CHAPTER L.A VISITOR TO BREAKFAST.
The old gentleman, who had regarded this scene in anxious silence, now moved forward and confronted his unwelcome visitor.
“Madam, this is your second visit here,” he said; “what new trouble is to fall upon us?”
“He-he!” laughed the woman, hysterical with fright, “I only came to inquire after the interesting young lady, who has made my neck burn with her fingers. Her welcome was a warmer one than yours.”
“What is your business here?” persisted the old man.
“Nothing, nothing. I came down to the Island for amusement, and thought I’d just call and see how things went on in the old place. You don’t seem glad to see me. But I got used to that long ago. Nice little fellow, isn’t it?”
She pointed her finger at Eddie, who, shrinking away as if from a basilisk, began to cry.
The old man turned his eyes that way. In the confusion and anxieties of the morning, he had hardly looked on the child. Now the glance brought an entire change in his countenance. A faint color mounted to his forehead, and stepping forward, he took the boy suddenly from his mother.
“Don’t let her touch him. Oh! don’t let her touch him!” pleaded the lady.
“Not for the universe!” said the old man. “I know what her touch is to innocent things like this. Have no fear. She shall be driven hence, leper as she is.”
“Leper! Ah! that’s a new name,” half snarled, half jeered the woman. “I thought you had run yourself out abusing me. But this is something uncommon! Leper! that is a name in your Protestant Bible, I suppose.”
“If you have business here, speak; if not, go out from under my roof; I cannot breathe while it shelters you. Go, I say. You have driven my poor child mad again. The sight of you is worse than death to us all.”
“Now this is hospitality, this is gratitude. Well, well, I am ready to go. Shall I carry the little boy for you, ma’am?”
“No,” replied the widow, breathless with apprehension; “give Edward to me, sir. I must return home. My people do not know that he is found.”
“Oh! don’t be frightened. I a’n’t after your precious treasure. Keep him to yourself, for what I care. He isn’t mine a bit more than he’s yours, so we won’t quarrel about him.”
The witch gave the strings of her bonnet a sharp jerk as she spoke, tied them in a hard knot under her chin, and fluttered from the room, leaving an unpleasant laugh floating behind.
When she disappeared, moving downward to the water, the old man spoke again:
“I will carry the boy home for you. Don’t be frightened. She is a wicked woman, but her day is over; she can insult nothing more!”
“Who is she?” inquired the widow, so anxiously that her question seemed abrupt.
“An evil woman, who has led an evil life,” he answered.
“Do not mention her. Drive her from the house. I charge you, never let that woman enter the presence of my child again,” interposed the old lady, who entered the room that instant.
“She never shall, mother, she never shall,” answered the husband. “Be pacified. She will not attempt to return.”
“She, who haunted my child into a madhouse, comes again like a fiend that will not be satisfied. Poor, poor Elsie, she will not speak to me. There she sits in a corner of her room, singing over that one word ‘alone, alone.’ Husband, husband, it is breaking my heart.”
“Be patient, wife. The woman has gone. Elsie will recover from this wild fit—do be patient!” he replied, soothingly.
“I will go to her. I will sit down by her side, and weep while she sings. I am old and weak. What else can I do but weep for my child.”
The old lady went out, making this mournful plaint, and her husband, with a troubled face, and slow, sad step, bore little Edward homeward. As he walked, the good man became composed; the little form pressed to his bosom gave bloom and life to his feelings; a glow of enthusiasm stole through his veins; and without knowing it, the old man grew strong in the young life given to his embrace.
The widow walked thoughtfully by his side. Her brow was clouded, her look troubled. She glanced back now and then, apprehensive that the evil woman might follow her and the child.
The house, which they entered, was a graceful contrast to the one they had left. Verandas of light iron work ran around one wing and across the front; passion-flowers and other rare hot-house vines crept in and out through this network, like colored embroidery on a lace ground: the whole dwelling was light, cool, and exceedingly pleasant. The fragrance of cape jessamines and heliotrope stole out through this tangled veil of flowers; and hid away among the vines were cages full of singing-birds, sending out gushes of song to greet the early morning.
The old gentleman did not notice these things, but placedthe child gently upon his feet in the veranda, and turned away. His heart was full of apprehension regarding his daughter. The half-subdued madness had returned upon her, their old enemy had appeared again. The fear of long, long years was entirely broken up. Why should that wily serpent have crept into his Eden a second time? Filled with these thoughts, the old man bade his neighbor a gentle good morning and went away.
Mrs. Oakley entered her dwelling, weary, and filled with a vague terror by the scene she had witnessed. The night’s watch had left her garments in disarray. The dark-brown hair was partly unbraided, and fell in waves half-way to her shoulders; her bonnet was pushed back, and her pale face stained with tears.
A small breakfast-room opened upon the veranda, its French windows clouded with lace, and its adornments cool and simple. A breakfast-table had been spread in expectation of her coming, and with its service of pure white china and frosted silver stood before these misty windows, through which a network of vines and blossoms was softly visible.
A person, who sat in this room, saw Mrs. Oakley as she entered, and arose as if to go forth and meet her. But a glance at her pale face checked him, and seating himself, he saw her pass to her chamber.
The gentleman sat alone some time, dreamily watching the humming-birds, as they flashed in and out through the blooming screen of flowers, shaking the dew in glittering drops upon the sunshine, and humming softly to the bells they robbed of honey. A smile was upon the stranger’s lips. He seemed waiting in tranquil mood for some anticipated joy. At last Mrs. Oakley came in, leading her boy by the hand. A robe of spotted muslin had displaced her half-mourning dress, lilac ribbons knotted it together down the front and brightened the folds upon her bosom. Her beautiful tresses lay coiled in one heavy braid around herhead. Nothing could have been more simple than her appearance. But her face was pale, and a look of fatigue hung upon it.
She evidently expected to find the breakfast-room empty, and entered it with downcast eyes. An exclamation from the child, and a joyful leap forward, made her look up. A wave of crimson rushed over her face; she smiled half gladly, half shyly, and held out her hand.
“When did you come? Have you waited long?” she said.
It was a commonplace welcome in words; but her voice grew sweet with suppressed tenderness, as she uttered it.
“I have been waiting and dreaming here this half hour,” answered her guest, taking Eddie in his arms; “I did not expect to find you from home so early.”
“Oh, it was Eddie’s fault, he ran away and was lost all night.”
“Lost! how? Where did you find him?”
There was no reason why the young widow should not have answered this question. But there was a feeling of sadness connected with the scenes she had witnessed that night, which checked her, and she merely replied that a neighbor had found the boy and taken him home.
“And oh,” interposed Eddie, “she was such a tall, black lady, with eyes all fire, and such hot lips.”
“You did not like her then, my little man?” inquired the visitor.
“Yes, I did. She loved me, oh, so much. You don’t know how hard she kissed me, and hugged me till it stopped my breath.
“I don’t wonder,” replied the stranger. “Who could help loving you dearly?” and his fine face flushed crimson, as he pressed a kiss on the rosy mouth of the child.
“Come,” said Mrs. Oakley, blushing also, but smiling amid the pleasant confusion. “We shall all have an appetite for breakfast.”
And with the timid bashfulness of a girl, she sat down to do the honors of her new home to one whose gaze she had learned to tremble under.