Part 10

"What is the use of struggling any longer? You have seen, from the first day, that I was entirely at your mercy. There have been times when I thought you were coldly and deliberately trying your power over me; and there have been other times when I thought you were laughing at me, and I did not care, so long as I could see your face and hear your voice. I never allowed myself to think of the end. Now all is changed. What has happened? I am too miserable--and too madly happy--to think clearly; but, unless I am quite insane, I have heard your voice speaking my name, and I have seen in your face a look which meant--no, I _cannot_ write it! It was something I have never dared dream of, and I cannot believe it, even now; and yet, I _cannot_ forget that moment! If it is a sin to write this--if it is a wrong to you--I swear I have never meant to sin, and I would have kept silent forever but for that moment. Then, too, it flashed upon me for the first time that you did not know I was not free to love you. It _must_ be that you did not know--the doubt is an insult to your womanhood--and yet, when I tried to make sure of this, how you baffled me! But still _that moment_ remains unforgotten. What does it all mean? I must have an answer! I shall come to-morrow, at the usual time. If you refuse to see me, I shall understand. If not--what then?

"R. G."

The letter fell to the floor, and Helen Jerome sat for a while with heaving breast and hands clasped tightly over her face. Then she rose and paced up and down the chamber, pausing at length before one of the photographs with which she had adorned the bare walls. Through sombre, lurid vapors swept the figures of two lovers, with wild, wan faces, clasped in an eternal embrace of anguish. She looked at the picture a long time with a brooding face. In the dusk the floating figures seemed to expand into living forms, their lips to utter audible cries of despair.

"Even at that price?"

She shuddered as the words escaped her lips, and turned away. There was a tap at the door, and, before she could speak, a woman entered,--a spare, plain-featured woman, dressed in a dark cotton gown and coarse straw hat. There was something gentle, yet resolute, in her manner, as she came toward Mrs. Jerome, her eyes full of repressed, yet eager, scrutiny.

"Good evenin', ma'am," she said, extending a vinaigrette of filigree and crystal. "I was comin' up this way an' I thought I'd bring ye your bottle. Leastways, I s'pose it's yourn. It fell out o' Rob's pocket."

She let her eyes wander while she was speaking over the falling golden hair, the rich _robe-de-chambre_, and back to the beautiful proud face.

"Thank you, it _is_ mine," said Mrs. Jerome. "Are you Robert Granger's mother?"

"No, ma'am. I am his wife's mother. My name is Mary Rogers."

Mrs. Jerome went to the window and seated herself. The hem of her dress brushed against the letter, and she stooped and picked it up, crushing it in her hand. The visitor did not offer to go. She had even removed her hat, and stood nervously twisting its ribbons in her hard, brown fingers.

"Will you sit down, Mrs. Rogers?"

The woman sank upon a chair without speaking. She was visibly embarrassed, moving her hands and feet restlessly about, and then bursting into sudden speech.

"I've got somethin' I want to say to ye, Mis' Jerome. It's kind o' hard to begin--harder'n I thought 'twould be."

She spoke in a strained, trembling voice, with many pauses.

"It's something that ought to be said, an' there's nobody to say it but me. Perhaps--you don't know--that folks round here is a-talkin' about--about you an' Rob."

Mrs. Jerome smiled--a scornful smile which showed her beautiful teeth. The woman saw it, and her swarthy face flushed.

"I don't suppose it matters to you, ma'am, if they be," she said, bitterly, "an' it ain't on your account I come. It's on Ruby's account. Ruby's my darter. Oh, Mis' Jerome,"--she dropped her indignant tone, and spoke pleadingly,--"you don't look a bit like a wicked woman, only proud, an' used to havin' men praise ye, an' I'm sure if you could see Ruby you'd pity her, ma'am. She's a-worryin' an' breakin' her heart over Rob's neglectin' of her so, but she don't know what folks is a-sayin'. I've kep' it from her so far, but I'm afeard I can't keep it much longer, for folks keeps a throwin' out 'n' hintin' round, and if Ruby should find it out--the way she is now--it'd _kill_ her!"

She stopped, rocking herself to and fro, until she could control her shaking voice.

"I never wanted her to _hev_ Rob Granger," she began again, speaking hurriedly, "an' I tried to hender it all I could. But 'twa'n't no use. I knew 'twould come to this, sooner or later. 'Twas in his father, an' it's in him. The Grangers was all of 'em alike--proud an' high-sperrited, an' never knowin' their own minds two days at a time. It's in the blood, an' readin' po'try an' sich don't make it no better. I knowed Ruby wa'n't no match for Rob; she's gentle an' quiet, an' ain't got much book-larnin'. But her heart was sot on him, poor gal!"

And again she paused, sobbing gently now, and wiping her eyes on her apron. Mrs. Jerome rose and went over to her. A wonderful change had passed over her. Every trace of pride and scorn had faded from her face. She was gentle, almost timid, in manner, as she stood before the weeping woman.

"Mrs. Rogers," she said, kindly, "I cannot tell you how sorry I am. It is all unnecessary, I assure you. It is very foolish of people to talk. I shall see that you have no more trouble on my--on this account. If I had known"--she hesitated, stammering. "You see, Mrs. Rogers, I did not even know that Robert Granger was married. If I had, perhaps----"

The woman looked up incredulously. The blood tingled hot through Mrs. Jerome's veins as she answered, with a sting of humiliation at her position.

"It may seem strange--it _is_ strange, but no one has ever mentioned it to me until--a few days ago. Besides, as I tell you, there is no need for talk. There _shall_ be none. You can go home in perfect confidence that you will have no further cause for trouble--that I can prevent."

Mrs. Rogers rose and took the lady's soft hand in hers.

"God bless ye, ma'am. Ye'll do what's right, I know. You must forgive me for thinking wrong of ye, but you see----"

She broke off in confusion.

"It is no matter," said Mrs. Jerome. "You did not know me, of course. Good-night."

When the door had closed upon her visitor, she stood for a while motionless, leaning her head wearily against the window-frame.

"Strange," she said to herself, "that she should have reminded me of--mother! It must have been her voice."

A breeze strayed in at the window, and brought up to her face the scent of the lilies which stood in a dish upon the bureau. She seized the bowl with a hasty gesture, and threw the flowers far out into the orchard.

Mrs. Jerome arose very early the next morning and went down for a breath of the fresh, sweet air. Early as it was, the farmer had been to the village to distribute his milk, and came rattling up the road with his wagon full of empty cans. He drove up to the door, and, with an air of importance, handed the lady a letter, staring inquisitively at her haggard face as he did so. The letter was merely a friendly one from her physician, in answer to her own, and said, among other things:

"Van Cassalear is in town. All my ingenuity was called into action in the effort to answer his persistent inquiries in regard to you. As glad as I am that you are so content, and inured to human suffering as I am supposed to be, I could not but feel a pang of sympathy for him. His state is a melancholy one. The world has long since ceased conjecturing as to your whereabouts. You are one of those privileged beings who are at liberty to do and dare. Your mysterious disappearance is put down with your other eccentricities."

Although, under ordinary circumstances, not a woman to care for a pretext for anything she chose to do, she allowed the reception of this letter to serve in the present instance as an excuse for her immediate departure--for she had resolved to go away at once.

The surprise of Mr. Squires when her intention was made known to him was great, and tinged with melancholy--a melancholy which his wife by no means shared. But his feelings were considerably assuaged by the check handed him by Nettie, for an amount far greater than he had any reason to expect.

"I might 'a' got Rob to take 'em down to the station, if I'd a-known it sooner," he remarked to his wife, in Mrs. Jerome's hearing, "but I seen him an hour ago drivin' like thunder down toward Hingham, an' he won't be back in time. I guess old Sal can drag the folks down to the station, an' I'll see if I can get Tim Higgins to take the things. Time I's about it, too. Train goes at one."

Mrs. Jerome went to her room and dressed herself in travelling attire. Leaving Nettie to finish packing, she took her hat and went out and down the road, walking very rapidly. All along the road-side August was flaunting her gay banners. Silvery clematis and crimsoning blackberry vines draped the rough stone walls; hard-hack, both pink and white, asters and golden-rod, and many a humble, nameless flower and shrub, filled all the intervening spaces; yellow birds swung airily upon the purple tufts of the giant thistles, and great red butterflies hovered across her pathway. She passed on, unheeding, until the grassy by-road was reached, into which she turned, and stood for a moment on the summit of the hill, looking down upon the Granger homestead. A woman came out as she looked, and leaned over the flowers which bloomed in little beds on each side of the door-way. Mrs. Jerome half turned, as if to retrace her steps, and then walked resolutely down the hill and up the avenue. The woman saw her coming, stared shyly from beneath her hand in rustic fashion for a moment, and then ran into the house, where she could be seen peeping from between the half-closed window-blinds.

As she came nearer the house, Mrs. Jerome slackened her steps. Her limbs trembled, she panted slightly, and a feeling of faintness came over her. The woman she had seen came again to the door, and stood there silently as if waiting for the stranger to speak--a timid, delicate young creature, with great innocent blue eyes and apple-bloom complexion. The lady looked into the shy face a moment and came forward, holding out her gloved hand.

"Are you Mrs. Granger?"

The little woman nodded, and the apple-bloom color spread to her blue-veined temples.

"I am Mrs. Jerome," she continued. "You must have heard your--husband speak of me."

"Yes," answered Mrs. Granger, simply, "I've heard tell of you."

Meantime she was studying her guest with innocent curiosity--the lovely proud face, the supple figure, the quiet elegance of the toilet, with all its subtle perfection of detail. It did not irritate her as it did Mrs. Squires; it only filled her with gentle wonder and enthusiasm. She tried at length to shake off the timidity which possessed her.

"You must be real tired," she said gently. "It's a long walk. Won't you come in?"

"Thank you," said the lady. "I think I _am_ very tired. If you would be so kind as to give me a chair, I would sit here in the shade awhile."

She sank into the chair which Mrs. Granger brought, and drank eagerly the cool water which she proffered.

"Thank you," she said. "It is pleasant, here, very. How lovely your flowers are."

"Yes," said Mrs. Granger, with a show of pride, "I love flowers, and they always bloom well for me." She went to the beds and began gathering some of the choicest. At the same moment, Mrs. Rogers came through the hall. As she saw the visitor, her face flushed, and she glanced suspiciously, resentfully, from Mrs. Jerome to her daughter.

The lady rose.

"It's Mis' Jerome, mother," said Ruby, simply, "the lady that stays at Squireses."

Mrs. Jerome bowed, and a look of full understanding passed between the two. Ruby, gathering her flowers, saw nothing of it.

"I am going away, Mrs. Granger," said the lady. "Circumstances require my immediate return to the city. I came to leave a message with you for--your husband, as he is not at home. Tell him I thank him for the pleasure he has given me this summer."

"I'm real sorry you took the trouble to come down," said Mrs. Granger. "It's a long walk, an' Squires could 'a' told Rob to-night."

"Yes, I know," said the lady, consulting her watch, "but I wanted a last walk."

She held the little woman's hand at parting, and looked long into the shy face. Then, stooping, she lightly kissed her forehead, and, with the flowers in her hand, went down the grassy avenue, up the hill, and out of sight.

Robert Granger came home late in the afternoon. He drove directly into the barn, and proceeded to unharness and care for the jaded beast, which was covered with foam and dust. He himself was haggard and wild-eyed, and he moved about with feverish haste. When he had made the tired creature comfortable in his stall, he went to the splendid animal in the one adjoining and began to bestow similar attentions upon him. While he was thus engaged, Mrs. Rogers came into the stable. Her son-in-law hardly raised his eyes. She watched him sharply for a moment, and came nearer.

"Ain't ye comin' in to get somethin' to eat, Rob?"

"I have been to dinner," was the answer.

"Rob," said the woman, quietly, "ye might as well let that go--ye won't need Dick to-day."

Granger started, almost dropping the card he was using.

"What do you mean?" he asked, with an effort at indifference, resuming his work on Dick's shining mane.

"The lady's gone away," said Mrs. Rogers, steadily watching him.

"What!" cried Granger, glaring fiercely across Dick's back. "What did you say? Who's gone away?"

"The lady--Mis' Jerome," repeated the woman. "She come down herself to leave word for ye, seein' that you wa'n't at home. She was called away onexpected. Said she'd enjoyed herself first-rate this summer--an' was much obleeged to ye for your kindness."

Granger continued his labor, stooping so low that his mother-in-law could only see his shoulders and the jetty curls which clustered at his neck. She smiled as she looked--a somewhat bitter smile. She was a good and gentle creature, but Ruby was her daughter--her only child. After a moment or two she went away.

When she was out of hearing, Granger rose. He was pale as death, and his forehead was covered with heavy drops. He leaned weakly against Dick, who turned his fine eyes lovingly on his master and rubbed his head against his sleeve.

Granger hid his face upon his arms.

"My God!" he cried, "is that the answer?"

It _was_ the answer. It was all the answer Granger ever received. He did not kill himself. He did not attempt to follow or even write to her. Why should he? She had come and had gone,--a beautiful, bewildering, maddening vision.

Neither did he try the old remedy of dissipation, as a meaner nature might have done; but he could not bear the quiet meaning of Mrs. Rogers' looks, nor the mute, reproachful face of his wife, and he fell into a habit of wandering with dog and gun through the mountains, coming home with empty game-bag, late at night, exhausted and dishevelled, to throw himself upon his bed and sleep long, heavy slumbers. Without knowing it, he had taken his sore heart to the surest and purest counsellor; and little by little those solitary communings with nature had their healing effect.

"Let him be, Ruby," her mother would say, as Ruby mourned and wondered. "Let him be. The Grangers was all of 'em queer. Rob'll come round all right in course of time."

Weeks and months went by in this way, and one morning, after a night of desperate pain and danger, Robert Granger's first-born was laid in his arms. Then he buried his face in the pillow by pale, smiling Ruby, and sent up a prayer for forgiveness and strength. True, only God and attending angels heard it, but Ruby Granger was a happier woman from that day.

* * * * *

Mrs. Van Cassalear was passing along the city street, leaning upon her husband's arm. It was midsummer. "Everybody" was out of town, and the Van Cassalears were only there for a day, _en passant_. They were walking rapidly, the lady's delicate drapery gathered in one hand, a look of proud indifference upon her face.

"Pond-lilies! Pond-lilies!"

She paused. Upon a street-corner stood a sun-burned, bare-foot boy, in scant linen suit and coarse farmer's hat. His hands were full of lilies, which he was offering for sale.

Mrs. Van Cassalear dropped her husband's arm and the white draperies fell unheeded to the pavement. She almost snatched the lilies from the boy's hands, and bowed her face over them.

The city sights and sounds faded away. Before her spread a deep, dark lake, its surface flecked with lilies. Tall pines bent over it, and in their shadow drifted a boat, and an impassioned, boyish face looked at her from the boat's prow....

"Six for five cents, lady, please!"

"Do you want the things, Helen?" said Van Cassalear, the least trace of impatience in his voice. "If you do, let me pay the boy and we'll go on. People are staring."

The lady raised her eyes and drew a deep breath.

"No," she said, "I will not have them."

She returned the lilies, with a piece of money, to the astonished boy, gathered her drapery again into her hand, and swept on.

MY FRIEND MRS. ANGEL.

A WASHINGTON SKETCH.

My acquaintance with Mrs. Angel dates from the hour she called upon me, in response to my application at a ladies' furnishing store for a seamstress; and the growth of the acquaintance, as well as the somewhat peculiar character which it assumed, was doubtless due to the interest I betrayed in the history of her early life, as related to me at different times, frankly and with unconscious pathos and humor.

Her parents were of the "poor white" class and lived in some remote Virginian wild, whose precise locality, owing to the narrator's vague geographical knowledge, I could never ascertain. She was the oldest of fifteen children, all of whom were brought up without the first rudiments of an education, and ruled over with brutal tyranny by a father whose sole object in life was to vie with his neighbors in the consumption of "black jack" and corn whiskey, and to extract the maximum of labor from his numerous progeny,--his paternal affection finding vent in the oft-repeated phrase, "Durn 'em, I wish I could sell some on 'em!" The boys, as they became old enough to realize the situation, ran away in regular succession;--the girls, in the forlorn hope of exchanging a cruel master for one less so, drifted into matrimony at the earliest possible age. Mrs. Angel, at the age of sixteen, married a man of her own class, who found his way in course of time to Washington and became a day-laborer in the Navy Yard.

It would be interesting, if practicable, to trace the subtle laws by which this woman became possessed of a beauty of feature and form, and color, which a youth spent in field-work, twenty subsequent years of maternity and domestic labor, and a life-long diet of the coarsest description, have not succeeded in obliterating. Blue, heavily fringed eyes, wanting only intelligence to make them really beautiful; dark, wavy hair, delicately formed ears, taper fingers, and a fair, though faded complexion, tell of a youth whose beauty must have been striking.

She seldom alluded to her husband at all, and never by name, the brief pronoun "he" answering all purposes, and this invariably uttered in a tone of resentment and contempt, which the story of his wooing sufficiently accounts for.

"His folks lived over t'other side the mount'n," she related, "an' he was dead sot an' _de_-termined he'd have me. I never did see a man so sot! The Lord knows why! He used ter foller me 'round an' set an' set, day in an' day out. I kep' a-tellin' of him I couldn't a-bear him, an' when I said it, he'd jess look at me an' kind o' grin like, an' never say nothin', but keep on a-settin' 'roun'. Mother _she_ didn't dare say a word, 'cause she knowed father 'lowed I should have him whether or no. ''Taint no use, Calline,' she'd say, 'ye might as well give up fust as last.' Then he got ter comin' every day, an' he an' father jess sot an' smoked, an' drunk whiskey, an' _he_ a-starin' at me all the time as if he was crazy, like. Bimeby I took ter hidin' when he come. Sometimes I hid in the cow-shed, an' sometimes in the woods, an' waited till he'd cl'ared out, an' then when I come in the house, father he'd out with his cowhide, an' whip me. 'I'll teach ye,' he'd say, swearin' awful, 'I'll teach ye ter honor yer father an' mother, as brought ye inter the world, ye hussy!' An' after a while, what with that, an' seein' mother a-cryin' 'roun', I begun ter git enough of it, an' at last I got so I didn't keer. So I stood up an' let him marry me; but," she added, with smouldering fire in her faded blue eyes, "I 'lowed I'd make him sorry fur it, an' I reckon I _hev_! But he won't let on. Ketch him!"

This, and her subsequent history, her valorous struggle with poverty, her industry and tidiness, her intense, though blindly foolish, love for her numerous offspring, and a general soft-heartedness toward all the world, except "niggers" and the father of her children, interested me in the woman to an extent which has proved disastrous to my comfort--and pocket. I cannot tell how it came about, but at an early period of our acquaintance Mrs. Angel began to take a lively interest in my wardrobe, not only promptly securing such articles as I had already condemned as being too shabby, even for the wear of an elderly Government employé, but going to the length of suggesting the laying aside of others which I had modestly deemed capable of longer service. From this, it was but a step to placing a species of lien upon all newly purchased garments, upon which she freely commented, with a view to their ultimate destination. It is not pleasant to go through the world with the feeling of being mortgaged as to one's apparel, but though there have been moments when I have meditated rebellion, I have never been able to decide upon any practicable course of action.

I cannot recall the time when Mrs. Angel left my room without a package of some description. She carries with her always a black satchel, possessing the capacity and insatiability of a conjurer's bag, but, unlike that article, while almost anything may be gotten into it, nothing ever comes out of it.

Her power of absorption was simply marvellous. Fortunately, however, the demon of desire which possesses her may be appeased, all other means failing, with such trifles as a row of pins, a few needles, or even stale newspapers.

"He reads 'em," she explained, concerning the last, "an' then I dresses my pantry shelves with 'em."

"It is a wonder your husband never taught _you_ to read," I said once, seeing how wistfully she was turning the pages of a "Harper's Weekly."

The look of concentrated hate flashed into her face again.

"He 'lows a woman ain't got no call ter read," she answered, bitterly. "I allers laid off to larn, jess ter spite him, but I ain't never got to it yit."

I came home from my office one day late in autumn, to find Mrs. Angel sitting by the fire in my room, which, as I board with friends, is never locked. Her customary trappings of woe were enhanced by a new veil of cheap crape which swept the floor, and her round, rosy visage wore an expression of deep, unmitigated grief. A patch of _poudre de riz_ ornamented her tip-tilted nose, a delicate aroma of Farina cologne-water pervaded the atmosphere, and the handle of my ivory-backed hair-brush protruded significantly from one of the drawers of my dressing-bureau.