"Blue Cliffs, Thursday afternoon."My Dearest Laura:—The opportune arrival of Mr. Craven Kyte, on his way to White Perch Point and LyttonLodge, furnishes me with the means of communicating with you sooner than I could manage to do by mail."You will be very much surprised at what I am about to tell you."Mary Grey has left Blue Cliffs."She left so suddenly that I scarcely yet can realize that she has gone."My grandmother and myself opposed her departure most earnestly. We used every means in the world but absolute force to keep her here."But she would go. She said her health and spirits required the change. You know she was ailing when you left here."Well, she has gone to Charlottesville, where she says she has some lady friend who keeps a boarding-house for the students of the University. So if your brother returns to the University he may have an opportunity of renewing his very pleasant acquaintance with her. I do not know when, if ever, she will return."Of course this is her home whenever she pleases to come back. But I strongly suspect the pretty little widow has grown tired of our country house."You know she has really no resources within herself for enjoyment. She cares nothing for the beautiful scenery surrounding our home, nor for gardening, nor reading, nor visiting and instructing the poor negroes; nor, in short, for anything that makes a remote country place enjoyable. And so she has left us—'It may be for years, and it may be for ever,' as the song says."But, my darling, don'tyoudesert me just at this time. Come back, according to your promise. I am wearying for you. Tell that excessively affectionate and hospitable Uncle John that I need you so much more than he does. Or show him this letter. All the Lyttons are gallant and chivalrous gentlemen. He is no exception, and he will not oppose my wish, I feel sure. I shall expect you at Blue Cliffs to-morrow evening."My grandmother has just directed me to repeat her invitation to Mr. Alden Lytton, and to ask him to accompany you back to Blue Cliffs and make us a visit. I hope he will do so. Mind, I shall expect you both to-morrow evening. Pray present my respects to Mr. and Mrs. Lytton and all their kind family. And believe me, dearest Laura,"Ever your own"Emma."Postscript.—I have some strange news to tell you which I can not trust upon paper. I also expect a new inmate in the family. I will explain when you come. E."
"Blue Cliffs, Thursday afternoon.
"My Dearest Laura:—The opportune arrival of Mr. Craven Kyte, on his way to White Perch Point and LyttonLodge, furnishes me with the means of communicating with you sooner than I could manage to do by mail.
"You will be very much surprised at what I am about to tell you.
"Mary Grey has left Blue Cliffs.
"She left so suddenly that I scarcely yet can realize that she has gone.
"My grandmother and myself opposed her departure most earnestly. We used every means in the world but absolute force to keep her here.
"But she would go. She said her health and spirits required the change. You know she was ailing when you left here.
"Well, she has gone to Charlottesville, where she says she has some lady friend who keeps a boarding-house for the students of the University. So if your brother returns to the University he may have an opportunity of renewing his very pleasant acquaintance with her. I do not know when, if ever, she will return.
"Of course this is her home whenever she pleases to come back. But I strongly suspect the pretty little widow has grown tired of our country house.
"You know she has really no resources within herself for enjoyment. She cares nothing for the beautiful scenery surrounding our home, nor for gardening, nor reading, nor visiting and instructing the poor negroes; nor, in short, for anything that makes a remote country place enjoyable. And so she has left us—'It may be for years, and it may be for ever,' as the song says.
"But, my darling, don'tyoudesert me just at this time. Come back, according to your promise. I am wearying for you. Tell that excessively affectionate and hospitable Uncle John that I need you so much more than he does. Or show him this letter. All the Lyttons are gallant and chivalrous gentlemen. He is no exception, and he will not oppose my wish, I feel sure. I shall expect you at Blue Cliffs to-morrow evening.
"My grandmother has just directed me to repeat her invitation to Mr. Alden Lytton, and to ask him to accompany you back to Blue Cliffs and make us a visit. I hope he will do so. Mind, I shall expect you both to-morrow evening. Pray present my respects to Mr. and Mrs. Lytton and all their kind family. And believe me, dearest Laura,
"Ever your own
"Emma.
"Postscript.—I have some strange news to tell you which I can not trust upon paper. I also expect a new inmate in the family. I will explain when you come. E."
Laura folded her letter and put it into her pocket for the present.
"They want you to come back, I suppose," said Uncle John, testily.
"I will show you the letter presently, uncle, so you can read and judge for yourself," said Laura, with a smile.
"Well, all I say is this: if they want you to come back want will be their master. For they can't have you; so there now! I don't mean to let you leave us until you are obliged to go back to school. I don'tthat!" said John, nodding his big red head.
"Did you know Mrs. Grey had left Blue Cliffs?" sorrowfully inquired Mr. Kyte.
"Yes. Emma has written to me about her departure. When did she go?"
"Early this morning. When I got to the house I was very much disappointed at not seeing her, and beyond measure astonished to hear that she had started that very morning to Wendover, to catch the first train to the city,en routefor Charlottesville. She will be a great loss to the domestic circle at Blue Cliffs, I think."
"And who the mischief is Mrs. Grey?" inquired the sorely puzzled Uncle John.
"She was one of the assistant teachers—the drawing-mistress, in fact—at Mount Ascension. But she lost her situation there. And she became the guest of Emma Cavendish. Afterward she was engaged to Mr. Cavendish. But his death prevented the marriage," Laura explained.
And at this point of the conversation "Mandy" made her appearance at the door and said that supper was on the table.
And old Mrs. Lytton arose and invited the company to follow her to the dining-room.
After supper, as it was a clear, mild, star-lit evening, Mr. Craven Kyte remounted his horse and resumed his journey to White Perch Point.
After his departure, when the family were once more assembled in the big parlor, Laura took her letter out and put it in the hands of John Lytton.
Uncle Jacky read it through, and then quoted a part of it to the family circle.
"'Tell that affectionate and hospitable Uncle John that Ineed you so much more than he does. Or show him this letter. All the Lyttons are gallant and chivalrous gentlemen.' That's so!" put in Uncle Jacky, nodding his red head. "'He is no exception. And he will not oppose my wish, I feel sure.' Now that is what I call taking a fellow at a disadvantage!" growled John, holding the letter before his eyes and staring at it. "Well, I suppose I must let you go, Laura, seeing she makes such a point of it. But they want Alden, too. And Alden they can't have! Where is the fellow, anyhow? And why wasn't he at supper?"
"He and Charley are down at Uncle Bob's house, getting bait for another fishing match to-morrow. I told Mandy to keep the supper hot for them," answered Aunt Kitty.
And soon after this the little family, who kept very early hours, separated to go to rest.
Laura and her two cousins were the first to leave the room.
Aunt Kitty and Miss Molly followed.
When they were gone old Mrs. Lytton turned upon her son and said:
"Jacky, I ho-ho-hope you a'n't a goin' to be sich a contrairy fool as to stand into the light of your own flesh and blood?"
"Why, what the mischief do you mean, mother? I a'n't a standing into nobody's light, much less my own flesh and blood's!" exclaimed John, raising his red head.
"Yes-yes-yes, you are too! You're a standing into your own dear nephew's, Alden Lytton's, light, in opposing of his going to Blue Cliffs along of his sister to-morrow," complained the old lady.
"Riddle-me-riddle-me-ree! I know no more of what you're talking than the fish of Zuyder Zee!"
"Why-why-why then this is what I'm a talking about. Can-can-can't you see that Emma Cavendish is perfectly wrapped up in Laura Lytton? She's as fon-fon-fond of her as ever she can be. And Emma Cavendish is the most beau-beau-beautiful girl and the richest heiress in the whole state. And Alden Lytton is one of the han-han-handsomest young men I ever saw. And if he goes with his sister to Blue Cliffs—don't you see?"
"No, I don't," said honest, obtuse John.
"Well, then, the gal that is so fond of the sis-sis-sister might grow to be equally fond of the handsome bro-bro-brother.Now do you see?"
"Oh, I see!" exclaimed John, with a look of profound enlightenment.
"And I hope you won't go and stand into the light of your own dear nephew by raising up of any objections to his going along of his sister to Blue Cliffs," added the old lady.
"Istand in the light of my own poor, dear, dead brother's son! 'Tain't likely!" exclaimed Uncle Jacky, with an injured air.
"No, John, I don't think it is. And so, I hope, instead of oppo-po-po-opposing on him, you'll encourage him to go along of his sister to Blue Cliffs to-morrow," said the old lady.
"Mother, I shall do what is right," answered John.
"And lookee here, Jacky! Don't you let on to Alden that any on us have such a thought as him going there to court the heiress, for ef you do, he's so high and mighty he'd see us all furder fust before he'd budge a step to go to Blue Cliffs, sister or no sister. So mind what I tell you, John."
"Mother, I will do all that is right," repeated John, with pompous dignity.
"I only hope as you will. And so good-night, my son," said the old woman, as she lighted her bed-room taper and left the room.
Laura came down-stairs early the next morning, and found her brother alone in the big parlor.
And then she showed him Emma Cavendish's letter.
And when he had read it through, she said, quite piteously:
"Alden, I do want to go back and spend the rest of the Easter holidays at Blue Cliffs, for I love Emma Cavendish better than anybody else in the whole world except yourself. And I hate to disappoint her. But I equally hate to leave you, Alden. So I do wish you would make up your mind to accept Mrs. Cavendish's invitation and accompany me to Blue Cliffs."
"Why-why-why of course he will go, Laura! Do you 'spect your own dear brother is a going to let you go off alone, by your own self, of a journey, when he's invi-vi-vited to go along of you?" exclaimed old Mrs. Lytton, who entered at that moment, and spoke up before Alden Lytton could either accept or refuse.
"Certainly he will. Why, nephew's a gentleman, I reckon, and he wouldn't refuse to escort his own dear sister, when he is requested to do so," added Uncle John, as he strode into the room.
Alden Lytton smiled and bowed.
In truth, now that the secret obstacle to his visit to Blue Cliffs was removed by the departure of Mrs. Grey for an indefinitely long absence, he felt no objection at all to accompanying his sister thither. So, still smiling, he answered:
"Why, you all seem to think that I shall make some difficulty about complying with my sister's wishes. But I shall do nothing of the sort. On the contrary, I shall attend my sister with great pleasure."
"That's you!" exclaimed old Mrs. Lytton.
"Bully boy!" heartily cried Uncle Jacky.
"I thank you, Alden," said Laura, quietly, giving him her hand.
"Yes, that's all very well; but—" began Charley, who had joined the circle.
"But what? What's the matter with you?" demanded his father.
Charley, seeing all eyes turned upon him, and most especially Laura's, blushed crimson and remained silent.
"I had arranged to go with Charley this morning to fish for trout in the Mad River," laughingly explained Alden.
"Oh, well, it can't be helped! You feel disappointed, of course, my boy; but everything must give way to the will of the ladies, Charley. 'All the Lyttons are gallant and chivalrous gentlemen,'" said Uncle Jacky, proudly, quoting the words of Emma's letter. "And we are no exception to the rule. Miss Cavendish is anxious for the society of Laura. Laura wishes the escort of her brother, who has also been invited to Blue Cliffs. We must not oppose the will of the ladies," concluded John, bowing to his niece with pompous deference.
Poor Charley blushed purpler than ever, and holding down his red head—like his father's—he mumbled something about "not wishing to oppose no ladies whatsoever."
"Now, then, what time are you expected at Blue Cliffs?" inquired Uncle Jacky, turning to Laura.
"This evening, uncle. Don't you remember? You read the letter."
"Oh, yes! Well, then, you needn't leave till after dinner, Kitty," he called to his wife, "order dinner for twelve o'clock noon, sharp! I want Alden and Laura, if theymustleave, to go with full stomachs: do you hear?"
"Why of course, Jacky! Don't we always have dinner at twelve o'clock?" laughingly inquired Aunt Kitty.
"Well, then, mind that to-day a'n't an exception to the rule. Now where's that boy Taters?"
"Here I am, Marse John," said Mithridates, making hisappearance with an armful of wood, which he threw upon the fire; for the April morning was chilly.
"Taters," said Uncle John, "you see to having the pony-chaise at the door at half-past twelve precisely to take Mr. Alden and Miss Laura to Blue Cliffs."
"Yes, Marse John."
"And, Taters, you saddle Brown Bill to ride and wait on them. You hear?"
Taters turned dark-gray and staggered to a chair and sat down.
"Why, what's the matter with the fool now?" demanded Uncle John.
"Oh, Marse John, don't send me to Blue Cliffs no more, sir—please don't!"
"Why—why shouldn't I send you there, you idiot?"
"Oh, Marse John, I done see the sperrit of my young mist'ess there; and if I see it ag'in I shall die—'deed I shall, sir!" exclaimed the shuddering boy.
"What the mischief does he mean, Laura? You look as if you understood him," inquired John Lytton.
Laura laughingly told the story of the supposed spirit, adding that it must have been a pure hallucination on the part of the boy.
"Well, anyhow, I'll not send him with you if he's takin' to makin' a fool of himself. It wouldn't do, you know," said John.
"And really, uncle, we need no one at all as an outrider," said Laura.
After an early and substantial dinner, Alden and Laura took leave of their kind relatives and entered the pony-carriage, whose dashing little grays, driven by old Jerome, were to take them to Blue Cliffs.
But we must precede them thither, to find out what it was that had driven Mary Grey from the house in such very great haste.
What see you in these papers, that you loseSo much of your complexion? Look you how you change!Your cheeks are paper!—why, what hear you thereThat hath so cowarded and chased your bloodOut of appearance?—Shakespeare.
What see you in these papers, that you loseSo much of your complexion? Look you how you change!Your cheeks are paper!—why, what hear you thereThat hath so cowarded and chased your bloodOut of appearance?—Shakespeare.
What see you in these papers, that you loseSo much of your complexion? Look you how you change!Your cheeks are paper!—why, what hear you thereThat hath so cowarded and chased your bloodOut of appearance?
—Shakespeare.
It was on the evening of the very same day that saw the departure of Laura Lytton for Lytton Lodge that Peter, the post-office messenger of Blue Cliffs, returned from Wendover, bringing with him a well-filled mail-bag.
He took it into the drawing-room, where Miss Cavendish and her guests, the Rev. Dr. Jones, Miss Electra, and Mrs. Grey, were gathered around the center-table, under the light of the chandelier.
Emma Cavendish unlocked the mail-bag and turned its contents out upon the table.
"Newspapers and magazines only, I believe. No letters. Help yourselves, friends. There are paper-knives on the pen-tray. And in the absence of letters, there is a real pleasure in unfolding a fresh newspaper and cutting the leaves of a new magazine," said the young lady, as she returned the empty bag to the messenger.
But her companions tumbled over the mail still in the vain hope of finding letters.
"None for me; yet I did hope to get one from my new manager at Beresford Manors," muttered Dr. Jones, in a tone of disappointment.
"And none for me either, though I do think the girls at Mount Ascension might write to me," pouted Electra.
"And of course there are none for me! There never are! No one ever writes to me. The poor have no correspondents. I did not expect a letter, and I am not disappointed," murmured Mary Grey, with that charming expression, between a smile and a sigh, that she had always found so effective.
"Well, there is no letter for any one, it seems, so none of us have cause to feel slighted by fortune more than others," added Emma Cavendish, cheerfully.
But Peter, the post-office boy, looked from one to the other, with his black eyes growing bigger and bigger, as he felt with his hand in the empty mail-bag and exclaimed:
"I'clar's to de law der was a letter for some uns. Miss Emmer, 'cause I see de pos'marser put it in de bag wid his own hands, which it were a letter wid a black edge all 'round de outside of it, and a dob o' black tar, or somethink, onto the middle o' the back of it."
As the boy spoke, the Rev. Dr. Jones began again to turn over the magazines and newspapers until he found the letter, which had slipped between the covers of theEdinboro' Review.
"It is for you, my dear," he said, as he passed the missive across the table to Miss Cavendish.
"I wonder from whom it comes? The handwriting is quite unfamiliar to me. And the postmark is New York, where I have no correspondents whatever," said Emma, in surprise, as she broke the black seal.
"Oh, maybe it's a circular from some merchant who has heard of the great Alleghany heiress," suggested Electra.
"You will permit me?" said Emma, glancing at her companions as she unfolded her letter.
And then, as one and another nodded and smiled and returned to their magazines and papers. Emma Cavendish glanced at the signature of her strange letter, started with surprise, gazed at it a second time more attentively, and then turned hurriedly and began to read it.
And as she read her face paled and flushed, and she glanced from time to time at the faces of her companions; but they were all engaged with pamphlets and papers, except Mrs. Grey, whom Emma perceived to be furtively watching her.
The strange letter was written in rather a wild and rambling style of composition, as if the writer were a little brain sick. It ran as follows:
"Blank Hotel, New York City, April 27th, 18—."My dear Miss Cavendish:—Our near blood relationship might warrant me in addressing you as my dear Emma. But I refrain, because you would not understand the familiarity any more than you recognize this handwriting, which must seem as strange to you as my face would seem if I were to present myself bodily before you; for you have never set eyes upon me, and perhaps have never even heard my name mentioned or my existence alluded to."And yet I am one of your family, near of kindred to yourself; in fact, your own dear mother's only sister."'We were two daughter's of one race,Shewas the fairer in the face.'Yes, she was literally so. Your mother was a beautiful blonde, as I have been told that you, her only child, also are. I am—or, rather, Iwasbefore my hair turned white with sorrow—a very dark brunette."If you have ever heard of me at all, which I doubt—for I know that at home my once loved and cherished name"'Was banished from each lip and ear,Like words of wickedness or fear'—but if you ever heard of me at all you must have heard of that willful love marriage which separated me from all my family."Since that ill-omened marriage an unbroken succession of misfortunes have attended my husband and myself until they culminated in the most crushing calamity of our lives—the loss of our dear and only daughter in a manner worse than death."Soon after that awful bereavement our creditors foreclosed the mortgage on our estate at White Perch Point, and sold the place over our heads."And my poor husband and myself went out to California, childless and almost penniless, to begin life anew."We began in a very humble way indeed. As he was familiar with hotel business he got a place as bar-tender in a San Francisco hotel; and soon afterward I got a place in the same house, to look after and keep in repair the bed and table linen. And we lodged in the hotel, in a small attic chamber, and took our meals in the pantry."But we were both utterly broken down in mind and body, as well as in estate."He soon sank into a consumption and had to give up his place. I hired a room in a small house and took him to it. I still retained my place at the hotel, because my salary there was the only support we had. But I lived there no longer. I used to go in the morning, make the daily inspection of the linen, and bring home what needed mending; and working all the afternoon and half the night at my husband's bedside."But rent and food and fuel, physic and physicians' fees were very costly in San Francisco. And with all my work I fell deeper and deeper into debt."At length my poor husband died. And it took the proceeds of the sale of all our little personal effects to pay for the humblest sort of funeral."And I was left entirely destitute. Then my courage gave way. I wept myself so blind that I could no longer mend thelinen at the hotel, or even see whether it wanted mending. Then I fell sick with sorrow and had to be taken to the hospital."At the end of three months I was dismissed. But where could I go? What could I do, broken in health and nearly blind as I was?"I must have perished then and there but for the timely assistance of a young gold-digger who happened to hear about me when he came up to the city from his distant mining-camp."He was a very queer young man, whom his few friends called crazy on account of his lonely and ascetic manner of life, and his lavish liberality."He sought me out to relieve my wants. And upon my telling him that all I wanted was to go home to die, he bought me a whole state-room to myself in the first cabin of the 'Golden City,' bound from San Francisco to New York. And then he bought me an outfit in clothing, good enough for a duke's widow. And he gave me a sum of money besides, and started me fairly and comfortably on my voyage."I reached New York three days ago. But my strength continues to fail and my funds to waste. I have no power to work, even if I could procure anything to do. And I have not money enough to support me a month longer."I do not like to go into an alms-house. Yet what am I to do?"But why do I write to you? you may naturally inquire."Why? Because, although a perfect stranger, you are, after all, my niece, my only sister's only child, my own only blood relation. And 'blood is thicker than water.'"'I can not work; to beg I am ashamed.'"I do not, therefore, beg, even of you. I do not so much as make any suggestion to you. I tell you the facts of the case, and I leave you to act upon them, or to ignore them entirely, at your pleasure."I do not even know whether I may venture to sign myself your aunt,Katherine Fanning."
"Blank Hotel, New York City, April 27th, 18—.
"My dear Miss Cavendish:—Our near blood relationship might warrant me in addressing you as my dear Emma. But I refrain, because you would not understand the familiarity any more than you recognize this handwriting, which must seem as strange to you as my face would seem if I were to present myself bodily before you; for you have never set eyes upon me, and perhaps have never even heard my name mentioned or my existence alluded to.
"And yet I am one of your family, near of kindred to yourself; in fact, your own dear mother's only sister.
"'We were two daughter's of one race,Shewas the fairer in the face.'
"'We were two daughter's of one race,Shewas the fairer in the face.'
Yes, she was literally so. Your mother was a beautiful blonde, as I have been told that you, her only child, also are. I am—or, rather, Iwasbefore my hair turned white with sorrow—a very dark brunette.
"If you have ever heard of me at all, which I doubt—for I know that at home my once loved and cherished name
"'Was banished from each lip and ear,Like words of wickedness or fear'—
"'Was banished from each lip and ear,Like words of wickedness or fear'—
but if you ever heard of me at all you must have heard of that willful love marriage which separated me from all my family.
"Since that ill-omened marriage an unbroken succession of misfortunes have attended my husband and myself until they culminated in the most crushing calamity of our lives—the loss of our dear and only daughter in a manner worse than death.
"Soon after that awful bereavement our creditors foreclosed the mortgage on our estate at White Perch Point, and sold the place over our heads.
"And my poor husband and myself went out to California, childless and almost penniless, to begin life anew.
"We began in a very humble way indeed. As he was familiar with hotel business he got a place as bar-tender in a San Francisco hotel; and soon afterward I got a place in the same house, to look after and keep in repair the bed and table linen. And we lodged in the hotel, in a small attic chamber, and took our meals in the pantry.
"But we were both utterly broken down in mind and body, as well as in estate.
"He soon sank into a consumption and had to give up his place. I hired a room in a small house and took him to it. I still retained my place at the hotel, because my salary there was the only support we had. But I lived there no longer. I used to go in the morning, make the daily inspection of the linen, and bring home what needed mending; and working all the afternoon and half the night at my husband's bedside.
"But rent and food and fuel, physic and physicians' fees were very costly in San Francisco. And with all my work I fell deeper and deeper into debt.
"At length my poor husband died. And it took the proceeds of the sale of all our little personal effects to pay for the humblest sort of funeral.
"And I was left entirely destitute. Then my courage gave way. I wept myself so blind that I could no longer mend thelinen at the hotel, or even see whether it wanted mending. Then I fell sick with sorrow and had to be taken to the hospital.
"At the end of three months I was dismissed. But where could I go? What could I do, broken in health and nearly blind as I was?
"I must have perished then and there but for the timely assistance of a young gold-digger who happened to hear about me when he came up to the city from his distant mining-camp.
"He was a very queer young man, whom his few friends called crazy on account of his lonely and ascetic manner of life, and his lavish liberality.
"He sought me out to relieve my wants. And upon my telling him that all I wanted was to go home to die, he bought me a whole state-room to myself in the first cabin of the 'Golden City,' bound from San Francisco to New York. And then he bought me an outfit in clothing, good enough for a duke's widow. And he gave me a sum of money besides, and started me fairly and comfortably on my voyage.
"I reached New York three days ago. But my strength continues to fail and my funds to waste. I have no power to work, even if I could procure anything to do. And I have not money enough to support me a month longer.
"I do not like to go into an alms-house. Yet what am I to do?
"But why do I write to you? you may naturally inquire.
"Why? Because, although a perfect stranger, you are, after all, my niece, my only sister's only child, my own only blood relation. And 'blood is thicker than water.'
"'I can not work; to beg I am ashamed.'
"I do not, therefore, beg, even of you. I do not so much as make any suggestion to you. I tell you the facts of the case, and I leave you to act upon them, or to ignore them entirely, at your pleasure.
"I do not even know whether I may venture to sign myself your aunt,
Katherine Fanning."
Emma Cavendish read this letter through to the end; then she glanced at her companions, who were still all absorbed in the perusal of their journals.
Even Mrs. Grey was now lost in a magazine; but it wasLes Modes de Paris, and contained plates and descriptions of all the new spring fashions.
So Miss Cavendish, seeing her friends all agreeably occupied and amused, returned to her singular letter and recommenced and read it carefully through to the end once more.
At the conclusion of the second reading she looked up and spoke to the Rev. Dr. Jones, saying:
"Are you reading anything very interesting in thatQuarterly Review, my dear uncle?"
"Well, yes, my child—an article entitled 'Have Animals Reason?'"
"Reason forwhat?" naïvely inquired Mary Grey, looking up from her magazine of fashion.
Every one smiled except Dr. Jones, who condescended to explain that the subject under discussion was whether animals were gifted with reasoning faculties.
"Oh!" said Mrs. Grey, and returned to herModes.
"You needn't read any more on that subject, grandpa; I can answer that question for you, or any other inquirer. All intelligent animals, whether they go upon two feet or four, or upon wings or fins, have reason just in proportion to their intelligence. And all idiotic animals, whether they go upon two feet or four, or wings or fins, lack reason just in proportion to their idiocy. Lor'! why I have seen human creatures at the Idiot Asylum with less intellect than cats. And I have seen some horses with more intelligence than some legislators. You can't generalize on these subjects, grandpa," said Miss Electra, with an air of conviction.
The Rev. Dr. Jones stared, much as a hen might stare to see her own ducklings take to the water. And then he turned to Emma Cavendish and said:
"Whether animals have reason or not, my dear,youhad some reason for interrupting me. Now what was it?"
"To ask you to read this, sir," said Miss Cavendish, putting her letter in the hands of her uncle.
He took it and read it slowly through, muttering from time to time:
"Dear, dear, how distressing! Bless my soul alive! Well, well, well!"
And he glanced uneasily at Mary Grey, who fidgeted and flushed under his observation.
At length he finished and folded the letter and returned it to Miss Cavendish, with the inquiry:
"Well, my dear, what are you going to do in the premises?"
"I shall write immediately and ask my aunt to come here and make this her home," answered Emma, promptly.
At these words Mary Grey started, caught her breath witha gasp, and quickly whirled her chair around so as to bring her back to the light and throw her face in deep shadow.
"What's the matter with you?" inquired Electra.
"The light makes my eyes ache; that is all. You know I have not quite got rid of my cold yet," answered the widow in a low, faltering tone that might have attracted the attention of Miss Cavendish had not that young lady's thoughts been engaged with the subject of her letter.
"You will consult your grandmother before making this important addition to the household, I presume?" inquired the old gentleman.
"Yes, of course; but I am certain beforehand of my dear grandma's consent and co-operation in such an evident Christian duty," answered Miss Cavendish.
And then she turned to her young friends, to whom she thought some explanation was due, and she added:
"I have news in this letter that has much surprised and pained me. It is from my aunt, Mrs. Fanning. She has lost her husband, and has suffered very severe reverses of fortune. She is at this time alone in New York City, and in failing health. I shall write for her to come and live with us. And not to leave her a day in suspense, I shall telegraph from Wendover to-morrow morning."
"I'm glad she's coming. The more the merrier," said Electra, gayly.
Mrs. Grey said nothing. She arose as if to leave the room, tottered forward and fell to the floor in a dead swoon.
All started to their feet and rushed to the prostrate woman's assistance.
She was but a slight creature, and Dr. Jones lifted her easily and laid her on one of the sofas.
Electra flew upstairs to bring down a bottle of Florida water.
Emma patted and rubbed her hands.
Dr. Jones bathed her brow with cold water, sighing and muttering to himself:
"Poor girl! Poor unfortunate girl!"
"I take blame to myself," said Emma. "She is evidently much iller than I thought. I ought not to have persuaded her to leave her room so soon after her cold. It is my fault."
At that instant Electra ran in with the Florida water and dashed a liberal portion of it over the head and face of the fainting woman.
The shock and the penetrating odor combined to rouse her from insensibility; and with a few gasps she recovered her consciousness; though her face, after one sudden flush, settled into a deadly paleness.
"My poor dear, how are you?" inquired Emma Cavendish, kindly.
"Dying, I think; dying, I hope! Let some one help me to my room," she murmured.
Dr. Jones at once lifted her in his arms and bore her upstairs, preceded by Electra, who flew on before to show the way to Mary Grey's room, and followed by Emma Cavendish, who still blamed herself for the invalid's supposed relapse.
Dr. Jones laid her on her bed, and was about to leave her to the care of Emma and Electra, when she seized his hand and drew him down to her face and said:
"I wish to speak to you for a momentnow. Send Miss Cavendish and Miss Coroni out of the room for a little while."
"My dear children, go away for a moment. Mrs. Grey wishes to speak to me alone," said Dr. Jones.
And Emma and Electra softly retired, with the belief that Mary Grey only wished to consult the minister on religious subjects.
As soon as the door was closed behind them Mary Grey seized the old man's hand and, fixing her great black eyes fiercely upon him, demanded:
"Do they suspect?"
"No; certainly not."
"Did you drop no word during my swoon that might have led them to suspect?"
"Not one syllable."
"I thank you then!" she exclaimed, with a long sigh of relief.
"But, my child, was that all you wished to talk to me about?"
"That was all, except this: to beg you still to be silent as the grave in regard to my identity."
"My child, your words disappoint and grieve me. I did hope that you asked this private interview with the design to consult me about the propriety of making yourself known."
"Making myself known!" she exclaimed, with a half-suppressed shriek, as she started up upon her elbow and stared at the speaker. "Making myself known!"
"The opportunity, my dear child, is such an excellent one. And, of course, you know that if Mrs. Fanning comes here—as she must; for there is no other refuge open to her—if she comes and finds you here, discovery is inevitable."
"But she will not find me here! She shall not! I could not look her in the face. Sooner than do that, I will hurl myself from the turnpike bridge into the Mad River!" she fiercely exclaimed.
"My child, do not talk so wickedly. It is frightful to hear such things!" cried the old man, shuddering.
"You willseesuch things, if you do not mind. I am quite capable of doing what I said, for I am tired and sick of this life of constant dependence, mortification and terror—an insupportable life!" she wildly exclaimed.
"Because, my poor girl, it is a life of concealment, in constant dread of discovery and the humiliation attending discovery. Change all that and your life will be happier. Trust in those who are nearest to you, and make yourself, your name, your errors, and your sufferings and repentance fully known. Emma Cavendish is the ruling power in this house, and she is a pure, noble, magnanimous spirit. She would protect you," pleaded the old man, taking her hand.
"Oh, yes, she is all that! Do you think that makes it any easier for me to shock her with the story of my own folly, weakness and cowardice? Oh, no, no! I could not bear the look of her clear, truthful blue eyes! And I would not! There; it is useless to talk to me, Doctor Jones! There are some things that I can not do. I can not stay here!"
"My poor, poor child, whither will you go? Stay! Now I think of it, I can send you to my house at Beresford Manors. That shall be your home, if you will accept it. But what excuse can you make for leaving this place so abruptly?"
"You are very kind, Doctor Jones. You are very kind. But a moment's reflection will teach you that I could not accept your hospitality. You have no lady, I believe, at Beresford Manors? No one there except the colored servants? Therefore, you see, it would not be proper for me to go there," said Mary Grey, affecting a prudery that she did not feel, and objecting to the place only because she did not choose to bury herself in a house more lonely, dreary and deserted, if possible, than Blue Cliff Hall itself.
"Then where can you go, my poor girl?" compassionately questioned the old minister.
"I have thought of that. Sudden as this emergency is, I am not quite unprepared for it. This crisis that I fearedmightcomehascome, that is all. Only it has come in a far different manner from what I feared. But the result must be the same. I must leave the house immediately. And you must help to smooth my way toward leaving it."
"But whither will you go, poor shorn lamb?"
"I have planned out all that, in view of this very contingency. I will go to Charlottesville, where I have a lady friend who keeps a boarding-house for the University students. I can stay with her, and make myself useful in return for board and lodging, until I get something to do for a living. That is all settled. I asked you for this interview only to satisfy myself that no hint of my identity had been dropped, and no suspicion of it excited, during my swoon; and, further, to beg you to keep my miserable secret hereafter, as you have hitherto."
"I have satisfied you, I hope, upon all those subjects."
"Yes; and I thank you."
"But still I can not abandon the hope that you will yet heed good counsel and make yourself known to your best friends," pleaded the old man.
But Mary Grey shook her head.
Dr. Jones coaxed, argued, lectured, all in vain.
At length, worn out by his importunities, Mary Grey, to gain her own ends, artfully replied:
"Well, dear, good, wise friend, if ever Idogain courage to make myself known to my family, I must do it from some little distance, and by letter, so as to give them time to get over the shock of the revelation, before I could dare to face them. Think of it yourself. How could we bear to look each other in the eyes while telling and hearing such a story?"
"I believe you are rightsofar. Yes, inthatview of the case it is, perhaps, better that you should go away and then write," admitted Dr. Jones.
"And you will aid me in my efforts to get away at once and without opposition? Tell them that it is better for my health and spirits that I should go away for a while, and go immediately—as it really is, you know. Will you do this?"
"Yes, I will do it, in the hope that your nervous system may be strengthened, and you may find courage to do the duty that lies before you," said the doctor, as he pressed her hand and left the room.
Dr. Jones went down-stairs to the drawing-room, where the young ladies waited in anxious suspense.
Emma Cavendish arose and looked at him in silent questioning.
"There is no cause for alarm, my dear Emma. Your friend will do very well. No, you need not go up to her room. She requires absolutely nothing but to be left to repose. You can look in on her, if you like, just before you go to bed. That will be time enough," explained Dr. Jones, as he took his seat at the table and took up hisReviewagain as if nothing had happened to interrupt his reading.
Emma Cavendish breathed a sigh of relief and resumed her seat. She and Electra read or conversed in a low voice over their magazines until the hour of retiring.
Electra was the first to close her pamphlet, as with an undisguised yawn, for which her school-mistress would have rebuked her, she declared that she could not keep her eyes open a minute longer, much less read a line, and that she was going to bed.
Dr. Jones, with as much courtesy as if he had not been her grandfather, arose and lighted her bedroom candle and put it in her hand.
And she kissed him a drowsy good-night and went upstairs.
Emma was about to follow, when the doctor motioned her to resume her seat.
She did so, and waited.
"I want a word with you about Mrs. Grey, my dear Emma. She is very much out of health."
"I feared so," replied Emma Cavendish.
"Or, to speak with more literal truth, I should say that her nervous system is very much disordered."
"Yes."
"She is full of sick fancies. She wishes to go away for a while to get a change of scene."
"I will go with her to any watering-place she desires to visit, in the season," said Emma Cavendish, readily.
"Yes; but, my dear, she must have this change now,immediately."
"I would go with her now if I could leave my guests. You know I have Electra here, and Laura will return in two days perhaps, with her brother also."
"My good child, she does not ask or need any attendance. She wants to go away by herself for a while. She wants to go to an old lady friend in Charlottesville."
"I have heard her lately speak of such a friend, and of her intention, some day, to visit her."
"Well, she wishes to go now, immediately, but is afraid to mention her desire lest it should meet with opposition, which she has no nerve to contest."
"Dear uncle, how strange that she should feel this way! Why, she is not a prisoner here! And if she wishes to leave us for a short or a long time she can do so."
"Of coarse she can, my dear; but she is full of sick fancies. And my advice to you is that you let her go at once. To-morrow morning, if she wishes."
"Why certainly, Uncle Beresford! I have neither the power nor the will to prevent her."
"So let it be then, my dear. And now good-night," said the doctor, taking his candle to leave the room.
Thus the matter was settled.
But the next day old Mrs. Cavendish, Electra, and, in fact, the whole house, were thrown into a state of consternation at the announcement of Mrs. Grey's immediate departure.
When or how she had managed to get her personal effects together, whether she had kept them packed up for the emergency, or whether she had sat up all night to pack them, I do not know; but it is certain that by seven o'clock that morning she had three enormous Saratoga trunks packed, strapped and locked ready for the wagon that she asked for to take them to the railway station.
It was not until her luggage was in the wagon, and the carriage was waiting for her at the door, and she herself in her traveling-suit and hat, that she went to bid the old lady good-bye.
Mrs. Cavendish had been informed by Emma of the intended abrupt departure of Mary Grey, and she had begun to oppose it with all her might.
But Emma endeavored to convince her that the change was vitally necessary to Mary Grey's health and strength.
So now when the traveler entered the old lady's room the latter feebly arose to her feet, holding on to the arm of her chair, while she faltered:
"Mary—Mary, this is so sudden, so shocking, so sorrowful, that I almost think it will make me ill! Why must you go, my dear?"
"Sweet mother—may I call you so?—sweet mother, I will tellyouwhat I did not like to tell dear Emma, for fear it might distress her; she is so sensitive, you know!" murmured the siren, sitting down and tenderly caressing the old lady.
"Tell me then, my love, tell me anything you like," said Mrs. Cavendish, weeping.
"Well, you know that dear old lady friend in Charlottesville, of whom I spoke to you a week or so ago?"
"Ah, yes! The bishop's widow, who is reduced to keepinga student's boarding-house to help support her fifteen children," sighed the ancient dame.
"Yes, and my dear dead mother's dearest friend. Well, I have heard that she is in a dying condition and desires above all things to see me before she departs. That's what shocked me so severely as to make me quite ill. But I never should forgive myself if by any delay of mine she really should depart without having her last wish gratified. Do you blame me for hurrying away?"
"No, no, no, my child—my own lovely child! I do not wonder my poor Charley worshiped you, you are so very good! Go, Mary, my darling! But hurry back as soon as possible."
"Yes, sweet mother, I will. And now, not a word to Emma, or to any one else who might tell her of these distressing circumstances."
"No, no; certainly not! How thoughtful you are, for one so young, my good child! Bend down and take my blessing."
Mary Grey bowed her head.
The venerable lady placed her withered hands upon the bent head, raised her eyes to heaven, and solemnly invoked a blessing on the traitress.
And then Mary Grey arose, kissed her in silence, and left the room.
And thus they parted.
In the hall below she had to part with Emma and Electra.
"We hope you will return to us very soon, dear Mrs. Grey," said Emma Cavendish, as she kissed her good-bye.
"I hope so too, my dear," answered the widow.
"But you will scarcely get back before I return to school, so ours must be a very long good-bye," said Electra, as she also kissed the "parting guest."
"'Tis true, 'tis pity," said Mrs. Grey, between a smile and a sigh.
Dr. Jones then handed her into the carriage, and followed and took a seat by her side, for he was to attend her to the station and see her off on her journey.
When Emma Cavendish turned back into the house she went up into the old lady's room with the intention of breaking to her the news of Katherine Fanning's widowhood and destitution, and of her own desire to invite her to come and live at Blue Cliffs.
She found Mrs. Cavendish just finishing her nice breakfast with Aunt Moll in attendance upon her.
"Here, take away the service now," said the old lady, putting down her empty coffee-cup. "And now, Emma, I am very glad you have come. I feel quite low about parting with Mary. What an angel she is!"
"Cheer up, grandma! We shall have another addition to our family circle soon," said Emma, pleasantly.
"Who is coming, my dear?" inquired Mrs. Cavendish, with all the curiosity of a recluse.
"Oh, another lady!" slowly answered Miss Cavendish, to give Aunt Moll time to get out of the room with her breakfast tray.
And when the old woman had shut the door behind her, Emma said:
"Dear grandma, you will be very much surprised to hear who it is that is coming."
And when Mrs. Cavendish looked up surprised indeed, as well as somewhat alarmed, Emma began and told her of the letter she had received from Mrs. Fanning; of her widowhood and destitution, and of her recent arrival in New York.
"All this is very distressing, my dear Emma, but you see in it only the natural consequences of a low marriage," said the old aristocrat.
"But the marriage is broken by death, dear grandma, and the error is atoned for by much suffering," said Emma, gently.
"Well, my dear, what does the poor woman want us to do?" inquired Mrs. Cavendish.
"She asks nothing, grandma. She simply writes to me, her sister's child—"
"Herhalf-sister's child!" haughtily interrupted the old lady.
"It is the same thing, grandma. Her half-sister's child, and her only living relative—"
"Her only living relative?" again interrupted the old lady. "Where is her own misguided daughter?"
"Supposed to be dead, dear grandma. Certainly dead to her," said Emma, sadly.
"Well, go on, child; go on."
"She writes to me, I say, and tells me of her situation—widowed, childless, homeless and utterly destitute in a strange city; but she asks nothing—suggests nothing."
"Well, and what would you do—you, her only living relative?" inquired the ancient dame in a tone approaching sarcasm.
"Iwould restore to her all that she has lost, if I could. I would give her back husband, daughter, home and competence," said Emma.
"But you can't do it any more than you can give her back her lost caste," interrupted the old lady.
Emma felt discouraged but did not yield her point.
"No, dear grandma," she answered, sorrowfully, "I can not give her back her husband, her child, or her wealth; but I can give my mother's suffering sister a home and a friend."
Madam Cavendish lowered her gold-rimmed spectacles from her cap frills to her eyes, placed her lace-mittened hands on the arms of her chair and looked straight and steadily into the face of her granddaughter.
It was extremely disheartening, and Emma dropped her eyes before that severe gaze and bowed her head meekly.
But Emma, though she was the young girl, was in the right; and Madam Cavendish, though she was an ancient and venerable dame, was in the wrong.
Emma knew this quite well, and in the argument that ensued she lovingly, respectfully, yet unflinchingly, maintained her point.
At length Madam Cavendish yielded, saying, scornfully: "Well, my dear, it is more your affair than mine. Invite her here if you will. I wash my hands of it. Only don't ask me to be intimate with the inn-keeper's widow; for I won't. And that's all about it."
"My dear grandma, you shall never see or hear of her, if you do not like to do so. You seldom leave your two rooms. And she shall never enter either unless you send for her," answered Emma.
"So be it then, my dear. And now let me go to sleep. Ialways want to go to sleep after an argument," said Madam Cavendish, closing her eyes and sinking back in her arm-chair.
Emma Cavendish stooped and kissed her, and then left the room.
In fifteen minutes after she had written and dispatched to the office at Wendover a telegram to this effect: