Tempest and Sunshine Part 42

Feeling himself established and finding Mrs. Carrington in St. Louis, Raymond pressed his suit, and they were eventually married.

The couple were disappointed in their expectations of a fortune, for within two years after the marriage Mr. Dunlap suddenly died. He had intended to make his will and make Raymond his heir, but like many other men he put it off until it was too late, and his property, which was found to be less than supposed, went back to his brothers and sisters, and from them to their children and grandchildren, so that Raymond got but a small share.

He, however, retained his position as a merchant, and struggled hard to keep his wife in the same circ.u.mstances to which she had been accustomed.

She appreciated his kindness, and when at the end of three years she was the mother of three children, she concluded it was time to lay aside all desire for fas.h.i.+onable amus.e.m.e.nts, and she became a tolerably affectionate wife, and a wonderfully indulgent mother.

CHAPTER XXV

THE WANDERER

In Uncle Joshua's home there were sad, troubled faces and anxious hearts, as the husband and daughter watched by the wife and mother, whose life on earth was well-nigh ended. From her mother's family Mrs. Middleton had inherited the seeds of consumption, which had fastened upon her.

Day by day, they watched her, and when at last she left them it seemed so much like falling away to sleep that Mr. Middleton, who sat by her, knew not the exact moment which made him a lonely widower. The next afternoon sympathizing friends and neighbors a.s.sembled to pay the last tribute of respect to Mrs. Middleton, and many an eye overflowed, and more than one heart ached as the gray-haired old man bent sadly above the coffin, which contained the wife of his early love. But he mourned not as one without hope, for her end had been peace, and when upon her face his tears fell he felt a.s.sured that again beyond the dark river of death he should meet her.

The night succeeding the burial Mr. Middleton's family, overcome with fatigue and grief, retired early to their rooms, but f.a.n.n.y could not sleep, and between ten and eleven she arose and throwing on her dressing gown nervously walked up and down her sleeping room. It was a little over a year after her marriage. Through the closed shutters the rays of a bright September moon were stealing, and attracted by the beauty of the night, f.a.n.n.y opened the blinds and the room was filled with a flood of soft, pale light. From the window where she stood she could distinguish the little graveyard, with its cypress and willow trees, and its white monument gleaming through the silvery moonlight, and near that monument was a dark spot, the grave of her beloved mother. "If all nights were as lovely as this," thought she, "it would not seem half so dreary to sleep in the cold dark grave," and then f.a.n.n.y fell into a fit of musing of the night that would surely come when she would first be left alone in the shadowy graveyard.

In the midst of her reverie her attention was attracted by a slight female figure, which from some quarters had approached unperceived, and now upon the newly-made grave was bowing itself in apparent weeping. The size and form of the girl were so much like Luce that f.a.n.n.y concluded it must be she, at the same time wondering how, with her superst.i.tious ideas, she ventured alone near a grave in the night time. In a moment, however, she saw that Tiger, the watch dog, was with her, and at the same instant the sound of a suppressed sob fell on her ear. "Poor Luce," said she, "I did not think she loved my mother so well. I will go to her and mingle my tears with hers."

In a short time f.a.n.n.y was in the open air, and on her way to the graveyard. As she approached her mother's grave, she said gently, "Luce, Luce, why are you out so late?"

The person addressed partially raised her head and answered hurriedly, "Oh, f.a.n.n.y, f.a.n.n.y, do not be frightened and leave me; I am not dead, and never was buried in that grave, as you suppose, but I am here tonight a living, repentant woman," and throwing back her bonnet, the thin, white face of Julia Middleton was in the bright moonlight perfectly distinguishable to f.a.n.n.y, who at first recoiled in fear and leaned for support against the marble pillar near which she was standing.

She, however, soon recovered her self-command and glancing at the object on the grave, saw that she was caressing Tiger, who seemed trying various ways to evince his joy at finding one whom he had long missed, for he had ever been Julia's favorite. Their fiery natures accorded well! Again Julia spoke, "f.a.n.n.y, dear f.a.n.n.y. In an adjoining state I heard of mother's illness and hastened to see her, but I am too late. Now, do not think me a phantom, for see, Tiger recognizes me and welcomes me home, and will not you?"

An instant f.a.n.n.y wavered, then with a half-fearful, half-joyful cry she went forward, and by the grave of the mother that day lowered to the dust, the sisters met in a long, fervent embrace.

Into the best chamber of their father's house f.a.n.n.y led the weeping, repentant girl, and gently removing her bonnet and shawl, bade her lie down on the nicely-cus.h.i.+oned lounge, while she went for her father. As she was leaving the room Julia arose and laid her small, bony hand on f.a.n.n.y's shoulder. It had rested there before, for in the graveyard, with their buried mother between them, Julia's arms had encircled her sister's neck; but the first excitement was over, and now involuntarily f.a.n.n.y shrank from that touch, for in spite of all her courage, she could not help a.s.sociating Julia with the gra.s.s-grown grave, and the large white monument.

"What is it, Julia?" she said calmly. "Do you wish to see father?"

"Oh, yes, yes," answered Julia, "but not him, the other one-at least not tonight. You understand."

"I do," said f.a.n.n.y, and she glided down the stairs toward her father's room. He was awake, for ere her hand touched the doork.n.o.b, his sonorous "Who's thar?" fell on her ear. This somewhat disconcerted her, for she had intended stopping near his door, to devise the best means by which to break the intelligence. But "Who's thar?" was again repeated, and entering the room she said softly, "It's I, father."

"Why, sure enough," said he, and then as the light from her lamp fell on her features, he exclaimed, "why, how white you be! What's the matter?

Who's upstairs? Is George sick?"

"No, George is not sick," said f.a.n.n.y, "but-," and then as well as she could she told him all she knew.

Uncle Joshua's nervous system was unstrung, and his physical health impaired by long nights of watching with his wife, and now when this fresh shock came upon him, he fell back half-fainting upon his pillow. Then rousing himself, he said, "Alive and come back! I don't desarve this. But where is she? I will go to her."

f.a.n.n.y directed him where to find her, and then returned to Julia, whither her father soon followed. Uncle Joshua was not prepared for the change in his daughter. He did not even think of her as he saw her last, wasted by sickness, but in imagination he beheld her as she was in her days of health and dazzling beauty, when with diabolical cunning she had brought Dr. Lacey to her feet. Now, however, her face was thin, white and haggard, for such a life as she had lived had never conduced to the beauty and health of any one. Her eyes, sunken in their sockets, and swollen with recent weeping, looked frightfully large and wild, and to complete the metamorphosis, her beautiful, glossy hair was now cut short on her neck, and pushed far back from a brow, across which lay more than one premature wrinkle.

The sight of her for a time unsettled the old man's reason. Taking her in his arms he alternately cried and laughed over her, saying, "I knew you'd come. I expected it. I've waited for you."

Julia's altered appearance troubled him, and drawing her head down upon his bosom, and laying his hand on her thin, white face, he said, "Poor child, what has changed you so, and whar have you been; and who did I buy that big stun for if 'twasn't for you?"

"Not tonight, dear father," answered Julia. "Let me rest tonight and tomorrow I will tell you all."

CHAPTER XXVI

JULIA AT HOME AGAIN

Overcome with fatigue and excitement, Julia immediately after her father left her on the preceding night, had fallen into a deep sleep, which was unbroken till long after dawn. Then she was aroused by her father calling up the negroes. Hastily starting up, she looked around her and, for a moment, strove to remember what had happened. Soon she remembered all, and burying her face in the pillows, she sobbed out: "Father, I thank Thee; the prodigal is at last at home."

Hastily arising she proceeded with her toilet, which was nearly completed when f.a.n.n.y tapped gently at the door, and immediately entered the room, saying, "Good morning, dear Julia. I am so glad you really are here and that it is not a dream. But come, breakfast is waiting and so is father, and so is-so is-George."

"Oh, I can't see him, I can't," said Julia, and f.a.n.n.y answered, "Oh, never mind him. I have told him all about it, and he is ready to receive you as a sister."

So saying, she led the reluctant girl down the long staircase, through the wide hall to the door of the breakfast room, where Mr. Middleton stood waiting for them. His tones and manner were very affectionate as he kissed the wanderer, and said, "I am so glad you're here."

Julia could have wept, but she would not. There was yet another to meet, and choking down her tears she nerved herself for the trial. Of what occurred next she knew nothing until her cold white hand was clasped by another so warm, so life-giving in its touch that she raised her eyes and met the calm, quiet gaze of Dr. Lacey. Neither of them spoke until Julia, averting her eyes, said, "Am I forgiven?"

"You are," was the answer, and then Uncle Joshua exclaimed, "thar, that'll do. Now come to your breakfast, children, for I'm mighty hungry, and shan't wait another minute."

After breakfast Julia was greatly surprised at seeing her father take from the bookcase the old family Bible, on whose dark dusty covers she remembered having many a time written her name. All was now explained. Her father's gentleness of look and manner were accounted for; and as for the first time in her life she knelt by his side and heard him as he prayed, her heart swelled with emotion, and she longed to tell him, though she dared not hope she was a Christian, she was still trying to lead a different, a better life.

That afternoon in her chamber were seated Mr. Middleton and f.a.n.n.y, while Julia recounted the story of her wanderings. "The idea of leaving my home," said she, "was not a sudden impulse, else had I returned sooner, but it was the result of long, bitter reflection. In the first days of my humiliation I wished that I might die, for though the thought of death and the dread hereafter made me tremble, it was preferable to the scorn and contempt I should necessarily meet if I survived. Then came a reaction, and when our angel mother glided so noiselessly around my sick room; when you, darling f.a.n.n.y, nursed me with so much care, and even father's voice grew low and kind as he addressed me, my better nature, if I had any, was touched, and I thought I would like to live for the sake of retrieving the past. But the evil spirit which has haunted me from infancy whispered that as soon as I was well all would be changed. You, f.a.n.n.y, would hate me, and father would treat me as he always had, only worse."

"Poor dear child! I didn't or'to do so, I know," said Uncle Joshua, and Julia continued: "Then I thought how the world would loathe, and despise and point at me, until I was almost maddened, and when Dr. Gordon said I would live, the tempter whispered suicide; but I dared not do that. About that time I heard rumors of a marriage which would take place as soon as I was well; and f.a.n.n.y will you forgive me? I tried to be sick as long as possible for the sake of delaying your happiness."

A pressure of the hand was f.a.n.n.y's only answer, and Julia proceeded: "I could not see you married to him. I could not meet the world and its censure, so I determined to go away. I had thirty dollars in my purse, of which no one knew, and taking that I started, I knew not where. On reaching the schoolhouse something impelled me to enter it, and I found there a young girl about my own size. Under other circ.u.mstances I might have been frightened, but now utterly fearless, I addressed her, and found from her answers that she was crazy. A sudden idea entered my brain. I would change clothes with her, and thus avoid discovery. She willingly acceded to my proposition, and in my new attire I again started toward Lexington, which I reached about four in the morning. I had no definite idea as to where I wanted to go, but the sight of the Cincinnati stage drawn up before the Phoenix determined me. I had purposely kept my own bonnet and veil, as the maniac girl wore neither. Drawing the latter over my face, I kept it there while securing my place in the coach, and until we were many miles from the city. Pa.s.sengers entered and left, and some looked inquisitively at me and my slightly fantastic dress.

"We reached Cincinnati about ten in the morning, and with a long glad breath I stepped from the coach, and felt that Kentucky and my notorious character were behind. I stopped at the -- Hotel, and the next two days were spent in procuring myself a decent outfit. Each night I went to a different house, for the sake of avoiding suspicion, and as my bills were promptly paid, no questions were ever asked. At the D-- House I saw in a paper an advertis.e.m.e.nt for a teacher in a school in one of the interior towns. I had formed some such plan for the future, and instantly determined personally to apply for the situation. I did so, but credentials were required, and I had none to give. Somewhat weary of my adventure I returned to Cincinnati, and in pa.s.sing through one of the streets, my eye caught the sign 'Fas.h.i.+onable Dressmaking and Millinery.' I knew I had a taste for that, and I concluded to offer myself as an apprentice."

Then she told how she had toiled on day after day with dim eye and aching head for over a year in the unwholesome atmosphere of a crowded workshop conducted by a slave-driving, inconsiderate woman named Miss Dillon, while thoughts of home and remorse for the past preyed on her heart.

"But why did you not come back?" asked f.a.n.n.y. "We would have received you most gladly."

"I felt that I could not do that," said Julia. "I knew that you thought me dead, and I fancied that father, at least, would feel relieved."

"Oh, child," groaned Uncle Joshua, "don't say so. I was mighty mean, I know, but I never got to that."

After a moment Julia told them that she had had to deliver a party dress to Florence Woodburn at Mr. Graham's house one evening and, while waiting in the hall, had heard Florence read a letter from Nellie Stanton aloud to Alice Graham. In the letter, Nellie said that Mrs. Middleton was not expected to live and that Dr. Lacey and f.a.n.n.y from New Orleans were with her.

This news caused her to resign her position at Miss Dillon's and hurry home. "I reached Lexington," said she, "about nine o'clock in the evening, and as I thought my baggage might incommode me, I purposely left it there, but hired a boy to bring me home. When we reached the gate at the entrance of the woods I told him he could return, as I preferred going the remainder of the way alone. He seemed surprised, but complied with my request. I had never heard of the new house, and as I drew near I was puzzled, and fancied I was wrong; but Tiger bounded forward, at first angrily, then joyfully, and I knew I was right. All about the house was so dark, so still, that a dreadful foreboding filled my heart-a fear that mother might be dead. I remembered the little graveyard and instantly bent my steps thither. I saw the costly marble and the carefully kept grave, and a thrill of joy ran through my veins, for they told me I was kindly remembered in the home I had so darkened. But another object riveted my attention. It was a fresh mound, and I knew full well who rested there.

Never have I shed such tears of anguish as fell upon the sod which covers my sainted mother. In the intensity of my grief I was not conscious of f.a.n.n.y's approach until she stood near me. The rest you know; and now, father, will you receive to your home and affection one who has so widely strayed?"