Miss Henderson's reception was a grand success; Mrs. Hill's supper something that immortalized her forever after in Speckport. The guests went home in the gray morning light with a dazed feeling that they had been under a spell all night, and were awakening uncomfortably from it now. They were under the spell of those magical smiles, of that entrancing face and voice – a spell they were powerless to withstand, which fascinated all against their better judgment, which made poor Tom Oaks wander up and down in the cold, before the cottage, until sunrise, to the imminent risk of catching his death; which made half a score of his young towns-men lose their sleep and their appetite, and which made Captain George Percy Cavendish pace up and down his room in a sort of fever for two mortal hours, thrilling with the remembrance of the flashing light in those black eyes, in the bewildering touch of those hands. For you see, Captain Cavendish, having set a net to entrap an heiress, was getting hopelessly entangled in its meshes himself, and was drunk with the draught he would have held to her lips.
And so the reeling world went round, and she who wove the spell, who turned the heads, and dazed the hot brains of these young men, lay tossing on a sleepless pillow, sleepless with the excitement of the dead hours, sleepless with something far worse than excitement – remorse!
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE SPELL OF THE ENCHANTRESS
The changes which Mr. Darcy had prophesied were going on at Redmon. Before the middle of May, the transformation had begun. The weird old red-brick house, haunted by so many dismal associations, lay on the ground a great heap of broken bricks and mortar, and the villa was going up with a rapidity only surpassed by Aladdin's palace. Miss Henderson had drawn out the plans herself, and superintended the works, with a clear head and a bright eye for all shortcomings and deficiencies. She rode over every day from the cottage, mounted on her black steed Lightning, her black-velvet cap with its long scarlet-tipped plume flashing in among the workmen, as, with gathered-up skirt, she inspected the progress of the building.
She entered with a true womanly interest into the erection and beautifying of this new home, and had quite got over her superstitious awe of the place. Perhaps this was owing to an artfully-laid plan of that scheming lawyer, Mr. Darcy, who, being absurdly fond of the dark-eyed heiress, and fearful of her depriving Speckport of the light of her beautiful countenance, by flying off somewhere, resolved she should like Redmon, and reside there. Accordingly, about a week after Miss Henderson had gone to the cottage, he had gotten-up a picnic to Redmon – a select picnic, with the military band and a platform for dancing.
The picnic day had dawned in cloudless splendor. Coquettish April, finding she must yield in spite of all her tears and smiles to her fairer sister, May, seemed resolved to put up with the inevitable with a good grace; and the day was more like sunny June than early spring. Before ten in the morning the party were on the grounds, swinging among the trees, dancing on the shaded platform, wandering among the grand old woods, or fishing in the clear streams running through them. The string band, perched up in a gallery, played away merrily; and what with sunshine and music, and gay laughter and bright faces, Redmon was a very different-looking place from the Redmon of a few weeks before. Miss Henderson had driven Laura Blair up in a little pony-carriage she had purchased, and owned that Redmon was not so lifeless after all. But she did not enter into the spirit of the thing with any great zest. Laura whispered it was one of her "dark days" to those who noticed the silent, abstracted, almost gloomy manner of the heiress. She danced very little, and had walked moodily through the quadrille, chafing at its length, and then had broken from her partner, and gone wandering off among the trees. Laura Blair made up in herself for all that was wanting in her friend. She was everywhere at once; now flying through a crazy cotillon; now on the swings, flashing in and out among the trees; now superintending the unpacking, and assisting Mrs. Hill and Catty Clowrie to set the table. The cloth was laid on the grass; the cold hams and fowls; the hot tea and coffee; the pies, and cakes, and sandwiches; the hungry picnickers called, and great and mighty was the eating thereof.
After dinner, the house was to be explored, the sight of ghosts, Mr. Darcy considered, being unfavorable to digestion. Some weak-minded persons declined with a shiver; they had no desire for cold horrors then, or the nightmare when they went to bed; and among the number was Captain Cavendish. He had no fancy for exploring ratty old buildings, he said; he would lie on the grass, and smoke his cigar while they were doing the house. Did any thought of unfortunate Nathalie Marsh obtrude itself upon the selfish Sybarite as he lay there, smoking his cigar, on the fresh spring grass, and looking up through the leafy arcades at the serene April sky? Did any thought of the old days, and she who had loved him so true and so well, darken for one moment that hard, handsome mask – his face? Did any more terrible recollection of a ghostly midnight scene that old house had witnessed, come back, terribly menacing? Who can tell? The past is haunted for the whole of us; but we banish the specter as speedily as possible, and no doubt Captain Cavendish did the same.
Miss Henderson, of course, was one of the party, leaning on Mr. Darcy's arm; but her face was very pale, and her great eyes filled with a sort of nameless fear, as she crossed its gloomy portal. Laura Blair clung tightly, with little delightful shudders of apprehension, to the arm of Mr. Val Blake, who took it all unconcernedly, as usual, and didn't put himself out any to reassure Miss Blair. The house had a damp and earthy odor, as of the grave; and their footsteps echoed with a dull, dismal sound, as footsteps always do in a deserted house. Dark, dreary, and forlorn, it looked, indeed, a haunted house, and every voice was silent in awe; the gayest laugh hushed; the most fearless feeling a cold chill creeping over him. Rats ran across their path; black beetles swarmed everywhere; the walls were slimy, and fat bloated spiders swung from vast cobwebs wherever they went. It was all dismal, but in the chamber of the tragedy most dismal of all. They hurried out of it almost before they had entered it, and went into the next room, the room that had been Nathalie's. In the darkness, something caught Val Blake's eye in one corner, he picked it up. It was "Paul and Virginia," bound in blue and gold; and on the title-page was written, in a man's hand: "To Nathalie, from hers in life and death – G. P. C." The book passed from hand to hand. No one spoke, but all knew those initials, and all wondered what the heiress thought of it. That young lady had not spoken one word since they had entered the house, and her face was as white as the dress she wore. But they had seen enough now, and they hurried out, heartily thankful when the front door boomed slowly behind them, and they were in the sunshine and fresh air once more. Every tongue was at once unloosed, and ran with a vengeance, as if to make up for lost time. Captain Cavendish started from the grass, flung away his cigar, and approached.
"Well, ladies – well, Miss Laura," he asked, "have you seen the ghost?"
"Yes," said Laura, gravely. "Here is a ghost we found in Nathalie's room. I presume you have the best right to it!"
She handed him the book before them all, and every eye was turned upon him as he glanced at the title-page. His face changed, in spite of all his self-control, turning nearly as colorless as Miss Henderson's.
"I believe I did give Miss Marsh this once," he said, trying to be at his ease. "I suppose you gave the rats a rare fright! There's the music. Miss McGregor, I believe I have this dance?"
The band was playing the "Aline Polka," and no mortal feet could resist that. All the girls were soon whirling about like teetotums, and the elderly folks sat down for a game of euchre on the grass. Olive Henderson, declining, coldly, a dozen eager aspirants for the honor of her hand in the polka, strolled off unsociably herself, as she had done before. They were too busy enjoying themselves to notice her absence at first, and only one followed her. That one was poor Tom Oaks; and to him, in her absence, the sun was without light, the world empty, since the universe held but her. She did not hear him – she was leaning against a tree, looking out with that darkly-brooding face of hers, over the spreading fields and wood, sloping down to the sea, and all her own. Looking out over that wide sea, with a dreary stare, that told plainly all the wealth she had inherited, all the love and admiration she had won, had not the power to make her happy. Her white dress fluttered in the spring breeze; her shawl, of rich gold-colored crape, fell in loose, graceful folds, like sunlight-drapery, around her, held together with one little brown hand. Her head was bare, and the shining profusion of thick black hair was twisted in great serpent-like coils around her head. She looked more sultana-like than ever, holding that mass of glowing golden drapery around her, a woman to command a kingdom, not to be wooed for a household-angel; but that poor Tom Oaks was down on the grass at her feet, before she knew he was near, imploring her to take pity upon him. Heaven only knows what he said – Tom never did; but he was pouring out his whole heart in a vehement outburst of passionate pleading. The man had chosen an unpropitious moment.
"Get up, Mr. Oaks," the cold sweet voice said; "don't make such a scene! Hush! some one will hear you."
She might as well have told a rushing waterfall to hush. Tom got up, pleading vehemently, passionately, wildly, for what seemed to him – poor, foolish fellow! – more than life.
"No, no, no!" she said, impatiently; "go away, Mr. Oaks. It is of no use."
It seemed like the old parable of asking for bread and receiving a stone. Tom Oaks turned away, but something in his despairing face touched her woman's heart. She laid her hand lightly on his arm, and looked compassionately into his white face.
"I am sorry," she said, in a voice that faltered a little, "I am sorry! I did not think you cared for me like this, but I cannot help you! You must forget me, Mr. Oaks!"
There was one other witness to this little love-passage besides the birds, singing their songs, in the green branches. Captain Cavendish had seen Tom Oaks follow Olive Henderson off the grounds, and knew, by the prescience of jealousy, as well what was going to happen, as he did after the scene was over. He had followed the young man, and, in the tangled green heart of the wood, had heard every word, and watched the white and amber figure flit out of sight. He leaned against a tree now, almost as pale as Tom Oaks had been. But if she should refuse him, too! It was the first time in his life he had ever asked himself that question; and he had made love, and offered marriage even, to more than Winnifred Rose and Nathalie Marsh. What if she should refuse him like this? Pride, love, ambition, all were at stake with Captain Cavendish now, and what if he should lose her? He set his breath and clenched his hand at the thought.
"I will not lose her!" he said to himself. "I will not! I should go as mad as that idiot on the grass there is, if I lost that glorious girl!"
He might have gone after her, and proposed on the spot, had he not possessed so fully that sixth sense, tact. Like the lady immortalized in the Irish poem of "Paddy, Would You Now," she must be taken when she was "in the humor," and that most decidedly was not to-day. So he strolled back to the rest, and had the satisfaction of seeing her waltzing with his superior officer, Major Marwood, who was unmarried, and rich, and one of her most obedient very humble servants.
The picnic was to wind up with what Mr. Blake called a "danceable tea," at Mr. Darcy's, whither they all drove, in the pleasant April twilight, and the handsome captain enjoyed the privilege of sitting beside the heiress in the pony carriage, to the great envy of every one else. They drove very slowly, watching the moon rise in a long glory of silvery radiance over the sleeping sea, while he told her of Italian moon-rises, and Alpine sunsets, he had gazed upon; and she listened, lying back with half-vailed eyes, and a longing sensation of pleasure in it all at her heart. Was she in love with Captain Cavendish? No; but she liked him best of all her admirers; and there were few women who would not have listened with pleased interest to those vivid word-pictures of far-off lands, and looked with admiration, at least, into that pale, high-bred, classically handsome face.
Captain Cavendish retained his advantage all that evening, and left competitors far behind. He sang duets with Miss Henderson, danced with her, took her in to supper, and folded the shawl around her when they were going home. She might be the veriest iceberg to-morrow, the haughtiest and most imperious Cleopatra; but she was gentle, and graceful, and all feminine sweetness to-night. His hopes were high, his heart all in a glow of thrilling ecstasy, as he went home, under the serene stars. The cup of bliss was almost at his lips, and the many slips were quite forgotten.
The afternoon following the picnic, Olive sat in her cottage drawing-room entertaining some callers. The callers were Major Marwood, Lieutenant Blank, and Captain Cavendish. Mrs. Darcy, who was spending the day with her, sat at a window crotcheting, and playing propriety, with Mrs. Hill and Mrs. Hill's niece, Miss Clowrie. Somehow this young lady was very fond of dropping in to see her aunt, and staying for dinner, and often all night. The heiress sat at the piano, playing some exquisite "song without words," when a servant entered and ushered in Miss Blair. The officers, who had been there some time, took their departure, and Laura burst out into thanksgiving.
"Now, thank goodness! they're gone. Run up and get your hat, Olly, and come down to see the boat come in."
"I don't care about seeing the boat come in," said the heiress, lazily, lying back in a fauteuil. "I feel comfortable where I am."
"But you must come, I tell you!" cried Laura, "there's a lot of delegates coming from somewhere, about something, and everybody will be there, and I want to see them."
Miss Henderson laughed at this lucid explanation.
"I shan't go," she said.
Miss Blair changed from the imperative mood to the potential, exhorting, entreating.
"Now, Olly, don't be hateful, but go and put your things on, like a darling. I am just dying to go, and I can't go without you, so do come, there's a dear!"
"But don't you see I have company," laughed Olive; "I can't be rude; I can't leave them."
"Nonsense, Olive, my love," cut in Mrs. Darcy; "you don't call Catty and I strangers, I hope. Go down to the wharf; the sea-breeze will sharpen your appetite for dinner."
"A very romantic reason, certainly," said Olive, sauntering out of the room, however. "You had better come too, Miss Clowrie."
This was said for politeness' sake, for the attorney's daughter was no favorite with the heiress. Catty, only too glad to be seen in public with Miss Henderson, accepted at once, and went up to dress.
"Is it true, Laura," asked Mrs. Darcy, "that Miss Rose came back last night?"
"Yes," said Laura, "she called this morning, and I was so glad to see her. She looks extremely well. England must have agreed with her."
"Where is she stopping? I should like to see her."
"At – House, with Mrs. and Major Wheatly. She told me she would be at the boat this afternoon, when she would see all the old faces, if Speckport had not changed greatly in her absence."
"Tell her to call and see me," said Mrs. Darcy; "I always liked Miss Rose. I think she has the sweetest face I ever saw."
"Now, then, Laura," exclaimed Olive, appearing at the door with Catty, "I am ready, and I hear the steamer blowing."
The three young ladies walked down to the wharf, which, as usual, was crowded. One of the first persons they met was Val Blake, watching the passengers, who were beginning to come up the floats, running the gauntlet of all eyes. He was telling them something about Tom Oaks, who had started off up the country, when he stopped in the middle of what he was saying with a sort of shout of astonishment, and stared at a gentleman coming up the floats, with a valise in one hand, and an overcoat across his arm.
"Now, of all the people coming and going on the face of the earth," cried out Mr. Blake, in his amazement, "whatever has sent Paul Wyndham to Speckport?"
The next instant he was off, flinging the crowd right and left out of his way, and arresting the traveler with a sledge-hammer tap on the shoulder. The girls laughingly watched him, as he shook the stranger's hand as vigorously as if he meant to wrench it off, crying out in a voice that everybody heard: "Why, Wyndham, old fellow! what the deuce drove you here?"
Mr. Wyndham smiled quietly at his impetuous friend, and walked away with him to a cab, which they both entered, and Olive Henderson, still laughing at Mr. Blake, looked carelessly after them, and never dreamed that she had met her fate. No; who ever does dream it, when they meet that fate first!
So Paul Wyndham passed Olive Henderson, and the curtain of the future shrouded the web of life destiny was weaving. She forgot him as soon as seen, and turned to Laura, who was speaking animatedly.
"Look, Olly! there's the Miss Rose you have heard me speaking of so often – that little girl with the black silk dress and mantle, and black straw hat, talking to Miss Blake. Look! hasn't she the sweetest face! I'll call her over."
The crowd of men, women and children, thronging the wharf and floats, were strangely startled a moment after, and every eye turned in one direction. There had been a long, wild, woman's shriek, and some one had reeled and fallen to the ground like a log. There was a rushing and swaying, and startled talking among the people; and Dr. Leach, coming along, took the Rev. Augustus Tod by the button, and wanted to know what was the matter.
"Miss Olive Henderson had fainted," the Rev. Augustus said, with a startled face. "She had been standing on the wharf, apparently quite well, only a second before, when she had suddenly screamed out and fallen down in a fainting-fit. It was really quite shocking."
CHAPTER XXV.
THE DOUBLE COMPACT
Olive Henderson lay on a sofa in her bedroom, her face half buried among the pillows, her cloud of tar-black hair all loose and disordered, falling about her, and still wearing the out-door dress of yesterday. Bright streaks of crimson glory, in the dull dawn sky, heralded the rising of another sun, of another day to the restless, feverish little planet below. Dressed in that uncomfortable attire for repose, Olive Henderson, while the red morning broke, lay there and slept. Stuff! It was more stupor than sleep, and she had only sank into it half an hour before, from sheer physical exhaustion. Those in the cottage had been disturbed all night long, by the sound of restless footsteps pacing up and down the chamber where she now lay, up and down, up and down, ceaselessly, the livelong night. When they had lifted her up, and carried her home in that death-faint, and Dr. Leach had brought her to, her first act had been to turn every soul of them out of her room, Laura Blair included, to lock the door, and remain there alone by herself, ever since. Everybody wondered; Catty Clowrie, most of all, and tender-hearted Laura cried. That sympathizing confidante had gone to the locked door, and humbly and lovingly entreated "Olly" to let her in; but Olly turned a deaf ear to all her entreaties, and never even condescended to reply. Mrs. Hill felt deeply on the subject of refreshments – if her young lady would but partake of some weak tea and dry toast, or even water-gruel, and go to bed comfortable, and sleep it off, she would be all right to-morrow; but to shut herself up, and her friends out, was enough to give her her death. Catty Clowrie said very little, but she thought a good deal. She had remained all night at the cottage, and had listened to that troubled footstep, and had mused darkly, instead of sleeping. At day-dawn the restless pacing had ceased, and Olive Henderson lay sleeping, a deep, stupor-like sleep. Her face, lying among the pillows, contrasting with her black hair, looked ghastly white in the pale dawn, and her brows were drawn, and her position strangely wretched and unnatural.
Mrs. Hill came to the door several times and tried to get in, but in vain. Her feeble knocks failed to awake her young mistress from that deep sleep, and the sun was high in the purple arch outside, before the dark eyes slowly opened to this mortal life again. She sat up feeling stiff, and cold, and cramped, and unrefreshed, and put the black cloud of hair away from her face, while memory stepped back to its post. With something like a groan she dropped her face once more among the pillows, but this time not to sleep. She lay so still for nearly half an hour, that not a hair of her head moved, thinking, thinking, thinking. A terrible fear came upon her, a horrible danger threatened her, but she was not one easily to yield to despair. She would battle with the rising tide, battle fiercely to the last, and if the black waves engulfed her at the end, she would die waging war against relentless doom, to the close.
Olive Henderson rose up, twisted her disordered tresses away from her face, searched for her ink and paper, and sat down to a little rosewood desk, to write. It was very short, the note she rapidly scrawled, but the whole passionate heart of the girl was in it.
"For God's sake come to me!" (this abrupt note began) "every second is an age of agony till I see you. I thought you were dead – as Heaven is my witness, I did, or I should never have come here! By the memory of all the happy days we have spent together, by the memory of your dead father, I conjure you be silent, and come to me at once!
"H."
The note had neither date, address, nor signature, save that one capital letter, but when it was folded and in the envelope, she wrote the address: – "Miss W. Rose, – House, Queen Street, Speckport."
Then, rising, she exchanged the crumpled robe in which she had slept for one of plain black silk, hastily thrust her hair loose into a chenille net, put on a long black silk mantle, a bonnet and thick brown vail, placed the letter in her pocket, and went down stairs. There was no possibility of leaving the house unseen; Mrs. Hill heard her opening the front door and came out of the dining-room. Her eyes opened like full moons at the sight of the street costume, and the young lady's white, resolute face.
"My patience, Miss Olive, you're never going out?"
"Yes," Miss Henderson said, constraining herself to speak quietly. "My head aches, and I think a walk in the air will do it good. I will be back directly."
"But, do take something before you go. Some tea, now, and a little bit of toast."
"No, no! not any, thank you, until I come back."
She was gone even while she spoke; the thick vail drawn over her face, her parasol up, screening her effectually. Catty Clowrie, watching her from the window, would have given considerable to follow her, and see where she went. She had little faith in that walk being taken for the sake of walking; some covert meaning lay hidden beneath.
"I declare to you, Catty," exclaimed Mrs. Hill, coming back, "she gave me quite a turn! She was as white as a ghost, and those big black eyes of hers looked bigger and blacker than ever. She is turning bilious, that's what she's doing."
Miss Henderson walked to Queen Street by the most retired streets, and passed before the hotel, where Major and Mrs. Wheatly boarded. She had some idea of putting the letter in the post-office when she started, but in that case Miss Rose would not receive it until evening, and how could she wait all that time, eating out her heart with mad impatience? There was a man standing in the doorway of the ladies' entrance, a waiter, and quite alone. With her vail closely drawn over her face, Miss Henderson approached him, speaking in a low voice:
"There is a young lady – a governess, called Miss Rose, stopping here – is there not?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Is she in now?"
"Yes'm."
"Will you please give her this letter! give it into her own hand, and at once!"
She gave him the letter, and a fee that made him stare, and was gone. The man did not know her, and Olive reached home without once meeting any one who recognized her.
Miss Catty Clowrie did not leave the cottage all that day. She was sewing for Mrs. Hill; and, seated at the dining-room window, she watched Miss Henderson furtively, but incessantly, under her white eyelashes. That young lady seemed possessed of the very spirit of restlessness, since her return from her walk. It had not done her much good, apparently, for it had neither brought back color nor appetite; and she wandered from room to room, and up-stairs and down-stairs, with a miserable feverish restlessness, that made one fidgety to look at her. And all the time in her dark colorless face there was only one expression, one of passionate, impatient waiting. Waiting, waiting, waiting! For what? Catty Clowrie's greenish-gray eyes read the look aright, but for what was she waiting?
"I'll find it out, yet," Miss Clowrie said, inwardly. "She is a very fine lady, this Miss Olive Henderson, but there is an old adage about 'All that glitters is not gold.' I'll wait and see."
There were a great many callers in the course of the morning, but Miss Henderson was too indisposed to see any of them. Even Miss Blair was sent away with this answer, when she came; but Miss Henderson had left word, Mrs. Hill said, that she would be glad to see Miss Laura to-morrow. Miss Henderson herself, walking up and down the drawing-room, heard the message given, and the door closed on her friend, and then turned to go up-stairs. She stopped to say a word to her housekeeper as she did so.
"There is a person to call to-day, Mrs. Hill," she said, not looking at the pilot's widow, "and you may send her up to my room when she comes. It is Miss Rose, Mrs. Major Wheatly's governess!"
Her foot was on the carpeted stair as she said this, and she ran up without giving her housekeeper time to reply. Catty Clowrie, industriously sewing away, listened, and compressed her thin lips.
"Miss Rose coming to see her, and admitted to a private interview, when every one else is excluded! Um – m – m! That is rather odd; and Miss Rose is a stranger to her – or is supposed to be! I wonder why she fainted at sight of Miss Rose, on the wharf, yesterday, and why Miss Rose's face turned to pale amazement at sight of her. She did not ask any questions, I noticed; but Miss Rose was always discreet; and no one observed her but myself, in the hubbub. There is something odd about all this!"
She threaded her needle afresh, and went on with her sewing, with the patient perseverance of all such phlegmatic mortals. Mrs. Hill came in, wondering what Miss Henderson could possibly want of Miss Rose, but her niece could throw no light on the subject.
"Perhaps she wants a companion," Miss Clowrie remarked; "fine ladies like Miss Henderson are full of freaks, and perhaps she wants some one to play and sing and read to her, when she feels too lazy to do it herself."
Catty Clowrie had read a good many novels in her life, full of all sorts of mysteries, and secret crimes, and wicked concealments, and conspiracies – very romantic and unlike every-day life – but still liable to happen. She had never had the faintest shadow of romance, to cover rosily her own drab-hued life – no secret or mystery of any sort to happen to herself, or any of the people among whom she mingled. The most romantic thing that had ever occurred within her personal knowledge was the fact of this new heiress, this Olive Henderson, rising from the offal of New York, from the most abject poverty, to sudden and great wealth.
Miss Clowrie sat until three o'clock, sewing at the dining-room window. Luncheon-hour was two, but Miss Henderson would not descend, and asked to have a cup of strong tea sent up, so Mrs. Hill and her niece partook of that repast alone. As the clock was striking three, a young lady, dressed in half-mourning, came down the street and rang the door-bell; and Catty, dropping her work, ran to open it, and embrace with effusion the visitor. She had not spoken to Miss Rose before since her return, and kissed her now, as though she were really glad to see her.
"I am so glad you are back again, dear Miss Rose!" the young lady cried, holding both Miss Rose's hands in hers; "you cannot think how much we have all missed you since you went away!"
Now, it was rather unfortunate for Miss Clowrie, but nature, who will always persist in being absurdly true to herself, had given an insincere look to the thin, wide mouth, and a false glimmer to the greenish-gray eyes, and a clammy, limp moistness to the cold hand, that made you feel as if you had got hold of a dead fish, and wished to drop it again as soon as possible. Miss Rose had taken an instinctive aversion to Miss Clowrie the first time she had seen her, and had never been quite able to get over it since, though she had conscientiously tried; but she never betrayed it, and smiled now in her own gentle smile, and thanked Miss Clowrie in her own sweet voice. She turned to Mrs. Hill, though, when that lady appeared, with a far different feeling, and returned the kiss that motherly old creature bestowed upon her.
"It does my heart good to see you again, Miss Rose," the housekeeper said. "I haven't forgotten all you did for me last year when poor, dear Hill was lost, going after that horrid ship. You can't think how glad I was when I heard you were come back."