"Her manner changed after. She was kind and conciliating; her attentions nattering to one like myself. I feared her, yet she fascinated me! I strove to break away from her enchantments, but her power over my silly heart was wholly unaccounted for. I had read somewhere of the serpent who could charm its victim to destroy it; and I felt that I was that victim! I could not tell, for I did not understand it myself. It would have been impossible to explain. And then, her manner on that night! I feared to take that ride, but had no power to refuse. Willie says that the Father was permitting all this and holding my opposition in check for some great purpose yet unforeseen, and, as I look back upon it, wonder if it is so."
"Did you not get some idea from the men who had you in charge?"
"No, they said but little. They had bound my hands and threw me into the boat, supposing I had fainted. They spoke about the impossibility of getting to the ship in such a sea; and expressed a little sympathy for my situation as nearly as I could understand; but said nothing about their reasons for doing what they had. I had succeeded in getting my hands loose, and, without any premeditation, pushed away from their power as they stepped on the rocks to fasten the boat. Here I think was where the Father took the matter into His own hands. I was severed from all earthly connections; had broken all human ties, and was alone with God upon the waters! As the first wave lifted my boat high upon its foaming crest I cried out at the top of my voice, 'Lord, save or I perish!' Then the billow rolled from under me and a sweet peace came into my soul. Then I remembered the little upper chamber at the cottage, when one night I found that the angry billows of life's ocean were dashing themselves around me, and heard Willie's prayer. 'Keep her safe, O my Father, when the troubles of this world fall upon her! Help her to bear them, and give her strength to battle every storm!' Then I knew I should not be drowned – I should be kept safely.
"All night the winds howled, and the sea roared, and I was safe on the deep. But it was cold and I was thinly dressed. I do not know at what time the mantle of unconsciousness was thrown over me, but it was in the early morn that the 'Constitution' picked me up. I was very ill, and unconscious on ship-board and in the hospital, and when sufficiently restored, they asked me 'who was Willie and where could they find him.' I told them. His name broke the fetters that had bound me so long. I was better, and almost two months ago they sent me to him. Now tell me; what does it all mean?"
CHAPTER XXXI.
CHANGING CLOUDS
Reader, did you ever stand and watch the waving crimson curtains hanging in the western sky on some calm summer eve while they were trying to shut out the glorious sunset from view? As you wondered at their changing beauties, did you remember that the objects of so much gorgeous display were only cold, damp, gray clouds, unsightly in themselves, without attraction, and that it was only the reflection of a hidden power upon which you were gazing with so much rapture? So it is in our lives, and a chill, sombre day we would have of it did not some power behind the throne cast a few golden rays upon the clouds of gray.
"The problem cannot be solved!" thought Mrs. Gaylord, as she settled down in her old life, with Lily as her companion, after the fashion of former days. Lily was no longer without friends, home or clothing, as the extra large trunk in the store-room with those of Mrs. Gaylord's amply proved.
Mrs. Hopkins did not fail to express her indignation in very characteristic style when the conclusion was fully reached that the "girl" would return to her former life and associations. "The foolish thing!" she exclaimed. "One more ride, I imagine, will finish the whole matter. I don't see why she cannot be satisfied with well enough. She'll find out her mistake when it's too late. One thing I am decided upon. She mustn't come here again when thrown off by those who pretend to be her friends. I won't have anything more to do with her."
All this was said to Willie that evening after his return from the village. "She might have stayed here and worked to pay her way as she ought to do. She's no better than I am, and should be made to keep where she belongs. But that silly woman likes her pretty face and enjoys her reading, and so will dress her up and spoil her for the sake of gratifying her own wishes for a little time, and by and by will send her back, I suppose, for me to wait upon. But she'll find herself mistaken. I won't do it!"
"It seems to me, Sister, that you are making yourself unnecessarily unhappy," replied Willie very mildly, when Fanny had stopped for a moment to get her breath. "I do not think that 'Phebe' will ever trouble you again. She shall never know of this conversation, however, for I believe when you think it calmly over you will be sorry. It does not seem to have been any fault of Mrs. Gaylord's that she had her unpleasant ride, and I cannot think her foolish in the choice she has made."
Mr. Hopkins coming in put an end to the conversation. He inquired kindly if "Phebe" had concluded to remain at the hotel?
"Mrs. Gaylord claims her on the old contract, I believe," replied Willie.
"Sensible to the last," he supplemented. And Fanny went on with her work.
All this time clouds were shifting in other portions of our historical firmament, and bright rays from behind the curtain were falling elsewhere on damp, gray lives. Mrs. Belmont had reached Philadelphia, and was not very agreeably or graciously received, though her relative knew nothing of her residence in Washington, or of the public life she had been leading. Lillian had been careful to throw upon her mother's actions regarding her the brightest colors possible; still enough had been known of the incidents of the last few years to cast a shadow over the present reception, and the lady felt its chilliness.
Anna Pierson, too, was watching the summer sky with its chill, gray clouds, and wondering why the misty folds sometimes crimsoned with a far-off beauty. Her dead had been buried, and frequent news of the absent brother told of safety. As the days flew by, there came reports of exchange of prisoners, of furloughs and release from hospital treatment and restraints. These, it must be, were the bright reflections that gilded her western sky as she carefully watched it. Ellen St. Clair's letters were frequent, and usually contained very cheering reports. "George was getting better, could sit up a little, and was as impatient and peevish as a naughty child." Still the October haze would paint the leaves before the exiles could be expected at the widow's cottage.
"It is terribly dreary here," Ellen wrote one day while the September rains were falling; "and I have petitioned for a removal to other quarters, and next week George is to be taken to Washington, where I shall be permitted to follow. He has fully recanted his Southern faith, and very marked honors are being showered on him. It is somewhat grateful to my feelings to be the sister of so noted a personage at this time. Can you realize it? I have stood in the presence of the chief magistrate himself. Yes, it is true. In one of his visits at the hospitals yesterday he was officially escorted to our rooms by a little negro about two feet high, and I – well, I did almost fall in love with him. No one must ever call him ugly in my presence. I think him decidedly good-looking. When he said at parting, 'Miss St. Clair, take extra good care of your brother – and yourself,' the work was done; I am his friend for ever more!"
George St. Clair bore his short transfer remarkably well, and upon arriving in the city was placed in the ward of convalescents, where his spirits soon revived, notwithstanding the hard shots that were so often thrown with unerring aim at his well-established prejudices. Here were a few highly educated and popular men, some of high rank in the army, and our soldier found himself in very congenial society.
Then there came another letter to the widow's cottage, saying: "I am most ignobly discharged. 'Do not need a nurse any more,' etc., etc. So you will greet your disconsolate daughter immediately after a little sight-seeing."
It was true. All that was now required was patience while the old strength slowly returned, and Toby was fully capable of attending to his master's necessities. The second morning after the new arrival dawned cold and rainy. The poor torn back fretted in such an atmosphere and was very painful. Not feeling able to join the others in the morning meal, George St. Clair returned to his bed, and was lying moodily watching his companions, when a lady entered, and walked directly up to a noble-looking officer with whom he had been much pleased the day before, but whose name he had not learned, as all addressed him as "Colonel." There was something strangely familiar about that walk and movement of the head and shoulders, and, as he had nothing better to do, gazed at her, wishing all the time that she would turn a little, that he might have a view of her face, but she was busily engaged, and seemed in no hurry to gratify our hero. All apparently had met her before, for each received a word of greeting, as he judged, although too far away to hear more than the murmuring of voices. Then the Colonel monopolized her attention, and after a moments talk both turned abruptly in the direction where he was reclining.
"Then he has been telling her of me!"
They moved forward. "Coming to see the 'Rebel,' no doubt. Who can she be?" That walk! That form! They neared him. A veil had partially covered her face, but now it was thrown back as she sprang forward with a cry of surprise and joy. "George St. Clair! My brother!"
With an impulse unusual to the young lady of Rosedale, she clasped her arms about his neck and kissed his forehead with a sisterly demonstration.
"I did not know, – I had not heard that you were here! How glad I am to meet you."
"Lillian! I never was so astonished! You in such a place as this! The delicate, frail, 'Lily Bell?' Let me take your hand; It cannot be!"
She had stepped back from him as he spoke, and now a low rippling laugh floated away from her parted lips.
"Well, well! am I of no account?" exclaimed her companion, joining in the laugh. "This may be very interesting to the parties immediately concerned, but to look mutely on is another thing."
Lillian shook her finger at him menacingly.
"Yes, George, you remember I told you of my husband. I have found him; Colonel Hamilton! Two brave soldiers who have bled for their country's weal. You will be brothers? Let me perform the ceremony of uniting hands, – the hearts will be sure to come together."
"Surprises thicken! Why did you not tell me during our long chat last evening, that you were the thief who robbed me of my coveted 'Lily Bell?' All this, and yet the world moves on! The war is developing and unraveling! What will come next?"
"Not to be known as there are no headings to the chapters!" Then there was a long talk, and many little items of news imparted that brought the deepening color to more than one cheek.
"It would, without doubt, be a little unpleasant for me to return to my Southern home just at present," said St. Clair, when the conversation lagged. "And I am told from headquarters that I shall not be able for active service for months yet; so I propose to go farther north where my parents are, and, perhaps, burrow for the winter. It will be pretty cold for Confederate blood, but it is about the best I can do."
"A capital idea! Get acquainted with us low fellows, – I think you will like us when you know us better."
"Have you seen Ellen?" He had turned to Lillian now.
"Ellen? Is she here?"
"Out sight-seeing somewhere. She is to return to her temporary home in a day or two."
All this time, Mrs. Hamilton had not spoken of her mother, – not inquired for her. She had met and recognized her; but where was she now? For weeks she had watched for the familiar face; had looked everywhere for the flutter of the gray silk; and thus far it had been in vain. "Where was she? Would she come no more?" A great disappointment had found its way into the happy heart, where love had for so many years been weeping, but where all tears were now wiped away in a blissful reunion. Lillian loved her mother. She had been petted and fondled by her through all her childhood's days; but the memory of the bitter curse would creep in among her joys, dragging after it the cold, dark shadows that for a time would exclude the warmth.
Mrs. Hamilton called upon Ellen St. Clair at her lodgings, where new interests were brought out, and many little feminine secrets unveiled, which tangled themselves together in a very perplexing sort of way. The story of Lily Gaylord's disappearance, and her father's "unjust censure of Mrs. Belmont" was duly discussed and commented upon.
"An adopted daughter, you said, of the lady?" queried Lillian.
"Yes, and George said from the first that she resembled you in many ways. Her eyes certainly were as large and dreamy. 'Beautiful,' as Grace would say, 'as those of my Lily Bell.' It was a stormy night on the sea, and, as every one declared, no small boat could keep up any length of time, and as nothing could be heard from her, it was concluded she must be lost," Ellen went on to say.
"Dreadful! A young girl of – ?"
"Of sixteen, I believe."
Lillian started. "Sixteen! How strange! – and my mother was with her – and unattended!"
"You seem excited; well we all were shocked! It was so inexplicable. Such a mystery! But it was soon forgotten in the greater interests of the war. You know one is not missed when so many are being lost."
It was Ellen who had said this, but her visitor sat motionless, her large eyes dilated as though striving to penetrate some dark uncertainty.
"I cannot but think how strange it is for you to be here – and with a husband! Why did you never tell us?"
"It was only one of my secrets, dear Ellen," was the hesitating reply. "But I am detaining you. We are a very busy people in Washington, and you are to leave here soon?"
"In three days."
Ellen went as she intended. It was a long, tiresome journey to take alone, but her heart had become brave. There was a pleasant reunion at the widow's home on the evening of her arrival. George was better, and the hearts of the parents beat with a steady pulsation once more. Bertha and the children were well, as late letters from the dear old home had assured them, and now Ellen had safely returned.
"George will write a few words every day and mail it once a week," was the glad response to the inquiry as to how they were to hear from him. "And in a month, the physician says, he will probably be able to travel a short distance each day, and will get to his chair at our table before it is very cold. He has ordered me to engage rooms for us all at the hotel for the winter, but I hate hotels, and it is so cozy here!"
"Anna and I would be very lonely without you now," interposed the widow, calmly. "Our rooms are small, but we have a goodly number of them."
"And I will call it 'Maple Grove Inn' and write that I have secured a suite of rooms ample for us all! Bravo! And I want to learn to make pies and cakes and put my own hands into the biscuits, for I am a Yankee girl from henceforth! No more black fingers in my bread. Dear old Katy," she said, after a moment's pause. "How good everything tasted that her poor old ebony hands made! If I could find such a noble looking northerner as Lillian has for her husband he wouldn't have to ask me more than once to be his wife!"
"Lillian's husband, my child?" interrogated both father and mother in a breath.
"Certainly; but I have not told you. One cannot say everything in an hour!" And then the story was reproduced with the details George had added, having known it for months, yes almost a year and never told it, not forgetting her abstracted manner as the disappearance of Lily Gaylord was rehearsed. "One might have imagined to look at her that the girl was a near kin. She asked me about her general appearance, and when I said that some thought there was a very striking resemblance between her and Mrs. Gaylord's adopted daughter you ought to have seen the look!"
"You are quite imaginative, my dear," remarked Mrs. St. Clair warmly. "It was the shock, her mother being with Lily at the time that gave her the look you speak of. I do not wonder, for there was room at least for censure!"
"That's a fact, wife! I should like to know where the mistress of Rosedale is keeping herself? Bertha writes that she disappeared soon after leaving the city, and Charles has never heard from her since. Didn't meet her in Washington I suppose?"
"No, Father," and a hearty laugh followed. When quiet was restored Ellen asked: "Where is Charles, Father?"
"Skulking around without doubt for fear of being drafted, and the negroes have it all their own way at Rosedale now, I believe."
That night as the mother and daughter were left alone, the former interrupted a prolonged silence by the abrupt question: "Anna, my child, what about this George St. Clair? Has a secret crept into your confiding heart that you would keep hidden from the careful, watchful eye of your parent? Tell me, what about this rebel colonel?"
A long silence followed. At last, "I was waiting, Mother," she said, "for my heart to be sure of its first great lesson before imparting it to you. But first let me tell you he is true, loyal, to the old flag under which my brother fought and died. It was the circumstances of his life that has placed him where he was, and not the convictions of his better judgment."
The mother watched the beaming face. "And you can excuse him?"
"Yes, Mother, my heart pleads for him! I cannot deny it; I do love George St. Clair! My brother has been slain upon the altar of sacrifice, but his hand has not the stain of his blood upon it!" There were tears in the mild blue eyes and the mother saw them.
"Does he know all this?"
"All, Mother! This was the storm that rolled about me when in Alexandria. The waves dashed high, but it cannot be wrong; I do love George St. Clair!"
"Do you realize the great difference in your social positions? You the daughter of a poor widow – he the heir of large possessions and a devotee to aristocracy. O my daughter, I fear for your future happiness!" The dear face showed the inward struggle of the mother's heart, and the hand upon which her head was languidly resting trembled.
"Wait until you see him," pleaded the daughter; "he is good and noble!"
"My basket is getting full of bitter fruit in the commencement of this terrible war; what will it be when the harvest is wholly gathered?"
"Mother, have you forgotten that 'all things shall work together for good to those who trust God?' Can you not trust now as surely as when you laid your two sons where the fire might consume them?" She was standing by the side of that mother now, and an arm had stolen softly about her neck.
"I will trust Him!" came from the compressed lips, and drawing her daughter upon her knee as in the years gone by she looked into her flushed face. "Whatever God wills my selfish heart will not pronounce unkind!"
CHAPTER XXXII.
THE DARKNESS THICKENS
"Pass those letters over to me, Mr. Cheevers," suggested the wife, as the gentlemen addressed drew several from his pocket while waiting for his supper. "One from New Orleans – that is good – one from Washington! Lillian! It has been some time since we have had such a pleasure," continued the lady more calmly, for she had not intended to let Mrs. Belmont know of her correspondence with her daughter, but her glad surprise on this occasion had betrayed the secret. The husband was peering over the top of his paper at the mother as the exclamation fell on her ear, and saw the sudden start and pallor of her face as she endeavored to appear uninterested. Mrs. Cheevers had opened the welcome missive and was reading. "How strange," she murmured as she turned the page. Mrs. Belmont stirred uneasily in her chair. "Well, I declare!"
"A good many exclamation points;" this from the husband, carelessly.
"Lillian seems very happy with her husband and in her new vocation as nurse. How little we ever imagined, Charlotte, that your daughter would make such a noble woman! It takes a good many hard winds to bring out the strength of the 'sapling,' but it will do it!" The letter was finished and Mrs. Cheevers sat motionless with it lying upon her lap.
"No bad news, I hope?" interrogated Mrs. Belmont with some trepidation.
"No. I was trying, however, to guess it out! You did not tell us, Charlotte, that you had been in Washington; why did you not call upon your daughter? She writes that she saw you and has been looking everywhere and cannot find you, and has come to the conclusion that you are not in the city, and then adds 'she can hardly think of going back to Rosedale at present, as traveling in that direction would be very unpleasant with the whole army of the Potomac to encounter; and I have thought perhaps she would visit you. If she does, detain her if possible until my return to Philadelphia. Pearl is recovering, and before cold weather will probably go back to his duties. The realization of that coming good-bye envelopes me with its terrible presentiments. How can I ever permit him to go from my sight again! You will say I am foolish and Uncle would scold me if he could, for I propose going with him; not as a soldier but as assistant in the hospitals, which will spring up in the trail of our advancing army. But we will talk this over, when on his furlough we visit for a few days his mother and my dear uncle and aunt.' Now, why did you not like an affectionate mother go to see Lillian and get an introduction to your son-in-law?"
"You have explained the reason. I did not desire to meet her husband, and having learned that she was with him was compelled to leave the city without going to her as I would have wished. The time may come when my 'prejudices,' as you call them, can be overcome, but as yet my whole soul recoils from the contact!"
Mr. Cheevers laid down his paper and laughed ironically. "It seems to me that Irene is unusually slow. I must get back to the store." He walked across the floor impatiently.
"I will go and see what is the matter and let Sylvia's letter go until after tea." The bell soon rang, and while the husband was satisfying his appetite with the evening bounties the wife ran over Sylvia's letter.
"All well – but in a flutter of fearful forebodings," was the report as she proceeded. "Grace is dreadfully worried about Lillian," she added when the missive was finished. "I think the mails are not very regular, for I sent a full report of her doings and experiences a month ago."
"Write again, wife. All who love Lillian are anxious about her of course. It must be dreadful to them to have her up here among her enemies! This is the strangest war on record! Who ever read of the families of the belligerents rushing into the arms of their bitter foes for protection and safety? Here is Mrs. Belmont, for instance, who is shrinking and shivering at the very thought of the contaminations of her son-in-law, but who settles down as cozily as may be in the very midst of those whom she would be glad to see annihilated." He laughed heartily as he arose from the table and left the house.
Their guest was irritated, excited and alarmed! Had her daughter said more than had been imparted? There was something in the manner of both husband and wife that had made her feel this was so. But what was it? O, if she could only get that letter! If her eyes could devour its contents! She saw it go into the ample pocket of the lady's dress and her mind was made up; she would read it if in any way possible! She was coming, that was sure, and he would be with her. Could she meet them? How was it to be avoided? She had told him without doubt; but what if she had not? What if after all Lillian was anxious to bury the past – what if she did not know? "It was an error that I did not speak to her as she stood beside the carriage that afternoon; but how could I have explained? O the miseries of such a life. O the wretchedness of wrong-doing! While she is beloved, petted and sought after, I am suspected and growled at by every churlish dog who feels inclined to show his teeth menacingly! O if there was a place on the broad earth where such as I could find rest and concealment, thither would I go! But that letter I must have! If, as I suspect, a secret is divulged or a hint regarding my reasons for being in Washington, then I will not meet them, even if to avoid it I must hide myself beneath the muddy waters of the Schuylkill. No! no! Witness his exultations? Never!" It was a firm conclusion, but the haughty mistress of Rosedale never faltered when a resolve was fully taken.
The next morning when Mrs. Cheevers was superintending the kitchen, Mrs. Belmont might have been seen standing before the door of that lady's wardrobe, with a look of cynical scorn upon her still handsome features as her keen eyes were running over the page of the coveted letter she was holding in her hand. "Ah! I thought so. Could not tell what could have been my mission to Washington, but feared it was for no good, and that justice might overtake me. Kind, certainly! Yes, truly! The look on my face did 'reveal much,'" and she turned the page. "Here was where the 'exclamation points' came in. 'Revealed much, and my prayer is' – bosh! – 'that she may be wise enough to run no risks. I have learned that she passed herself off as an English lady who had left the South on account of her anti-war proclivities, and was admitted to the most select circles on this account. If she is with you, or shall come, detain her until' – O yes, she could hear this. But why not the rest? The truth is clear. I am suspected! What if that splendid colonel of hers should take it into his noble head to pay off a few of the old scores?" A step was heard in the lower hall, and trusting the letter into the lower pocket, from whence it had been taken, she glided through an opposite door, and returned to her own room.
"This is no place for me," she thought, as, seating herself by the window, she prepared to look at the whole matter as it now appeared. "I am not wanted; but where can I go? Not to Rosedale? That is utterly impossible. Not to Charleston? There I shall be branded as a coward and disloyal to the trust imposed in me. Where can I go?" She sat a long time apparently watching the pedestrians who were leisurely walking past the house, and wondered if there was another in that vast city more wretched, more forlorn than was she. What a contrast to the years that were gone! "And it has all come about by the silliness of that girl. Her impudent and foolish marriage has covered me with shame and confusion." Ah, woman, not that!
"I'll do it!" she said at last. "How stupid in me not to have thought of that before! It will be dreary and desolate, but better so than to remain here. Then the check for that last paltry five hundred dollars must be cashed. A meager sum for the mistress of Rosedale to go out into the world with, but it will do." She arose from her seat and crossed over to the mirror. "Not the same face that was there – let me see – yes, seventeen years ago. Then those lines were not at the corners of the eyes, nor about the mouth; then there was no silver in these dark locks, for no such transgressions scorched my soul." She sank down upon a chair close by, and buried her face in her jeweled hands, and for the first time for many months tears came to moisten the hard ground where the roots of womanly affection were buried.
"My child! O, my child!" she murmured at last, as her long taper fingers were clasping themselves tightly together. "I have wronged you. It was cruel, fiendish, to take your babe from you; but doubly so – wretch that I am! – to plot her ruin by sending her off to a foreign port, where I thought she could never return. What a curse has fallen upon me! I did not intend all that was done. Those terrible black stains cannot be upon my soul."
The autumnal winds came and blew gently over the great city, scattering upon the tree-tops and velvety carpets of its many parks and lawns their tracery of change. The birds gathered themselves together among the branches to finish their arrangements for the long journey. Yet Mrs. Belmont lingered in her pleasant quarters, loth to exchange them for less comfortable ones. Then letters of inquiry, letters of solicitation, had been written, and answers must be waited for – and so she stayed.
All this time the two colonels were slowly but positively improving. George St. Clair might endure the jar and fatigue of travel, and Pearl Hamilton his former position at the head of his regiment, and word was sent to their respective destinations to this effect.
"In a week Pearl and Lillian will be here," was the report brought by Mrs. Cheevers on returning one day from a short round of calls, and her air was a trifle exultant. "We must do them honor, Mr. Cheevers. A colonel who has suffered and bled for our good, and to maintain the dignity of a free government, deserves all the glory an appreciative people can bestow."
The husband straightened himself back in his chair, and indulged in a most mirthful "encore." "Bravo, wife! The war is making personal developments as well. Who ever imagined there was so much of the truly eloquent in the bosom of my sweet little half? And such patriotism!"
"Pshaw! All of that fine speech, I tell you, came from the brain where such evolutions of respect for the brave boys are expected to be in action. We must give honor where honor is due."
"True as you live, wife; and now what is to be done?"
"Perhaps Charlotte can suggest, for if our fraternal strife has not awakened as much patriotism in her heart as in yours, in the present case her interest should be greater."