She was eighteen years old and would graduate in a few weeks, yet Elsie looked like a child, lying there in that little white bed, with her golden curls scattered on the pillow and the soft whiteness of her neck and hands shaded by the delicate Valenciennes with which her night robe was profusely decorated. A quantity of hot house flowers lay scattered on the counterpane, where the girl had flung them, one by one, from a bouquet she was still tearing to pieces. A frown was on her pretty forehead, and her large violet eyes shone feverishly. It was seldom anything half so lovely appeared in the confined sleeping rooms of that highly fashionable boarding school. Indeed, since its foundation it is doubtful if a creature half so beautiful as Elsie Mellen had ever slept within its walls.
Just as the girl had littered the whole bed with flowers, which she broke and crushed as a child breaks the toys he is weary of, the door of the room opened, and a young lady entered, with a plate of hot-house grapes in her hand. She was older than the sick girl by two or three years, and in all respects a grave and most womanly contrast. Calm, gracious and dignified, she came forward with an air of protection and sat down by the bed, holding out her grapes.
"See what your brother has sent you."
The girl started up and flung back the hair from her face.
"From Piney Bend," she exclaimed, lifting one of the purple clusters in her hand, and crowding two or three of the grapes into her mouth at once, with the delicious greed of a naughty child. "Oh, how cool and nice. Dear old Grant, I wonder when he is coming."
"Sometime to-day, the messenger said," answered the young lady, and a soft peach-like bloom swept over her face as she spoke.
Elsie was looking at her friend; and a quick, mischievous light came into her own face.
"Bessie," she murmured, in a voice mellowed and muffled by the grapes in her mouth. "Don't tell me anything—only I think—I think—oh! wouldn't it be fun?—there, there, how you are blushing."
"Blushing, how foolish! But I am glad to see you well enough even to talk nonsense."
"Nonsense! look here, Miss Prim: if you're not in love with my brother Grantley Mellen, I never was in love with anybody in my life."
"Elsie!"
"There, there! I shan't believe a word you say—more than that, I believe he's in love with you."
No blushes burned that noble face now, for it grew white with a great surprise, and for a moment Elizabeth Fuller's heart ceased to beat.
Could this be true! These light, careless words from a young girl seemed to shake the foundation of her life. Did she love the man, who for three weeks had been a daily visitor in that sick room, whose voice had been music to her, whose eyes had been so often lifted to hers in tender gratitude. Could her heart have proved so cruelly rebellious? Then the other impossible things the girl had hinted at. Elsie had not meant it for cruelty, but still it was very cruel, to startle her with glimpses of a heaven she never must enter. What was she but a poor orphan girl, teaching in that school in order to pay for the tuition which had refined and educated her into the noble woman she unconsciously was. Of course Mr. Mellen was grateful for the care she had taken of his beautiful sister, and that was all. Elsie was almost well now, and would leave the school that term. After that there was little chance that she would ever see Grantley Mellen again.
"What on earth are you thinking about?" questioned Elsie, still busy with her grapes. "Just tell me if we are to be sisters—and I'm set on it—you shall know all my secrets; it'll be so nice to have some one that won't tell—and I'll know yours. To begin, dear old Bessie: somebody sent me these flowers, and I hate 'em. It's my way. So many at once, it stifles me. I wish he could see 'em now; wouldn't he just long to box my ears—there, that's my first secret."
"But who is the man, Elsie?" enquired Miss Fuller, really disturbed by this first confidence; for the girl was her room-mate, and had been placed particularly under her care.
"Oh, that's my second secret—I'll tell you that when you're Grant's wife. You haven't told me about your own adorer yet."
"How could I? One does not talk of lovers till they come."
"Oh Bessie Fuller; what a fraud you are! Just as if he hadn't been under this very window again and again: just as if the flowers that get into our room, no one can guess how, did not come from him. Why, half the girls in school have seen him prowling round here like a great, handsome, splendid tiger!"
"What are you talking of, Elsie?"
"No matter; I shan't tell Grant, he must think himself first and foremost—what a lovely sister-in-law you will make."
"Elsie, my dear girl——"
"Don't interrupt me—don't say you wouldn't have him: that you like the other fellow better, and all that. I tell you Grant is a prince, and you shall be his princess. He's awful rich, too; our horrid old uncle left him everything. I haven't got the value of a hair bracelet all my own—that's another secret. The girls all think we share and share alike, and I want them to keep up the idea; but you are different. Don't you see it would be horrid hard for me if my brother should marry some close, stingy thing, that might even grudge me a home at Piney Bend; but with you—oh Bessie! Promise me that you will marry him."
Here Elsie flung down the stem of her grapes, and reaching out her arms, threw them lovingly around Elizabeth's neck.
"Promise me, promise me!"
"You foolish darling! Lie down and be quiet, or I shall think you light-headed again."
"But you shall, I declare you shall!—Hush! there is some one at the door. Come in!"
A servant opened the door and informed the young ladies that Mr. Mellen was in the parlor.
"Tell him to come up," said Elsie.
The servant went out, and Elsie sat up among her pillows, twisting that splendid mass of hair around her head. As she stooped forward, her eyes fell on the litter of broken flowers, and she called out eagerly,
"Oh Bessie, do sweep them up; throw them out of the window, under the bed, anywhere, so that he does not know about them. There would be no end to his questions, if he saw so much as a broken rose bud."
Elizabeth swept up the scattered flowers with her hands and cast them through the open window, scarcely heeding what the girl said about them, in the agitation of the moment. As she turned from the open sash, Grantley Mellen came into the room. He was indeed a grand and noble looking man, with dignity in his manner, and character in his face; evidently possessed of strong but subdued passions, and a power of concentration that might engender prejudices difficult to overcome. That he was upright and honorable, you saw at a glance. When he sat down by that fair young creature, and took her hand in his, the tenderness in his voice and eyes thrilled Elizabeth to the heart. Elsie it simply gratified.
"Why Bessie," she said, with threatening mischief in her eyes, "you haven't spoken to Grant yet."
"Because he was occupied with you," answered Elizabeth with grave dignity, that kept down the rebellious spirit in Elsie's eyes. "Now I will shake hands with Mr. Mellen and go down to my class."
With a gentle, but not altogether unembarrassed greeting, the young lady went out of the room, leaving the brother and sister together.
Two days after this scene in Elsie's chamber, Elizabeth Fuller stood in one of the parlors of the establishment with her hand locked in that of Grantley Mellen; startled, trembling, almost terrified by the great happiness that had fallen upon her. He had asked her tenderly, earnestly, and with a thrill of passion in his voice, to become his wife.
The girl had not answered him: she literally could not speak; her large gray eyes were lifted to his, wild with astonishment one moment, soft with exquisite love light the next.
"Will you not speak to me?"
She attempted to answer him, but smiles rather than words parted her lips; and tears, soft as dew, flooded the joy in her eyes. What did the man want of words after that?
They sat down together on the nearest couch, and scarcely knowing how, she found her heart so close to his, that the two seemed beating together in a wild, sweet tumult. The glow of his first kiss was on her lips; he was telling her in earnest, broken words, how fondly, how dearly he loved her. Nobly would she feel herself mated when she became the mistress of his home.
There was something besides smiles on those beautiful lips now. The heart has its own language, and in that she had answered him.
"Do I love you?" she said; "who could help it? Is there a woman on earth who could refuse such happiness? I forget myself, forget everything, even the poor pride that might have struggled a little against the disparity between us which seems lost to me now. I did not think it would be so sweet to accept everything and give nothing."
"You certainly love me and no other living man!" he said in answer to her sweet trustfulness. "Tell me that in words! tell me in looks! Make me sure of it."
"Love you! Indeed, indeed I do. Never in my life have I given a thought of such feelings to any man. If you can find happiness in owning every pulse of a human soul, it is yours."
"I believe it and accept the happiness; now my wife—for in a few weeks you must be that—let us go up to Elsie. She must be made happy also, for the dear child loves you scarcely less than I do."
A thought of something like shame shot through the joy of the moment, with Elizabeth. Had Elsie suggested this?
"Will she be pleased? Will she be surprised?"
"I hope so, I think so!" was Mellen's frank answer; "for hereafter, my sweet wife must be a guardian angel to the dear child, for she has been, till now, the dearest creature to me on earth."
"I, too, have loved her better than anything," said Elizabeth.
"Have I not seen that? Yes, I am sure we shall make Elsie perfectly happy. She has dreaded the loneliness of my home. Now it will be bright as heaven for her and for me."
Music in the Central Park! Such music as made the flowering thicket, covered with late May blossoms, thrill in the soft air and glow out more richly from the sweet disturbance. It was a glorious afternoon, the lawns were as green as an English meadow, and my observation of beautiful things has no higher comparison. All the irregular hills, ravines, and rocky projections were so broken up with trailing vines and sweet masses of spring-flowers, that every corner and nook your eye turned upon, was like a glimpse of paradise.
This was the still life of the scene, but above and beyond was congregrated that active, cheerful bustle which springs out of a great multitude bent on enjoyment—cheerful, luxurious, refined, or otherwise, as humanity is always found. Carriages dashed in and out of the crowd, the inmates listening to the music or chatting together in subdued voices: groups of smiling pedestrians wandered through the labyrinths of blooming thickets, or sat tranquilly on rustic seats sheltered by such forest trees as art had spared to nature. The whole scene was one of brilliant confusion; but out of the constantly shifting groups, forms so lovely that you longed to gaze on them forever, were now and then given to the beholder; and equipages vied with each other that might have graced the royal parks of London or Paris without fear of criticism.
Just as the sun began to turn its silver gleams into gold, the music ceased with a grand crash. The final melody was over, and the swarm of carriages broke up, whirled off in different directions, and began to course about the ring again, or drive through the various outlets towards Harlem, Bloomingdale, or the city, which lay in the soft gathering haze of the distance.
Among the stylish equipages that disentangled themselves from the crowd was a light barouche, cushioned with a rich shade of drab which had a pink flush running through it, and drawn by a pair of jet-black horses. The carriage was so perfect in its proportions and so exquisitely neat in its appointments, that it would have been an object of general admiration during the whole concert, had not its inmates carried off public attention before it had time to settle on the vehicle.
The eldest, a woman of thirty-two or three, elegantly dressed and generally recognized, seemed to be the mistress, for it was her gloved hand which gave the signal for moving, and the coachman always looked to her for directions.
A slight gesture indicated home, the moment she saw her equipage free from the crowd, but the lovely young creature on the front seat uttered a merry protest and gave a laughing counter-order, threatening the elder lady with her half-closed parasol, till the point lace which covered it fluttered like the fringed leaves of a great white-hearted poppy.
"Only a short drive," she said; "you can't want to go into the house, dear Mrs. Harrington, such a heavenly day as this."
"But, my love, I have forty things to do!"
"All the more reason why you should neglect every one of them, since it is not possible for you to do them all," replied the young girl, with a laugh and a pretty wilful air that few people could have resisted. "Elizabeth, are you tired?"
The young lady whom she addressed had been leaning back in her seat by Mrs. Harrington, quite regardless of this laughing contention, looking straight before her in a smiling, dreamy way, which proved that the brightness of the scene and the spell of the music had wiled her into some deep and pleasant train of thought.
Her friend spoke twice before she heard, laughing gayly at her abstraction, and Mrs. Harrington added—
"Do come out of dreamland, dear Miss Fuller; I am sure I cannot manage this wilful little thing without your help."
The young girl shook her parasol again in a pretty, threatening way as she said—
"You are not tired, Elizabeth?"
"Tired! Oh no; it is very pleasant," she replied, in a voice that was low and musical with the sweetness of her broken reverie.
"See, you are in the minority, Mrs. Harrington," cried Elsie Mellen. "You had better submit with a good grace."
"Oh, I knew Elizabeth dared not side against you; she spoils you worse than anybody, even your brother."
"But it's so nice to be spoiled," said Elsie, gayly; "and you must help in it, or I shall do something dreadful to you just here before everybody's eyes."
She clenched her hand playfully, as if to carry her threat into instant execution, and Mrs. Harrington cried out—
"I promise! I promise! James, take another turn."
The man turned his horses with a broad sweep, taking the road around the largest lake. Here the spoiled beauty ordered him to stop. She wanted to look at the swans, "such great, white, lovely drifting snowballs as they were." Mrs. Harrington made no objection, but leaned back with a resigned smile on her lips.
A person possessed of far more imagination than Elsie Mellen ever dreamed of, might have stopped on the very road to paradise to gaze on that pretty, Arcadian scene.
The lake was one glow of silver, broken up in long, glittering swaths by troops of swans that sailed over it with leisurely gracefulness, now pausing to crop the short grass from the sloping banks, or ruffling their short white plumage, and stretching their arched necks for payments of fruit whenever they came near a group of children, or saw a rustic from the country, who was sure to delight in seeing the birds feed.
The sunshine came slanting in from the west, cooling half the park with shadows, and lighting the rest with gleams of purplish gold. The paths around the margin of the lake, and all the sloping banks were alive with gayly dressed people, and a single boat, over which a flock of gay parasols hovered like tropical birds, mirrored itself in the water.
"Now see what you have gained by obeying my orders," exclaimed Elsie, casting her merry eyes over the scene. "I declare the swans look like a fleet of fairy boats. How I would like to sail about on one! There, that will do James, drive on."
"Home?" inquired the man.
Before his mistress could answer, Elsie broke in—"Yes, Mrs. Harrington, since you are properly submissive, we will go home, if you wish."
"Oh, I only proposed it because we have so much to do. I should enjoy a longer drive. Indeed, now that you have suggested it, we will take at least one turn."
"That's a darling," cried Elsie; and, without further ceremony, she ordered the coachman to take the Bloomingdale road, laughing out something about dying for old sheep instead of lambs. "But I want to stop at Maillard's," protested Mrs. Harrington, "and I then must see about—"
"Oh, never mind, we shall have time enough," exclaimed Elsie. "Drive like the wind, James, the moment you get beyond these horrid policemen. I wouldn't have anybody pass us for the world."
The coachman obeyed, and directly those two black horses were dashing along the road in splendid style, leaving care and prudence far behind them.
Elsie was in her element, wild as a bird and gay as the sunset. She talked and laughed incessantly, saying all sorts of merry things in a childish fashion, that kept Mrs. Harrington in explosions of laughter, more natural than she often indulged in, while Elizabeth Fuller leaned back in her seat, listening, absently sometimes, to their graceful banter, glancing at the young girl with affectionate admiration of her youthful loveliness, but oftener losing herself in the pleasant train of thought which had absorbed her all the afternoon.
Three persons more unlike in appearance than these ladies, it would have been difficult to find; but a casual observer would probably have been most attracted by the buoyant loveliness of Elsie Mellen.
She was eighteen—but seemed younger with her fair curls, her brilliant bloom, and the childish rapidity with which smiles chased each other across her face. She looked the very personification of happiness, with a bewitching naiveté in every word or movement, that made her very childishness more captivating than the wisdom of older and more sensible women.
Mrs. Harrington was a stylish, dashing widow, with a suspicion of rouge on her somewhat faded cheeks, and an affectation of fashionable listlessness which a look of real amiability somewhat belied. She was one of those frivolous, good-natured women, who go through life without ever being moved by an actual pleasure or pain, so engrossed by their petty round of amusement, that if they originally possessed faculties capable of development into something better, no warning of it ever touches their souls.
Really the most noble and imposing person present was Miss Fuller. The contrast between her grave, sweet beauty and the frivolous loveliness of the other two, was striking indeed. Sometimes her large gray eyes seemed dull and cold under their long black lashes, and the dark hair was banded smoothly away from a forehead that betokened intellectual strength; the mouth was a little compressed, giving token of the reticence and self-repose of her nature, and a classical correctness of profile added to the quiet gravity of her countenance.
But it was quite another face when deep feeling kindled the gray eyes into sudden splendor, or some merry thought softened the mouth into a smile—then she looked almost as girlish as Elsie herself.
But grave or smiling, it was not a face easy to read, nor was her character more facile of comprehension, even to those who knew her best and loved her most.
She looked very stately and queen-like, wrapped in her ample shawl and leaning back in her seat with a quiet grace which Mrs. Harrington attempted in vain to imitate. Indeed, the effort only made the ambitious little woman appear more fussy and affected than ever.
"Here comes Tom Fuller," cried Elsie, suddenly. "Was there ever such an ungraceful rider! Just look at him, Bessie, and laugh, if he is your cousin. I insist upon it!"
"Oh, I think he's such a love!" cried Mrs. Harrington. "Deliciously odd."
"I'll tell him you said that," cried Elsie; "just to see him blush."
"Oh, don't!" exclaimed the widow, clasping her hands as if she thought Elsie was about to stop the carriage and inform him then and there. "What would he think?"
The young man at whom Elsie was laughing quite unrestrainedly, rode rapidly towards them, and when he saw Elsie, his face glowed with a mingled expression of pleasure and embarrassment that made her laugh more recklessly than ever.
He made a bow almost to the saddle, nearly lost his hat, and did not recover his presence of mind until the carriage had dashed on, and he was left far behind to grumble at his own stupidity.
"It is too bad of you to laugh at him," said Elizabeth Fuller, a little reproachfully.
"Why, darling, he likes it," cried Elsie, "and it does him good."
"I am sure his devotion to you is plain enough," said Mrs. Harrington, with a sentimental shake of the head. "Hearts are too rare in this world to be treated so carelessly."
"Oh, don't!" exclaimed Elsie. "You'll be repeating poetry next! Tom is a nice man, just a great awkward lump of goodness; but I must laugh at him. Dear me, what a groomsman he will make! Bessie, I know he will step on my dress."
"I hope so," Elizabeth replied, good naturedly; "I shall consider you served right."
"Oh," cried Mrs. Harrington, roused by a fear she was fully capable of appreciating, "it would be such a pity to have all that beautiful Brussels point torn—do caution him, my dear."
"No," said Elsie, with mock resignation, "Bessie insists upon having him for groomsman, and I shall let him put his foot through my flounces with perfect equanimity, by way of showing my affection for her. Talk of giving your life for your friends, what is that in comparison to seeing your flounces torn!"
Her companions both laughed, but Elizabeth said seriously, "When you know Tom better, you cannot help respecting him; he is my one relative, and I love him dearly."
"Of course," said Elsie, "and I mean to be his cousin, too; but it is my cousinly privilege to laugh at him."
"Perhaps he will not be content with a cousinly regard," said Mrs. Harrington, mysteriously.
Elizabeth glanced quickly at Elsie, with a little trouble in her face, but the girl laughed, and replied—
"Oh yes, he will; Bessie is his ideal—he will never think of poor little me."
"Family affection is so sweet!" added Mrs. Harrington. Elsie made a grimace, and hastened to change the conversation, for there was nothing she dreaded so much as the widow's attempt at romance and sentiment.
For some time the ladies rode on in silence. Then Elsie broke into a fit of ecstasy over the horses.
"They are so perfectly matched," she said. "Brother Grant needn't have been doubtful about them; he sha'n't persuade you to change them, shall he?"
"They are beautiful creatures," Bessie observed, absently.
"Naturally, Mr. Mellen was anxious that they should be entirely safe," said Mrs. Harrington, theatrically, "for he has trusted his dearest treasures—his sister and his betrothed wife—to me; and if there is danger, it is for them as well as me."
"What a pretty speech!" said Elsie. "I know you got it out of a novel!"
Elsie had a gay scarf wound about her neck, and began complaining of the warmth.
"I would not take it off," Mrs. Harrington urged, "you will be certain to get cold."
"There is no danger," replied Elsie; "I shall smother, wrapped up in this way."
"But you must keep it on!"
"Indeed, I won't; there!"
They had a playful contention for an instant, then Elsie snatched the scarf from her neck with a triumphant laugh, and held it up beyond Mrs. Harrington's reach.
A sudden rush of wind carried the light fabric out of her hand, and it sailed away like a gorgeous streamer. Elsie gave a little cry, but it was frozen on her lips. One of the horses had been restive from the first. The scarf floated over his head, curved downward, and one end got entangled with his bridle. The shy, spirited creature gave a wild bound, communicated like terror to his companion, and away the frenzied pair dashed, taking the coachman so completely by surprise, that he was helpless as a child. It was one of those brief occurrences which pass like lightning to lookers-on, but seem an eternity to the persons in danger. Mrs. Harrington's shrieks rang out sharp and shrill; Elsie gave one shuddering moan, and crouched down in the bottom of the carriage, hiding her face in Elizabeth's dress.
Elizabeth Fuller was deathly pale. She realized the full terror of their situation. She uttered no shriek, but clasped her arms around Elsie, and strove to speak a few reassuring words to Mrs. Harrington, which were drowned by the woman's terrified shrieks.
Elizabeth looked desperately down the road over which the horses were rushing like wild desert steeds. The carriages in sight were turned quickly on one side, and their inmates seemed uncertain how to assist them. Any attempt to stop the frightened and infuriated animals threatened certain death.
Elizabeth saw this, and her heart died within her. They were now at the top of a long hill, keeping the road, but hurled onward like lightning. At the foot of the hill was a loaded cart, its driver vainly striving to whip his team out of the way. The brave girl saw this new danger, and fell back with a groan. She knew that the carriage would be whirled against that ponderous load, and dashed to atoms. Effort was hopeless, she could only stretch forth her arms, draw Elsie close, close to her cold heart, and pray dumbly that she might in mercy be permitted to die for his sister.
Still, in her anguish and terror, she looked out beyond the leaping horses, as they thundered down the hill. The man had sprung from his cart, and, with his whip in both hands, was lashing his overtasked beasts in frantic terror. Beyond him came a person on horseback, riding furiously. But they were close to the cart now. It was still more than half across the road. Sick with dread, she closed her eyes, holding Elsie close, and turning, as it were, to stone, with the shrieking young coward in her arms.
In another instant there was a shock which threw them all off their seats; and when Elizabeth could realize anything, or recover from the deafening effect of Mrs. Harrington's cries, she knew that the horses had been stopped—the peril was over.
The gentleman she had discovered through blinding clouds of dust, riding swiftly towards the hill, had seen their danger, dismounted, and with ready presence of mind, prepared to seize the horses the instant the carriage struck against the cart.
One wheel was forced partially off, but there was no other harm done. Elsie and Mrs. Harrington had both flung themselves on Elizabeth, so that she could neither see nor hear; but the widow discovering that she was still alive, made a little moan, and began to shake out her flounces when she saw the gentleman who had rescued them standing by the side of the carriage.
"You are safe, ladies," he said, opening the door; "you had better get out and walk on to the hotel—it is only a few steps."
"How can we ever thank you!" sobbed Mrs. Harrington. "You are our preserver—we owe you our lives!"
He smiled a little at her exaggerated manner, which would break out in spite of her real terror, and helped her to alight from the carriage.
"We are saved," moaned Elsie, lifting herself from Elizabeth's bosom. "I'm not hurt—I'm not hurt!"
She was lifted out of the carriage, and stood trembling by Mrs. Harrington. For the first time, relieved of their weight, Elizabeth was able to move and look up.
The stranger was standing by the carriage with his arm extended to assist her. She partially rose—then, and without the slightest warning, beyond a deep, shuddering breath, sank back insensible.
Elsie and Mrs. Harrington gave a simultaneous cry, but there was no opportunity for the widow to go into hysterics, as she had intended, since the stranger and the footman were fully occupied in lifting Elizabeth from the broken carriage. Elsie was crying wildly, "Bessie! Bessie!" and wringing her hands in real affright.
"She has only fainted," said the stranger hurriedly; "we will carry her on to the hotel."
He raised the insensible girl in his arms, and carried her down towards the inn, as if she had been a child; while her companions followed, sobbing off their terror as they went.
Once in the house, and the stranger out of the way, Mrs. Harrington recovered her wits sufficiently to give Elizabeth assistance, and restore her to consciousness.
Elizabeth opened her eyes, gave one glance around, and closed them again.
"Are you hurt?" cried Elsie.
She shook her head.
"What made you faint so suddenly?" demanded Mrs. Harrington. "The danger was over."
Elizabeth made a strong effort at self-control, sat upright, and tried to answer.
"I can't tell—I—"
"Do you know that gentleman?" asked Mrs. Harrington.
"Why, how can she?" said Elsie.
"Well, she fainted just as she looked at him."
Elizabeth controlled herself, found strength to rise, saying in reply to Mrs. Harrington's repeated inquiries—
"How should I know him?—what folly!"
But she was trembling so violently, that they forced her to lie down again.
"Stay with her, Elsie," said the widow, "I will go and see how we are to get home."
She went out of the room, and in the hall encountered the gentleman just as she had expected.
She overwhelmed him with protestations of gratitude, to which he listened with no great appearance of interest, though Mrs. Harrington was too completely dazzled by his brilliant appearance and manner to perceive the absent, preoccupied way in which he received her.
"I don't know how we are to get home," she said.
"Your coachman has engaged a carriage from the hotel-keeper," he replied; "it will be ready in a few moments. Your own horses are not hurt, luckily."
"I don't know what Mr. Mellen will say!" she exclaimed. "He warned me not to keep the horses."
The stranger turned quickly toward her, with a sudden flush on his face.
"May I know whom I have had the pleasure of assisting?" he asked.
"I am Mrs. Harrington," she replied, "of—— street. I am so—"
"And your friends?"
"Miss Mellen, the sister of Grantley Mellen; and the other lady is his betrothed wife."
"She! That—"
"Yes, yes! Dear me, if any accident had occurred, how terrible it would have been! They are to be married next week," continued the widow, hurriedly. "Mr. Mellen is out of town, and will not be back till just before his wedding. Oh, I shudder to think! Dear, dear sir, how can I thank you!"
The servant came up that moment to say that a carriage was ready to take the ladies back to the city, and the gentleman escaped from her flood of meaningless gratitude.
Mrs. Harrington ran back to call her friends, and found Elizabeth quite composed and strong again.
"He's the most magnificent creature!" exclaimed the widow. "And you don't know him, Elizabeth?"
"Have I not said so? Come, Elsie."
As she passed into the hall, Elizabeth hurried on, leaving Mrs. Harrington to repeat her thanks, and Elsie to utter a few low, and apparently thankful words, to which he listened with more interest than he had done to all the widow's raptures.
They were in the carriage: the door closed; the stranger gave his parting bow, Elizabeth leaned further back in her seat, and they drove on, leaving him standing in the road.
"His name is North," said Mrs. Harrington. "Such an adventure! What will Mr. Mellen say?"
"We won't tell him yet," Elsie replied; "it would only frighten him. Be sure and not mention it, dear Mrs. Harrington."
"Oh, of course not—just as you like. But what a handsome man that was! North—North? Who can he be? I have never met him!"
"Whoever he is, he has saved our lives," said Elsie.
"Yes, yes! But, dear Miss Fuller, how oddly you acted!"
"Do put up your veil, Bessie," added Elsie.
Elizabeth obeyed, showing her face, pale and tremulous still.
"I was very much frightened," she said; "I think my side was hurt a little—that was why I fainted."
She made no other answer to their wondering questions, and they drove rapidly back to Mrs. Harrington's house.
The stranger stood upon the porch of the hotel, looking after the carriage so long as it was in sight, with a strange, inexplicable expression upon his handsome face.
After a time, he roused himself, mounted his horse, and rode slowly back to the city.
On the shores of Long Island, where the ocean heaves in its wildest and most crystalline surf, a small cove had broken itself into the slopes of an irregular hill, after generations of beating storms and crumbling earth, taking a crescent shape, and forming one of the most picturesque bits of landscape to be found along the coast. The two points or promontories that stretched their green arms to the ocean, were clothed with thickly growing white pines, scattered with chestnuts, and a few grand old oaks. The country sloped beautifully down to this bright sheet of water, and swept around it in rocky points and broken groves, giving glimpses of rich grass-land, more luxuriantly cultivated than is usual to that portion of the island. As you looked on the scene from the water, a house was visible on the hillside, and came in full view as the shore was approached. It was a noble stone mansion, old as the hills, people were used to say, and solid as their foundations. The house had been a stately residence before the Revolution, and, without an earthquake or a ton of powder, would remain such for a century to come.
Whatever the body of the house had been in the good old times, when ornament was little thought of, it was now rendered picturesque by lofty towers, and additional wings with oriel windows and carved balconies in one direction; while the other wing clasped in a conservatory, of which nothing could be seen from the distance but wave upon wave of rolling crystal emerald, tinted like the ocean by the wealth of green plants they covered.
This was the residence Grantley Mellen had inherited from a maternal uncle just after his first struggle in life commenced. It was backed by many a fruitful field and broad stretch of timber-land, which altogether went under the title of Piney Cove.
Grantley Mellen, since he became possessed of the estate, had completed the work his uncle commenced when he built the two grand towers, and a more picturesque building could not well be imagined, with its broad lawn, its clumps of forest trees, and that magnificent ocean view, which was broken only by the pine groves on the two points.
This was by no means the only house visible from the cove. As you turned the southern point, a village was seen down the coast; and about half way between that and the pines was a wooden house, brown and weather-beaten, standing unsheltered on the bleak shore. Back of this house, shutting out all prospect but that of the ocean, was a tall cliff, covered with ragged yellow pines and stunted cedars, from which on stormy nights many a quivering flame had shot upward, luring ships to their ruin. Still, with this grim protest against the name looming behind it, the lonely old house was called "The Sailor's Safe Anchor," and was known all along the coast as a fishing-lodge and small tavern.
But once within the cove, you saw no sign of habitation save the mansion house and its appurtenances.
Grantley Mellen had been some weeks at the cove, renovating and preparing the house for the reception of his bride; for it was understood that he intended henceforth to make it his permanent residence. But the wedding-day was near, and he had gone up to the city, leaving the last preparations to the care of a singular class of household servants, one of his uncle's philanthropic importations from the South, where he had owned a plantation, and emancipated all its slaves except a half dozen, that would only accept liberty on condition that they might follow the old man to his northern home.
Grantley had accepted this sable household with the general inheritance; for, spoiled and pampered as family negroes are apt to be, they had proved generally faithful and obedient.
Though a very reverential and submissive person when her master was present, Clorinda, who had appointed herself housekeeper of the establishment, was apt to get on to a very high horse indeed when there was no superior authority to hold her in check; and, on this particular occasion, she was absolutely what she declared herself—"chief cook and bottle-washer."
This sable functionary was very busy two or three mornings before the time set for her master's wedding, not only in the general preparations for that event, but with a grand idea of her own, which she was earnestly carrying into effect. If the house was going into the hands of a new mistress, the colored persons of the establishment had resolved to commemorate the event in advance with a grand entertainment.
To this end, Clorinda, who appointed herself lady patroness in general, had betaken herself to Mr. Mellen's library with Caleb Benson, the high-shouldered, bald-headed occupant of "The Sailor's Safe Anchor," and the person whose prerogative it had been to supply fresh fish to the family at Piney Cove. Besides this, he performed a good deal of work in the grounds, and made himself generally useful.
This morning Benson had come up to the house at Miss Clorinda's special request, in order to assist in the literary department of the coming entertainment. Neither Clorinda nor any of her dark compeers could read or write, but invitations must be sent out after the most approved fashion; and Clorinda had a fancy that the neighborhood of so many books would be a great help, so she led Caleb with august ceremony into the spacious library, and laid a quantity of pink note-paper and yellow envelopes, all covered and embossed with silver, on the table before him.
"Jes set down, Mr. Caleb, and write dem tings out special," she said, rolling up a great leathern chair, and patting its glossy green cushions enticingly. "Set down, Caleb, an' write, for I know yer kin."
Caleb laid his cap on one chair, and his stout walking-stick across another. Then he rubbed the hard palms of his hands fiercely together, and sat down on the edge of Mr. Mellen's chair, that threatened to roll from under him each moment.
"Now, Miss Clo, what is it you want of me? I'm on hand for a'most anything."
"I knows you is, and ales wuz, Caleb; that's why I trusted yer wid de delicatest part ob dis entertainment. 'Member its premptory to de weddin'."
"Preparatory, isn't that the correct word, Miss Clo?"
"Well, take yer chice, if you ain't suited, Caleb Benson."
"Wal, wal; don't git out to sea afore the tide's up, old woman."
"Ole woman! Ole woman yerself, Caleb Benson!" retorted Clorinda.
"Jes so!" answered the fisherman, seizing upon the largest steel pen to be found, and grinding it on the bottom of a bronze inkstand. Clorinda put both hands to her mouth, and would have cried out; but, remembering how few teeth she had to be set on edge, thought better of it, and stood in glum silence while Caleb made his preparations.
That remarkable functionary had a piece of business before him which threatened to task the resources of his genius to their full extent, but he was not the man to shrink from the responsibility which his desire to retain a high place in the powerful Clorinda's good-will had induced him to accept.
"Now, then," said Caleb, giving his chair another hitch, dipping his pen afresh into the inkstand, and holding it suspended over the paper, with a threatening drop slowly collecting on the nib. "Now we'll get under weigh just as soon as you give the signal."
"Tak car ob de ink!" shrieked Clorinda, pulling the paper from under his hand in time to preserve it from the great blot of ink that descended on the table-cover instead. "Dat's a purty splotch, now, ain't it; yer a nice hand, Caleb Benson!"
"Taint much, nobody'll ever notice it," said Caleb, wiping it off with his coat-sleeve. "Don't raise a breeze about nothin', Clorindy."
"Don't talk to me 'bout breezes," she retorted, in an irritated tone, for Clorinda, I am sorry to say, had not even a fair portion of the small stock of patience which usually falls to our sex. "I 'clar to goodness dere ain't nothin' so stupid as a man. I jis hate de hull sect like pison, I duz."
"Oh, no you don't, Clorindy," he replied, "you hain't got so old yet but what you can hold your own with the youngest of 'em when there's a fancy mulatter chap round."
"What doz yer mean by ole!" cried Clorinda. "I tells you what, Caleb Benson, ef yer only undertuk this job to be a aggrawatin' and insultin' me, you and I's done! I ain't gwine to stand sich trash, now I tells yer! Is dis yer thanks fur all I'se done? Who got ye de run ob de house, I'd like to know; who sot ye up for selling better fish than anybody in de neighborhood; who nebber said nothin' when de soap-fat all disappeared, and you said it had melted in de sun; who fixed up mince-pies fur you; who—"
There is no telling to what extent Clorinda might have carried her revelations, but the old man interrupted her with all the excuses he could think of at so short notice.
"I was just funning, Clorindy; don't go off the handle. In course I want to obleege you. Thar, thar! Now what do you want to have wrote? We ain't going to quarrel—old friends like us."
"Ain't we!" cried Clorinda, folding her arms. "Then jis you keep a civil tongue, dat's all. Times is changed, and der's a new misses a comin'; but you may all onderstand dat I rules de kitchen yet, and I'se gwine to."
"Sartin, sartin! Wal now, about these here billet ducks," said Caleb, cunningly; "I must hurry up, you see, or I shan't get round afore night."
Clorinda forgot her injured feelings in excitement about the party, and ordered him to commence work without farther delay.
"Wal," said Caleb, spreading out the paper again, "I'll leave a blank for the names, that'll save trouble. I reckon you want somethin' like this—'Miss Clorindy and Miss Victory's compliments—'"
"What's Vic got to do wid it, I'd like to know?" Clo burst in; "it's my party, just 'member dat. It's enough to hev her company, widout her settin' up for a hostage."
"Any thing to suit," said Caleb, patiently. "Wal, then I'll say that Miss Clorindy hopes to have the pleasure of Mr. so and so's company, and wants to see you to a little tea drinkin' this evening."
"Lord!" cried Clo. "If ye hain't got no more larnin' dan dat, I'd better find somebody else! Do yer tink I got pink paper and silver-sprigged 'welopers to write sich trash on? Tea drinkin' indeed! Why dis here's to be a rigler scrumptious, fash'nable 'tainment! I want yer to say, 'Miss Clorindy consents her most excruciating compliments, and begs to state that, owing to de 'picious ewent ob de master's weddin', she takes dis opportunity to 'quest de 'stinguished company ob Mr. Otheller Jones for dis evenin', to a reparatory 'tainment; and she would furder mention dat dare will be plenty ob weddin'-cake, wid a ring in it, ice cream in pinnacles, red and white, and a dance in de laundry to fiddles.' Dar, dat's somethin' like."
"Yes," said Caleb, quite breathless; "now tell it to me as I get ahead, 'cause it's a mighty long rigmarole."
"Oh," added Clorinda, "den at the bottom you must put—' P.S.—Yaller gloves and 'rocur pumps, if convenient.'"
That last touch of elegance quite upset Caleb, and he began to think that if Clorinda was black, and couldn't write her name, she really was a wonderful woman. Clo was so softened by his applause that they got on very harmoniously, and the invitations were written out in Clorinda's peculiar phraseology and in Caleb's largest hand. As it was an affair of importance, he put capitals at the beginning of nearly every word, sometimes in the middle and altogether the writing made such a show, that Clorinda was delighted.
"Don't forget de P.S.," said she.
"Yes," said Caleb, making a tremendous flourish. "P.S.—Yaller gloves and 'rocur pumps, if convenient."
Clo inspected the first note as carefully as if she could read, expressed her approbation, and urged him on, till, with much labor, Caleb completed the requisite number, put them safely in their gorgeous envelopes, and directed them to the persons Clorinda mentioned.
"Now, jis be as quick as you kin," she said; "I'se got to go back to see to tings—can't trust dat Vic, no how! Wal, I guess Mr. Dolf'll see de difference 'tween folks and folks."
Benson knew that Dolf, Mr. Mellen's own man, was a special weakness of Clorinda's, though it was only her reputation for accumulated wages which induced that dashing yellow individual to treat her with any attention.
Caleb received his last instructions, and started on his mission, which was successfully fulfilled. Then he took his way homeward after going back to the house to acquaint Clorinda with the result, which was equal to her expectations, and that was saying a great deal.
As he approached the little tavern, he saw a gentleman standing on the steps, with a colored servant guarding a pile of guns, fishing-rods, and other tackle, with which idle men frequently came down from the city to endure Caleb's humble fare for a while, and gratify their masculine propensity for destruction.
But this gentleman was a stranger to Caleb, and he looked at him enviously, though with the approbation which his appearance would have elicited from more refined judges.
"I suppose you are Caleb Benson," the gentleman said, throwing away the end of a cigar, as the old man mounted the steps.
"Wal, they call me so, sometimes," replied Caleb; for the instincts of his New England birthplace had not deserted him, and he never answered a question in a straightforward manner, if he could help it.