"Rosalie," said Jennie, as she tossed to and fro upon their soft bed that night; "I can not sleep for the thought of those poor creatures we saw to-day. Come closer to me and put your arm around me, every time I close my eyes some of those miserable objects are before me with their pinched and haggard looks. I can not go with Madame La Blanche again, for it takes away all the pleasure and beauty of my life, and it can do them no good since I have so little power to relieve them."
"But," said Rosalie, "Madame La Blanche says 'it is our duty to visit them, even though we have nothing to offer them but our sympathy, and kind words are often better to the poor then costly gifts.' I felt as you do when I first went among them, but I don't believe our teacher would ever excuse us from going since she thinks it right. I should think," continued Rosalie, twining her arms lovingly about her companion, and drawing as near to her as possible, "that what you have seen to-day would make you enjoy this pleasant room, and these nice comforts all the more."
"But, Rosalie," said Jennie, "how can I sleep when there are so many sick and weary ones down in those dirty streets who have no resting-place for their tired bodies, although they need it so much more than I do? It makes me uneasy and troubled. Don't you think we should be a great deal happier if all the people in the world had an equal share of the comforts of life?"
"Sometimes I think so, Jennie, but Madame La Blanche says 'it is God that makes us to differ; that He gives to some poverty, and to others riches, and that if we only have contented minds we shall be happy, whether we are rich or poor.'"
"That is not exactly what I mean, Rosalie; you know I am rich now, but I am sad about others, and don't you suppose that people who suffer for things that they need feel badly when they see others with more than enough for their wants, so that they even waste it or throw it away."
"I don't know, Jennie, I suppose they must. It does seem strange to me, sometimes, that some have so much more than is necessary to their comfort, while others lack even their daily bread; but Madame La Blanche, says 'we must never allow ourselves to raise such questions, even in our own minds; but that we must feel that whatever God does for His children is right, even as we feel that our earthly parents will do every thing for our best good, though they may do many things that we can not understand, and withhold from us much that we earnestly desire.'"
"Well, Rosalie, it is a comfort to have a higher wisdom than our own to depend upon! that's what my own dear mother used often to say to me, and the very day she died—I never can forget that!—she put her hand upon my head, and said 'Remember, my Jennie, God is to be all your wisdom and strength, all your wisdom and strength.'"
Poor child! in her own strength what perfect weakness; even while repeating the word she sunk into a calm and peaceful slumber, and this weary world, with its burden of sorrows and woes, faded away from her mental vision also, giving place to hopeful and cheering dreams. Madame La Blanche entered the room, as was her custom before retiring to her own couch, and as she looked upon the gentle sleepers before her, and contrasted them with the pitiable ones who, perchance were even then wakeful and sinning, her heart went up toward the Dispenser of all blessings, in earnest supplication that the objects of her love might be ever preserved unblemished in purity, and those of her compassion be brought from their blackness and stain unto the fountain of all goodness and cleansing.
Three winters passed rapidly and profitably in the busy school-room, and Jennie's thirteenth spring-time found her, with her friend Rosalie, riding about the lawn upon the pretty pony, or playing with her golden-haired sister.
"Jennie," said Rosalie, one lovely morning as they were amusing themselves upon the lawn; "would you not like to go to the old Buttonwood and swing? All the girls meet there, and we have such nice times!" To the old Buttonwood was quite a pleasant walk from Rosalie's mother's, and they went merrily on, leading the little girl, and chatting busily, when a silvery-headed old man on a seat within a garden near, attracted Jennie's attention, and she asked her companion who he was.
"Oh! that's my 'grandpa,' as I call him," said Rosalie—"he isn't my grandpa, you know, but he likes to have me call him so, and since it makes him happier, why shouldn't I?—mamma says she has known him for several years, and that he had once a darling daughter who married against his will, so that he would never receive her to his house again, and one day, when he heard that she was dead, he lost his reason; but he will not harm any one.He loves children dearly, and we often go in to sit with him and talk. Poor old man! let's go in now, Jennie, perhaps he will be glad to change the scene a little"—and the three girls went and stood before the old gentleman, who at first looked vacantly at them.
"It's me, grandpa. Don't you remember your own dear little Rosalie? Jennie," continued she in an under tone, "you stand a little behind me, and then he will see me alone;" but the old man caught the words, and a flash of intelligence for one moment illumined his eyes as he said,
"Yes, that's it—Jennie, dear little Jennie! come back to your old father, my darling. All day long has he sat by the gate watching for you. Did you think he was angry with his own precious child?"—and as he spoke he drew Jennie to his bosom and held her there while he murmured constantly in tones of endearment, "Call me father, my pet child; nobody shall take her away again; little Jennie, dear little Jennie!" and he looked around with a sort of menacing air, as if some one was near who would seek to rob him of his treasure, and then smiled fondly on the young girl, caressing her with the deepest tenderness.
"I haven't seen him smile so for many a long year, miss," said the old butler who was near them. "Will you come often to speak to him? It does my heart good to see him so like old times. It's the name miss, it's all the name."
Jennie was somewhat frightened by the old man's eager manner, but when she said softly, "Let me go and swing awhile, dear father, and then I'll come to you again," he gently relaxed his embrace and kissing her, again let her go.
His Jennie used to go so often to the "old Buttonwood"—it was all natural to hear her speak of that; and then it was so pleasant to have her come again with elastic step, and rosy cheek, to spring into his arms for her welcome kiss! Oh, yes! he was willing she should go to the "old Buttonwood;" but as her slight figure vanished in the distance, he seemed sad and uneasy, and the old expression came again, and it staid through the long day. That night as the old butler stood in his master's room, and looked upon a lovely portrait that hung at the foot of the old gentleman's bed, he kept repeating to himself, "It can't be all in the name; the likeness is amazin'! amazin'!"
"Rosalie," said Jennie the next day, "Let's go and see the old gentleman again. What's his name?—you know I promised to return to him."
"His name is Halberg."
"Does he live alone in that pleasant place with only the servants to care for him?"
"Oh, no," said Rosalie, "he has a married son who lives there with him, but he has gone to Europe with his wife and three daughters, and grandpa stays alone until their return. Mamma says they are expected next month, and Carrie Halberg is to go to Madame La Blanche's school—that'smy friend, Carrie; she's such a dear good girl! You'll love her, Jennie, I know! But there's grandpa watching for us."
The old man stood at the gate, leaning upon his cane and looking intently down the street toward the "old Buttonwood." He had taken his hat from his head and was shading his eyes with it, and his thin locks were scattered carelessly over his brow. He seemed eager and expectant, and as they approached the gate they heard him say, "Simon, you'd better go to the swing for little Jennie; perhaps she's fallen and got a hurt."
"Here she is, sir," said the butler, and the old gentle man dropped his hat and cane and opened his arms to the little girl, who sprang into them and nestled there as if it were her happiest resting-place. There was something so child-like in the old man's tenderness toward her, that she returned it as if he had been one of her youthful playmates. The wandering of his intellect had robbed him of that dignity and superiority which the young stand so much in awe of, and although the children respected him, they felt that their amusements were suited to his capacity—therefore they crowded around the seat in the garden, and every day Jennie would sit beside him and read or sew, while he wound her curls over his thin fingers, or the three would play beneath the old trees, while he would gaze at them as contentedly as if it were the chief end of his existence.
It was sad to think of separating them, but Jennie mustreturn to her school, and the poor old man be left to his weariness and vacancy. On the day of the child's departure, he looked vainly for her appearance until the time of her usual coming was passed, and then, with a low moan and a pitiful face, he sank back upon the bench. Old Simon tried to arouse and interest him, but he only shook his head, and looked about him with the old air of melancholy, and murmured, "Little Jennie—dear little Jennie."
"Simon," said Mrs. Halberg, as they were alighting from their carriage at the garden gate a few weeks after, "how has the old gentleman been during our absence? Does he seem any thing like his former self?"
"Oh! he's very bad, very bad, ma'am, since the young lady that was visiting Miss Rosalie left. He took wonderfully to her, and seemed as happy as could be while she was here. I thought, perhaps, 'twas the name, but the likeness was amazin'!"
The lady did not hear the latter remark, but she merely said, "What was the name, Simon!" scarcely heeding his reply, as she went up the avenue to the house, stopping one moment to say "How d'ye do" to the old man.
"Oh! 'tis so pleasant to be home again!" said Carrie, the youngest daughter, and springing lightly from the carriage, she ran up to the old gentleman, and, throwing her arms around his neck, she kissed him again and again, saying "'Twas cruel to leave you so long alone, dear grandpa, wasn't it? I wouldn't give any thing for all Europe in comparison with this blessed home and one pleasant day beneath these old trees; and I've missedyou so, grandpa. Oh! 'tis too pleasant to be at home again!"
"Do save your raptures, Carrie, until we are free from observation," said her sister Ellen, as she went sauntering up the walk, followed by her other sister, neither of them bestowing more than a glance upon their afflicted grandfather.
A group of village boys were peeping through the fence, evidently much interested in the arrivals and the affectionate greeting which Carrie bestowed upon the old man.
"Nobody will ever suspect that we have traveled if you are so unsophisticated in your feelings and expressions," continued Ellen; but observing that her reproof received no attention, she and Mary went into the house, leaving the sweet child with the pure breath of nature all around her, and her own heart as fresh and uncontaminated. The old man returned her caresses, and smiled upon her as he said, "My Jennie! dear little Jennie!"
Carrie was so delighted at her grandfather's apparent joy on seeing her that she cared little for the name, yet supposing he had only forgotten it, she said, "Carrie, grandpa—Carrie;" but he only murmured still, "Dear little Jennie! dear little Jennie!"
"What does it mean, Simon," said she; "doesn't he remember me?"
"'Twas a nice young lady that was called Jennie; she was here with Miss Rosalie, and your grandpa, miss, was so happy all the time she staid. He has been very low,miss, ever since she left till you came. Maybe he thinks 'tis she come again; you're not unlike her, Miss Carrie."
"Well, I'll be called Jennie, too, since you prefer it, grandpa. See what I've brought you! 'way across the blue waters, from Scotland! Isn't it a bonnie plaid?" and she held out before him a real Highland shawl, and, folding it, threw it around his shoulders. "'Tis so nice to wear out here, dear grandpa, when it is chilly."
The old man looked at the bright colors, and felt of the soft wool, and then his eyes rested fondly upon his grandchild, who was scattering sugar-plums among the little group without the gate. Eagerly they gathered them up in their greedy hands, and went scampering off to their homes to exhibit their treasures, while Carrie went to the house accompanied by her proud father, on whose arm the old gentleman was feebly leaning. That evening, as the newly-returned party was seated around the center-table, Carrie stole quietly to her grandfather's room, and leaning her elbows upon his knees, looked wonderingly up into his mild eyes, while he muttered softly, "Dear little Jennie! dear little Jennie!"
Rosalie came betimes to see her young friend, and as they walked together around the garden, they had much to say about the long journey, and the many strange things that Carrie had seen and heard, and then they came back again to home events, and to the school that Rosalie had just left, and that Carrie would soon enter, and this led them to speak of Jennie, who was to be Carrie's roommate.
"Has she no other name?" said Carrie to Rosalie; "I hear nothing but 'Jennie, Jennie,' all the time."
"Oh! her mother's name is Dunmore—that is, her adopted mother. Her own mother is dead; but isn't it strange, I never thought to ask her what her real name is! You can not help loving her, Carrie, I know. In the first place, she's beautiful, and that goes for something, I think; and then, she's as good as she is pretty. Why, Carrie, I do believe you are a little like her! There, throw your hat back, and let your hair fall about your shoulders, so—'tis strange! I should think you were sisters."
"Well, well, Rosalie, I should like to put my hat on when you have done admiring me; I suppose I shall see this paragon of a Jennie on Monday, if I live."
"She will not seem a paragon to you, Carrie, but a simple, loving, truthful girl, and before you know it, you'll have your arm around her neck and your lips to hers as if you had been friends all your life."
"What do you think of Madame La Blanche, Rosalie? Shall I be much afraid of her?"
"Afraid of her! Why, Carrie, she's as kind as my own mother, and many a time, when the girls are sad or home-sick, she sends for them to go to her pleasant room, and there she amuses them with pictures and curiosities until they forget all their sorrows. She doesn't seem like a school-teacher, Carrie, but like some dear affectionate relative."
"Well, it is very pleasant here in my own lovely home, and I dread leaving so soon again; and then, there's grandpa, I can not bear to be away from him. Nobody seems to cheer him as I can—can they, grandpa?" and the dear child sat down beside the old man upon the bench which they had just reached, and looked thoughtfully upon the bowed figure near her.
"You'll come every day to see him while I am gone—won't you, Rosalie? and try to keep him contented and happy? It seems so sad," continued she, "to have no real comfort in life excepting one little gleam, and then to have even that taken from you! Never mind, grandpa, Jennie will come back again, soon."
The old man picked up, one by one, some white petals that had fallen upon his knees from a tree near them, and,letting them drop again, said, "Don't stay long, dear little Jennie. Simon, is the swing safe? You'd better see that it is tied firmly to the branches."
"Yes, sir," said Simon; "I'll attend to it, sir. It is well, miss," he added, "that we have the old swing to fall back upon. Every day while you were gone, when your grandpa seemed uneasy about you, and asked often for you, I'd have to say, 'she's down to the old Buttonwood, sir—only down to the old Buttonwood;' and then he'd rest easy like. The time seemed weary and long to me, miss, as I put him off from day to day; but a year and a day is all the same to him, miss—all the same."
"Well, Simon," said Carrie, "I'm so glad you are here with him; I should never take a bit of comfort if you were not. Even in those strange countries, where there was so much that was new and beautiful to interest me, I could not forget the dear old figure beneath the trees at home, and the thought that you understood him and could cheer him was all that kept me contented and happy."
"Ah, miss, it's a dreadful bereavement!" said the old butler, shaking his head. "Such a noble-looking old gentleman as your grandfather was before this came upon him! I used to watch him as he walked up and down these avenues with Miss Jennie, that's dead and gone, upon his arm, and a prouder father I never saw. He's only a wreck now, Miss Carrie, a pitiful wreck!" and the good servant drew his coat-sleeve across his face, and turned hastily away.
Meantime frequent communications had passed between Mrs. Dunmore and her daughter, and now came glad anticipations of a speedy return to the home and child of her love. Her mission was accomplished. "The silver string was loosed, the golden bowl broken;" and the old and wearied body laid away for its long and peaceful rest. For months had she soothed its pains, and rendered its pathway to the tomb easy and pleasant, and now that the green earth covered it, and its repose could be no more disturbed, her heart yearned toward the child of her adoption, and the hours lagged heavily that must intervene before they could meet again. Business transactions in connection with the possessions of the deceased still required her presence for awhile, and she must yield to the demands of duty. Jennie would have been quite impatient, had not Carrie Halberg's arrival reconciled her to another school term before rejoining her mother in their delightful home.
"Rosalie has told me so much about you," said she, as she ushered her into their cosey room. "I feel as if I quite know you already. It would be strange if we didnot know each other, when we have the same grandpa, wouldn't it?"
"Oh yes, Rosalie told me how fond grandpa was of you, and I'm sure I owe you a great deal of affection for going so often to see him while he was alone. Simon said he was sad indeed after you came away, and that he would stand for hours by the gate looking down the street toward the old Buttonwood for you. I never knew him to fancy any one but Rosalie besides me, before; but Rosalie and Simon both think we are alike, and I suppose he thought you were me."
"Very likely," said Jennie; "but Carrie, what made him fancy the name so? I heard Simon say 't was all in the name."
"Oh! that was the name of my aunt that's dead; she was an only daughter. Didn't you see her portrait hanging in my grandfather's room?"
"I was never in the house, Carrie, for there were none but servants there, you know, and then the garden was so pleasant! Was your aunt pretty?"
"I never hear any one but father speak of her, and he often visits her portrait, and never leaves it without weeping—it is very beautiful! But you shall see it, Jennie, for my father promises me you shall return with me to my home. He is so delighted to add to my grandfather's comfort in any way. Isn't it dreadful, Jennie, to be in this lovely world with so much around you to charm and please, and yet the sense of enjoyment gone, andbrightness and beauty all the same as if it were brown and sere? You'll find me a dull companion, I fear, Jennie, for I've grown old and thoughtful by seeing so much of poor grandpa."
"Perhaps I am made thoughtful, too, by past troubles, Carrie! It doesn't need age to bring sorrows upon us."
"What griefs can have bowed those youthful heads so early, my darlings?" said Madame La Blanche, who had softly entered the room and caught part of Jennie's sentence. "It is better to recount the many mercies of our lot, rather than to dwell upon the ills of life! Indeed, our very sorrows often prove blessings to us if we will but permit them to work the effect designed;" and sitting down in one of the wide windows, she drew the young girls to her and placing one on either side, there, while the shadows were lengthening in the beautiful garden, and the night came creeping silently on, she talked to them as a gentle mother would, of the great object and aim of this mortal life, and the high destiny which all may attain if they only so far desire it as to strive after it, and as the evening stole upon them, and the stars came quietly out in the mild heavens, she kissed them tenderly and left them to the sweet influences of the calm night, and of their own subdued thoughts. For a long time the two girls sat gazing earnestly upward, while one heart dwelt lovingly upon the old figure with silvery locks, and the other upon the spirits of her departed parents that seemed even then hovering about her.
"Only three weeks more to vacation," said Mary Halberg, as she entered the parlor one morning with an open letter in her hand.
"What does Carrie say about her young friend?" said her father, looking up from his newspaper. "Has she prevailed upon her to accompany her home?"
"Oh! yes, and you know that rich widow Dunmore, whom we met at the Springs? Well, she's coming to remain in —— while Jennie is with us. It seems she has carried out one of her eccentric whims and taken some foundling to be her own child, and we are upholding her by admitting the girl to our house on an intimate footing with Carrie."
"I don't see," said Ellen, "what good all our advantages of education and travel will do us, if we are to mingle with all sorts of people, and, as to Carrie, she is quite careless enough now in her choice of associates, without our seeking those of the lower order for her."
"No good, my daughters, will either your knowledge or your position do you, if they are to exalt you so far above your fellow-creatures as to render any of them contemptiblein your estimation," said Mr. Halberg; "I rejoice that the heart of your sister is, as yet, only susceptible to warm and kindly emotions, and I trust you will both treat with politeness the young stranger who—whatever her former station in life may have been—is, as the adopted child of Mrs. Dunmore, entitled to every attention and courtesy from us all."
Mary looked abashed as her father arose and left the room; but her sister only muttered. "I'm sure it makes no difference to me whether she comes or not—'tis precious little I shall trouble myself about her. What do you think Rosalie told me the other day?" continued she, addressing Mary; "why, that this Jennie used to sweep the dirty crossings of Broadway, and herd with vulgar beggars, and that Mrs. Dunmore took her from this vile condition to her own house, as her own child. It came pretty straight, for one of Mrs. Dunmore's servants told old Jimmy, Mr. Mann's coachman, and so it got to Hattie, who is at Madame La Blanche's school."
"I thought Rosalie was as much in love with her as Carrie," said Mary.
"Well, so she is; but she did not know any thing about this until Hattie Mann wrote to her the other day. I don't suppose it would make any difference to her, however, for she says that Jennie is more lady-like, and further advanced in her studies than any of the girls, and that she would choose her for a companion rather than any of them, even if she had once been a street-sweeper."
"Spoken like my own good sister," said Henry Moore, thrusting aside the vines that shaded the window where the young ladies were sitting. "Pardon, mademoiselles! I was not intentionally an eaves-dropper; but hearing your voices in this direction I came to seek you, and thus heard that little heroic of my pet Rosalie."
"Why, Henry, where did you come from?" said Mary; "I thought you were still safe within college bounds."
"Oh!" said Henry, "I left my Alma Mater in disgust yesterday morning. Did you suppose even her kindly embrace could keep me away from —— during these pleasant months? My motto is 'recreation as well as labor.' But come, Nellie, lay aside that embroidery, and go with Mary and me to Blinkdale—the sun has dried the dew, and the birds are having a perfect concert among the old trees—Rosalie is waiting for us at the gate."
"Grandpa's going too," said Rosalie, as her brother and their two friends reached her; "you must lead the way, for we have to walk very slowly you know," and, taking the old man's hand, she led him as gently as if he were a child; and when they found the pleasant dale she arranged a nice seat for him in the shade, and lifting his hat from his head she fanned him with it until he seemed cool and comfortable, and then joined the little group near. Henry had watched her with a heart full of affection, and Mary could not help being moved by her quiet and natural kindness; but Ellen laughed heartily as she said "You are a capital nurse, Rosalie; if old Simon should happen todrop off some day, we shall know where to look for a substitute."
Rosalie blushed as she caught her brother's earnest eye, but she only said "I'm always happy to wait on grandpa. Isn't Carrie coming soon? and Jennie, too," continued she. "I can scarcely wait much longer to see them!"
"Three weeks will soon vanish, and then I suppose you'll have a merry time together," said Ellen. "Carrie writes in high spirits, and one would think from her delight at returning that there was no place in the whole world equal to this stupid village."
"I don't consider it stupid at all," said Rosalie, with some spirit; "I am sure I would not exchange it for any place I ever saw!"
"Oh, well, Rosalie, we all acknowledge that your means of comparison are very extensive," replied Ellen; "I don't care to quarrel with my native place, but I must confess it has not so many attractions for me as you seem to see in it."
Rosalie did not exactly understand Ellen's sneer, but the remark disturbed her serenity, and she moved softly away from the sisters and sat down beside the old gentleman, weaving garlands for him to pull in pieces, and thinking of the happy time, so soon coming, when she could once more be with her young companions.
"Who is this Jennie that my sister talks so much about?" said Henry.
"She's aprotégéeof Mrs. Dunmore's, and manages towin the love of all who know her, I should think, from all I hear concerning her," said Mary. "She visited Rosalie while we were in Europe, and my grandfather took a great fancy to her because of her name, and my father insists upon her coming home with Carrie to spend the vacation. Perhaps there'll be another heart missing when you see her, Henry."
"In that case," said the young man, "it will be hardly safe to extend my term of absence from my studies until the arrival of your guest. I don't see what I am to do among such a bevy of you girls," continued he, as they strolled leisurely homeward; "it will be rather a dangerous position."
"Not at all so, unless we catch you eaves-dropping again," said Mary, laughing, as he bade them good-morning, and turned to assist Rosalie in the care of the old man. It was pleasant to see them walking up the village street—the strong and vigorous youth lending itself to the support of that tottering frame, and the child-like, rosy girl giving her sweet care and sympathy to his withered, dependent age.
Signs of life were again visible about the great house in the avenue. The blinds were thrown open, and the rich drapery hung gracefully by the open windows. Grocers' and butchers' boys were hurrying in through the gates to empty their heavy baskets, while little beggar-children emerged from them with theirs richly laden. The passers-by looked gladly up, rejoicing that the long-deserted mansion was once more occupied. The walks were neatly swept, the lawns well trimmed, and the shrubs carefully trained. A little fountain leaped joyously in one of the grass-plots, pet canaries warbled from their cages among the green vines, and every thing around the place betokened the approaching return of its refined and tasteful mistress. The expectant servants ran hither and thither from window to door, and from door to window, thrusting out their woolly heads at every sound of carriage-wheels. Never lagged the time so wearily, and never was house more joyous than that, as the waning day brought the loved ones beneath its roof.
Mrs. Dunmore lay upon the couch in her pleasant boudoir, weary and travel-worn, yet not insensible to the delight of being once more at home. By her side, on alow ottoman, was the child of her adoption, her hand clasping that of her mother, whose eyes were fixed upon her with tenderness and love. Both hearts were almost too full for utterance; the mother seemed content to watch the varying emotions as they played upon the face of her sweet child, and the young girl betrayed her earnest, affectionate feelings in frequent but silent caresses. It was such a mercy to be spared so many years to meet again, and to find each other all that they desired—the one the same kind, devoted, Christian mother, and the other as warm-hearted as ever, repaying all the care and regard lavished upon her by a corresponding improvement, and by an unmeasured gratitude and esteem. It was such a happiness, too, to Mrs. Dunmore to feel that, in braving the world's opinion and taking to her bosom an outcast and deserted one, she was so fully compensated by the companionship of the graceful and beautiful girl who was now competent to sympathize in all that pleased or disturbed her. What was all her wealth, what were the elegances and luxuries that surrounded her, what the fashionable friends who crowded to welcome her, compared to that one fresh, trusting, loving heart, that clung to hers with such strength and ardor of affection!
Many a time during their long separation had her spirit gone yearningly out toward the child, and now she was beside her again with deep eyes beaming earnestly upon her, and red lips pressed ever and anon to her own with an overflowing fondness.
The twilight was in the room, and through its dimness the little portrait on the wall was visible, no longer shrouded in somber weeds, but in its brightness and simplicity gazing down upon the two loving ones beneath it, and seeming to share in their deep and hallowed joy.
The young girl bowed her head until it rested softly upon the bosom of her mother, as she said, "It is so sweet to be here, dear mamma! Often have I walked past this desolate house, with the feeling that it might never again open to receive me, and it seems so like a dream that I am here once more, with the cold world wholly shut out from me, and your warm, warm heart beating so close to mine again!"
"Has the world indeed been cold to you, my darling," said Mrs. Dunmore, "and have you found no kind friends to make my absence less weary? I had hoped that Madame La Blanche would prove a fond and faithful mother."
"And so she has, dear mamma, but thoughts of the past would sometimes come up to trouble me, and then I needed you to help me bear it, and to bring sunshine and peace from it all. This was at first when I felt quite alone in the world, after you had gone; but I tried afterward to do as Madame La Blanche said was the better way—to put every thing bitter from me, and try to think only of the good that was all around me. When we were gloomy or dispirited, she would say, 'I know it is very trying, my children, to be separated from your parents andfriends; but you must remember that so long as you are with me, I stand in the same relationship to you all; and that my heart will be cast down and pained if you fail to come freely to me with all your little burdens and sorrows.' She said too, that 'we were as one dear and pleasant family, and that each of us must strive to bring as much brightness as possible into our little household, and then we could not help being happy.' Nobody could be kinder nor better than Madame La Blanche, and Rosalie and Carrie were as sweet sisters to me; but there were some things I could never speak to them about, and I am so glad that you who know me so truly are here again! I shall have nothing now to ask excepting that you go away from your poor child no more."
"Never fear, my darling," said Mrs. Dunmore, "nothing shall again come between us so long as God permits us to dwell upon the earth; but we must not forget to prepare for a severance that must one day come, so that we may be reunited where all partings shall forever be over."
Jennie clasped still tighter the hand of her mother, as she thought how severely that long separation would try one or the other of them; but she said nothing, for her heart was busy with the memory of the loved ones who had gone before her to the home above, and she felt that she had indeed many incentives to struggle for the same blessed inheritance.
The twilight went out into thick darkness, leavingthe mother and child to their happy communings in the boudoir, amid the blest associations of a cherished past.
The hum of the streets was hushed. Few sounds came from without; but the silence that had so long reigned in the mansion, was broken by the gentle tones of loving and glad voices.
"Well, Henry, how shall we kill time this evening?" said Fred. Burling to Henry Moore, as the two colleagues sauntered up and down the gallery of Mr. Moore's house.
"If by killing time you mean spending the hours pleasantly, I think we had better go and chat awhile with Mr. Halberg's pretty daughters," replied Henry; "I believe you consider yourself quite a connoisseur in beauty. Perhaps we shall both find our beau-ideal there to-night. Mary told me they were expecting a visit from a young friend who is skilled in captivating hearts, and Rosalie says she arrived this morning. Have you seen her, Rosalie?" continued he, addressing his sister, who appeared at the door as they were walking past it.
"Why, Henry, there are so manyhersin the world, and even in our own little village, that it would take a better clairvoyant than myself to decide which you mean," said Rosalie, glancing upon him with a sparkle in her merry eye.
"I supposed," said Henry, "your mind would be so full of your friend that she would immediately occur to you as the object of my inquiry."
"I hope you don't mean to insinuate that I have but one friend!" answered the sister, with another roguish twinkle of her mischievous eye; "because, dear brother, I have a great, great many, I flatter myself; but to tease you no longer, Ihaveseenher, and she is just as winning and lovely as ever."
"Well, Fred," said Henry, "if it does not appear too formidable to your susceptibility, we will venture to meet the young ladies. Get your hat, Rosalie," he added, as his sister moved away; "we need you to enliven our walk."
"I am afraid you will scarcely appreciate so brilliant a companion," said Rosalie; "but no matter, I'll go, I may glean a few bright ideas by contact with a certain classical duo that I wot of;" and the blithe young girl hastened away, and soon returned equipped for their stroll.
"Miss Rosalie," said Fred, as he drew her hand within his arm; "tell me all about this friend of yours. I believe that is sufficiently definite to distinguish the new comer, is it not?"
"Oh, yes," said his companion, "I was only bantering Henry a little; but, really, Mr. Burling, I have nothing to tell you concerning Jennie, excepting that we were schoolmates for a long time, and that in consequence we feel a great deal of fondness and affection for each other."
"I thought," said Fred, "there was some mystery about her birth and history—so Henry says."
"And so there is to me," replied Rosalie, "but I can not attempt to solve it, since she was never communicativewith regard to her early life; there was a good deal of gossiping among the girls at school, on account of a report which came through an old servant of Mrs. Dunmore's that she was of very humble origin; but she was so lady-like, and so much beloved by us all that we quite discredited the story, although, for my own part, I don't care a straw what her parentage was, since she is worthy and refined."
"You will perceive," said Henry, "that this little sister of mine is a very independent young lady, and founds her likes and dislikes upon her own opinions, rather than upon the prejudices and conventionalities of society."
"It is well," returned Fred, "that there are some who make merit or demerit the distinguishing marks instead of rank or wealth. I confess that my own notions wholly accord with those of Miss Rosalie. What! are we here so soon?" continued he, as they reached the entrance to Mr. Halberg's grounds.
"I should think we were in the region of the Dryads!" said Henry, as several white figures were visible amid the trees. "Who's eaves-dropping, now," added he, as Mary came suddenly upon him from behind a neighboring shrub.
"I plead, not guilty," said Mary; "but, Henry, where are your offerings? you should not come into the presence of deities without suitable gifts."
"Permit me to present to you my friend Mr. Burling, Miss Halberg," said Henry, as the young man approached with Rosalie and Ellen.
"You see I have not forgotten the custom to bring some propitiatory sacrifice."
"A very acceptable one in these days of dearth," said Mary, blushing. "We are a very secluded race," continued she, addressing Mr. Burling, "and the arrival of friends is quite an era in our quiet life."
"It is a wonder that we do not wholly vegetate," said Ellen. "Do not you think, Henry, that we are in danger of dissipating too much, now that our coterie is so greatly enlarged?"
The young man looked thoughtfully upon her for a moment, and then replied "There needs not an increased circle, nor the seductions of a fashionable clique, Nellie, to lead us to excess; the soul may run riot, and indulge in vain repinings for the follies and vanities of life, even in the remotest solitudes. But come, let us go to the piazza, I see your youngest sister there, and wish also to make the acquaintance of your guest."
Just then Carrie and Jennie espied Rosalie, and, running forward, met her with the warmest manifestations of delight, and seizing upon her, they hurried her on to see grandpa, who sat in his arm-chair on the piazza, with the cool breeze refreshing his fevered brow.
It was a beautiful sight, the three young girls just bursting into womanhood, with their earnest and pure natures, ministering to the faint old man who was fast wasting away from this earthly being. Henry and his friend were deeply impressed by it, and dreaded to disturb so charminga picture, but as they advanced to greet Mr. and Mrs. Halberg, Carrie sprang to meet her old friend Henry, and leading him to her grandfather's seat, introduced him to Jennie, and placed a chair for him by her side. The young girl looked up with a sweet smile as he asked her some question concerning her escape from school, and shaking back the heavy mass of ringlets that shaded her forehead, she replied, "School was any thing but a prison-house to me, yet I love very much to be occasionally free from a fixed routine of duties, especially when I find so pleasant a retreat as this, and so dear a charge as grandpa. We all have a care for him," she added, taking in Carrie and Rosalie with her fond glance.
"Grandpa's shoulders ought to be very broad to support so many descendants," said Ellen, looking scornfully at their beautiful guest. "Henry, why do you not aspire to so distinguished a relationship?"
"People often aspire to that which they can not attain," said Henry, with a look of quiet but deep earnestness at Jennie, whose eyes sunk under his gaze, and whose heart swelled with emotion at the thought of her own isolated fate. "No father, no mother, no kindred," felt she, "and even the love of this weak old man grudged me by one who has all!" She said nothing more while the visitors remained, but sat with the palsied hand in her soft palm, dreaming of the time when she should be gathered into the bosom of a ransomed family, and her spirit grew calm with the thought, so that when Rosalie and the young menarose to leave, and asked her to join them in a little excursion on the morrow, she answered them with a beaming and glad face.
"Fred," said Henry, as they left the gate, "I never can forget that face. Did you see how almost heavenly it was as she stood by old Mr. Halberg when we left?"
"It was indeed a lovely picture," said Fred; "the old bowed head with the evening's breath moving the gray hair, and that delicate girl, with her white dress glistening in the moonbeams, and with the seraphic expression on her brow!"
"Eleanor," said Mr. Halberg to his wife, after the young people had retired to rest, "there is something very singular about that girl. She is so like our departed Jane that she awakens my deepest interest. Did you notice her manners, at once so child-like and so mature? I must inquire more particularly about her of Mrs. Dunmore; it strikes me she is no common child."
"I paid no especial attention to her," replied the wife; "she is sufficiently long under the influence of a refined example to overcome all taint of birth and early habit, however."
"I tell you, wife," said the husband, "there's an innate pride and dignity about the girl that no training could effect. I watched her all the evening, and could detect nothing but the most perfect ease and grace. Her face, too, haunts me. Do you remember how pure and earnest the expression of Jane's eye was? Well, there's the same look in that young girl's, so that I longed to take her to my heart and call her sister. If we had not learned with such apparent certainty about the death of the child I should say this was she," soliloquized he, as his wife leftthe room for one moment, and resuming the subject as she returned. "Why, Eleanor, how long is it since my father lost his reason?"
"About four years, I believe," replied Mrs. Halberg.
"And our poor Jane had been twelve years away, and her little one was born three years after her marriage, and this child is—how old did you say, wife?"
"I'm sure I don't know, Frank; but what possesses you? Have you any idea that Jane's child is still living? and if it were so and we should ever find it out, are you not aware how materially it would affect our own children's share of their grandfather's property?" said Mrs. Halberg, blushing for very shame, as she encountered her husband's searching and grieved eye.
"Eleanor," said he, "my sister was bitterly wronged! God only knows how and what she suffered, not only from the neglect and desertion of her kindred; but from the stern pinchings of want. For my own part," continued he, leaning his head upon his hand, and sighing deeply, "I would be willing to forfeitallthe inheritance if by that means I could make some reparation for the cruel past!"
"Well, well, Frank, it can not be helped now! Since it is all over, why not let it go without troubling yourself with vain regrets?"
"Those are not vain regrets, Eleanor," said the husband, "which purify the soul. My father has been spared the agony of remorse for the one great error of his life, by a merciful Providence which has made the sad past obliviousto him; but my heart would be hardened indeed, if it should cease to feel an intense sorrow for the wrongs committed against the patient and sainted one."
Mrs. Halberg was touched by her husband's unfeigned grief. He had never spoken so fully to her before, on a subject which, by common consent, all the family had avoided, and she knew not until now how weighty had been the burden of his secret repinings. Before the world he was unbending and reserved; but now as he sat in the solitude of his chamber, with only his wife's eye upon him, save that of the Omniscient, the proud man yielded to a long pent-up emotion, and wept like a child. "Eleanor," said he, as he felt the tears from other eyes mingling with his own, "tell me that if it is ever in our power to make restitution for the sins of other years, you will aid me with all your power, even if it were to our own pecuniary loss?"
The wife placed his hand fondly upon the heart that was beating for him so truly, and kissing him tenderly, murmured, "My husband, I promise!"
"If," continued he, "it should prove upon thorough investigation—which has been already too long delayed—that the child of my sister was spared, and is even now living, will you take her to your home and cherish her as one of your own children, so that she may feel no want of sympathy and love?"
With the hand still upon the life-spring, the affectionate wife earnestly answered, "My husband, I will. But why," said she, after a moment's hesitation, "do you doubt thetruth of the report, that you have hitherto considered credible?"
"It never occurred to me," said Mr. Halberg, "that it might be false, until to-night; but Eleanor, presentiments come sometimes upon us with all the force of a certain conviction, and my conscience will never be easy until I, make some effort to find out, beyond the shadow of doubt, whether my sister's child is wandering upon the earth, yearning for kindred and home, or is gathered to the home which is brighter than any this world can afford. What first awakened these thoughts within me, was the sight of a gipsy woman to-day. She stopped me in the street to beg a few pennies, and by the hand she held a gentle little creature of five or six years old, which I was confident could not be her own. Visions of a bereaved and mourning family, and of the future of the delicate child, troubled me, and the feeling that one bound to me by a dearer tie than that of humanity, might be roaming amid the vicious and low, smote me with such cruel misery that I have not since been able to regain my wonted calmness, and the coming of this beauteous child, so like my sister, has excited my anxieties and fears still more."
"I doubt not but that it is all a fantasy of the imagination, Frank. You had better take a composing draught, and to-morrow will find you more cheerful," said the wife.
"I know of none more soothing," replied Mr. Halberg, as he prepared for his night's repose, "than a spirit at peace with God and man."
"Jennie," said Carrie the next morning, "come with me and we'll get a peep at the portrait. I saw father go into the room a moment since, and grandpa's out on the piazza. We'll step softly just inside the door, for father never likes to be disturbed when he's there."
With their arms about each other's waists the two friends went skipping along, until they reached the apartment appropriated to the old gentleman. The door was partially open and they could see through the crack the dark figure of Carrie's father standing with his back toward them. The room seemed very bright and cheerful, and the rich colors of a gay carpet, and the elaborate carving of the massive and antique furniture rendered it still more pleasant and attractive. As they were about to cross the threshold, and Carrie had her hand against the door to push it open still further, Jennie whispered, "Stop a minute, Carrie, my heart beats so!—I'm afraid your father will not like it if we intrude upon him now! You know there's something very sacred in one's sorrow!"
Mr. Halberg, meanwhile, had withdrawn the black vail which had obscured the portrait since his sister's marriage,and stood thoughtfully gazing upon the lovely features, and comparing them with those of the young girl, whose image filled his mind. "It is very strange," murmured he; "the same waving mass of hair, the same beautifully-arched brows and long lashes, and the liquid eyes, melting one with their subduing pathos; the very expression so like, too! It is very wonderful! very wonderful!" and he wiped away a tear that betrayed the depth and earnestness of his feelings.
"Come, Jennie—father will not see us," said Carrie, gently pulling her within the door, "he gets so absorbed!"
As Jennie entered the room she raised her eyes to the place where Mr. Halberg stood. That moment the sunlight came through the windows, casting a bright gleam upon the beautiful portrait, and, stretching out her arms toward it, the young girl faintly cried, "My own blessed mother!" and sunk senseless to the floor.
In one moment Mr. Halberg was beside her, and raising her gently he placed her upon the bed, and with a face as colorless and rigid as her own, awaited her return to consciousness, applying the proper restoratives with a calm and skillful hand. Carrie had loosened her dress, and as she did so, a miniature fell upon the bed. Her father looked eagerly upon it, and with tremulous fingers pressed a spring upon the back. It was indeed his sister's likeness, placed beyond dispute by the convincing inscription, "Jane Halberg, to her beloved daughter, Jennie Grig!"
This, then, was the child of that precious one who hadroamed with him through the sunny paths of infancy and youth, but whose maturer years were overshadowed by adversity and gloom! God had sent a pitying heart to her in the hour of her saddest need, and had gently led her back to the home whence her mother had been cruelly banished; that mother He had received into more beauteous mansions, but the child was left, to fulfill a noble and glorious mission among those who had hitherto deemed her as helpless in the grave! Strangers had proved better than those of her own household to the outcast and orphan, and had nurtured and cared for her while they were contenting themselves with the report that she had gone where no earthly care avails. Only the evening before had she sat in the midst of her relatives, with a sad feeling of isolation—now they were gathered about her with evidences of an awakening love and tenderness. It was pleasant to shut her eyes and open them again upon so glad a revelation! So thought Jennie as she gazed upon her new-found connections, who crowded around with exclamations of surprise and affection. Carrie, then, was her own cousin! and the great heart against which she was so fondly pressed was warm with kindred blood? Grandpa, too, had fondled and caressed her idolized mother, and even his wandering faculties had detected her lineage, so that he had clung to her for some better reason than an impulsive and wayward fancy!
"Speak not now, my darling," said Mr. Halberg, as Jennie made an effort to say something to him, "but putyour arms around my neck, and let me feel by this mute expression that the past is forgiven; I am not yet able to bear one word from the child of my deserted sister."
The young girl's lips were still parted, but the loving arms twined closely around her uncle, and although no verbal absolution came, he felt that the past would never again haunt him with its spectral figure, but that his sister's blessing would come to him through the child who now lay so fondly upon his bosom.
Three more years had mingled with the past, and yet Mrs. Dunmore and Jennie, who had now developed into a mature and perfect beauty, lingered in the vicinity of the Halbergs. Not that they had any idea of sundering the ties that so closely united them, or of claiming a place for the orphan in the home of her newly-found kindred, but the old man clung with such touching fondness to his beloved grandchild, and grew so frantic if she left him, even for a few days, that it seemed a sacred duty to give themselves up to his few remaining years; and as from month to month they perceived a manifest dawning of light upon his bewildered intellect, it became rather a pleasure than a sacrifice to forego all those amusements and comforts that interfered with his peculiar fancies or desires. Mrs. Halberg would remonstrate, and Ellen would sneer, as the young girl denied herself the companionship of her youthful associates in order to be with and cheer her aged relative; but Jennie would place her hand gently upon his silvery head, and say, in her quiet, subduing way, "It will not be very long, dear auntie!"
Nor was it very long, for every day the tottering knees grew more and more feeble, until at length the old seat in the garden was altogether abandoned for the pleasant room; and there, by the window, in the warm sunlight, would the shadow of a majestic being crouch, shivering through the summer days, while a soft and low voice read and chatted away the otherwise weary hours.
But the old figure stays not long in the sunlight, for the messengers have come for him, and the hour of his departure is near, and prostrate upon his bed he awaiteth the final summons. It was Jennie's sixteenth autumn, and as she sat beside her grandfather's couch with his shriveled fingers in her warm clasp, the old man turned his head upon his pillow, and, looking intently upon her, said, "My child, I have been dreaming. I have slept a long, long time; but I am wide awake now, and I know it all. It has come to me slowly and painfully, and I shall not forget it again."
"What is it, grandpa?" said Jennie; "you are weak and ill now, and must not talk, I am your little nurse you know, and Dr. Wright says 'I must keep you quite still if I would have you get well again.'"
"Isn't your name Jennie Grig? and is not that your mother?" continued her grandfather, rising upon one elbow and pointing to the portrait at the foot of the bed. "You was a young thing when she died, Jennie, and I meant to find you out and bring you home; but I could do nothing while the strange dream was upon me. It was just aswell, for she brought you to me with her angel hands, and that made the dream pleasant to me;" and the old man sunk back upon his pillow. He lay quietly for some time, and Jennie thought he was sleeping, but as she motioned Simon to take her place by the bed, and tried gently to relax her hand from that of her grandfather, he tightened the pressure, and spoke again in a feeble tone. "I shall not get well again, Jennie, I'm going to your mother; but I can not die yet. Call your uncle to me, and leave us for awhile, I must make it right again." Jennie was more surprised and frightened at her grandfather's calm and rational manner than she would have been by any strange or frenzied actions; but she had heard that reason often wholly resumes its throne as the hour of dissolution approaches, and, thinking that life might be fast ebbing, she hastened to summon her uncle, who was soon in his father's presence.
His heart leaped for joy as soon as he saw that the old gentleman was sufficiently sane to alter his will, which had been made in a moment of passion, and had cut off the inheritance from his daughter; and both seemed relieved of a sore burden when the papers were re-executed and the child was made sure of her rightful portion.
Her grandfather tremulously affixed his signature as Jennie returned to him followed by her aunt and cousins.
A peaceful smile was upon the dying man's face as he looked upon the little group that surrounded him, andsaid, with a solemn emphasis, "My children, be kind and forgiving—forgiving." Then closing his eyes, he murmured "dear little Jennie! dear little Jennie!" and slept to awake no more to the pains and ills of life.
Henry Moore had been a frequent visitor at Mr. Halberg's during Jennie's sojourn there, and so lovely a character as hers could not fail to awaken in his bosom a deeper feeling toward her than that of friendship; yet so calmly had the time glided away that they had spent together, and so far from his mind had been the idea of a separation, that he was scarcely aware of the nature of his emotions until she announced to him her approaching departure from her uncle's.
They were standing together in a little summer-house in the garden, a few weeks after the old man's death, and Carrie was with them, when Jennie looked sadly out upon the old seat that had been left vacant beneath the trees, and said:
"Don't let them remove that, when I am away, Carrie, darling. You know it is all that restored to me my relatives."
"Are you going to leave——, Jennie?" said Henry, with a sudden start which made both the girls gaze eagerly at him. Jennie did not perceive the deep flush that overspread his face; but Carrie observed it, yet thinking itbetter to appear as if she had noticed nothing unusual, she picked an autumn bud, that had obtruded itself within the trellised window, and quietly handing it to him, said,
"Every thing that we love seems to be going from us at this dreary season, Henry. Even that last bud would have faded from me with the next few chilly hours. Perhaps it is well," she continued, "that we can not have the good and the beautiful always around us, we might forget our unfading inheritance!"
Henry did not answer, for he could not trust himself to speak just then; but Jennie turned to the window that overlooked the village churchyard where her grandfather's grave was made, and repeated, in a low voice, that beautiful hymn of Mrs. Heman's, "Passing Away." As she came to the verse,