I been obliged to go a whole day at a time with next to nothing on my stomach? Haven't I been poked in the ribs every fifteen minutes for the conductor to amuse himself by snipping off the ends of my railroad tickets? Don't my head feel as if Dodworth's brass band were playing Yankee Doodle inside of it? Refreshments! Yes—what are the refreshments? A rush round a semicircular counter by all sorts of barbarians—bowls of oysters, scalding hot, and ten minutes to swallow them—tea without milk—coffee without sugar—bread without butter, and unmitigated egg—no pepper—no salt—no nothing, and, seventy-five cents to pay; the whole thing is an outrageous humbug; and now here's this collision, and your false teeth gone, not to mention other things."
Another muffled groan from behind the handkerchief.
"I'll have damages, heavy damages—let me see, there is the teeth, $200."
"Good heaven's, Mr. Howe," shrieked his wife—"you don't mean to mentionthemto the corporation?"
"But I do, though," said John, "you never will be easy till you get another set, and I mean they shall find 'em."
Another groan from behind the handkerchief.
"Passengers, please go through the meadow, and the cow-yard, yonder, and cross the stile to get into the cars beyond," shouted the brakeman.
Down jumped the ladies from their perches on the fences where they had been roosting, like draggled hens in the rain, for the last half hour, and all made a rush for the cow-yard.
"There now, Mrs. Howe—do you hear that? A pretty tramp through that high grass for your skirts and thin gaiter-boots. This is what tourists call the delights of traveling, I suppose—humph."
"We shan't get to —— till the middle of the night, I suppose—i. e., provided the conductor concludes not to have another smash-up. There will be no refreshments, of course, to be had, that are good for any thing, at that time o' night; waiters sleepy and surly, and I as hungry as a bear who has had nothing but his claws to eat all winter. Pleasant prospect that. You needn't hold up your skirts Mrs. Howe; there's nododging that tall grass. Trip to Saratoga! Mr. John Howe and lady—ha—ha! Catch me in such a trap again, Mrs. Howe."
Precisely at two o'clock in the morning, our hungry and jaded travelers arrived at ——. A warm cup of tea and some cold chicken, somewhat mollified our hero, and he was just subsiding into that Christian frame of mind common to his sex when their hunger is appeased, when happening to remark to the waiter who stood beside him, that he was glad to find so good a supper so late at night—that worthy unfortunately replied:
"Oh—yes! massa! de cars keep running off de track so often dat we have to keep de food ready all de time, 'cause dere's no knowing, you see, when de travelers will come; and dey is always powerful hungry."
"Do you hear that?" said Mr. Howe to his wife, who was munching, as well as she was able, behind her handkerchief; "and we have got to go back the same road. You may not want that other set of teeth, after all, my dear."
"Sh—sh—sh—" said that lady, treading not very gently on his corns under the table—"are you mad, Mr. Howe?"
"Yes," muttered her husband—"stark, staring mad, I have been mad all day—mad ever since I started on this journey; and I shall continue mad till I get backto St. John's Square and my old arm-chair and slippers;" and long after the light was extinguished, Mr. Howe was muttering in his sleep, "I'll have damages—let me see, there's $200 for the teeth."
From that journey Mr. Howe dated his final and triumphant Declaration of Domestic Independence. The spell of Mrs. Howe's cabalistic whisper was broken. Mr. Howe had a counter-spell. Mrs. Howe's day was over. Mr. Howe could smoke up stairs and down stairs, and in my lady's chamber; he could brush his coat in the best parlor; put his booted feet on the sofa, and read his political newspaper as long as he pleased. The word "damages," arrested Mrs. Howe in her wildest flights, and brought her to his feet, like a shot pigeon.
A knock at the door—it was Chloe, with her gay bandanna, and shining teeth, and eyeballs. She had come to take Charley out, ostensibly "for an airing," but in fact to make a public exhibition of him, for, in her eyes, he was the very perfection of childish beauty.
"He's tired, missis, stayin' in de house," said Chloe, as Charley crept toward the door, "let me take him out a bit;" and Chloe raised him from the floor, and tied his cap down over his bright curls, stoutly resisting all Rose's attempts to cover his massive white shoulders, promising to protect them from the sun's rays, with her old-fashioned parasol.
Rose smiled, as Chloe sauntered off down the street with her pretty charge; Charley's dimpled hand making ineffectual attempts to gain possession of the floating ends of her gay-colored head-dress.
And well might Chloe be proud of him; she had been nurse to many a fair southern child in her day, but never a cherub like Charley. One and another stopped to look at him. Mothers who had lost their little ones, fathers in whose far-absent homes crowedsome cherished baby-pet, and blessed little children, with more love than their little hearts could carry, stopped, and asked "to kiss the baby."
Chloe was in a halo of glory. It was such a pity that missis was not rich, that she might be Charley's nurse. She was sure she was not, because her clothes and Charley's, though nice, had been so carefully repaired, and then Chloe fell to romancing about it.
"Chloe?"
"Oh, missis, is that you? Berry glad to see you," said the negress, with a not ungraceful courtesy, as she tried to keep out of the way of the lady's prancing horses.
"Whose lovely baby is that?" asked the old lady, putting on her glasses, "hand him to me, Chloe."
The old lady seemed to be strangely moved as Chloe sat him on her knee, and tears chased each other down her face.
"He is so like, Chloe, so like my poor dear boy at his age; just such eyes, just such a forehead, just such beautiful shoulders—poor Vincent! Whose child is it, Chloe?" asked the old lady, as she untied the baby's cap, and pushed back the curls from his forehead.
"He belongs to a northern lady I have been nursing, missis.Sheis berry handsome, too."
"I can't spare him, yet," said the old lady, as Chloe held out her arms for him. "I can not let him go; see, he likes me," said she, delightedly, as Charley, withone of his caressing little ways, laid his head down on her shoulder. "He is my dear Vincent back again. Get in, Chloe, I'll drive you where you want to go. I can not give up the child yet."
The gay, prancing horses, with their flowing tails and manes, the silver-mounted harness, and the bright buttons of the liveried coachman, sent a brighter sparkle to the baby's eyes, and a richer glow to his cheeks. He crowed, and laughed, and clapped his little hands, till wearied with pleasure, and lulled by the rapid motion of the carriage, his little limbs relaxed, and he fell asleep.
What is so lovely as a sleeping babe?
The evening star gemming the edge of a sunset cloud? the bent lily too heavy with dew to chime its silver bells to the night wind? the closed rose-bud whose fragrant heart waits for the warm sun-ray to kiss open its loveliness?
Unable to account for the powerful magnetism by which she was drawn to the beautiful child, the old lady sat, without speaking, passing her fingers over his ivory arm, and gazing upon the rich glow of his cheek, the perfect outline of his limbs, and the shining curls of his clustering hair.
"Is this baby's mother a widow, Chloe?" she asked, at length.
"I think so, missis—I don't know—I ax no questions."
"Is she wealthy?"
"Lor', bless you, no, missis; her clothes all mended berry carful."
"I wish I had this baby," said the old lady, half musingly, as she again looked at Charley.
"Oh, Lor', missis, she lub him like her life—'t ain't no use, I tink."
The old lady seemed scarcely to hear Chloe's answer, but sat looking at Charley.
"It would be a great comfort to me," she continued. "Where does his mother live, Chloe?"
"In —— street," answered the negress.
"That is close by, I will drive you to the door, and you must ask leave to bring him to see me, Chloe;" and impressing a kiss on the face of the sleeping child, she resigned him to his nurse.
Rose sat rocking to and fro in her small parlor, in a loose muslin wrapper, and little lace cap, languid from the excitement of the previous day, thinking of Gertrude, and wishing she had but a tithe of that indomitable energy to which obstacles only served as stimulants; and then Gertrude was talented, what hadshebut her pretty face? and that, alas! had brought her only misery!
"Come in," said Rose, in answer to a slight tap on the door.
"Ah, sit down, Gertrude. Chloe has just carried Charley away, and I am quite alone."
"I must make a sketch of that ebony Venus, some day," said Gertrude.
"I confess," said she, as she seated herself in Rose's little rocking-chair, "to a strong penchant for the African. His welling sympathies, his rollicksome nature, and his punctilious observance of etiquette in his intercourse with his fellows, both amuse and interest me.
"Your genuine African has dancing in his heels, cooking at his fingers' ends, music on his lips, and a trust in Providence for the supply of his future wants equaled only by the birds of the air.
"He dances and prays with a will, nor thinks the two inconsistent, as they are not. You should have gone with me, Rose, to an African church not long since. I had grown weary of fine churches, and superfine ministers, and congregations so polished that they had the coldness as well as the smoothness of marble. I wearied of tasseled prayer-books, with gilt clasps, and all the mummeries which modern religionists seem to have substituted for true worship.
"So I wandered out into the by-streets and poor places to findnature, rough and uncultivated though it might be. A tumble-down looking church, set among some old tenement-houses, caught my eye. Bareheaded children were hanging round the door, scarcely kept in abeyance by a venerable-looking negro sexton in the porch, with grizzled locks and white neckerchief, whose admonitory shakes of the head habit hadevidently made second nature, as he bestowed them promiscuously, right and left, till service was closed.
"I entered and took my seat among the audience. No surly pew occupant placed a forbidding hand on the pew door. Seats, hymn-books, crickets, and fans were at my disposal. The hymn was found for me. I found myself (minus 'a voice') joining in the hearty chorus. Who could help it? 'God save the King' and the Marseillaise were tame in comparison. Every body sang. It was infectious. The bent old negress, with her cracked voice, her broad shouldered, muscular son, her sweet-voiced mulatto daughter, and her chubby little grandchild, with swelling chest, to whom Sunday was neither a bugbear nor a bore. And suchheartysinging!—sometimes too fast, sometimes too slow, but to my ear music, because it was soul, not cold science.
"It was communion-Sabbath, and so I went up to the chancel and knelt side by side with my dusky friends. The clergyman was a white man, and it was millennial to see his loving hand of blessing laid on those dusky brows. This is as it should be, said I—this is worship; and as we retired to make room for other communicants, the clergyman himself stepped forward to assist to the chancel a gray old negress, of fourscore years, whose tottering steps were even then at the grave's brink. I went home happy, for I had not fed on husks.
"Ah! visitors? Then I must run," said Gertrude, springing up at a rap on the door.
"It is Chloe, I fancy," said Rose.
"Well, good-by," said she, stooping to kiss Charley, whom she passed on the threshhold, "I must back to my easel. Ah! it is the locket you want, not me, you rogue," said she to Charley, as she disengaged a chain from her neck, and threw it over the child's, "mercenary, like the rest of your sex."
Chloe marched in with Charley, who, now wide awake, sat perched upon her shoulder, looking as imperial as young Napoleon.
"This yere boy has got to go, missis," said Chloe, still marching round the room, as if treading all objections under foot. "Whar's his frocks and pinafores? My ole missis. Vincent, see him, and take him to ride in her fine carriage, and cry over him, cause she say he so berry like her poor murdered boy."
"De Lor'! missis," exclaimed Chloe, "how white you look! Whar's your salts?"
"Open the window," said Rose, faintly, "the room is too close, Chloe."
"Thar—will you hab some water, missis? you ain't nowise strong yet," said Chloe. "Hadn't you better lie down, missis?"
"No, thank you. What were you saying, Chloe, about Charley?"
"Well, you see, my ole missis. Vincent, she gib memy freedom, you know; good missis, but hab berry bad son; berry handsome, but berry bad; bad for wine, and bad for women; gambled, and ebery ting; broke his ole fadder's heart clean in two, and den got killed hisself by some bad woman.
"Ole missis berry rich now, but her money ain't no comfort, cause she hab to lib all alone. To-day she met me wid Massa Charley here. De Lor', how she did take on! She say he look jess like young Massa Vincent, when he was little piccaninny, and she kiss him, and hold him, and hab such a time ober him, and noting would do but he must go ride in de carriage, and she bring us way home to de door.
"She wants you, missis, to let her hab Charley. I told her you wouldn't, certain," said Chloe, with a scrutinizing glance at Rose, for in truth, Chloe secretly wished, in that African heart of hers, that the matter might be brought about, and that she might be installed nurse for the handsome boy.
"No, of course, you wouldn't, missis; but wouldn't it be a fine thing foryou, Massa Charley?" said she, perching him on the edge of her knee, "to ride all de blessed time in dat fine carriage, and one day hab it all yourself, and de house, and de silver, and de money, for missis hab no relations now, no chick, nor child, and you're just handsome enough to do it," said Chloe, with another sly glance at Rose's face. "You're jess born for dat same—dat's a fac—so ole Chloe tinks,yah, yah—jess as well to laff about it, missis," said the cunning Chloe, "no harm in dat, you know; but he took to the ole lady jess as nat'ral, and set up in her lap, just as if he belonged dere in dat carriage; it made ole Chloe laff—yah, yah. Massa Charley, he make his way in de world wid dat handsome face of his'n. Ole Chloe is always stumbling on good luck," said the old negress, laughing, "all for dis," said she, exhibiting an old metal "charm" attached to a string inside her dress. "Good-by—we shall see. I come for you agin, Massa Charley, for my ole missis berry childish, when she wants a ting shewillhab it, and de debbel hisself can't help it—yah, yah."
As the door closed on old Chloe's weird figure, Rose almost felt as if her words were prophecies. What if the law of nature should set aside all other law and bring in a verdict for Charley? Should she, regardless of her strong maternal feelings, yield him up? Away fromherhe would escape the taunt of his birth, and yet how could she school her heart to such a parting. What was wealth and position compared to high moral principle and a pure life? If Vincent's mother knew not how to instill these into her own son, might she not wreck Charley on the same fatal rock? But what wild dream was her brain weaving? She could not, would not deceive Madam Vincent, and then would there not be a revulsion of feeling when the proud old lady knew the truth? for how couldRose mention the great wrong she had suffered, and not wound the doting mother's heart? or how could she yield up Charley to one who would ignore his mother? No, no. She would think no more of it; and yet that Vincent's mother should have petted and fondled, even unconsciously, Vincent's boy—therewascomfort in that thought.
"Are you well enough to receive a visitor this morning," asked Doctor Perry, as he entered the room.
"Physicians do not consider it necessary to ask that question," said Rose, with some little embarrassment in her manner. "I have much to thank you for, doctor, and am none the less grateful for your kind attentions, that I was unconscious of them. But how happened it?" asked she, with surprise. "I thought you had left town with Captain Lucas. How did you find us?"
"No," said the doctor, "I was unexpectedly detained by business. The morning of the day you were taken ill, happening to pass, I saw you accidentally at the window, and resolved to call that very evening. It happened quite opportunely, you see."
"Yes—thank you; I think I had become overpowered with the heat and fatigue."
"I was apprehensive of brain fever," said the doctor; "you talked so incoherently."
Rose's face instantly became suffused, and the doctor added kindly:
"Whatever I may have heard, is of course, safe with me, Rose."
"No one else heard?" she asked.
"No one. Your landlady is too deaf, and Chloe seemed absorbed in taking care of Charley, and preparing your medicines."
"Rose," said the doctor, "if my possession of your secret distresses you, suppose I give you one in exchange: I had, and have, no business in New Orleans, save to watch over you and yours. Every weary footstep of yours, my eye has tracked; nay, do not be angry with me, for how could love like mine abandon your helplessness in this great strange city? I am not about to weary you by a repetition of what you have already heard, or distress you by alluding to what you unconsciously revealed. I know that your heart is cold and benumbed; but Rose, it is not dead. You say you are grateful to me for what, after all, was mere selfishness on my part, for my greatest happiness was, though unseen, to be near you. I will be satisfied with that gratitude. Will you not acceptfor life, my services on those terms?" and the doctor drew his chair nearer to Rose, and took her hand in his own.
"You know not what you ask," mournfully replied Rose. "You are deceiving yourself. You think that in time, gratitude will ripen into a warmerfeeling. I feel that this can never be. My heart has lost its spring; it is capable only of a calm, sisterly feeling, and the intensity of your love for me would lead you after awhile to weary of, and reject this; you would be a prey to chagrin and disappointment. How can I bring such a misery on the heart to whose kindness I owe so much?"
"Rose, you do not know me," said the doctor, passionately. "Do not judge me by other men. As far as my own happiness is concerned, I fearlessly encounter the risk."
"Then," said Rose, thoughtfully, "there would be dark days when evenyoursociety would be irksome to me, when solitude alone could restore the tension of my mind."
"I should respect those days," replied her lover; "I would never intrude upon their sacredness; I would never love you the less for their recurrence."
"Then," said the ingenuous Rose, blushing as she spoke, "the sin which the world wrongly imputes to me will never be forgiven of earth. As yourwifeI must appear in society; how would you bear the whisper of malice? the sneer of envy?—no, no!" said Rose, while tears stole down her face; "I must meet this alone."
"Rose, you shall not choose!" said the doctor, passionately. "I must stand between you and all this; I declare to you that I will never leave you. If yourefuse me the right to protect you legally, I will still watch over you at a distance;—but oh Rose, dear Rose, donotdeny me. I have no relations whose averted faces you need fear; my parents are dead. I had a sister once; but whether living or dead I know not. There are none to interfere between us; let us be all the world to each other.
"Charley! plead for me," said the doctor, as he raised the beautiful child in his arms; "who shall pilot your little bark safely?Thislittle hand is all too fragile," and he took that of Rose tenderly in his own—"Nay, do not answer me now; I am selfish so to distress you," said he, as Rose made an ineffectual attempt to speak;—"think of it, dear Rose, and let your answer be kindly; oh, trust me, Rose."
As he stooped to place Charley on the floor, the locket which the child had around his neck became separated from the chain to which it was attached, and, striking upon the floor, touched a spring which opened the lid; under it was a miniature. The doctor gazed at it as if spell-bound.
"Where did you get this, Rose? Surely it can not be yours," and a deadly paleness overspread his face.
"It belongs to a lady who boards here," said Rose, "and who transferred it from her neck to Charley's this morning. Has it any interest for you?"
"What is her name? let me see her!" said the doctor, still looking at the picture.
"Her name? Gertrude Dean," said Rose.
"Dean?" repeated the doctor, looking disappointed, "Dean? Rose, that is a picture of my own father."
While they were speaking, Gertrude tapped on the door. "My locket, dear Rose; I hope 'tis not lost."
Turning suddenly, her eye fell upon the doctor. With a wild cry of joy she flew into his arms, exclaiming, "My brother! my own long-lost Walter!"
"Good morning, missis," and Chloe's turbaned head followed the salutation. "Didn't I tell you dat Massa Charley be born wid a silver spoon in his mouf? His dish right side up when it rains, for certain.
"See here, missis," and she handed Rose a small package, containing a pair of coral and gold sleeve-ties for Charley's dimpled shoulders. "Didn't I tell you dat missis couldn't lose sight of him? and she sent me here for him to come ride in de carriage wid her again to-day, and eat dinner at de big house, and all dat," and Chloe rubbed her hands together, and looked the very incarnation of delight.
"Well," said Rose, "Charley has nothing fine to wear; only a simple white frock, Chloe."
"All de same, missis; he handsome enuff widout any ting. Missis must take powerful liking to give him dese; dey are Massa Vincent's gold sleeve-tieshewore whenhelittle piccaninny like Charley dare."
Rose took them in her hand, and was lost in thought.
"Jess as good, for all dat, missis," said Chloe, thinking Rose objected to them because they weresecondhand. "Missis wouldn't gib dem away to every body, but she say Charley so like young Massa Vincent, dat she couldn't talk of nuffing else de whole bressed time. Hope you won't tink of sending them back, missis," said Chloe, apologetically; "she is old and childish, you know."
"No," said Rose, sadly; "Charley may wear them;" and she looped them up over his little white shoulders, with a prayer that his manhood might better fulfill the promise ofhisyouth.
"Ki!" exclaimed Chloe, as she held him off at arm's length. "Won't ole missis' servants—Betty, and Nancy, and Dolly, and John, and de coachman, and all dat white trash, tink dey nebber see de like of dis before? And won't Massa Charley make 'em all step round, one of dese days, wid dem big black eyes of his?"
Chloe's soliloquies were very suggestive, and Rose sat a long while after her departure analyzing Charley's disposition, and wondering if the seeds ofsucha spirit lay dormant in her child, waiting only the sun of prosperity to quicken them into life. How many mothers, as they rocked their babes, have pondered these things in their hearts; and how many more, alas! have reaped the bitter harvest of those who take no thought for the soul's morrow!
"And so you will not give me the poor satisfaction of punishing and exposing the scoundrel who has treated you so basely?" said John to his sister, as they sat in her little studio.
"No," said Gertrude; "he has taken that trouble off your hands—he has punished himself. He has traveled all over the Union in search of employment, and succeeded in nothing he has undertaken. He has met with losses and disappointments in every shape, and occupies, at present, a most inferior business position, I am told. Now that I have become famous, and it is out of his power to injure me, he quails at the mention of my name in public, and dreads nothing so much as recognition by those who are acquainted with his baseness. He sneaks through life, with the consciousness that he has played the part of a scoundrel—what could even you add to this?"
"But the idea of such a miserable apology for a man getting a divorce from a sister ofmine," said John, striding impatiently across the room. "Why did you not anticipate him, Gertrude? and with right on your side, too."
"Had I been pecuniarily able to do so," replied Gertrude, "I had not the slightestwishto oppose a divorce, especially as I knew it could be obtained on no grounds that would compromise me. For months after Stahle left me, and, indeed, before, he and his spies had been on my track. Had there been a shadow of a charge they could have preferred against my good name,thenwould have been their hour of triumph! I have a copy of the divorce papers in my possession, and the only allegation there preferred is, that I did not accept Stahle's invitation to join him when he wrote me, in the manner I have related to you."
"But the world, Gertrude, the world," said the irritated John, "will not understand this."
"My dear John," said Gertrude, "they whodesireto believe a lie, will do so in the face of the clearest evidence to the contrary. But I have found out that though a person (a woman especially) may suffer much from the bitter persecution of such persons, from the general undeserved suspicion of wrong, and from the pusillanimity of those whoshouldbe her defenders, yet even in such a position, a woman can never be injuredessentially, save by her own acts, for God is just, and truth and innocence will triumph. I am righted before the world; my untiring industry and uprightness of life are the refutal of his calumnies. Leave him to his kennel obscurity, my dear John. I do notnowneed the blow that I am sure you wouldnot have been slow to strike for me had you known how your sister was oppressed."
"I don't know but you are right, Gertrude, and yet—if he ever should cross my path, my opinion might undergo a sudden revulsion. Does he still keep up the show of piety?"
"So I have heard," said Gertrude. "The first thing he does, when he goes into a new place is to connect himself with some church. What a pity, John, such men should bring religion into disrepute."
"You think so, do you? And yet you refuse to expose it. It is just because of this that so many hypocrites go unmasked. Sift them out, I say—if there is not a communicant left in the church. I do not believe in throwing a wide mantle over such whited sepulchers."
"Do you suppose," said Gertrude, "that they whose houses are built on such a sandy foundation will quietly see them undermined?Sucha hue and cry as they will raise (all for the honor of the cause, of course!) about your 'speaking lightly of religion and its professors!'"
"Very true," said John, "it is speaking lightly of itsprofessorsbut not of itspossessors. They might as well tell you to keep dumb about a gang of counterfeiters, lest it should do injury to the money-market; bah! Gertrude, I have no patience with such tampering; but to dismiss an unpleasant topic, you haveplenty of employment, I see;" and John glanced round the room at Gertrude's pictures. "I am proud of you, Gertrude; I honor you for your self-reliance; but what is your fancy, with your artistic reputation, for living such a nun's life?"
"Well," said Gertrude, "in the first place, my time is too valuable to me to be thrown away on bores and idlers, and the Paul Pry family, in all its various ramifications. Autograph hunters I have found not without their use, as I never answer their communications, and they find me in letter stamps. Butentre nous, John, I have no very exalted opinion of the sex to which you belong.
"Men are so gross and unspiritual, John, so wedded to making money and promiscuous love, so selfish and unchivalric; of course there are occasionally glorious exceptions, but who would be foolish enough to wade through leagues of brambles, and briars, to find perchance one flower? Female friends, of course, are out of the question, always excepting Rose, whose title is no misnomer. And as to general society, it is so seldom one finds a congenial circle that, having resources of my own, I feel disinclined to encounter the risk."
"This isolation is unnatural; Gertrude, you can not be happy."
"Who is?" asked Gertrude. "Are you? Is Rose?Where is the feast at which there is no skeleton? I make no complaint. I enjoyed more happiness in the five years of my first wedded life than falls to the lot of most mortals in a life-time. I know that such an experience can not be repeated, so I live on the past. You say I am not happy; I am negatively happy. If I gather no honey, I at least escape the sting."
"I wish for my sake, Gertrude, you would go into society. I can not but think you would form new ties that would brighten life. As a woman, you can not be insensible to your attractive power."
"I have no desire to exert it," replied Gertrude; "there are undoubtedly men in want of housekeepers, and plenty of widowers in want of nurses for their children. My desires do not point that way."
"You are incorrigible, Gertrude. Do you suppose there is no man who has sense enough to love you for yourself alone?"
"What if I do not want to be loved?" asked his sister.
"But you do," persisted John; "so long as there is any vitality in a women, she likes to be loved."
"Well, then, granting your proposition for the sake of the argument, please give me credit for a most martyr-like and persistent self-denial," said Gertrude, laughing.
"I will give you credit for nothing, till your heart gets thawed out a little; and I think I know a friend of mine who can do it."
"Forewarned forearmed," said his sister.
"Rose, you are not looking well, this morning. Confess, now, that you did not sleep a wink last night. I heard the pattering of your little feet over my head long after midnight."
"Very likely, for I was unaccountably restless. I will tell you what troubled me. I was trying to think of some way to support myself; I wish I had a tithe of your energy, Gertrude."
"Well you have not, you are just made to be loved and petted. You are too delicate a bit of porcelain to be knocked and hustled round amid the delf of the world. Your gift is decidedly wife-wise, and the sooner you let my good brother John make you one, the better for all of us."
"What do you think of my turning authoress?" asked Rose, adroitly turning the subject.
"Oh, do it, by all means," mocked Gertrude, "it is the easiest thing in the world to write a book. It would be just the thing for a little sensitive-plant like you. I think I see it fairly launched. I think I see you sit down with the morning paper in your hand toread a criticism on it, from some coarse pen, dressed in a little brief authority, in the absence of some editor; a fellow who knows no difference between a sun-flower and a violet, and whose daily aspirations are bounded by an oyster supper, or a mint-julep. I think I see you thumped on the head with his butchering cleaver, every nerve quivering under the crucifixion of his coarse scalpel."
"But surely there are those who know a good book when they see it, and I mean to write a good book."
"You little simpleton, as if that would save you! Do you suppose you will be forgiven for writing agoodbook? No, my dear; the editor of 'The Daily Lorgnette,' takes it up, he devours a chapter or two, he begins to fidget in his chair, he sees there is genius in it, he gets up and strides across his office, he recollects certain books of his own, which nobody ever read but his publishers and himself, and every word he reads irritates that old sore. The next day, under the head of book notices you will see the following in the Daily Lorgnette:—
"'Gore House, by Rose Ringdove.'
"'We have perused this book; it is unnecessary to state in its title-page that it was written by afemalehand. The plot is feeble and inartistic. In dialogue, the writer utterly fails; the heroine, Effie Waters, is a stiff, artificial creation, reminding us constantly of those females painted on the pannels of omnibuses,convulsively grasping to their bosoms a posy, or a poodle. There is an indescribable and heterogeneous jumbling of characters in this volume. The authoress vainly endeavors to straighten out this snarl in the last chapter, which has nothing to recommend it but that itisthe last. We advise the authoress of 'Gore House' to choose some other escape-valve for her restless femininity; petticoat literature has become a drug in the market.'
"How do you like that?" said Gertrude, laughing.
"Well, the editor of the 'Christian Warrior' sits down to read 'Gore House,' he takes out his spectacles, and wipes them deliberately on his red-silk pocket-handkerchief, he adjusts them on the bridge of his sagacious nose; he reads on undisturbed until he comes to the description of 'Deacon Pendergrast,' who is very graphically sketched as a 'wolf in sheep's clothing.' Conscience holds up the mirror, and he beholdshimself, like unto a man who sees his natural face in a glass. Straightway he sitteth down, and writeth the following impartial critique of the book:
"'We have read "Gore House." We do not hesitate to pronounce it abadbook, unfit to lie on the table of anyreligiousfamily. In it,religionis held up to ridicule. It can not fail to have a most pernicious influence on the minds of the young. We hope Christian editors all over the land will not hesitate, out ofcourtesy to the authoress, to warn the reading public of this locomotive poison.'
"The editor of the 'Christian Warrior' then hands the notice to his foreman for an early insertion, puts on his hat, and goes to the anniversary of the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel, of which he is president.
"The editor of the 'John Bull' reads 'Gore House.' He is an Englishman, and pledged to his British blood, while he makes his living out of America, to abuse, underrate, and vilify, her government, institutions, and literature, therefore he says, curtly:
"'We have received "Gore House"—they of course who wish forliterature, especially female literature, will look the other side of the Atlantic." He then takes one of the most glowing passages in 'Gore House,' and transposing the words slightly, passes it off for editorial in his own columns.
"The editor of 'The Timbrel' reads Gore House. He has a female relative, Miss Clementina Clemates, whose mission she thinks is to be an authoress. In furtherance of this design of hers, he thinks it policy to decry all other rival books. So he says:
"'We have read "Gore House." We ought to say we havetriedto read it. The fact is, the only lady book recently published that we can heartily recommend to our readers is "Sketches of the Fireside, by Clementine Clemates."'
"The editor of the 'Dinsmore Republican' reads the book. He is of the Don Quixote order, goes off like an old pistol half primed, whenever the right chord is struck. Gore House takes him captive at once. He wishes there were a tournament, or some such arrangement, by which he could manifest his devotion to and admiration of the authoress. He throws down the book, unties his neckcloth, which seems to be strangling him, loosens his waistband button to give his breathing apparatus more play, throws up the window, runs his fingers through his hair, till each one seems as charged with electricity as a lightning-rod, and then seizing his goose-quill, piles on the commendatory adjectives till your modesty exclaims, in smothering agony, 'Save me from my friends, and I will take care of my enemies.'"
"But tell me," said Rose, "is there no bright side to this subject you can depict me?"
"Oh, yes," said Gertrude, "there are editors who can read a book and deal fairly and conscientiously by it and its author, who neither underrate nor overrate from fear or favor, who find fault, not as an escape-valve for their own petulance or indigestion, but gently, kindly, as a wise parent would rebuke his child—editors on whose faith you can rely, whose book reviews are, and can be, depended upon, who feel themselves accountable to other than ahumantribunal for their discharge of so important a public trust."
"Well," said Rose, in despair, "if I might be Sapphoherself I could not run such a gauntlet of criticism as you have described."
"Far happier to be Cornelia with her jewels," said Gertrude, snatching up the beautiful Charley (I take it Cornelia had a glorious husband). "Fame is a great unrest to a true woman's heart. The fret, and tumult, and din of battle are not for her. The vulgar sneer for which there is no preventive, save the unrecognized one ofhonor; the impertinent tone of familiarity, supposed to be acceptable by those to whom a woman's heart is yet a sealed book; what are tears to oppose to such bludgeon weapons? No, the fret and din of battle are not for her; but if, at the call of trumpet-tongued necessity, she buckle on the armor, let her fight with what good courage her God may give her, valuing far above the laurel crown, when won, the loving hearts for which she toils—which beat glad welcome home."
Miss Anne Cooper was a maiden lady of forty-two; a satellite who was well contented to revolve year after year round Madame Vincent, and reflect hergoldenrays. Madame Vincent had been a beauty in her day, and was still tenacious of her claims to that title. It was Miss Anne's constant study to foster this bump of self-conceit, and so cunningly did she play her part, so indignantly did she deny the advances of Old Time, that madame was flattered into the belief that he had really given her a quit claim.
Miss Anne's disinterested care of the silver, linen, and store-room was quite praiseworthy to those who did not know that she supplied a family of her relatives with all necessary articles from the Vincent resources. It was weary waiting for the expected codicil, and Miss Anne thought "a bird in the hand was worth two in the bush;" so if she occasionally abducted a pound or two of old Hyson or loaf-sugar, or a loaf of cake, or a pair of pies, she reasoned herself into the belief that they were, after all, only her lawful perquisites.
Yes, it was weary waiting for the codicil. Madame Vincent was an invalid, 'tis true; but so she had been these twenty years, having one of those india-rubber constitutions, which seem to set all medical precedents at defiance. She might last along for ten years to come—who knew?
Ten years! Miss Anne looked in the glass; the crow's-feet were planted round her own eyes, and it needed no microscope to see the silver threads in her once luxuriant black locks. Not that Miss Anne did not smile just as sweetly on her patroness as if she would not at any time have welcomed a call upon her from the undertaker. Miss Anne's voice, as she glided through the house with her bunch of keys, had that oily, hypocritical whine which is inseparable from your genuine toady, be it man or woman.
Miss Anne sat in the "blue chamber" of the Vincent mansion—a chamber that had once been occupied by young Master Vincent. Whether this gave it a charm in the lady's eyes or no, Miss Anne never had said. It was true that young Master Vincent, when he had nothing else to do, amused himself with irritating Miss Anne up to the snapping-point. They scarce met without a war of words, half jest, half earnest; but for all that, young Vincent's every wish was anticipated by Miss Anne. It was she who reinserted the enameled buttons in his vests, when they came from the laundress; it was she who righted his room, andkept all his little dandy apparatus (in the shape of perfumes, gold shirt-buttons, hair-oil, watch-guards, rings, etc.) in their appropriate places.
Your D'Orsay abroad, is generally a brute at home; selfish, sarcastic, ill-tempered, and exacting where he thinks it does not pay to be otherwise. All this Miss Anne turned aside with the skill and tact of a woman; occasionally quite quenching him with her witty replies, and forcing him to laugh even in his most diabolical moods. To be sure he would mutter some uncanonical words after it, and tell her to go to the torrid zone; and Miss Anne would smile as usual, drop a low courtesy, and glide from his presence; sometimes to go round making all sorts of housekeeping blunders; sometimes to sit down in her room, with her hands folded in her lap, and her great black eyes fixed immovably on the carpet, for all the world just as if Miss Anne were in love.
Old maids have their little thoughts; why not?
On the present occasion, as I have said, Miss Anne sat in "the blue chamber." She was paler than usual, and her Xantippe lips were closed more firmly together. The thread of her thoughts seemed no smoother than the thread between her fingers, beside breaking which she had broken six of Hemming's best drilled-eyed needles. At length, pushing the stool from beneath her feet, she threw down her work and strode impatiently up and down the apartment.
"To be balked after serving this Leah's apprenticeship, by a baby! and bythatbaby! I could love it for its likeness tohim, did it not stand in my way. It was such doll faces as that baby's mother's which could fascinate Vincent, hey?—soulless, passionless little automatons. Ye gods! and howIhave loved him, let these sunken eyes and mottled tresses bear witness," and Miss Anne looked at herself in the glass. "That is all past now; thank heaven, that secret dies with me. Who would ever suspectmeof falling in love?" and Miss Anne laughed hysterically. "And now that hope died out, that baby is to come between me and my expected fortune!
"Simple Chloe! She little thought, when she repeated to me what she called 'her young mistress's crazy ravings,' thatIcould 'find a method in that madness.' Love is sharp-sighted; so is policy. That baby shall never come here. It should not, at any rate, for the mother's sake, pretty little fool!
"Madame will 'adopt' the baby, forsooth! She will fill the house with bibs and pinafores, and install me as head nurse, and tothatchild! All my fine castles to be knocked down by a baby's puny hand! We shall see.
"That old dotard, to adopt a baby athertime of life, when she ought to be thinking of her shroud."
"Ah, Anne, you there," said a voice at the door, "and busy as usual?"
"Yes, dear madame, work for you is only pastime."
"You were always a good creature, Anne," and madame tapped her affectionately on the shoulder.
"How very well you are looking to-day," said Anne. "Mourning is uncommonly becoming to you. Becky and I were saying this morning, as you passed through the hall, that no one would suppose you to be more than thirty."
"S-i-x-t-y, my dear, s-i-x-t-y," replied the old lady, cautiously closing the door; "but you should not flatter, Annie."
"It is not flattery to speak the truth," said Anne, with a mock-injured air.
"Well, well, don't take a joke so seriously, child; what everybody saysmustbe true, I suppose," and madame looked complacently in the glass.
"Anne, do you know I can not think of any thing but that beautiful child? Don't you think his resemblance to our Vincent very remarkable?"
"Very, dear madame, I am not at all surprised at your fancying him. He is quite a charming little fellow."
"Isn't he, though?" exclaimed madame, with a pleased laugh; "do you know Anne I have about made up my mind to adopt him? I shall call him Vincent L'Estrange Vincent."
"How charming!" said Anne, "how interesting you will look; you will be taken for his mother."
"Very likely," said madame. "I recollect we were quite an object of attraction the day we rode out together; I think Iamlooking youthful Anne."
"No question of it, my dear madame—here—let me rearrange this bow in your cap; that's it; what execution you must have done in your day, madame."
"I hadsomelovers," replied the sexegenarian widow, with mock humility, as she twisted a gold circlet upon her finger.
"If report speaks true, their name was legion; I dare say there is some interesting story now, connected with that ring," suggested Anne.
"Poor Perry!" exclaimed madame—"Ididn'ttreat him well; I wonder what ever came of him;howhe used to sigh! What beautiful bouquets he brought me—how jealous he was of poor dear Vincent. I was a young, giddy thing then; and yet, I was good-hearted, Anne, for I remember how sorry I used to be that I couldn't marryallmy lovers. I told Perry so, one day when he was on his knees to me, but he did not seem as much pleased as I expected. I don't think he always knew how to take a compliment.
"Poor Perry!
"I couldn't help liking him, he had such a dear pair of whiskers, quite à-la-corsair—but Vincent had the money, and I always needed such a quantity of dresses and things, Anne.
"Well—on my wedding-day, Perry walked by thehouse, looking handsomer than ever. I believe the creature did it on purpose to plague me. He had on white pants, and yellow Marseilles vest, salmon-colored neck-tie, andsucha pretty dark-blue body-coat, with brass buttons;sucha fit! I burst out a crying; I never saw any thing so heart-breaking as that coat; there was not a wrinkle in it from collar to tail. I don't think I should ever have got over it, Anne, had not my maid Victorine just then brought me in a set of bridal pearls from Vincent; they were really sumptuous.
"Poor dear Perry!
"Well—I was engaged to him just one night; and I think the moon was to blame for that, for as soon as the sun rose next morning, I knew it would not do. He was poor, and it was necessary I should have a fine establishment, you know. But poor Perry! I never shall forget that blue body-coat, never—it was such a fit!"
"The old fool!" exclaimed Anne, dismissing the bland smile from her face as the last fold of madame's dress fluttered through the door; "after all, she might do worse than to adopt this child. I could easier get rid of that baby than her second husband. I must rein up a little, with my flattery, or she may start off on that track.
"Poor Perry, indeed!" soliloquized Anne, "what geese men are! how many of them, I wonder, havehad reason to thank their stars, that they did not get what their hearts were once set on. Well—any will-o'-the-wisp who trips it lightly, can lead any Solomon by the nose; it is a humiliating fact;" and Miss Anne took a look at herself in the glass; "sense is at a discount; well, it is the greatest compliment the present generation of men could have paid me, never to have made me an offer."