Chapter 3

She was born on Christmas Day, and so came, with her little white face and solemn eyes, into her pale mother's life. She was worse than fatherless. The beast of a man she might have come to call by that sacred name, would now be beside the snowy cot, weeping in maudlin rejoicing over his new treasure, if the mother had not resolutely put him away some six months before.

The world knew him as Judge Barrett, a man of fine family, superb talents, and a magnetic orator. He might be, perhaps, too convivial on occasions, but was not this a common frailty among Kentucky's great men? The wife knew him as besotted and disgusting. What mattered his learning, his eloquence, his aristocratic blood, or ample income? To her alone he brought his degraded mass of humanity day after day; and though never personally unkind to her, or to the little boy that died, she was enabled by the might of her tearless agony beside that tiny bier, to cut the last tie that bound her to the blear-eyed creature sobbing on the other side. The last tie? Ah, woe was she! The coming time brought into her desolate life the frail link she must now take up; and in the first bitter realization of her wronged womanhood, the mother-love lay dormant.

As the months went by the little Ruth twined herself in every fiber about that lonely mother's heart, till she was loved with a love that was pain. So jealously guarded, too, that never once had the father's eyes fallen upon her, not even by chance. In vain he sent appeals just to look on his little daughter; he would ask no more. He was refused, and the baby's nurse did not dare transgress.

By-and-by Ruth was old enough to understand; and then she wanted to know who her papa was, and why he never came home as Masie Morrow's did. At this her mother would be terrified, and clasping her treasure close, would tell her she must never ask about her papa; he was a dreadful man.

"Like Jack, the Giant-killer, mumzie?"

"Oh, my dearie, he is a great deal worse."

Again Ruth said; "I know, mumzie, my papa is a great black thing like the pictures on the circus papers!"

So it came to pass that Miss Ruth fell to thinking about her father till it got to be a sort of mania with her--wondering and wondering what it all meant. Her life was secluded, but she was fondly attached to her grandparents and to a number of friends who were received at the house, while her mother was most tenderly enshrined in the faithful little heart.

The mother had a comfortable income, and provided her little girl with the best masters. She was a quaint, white-faced, solemn-eyed creature, as she had been from the first. She said "old" things, her black nurse declared, and she knew her little "missy" was under a spell. If so, the spell was tempered by an almost idolatrous love on the mother's part.

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.