"Jes so. Now pack up and I'll drive you over to the stage house, consarn me, if I wont; for, cuffy or no cuffy, you are a prime feller, Jube, and I aint ashamed of your acquaintance. It's an honor, Jube, and I feel it."
The next morning Tom sat in his father's yellow wagon in front of the stage house, while Jube, smiling till all his teeth shone, again waved an adieu from the top of the stage.
"Good-by, Jube; tell Paul not to forget old Bungy and the folks that's in it."
Jube smiled broadly.
"Tell him to come back in the spring."
Jube lost his message, for the stage went off, scattering a storm of mud from its wheels, and thundering down the sand banks with a flourish of whips that aggravated Tom's unhappiness beyond measure.
"Never mind," he muttered, turning his horse to follow on the same road. "If Rose Mason only knew I was driving this young critter that she used to consider so harnsome, she wouldn't think that stage any thing tremendous, loud as the driver cracks his whip."
With these consoling fragments of thought, Tom followed in the wake of the stage, trying his whip as he crossed the bridge in a manner that made his young steed plunge and jump on one side with a violence that brought the boy's heart into his mouth. While he was busy subduing the spirited animal the doctor rode on to the bridge and watched the conflict. It was soon over, for Tom had ignominiously given up by thrusting his whip under the seat in great dismay.
"Well, what's the news, Tom?" inquired the doctor, as he rode by.
"Nothing special sir, only Jube has cut. Going up the hill yonder on top of the stage. I say, you'll just make it all right with Mrs. Allen, doctor?"
The doctor nodded, chuckled softly, and rode on.
Oncemore the stage swung to at minister Prior's gate, and this time a slender boy, with a beauty of countenance that made you hold your breath, was lifted through the door, and set carefully down upon the grass.
Mr. Prior, who had been dreaming over his sermon in the study, came out, looking bland as a summer's morning, and was accosted by the driver:
"I say, minister, I always bring luck. Here is one of the nicest little shavers that ever you saw. He wantsto come to school, and I've told him that you'll be a father to him, and as for Mrs. Prior—well, there's no doing that lady justice."
Mr. Prior smiled pleasantly, and went up to Paul.
"He is indeed a fine boy."
"Thank you, monsieur," said Paul, taking a letter, which the doctor had given him, from his pocket. "When you read this perhaps you tell more sure if I can stay here."
Mr. Prior glanced over the letter, and smiled down with hospitable kindness into Paul's anxious eyes.
"It would be difficult to answer no, even if we wished it," he said, kindly; "an orphan and a stranger—it is from such I fancy that the angels come to us unawares."
"You will not find me too much trouble," said Paul, smiling. "I study English good deal—try always."
"French is your native language, I think?"
"Yes, monsieur!"
"Then we will soon find a lady who can talk with you; come, my little man."
The minister led Paul into the house, speaking to him kindly enough, although, in his shyness, he was always sadly at a loss what to say to any child, and the boy looked so sorrowful at parting with his friend that the clergyman was in doubt what manner of argument to employ by way of consolation.
He gave the little fellow a seat in the parlor, and went away to find Mrs. Prior, and inform her of the arrival of her new pupil. She hurried in at once, and her motherly kindness soon made Paul, in a measure, forget his loneliness and desolation.
Mrs. Mason and Rose had gone out to walk; so, for an hour or two, the little woman gave the boy her undividedattention. He refused dinner, saying they had dined on the road; but Mrs. Prior, out of the experience of her schoolmistress days, had great faith in the unlimited powers of children in the way of voraciousness, so she brought him all manner of quaint shaped cakes and crullers, red apples and nuts, until Paul was confused by the abundance, and sat with them on the handkerchief laid across his lap, staring ruefully at the pile, and really not knowing where to begin.
But what comforted Paul more than any thing was to hear himself addressed in his native language, which Mrs. Prior spoke with a sufficient degree of fluency.
"I have a little girl here," she said, "who will be a nice playmate for you."
"Is she a pretty little girl?" Paul asked; for he possessed a keen appreciation of beauty.
"Very pretty; her name is Rose, and she is nice and sweet, like her name."
Paul was interested at once, and poured forth a flood of questions with such volubility that it required all Mrs. Prior's knowledge of French to follow him. When he learned that it was the very Rose that Tom Hutchins had talked of so much, he felt at once that he had fallen among old friends, and his face brightened till its singular beauty became a marvel in the eyes of the minister's little wife.
Before Mrs. Mason and her daughter returned, Paul and his hostess had become the best friends imaginable. He grew very confidential, made her cry heartily with a few words which conveyed an account of his mother's death, and she brightened at the story of his rescue at sea, and in her gentle heart blessed the rough sailor of whom Paul spoke so lovingly. In the glow of thesebenevolent feelings she determined to do every thing in her power to make the child's residence in her family a happy episode in his life.
When she heard Mrs. Mason and little Rose in the hall, Mrs. Prior went out and asked them to come in.
"I want your daughter and my new charge to be good friends," she said, pleasantly, to Mrs. Mason.
"I will see him before I give any answer, if you please," replied that lady, who grew more haughty and insolent every day.
"His society could not fail to be of benefit to any child," returned Mrs. Prior, annoyed, as often happened now, by the imperious manner of her boarder. "He is the most perfect little gentleman I ever saw in my life."
Mrs. Mason made an effort to look somewhat doubtful of Mrs. Prior's judgment in such matters, but there was a certain dignity in the lady's manner which checked further insolence.
Indeed, Mrs. Mason herself was wonderfully struck with the boy's delicacy of features and refinement of manner, the moment she saw him. Her curiosity was excited, and she asked innumerable questions, which Paul answered evasively, for his childish instincts prejudiced him against the beautiful woman at once.
But the little girl and he soon opened friendly relations, after the first shyness, natural to children, had worn off. In the corner, where Paul was taken to admire her dolls, all fast asleep, as good dolls should be when visitors come on them unawares, she began to question him at once. What child would not? He told her of his perilous sea life, and of the beautiful country where he once lived, but there were scenes in that life so dark and terrible that the boy's heart shrunkaway from them even in thought. To have mentioned them in childish play would have proved beyond his power. Among these were the blows that had been dealt on Jube, and all his miserable life in that brig.
Another subject which he never mentioned was the story of poor Katharine. Mrs. Allen, shrinking from the idea that her daughter's disgrace should be carried to her native town, had cautioned Paul never to mention their names, and he obeyed her faithfully.
The doctor had obtained a letter from a clergyman in New Haven to Mr. Prior, which the boy had brought as an introduction, and that was all the information necessary.
Thus, though Paul and Rose became good friends, he never spoke of the people or scenes which they knew in common.
When bedtime came, Paul went up to the pretty little room prepared for him with considerable hesitation, as he had always had Jube near for comfort and protection.
However, he was too manly for a single remonstrance, and when Mrs. Prior kissed him good-night at the door, he knelt for his prayers, and hastened to bed with all speed.
When he was safely in bed, and the warmth began to make him feel somewhat less disconsolate, Mrs. Prior came to take away the candle, through fear of imaginary accidents.
"Are you comfortable?" she asked, stopping to look at him, as he lay with his classical head visible above the clothes.
"Very," Paul said.
"Sleep well, and try to be happy," she returned, giving him another kiss, out of the tenderness of her heart.
"Thank you, madame," Paul said, touched, as he always was, by any evidence of kindness. "I like you very much, very much."
Mrs. Prior was not half way down-stairs before Paul was quietly asleep. Fatigue kept him from dwelling upon this new change. Indeed, he had grown so accustomed to removals and strangers that he received them with very different feelings from those which would formerly have troubled him.
Thenext morning, while Paul and Rose were playing in the dining-room—the little girl having been granted a holiday on account of the boy's arrival—there arose in the kitchen a sudden commotion, which attracted Mrs. Prior's attention. She went out, and found her little handmaiden in conversation with an immense negro, who looked so good-natured and anxious, that it was a wonder he could have frightened anybody, although the girl appeared somewhat inclined to run away.
When Mrs. Prior entered, the man turned toward her with a ponderous bow.
"What do you want, my good man?" she asked, gently.
"My young masser is here," Jube said, with another salute.
"Your young master?"
"Yes; Masser Paul."
"Are you his servant?"
"Yes, if madame pleases. Jube came with him from the old home, saw the mistress buried, and has been wandering about with little masser ever since."
"He told me about you," said Mrs. Prior.
"Yes, madame. So when madame sent masser away, Jube meant to stay there and take care of the house. But Jube would have died—came after little masser. Please take me, madame. Jube can work; he'll do any thing, big, big, strong."
He extended his stalwart arms as a proof of his words, and Mrs. Prior was touched by his earnestness.
"We have no need of any more help," she said.
"Oh, yes; Jube be great help—jis take me, madame, you see—no be sorry, no indeed."
"I would willingly, for the child's sake, but we are not rich; my husband could not afford to pay you wages."
"Jube not want wages—no good of money. Please let Jube stay, lady."
Mrs. Prior went up to the study to hold a private consultation with her husband; while she was gone, Paul and Rose passed through the kitchen.
At the sight of the negro, the boy gave a cry of delight, and rushed into his arms, with a burst of tears and wild ejaculations. Jube sobbed aloud, and it was some time before either of them could in the least recover their composure.
Rose stood looking at them in great astonishment; but when Paul managed to explain that this was the Jube of whom he had told her, she cried and laughedalso, from pure sympathy, while the handmaiden worked herself into such a state of bewilderment that she laid the forks where the spoons belonged, put an empty tin pan into the oven, instead of the pudding, which was ready for baking, and performed a variety of other wonderful feats, which brought great disgrace upon her shortly after.
When Mrs. Prior and the clergyman came down-stairs, they found Paul nestled close to his old friend, and looking so happy that the very idea of refusing the negro's request sent a pang to their hearts.
"Jube must stay," Paul cried, in his exquisitely persuasive way; "please to say yes, good madame—shan't he stay, sir?"
The clergyman looked at his wife, and she looked back at him; both were extremely perplexed.
"Jube no want wages," said the negro, "only wants to live near little masser."
"Yes, that is all," added Paul.
"We certainly cannot have the man," Mrs. Prior said to her husband.
"That is out of the question," he replied.
"But what can we do?"
"Settle it yourself, Mrs. Prior; your decision is sure to be a correct and wise one."
With these complimentary words, the minister helped himself out of his difficulty by leaving the room.
Mrs. Prior looked at the friends in great trouble; but little Paul approached her chair and put his arms about her neck; Rose clung to her hand and added her entreaties; while Jube gazed at her with his great, honest eyes.
The result of all this affair was, that Jube insisted on making himself so agreeable, and began at once to demonstratehis powers of usefulness so acceptably that there was really no turning him out of doors.
The good fellow had some mechanical genius, and exerted it to the delight of little Rose in furnishing her play-house, and building sleds and wagons for Paul, large enough for her to ride in. Then, Jube made such a splendid horse, and never got tired of carrying her or drawing the little sled on which she rode. When she expressed a wish to ride on horseback, Jube lifted her to his broad shoulders, or put out his foot, which instantly swung itself into full canter, and away she went, rushing off to "Canterbury Cross" in high glee.
To Mrs. Prior, both Jube and his little master were objects of peculiar interest. Paul was eloquent in his own language, and through its medium he conveyed many pleasant fancies to the mind of Rose, and thus, all in play, brought her through the first practice of a study her mother had greatly at heart.
As the winter snows melted, and the sweet spring days came on, it was pleasant to see Jube seated with the children—at heart, almost as much of a child as either of them—beneath a huge apple tree that stood in the meadow, and covered one of the most lovely strawberry slopes in the world with its shadow.
As the bright days came on, the favor of instruction was not altogether on one side. Rose had her own little accomplishments, which she taught in shy triumph in exchange for the sweet language and pretty names bestowed on her. She taught Paul how to curl dandelion stems into innumerable ringlets, and made an astonishing halter of daisy chains for Jube, that was not the less perfect because it broke into a shower of white blossoms at the first hard pull, and littered the grasslike a snow-storm. Then she could braid rushes seven strands at a time, and weave them into such pretty green baskets that Mrs. Prior considered them the pet ornaments of her parlor.
Besides these accomplishments, Rose had a delicious voice, and sung snatches of music at her work. These wild strains so excited the robins in the apple tree boughs that they forgot nest-building and love-making, to join in a chorus that rang all over the meadow, bringing other birds to see what it was all about, who liked the premises, and built their nests also among the sweet blossoms and leaves of dainty green, till the old tree was a marvel for its feathered population.
I am afraid Rose sometimes followed Paul up into the apple tree, taking shy peeps at the pretty blue eggs which he exposed by sweeping the soft leaves back from the nest with his hands. Once or twice Mrs. Prior found her in a corner of the garret, making desperate efforts to darn a long rent in her dress, and crying bitterly because the cloth would draw into knots and gathers under her hand, more conspicuous than the original tear had been, which must have strengthened this suspicion about the apple tree very much.
Of course the good lady remedied this evil with her own deft little fingers, and Mrs. Mason was too busy with other things just then to heed torn frocks or the shamefacedness which on ordinary occasions would have betrayed them.
Thus time wore on, till Mrs. Mason had become a dashing performer on the piano, for she practiced day and night on the accomplishments that she willed to master, and in every thing made up for deficiencies by audacious self-possession. Thus, while Rose and thebirds were singing out of doors, she sent a storm of music through the open windows, which were just far enough from the apple tree to excite the birds without frightening them to death.
Thelife which these children and their companion led at Bays Hollow was quiet and peaceful, especially to those strange beings, after the privations and bitter troubles through which they had passed. The mournful look that had seemed natural to Paul, went out from his eyes, which grew soft or bright with changing feelings, but the haggard anguish which had made their glance so painfully sad, never came back to them. As for Jube, he was like a Newfoundland dog—full of courage, strength, and cheerfulness.
The minister and Mrs. Prior were a great deal happier for having these children in the house. Indeed Mrs. P. put on the most awkward little maternal airs, like a great girl beginning to play with dolls late in life, for which the minister admired her prodigiously. Once, when they were quite alone, he observed in a dreamy way, "That it was a sad pity such talent for government should be exhausted on other people's children," at which Mrs. Prior went off in a spasm of blushes, and the minister crept out of the room, quite ashamed of himself, feeling that he had approached the verge of total depravity in that unhappy speech.
One day when Paul and Jube were busy among the strawberry vines in the meadow, searching, with great anxiety, for the first tinge of red upon the slowly ripening fruit, for the boy was eager to secure a handful for little Rose, that young lady was seen dashing through the back door of the house, and running full speed toward the strawberry hollow. Paul started up and shook his head to indicate that there was no hope of strawberries yet, while Jube, who was on all fours among the vines, lifted his broad face like an expectant dog, and laughed till all his teeth shone again, with the joyousness of her approach.
On she came, rushing through the fresh wind, her curls floating out behind her, and her face full of wild excitement.
"Something is the matter," said Paul, stepping forward to meet her. "Who has frightened Rose, I should like to know?"
"Paul, Paul, come here, under the apple tree," were the first breathless words of our little girl. "I want to tell you something."
Paul took her hand with his usual gentle kindness, and the two ran to the apple tree's shade.
"This is it," said Rose, panting for breath, while her eyes sparkled like diamonds. "He has come—that man who loves my mother so much. He's a going to marry her right off, as sure as you live. Marry her—my own, own mother—who never will love me again after that; never, never!"
Rose burst into a passion of tears, and flinging herself against the trunk of the tree wept bitterly.
Paul was greatly troubled; not that he understoodthe matter, but because it grieved him to see Rose cry so bitterly.
"Oh," she exclaimed, dropping two dimpled hands from her eyes, and stamping her tiny feet on the grass, "oh dear, how I wish that Captain Thrasher was dead."
Paul started, and turned very pale. "Jube, Jube," he called out, with a cry of pain.
Jube started up from his knees, and came running toward the children.
"What is it—what is it, little masser?"
"He is here, that bad man—he wants to marry Rose's mother," cried the lad, flinging his arms around the little girl, and looking the brave, bright boy he really was.
"Who, who, little masser?" cried Jube, looking around for some enemy.
"Captain Thrasher." Paul uttered the name in a whisper.
Jube clenched his hand, looking fiercely toward the house.
"He there, Masser Paul?"
"Yes," said the angry child, shaking her little rosebud of a fist at the house. "He's there with my own mother, this minute. He'll carry her off in spite of us all."
"What can we do?" said Paul, anxiously looking at Jube.
"Couldn't you just kill him, Jube, as you did the garter snake," cried Rose, shaking the drops from her eager eyes.
Jube hesitated; the fellow had a vague idea that some one might object to this mode of settling the difficulty.Paul drew back with affright. He had received a cruel knowledge of the laws regarding human life, and the remedy pointed out by little Rose made him shrink.
"We must not ask Jube to be wicked," he said, gently.
Rose dashed his hand away. "Isn't it wicked for that man to come here after my own mother?" she cried, indignantly.
"Yes, Rose; but it would be more wicked for Jube to harm him. The law, Rose, the law."
"Well, I don't care. What is the law? If it's a man, Jube can whip him, can't you, Jube?" cried the little damsel, going for belligerent rights with all her puny strength.
"But it isn't a man, Rose," said Paul, solemnly. "It's something that no one ever sees. It comes like death, and when a person does wrong, even if it was a beautiful lady, strikes her down till her heart breaks. It shuts people up in prison."
"Oh don't, don't," cried Rose.
"It hangs 'em by the neck between two beams."
"Oh, how you frighten me, Paul."
"It hunts after a person who has done wrong, day and night, and catches him at last. Oh, Rose, if you only knew how cruel the law can be."
Rose hushed her sobs and drew close to Paul, quite awe-stricken. "Never mind, Jube needn't do it. I'll ask the minister to pray God to help us, that will be the best thing."
"Yes," said Paul, brightening, "and I'll—no matter about that, people shouldn't talk about these things, but 'our Lady' has done great things for people in distress."
They sat down in a group under the apple tree, consulting eagerly together. After awhile the parlor window opened, and a clear, ringing voice called out:
"Rose! Rose Mason, I say."
"I must go," said the little girl, with a look of deplorable helplessness. "She'll want me to kiss him, but I wont!"
Paul lifted her little hand to his lips, and kissed it with touching grace.
"Don't be afraid, Rose. Jube wont let anybody hurt you."
"I—I aint afraid," cried Rose, tossing her golden curls. "He daren't kiss me, I know that."
She went away slowly, looking over her shoulder from time to time during her progress toward the house. The apple tree was not within sight of the parlor windows, thus both Jube and Paul remained unseen by the two people who occupied that room; an unfortunate circumstance, perhaps, for their recognition might have changed the whole course of events. As it was, both Paul and Jube were anxious to keep out of sight. When they left the meadow, Paul went to his room, and in the simplicity of his faith, put up many an orison to the Virgin, in behalf of this pretty friend. What else could the child do?
BeforeRose left the parlor she was so frightened and subdued by her mother's stern reprimands, that all idea of appealing for help forsook her. So she ran desperately into a closet connected with her mother's chamber, fell upon the floor, and cried herself to sleep, with her flushed cheeks resting on two round arms, folded helplessly on the bare boards.
Toward night, Mrs. Mason came up-stairs, looking haughty and excited. Without heeding the child, who lay just within the closet, with her curls scattered over the threshold of the door, she began to open trunks and bureaus, from which she drew first a heavy silk dress, which just escaped being white by a tinge of pearl gray, some gossamer laces, and other indications of an elaborate toilet. Then she let down her magnificent hair, brushed out its glossy waves, and began to braid it; stopping now and then to rest her arms on the table before her, and sighing heavily, as if it required all her energies to keep up that proud show of strength.
After wreathing these heavy braids around her head in the form of a coronet, she arose and went to the closet for something. Lo, there was her child prone upon the floor, disturbed by her approach, and moaning at her feet.
A person who deliberately does wrong, is almost sure to be angry at any thing calculated to touch the conscience. Mrs. Mason's cheeks flushed and her eyesflashed at the sight of little Rose. She was tempted to spurn the child with her foot, but restrained herself, only touching the bare, white shoulder, with the point of her slipper.
"Get up, child. Get up. What on earth are you doing here?"
The touch awoke Rose. She started to her feet, and tried to shrink away.
"Stop, you naughty, disobedient child!" cried the mother, seizing her by the shoulder. "You don't deserve it; but see what a beautiful present Mr. Thrasher has brought you—coral and pure gold—for your arms and neck. There, Rosey posey, don't it make your eyes dance?"
The little girl's eyes did sparkle for a moment, but directly they filled with tears.
"No, mother; it's very pretty, but I don't want any thing," she said, timidly.
The mother frowned.
"Go to Mrs. Prior this instant," she said; "tell her to dress you in the India muslin frock that I gave out to be done up. Loop the sleeves with this coral. Mind and let Mr. Thrasher see it on your neck and arms. Oh, Mrs. Prior, I'm glad you've come! Please have this child properly dressed. There are the ornaments; go, Rose, I have no time to spare; be a good girl, and look pretty to please mother."
"I'll—I'll try," sobbed the child, "only don't make me wear them."
"Hush, or you'll make me angry, my dear. Mrs. Prior, if you would hurry with her, and help me a little, I really am so nervous."
"No wonder," answered Mrs. Prior, gravely, "the whole thing is so sudden."
"Not with me," was the cold answer. "The day was settled the last time Mr. Thrasher visited us; but I did not think it necessary to make it a subject of conversation with strangers."
"But we might have been better prepared," said Mrs. Prior.
"Not at all necessary, as we go away in an hour after the ceremony is performed."
"Go away, Mrs. Mason?"
"Certainly."
"And little Rose?"
The good woman's voice trembled.
"Ah, she will stay with you, heaven only knows how long! that is, if you will keep her—say at the price we have been paying for both. She will have the piano for practice, and you can keep the furniture to remember me by."
"You are very kind."
"Not at all; I know you will be good to Rose."
"Indeed I will!"
"And give her every accomplishment. Remember, money is of no consequence."
"That which you offer is more than enough to pay for all the knowledge or accomplishments I can teach," said the little woman, conscientiously.
"If it isn't, say so, and we'll double it," answered Mrs. Mason, with reckless munificence. "There is gold enough in my work-box there to pay for three or four years, if we do not send for her before that. You can take box and all after we're gone, for I shall leave all these things behind; it's too much trouble to pack them up. Use what you like, and cut over the rest for Rose—the dresses, I mean. That brown silk for travelling will be all I shall care for after the ceremony is over."
"I hardly know how to receive this liberality," said the little woman, with tears in her eyes. "It don't seem right to accept it."
"Oh, nonsense! Be a mother to Rose, and seem glad to see us when we come after her. You have been very kind to me, Mrs. Prior, and I feel it now, indeed I do."
There was a touch of genuine feeling in Mrs. Mason's voice, as she bent forward and kissed Mrs. Prior on the cheek, with lips that were red and dewy as rose-buds. In her selfishness, she had not noticed Rose, who stood clinging to Mrs. Prior's dress, growing paler and paler at each word.
"Mother, are you going to leave me all alone!"
There was so much of sorrow in the child's voice that it reached even that vain heart.
"Never mind, Rosey, dear," said the mother, kissing the pale lips of her child. "It wont be long; besides, Mrs. Prior loves you dearly, and will be very kind."
"Indeed I will, darling," sobbed the little woman. "So now cheer up, Rose, and run off to be dressed," added the mother, beginning to tire of the scene; "do try and help me, Mrs. Prior, and see that your husband is ready; there must be no delay, for we have a long ride before us."
Mrs. Prior hurried off with Rose to her own private room, and in a marvellous short time the little girl came forth airy as a butterfly. The red coral glowing on her face and neck, the India muslin floating around her like a cloud.
Rose met Paul in the upper passage. He was looking sadly troubled. She went toward him and laid her hand in his.
"You are going?" he said, interpreting the act from his fears.
"No,theyare going, Paul, but I am to be left behind."
The boy began to smile.
"And Mrs. Prior will be your mother?" he said.
"Yes."
"Ah! I'm so happy, so glad; let me go tell Jube."
He attempted to descend the stairs but came back again.
"One thing, Rose. I should like to see this gentleman, Captain Thrasher."
"Well, he's in the parlor."
"But I don't want him to see me."
"Oh, then I can't help you, Paul—there's no way."
Paul looked disappointed. That moment Mrs. Prior came toward them from Mrs. Mason's room.
"What is the matter, Paul?" she inquired, kindly.
"Oh, nothing," answered Rose, "only he wants to see that hateful man."
"For shame, Rose!"
"Well, he wants to see Captain Thrasher, and he don't want Captain Thrasher to see him!" persisted Rose, shaking her head with pretty defiance.
"He wants to see a marriage—is that it?" said Mrs. Prior, whose kind heart was always prompting her to the pleasure of others. "And you would like to have a peep at this wedding? Rose, you will go into the room; but it is to be very private, you know, and I can't let you in, Paul."
"No, no, I do not wish—I only want to see," cried the boy, eagerly; "I and Jube—one little minute, that is all."
Mrs. Prior smiled and dropped into a moment's thought.
"Well," she said, "as you have set your heart uponit, Paul, there can be no harm in letting you see them married so long as it disturbs no one. There is the door between the parlor and dining-room; the upper half is glass. Just lift the curtain softly and look through; but remember, there must be no talking about it. The whole thing is to be kept secret."
"I will not speak to any one, be sure," said Paul.
"Well, be in your room and I will call you at the right time," said Mrs. Prior; "but hurry away, now, for she'll be going down-stairs in a minute."
Paul went to his room. Scarcely had he disappeared when Mrs. Mason came forth; the thick silken folds of her dress rustling sumptuously, and with a carcanet of gems flashing its tinted flame over the snow of her neck and shoulders.
When Rose saw her mother the color died from her face and she shivered as if with cold. Mrs. Mason was too much excited to heed this. Taking the little hand in hers, she led the child down-stairs, sweeping through the hall like a sultana.
Mrs. Prior was struck with admiration at the splendor of her beauty, but depressed by this display of magnificence for a wedding which was to be strictly private. Her own refined taste revolted at the incongruity. Indeed, Mrs. Mason herself seemed to feel something of this, for she blushed even while giving her head a proud lift, and observed, in a low voice:
"He would insist upon it. Nothing is rich enough to satisfy him."
Paul found Jube in his room when he entered it.
"Be ready," he said. "We shall soon know if it is the same man."
"But he may claim us, and say that I am his slave again," said Jube, anxiously.
"He will not see us. There, I hear the minister going down. Be ready. Madame is coming to call us."
Mrs. Prior opened the door, and said: "Come," in a quick, nervous whisper.
Paul and Jube followed her into the dining-room. A crimson curtain hung over the sash which filled the upper part of the door. Mrs. Prior drew it slightly inward, leaving a crevice on each side, through which Paul and Jube could see all that went forward in the parlor without fear of observation.
The couple who were to be married, sat out of range of the window, and at first they only saw the minister saying something in a low voice to Mrs. Prior. She went out and returned with the servant girl, who hung shyly around the door, as if doubtful of the part she was called upon to perform. Then there was a rustling of silk, a general movement, and Paul saw the tyrant of his sea-life standing before the minister, with Mrs. Mason's hand clasped in his. He saw more—for the Venetian blinds fell apart, and a gleam of sunshine quivered across the gems upon the bride's neck. A shudder passed over him, he clung to a neighboring chair for support, and breathlessly looked on. Every word of that awful ceremony—for it was awful to him—fell upon the boy's heart. When it was ended, and the woman turned to the full light, a sick faintness crept over him, and he fell into Jube's arms perfectly insensible. The sight of his mother's necklace had overpowered the boy with terrible memories.
Atthe time of our story, New York Island was not so thickly crowded with habitations as it is to-day. Men who lived on the outskirts of the city could afford grounds more or less spacious about their habitations. Gardens were no uncommon luxuries, and lawns not altogether unknown. Just far enough from the city for retirement, yet sufficiently near for easy access, stood a large mansion, which commanded a view of the Hudson, and was surrounded by forest trees, which had doubtless sheltered many an Indian encampment. Sloping lawns, flower gardens, and rustic arbors lent glow and richness to every nook and vista of these grounds. The house—a fine old family mansion—had been renovated and altered so completely, since it had fallen into the hands of the present proprietor, that the most intimate friend of the former owner must have failed to recognize it.
The solid stone walls had been faced with marble. The small paned windows had given place to broad plate glass, transparent as crystal. Wreaths of rich sculpture broke the snow-white front around the doors and windows, while heavy scrolls of marble rolled down the broad entrance steps, and antique heads enriched the balconies. Two noble lions, with slumbrous limbs and foamlike manes, crouched on the lower entrance steps, and graceful vases, overflowing with rare and flowering plants, stood on either hand by the door.
The approach to this house was by a lodge gate, and along the sweep of a gravelled carriage road, which held a beautiful flower-garden in its curve. Every thing about the dwelling was in perfect order—not a leaf disturbed the emerald richness of the grass, not a broken flower could be found in all that luxuriant waste of blossoms. The English gardener had done his work perfectly. There was not a footprint on the gravel walk, nor a stain upon the whiteness of the marble. Pure, rich, and beautiful, the house arose amid the bloom and shade of tall trees and delicate flowers, like some snow-white palace in fairy-land.
Every thing was silent within this house. Servants moved about, it is true; but they were too well trained for any thing like confusion, and a state of expectation kept them unusually quiet. The housekeeper went from room to room, anxious that nothing should be out of place, and a little nervous in her desire to please a mistress whom she had never seen.
The truth is, that the household was in a state of more general ignorance regarding the persons they were hired to serve than usually falls to people of their class; but what was more remarkable, they knew as much, and more of their master than any of the neighbors, with whom he was an object of no little curiosity.
Mr. Nelson had come upon the neighborhood suddenly, whether from the east, west, north or south, no one could pretend to say. Of course there was a great deal of conjecture. A man of vast wealth and liberal education he certainly was; fine looking too, after a peculiar style. Besides this, he appeared quite young enough to be considered a desirable match for the most fastidious belle in any one of the hundred and fifty circles thatdispute the palm of aristocracy year by year, without settling the question among themselves.
He had bought the old mansion house, paid for it in cash, and taken up his residence in one wing, while the alterations we have spoken of were going on. As a bachelor his habits were very simple and his words few.
The best artisans were employed, and the most expensive books on gardening and architecture lay upon the table in his room. He studied these books night and day, for some weeks before the persons necessary to his work were called around him. When they came at last, he was prepared not only to take specifications, but to suggest them, and that with an air of knowledge that won profound respect from the persons with whom he conversed.
It was impossible to tell, by this man's manners or conversation, what his business in life had been. He was always on his guard against the intrusiveness of curiosity, always gentle, or rather stolidly quiet; but once or twice, when a man conceited in his art had ventured to contradict him, the frown upon his forehead had proved an ominous warning which no one cared to provoke a second time.
During some months he had lived entirely at the old mansion, watching its gradual transfiguration and superintending the changes with untiring assiduity. Two or three times he had been absent for several days, but no one knew where, and he gave no notice either of his intended departure or return.
Atlast, when every thing was complete, and the place stood out a paradise in comparison with the most beautiful residences of the city, circumstances arose that inflamed anew the curiosity of the household. The entrance was haunted by tradespeople, bringing packages that could only prove useful to a lady. All this was a fitting preparation for the very quiet orders which Mr. Nelson gave to his housekeeper, just as he stepped into his carriage one morning.
"Have every thing in readiness, Mrs. Ford," he said, "for on the third day from this I shall bring my wife home."
Mrs. Ford was a nice old English housekeeper, brought up with profound reverence for her employers, and early taught the useful lesson of minding her own business, one of the most valuable secrets known to society. Had this been otherwise she could have commanded no time for asking questions, for while making this announcement, Mr. Nelson stepped into the carriage, and drove off without vouchsafing another word.
Mrs. Ford went back to the quiet performance of her duties, wondering a little what kind of a person this new mistress would prove, and doubtful whether it was a bride or a wife of long standing, whom she would be called upon to obey.
The appointed days passed by, and the whole household, as I have said, was in a state of expectation. Alow hum came up from the city, as if a vast hive of bees were swarming, but the sound was so distant and faint, that it rather deepened the quiet of the place. All at once the noise of wheels inside the lodge gate sounded distinct, and grew stronger, till a carriage, from which a lady looked forth with every appearance of keen interest, swept up to the front entrance.
Mr. Nelson stepped out of the carriage, looking almost nervously anxious.
"This is our home, Ellen. Tell me that you like it, and will be happy here," said the master of the mansion, holding her hand tightly as they stood on the lower step together.
The lady lifted her eyes to the beautifulfacade, and for the moment seemed overpowered by its great beauty.
"Why, Nelson, this is a palace," she said, while a glow of triumphant vanity spread over her face.
"To what else should I bring my queen?" he answered, bending his flushed face toward her and speaking in a voice that thrilled with passionate tenderness. "Oh, Ellen, my wife, if you desired the stars of heaven I would strive to reach them for you."
"How very, very beautiful it is!" she exclaimed, gazing around with triumph beaming in her face, utterly ignoring his passionate outburst. "I have dreamed of such places, but never saw them. Nelson, we shall live like princes here!"
"Princes are not always happy," he said, smiling upon her in a way that only a naturally grave man ever smiles. "But we, Ellen, we will let neither discord or care come near us. If gold can hedge us in we will heap walls so high that nothing but love can reach us."
"Ah, these are not dreams," she said, drawing a deepbreath. "The man who has power enough to create a palace like this, makes no false boast when he talks of golden walls."
She stood a moment, drinking in the scene with greedy admiration. Then, for the first time that day, she turned her eyes full upon Nelson's face, and smiled upon him.
"You are pleased, my wife."
"I am delighted, Nelson."
"Nelson! when I call you wife?" he said, with reproachful tenderness.
"Well, husband."
As the word left her lips an unaccountable pallor spread over both their faces. Instead of the happiness he expected, the husband of two days felt a pang so heavy that it made him shrink; and the woman—she had uttered the word before, and under different surroundings!
With a sudden and heavy cloud upon them these persons turned from each other without speaking, and mounted the steps.
To have seen Mrs. Nelson passing along the tressellated floor of the vestibule, where the servants were gathered to receive her, you would have believed that she had trod on Gobelin carpets all her life. The good housekeeper, who had dwelt in the atmosphere of nobility from her cradle up, was absolutely struck dumb by the queenliness of her presence, and thought in her heart that the new mistress must have come from abroad, or at least have been educated there.
Mrs. Nelson saw the impression she had made, and this gave graciousness to her presence which completely subdued the group of dependants into admiration. Shesaid a few patronizing words to each, and passing through the vestibule, entered upon her new life with a degree of graceful self-possession which astonished even her husband.
And now commenced a career such as few persons ever carried out so triumphantly. Mrs. Nelson had wealth, unbounded beauty, education quite sufficient for the demands of fashion, and a craving ambition for notoriety, which was sure to make its way. Gold, in America, proves a sure road to this kind of distinction, and the great lever of republican society was used without stint or measure in this singular household.
Mrs. Nelson had seized on the insinuation, half put as a question by the housekeeper, regarding her foreign appearance, and accepted it as a truth—nay, more—so absorbing was her vanity that she allowed it to be understood that the great wealth which astonished everybody came into Mr. Nelson's hands through her own munificent affection; an idea that Mr. Nelson rather encouraged by his silence and entire submission to her will in all things.
It was not many months before the beautiful Mrs. Nelson became a star of magnitude in the fashionable circles of New York. Of course she was an object of great interest; when curious persons inquired about her origin, they were answered that she was an American by birth, but had spent most of her life abroad with her first husband, who had left her a young and beautiful widow with enormous wealth. This wealth she had bestowed on Mr. Nelson, who, after travelling all over the world, had fallen in love with her at first sight, and still regarded her with a sort of adoration, as everybody could see.
If there was any thing hollow or false in all this, the most intimate person in that magnificent household never could find the proof. True, Mr. Nelson was not a gay or particularly cheerful husband, but that might be said of a thousand other men with dashing wives; it was, after all, a matter of constitution only. Certainly the lady was altogether the most popular of the two. The material style of her beauty was of that sumptuous order which wealth embellishes to its greatest perfection. She was witty, gay, and for all the superficial uses of society, a fascinating woman, whom the most ultra among the fashionable, were glad to recognize as a leader. Thus, unlimited control of wealth, and unflinching assurance, placed the widow Mason, in a few short months, in the very heart of our Metropolitan society.
Thereis no unendurable sorrow which is not the outgrowth of some sin. A peaceful conscience cannot be rendered altogether miserable, place it where you will. You would not have suspected that the fair young creature who sat within those prison bars from morning till night, when her misery was lost in the darkness, had been charged with the dread crime of murder. Indeed, a person with quick sensibilities might have regarded her rather as some gentle martyr, waiting to seal her faith by sublime suffering, for a more heavenly face thanhers never appeared behind the rusted gratings of a dungeon.
Up to this time, Katharine had been a bright and very beautiful girl; such graces as youth, bloom, and cheerfulness give, she had possessed in perfection, but she was something more now. The roses had died on her cheeks, but a pure whiteness rested there, more lovely by far. The dimples had faded from the corners of her mouth, but an expression of holy sweetness was left behind, that sometimes deepened to a smile when any one spoke to her with unusual kindness. But her eyes—those who have seen the original Beatrice Cenci, where it hangs an embodied sorrow in that old Roman palace, would ask no farther description of the look which slept forever in the deep blue orbs of the American girl; there was, indeed, a difference to be felt rather than portrayed. Through all the exquisite sadness in those eyes, a terrible remembrance sleeps, which leads you to forgive, but not altogether acquit, the Cenci. But with Katharine nothing but sublime innocence lay beneath the sorrow. The expression of the living eyes was mournful as those of the immortal picture, but you looked upon them with less pain.
Thus in the twilight of her prison she sat reading the family Bible, which had been brought to that place by her mother. It was an old book, worn with much handling, the paper yellow with age, and the leathern cover broke at the corners. Since Katharine's remembrance, this Bible had occupied the round candle stand by her mother's bed. When that singular woman first entered the prison, after giving up her home, she laid this most precious of her treasures upon the young girl's lap, without speaking a word. Katharine knew what thisact imported, and bowed her fair head in thankfulness, for she sorely lacked the comfort those holy pages might bring.
Katharine had never been a great reader, but her intellect was clear, and her heart, rendered earnest by suffering, seized upon the solemn truths of that book as a flower absorbs the air and sunshine, until she grew strong beneath their lessons.
Not long after that Bible was laid in her lap, much of the horrible dread of death went out from her soul. In its holy pages she found how tranquilly innocence could die, how trustfully it could repose in the hands of God, and from that day the sublime beauty that I have mentioned dawned on her face.
Thus, as I said awhile ago, Katharine sat in her prison, reading. The Bible lay open on her lap; but while her eyelids drooped, and their lashes shaded those deep blue orbs, they were tinged with the depths of their color, as violets cast purple shadows where the sun touches them. The golden tresses of her hair, embraided around her head, scintillated the sunbeams that fell through her prison bars like a glory. Her dress was white dimity, a fabric much worn in those days, which fell heavily around her like the marble drapery of a statue. Thus she was surrounded with a whiteness which threw her figure out in strong relief from a background of shadows gathering on the walls of her dungeon.
As the last sunbeam left the heavy bars that rusted across the window, she lifted her eyes and waited, with one hand—alas! snow-white from confinement—resting upon the open page. A footstep near the door, and the jingle of keys, had disturbed her. She looked earnestlytoward the noise until the door opened. Then the expression of her face grew animated. She laid the Bible down upon her bed, and moved forward with both hands extended.
"You have come; ah, I knew it; when did you break a promise."
The old man who entered took her hand softly between his two hard palms, and glancing at the open Bible, said:
"You were well employed, child; I can bring you no better company than that."
Katharine looked back upon the Bible, smiling faintly, the only way she ever smiled in those days.
"Yes, I know," she said; "but you look pale, have you brought news for me?"
"Yes, dear," said old Mrs. Thrasher, coming forward and kissing the prisoner, "he brings news, but keep a good heart. God is above all."
Katharine bent her head an instant and stood before them in silence, then she looked gravely up and said:
"Is it to-morrow."
"Yes, Katharine, it is to-morrow; are you ready?" answered the old man.
"Yes, father, I am ready."
Her voice was low, but clear as the fall of water-drops.
"I am ready to live or to die as God shall will it. Our Lord has told me how to do both."
"Blessed be his holy name!" broke forth the old man.
"Amen," whispered the gentle woman by his side.
Katharine clasped her hands and lifted her eyes upward, while her lips moved silently.
"We have good counsel; every thing has been done that lies within mortal power," said Mr. Thrasher.
"I know it. The lawyers were here questioning me. They told me it might be soon, but to-morrow—that is sudden."
"But it will be over in a little while," said Mrs. Thrasher, anxious to throw in her mite of consolation.
"Yes, it will be over, and then——"
Katharine's voice trembled. She was so young, poor thing, and sometimes her timid nature fell away from the faith that gave it strength, and shuddered at the death before her.
"Then and now we must put our faith in Him," answered the old man, with tender solemnity.
"I know—I do, father!"
There was something very sweet in the way she uttered this little word "father." Indeed, Katharine had been brought to trust in the old man so thoroughly that she followed him as a lamb keeps by the side of its shepherd. But for his mild, firm teachings, the poor child must have fallen under the burden of her misfortunes, and the sorrow of her young life might have taken a different course.
"What is sorrow, what is death itself, compared to the pangs of guilt, my child?"
"I know, father, but death seems terrible to me sometimes when I am alone here in the night."
Mrs. Thrasher began to sob and Mrs. Allen looked down upon her child in pale grief.
"Ah, why cannot I, who am old, and used to trouble, take her place," she said, drearily.
"Yes, mother, I want courage. At first, when they left me, I was a coward, but it is not so of late, at least not often. Something here grows stronger every day."
The girl laid one hand on her heart, while a soft glow came to her face.
"And that is faith," said Mr. Thrasher.
"It seems like a living presence; as if my babe had turned to an angel, and were folding its wings here. How can any one think I killed it—I who gloried so in being its mother."
"We know that you never harmed it," said Mrs. Allen. "That is one comfort, my child."
"No, no; we never thought it, neither your father nor your two mothers," said Mrs. Thrasher, planting herself by Mrs. Allen's side; thus suggesting her own right to be considered.
"It is strange," said Katharine, thoughtfully, "very strange that any one can believe such things of a poor girl. I am sure no woman in the world ever got this idea of herself."
"No woman would have the heart to think it," muttered Mrs. Thrasher; "but the law, that is stern and cruel enough for any thing."
"To-morrow it will prove cruel with me, I am sure," said Katharine; "when they took me away from home the little children looked after me as if there was blood on my clothes. It made my heart ache to see their frightened faces at the windows as the wagon went by. If children can judge one so harshly, what will a court full of stern men do."
"The men who look so stern are sometimes very kind at heart," said Mr. Thrasher.
Katharine lifted her eyes to his face.
"You will be there, father, and you—and you, my mothers?"
"Yes, Katharine, we will be there," said both the women at once.
"And a greater than they will be there, Katharine," added the old man, solemnly, and resting one hand on her head a moment, he turned away.
The two women saw that his lip quivered as he passed through the door, but to Katharine he was an embodiment of sublime strength, and it took away half her courage when his shadow disappeared from the threshold of her prison. Alas, she was nothing but a girl, timid from want of experience, and greatly dependent for strength on those she loved. When Katharine Allen was left alone she began to realize that the day of her great trouble was near at hand. A faintness like that of death itself crept over her, and she sat down in the midst of her dungeon chamber, sinking down upon the floor in a wild, dreary way, that would have brought tears to the eyes of her worst enemy.
By many an anxious question she had won from thejailora general knowledge of the forms which attend a criminal trial. She knew that crowds of curious people, perhaps coarse-hearted people, would jostle her on the way to prison—that scores on scores of eyes would follow her with hate and loathing. She saw the band of jurors grasping her life in their will, listening with heavy countenances to the evidence of a crime that was not hers, but of which it seemed impossible that any human tribunal could absolve her.
Then, going to and from the trial, little children would look up at her as they had done when she passed the red school-house at Shrub Oak, some with timid pity, others with coarse amazement, and others still ready to break forth into hoots and sneers, as if some abhorrent animal had crossed their path. These thoughts were hard to endure. She had so dearly loved littlechildren, and turned so naturally for affection toward all living things, that the edict of hate, though undeserved, made her shrink with absolute pain.
She took up her Bible and tried to read, but the letters ran together on the page, harassing her sight, but giving back no sense. Thus the evening found her going out into blank space till the darkness crept through her prison bars and fell over her like a pall.