"And now, dearest Mrs. Grey, I have reserved the best news for the last."Laura Lytton and Electra have left school 'for good.' They will arrive here this evening on a visit of some months."Next week we are all going to Charlottesville, to be present at the Commencement of the Law College, when Mr. Alden Lytton expects to take his degree."Aunt Fanning, whose health is much improved, will accompany us as our chaperon, and the Rev. Mr. Lyle will escort us."So you see, my dear Mrs. Grey, though you will not come to us, we will go to you."But we will form quite a large party. And I know that Charlottesville will receive an inundation of visitors for the Commencement, and that there will be a pressure upon all the hotels and boarding-houses. Therefore I will ask you to be so good as to seek out and engage apartments for us. There will be four ladies and one gentleman to be accommodated; we shall want at least three rooms—one for Mr. Lyle, one for Aunt Fanning and myself, and one for Laura and Electra. We want our rooms all in the same house, if possible; if not, then Mr. Lyle can be accommodated apart from the set; but we women must remain together."Please see to it at once, and write and let me know."By the way: after Mr. Lytton takes his degree he will make us a short visit at Blue Cliffs, after which he will go to Richmond to commence the practice of law, wherehethinks the prestige of his father's name, andIthink his own talents, will speedily advance him to fame and fortune."But what am I telling you? That of which you probably know much more than I do; for of course Mr. Lytton must have informed you of his plans."We confidently hope to persuade you to accompany us when we go back to Blue Cliffs. Our summer party will be such a very pleasant one: there will be Laura, Electra, Mrs. Grey and Aunt Fanning among the ladies, and Mr. Lyle, Mr. Lytton and Dr. Jones among the gentlemen. I shall have your rooms made ready for you."
"And now, dearest Mrs. Grey, I have reserved the best news for the last.
"Laura Lytton and Electra have left school 'for good.' They will arrive here this evening on a visit of some months.
"Next week we are all going to Charlottesville, to be present at the Commencement of the Law College, when Mr. Alden Lytton expects to take his degree.
"Aunt Fanning, whose health is much improved, will accompany us as our chaperon, and the Rev. Mr. Lyle will escort us.
"So you see, my dear Mrs. Grey, though you will not come to us, we will go to you.
"But we will form quite a large party. And I know that Charlottesville will receive an inundation of visitors for the Commencement, and that there will be a pressure upon all the hotels and boarding-houses. Therefore I will ask you to be so good as to seek out and engage apartments for us. There will be four ladies and one gentleman to be accommodated; we shall want at least three rooms—one for Mr. Lyle, one for Aunt Fanning and myself, and one for Laura and Electra. We want our rooms all in the same house, if possible; if not, then Mr. Lyle can be accommodated apart from the set; but we women must remain together.
"Please see to it at once, and write and let me know.
"By the way: after Mr. Lytton takes his degree he will make us a short visit at Blue Cliffs, after which he will go to Richmond to commence the practice of law, wherehethinks the prestige of his father's name, andIthink his own talents, will speedily advance him to fame and fortune.
"But what am I telling you? That of which you probably know much more than I do; for of course Mr. Lytton must have informed you of his plans.
"We confidently hope to persuade you to accompany us when we go back to Blue Cliffs. Our summer party will be such a very pleasant one: there will be Laura, Electra, Mrs. Grey and Aunt Fanning among the ladies, and Mr. Lyle, Mr. Lytton and Dr. Jones among the gentlemen. I shall have your rooms made ready for you."
There was much more of kind and affectionate planning for the summer's work and pleasure. But Mary Grey read no further. Dropping the letter upon her lap, she clasped her hands and raised her pale face toward heaven, murmuring:
"She is coming here. I dare not meet her. I must go away again. I am hunted to death—I am hunted to death! I was hunted from Blue Cliffs, and now I am hunted from Charlottesville! Where shall I go next? To Richmond? Yes, of course, to Richmond! And there I will stay. For there is room to hide myself from any one whom I do not wish to see. And in a few weekshewill go to Richmond to settle there permanently. But I will go some few weeks in advance of him, so that he will never be able to say that I followed him there!"
Having formed this resolution, Mary Grey then set about, immediately to engage lodgings for the Blue Cliffs party.
She knew that her hostess, the bishop's widow, had one vacant room: that would accommodate two of the ladies, and therefore she resolved to make a virtue of her own necessities and give up her own room for the accommodation of the other two.
She proposed this plan to her hostess, who at first opposed the self-sacrifice, as she called it. But finally, beingpersuadedby Mary Grey, she yielded the point, and fervently praised the beautiful, unselfish spirit of her young guest, who was ever so ready to sacrifice her own comfort for the convenience of others.
Mary Grey then wrote to Miss Cavendish, telling her of the arrangement, and then explaining:
"You must know, my dear girl, that my health is not improved. For the last twelve months it has been growing steadily worse. My nervous system is shattered. I can not bear noise or tumult or excitement. I dread even to meet strangers. Therefore I think I shall go away and stay during this carnival of a Commencement. I hope that you and Laura will occupy my vacant chamber. The chamber adjoiningis already vacant, and I have engaged it for Mrs. Fanning and Electra. I know I have paired your party off differently fromyourpairing; but then I like the thought of having you and Laura in my deserted chamber. I think I shall go to some very quiet village far from the bustle of company. Forgive me for not remaining to meet you, and set me down as very,verynervous; or, if that will not excuse me in your eyes, set me down ascrazy; but never,neveras ungrateful or unloving.Mary."P.S.—Mr. Lyle must find accommodations at the hotel."
"You must know, my dear girl, that my health is not improved. For the last twelve months it has been growing steadily worse. My nervous system is shattered. I can not bear noise or tumult or excitement. I dread even to meet strangers. Therefore I think I shall go away and stay during this carnival of a Commencement. I hope that you and Laura will occupy my vacant chamber. The chamber adjoiningis already vacant, and I have engaged it for Mrs. Fanning and Electra. I know I have paired your party off differently fromyourpairing; but then I like the thought of having you and Laura in my deserted chamber. I think I shall go to some very quiet village far from the bustle of company. Forgive me for not remaining to meet you, and set me down as very,verynervous; or, if that will not excuse me in your eyes, set me down ascrazy; but never,neveras ungrateful or unloving.
Mary.
"P.S.—Mr. Lyle must find accommodations at the hotel."
Having finished, sealed and dispatched this letter, Mary Grey went to work and packed her three great trunks for her journey. That kept her busy all the remainder of the day.
The next morning she dressed herself and went to call upon her friends and bid them good-bye. They were very much surprised at the suddenness of her departure; but she explained to one and all that she rather wished to avoid the crowd, bustle and confusion of Commencement week, and had therefore determined to leave town for a few days, and that her rooms with the bishop's widow would be occupied in the meantime by her friend Miss Cavendish, of Blue Cliffs, and her party.
This made an impression upon all minds that "sweet Mrs. Grey," with her spirit of self-sacrifice, had left town at this most interesting period for no other reason than to give up her quarters to her friends.
Lastly, Mary Grey went to her pastor and obtained from him a letter to the pastor of St. John's Church in Richmond.
Furnished with this, she would obtain entrance into the most respectable society in the city, if she desired to do so.
On the third day from this, Mrs. Grey left Charlottesville for Richmond.
What the Carnival is to Rome, and the Derby is to London, the Commencement week of its great University is to the little country town of Charlottesville.
It is looked forward to for weeks and months. A few days previous to Commencement week the little town begins to fill. The hotels and boarding-houses are crowded with the relatives and friends of the students and professors, and even with numbers of the country gentry, who though they may haveno relative at the University yet take an interest in the proceedings of Commencement week.
Emma Cavendish and her friends were therefore peculiarly fortunate in having had comfortable apartments pre-engaged for them.
It was late on the evening of the Monday beginning the important week that they arrived at Charlottesville, and proceeded at once to the house of the bishop's widow.
They found the house hospitably lighted up, and open.
Their hostess, a dignified gentlewoman, received them with great cordiality, and rather as guests than as lodgers.
She showed the ladies to the two communicating rooms on the first floor that they were to occupy—large, airy, pleasant rooms, with a fresh breeze blowing from front to back. Each room had two neat white-draped single beds in it.
"If you please, Mrs. Wheatfield, which of these was Mrs. Grey's apartment?" inquired Emma Cavendish.
"This back room overlooking the flower-garden. But as the front room was unoccupied she had the use of that also, whenever she wished it," answered the bishop's widow.
"I was very sorry to hear from her by letter that she would not be able to remain here to receive us," said Miss Cavendish.
"Ah, my dear, I was just as sorry to have her go away! A sweet woman she is, Miss Cavendish," answered Mrs. Wheatfield.
"Why did she go? Is her health so very bad, Mrs. Wheatfield?"
"My dear, I think that her malady is more of the mind than of the body. But I believe that she went away only to give up these rooms to you and your friends, because there were no other suitable rooms to be obtained for you in Charlottesville."
"I am very sorry to hear that; for indeed I and my companions would rather have given up our journey than have turned Mary Grey out of her rooms. It was really too great a sacrifice on her part," said Emma Cavendish, regretfully.
"My dear, that angel is always making sacrifices, for that matter. But I do think thatthissacrifice did not cost her much. Love made it light. I feel sure she was delighted to be able to give up her quarters to friends who could not in any other way have been accommodated in the town," said the bishop's widow, politely.
"I am sorry, however, not to have met her," murmured Emma Cavendish.
"And now, ladies, here are the apartments. Arrange as totheir occupancy and distribution among yourselves as you please," said the hostess, as she nodded pleasantly and left the room.
The ladies had brought but little luggage for their week's visit, and it had already arrived and was placed in their rooms.
They washed, dressed their hair, changed their traveling-suits for evening-dresses and went down into the parlor, where they found Alden Lytton—who had walked over from the University to meet his sister—in conversation with Mr. Lyle.
There was quite a joyous greeting. But Alden had to be introduced to Mrs. Fanning, who had changed so much in the years that had passed since their last meeting that the young man would never have known her again.
But every one remarked that when the lady and the student were introduced to each other their mutual agitation could not be concealed. And every one marveled about its cause.
Alden Lytton found fair Emma Cavendish more beautiful than ever, and he now no longer tried to deny to himself the truth that his heart was devoted to her in the purest, highest, noblest love that ever inspired man.
"Do you know, Mr. Lytton, where Mrs. Grey has gone? She did not tell me in her letter where she intended to go; I believe she had not then quite made up her mind as to her destination," said Miss Cavendish.
"I was not even aware of her departure until I learned it from Mrs. Wheatfield this evening," answered Alden Lytton.
"Then no one knows. But I suppose we shall learn when we hear from her," said Emma, with a smile.
Then Alden produced cards for the Commencement, with tickets inclosed for reserved seats in the best part of the hall, which he had been careful to secure for his party. These he gave into the charge of Mr. Lyle, who was to attend the ladies to the University.
And then, as it was growing late, the two gentlemen arose and took leave.
They left the house together and walked down the street as far as the corner, where Alden Lytton paused and said:
"Our ways separate here, I am sorry to say. I have to walk a mile out to the University. Your hotel is about twenty paces up the next street, on your right. You will be sure to find it."
And Alden lifted his hat and was about to stride rapidly away when Mr. Lyle laid his hand on his arm and said:
"One moment. I did not know our paths parted so soon or I might have spoken as we left the house. The fact is, I have a very large sum of money—ten thousand dollars—sent me to be paid to you as soon as you shall have taken your degree. It is to be employed in the purchase of a law library and in the renting and furnishing of a law office in the best obtainable location. I wish to turn this money over to you as soon as possible."
"It is from my unknown guardian, I presume," said Alden, gravely.
"Yes, it is from your unknownguardian."
"Then we will talk of this after the Commencement. I hardly know, Mr. Lyle, whether I ought to accept anything more from this lavish benefactor of ours. I may never be able to repay what we already owe him."
"You need have no hesitation in accepting assistance from this man, as I have often assured you. But, as you say, we will talk of this some other time, when we have more leisure. Good-night!"
And the gentlemen separated: Alden Lytton striding westward toward the University, and Mr. Lyle walking thoughtfully toward his hotel.
His room had been secured and his key was in his pocket, so that he possessed quite an enviable advantage over the crowd of improvident travelers who thronged the office clamoring for quarters, and not half of whom could by any possibility be accommodated.
As it was long after the minister's usual hour for retiring, he walked through the crowded office into the hall and up the stairs to his room—a very small chamber, with one window and a single bed, both window and bed neatly draped with white.
Mr. Lyle sat down in a chair by the one little table, on which stood a bright brass candlestick with a lighted spermaceti candle, and took from his pocket a small Bible, which he opened with the intention of reading his customary chapter before going to bed, when a rap at his door surprised him.
"Come in," he said, supposing that only a country waiter had come with towels or water, or some other convenience.
The door opened and a waiter indeed made his appearance. But he only said:
"A gemman for to see yer, sah!" and ushered in a stranger and closed the door behind him.
Mr. Lyle, much astonished, stared at the visitor, whom he thought he had never seen before.
The stranger was a tall, finely-formed, dark-complexioned and very handsome man, notwithstanding that his raven hair was streaked with silver, his brow lined with thought, and his fine black eyes rather hollow. A full black beard nearly covered the lower part of his face.
"Mr. Lyle," said the visitor, holding out his hand.
"That is my name, sir; but you have the advantage of me," said the minister.
"You do not know me?" inquired the stranger in sad surprise.
"I do not, indeed."
"I am Victor Hartman!"
Danger, long travel, want, or woe,Soon change the form that best we know;For deadly fear can time outgo,And blanch at once the hair;Hard time can roughen form and face,And grief can quench the eyes' bright grace;Nor does old age a wrinkle traceMore deeply than despair.—Scott.
Danger, long travel, want, or woe,Soon change the form that best we know;For deadly fear can time outgo,And blanch at once the hair;Hard time can roughen form and face,And grief can quench the eyes' bright grace;Nor does old age a wrinkle traceMore deeply than despair.—Scott.
Danger, long travel, want, or woe,Soon change the form that best we know;For deadly fear can time outgo,And blanch at once the hair;Hard time can roughen form and face,And grief can quench the eyes' bright grace;Nor does old age a wrinkle traceMore deeply than despair.
—Scott.
"Victor Hartman!" exclaimed Mr. Lyle, in a tone of astonishment and joy, as he sprang from his chair and grasped both the hands of the traveler and shook them heartily—"Victor Hartman! My dear friend, I am so delighted—and so surprised—to see you! Sit down—sit down!" he continued, dragging forward a chair and forcing his visitor into it. "But I never should have known you again," he concluded, gazing intently upon the bronzed, gray, tall, broad-shouldered man before him.
"I am much changed," answered the stranger, in a deep, mellifluous voice, that reminded the hearer of sweet, solemn church music.
"Changed! Why, you left us a mere stripling! You return to us a mature man. To all appearance, you might be the father of the boy who went away," said the minister, still gazing upon the stranger.
"And yet the time has not been long; though indeed I have lived much in that period," said the traveler, in the same rich,deep tone, and with a smile that rendered his worn face bright and handsome for the moment.
"Well, I am delighted to see you. But how is it that I have this joyful surprise?" inquired the minister.
"What brings me here, you would ask; and why did I not write and tell you that I was coming?" said Hartman, with an odd smile. "Well, I will explain. When I got your letter acknowledging the receipt of the last remittance I sent to you for my children, I learned for the first time by that same letter that my boy would graduate at this Commencement, and hoped to take the highest honors of his college. Well, a steamer was to sail at noon that very day. I thought I would like to be present at the Commencement and see my boy take his degree. I packed my trunk in an hour, embarked in the 'Porte d'Or' in another hour, and here I am."
"That was prompt. When did you arrive?"
"Our steamer reached New York on Thursday noon. I took the night train for Washington, where I arrived at five on Friday morning. I took the morning boat for Aquia Creek, and the train for Richmond and Charlottesville. I got here about noon."
"And you have not seen yourprotéges?"
"Yes, I have seen my boy pass the hotel twice to-day. I knew him by his likeness to his unfortunate father. But I did not make myself known to him. I do not intend to do so—at least not at present."
"Why not?"
"Why not?" echoed Hartman, sorrowfully. "Ah, would he not shrink from me in disgust and abhorrence?"
"No; not if he were told the awful injustice that has been done you."
"But if he were told, would he believe it? We have no proof that any injustice has been done me, except those anonymous letters and the word of that strange horseman who waylaid me on my tramp and thrust a bag of gold in my hands, with the words, 'You never intended to kill Henry Lytton, and you never killed him. Some one else intended to kill him, and some one else killed him.'"
"Have you ever heard anything more of that mysterious horseman?"
"Not one word."
"Have you no suspicion of his identity?"
"None, beyond the strong conviction that I feel that he himself was the homicide and the writer of the anonymous letters."
"Well, I can not tell you why, but I always felt persuaded of your innocence, even before the coming of those anonymous letters, and even whileyouwere bitterly accusing yourself."
"You knew it from intuition—inward teaching."
"May I ask you, Hartman,whyafter you discovered that you had nothing to do with the death of Henry Lytton, you still determined to burden yourself with the support and education of his children—a duty that was first assumed by you as an atonement for an irreparable injury you supposed you had done them?"
"Why I still resolved to care for them after I learned that I had nothing to do with their great loss? Indeed I can not tell you. Perhaps—partly because I sympathized with them in a sorrow that was common to us all, in so far as we all suffered from the same cause; partly, I also think, because it was pleasant to havesome oneto live for and work for; partly because I was so grateful to find myself free from blood guiltiness that I wished to educate those children as a thank-offering to Heaven! It was also very pleasant to me to think of this boy at college and this girl at school, and to hope that some day they might come to look upon me with affection instead of with horror. And then I took so much pride in talking to my brother miners about my son at the University and my daughter at the Academy! And then, again, your letters—every one of them telling of the progress my children made and the credit they were doing me. I tell you, sir, all this was a great comfort to me, and made me feel at home in this strange, lonesome world," said the exile, warmly.
"Hartman, you have a noble soul! You must have made a very great pecuniary sacrifice for the sake of these young people," said the minister, earnestly.
"No, sir; no sacrifice at all. That was the strangest part of it; for it seemed to me the more I gave the more I had."
"How was that?"
"I don't know how it was, sir; but such was the fact. But I will tell you what I do know."
"Yes, tell me, Hartman."
"You may remember, Mr. Lyle, that when I told you I was going back to California I explained to you that I knew a place where I felt sure money was to be made."
"Yes, I remember."
"Well, sir, the place was a gully at the foot of a certain spur of the mountains, called the Red Cleft. Now, at that time I knew very little of geology. I know more now. Also,I had had but little experience in mining; and, moreover, whenever I mentioned Red Ridge I was simply laughed at by my mates. I was laughed out of giving the place a fair trial. But even after I left the Gold State the idea of the treasure hidden in the gully at the foot of Red Ridge haunted me day and night, something always prompting me to go back there and dig. Sir, it was intuition—inward teaching. When I went back to California I made for Red Ridge. Sir, when I first went to Red Ridge I dug there eight weeks without finding gold. That was the time my mates laughed at me. When I next went back—the time I now speak of—I worked four hours and then struck—struck one of the best paying mines in the Gold State. It is worked by a company now, but I have half of all the shares."
"You have been wonderfully blessed and prospered, Hartman."
"Yes," said the traveler, reverently bowing his head; "for their sakes, I have."
"And for your own, I trust, Hartman."
"Mr. Lyle—"
"Well, Hartman."
"May I ask you a favor?"
"Certainly you may."
"You addressed all your letters to me under the name of Joseph Brent."
"Yes, certainly—at your request."
"Continue, then, to call me Joseph Brent. That name is mine by act of legislature."
"Indeed!"
"Yes, and I have a still better claim. It was the name of my grandfather—my mother's father. It was also the name of his eldest son, my uncle, who died recently a bachelor, in the State of Missouri, and left me his farm there, on condition that I should take his name. I was more anxious to have his name than his estate. So I applied to the legislature, and the name that I had borrowed so long became my own of right."
"So I am to introduce you to my young friends as Mr. Joseph Brent?"
"Yes, if you please. Let the name of poor Victor Hartman sink quietly into the grave. And do not let them know that I was Victor Hartman, or that Joseph Brent was ever their benefactor," said the exile, gravely.
"I will keep your counsel so long as you require me to do so, hoping that the time may speedily come when all shall be made as clear to these young people as it is to me."
"Now when will you introduce me to my children?"
"To-morrow, after the ceremonies are concluded. But, my friend, it is a little strange to hear you call these grown-up young people your children, when you yourself can be but little older than the young man."
"In years, yes. But in long experience, suffering, thought, how much older I am than he is! You yourself said that, to all outward appearance, I might be the father of the boy who went away two years ago."
"Yes, for you are very much changed—not only in your person, but in dress and address."
"You mean that I speak a little more correctly than I used to do? Well, sir, in these two years all the time that was not spent in work was spent in study. Or, rather, as study was to me the hardest sort of work, it would be most accurate to say all the time not spent by me in manual was spent in mental labor. I had had a good public-school education in my boyhood. I wished to recover all I had lost, and to add to it. You see, Mr. Lyle, I did not want my boy and girl to be ashamed of me when, if ever, we should meet as friends," said Hartman, with his old smile.
"That they could never be. Any other than grateful and affectionate they could never be to you—if I know them."
"I believe that too. I believe my children will love me when they understand all."
"Be sure they will. But, Hartman—by the way, I like the name of Hartman, and I hope you will let me use it when we are alone, on condition that I promise never to use it when we are in company."
"As you please, Mr. Lyle."
"Then, Hartman, I was about to say that when I hear you speak of Henry Lytton's son and daughter as your boy and girl, the wonder comes over me as to whether you never think of marriage—of a wife and children of your own."
"Mr. Lyle, since my mother went away to heaven I have never felt any interest in any woman on earth. I have been interested in some girls, but they happened to be children: and I could count them with the fingers of one hand and have a finger or two left over. Let me see," said Hartman, with his odd smile. "First there was Sal's Kid."
"Sal's Kid?" echoed the minister, who had never heard the name before, but thought it a very eccentric one.
"Yes, Sal's Kid—a wild-eyed, elf-locked, olive-skinned little imp, nameless, but nicknamed Sal's Kid, who lived in a gutter called Rat Alley, down by the water-side in NewYork. I used to be fond of the child when I was cook's galley-boy, and our ship was in port there. I haven't seen her for ten years, yet I've never forgotten her. And I would give a great deal to know whatever became of Sal's Kid. Probably she has gone the way of the rest. They were all beggars, thieves, or worse," added Hartman, with a deep sigh.
"And the next?" inquired the minister, with a wish to recall his visitor from sorrowful thoughts.
"The next girl that interested me," continued Hartman, looking up with a bright smile, as at the recollection of some celestial vision, "was as different from this one as the purest diamond from a lump of charcoal. She was a radiant blonde, with golden hair and sapphire eyes and a blooming complexion. In the darkest hour of my life she appeared to me a heavenly messenger! They were leading me from the Court House to the jail, after my sentence. I was passing amid the hooting crowd, bowed down with despair, when this fair vision beamed upon me and dispersed the furies. She looked at me with heavenly pity in her eyes. She spoke to me and told me to pray, and said that she too would pray for me. At her look and voice the jeering crowd fell back in silence. I thought of that picture of Doré's where the celestial visitant dispersed the fiends. I have never, never seen her since."
"And you do not know who she was?"
"Her companions called her 'Emma.' That is all I know."
"The third girl in whom you became interested?"
"Is my child Laura Lytton, whom I have never seen. During the weeks I was in Mr. Lytton's law office I never once beheld his son or daughter."
"Then personally you are a stranger to both?"
"Yes, personally I am a stranger to both. But to-morrow I hope to know them, although I can not be perfectly made known to them. Remember, Mr. Lyle, I do not wish them to know that I was ever Victor Hartman, or that Joseph Brent was ever their benefactor."
"I will remember your caution. But I will hope, as I said before, for the time when they shall know and esteem you as I know and esteem you."
"Your confidence in me has been, and is, one of my greatest earthly supports," said Hartman, earnestly, as he arose to bid his friend good-night.
Long after his visitor had left him, Mr. Lyle sat at his window in an attitude of deep thought.
The unexpected meeting with Victor Hartman had deprived him of all power or wish to sleep.
He sat at the window watching the crowd that thronged the village streets with his outward eyes, but reviewing all the past with his inner vision. It was long after midnight before he retired.
The next morning revealed the full measure of the crowd that filled the little country town to overflowing. And the road leading from the village westward to the University was crowded with foot-passengers, horsemen and carriages of every description.
Those who had no reserved seats set out early, to secure the most eligible of the unreserved places.
The ceremonies were to commence at twelve noon.
Our party, consisting of Emma Cavendish, Laura Lytton, Electra Coroni, Mrs. Fanning, Mrs. Wheatfield and Dr. Jones occupied the whole of the third form from the front.
They were in their places just a few moments before the overture was played.
The hall was crowded to overflowing. Not only was every form filled, but chairs had to be set in the space between the audience and the orchestra, and also in the middle and side aisles, to accommodate ladies who could not otherwise be seated; while every foot of standing room was occupied by gentlemen.
Mr. Lyle had given up his seat next to Laura Lytton in favor of a lady, and had explained to his party that he had a friend from San Francisco who was present and with whom he could stand up.
And he went away and took up his position in a corner below the platform, beside Victor Hartman, but entirely out of the range of his party's vision.
I will not weary my readers with any detailed account of this Commencement, which resembled all other college commencements in being most interesting to those most concerned.
There was an overture from a new opera.
Then there was an opening oration by one of the learned professors of the University, which was voted by the savants to be a masterpiece of erudition and eloquence, but which theyoung people present found intolerably dull and stupid. And when the great man sat down a storm of applause followed him.
Then ensued the usual alternation of opera music and orations.
And the young people listened to the opera music, and yawned behind their fans over the orations.
And the savants gave heed to the orations, and closed their senses, if not their ears, to the music.
At length the time for the distribution of the diplomas arrived, and the names of the successful graduates were called out, and each in turn went up to receive his diploma and make the customary deep bow, first to the faculty and then to the audience.
Then followed the offertory of beautiful bouquets and baskets of flowers from friends to the graduates. But the most beautiful offering there was a basket of delicate silver wire filled with fragrant pure white lilies sent by Emma Cavendish to Alden Lytton.
Laura Lytton, in a patriotic mood, sent a bouquet composed of red, white and blue flowers only.
The other ladies of the party sent baskets of geraniums.
The valedictory address was delivered by Alden Lytton, who had, besides, taken the highest honors of the college.
His address was pronounced to be a great success. And his retiring bow was followed by thunders of applause from the audience.
There were several proud and happy fathers there that day; but perhaps the proudest and the happiest man present was Victor Hartman.
With tearful eyes and tremulous tones he said, as he grasped Mr. Lyle's arm:
"My boy pays me for all—my boy pays me for all! He is a grand fellow!"
The people were all going out then.
"Come," said Mr. Lyle, himself moved by the generous emotion of Victor. "Come, let me introduce you to your boy."
"No, not now. Let me go away by myself for a little while. I will see you an hour later at the hotel," said Hartman, as he wrung his friend's hand and turned away.
Mr. Lyle joined his party, with whom he found the most honored graduate of the day, who was holding his silver basket of lilies in his hand and warmly thanking the fair donor.
Mr. Lyle shook hands with Alden and heartily congratulated him on his collegiate honors, adding:
"We shall see you on the Bench yet, Mr. Lytton."
Alden bowed and laughingly replied that he should feel it to be his sacred duty to get there, if he could, in order to justify his friend's good opinion.
"But what have you done with your Californian, Mr. Lyle?" inquired Laura Lytton.
"Sent him back to his hotel. By the way, ladies, he is a stranger here. Will you permit me to bring him to see you this evening?"
"Certainly, Mr. Lyle," promptly replied Emma Cavendish, speaking for all.
But then she gave a questioning glance toward her aunt, the chaperon of the party.
"Of course," said Mrs. Fanning, in answer to that glance. "Of course the Reverend Mr. Lyle's introduction is a sufficient passport for any gentleman to any lady's acquaintance."
Mr. Lyle bowed and said:
"Then I will bring him at eight o'clock this evening."
And, with another bow, he also left the party and hurried off to the hotel.
That evening, at eight o'clock, the three young ladies were seated alone together in the front drawing-room of their boarding-house. Their elderly friends were not present.
Dr. Jones was dining at the college with Alden Lytton and his fellow-graduates.
Mrs. Fanning, fatigued with the day's excitement, had retired to a dressing-gown and sofa in her own room.
Mrs. Wheatfield was in consultation with her book concerning the next day's bill of fare.
Thus the three beauties were left together, and very beautiful they looked.
Emma Cavendish, the "radiant blonde, with the golden hair and sapphire eyes and blooming complexion," was dressed in fine pure white tulle, with light-blue ribbons.
Electra, the wild-eyed, black-haired, damask-cheeked brunette, was dressed in a maize-colored silk, with black lace trimmings.
Laura Lytton, the stout, wholesome, brown-haired and brown-eyed lassie, wore a bluebarégetrimmed, like Electra's dress, with black lace.
The room was brilliant with gas-light, and they were waiting for their friends and visitors.
Dr. Jones had promised to return, and bring Alden withhim, by eight o'clock at latest. And Mr. Lyle had promised to come and bring "the Californian."
The clock struck eight and with dramatic punctuality the bell rang.
The next moment the little page of the establishment opened the drawing-room door and announced:
"Mr. Lyle and a gemman."
The three young ladies looked up, to see Mr. Lyle enter the room, accompanied by a tall, finely-formed, dark-complexioned man, with deep dark eyes, and black hair and full black beard, both lightly streaked with silver, which, together with a slight stoop, gave him the appearance of being much older than he really was.
Mr. Lyle bowed to the young ladies, and then, taking his companion up to Emma Cavendish, he said, with old-fashioned formality:
"Miss Cavendish, permit me to present to you my friend Mr. Brent, of San Francisco."
"I am glad to see you, Mr. Brent," said the young lady, with a graceful bend of her fair head.
But in an instant the Californian seemed to have lost his self-possession.
He stared for a moment almost rudely at the young lady: he turned red and pale, drew a long breath; then, with an effort, recovered himself and bowed deeply.
Miss Cavendish was surprised; but she was too polite and self-possessed to let her surprise appear. She mentally ascribed the disturbance of her visitor to some passing cause.
Mr. Lyle, who had not noticed his companion's agitation, now presented him to Laura Lytton and to Electra Coroni.
To Laura he bowed gravely and calmly.
But when he met the wild eyes of Electra he started violently and exclaimed:
"Sal's—" then stopped abruptly, bowed and took the chair that his friend placed for him.
He sat in perfect silence, while Emma Cavendish, pitying, without understanding, his awkwardness, tried to make conversation by introducing the subject of California and the gold mines.
But Victor Hartman replied with an effort, and frequentlyand furtively looked at Emma, and looked at Electra, and then put his hand to his head in a perplexed manner.
At length his embarrassment became obvious even to unobservant Mr. Lyle, who longed for an opportunity of asking him what the matter was.
But before that opportunity came there was another ring at the street door-bell, followed by the entrance of Dr. Jones and Alden Lytton.
The last-comers greeted the young ladies and Mr. Lyle, and acknowledged the presence of the stranger with a distant bow.
But then Mr. Lyle arose and asked permission to introduce his friend Mr. Brent, of California.
And Dr. Jones and Mr. Lytton shook hands with the Californian and welcomed him to Virginia.
Then Alden Lytton, who had some dim dreams of going to California to commence life, with the idea of one day becoming Chief Justice of the State, began to draw the stranger out on the subject.
Victor Hartman, the unknown and unsuspected benefactor, delighted to make the acquaintance of "his boy," and, to learn all his half-formed wishes and purposes, talked freely and enthusiastically of the Gold State and its resources and prospects.
"If all that I have heard about the condition of society out there be true, however, it must be a much better place for farmers and mechanics, tradesmen and laborers, than for professional men."
"What have you heard, then, of the condition of society out there?" inquired Victor.
"Well, I have heard that the climate is so healthy that the well who go there never get sick, and the sick who go there get well without the doctor's help. And, furthermore, that all disputes are settled by the fists, the bowie-knife, or the revolver, without the help of lawyer, judge or jury! So, you see, if all that is told of it is true, it is a bad place for lawyers and doctors."
"'If all that is told of it is true?' There is not a word of it true! It is all an unpardonable fabrication," said Victor Hartman, so indignantly and solemnly that Alden burst out laughing as he answered:
"Oh, of course I know it is an exaggeration! I did think of trying my fortune in the Gold State; but upon reflection I have decided to devote my poor talents to my mother state,Virginia. And not until she practically disowns me will I desert her."
"Well said, my dear bo—I mean Mr. Lytton!" assented the Californian.
He had begun heartily, but ended by correcting himself with some embarrassment.
Alden looked up for an instant, a little surprised by his disturbance; but ascribed it to the awkwardness of a man long debarred from ladies' society, as this miner seemed to have been.
Gradually Victor Hartman recovered his composure and talked intelligently and fluently upon the subject of gold mining, Chinese emigration, and so forth.
Only when he would chance to meet the full gaze of Electra's "wild eyes," or catch the tones of Emma's mellifluous voice, then, indeed, he would show signs of disturbance. He would look or listen, and put his hand to his forehead with an expression of painful perplexity.
At ten o'clock the gentlemen arose to bid the young ladies good-night.
It was then arranged that the whole party should visit the University the next day and go through all the buildings on a tour of inspection.
When the visitors had gone, Electra suddenly inquired:
"Well, what do you think of the Californian?"
"I think him very handsome," said Laura, "but decidedly the most awkward man I ever saw in all the days of my life. Except in the matter of his awkwardness he seems to be a gentleman."
"Oh, that is nothing! One of the most distinguished men I ever met in my father's house—a gentleman by birth, education and position, a statesman of world-wide renown—was unquestionably the most awkward human being I ever saw in my life. He knew very well how to manage men and nations, but he never knew what to do with his feet and hands: he kept shuffling them about in the most nervous and distracting manner," said Emma Cavendish, in behalf of the stranger.
"Somehow or other that man's face haunts me like a ghost," mused Electra, dreamily.
"So it does me," quickly spoke Emma. "I feel sure that I have met those sad, wistful dark eyessomewherebefore."
"I'll tell you both what. Whether you have ever met him before or not, hethinkshe has seen you. He seemed to me to be trying to recollectwhereall the evening," said Laura Lytton, with her air of positiveness.
"Then that might account for his awkwardness and embarrassment," added Emma.
"But he is certainly very handsome," concluded Electra, as she took her candle to retire.
Meanwhile the four gentlemen walked down the street together to a corner, where they bade each other good-night and separated—Dr. Jones and Alden Lytton to walk out to the University, and Mr. Lyle and Victor Hartman to go to their hotel.
"What on earth was the matter with you, Victor?" inquired Mr. Lyle, as they walked on together.
"What?" exclaimed Hartman, under his breath, and stopping short in the street.
"Yes, what! I never saw a man so upset without an adequate cause in all my life."
"Don't let us go into the house yet," said Victor; for they were now before the door of the hotel. "It is only ten o'clock, and a fine night. Take a turn with me down some quiet street, and I will tell you."
"Willingly," agreed Mr. Lyle; and they walked past the hotel and out toward the suburbs of the little town.
"Mr. Lyle, I have seen them both!" exclaimed Victor, when they were out of hearing of every one else.
"Both? Whom have you seen, Hartman?" inquired the minister a little uneasily, as if he feared his companion was not quite sane.
"First, I have seen again the heavenly vision that appeared and dispersed the furies from around me on that dark day when I passed, a condemned criminal, from the Court House to the jail," replied Victor Hartman, with emotion.
"Hartman, my poor fellow, are you mad?"
"No; but it was enough to make me so. To meet one of them, whom I never expected to see again in this world, would have been enough to upset me for a while; but to meet both, and to meet them together, who were so widely apart in place and in rank, I tell you it was bewildering! I felt as if I was under the influence of opium and in a delightful dream from which I should soon awake. I did not quite believe it all to be real. I do not quite believe it to be so yet. Have I seen that celestial visitant again?" he inquired, putting his hand to his head in the same confused manner.
"Now, which one of these young ladies do you take to have been your 'celestial visitant,' as you most absurdly call her?"
"Oh, the fair, golden-haired, azure-eyed angel, robed so appropriately in pure white!"
"That was Miss Emma Cavendish," said Mr. Lyle, very uneasily; "and you talk of her like a lover, Hartman—and like a very mad lover too! But oh, I earnestly implore you, do not become so very mad, so frenzied as to let yourself love Emma Cavendish! By birth, education and fortune she is one of the first young ladies in the country, and a bride for a prince. Do not, I conjure you, think of loving her yourself!"
Victor Hartman laughed a little light laugh, that seemed to do him good, as he answered:
"Do not be afraid. I worship her too much to think of loving her in the way you mean. And, besides, if I am not greatly mistaken,my boyhas been before me."
"Alden Lytton?"
"Yes, sir. I saw it all. I was too much interested not to see it. My boy and my angel like one another. Heaven bless them both! They are worthy of each other. They will make a fine pair. He so handsome; she so beautiful! He so talented; she so lovely! His family is quite as good as hers. And as for a fortune, his shall equal hers!" said Victor, warmly.
"Will you give away all your wealth to make your 'boy' happy?" inquired Mr. Lyle, with some emotion.
"No! The Red Cleft mine is not so easily exhausted. Besides, in any case, I should save something for my girl She must have a marriage portion too!"
"You really ought to have a guardian appointed by the court to take care of you and your money, Victor. You will give it all away. And, seriously, it grieves me to see you so inclined to rob yourself so heavily to enrich others, even such as these excellent young people," said Mr. Lyle, with feeling.
"Be easy! When I have enriched them both I shall still have an unexhausted gold mine! By the way, parson—parson!"
"Well, Hartman?"
"I saw something else beside the love between my angel and my boy. I saw—saw a certain liking between my girl and my friend."
If the bright starlight had been bright enough Victor Hartman might have seen the vivid blush that mantled all over the ingenuous face of Stephen Lyle.
"I certainly admire Miss Lytton very much. She is a genuine girl," said Mr. Lyle, as composedly as if his face was not crimson.
"And I see she certainly admires you very much. She evidently thinks you are a genuine man. So, my dear friend, go in and win. And my girl shall not miss her marriage portion," said Hartman, cordially.
Mr. Lyle was beginning to feel a little embarrassed at the turn the conversation had taken, so he hastened to change it by saying:
"You told me that you had met thembothwhom you never had expected to see again in this world. One was Miss Cavendish, your 'heavenly vision;' who was the other?"
"Can you be at a loss to know? There were but three young ladies present. My own girl, whom I went to see and did expect to meet; Miss Cavendish, whom you have just identified as one of the two alluded to, and the brilliant little creature whom you introduced by a heathenish sort of name which I have forgotten."
"Miss Electra?"
"Aye, that was the name; but however you call her, I knew her in Rat Alley as Sal's Kid."
"What!" exclaimed Mr. Lyle, stopping short and trying to gaze through the darkness into the face of his companion; for Mr. Lyle had never happened to hear of the strange vicissitudes of Electra's childhood.
"She is Sal's Kid, I do assure you. Her face is too unique ever to be mistaken. I could never forget or fail to recognize those flashing eyes and gleaming teeth. And, I tell you, I would rather have found her again as I found her to-night than have discovered another gold mine as rich as that of Red Cleft."
"Hartman, you were never more deceived in your life. That young lady, Electra Coroni, is the granddaughter of Dr. Beresford Jones, and is the sole heiress of Beresford Manors. She was educated at the Mount Ascension Academy for Young Ladies in this State, from which she has just graduated."
"Whoever she is, or whatever she is, or wherever she lives now, when I knew her she was Sal's Kid, and lived in Rat Alley, New York. And she knew me as Galley Vick, the ship cook's boy."
"Hartman, you have certainly 'got a bee in your bonnet!'"
"We shall see. She almost recognized me to-night. She will quite know me soon," answered Victor, as they turned their steps toward their hotel.