Chapter II: Part 2

When she was getting to be a romping big girl, she had just as queer ways; too old for a child, though the sober, owl-like look began to soften to an earnest expression, which on occasions verged upon a twinkle in the deep blue eyes. Distant friends were now writing letters of inquiry, and her father's relatives persistently urged Mrs. Barrett to send the child to them for a visit. At last she took Ruth and went; she would not trust her out of her sight. She was a pale, pretty, gentle-looking woman, with a will of iron. It was to Judge Barrett's sister, Mrs. Stanton, in a neighboring town, that they came. They were afraid to mention his name, or hint at a possible reconciliation; but they managed to make the young Ruth very much in love with her new aunt, and merry, pretty cousins.

Meanwhile her father had gone from bad to worse, a confirmed drunkard, though rarely too far gone to make an eloquent stump-speech when occasion required. So popular was he that he had the sympathy of the community in his domestic estrangement. Some said his wife was too hard and unforgiving; all agreed that he should have been permitted to see his child.

Ruth was seventeen years old and had long since exerted her filial influence to the extent of going to her aunt, Mrs. Stanton, whenever she wished. She had come to be quite a sensation in her father's native village, his hosts of friends readily tracing a likeness to himself. She was a sweet, rather wilful maiden, not exactly pretty, but very refined and attractive.

Judge Barrett had always found a bed at his sister's, no matter at what hour of day or night he chose to stagger in; but the large family combined efforts to prevent the contretemps of a meeting between him and Ruth. Their promise to her mother was too sacred for trifling, and they loved the girl too well to risk being deprived of her society. Destiny, or chance, was too strong for them. It was on a bright, sunlit day, when Ruth was in an animated discussion with her cousin Roger upon the merits of Vassar College, recently thrown open to young women, which he declared was only a place where they transformed a girl into a boy.

"Never go there, Coz, if you wish to retain an iota of your womanhood."

"Prejudice, prejudice;" she retorted. "I do believe in the higher education of women and I am certainly going to Vassar, if I can persuade my mother to part from me so long."

"Why not take her with you?" Mrs. Stanton was saying, when horror of horrors, there appeared at the side door of the large sitting-room a flushed and tangled-looking creature, tottering and righting up alternately. All eyes were turned upon him, and every voice was dumb. Steadying himself within the door, he slowly surveyed the young faces grouped there, till his bloodshot gaze fell upon Ruth's white, wondering countenance. Perhaps she reminded him of the wife who had repudiated him. Perhaps some dawning instinct was at work. He staggered up to the girl, who never once turned her eyes, and placing a hand upon her head, said in the words of Childe Harold: "Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child?"

Tears sprang to every eye; but Ruth, first gasping as with a revelation from some long-dormant recess of her brain, arose, and catching his hand as it fell powerless, burst out:

"_Who_ are you? Are you my--father? Oh, tell me!" she appealed to the group about her--"my father?" and stood breathless before him.

The word seemed to sober him with a mighty shock. He sank upon his knees, her hands still clasping his, and burying his hot face in her cool palms, murmured in choking accents:

"Her father--my child--my God, I thank thee!"

But the strain was too much. In a moment more he sank all in a heap upon the floor, limp and lifeless.

Passionately the girl knelt beside him, and looked searchingly into his now colorless face, while the others hastened with restoratives. Nor did she leave him during the days of illness that followed, except when obliged to rest. Little by little they had told her the story.

She only said: "Oh, I never dreamed he was like this. I used to think he must be something inhuman, horrible. Then I found myself staring at every stranger, especially if he was monstrous, or in the least hideous. But I had given up all hope, and was afraid to ask."

"No, my dear child;" soothingly said her aunt, "your father is not horrible, or hideous except that he is the slave of drink. He is not inhuman, but a tender, loving creature. He is a gentleman, cultured and learned. There is nothing fine in the language he cannot repeat, so wonderful is his gift of memory. Oh, my child, can you not--will you not help him? You can win him, I feel sure."

Ruth learned to love her father by reason of his idolatrous devotion to her, as well as the powerful influence of his brilliant talents. In those first days of convalescence he followed her feebly from room to room, drinking in the joy of having her after the privation of years; and one day folding her to his breast said:

"My precious child--my beautiful daughter--hear your father's vow! Come what will, nevermore shall a drop of the accursed fire pass my lips. I will redeem our name--I can and I will."

He kept his word. Ruth went to Vassar. She wrote long, loving letters to her mother and father every week of her school life. Once she said to her mother:

"You know what I wish, my darling mamma. You know that I long to unite my two beloveds; but never shall I ask it. You must follow your own heart. I believe my father will be worthy of us; I shall be guided by you alone."

At first the mother was stricken down by the fierce throes of jealousy and pain that rent her soul; but as time went on and she knew that she was not supplanted, she grew quiescent. But she owned to herself that she never could have sent Ruth away if it had not been to separate her from her father as well.

On every side his praises were sung in her ears. He was rising higher and higher in his profession, and one enormous fee in a contested will case, had suddenly made him rich. Both were getting on toward middle life, and he was slightly gray; but her brown hair lay in the same soft, glossy bands, and her pure white face was placid as of yore.

Four years had passed, and Ruth's birthday was at hand. Her mind had long been made up; and now Christmas light and gladness reigned supreme. It was just at the close of the day when entering the fire-lit room upon the arm of her tall, distinguished-looking father, she threw her arms about her mother and whispered three words,--"For our sake!"

Then kneeling with courtly grace before her, he kissed the fair hand he had won in his youth and in tones whose music had thrilled her girlish heart, he spoke:

"My beloved, will you not trust me again? See--our darling has saved us for each other."

And the last ray of the roseate sun lingered lovingly on the three as the evening sank into blessed night.

In a Pullman Car

A LOVE STORY

It was rather late when Hervey Leslie threw the remains of a cigar from the car window, and staggered through the jumping, jerking Pullman to his berth.

The curtains were all drawn, giving to the car a funereal aspect, and lights were turned down for the night.

Jerk, jerk, jolt and jump went the train around the mountain curves, till the various hats and wraps suspended from the hooks seemed about to tumble together. Suddenly something dropped through the curtains of the upper berth opposite and lodged there. Involuntarily extending his arm to catch it if it fell, our young traveler's eyes were riveted upon an object which he now felt inclined to catch, whether it fell or not. It was a small white shapely hand--a woman's hand; and the midnight tresspasser would have been less than human if he had not risen to a better view. There it was, just peeping between the heavy curtains, white and blue-veined, with tapering fingers and shell-like nails. How he longed to touch it! How tempting the rounded curve of the small wrist.

A prolonged lunge threw him violently forward, when grasping the rod to save himself, his lips went plump against the coveted object. It was only momentary, but it thrilled him as with an electric shock. When he recovered his equilibrium the fair sleeper had withdrawn entirely out of sight, and her involuntary assailant addressed himself to the duty of disrobing. Long he pondered upon the "touch of a vanished hand," and at last fell into uneasy dreams wherein the world had come to an end, and he found himself at the gates of heaven, with five soft white fingers turning the key on the other side.

"Last call for breakfast," shouted the porter next morning, and the confusion of voices mingled with the noisy folding of vacated berths.

Parting his curtains, Hervey Leslie peered out, possibly to catch a morning view of the pretty hand.

"By Jove! better still!" was his smothered comment, as he hastily turned away.

What he had seen was the perfection of a French boot, buttoned high, and protruding modestly below the curtains. Then a soft voice called--"Porter, I should like to get down."

The steps were adjusted, and as she gently fluttered down, the listener thought--

"What a shame I didn't have a chance to exchange berths with her! To think of her being perched up there!"

An hour later Leslie returned from his cigar to find the Pullman in order, and the refreshed occupants enjoying the books and papers scattered about. It was not possible to mistake the owner of the hand and foot, whom a glance revealed in her corner, looking quietly upon the hurrying villages and farms. A coquettish hat rested lightly upon a fluffy mass of golden brown hair, a dainty tailored suit fitted closely the rounded figure, and the face that looked out of the window was sweet and bright even in repose. The coveted hand, in spotless kid, shielded the earnest eyes from the glare of the morning sun, and all in all, the picture was one to tempt any looker-on.

Just as Hervey Leslie was puzzling his brain for a pretext, however flimsy, to introduce himself, a lady came from the dressing-room and sat down beside the beautiful unknown--a lady still young and handsome, and so closely resembling the girl as to leave no doubt that they were mother and daughter.

"What has Charlie done with himself?" was the pleasant question, met with a smile so bewitching that the watcher was hopelessly ensnared.

"So, there's a party of them," he mused. "And who the deuce is Charlie?"

But when that youth appeared he proved to be only a brother, and not a very big brother, at that.

Settling himself back in a corner from whence he could use his eyes and ears as he dared, young Leslie drew forth a letter which he perused with interest; in fact, he already knew it by heart. It ran thus:

"MY DEAR SON,

"Congratulate me. The all-important day is fixed for the 24th inst.
Come at once. Mrs. Dana is anxious to cultivate you, and my own
impatience is an old story.

"Your affectionate father,

"H.J. LESLIE."

"Confound Mrs, Dana!" was the son's comment, for upon the subject of his father's second marriage he was distinctly undutiful.

For a while he lost himself in pictures of the new home, and mentally resolved to absent himself as much as possible. He knew how his opposition was grieving his father, who thought him most unreasonable: but he persisted in refusing to see the lady until after the ceremony.

Suddenly with a terrific lurch the train was derailed and plunged down an embankment, not steep but rocky. The heavy Pullman toppled over, then planted itself firmly in a bed of fresh earth, and was still. There were wild cries of fear and pain, a loud crashing of glass lamps, and some wrenching of seats. Leslie fell into a pile of great-coats, and flung out his right arm just as the two ladies were dashed against him, and a sudden sharp twinge made him oblivious of everything.

When he recovered consciousness he found himself being pulled out of his corner, and realized by the agony of the motion, that something was broken somewhere. With one mighty protest against such vigorous handling, he relapsed into a dead faint. When he next opened his eyes he was lying between cool sheets in a pleasant room, and bending over him was the elder lady of the Pullman. The first bewildered look was rapidly merged into a frown of pain, as a sense of discomfort made itself felt.

"He is coming round, doctor;" said the lady.

Then to him she said;--"you must be very quiet. Your shoulder has been set. It is all right now. Heaven be praised that we did not kill you as we fell!" she added aside, and her sweet motherly face showed the sympathy he was in need of.

Then a voice at the door said timidly, yet eagerly,--"Mamma, come--Charlie wants you."

The ladies vanished, leaving the doctor in charge.

Hervey soon gathered that they were at a farm-house near Columbus, Ohio; that Charlie had a broken leg, that his mother and sister, along with the others who had escaped injury, were stopping over to render service to the wounded.

"Who are they?" he asked, curiosity getting the better of his pain.

"I think the name is Raynor," said the doctor; "Mrs. Raynor, Miss Eloise, and the youth, whose leg we set this morning. But say, young man, where are your people? Don't you want some telegrams sent? You are not likely to get away from here very soon."

Young Leslie groaned as he gave his father's address at Cincinnati, then exclamed;--"See here, doctor, can't you stop this confounded pain? What the deuce is the matter, anyway? Do get me out of this."

The doctor gave him a soothing potion and bade him be quiet. He promised to send a nurse, then went to look after the more slightly injured patients.

Three weeks later found Hervey Leslie in dressing-gown and slippers, setting beside Miss Eloise Raynor under a large shade tree, the young lady reading aloud from Tennyson's tender rhymes. At an open window in full view lay Charlie, still a prisoner, with his mother in close attendance.

Mr. Leslie had paid several visits, and assured his son that the only way in which he could repay him for postponing the wedding till he should be well enough to witness it, was by becoming reconciled to his new mother. At which the son smiled, for something had of late come over the spirit of his dream that predisposed him singularly in favor of weddings. A sort of low fever hung about him, which made it prudent for him to remain in the country; and he rather fixed the time of his departure when Charlie's leg should justify the whole party's leaving.

The young girl and her mother blamed themselves for his hurt and had paid him every kindly attention. He had gathered the story of the petted daughter, and in his enfeebled state their acquaintance made rapid progress. Even now it required no acute observer to surmise the ravages of the little god. No one interfered, and for once the course of true love seemed to glide smoothly on.

He had confessed his aversion to to the prospective mother, and endeavored to elicit sympathy by picturing to young Eloise what it would be to have another fill her dear father's place. At such times her face was impenetrable, and he intuitively grew to avoid the topic.

Ere Charlie was able to get about, young Leslie had fallen in love with the whole family; and when he had sought and obtained the dimpled hand he had so coveted in the Pullman car, laughingly told the mother he was not so sure but that after all she was the one he loved best. A smile passed over the regular features as she said meaningly:

"Only love me as a son, my boy, and I think we can be happy in each other. But remember, a mother-in-law is a dangerous animal!"

Mr. Leslie was so happy in his son's good fortune,--for so he evidently considered it--that he declared there must be a double wedding.

"You shall have your way," he added, with some pique; "and not see Mrs. Dana till we meet at the church. Afterward, I'll risk the meeting!"

Some two months after the accident the programme was carried out. But the Raynors had remained at the farm-house till the appointed day, the young people growing all the while so distractingly fond of each other, that the really short time seemed to drag with leaden wings.

Quietly one morning, in the presence of intimate friends, and quite in the old-fashioned way, the two pairs of lovers walked up the church aisle to the minister in waiting. The ladies wore rich traveling-suits, and carriages waited to convey the immediate members of the family to the wedding breakfast. The younger bridegroom saw nothing but the sweet face at his side, though he started perceptibly when the service revealed that his father's bride and his own bore the same musical name of Eloise.

When the first carriage closed with a snap, there was a relaxing of ceremony, and an interchange of congratulations, earnest, though somewhat amusing. For when Hervey raised his eyes to the despised mother's face, he saw there the soft features of Mrs. Raynor, while his father smiled in contented expectancy. His own face was a study!

"Raynor?" he stammered. "Why I thought--I understood--"

"You said Raynor," was the teasing reply; "we never did."

"And whom have I married?" was his next question, with a grotesque grimace at the demure young person beside him.

"Eloise Dana, an' it please your lordship. Do you mean to get a divorce?"

"It's all right, my boy;" cheerily said his father, while all three heartily enjoyed the denouement. "It was only a little harmless plot, you know, to bring you to your senses! Besides, you were in too delicate a state of health to bear the truth!" This with decided relish.

"Bring me to my senses!" echoed the other. "You have about run me crazy! Here I've gone and married my wife's brother to his sister, and the fathers and mothers are all fathers-in-law and mothers-in-law. But, my dear mamma," he added, with an 'Et-tu-Brute' look at the amused lady, "I did not think you would play me false!"

"The temptation was too great," she confessed, "after I saw your name on the tell-tale suit case; own the truth now, that as Mrs. Dana, you would never have fallen in love with me!"

"Ah, well," he gave in, "let's kiss and make friends. As for you, young lady," he exclaimed with mock fierceness, "I shall exact the most implicit obedience. I must get even somehow."

"No--no--I did not promise to obey--brides never do nowadays," and the little gloved hand went up to his lips in protest.

Catching it fast, he threatened to proclaim the first time her hand had ever touched his lips, all unconscious though she was, and amid blushes and happiness all around, they arrived at the house, where the whole story had to be rehearsed to delighted friends, beginning with midnight vision in a Pullman car.

In Old Kentucky

A PRIZE STORY

Everybody was at Crab Orchard springs, that favorite resort in the ante-bellum days. What though the main rooms were cramped and stuffy, or that the straggling cottages across the grassy lawn were mere shells. It was a place thoroughly rural, thoroughly enjoyable. Merely to ramble along the winding saw-dust walks to the deep embowered springs, was a sufficient augury of improved health. It was the one daily excitement to crowd up to the long platform and see the stage come in, bringing high and low, the rich and moderate liver. The luggage was light, Saratoga trunks being unknown quantities, and no gowns were brought except those of the crushable kind that did duty at ten-pins, fishing, walking, dancing, and not least, driving, for the gravel turnpikes were fine.

Across the wide street was Bachelors' Row, where were installed hunters and hounds from the Southland, rich cotton and sugar planters, sporting men and their sable attendants. Here the candles burned all night, and there were loud whispers of games in vogue not as innocent as those listed on the tempting advertising circulars of the Springs. This sunny, summer life was of the _dolce far niente_ sort, given up to idle pleasure, and quite out of the way of the tragic happenings of romance. Yet a mystery had managed to creep into this Arcadian realm, a thing not at first tangible, but getting to be an acknowledged first-class secret as the days went by.

Egbert Mason had been nearer the carriage than the rest of the sunset crowd when the stage rolled up, followed by the close, luxurious-looking vehicle so rarely seen in those parts. He declared he caught a glimpse of a being, exquisitely beautiful among the two or three closely wrapped and veiled women who descended from the carriage; and the young men were on the _qui vive_ some hours later to see the new comers enter the ball room. But they did not appear either that night, or any other night. They kept their cottage rooms closely, sitting out only in the rear, and were waited upon by the two black servants they had brought. Various were the conjectures about them, and vague stories soon took shape. The hotel register told only their names: Mrs. Glencarron, Mrs. Hamilton and daughter, from Mississippi. The daughter was an invalid, and this was all that could be drawn from the faithful blacks. The girls pouted, and mamas looked unutterables when their curiosity found no relief; while the men were wisely silent, though equally diligent in fruitless investigation.

It was past midnight, and the lights were out, when the ominous cry of "fire!" sounded through the grounds, striking terror to the visitors thus suddenly startled from their sleep, and emptying the cottages of their half-clad occupants by one accord. A glance at the crackling flames showed that Bachelors' Row was on fire and doomed. Men from the distant village were soon on the spot with buckets, and amid frightened cries, confused questions, and a general hurrying, scurrying of feet, a few had presence of mind to cover the main building with wet blankets, lest the trees now snapping and hissing might drop a blazing brand and the whole place go down.

After the first panic had subsided there was nothing to do but stand and watch the graphic scene; and while thus engaged the attention of some was attracted by a face white and drawn as with pain among the by-standers. It was that of one of the mysterious ladies of the southern cottages. But even as they noted the faded beauty and aristocratic bearing of the stranger she was hurried away by another figure closely wrapped and hooded. Not before she had ejaculated: "Oh, what is it? Is she----?" and there the words were lost.

It was somewhere near the early morning when Egbert Mason who had been foremost in fighting the fire, was aroused by a voice just outside his window, which was left open for the faint breeze of the summer night.

"Come quick iz you kin, young marster, fur de lub o'heb'n."

Between sleeping and waking the young man jumped up and peered out of the window. He could just discern the prim red and yellow turban of the black keeper of the strange ladies.

"Iz you a doctor, Marster? Dey says you iz."

"Yes--a very young one--what is wanted?"

The negress spoke a few very hurried words in a lower tone.

"All right. In one moment--stay--never mind--I have it--I'm coming." And catching up something from the shelf of his closet the young doctor sped away to the mysterious door of the southern guests.

He was met on the threshold by an anxious, grief-stricken face, and the words half sobbed out:

"Was there no one else? None older? You--why, you are a boy."

"True, madam, but I am not without experience. I hope--I think, you may trust me, unless----"

But she drew him hurriedly within the door, and on to an inner chamber, where lay his patient, so guarded that he never once saw her face. Before the earliest risers were called to the long breakfast hall there echoed the cry of a little child in the southern cottages--a girl baby that opened its eyes first in an atmosphere of secrecy and mystery.

* * * * *

Sixteen years had gone by. It was the eighth of January, and the Capitol Hotel at Frankfort was a blaze of military glory. It was the annual commemorative ball, and Strauss' band was pouring forth inspiring strains, as the dancers, in fancy costumes of every age and clime, flitted to and fro. The beauty, wealth and chivalry of Kentucky were there. The stars and stripes were draped about the speaking portraits of dead heroes, and munitions of war glittered on every side.

Among those wearing the neat broadcloth evening dress of the plain American citizen was Dr. Egbert Mason, the famous surgeon, now a distinguished looking man of thirty-five. It was rather late in the evening when he appeared, and he was soon captured by his friend, the Hon. Leslie Walcott, who bore the distinction of being the youngest member of the House, and presented to Miss Eleanor Carleton, the most popular of all the belles and beauties on the floor. Her dress was an exquisite personation of the stars and stripes, from the crown of stars on her golden brown hair, to the gaily ribboned white satin slipper. Her white muslin skirts showed the red stripes at intervals; a soft blue sarcanet sash across her breast was stamped with the outstretched wings of the American eagle, and in every detail this unique costume was alluring to a degree.

Dr. Mason was more than impressed by her extreme youth, in its setting of precocious womanly grace and charm. She was so happy and bright, a _sans souci_ maiden whom he lost no time in winning to his own colors, by the magic of a well-stored mind and an eloquent tongue. A sonsie, sweet-sixteen lassie, not yet out of school, but wonderfully developed, like the southern girls of the period, whose parents were possessed of ample means. He sounded her fresh, rich stores of mind and found she had indeed been carefully taught, wisely trained. Not at once did he learn it all, but soon enough to resolve to win and wear this jewel, if only Providence were kind. Providence? Ah, there swept across his face the shade of one bitter memory--one foul wrong that had darkened his earlier manhood. A woman's fatal wiles, a man's trust betrayed. He forgot that she had vowed vengeance if it took a lifetime. He thrust it all aside, and turned to the purity and innocence of this fair young womanhood, with the infinite longing of a starved nature.

The evening of the ball did not close without another surprise for Egbert Mason. Eleanor Carleton was challenging him in a spirited quotation contest when her mother approached leaning upon the arm of the Governor of the State. She was a handsome, dark-eyed woman, young enough to seem the elder sister of the lovely girl who called her mother.

"Eleanor, my child," she said, barely glancing at her daughter's companion. "I've been looking everywhere for you. Have you been in the draughts of those halls? Supper is ready."

"Oh, I've been in very good hands," was the merry reply, as the girl introduced Dr. Mason, and shook hands with the Governor, who was looking down at her with his kindliest smile.

"Madam," he said gallantly, "I must compliment you upon this exceedingly pretty and patriotic dress. I have been watching it from afar all evening. How could you conceive such a marked hit for the occasion."

"I hope it in order for me to say she never fails," proudly answered Senator Carleton, an imposing looking man, who had come up in time to hear the last remark. "The march is playing for supper--"

"Oh, mother--what is it?" cried the girl, suddenly directing attention to Mrs. Carleton's face, which was colorless, almost ghastly, while her eyes seemed gazing afar off into space.

"Allow me," said Dr. Mason, with concern, advancing quickly, and amid the excited gathering of the little circle about him, he gently bore her to one of the large windows, as the Senator in visible alarm threw up the sash.

"To my room," she murmured, as she revived a little, and thither they conducted her as quietly as possible.

At the door the startled young girl turned and impulsively clasping the doctor's hand, exclaimed:

"Oh, Dr. Mason--what is the matter? I never saw my mother like this--is she going to be ill?"

He tried to reassure her, though the touch of her soft, clinging fingers set his blood dancing like wild fire in his veins.

That night old Ailsie knelt beside her mistress and soothed her with the crooning tones of her childhood days.

"Don't you fret, Missie; he doan know nuffin' 'bout it now. An' if he do he ain' gwine ter tell nobody."

That night, too, Egbert Mason, in dreams climbed a mountain height to reach an eagle's nest. As he grasped the last wavering support a figure glittering with stars dropped from the nest, suspended by a tattered flag. Down, down it fell. Frantically he clutched at the frail colors. They lengthened more, and more, till the starry, shimmering form was swaying above a yawning abyss. Could he save her? Her--his young love with the appealing eyes? With one mighty effort he nerved himself for the desperate descent, when lo! from yon black depth appears the vindictive face of Isabella Drury. Older, careworn, faded--but still Isabella, and wearing the head of a Medusa.

* * * * *

"You shall never marry that girl, Egbert Mason! I have sworn it! If you attempt it I will kill one or both of you!" and the face of the speaker was like a mad woman. "Oh, I know all you would say," she went on, striding about the rooms she had entered by strategy. "But she shall not have you if I can not. Pshaw! What fools men are! Do you know who and what she is? Where is your boasted pride, that shrank from a thing like me! Let me tell you, then, you scornful, high mightiness! Eleanor Carleton is----" and she hissed the hateful word in his ears.

"Woman! You lie!" shouted Egbert Mason, stung to frenzy by her taunts, and sick unto death of her persecution. His was not a quiet nature, and she had touched him in his sorest point. "You lie, and you know it! Out of my sight! Tell all you will. I, too, can threaten. Your vile secret is still safe with me, but I shall find means to be rid of you--Go!"

"Stop!" she commanded, coming nearer and dropping her voice to a sibillant whisper. "Go back seventeen years to a summer night at Crab Orchard Springs! Aha! you start, I see you have not forgotten. Do you recollect the part you played that night? _She is that child!_" and with a malicious laugh she swiftly passed from the room.

The man sat stunned where she had left him. Could it be true? And what was the mystery of that far-away night of his youth? The more he pondered the more complete grew the chain. Senator Carleton had married a Kentucky girl, it was true; but her youth had been passed on a Mississippi plantation. He had years ago heard more or less idle gossip about the hard, miserly nature of the old planter, Hamilton, and of his bitter opposition to his daughter's match with penniless young Carleton. There had been an elopement, or something. It came back to him like some hideous nightmare. His pure, spotless darling--his promised wife! Could there be sin or shame enveloping such a being? He must know. He wrote to Mrs. Carleton. In earnest words of manly truth and honor he besought her to explain to him the past. Eleanor was visiting a friend in a distant city. No answer came. He went to the house and was denied admittance. He followed Eleanor only to learn that she had been hastily summoned home. That was not the day of rapid transit. He returned at last to find a letter of farewell forever--his beloved had been spirited away to other scenes. Then Egbert Mason left his native land, baffled, broken-hearted, and devoted the next three years to the study of special lines in his profession.

* * * * *

In a stately drawing room of an ideal Kentucky home are Eleanor Carleton and Egbert Mason, once more face to face.

"Oh, my love," he moaned, bending almost reverently before her, "what a mistake, I knew it all when too late. The letters were all found when that unhappy woman was sent to the asylum. Did you think I could change? 'Forget thee dear?'" he quoted unconsciously--he had said the lines so often;

"God knows I would not if I could:
For sweeter far has been to me the pain
Of love unsatisfied, than all the vain
And ill spent years I lived before we met."

Still she stood, gravely looking at him, her maturing beauty made the fairer by the sable gown she wore.

"Forgive me," then she spoke. "I thought you knew. I have been Leslie Walcott's wife these four months."

As he sat beside his solitary hearth there was a fumbling outside the door. He opened to admit old Ailsie, now crippled with rheumatic pains.

"I know'd dat was you. Marse Doctor, 'n I follered yer, I want to tell yer:--Mistress 'splained all 'bout dat 'fore she died. Dey wan't nothin' wrong. Her an' her ma was 'feared to let old Master know she hed run 'way an' married Marse Henry. He said he wan't gwine ter will her nary cent. So mistess and her sister, Miss Ellen, arter while, dey fotch her up to de springs. Den ole master he died sudden like, an' Marse Henry, he had done ben 'way off to New Auleens--never know'd dey had fooled old Master 'bout de chile an' all dat. Po' Mistress! she nebber could tell him no better, and she was always skeerd-like arter she seed you agin. But she sot right down dat day and writ all about it to you an' I goes and gives de letter to dat purty white lady what was sich a good frien', and den she gimme yourn, ain----"

"Yes, yes, Auntie, I know--I have the letters here----at last," he added in low, husky tones.

* * * * *

The _Louisville Journal_ of the next New Year, under date of January 9, contained the following notice, with lengthy editorial comment:

"Died suddenly last night, of heart disease, at the close of the
Military Ball, at the Capitol Hotel, Frankfort, the Hon. Leslie
Walcott, age thirty-two years."

Did hope stretch out an alluring hand to one lonely reader?

His Gratitude

VENGEANCE IS MINE

"But surely you do not realize, Robert Garrett, that when you foreclose this mortgage you leave us virtually penniless;" and the large dark eyes of the suppliant were blinded by an agony of tears.

"Really, madam, I regret to seem hard;" and the polished courtesy of the cold, harsh voice fell with heavy weight upon her strained senses. "Your husband has had more time now than any law allows, human or divine."

"Oh, how gladly he would have paid the debt;" she moaned; "it was his kindness and forbearance to others--kindness that seemed imperative. He could not take the law against his crippled brother, his mother's dying legacy to him. You know all this--you know, too, that if you will only grant a little longer respite he can settle the claim, or the greater part of it. How then can you be so cruel as to drive us out of doors! You who need nothing of this world's goods!"

The man of business stirred a little, crossed his well-clad legs in still greater comfort, and audibly repressed a yawn. Then as if unwillingly forced to say something he did it as ungraciously as possible.

"Again I say I grieve to proceed to harsh measures, but"--then as she was about to interpose he broke out irritably, "God bless my soul, Mrs. Blaine, how can you expect anything else! I am obliged to be accurate in my matters, otherwise there would be no end to imposition from shiftless men who are always going to pay but----never do."

"This, then, is your ultimatum, sir? You will turn me and my children out wanderers from the old home where I was born--where I had hoped to die? Can you do this? Even you, whom the world calls rich and prosperous and----charitable!" As she spoke she bent upon him in fine scorn her brilliant eyes dark and piercing.

"Painful things occur every day, my dear madam, in this transitory life. And once in a while the tables turn. I think I remember a time when I pleaded with perhaps not so much eloquence, but quite as much earnestness, for a boon at the hands of pretty Mildred Deering. I didn't get it, and I have survived, you see. We are apt to magnify our misfortunes;" and a mocking smile told wherein lay the animus that was her undoing.

Then she drew her graceful figure to its full height, and with the contempt of an outraged wife and mother, her words came in tones of concentrated vehemence:

"So! Robert Garrett, this is your vaunted Christianity! You, the immaculate pillar of the church--the friend of the outcast--the chief among philanthropists! Grant _your_ boon? Was there was ever a moment in her sheltered life when Mildred Deering would have consorted with the hypocrite you are? Never! Better a thousand times poverty with nobility and truth in the man she loves. Better an age of privation with Herbert Blaine than a single instant in the presence of such as you. Do your worst! And may God mete out to you and yours the mercy you have shown us!"

Clasping the hand of her little girl who had clung to her mother's skirts, gazing with wide-open, awestruck eyes at the great man, she was gone in a moment.

"Ah!" uttered Robert Garrett in a long-drawn-out syllable, reaching for the evening paper.

There had been another silent witness of this scene in the person of a lad who stood within the door he had entered just as Mrs. Blaine had appeared in the opposite way. He was a rather ill-favored schoolboy, but his thoughts as he came forward with the lanky awkwardness of youth and took a chair in chimney corner, were not of himself or his looks.

"Father," he said after some minutes had passed, the rattle of the newspaper and the measured ticking of the clock being the only disturbing sounds, "Father," he repeated, this time with a falling inflection.

Startled uncomfortably at the unexpected address the father peered frowningly at the boy with a gruff, "What!"

"Do you think it is just the fair and square thing to turn 'em out?"

"What do _you_ know about it, you young meddler. Keep quiet about what does not concern you. You have enough to eat and wear--attend to your own business."

There was no encouragement to go on, so young Robert sat and pondered till his father, chafing under the silent rebuke personified in every line of the son's uncomely face, sent him to his room.

In the other house there was little sleep; and for many succeeding days the devoted Blaines, with heavy hearts, put by their idols one by one, till at last the time-honored oaken doors closed upon them in relentless banishment. It mattered not that amid new scenes prosperity once more opened her sheltering arms and kept the wolf from the door. The new owner of Deering Castle, as the villagers had admiringly christened the grand old place, refused to sell it. Robert Garrett, with the littleness born of a mean, cramped nature, clung to this coveted possession as the one thing to be held, though all else were taken. He had money but knew not how to enjoy it. His household, for the most part, reflected the coarseness of his nature, and as time passed his retribution was meted out in rebellious sons and daughters, who wasted his substance and dragged down his name still further in the mire.

Twenty years had gone by. Herbert Blaine and his bright-eyed wife slept in the city of the dead. With their latest breath they had, one by one, adjured their beloved daughter, the only surviving child since the civil war had laid low their three manly boys, to regain possession of the old homestead. Time, they assured her, would make all things even, and long before they laid down the burden of life, they had seen how the wife's curse beat upon the head of the man who had so oppressed them. They had learned to feel pity for him whom they had once despised. Not so Jessie Blaine. She was a woman now, and had been, for a few brief years, till death robbed her, a happy wife. But never could she forget that dismal twilight hour when her innocent eyes had photographed the hateful, sneering face of her mother's enemy; when her ears had phonographed his mocking words. The scene had haunted her waking and sleeping, for many days; and still after all these years she could and did remember.

She rejoiced when she heard that wild Ben Garrett had broken nearly every law of the decalogue, and was wrecking the peace of all who cared for him. "They richly deserve it all;" she said, when some fresh escapade or misdemeanor would come to light. He had squandered his father's thousands aimlessly, recklessly, and was fast bringing his white hairs in sorrow to the grave. Jessie Forrester only smiled as she read these items from the local press. Riches and honors were hers. There was nothing lacking but the dear old home of her people, and this could not be bought. She climbed to heights undreamed-of in her earlier days, and became a shining light in the world of letters. Her books were read in two continents. Statesmen and distinguished circles sought her till her name became a power in the land. Her influence was widespread. In an eastern city she at last came to revel in her books and manuscripts, or in her sweet, healthful, domestic loves, renouncing all thoughts of revenge, for the time being, and abandoning the hope of recovering the sacred pile where she first saw the light.

One day there came a letter bearing the postmark of her native town. With difficulty deciphering the straggling, tremulous address, she broke the seal and read as follows:--

"Madam:

"A heart-broken father appeals to you in his hour of extremity, to
save his son from the gallows. My boy--my wayward, reckless boy,
who was once as innocent and pure as yourself, has fallen into the
hands of treacherous natives and half-breeds in Arkansas, and they
accuse him of murdering a traveller for his money. He is guiltless
of this crime--God knows he is; but the weight of evidence is fearful,
and I am powerless to refute it. The proceedings have been hurried
over and the verdict is against him.

"I am unable to go to him--I bring the case to you. Go, I beg of you,
to Washington and plead with the congressman from this, your native
district, and the Arkansas representative, who is your kinsman. Urge
them to see the President and prevail upon him to sift the evidence.
I realize most bitterly that I have no claim upon you, but oh, for
God's sake, Madam, do what you can for a distracted father. Hanging!
Oh, save him from that--and act quickly, for he has only five days
to live. I am crazed with anxiety and sleeplessness.

"Your obedient servant,

"Robert Garrett."

Jessie Forrester's hour had come. The revenge so ardently longed-for since the hour her mother had invoked the curse of heaven upon this man, was here. What though his boy did perish, by an ignominous death. A more worthless cumberer of the earth did not exist. Ah! that cold, sneering voice on the winter's eve so long ago; her mother's tears! As he had sown so should he reap, and her hands would help to gather in the harvest. Through him they had been exiled all these years from the home that was their birthright. The husband of her early womanhood might have been spared if only they could have nursed him back to health under the cool shade of those grand old trees instead of languishing in the hot city. Help this man? This incarnation of cruel selfishness? Not she;--his boy should suffer the extreme penalty of the law. How could _she_ lift a voice to save him! "His boy?" Ah, through her tender mother's heart there darted a pain all unwonted. Her own noble, gifted boy--her all--what if untoward fate should have in store for him some doom of shame--him, her idol and her pride.

She sat buried in thought till suddenly starting up she consulted a time table, then rang hurriedly for her maid. She was ready in thirty minutes, and summoning her young son, was soon enroute for the capital. Arriving at ten o'clock she called a carriage and sped away to new northwest quarter of the city. By midnight she had seen both representatives and thoroughly enlisted their services. She gave no reason for her intercession, nor was it necessary. It was enough that she deemed it a case for intervention. Next morning the two statesmen had an interview with the President, and by the hardest, for the mass of evidence against young Garrett was overwhelming, got a stay of proceedings till the case could be further investigated.

Well-nigh exhausted from the mental and bodily strain, Jessie arrived at her home unfit for anything but rest. Then she answered her enemy's letter. Did she reproach him with his life-long injustice? Did she demand the old home in exchange for the service she had rendered? Or at least the privilege of buying it? She merely wrote;--

"I have been to Washington and secured a reprieve pending further sifting of evidence."

Ben Garrett was saved and the close view of the gallows sobered him at last. He married the daughter of a Texas ranchman and Jessie heard of him no more.

* * * * *

Five years passed away when on a gloomy afternoon in the autumn, Jessie Forrester, now a woman of thirty, and wearing her years and honors well, was sitting at her desk in an elegant sanctum, absorbed in the fate of two lovers whose history she was creating.

Her door opened and a grave, handsome man with a bearded face stood before her.

"Madam," he said briefly "you once did my brother a great favor. I am here to thank you for it."

His brother? A favor? Ah, she had been doing favors for many in all these years. She did not remember any particular one; it was an every day matter. Every mail brought petitions and she never turned a deaf ear. The doing of favors brought its own reward.

She looked steadily at the stranger, and he felt again in his inmost soul the gaze of those large brown eyes seen once before dilated with childish terror.

"My name is Garrett," he explained, as briefly as before.

Garrett--that hated name. Involuntarily her eyes fell upon the work before her, while a warm flush mantled her cheeks.

"May I sit down for five minutes?"

She again raised her eyes without speaking, and he seated himself, not looking at but beyond her as if her steady gaze unmanned him.

"Madam, my parents are dead. I have come to offer you Deering Castle at your own price. I should not presume to suggest it as a gift. It is yours if you wish it. I have heard so often," and here his voice fell for very shame, "that you wanted it. It was not then mine to dispose of; now there is no barrier; it is yours. I will send my attorney to you."

Rising he lingered a moment with a certain wistfulness suffusing his features, then made his way out ere Jessie could recover sufficiently to bid him stay.

Her faculties were in a tumult. Deering Castle hers--the estate of her fathers--the venerated old home hers at last. It almost took her breath away. A Garrett was offering it. That name hated all her life. But did she hate it now?

There was no more work that day for the author. Nor ever again did her genius shine out in rapturing periods till she drew inspiration from the grand environment of the old homestead. Here Robert Garrett is not an unwelcome guest. Young Herbert is in fact quite devoted to the grave, sedate man with the tender heart. Will his benign influence one day still further cement the new friendship?

The Singer's Christmas

A HOLIDAY STORY

The air of the December day was soft and mild. All the world was in the streets, glad of a respite from the late cold "snap," which had brought out furs and heavy wraps.

Signora Cavada was taking her accustomed drive, chaperoned by a comfortable looking American woman; for this was an American city, and the famous prima donna was winning nightly laurels at the Louisville Opera House.

To-day, the carriage with its high-stepping bays sought a new neighborhood, that the great singer might not be bored with repeated views of the same places. As it bowled along an old man in tattered garments approached, hat in hand, and held it toward the open window for alms. The driver cracked his whip peremptorily above the straggling gray locks of the suppliant, and drove on toward the suburbs.

"Who was that poor old man?" asked the singer in excellent English.

"Oh, only a beggar; the streets are full of them just before Christmas," replied her companion.

"Is he very poor?" persisted the signora. "In my own country we have beggars--they make a business of begging. But that was a grand face. I shall go back again to look for him; tell the driver."

Accustomed to obey the caprices of her mistress, the duenna gave the order and the carriage turned back. There stood the old man as before, but this time he did not approach the equipage.

"Come here," said the signora, holding out a neatly gloved hand.

Fixing his faded eyes, now kindling with something like hope, upon her lovely face, he came nearer, and at her bidding told his story. It was a common one: Ill-health, a vagabond son, his earnings all gone, no work, and finally beggary.

"And have you no one to take care of you? Where do you live?"

"In that old shed, madam," he answered, pointing to a tumbled down cabin once used as a cobbler's shop. "And I have with me my little girl, my grandchild."

"A little girl in that place? Where is she? How do you keep her?"

"Ah, madam, she makes flowers--her mother taught her--and earns a few pennies now and then. She sings, too, madam," he added with pride.

"Sings?" eagerly echoed the signora. "Fetch her here; I want to see her."

"She has gone away to the woods to gather evergreens. To-morrow is Christmas Day."

"Yes, yes, I remember! And how do you celebrate the day?" added the lady.

"In feasting and rejoicing," said the duenna, before the old man could answer.

"And the poor? I have read some very pretty stories about the poor in your cities on Christmas Day."

"Oh, the poor get along well enough," she said, with an accent of indifference or contempt. "They have more than they deserve."

But the singer was again leaning toward the waiting figure outside, seeing which the old man said as if in apology:

"That is why I was asking for help, madam; people are generous at Christmas. But I have known better times; I do not like to beg."