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Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2007 with funding from 
 
 IVIicrosoft Corporation 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/carriedbystormaeOOflemrich 
 
POPULAE NOYELS. 
 
 By May Agnes Fleming. 
 
 1.— GUY EARLSCOURT'S WIFK 
 2.— A WONDERFUL WOMAN. 
 3.— A TERRIBLE SECRET. 
 4.— NORINE'S REVENGE. 
 5.— A MAD MARRIAGE. 
 6.— ONE NIGHT'S MYSTERY. 
 7.— KATE DANTON. 
 a— SILENT AND TRUE. 
 9.— HEIR OF CHARLTON. 
 10.— CARRIED BY STORM. (New.) 
 
 ' Mrs. Fleming's stories are growing more and more popu- 
 lar every day. Their delineations of character 
 life-like conversations, flashes of wit, con- 
 stantly varying scenes, and deeply in- 
 teresting plots, combine to place 
 their author in the very 
 first rank of Modem 
 Novelists." 
 
 All published uniform with this volume. Piice $1.60 eaob, 
 and ei&atfree by mail on receipt of price. 
 
 G. Hr. CARIiETON & CO., Publlslieni, 
 Ne\r Tork. 
 
Carried by Storm 
 
 "2. ISoDtl 
 
 BY 
 
 MAY AGNES FLEMING, 
 
 AUTHOR OP 
 
 '•silent and true," "a mad marriage," "a terrible secret, 
 
 "guy earlscourt's wife," "a wonderful woman," 
 
 "one night's mystery," etc., etc. 
 
 " When she is angry she is keen and shrewd, 
 And, though she is but little, she is fierce." 
 
 Midsummer Night's Dream, 
 
 ?^ 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 CopyHRht, 1879, by 
 
 Cz. JV, Carle ton & Co., Publishers^ 
 
 LONDON : S. LOW & CO. 
 
 mdccclxxx. 
 
Sahubl Stoddkb, 
 Stereottpeb, 
 # 90 Ann Stbbbt N. T. 
 
 Trow 
 
 FBIKTINa AND BoOK BiNSINO CO. 
 
 N. Y. 
 
CONTENTS, 
 
 PART FIRST. 
 
 OEAP. 7A0X 
 
 I. Which is Highly Sensational 7 
 
 n. Which Begins at the Beginning 14 
 
 in. How Little Olga gets Lost 20 
 
 rV. A Wild Gill of the Woods 27 
 
 V. Sleaford's 32 
 
 VI. A Deed of Darkness 41 
 
 VII. Sleaford's Joanna 47 
 
 Vm. The Abbotts of Abbott Wood 54 
 
 IX. The Misses Sleaford at Home 72 
 
 X, Geoffrey Lamar 90 
 
 XL In which Mr. Abbott Asserts Himself 100 
 
 Xn. ''Nobody's Child" 114 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 I. What the Years Make of Joanna 125 
 
 n. In which Joanna Enters Society 138 
 
 lU. In which Joanna Caps the Climax 154 
 
 IV. In which Joanna Runs Away 166 
 
 V. In which Joanna Seeks her Fortune 182 
 
 VL In which Joanna Finds her Fortune 194 
 
 w 
 4389 I a 
 
VI CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAP. PAGB 
 
 Vn. The Tragedy at Sleaford's 207 
 
 Vni. Geoffrey Hears a Confession 217 
 
 IX. A Long Journey 228 
 
 X. Leo's Ball 241 
 
 XI. After that Night 251 
 
 PART THIRD. 
 
 I. After the Story Ended. 261 
 
 n. After the Concert 273 
 
 m. After Long Years 283 
 
 rV. " Carried by Storm " 293 
 
 V. " Little Leo " 301 
 
 VI. '' Joan Bennett" 312 
 
 vn. The Story 321 
 
 Vni. How Joanna Came Back 331 
 
 IX. How Joanna Paid her Debt 346 
 
 X. " The Time of Roses " 361 
 
 XI. How Joanna Said Good-by 371 
 
 XH. Wedding Bells 387 
 
CARRIED BY STORM. 
 
 PART FIRST. 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 WHICH IS HIGHLY SENSATIONAL. 
 
 OOK at it well," says Miss Ventnor, " it 
 is what you have never seen before — 
 what you may never see again — a 
 Haunted House !" 
 One slim, gloved hand, looking like a perfect hand 
 in dark gray marble, points the dramatic speech. 
 Miss Ventnor is given to dramatic and epigrammatic 
 little speeches at all times, but as she is not given to 
 talking nonsense at any time, I know there is " method 
 in the madness" of this assertion now. And yet — a 
 haunted house ! I laugh a little, as I lean out from the 
 carriage to look. 
 
 " Do not laugh," says Miss Ventnor, austerely ; 
 " there is nothing to laugh at. A dark and direful 
 tragedy was enacted within the walls of that gloomy 
 red farm-house — let me see — four — yes, nearly five 
 years ago. Do you see that third window to the right, 
 iu the attic story ? Well, a man was murdered — 
 stabbed to death in that room." 
 
 m 
 
•:/: 
 
 8 /. '; ;'^'rirc^" 'is; ;i£iqhj.Y' 's.ensation al. 
 
 "Ugh ! how horrid !" I say, with a shudder. If 
 she had told me he had drowned himself, or poisoned 
 himself, or charcoaled himself, a la Frangais, or even 
 hanged himself, or gone out of time into eternity by 
 any one of those other violent but unbloody gates, her 
 tragedy would have lost its most grisly element. But 
 the average female mind shrinks in repulsion from the 
 thought of a severed jugular or a pool of blood. 
 
 "And ever since the house has been haunted, of 
 course," says Miss Yentnor, folding one gray kid 
 calmly over the other. "It is a good house and a 
 fine farm, and since Sleaford's time — Sleaford was the 
 victim — the rent has been merely nominal. All in vain. 
 Sleaford * walks,' and in the * dead waste and middle 
 of the night ' the struggle is re-enacted, and panic- 
 stricken, belated wayfarers fly. It is all nonsense, of 
 course," says Miss Ventnor, changing suddenly from 
 a Siddons' voice to a practical, every-day one. " Slea- 
 ford, poor wretch, lies over j^onder in Potter's Field 
 and troubles nobody. But the fact remains that peo- 
 ple will not live in the place, and the most audacious 
 tramp and thief will give the peach trees and melon 
 patches of Sleaford's a wide berth, be he never so 
 hungry. And — I do not mind admitting that even / 
 would go half a dozen miles roundabout rather than 
 pass it alone after nightfall. So take a good look at 
 it, my dear, a bona fide haunted house is a sight to 
 be respected and remembered, if only for its rarity in 
 this degenerate age. And this evening, after dinner, 
 I will tell you all about it." 
 
 I do not need the injunction — I am taking a. good 
 look at Sleaford's ! Even without Miss Ventnor's 
 ghastly legend the place could hardly fail to impress 
 
WHICH IS HIGHLY SENSATIONAL. 9 
 
 one in a weird and dismal way. But just now the mise 
 en scene is in keeping with the story. A gray, fast- 
 drifting autumnal sky, lying low, and threatening 
 ^ rain ; a chill, complaining, fitful wind, rising and fall- 
 ing over the rich rank marshes ; a long stretch of flat 
 farm land, sear and brown, corn-stalks rattling their 
 melancholy dry bones, the orchard trees stripped and 
 forlorn. In the midst the house, long, low, a dull 
 brick-color, broken panes in the windows, broken 
 fences around, no dog at the gate, no face at the case- 
 ment, no smoke from the chimneys, no voice to wel- 
 come or warn away. Desolation has lain her lean 
 brown hand upon it, and marked her own. Anything 
 more forlorn, more " ramshackle," more forbidding, no 
 fancy can picture. And from being a deserted house, 
 no matter what the cause, from ghosts to bedbugs, to 
 being a haunted house, there is but a step. 
 
 "There it stands," says Miss Ventnor, musingly, 
 her elbow on her knee, her pretty chin in her hand, 
 
 '* * Under some prodigious ban, 
 Of excommunication ' 
 
 and yet I can remember when Sleaford's was the 
 rendezvous of all that was youngest, loudest, merriest, 
 in a radius of twenty miles — the *jolliest old roost 
 going,' as poor Frank Livingston used to tell me. 
 The Sleaford girls were the handsomest, reddest- 
 cheeked, blackest-eyed, loudest-laughing gypsies to 
 be seen for a mile. There were two of them, as much 
 alike as peas in a pod, as round and rosy as twin 
 tomatoes. There were the two Sleaford boys, tall, 
 strapping fellows, with more of the wild gypsy strain 
 even than their sisters, the best dancers, wrestlers. 
 
10 WHICH IS HIGHLY SENSATIONAL. 
 
 rowers, singers, fighters, everything but the best farm- 
 ers — they never worked. There was Giles Sleaford 
 himself, who went up to that attic room one moon- 
 light night, a strong, stalwart man, and was carried 
 down next morning — an awful spectacle. And last of 
 all there was — Joanna." 
 
 Miss Ventnor's voice takes a sudden change as it 
 slowly — reluctantly, it seems — pronounces this name, 
 a touch of strong repulsion it has not had even when 
 telling the story of Sleaford's grisly death. She sits 
 suddenly erect as she utters it, and gathers up the 
 reins. 
 
 "Let us go," she says, with a shiver; "it is a 
 horrible place, haunted by evil memories if by nothing 
 more tangible. It is growing cold, too. Do not look 
 at it any more — it is uncanny. You will dream of 
 fSleaford's to-night." 
 
 " Wait !" I say ; " look there !" 
 
 I speak in a whisper, and lay my hand on her 
 arm. Miss Ventnor bends forward. Over the broken 
 pickets of the fence the solitary figure of a man leans, 
 his arms folded across the top, his eyes fixed stead- 
 fastly on the house. A moment ago he was not there ; 
 we have not seen him approach ; the apparition could 
 not have been more unexpected if he had risen from 
 the ground. 
 
 " Ah !" Miss Ventnor says, a half-startled look 
 coming into her eyes, "I did not know lie was here. 
 That is the one man of all the men on earth who 
 could throw light on part of the Sleaford mystery — 
 if he chose." 
 
 " And he does not choose ?" 
 
 "He does not choose — I doubt if he ever wiL 
 
WHICH IS HIGHLY SENSATIONAL. 11 
 
 choose. I wonder — I wojider what he has done with 
 her I" 
 
 "With her? with whom? One of the black- 
 eyed, tomato-cheeked Misses Sleaford ?" 
 
 "Misses Sleaford?" contemptuously. "No, Jo- 
 anna. That is her window he is looking at — the attic 
 room next to the chamber of horrors. I wonder what 
 he has done with her," says Miss Ventnor, speaking 
 to herself ; " it must have been worse than having 
 a white elephant on his hands. That is George 
 Blake." 
 
 " George Blake ! H-m ! a commonplace cogno- 
 men enough for the hero of a melodrama. Do I 
 understand you to say this Mr. Blake eloped with 
 Mile. Joanna ?" 
 
 " No ; Joanna eloped with him. He was the vic- 
 tim. Never miiKl now. I am cold, and I want my 
 dinner. I am going home. Get along, Frisky." 
 
 Frisky pricks up his ears, tosses his brown mane, 
 and gets along. The sound pierces through Mr. 
 Blake's brown study ; he turns sharply and sees Miss 
 Ventnor. She inclines her head, he lifts his hat — a 
 moment, and we are out of sight. In that moment I 
 have caught a glimpse of a sallow and rather hand- 
 some face, a slight and medium-sized figure, two dark 
 eyes, and a brown mustache. 
 
 "A very commonplace young man to be the first 
 lover in a melodrama," I reiterate. "Is — ah — your 
 Mr. Blake a gentleman, Olga ?" 
 
 " My Mr. Blake !" repeats Miss Ventnor, laugh- 
 ing ; "well, you wouldn't know much difference. He 
 is a newspaper man, a journalist, a penny-a-liner, works 
 on daily papers — is clever, they say, and has good 
 
12 WHICH IS HIGHLY SENSATIONAL. 
 
 manners. A thousand times too good to have his life 
 spoiled by a woman." 
 
 "My dear, that is the only thing of interest about 
 him, the leaven that lightens the whole man. There 
 is always the element of the heroic in a man whose 
 life has been spoiled by a woman — if there is any- 
 thing in him it is sure to force it out. And men bear 
 it so well, too ! I dare say Mr. George Blake eats bis 
 three meals per diem with as Christian a relish, and 
 writes twice as pungent paragraphs as before. Was 
 Joanna pretty ? Quaint little ugly name, by-the-bye 
 — Joanna." 
 
 Olga Ventnor does not reply. At last she lowers 
 the reins and looks at me. 
 
 " Do you believe," she asks, " in people being pos- 
 sessed ?" 
 
 " Good gracious !" I cry, aghast. 
 
 It is the second startling speech within the hour, 
 and really this last is quite too horrid. 
 
 "Because," says Miss Ventnor, trenchantly, "if 
 ever any human being was possessed of a demon Jo- 
 anna was ! Now, do not ask any questions, for here 
 we are, and thumbscrews would not extort anothei 
 iByllable from me until I have had my dinner." 
 
 ^ 4: ^ « He % 
 
 The threatening rain begins to fall with the falling 
 darkness. It is beating sharply against the panes as 
 we descend to the dining-room half an hour later. 
 But plate-glass and crimson curtains shut out wind, 
 and rain, and night ; a fire burns in the shining grate* 
 the gas-lights in their ground-glass lily-cups flood the 
 deep red carpet, the gilt picture-frames, the polished 
 mahogany sideboard, the sparkling crystal, and rough 
 
WHICH IS HIGHLY SENSATIONAL. 13 
 
 old silver of the dinner service. And Miss Ventnor, 
 in dark-blue silk, with a good deal of black lace about 
 it, and a sweet-smelling crimson rose in her hair, is 
 quite an ideal hostess. But all through soup and 
 salmon, roast and entrees^ jellies and pastry, iced pud- 
 ding and peaches, and black cofPee, I think of the 
 Sleafords and the gloomy red farm-house, the awful 
 upper chamber, the tomato-faced maidens, the gypsy 
 sons, the mysterious Joanna, and the lonely figure 
 of Mr. George Blake, leaning with folded arms 
 on the broken rails, and gazing at the lattice of the 
 young woman who had eloped with him. Does Mr. 
 Blake prefer coming back here, and sentimentalizing 
 over four greenish panes of glass to gazing on the 
 charms of Mistress Joanna in the flesh ? 
 
 After dinner, with slippers on the fender, the ruby 
 shine of the fire on her trailing azure silk and fine 
 laces, and red rose and pretty fair hair, Olga tells me 
 the story of the Sleafords. 
 
 Outside there is the accompaniment of fast-falling 
 rain, dully-sighing wind, wetness, blackness, night. I 
 set it down here in different words, and much more 
 than Miss Ventnor told me, much more than she knew 
 herself that memorable night. Bit by bit the strange 
 affair has come to light, and to the knowledge of those 
 interested therein, among whom no one is, or has been, 
 more vividly interested than myself. If I do not 
 carry you 2i,w2kY as I was carried away that evening, it 
 is because pen, ink, and paper do not constitute a 
 handsome young lady in silk attire, with sweet, clear 
 voice, sweet, shining eyes, and a story-telling talent 
 that would have done honor to one of those improper 
 creatures in the Decameron, who told tales by moon- 
 
14 WHICH BEGINS AT THE BEGINNING. 
 
 light in the garden of Boccaccio to the listening 
 Florentines. This, in my way, and with additions, is 
 the story Oiga Ventnor told me that wet October 
 night — the tragic story of the Sleafords. 
 
 I 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 • WHICH BEGINS AT THE BEGINNING. 
 
 I HE village of Brightbrook ! You do not 
 know it, perhaps, and yet it is not unknown 
 to fame or fashion in the heated months — 
 ' bu4. it was both, twenty odd years ago, 
 when Olga Yeiitnor first set her blue, bright eyes upon 
 it. A slim lassie, an only "child, an heiress, a dainty, 
 upright, fair-haired fairy, all Swiss muslin, Valencien- 
 nes lace, Hamburg embroideries, many tucks, and 
 much rufiiing. Straight as a dart, white as a lily — a 
 delicate little aristocrat, from the crown of her golden 
 head to the sole of her sandaled foot ; idolized by 
 papa, adored by mamma, paid court to by friends, 
 relatives, playmates, teachers, servants, village folk — a 
 small princess, by royal right of beauty, birth, wealth. 
 That is a correct picture of Miss Olga Ventnor, oetat 
 ten. 
 
 And yet, in spite of all, of spoiling and flattery 
 enough to ruin an army of innocents, she was a charm- 
 ing child, simple and natural, with a laugh all wild 
 and free, pretty childish ways, full of flawless health 
 and rosy life. It was for her sake — the apple of his 
 eye, and the pride of his life — that Colonel Ventnoi 
 
WHICH BEGINS AT THE BEGINNING. 15 
 
 resigned Swiss mountains, Lake Como sunsets, ascents 
 of Vesuvius, Texan plains on fleet mustangs, yachting 
 adown the picturesque coast of Maine, camping out on 
 the Adirondacks, mountain trout baked in cream, and 
 all the other delights of his existence, and built this 
 pretty villa in Brightbrook, and came down here 
 in the month of roses, with eight "in help," and a 
 pretty, pallid, invalid wife — foreswore all wild, wan- 
 dering ways forever, so that 'little Olga might run 
 wild among the clover and b^lttercups, and from much 
 fresh air, and sweet milk, and strawberries picked with 
 her own taper fingers, grow up to blooming health and 
 maidenhood. ] 
 
 Colonel Ventnor — he had served with distinction 
 in the far West — was a very rich man, and the 
 descendant of a family of very rich ' men. Such a 
 thing as a poor Ventnor perhaps had n«ver been heard 
 of. They were wealthy always, high-bred always, 
 holding enviable positions under government always, 
 never defiling their patrician fingers with trade or 
 commerce of any kind, and, in a general way, consid- 
 ering their status and superiority to all earthly pur- 
 suits, with quite as many brains as was good for them. 
 Of these mighty men. Colonel Raymond Livingston 
 Ventnor was the last, and little Olga, in her Swiss 
 tucks and Leghorn sun-hat, the very last daughter of 
 the house, born, if ever embryo belle and heiress was 
 yet, with a golden spoon in her mouth. 
 
 " We must marry her to Frank Livingston in about 
 ten years from now," said the family conclave, "and 
 so keep everything in the family. Pity she is not a 
 boy — too bad to sink the Ventnor for Livingston — 
 
16 WHICH BEGINS AT THE BEGINNING. 
 
 but Frank can add the old name by and by, when he 
 marries Olga." 
 
 Perhaps this imperial ukase was not read in form 
 to tlie bride-elect, but it met the approval of papa and 
 mamma, and certainly was announced to the future 
 bridegroom, a slim, very pretty young fellow of 
 eighteen or so, with a passion for base-ball, and another 
 for pencil drawing. He was really a bright lad, and 
 at this age quite a wonder to see in the way of tall- 
 ness, and slininess, and straightness. And he only 
 grinned when his fond mamma folded him with effu- 
 sion in her arms, and announced, with joyful tears, 
 that he — he — her Francis — her darling boy, and 7iot 
 Anselm Van Dyack, nor Philip Vandewelode, had 
 been chosen for the distinguished position of prince 
 consort to the heiress of many Yentnors. 
 
 " And you need never lower your family, nor slave 
 yourself to death painting pictures now, my dearest, 
 dearest boy ! Olga Ventnor's fortune must be simply 
 immense — immense !" 
 
 "All right, mother," says Frank, still grinning; 
 " and when is it to be — this week or next ? Or am I 
 to wait until she grows up ? Z am on hand always ; 
 when you want me please to ring the bell." 
 
 "Frank, this is no theme for jesting. They will 
 not permit it for at least ten years. Say her educa- 
 tion is finished at eighteen, then two years of travel, 
 then the wedding. Meantime, whenever you see little 
 Olga be just as nice as possible — impressions made at 
 her age often last through life." 
 
 Frank throws back his head, and laughs immoder- 
 ately: "Did I ever dream in my wildest dime novel 
 days it would come to this? Did I ever think that. 
 
WHICH BEGINS AT THE BEGINNING. 17 
 
 like Dick Swiveller, I would have a young woman 
 growing up for me ? Don't wear that face, mother, or 
 you will be the death of me. I'll run down to Bright- 
 brook next week, if you like, and do a little stroke of 
 courting, and hunt butterflies with the little dear until 
 the end of July." 
 
 So Frank runs down, and is made welcome at the 
 pretty white villa, all embowered in pink roses and 
 scented honeysuckle, like a cottage in a picture, and 
 by none more gladly than little Olga. All that mere 
 money can buy is hers ; but even money has its limits 
 as to power, and it cannot buy her a playmate and 
 constant companion of her own age. The child is 
 a little lonely, surrounded by love and splendor. 
 Brother or sister she has never had, mamma is always 
 ailing and lying on the sofa, papa is away a great 
 deal, Jeannette, the bonne, is lazy and stupid, and says 
 it is too hot to play, and in all Brightbrook there is no 
 one this dainty, little curled darling may stoop to 
 romp with. Yes, by-the-bye, there is one, just one, of 
 whom more anon, but she is not always available. So 
 the little princess, forgetting the repose which marks 
 the caste of Vere de Vere, utters a scream of joy at 
 sight of Cousin Frank, and flings herself absolutely 
 plump into his arms. 
 
 " Oh ! I am so glad !" she cries out. " Oh ! Frank, 
 how nice of you to come. I've been wanting you every 
 day of my life since we came down here — ^^oh, ever and 
 ever so ! Mamma, you know I've been wanting Cousin 
 Frank." 
 
 Mamma smiles. Frank lifts the little white-robed, 
 golden-haired, rose-cheeked vision up higher than his 
 head, kisses her, and with her perched on his shoulder, 
 2 
 
18 WHICH BEGINS AT THE BEGINNING. 
 
 and shrieking with delight, starts off for the first game 
 of romps. It is all as it should be. Mrs. Colonel 
 Ventnor settles her muslins and laces, lies back in her 
 blue satin chair, and resumes her book, very well 
 pleased. 
 
 Frank's one week lasts well on into September. 
 Brightbrook abounds in cool hill-side streams and 
 tarns, from which it takes its name, aiid these spark- 
 ling waters abound, in turn, with fine trout. Fishing 
 is dreamy, lazy, insouciant sort of work, suited to 
 sleepy, artistic fancies, and the young fellow spends a 
 good deal of his time armed with rod and line and 
 lunch-basket, and waited upon dutifully by his de- 
 voted little hand-maiden. Princess Olga. All the 
 world adores her, she in turn adores Frank. He is 
 the handsomest, the cleverest, the dearest cousin in all 
 the world. He paints her picture, he bears her aloft 
 in triumph on his shoulder, he sings her German 
 drinking songs, he teaches her to bait her hook and 
 catch fish, he takes her for long rambles in the woods, 
 he instructs her in the art of waltzing, he tells her 
 the most wonderful goblin tales ever human brains 
 invented. 
 
 And all this without a jot of reference to his 
 mother's romance of the future. That he laughs at — 
 simply because she is the prettiest little darling in the 
 world, and he is fond of children. Marry her in ten 
 years — ten years, forsooth ! "Why not say half a 
 century at once, and have done with it ? He is seven- 
 teen — ten years looks a long perspective, a little 
 forever, to eyes seventeen years old. 
 
 October comes. With the first bleak blast and 
 whistling drift of maple leaves, these birds of summer 
 
WHICH BEGINS AT THE BEGINNING. 19 
 
 forsake their fragile nest, and flutter back to the 
 stately family home of the Ventnors on Madison 
 avenue. The pretty white villa, with its roses, and 
 verandas, and conservatories, and sun-dial, is shut up, 
 and only an old man and his daughter left to care for 
 it until the next June honeysuckles blow. 
 
 Little Olga goes back to her books and her piano, 
 under an all-accomplished governess ; Frank goes in 
 for painting, and takes a trip to the everglades of 
 Florida. Early next summer the Ventnor family re- 
 turn, making a mighty stir throughout Brightbrook, 
 and in due course down comes Mr. Frank. 
 
 A year has made its mark on this young man. 
 His fine tenor voice is changing to an ugly bass, a 
 callow down is forming on his upper lip, and is loved 
 and caressed as a youthful mother may her first-born 
 babe. He is absent a great deal from the cottage, and 
 he very seldom takes Olga with him anywhere now. 
 
 Nobody knows where he spends his time. Olga is 
 the only one who inquires ; Olga, piqued and pouting, 
 yet too proud even at eleven to let him see how much 
 she cares. 
 
 "Where have you been nowP"^ she will ask. 
 
 " Oh, up the village !" 
 
 It is his invariable answer, and it being a dull little 
 village, and Mr. Francis of a lively turn, and fond of life, 
 even rough and rollicking life, it is a little puzzling. 
 Olga does not like it at all — he is not nearly so nice as 
 on the preceding year, he leaves her to Jeannette and 
 mamma, and amuses himself very well without her. 
 The absences grow more frequent and prolonged. He 
 stays away whole days, and his latch-key opens the 
 hall-door gently far into the dim watches of the night. 
 
20 HOW LITTLE OLGA GETS LOST. 
 
 Lying awake, looking at the summer moonlight steal- 
 ing whitely in, the child will hear that cautious click, 
 that light footstep passing the door, and presently the 
 little Swiss clock on the mantel will chime out, silvery 
 and sharp, two or three. Three in the morning, and 
 up at the village ! It is odd. But presently the mys- 
 tery is solved for Olga in quite a sudden and awful 
 way. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 HOW LITTLE OLGA G:fiTS LOST. 
 
 lOUSm Frank !" 
 
 There is no reply. Stretched on the 
 sun-steeped grass, his straw hat pulled 
 over his face, his long length casting a 
 prodigious shadow in the afternoon sunshine. Cousin 
 Frank is leagues away in the lovely land of dreams. 
 
 " Frank ! Cousin Frank ! Frank Livingston ! Oh, 
 dear!" sighs Olga, impatiently. "No wonder he is 
 asleep. It struck three this morning before — Frank ! 
 Oh ! how stupid you are ! Do, do wake up !" 
 
 Thus adjured, and further urged by the pointed 
 toe of a most Cinderella-like shoe of blue kid, Frank 
 consents to slowly and lazily open his handsome blue 
 eyes. 
 
 "Oh !" she says, with a pout, "at last ! You are 
 worse than the Seven Sleepers. Here you have becM 
 fast asleep for the past two hours, and all that tire- 
 some time I have been waiting here. I think it is 
 horrid of you, Frank Livingston, to act so !" 
 
HOW LITTLE OLGA GETS LOST. 21 
 
 " To act so ! To act how, fairest of fairy cousins ? 
 What has your Frank, the most abject of thy slaves, 
 Lady Olga, been doing now, to evoke your frown ? 
 There is no harm in taking a snooze on the grass, is 
 there ?" says Frank, with a prolonged yawn. 
 
 Miss Olga stands beside him, slim, straight, white, 
 blonde, pouting, and very, very pretty. 
 
 " There is harm in never coming home until half- 
 past* three in the morning every night. If you didn't 
 do that you wouldn't sleep on the grass all the next 
 afternoon. What would mamma say ?" 
 
 He rises suddenly on his elbow and looks at her. 
 Pretty well this, for a demoiselle of eleven ! She 
 stands rolling the gravel with one blue boot-tip, her 
 wide-brimmed leghorn shading her face, the long, 
 almost flaxen ringlets falling to her slender waist, her 
 delicate lips pouting, the light figure upright as a dart. 
 
 " Princess Olga," Frank says, after a pause and a 
 stare, "what an uncommonly pretty little thing you 
 are getting to be ! I must make a sketch of you just 
 as you stand ; that sunshine on your yellow curls and 
 white dress is capital ! Do not stir, please, my sketch- 
 book is here ; I will dash you off in all your loveliness 
 in the twinkling of a bed-post !" 
 
 Frank's sketch-book and Frank himself are never 
 far apart. He takes it up now, as it lies at his elbow, 
 selects a fair and unspotted page, points a broad black 
 pencil, and begins. 
 
 "Just as you are — do not move. *Just as I am, 
 and waiting not, to rid myself of one — some sort of 
 blot,' — how is it the hymn goes? And so you heard 
 me come in last night ? Now who would think such 
 pretty little pink ears could be so sharp !" 
 
22 HOW LITTLE OLGA GETS LOST. 
 
 "Last night!" pouts Olga ; "this morning, yon 
 mean. Half-past three. I heard the clock strike." 
 
 " Don't believe the clock — it is a foul slanderer. 
 Those little jeweled jimcracks that play tunes before 
 they strike always tell lies. Did you tell mamma 
 about It this morning, Oily ?" 
 
 She flings back her head, and her blue eyes — very 
 like Frank's own — kindle. 
 
 " Tell mamma ! I am not a tell-tale, Cousin 
 Frank." 
 
 The young fellow, sketching busily, draws a breath 
 of relief. 
 
 "Most gracious princess, you are a little trump. I 
 ask pardon. Turn your head just a hair-breadth this 
 way. Ah ! thanks — that will do. Well, now, Olga, I 
 was out rather late ; but I met some — some fellows, 
 
 and we played a game or two, and so " 
 
 " Were you up the village ?" 
 
 " Yes, up the village. You see, Brightbrook is such 
 a deadly-lively sort of place at the best, and a fellow 
 must amuse himself a little in some way. And that 
 reminds me — I have an engagement at five. What's 
 the time. Oily ? just look at my watch, will you ?" 
 
 She obeys after a moment — a moment in which 
 wistful longing and precocious pride struggle for 
 mastery. Then she stoops and looks. 
 
 "A quarter of five. But you said " 
 
 A pause. 
 
 " Well, I said " 
 
 " You said — you promised Leo Abbott yesterday 
 that you would drive me over there this afternoon, and 
 we would have croquet and tea." 
 
 " Oh, did I ?" carelessly. " Well, you must let me 
 
HOW LITTLE OLGA GETS LOST. 23 
 
 off, oily, and make my excuses to little Leo. Upon 
 ray honor, I cannot manage it — awfully sorry all the 
 same. But it need not keep you, you know ; your 
 papa will drive you, or Peters will." 
 
 Peters is head coachman, the safest of charioteers. 
 Papa is alwaj^s willing to drive his darling anywhere. 
 But Olga Ventnor turns hastily away, and the childish 
 eyes that look at the setting sun are full of tears she 
 is too proud to let fall. 
 
 "There !" Frank says, after five minutes more de- 
 voted to the sketch ; " there you are, as large as life, 
 but not half so handsome. Here it is for a keepsake, 
 Olga. When you are a tall, fascinating young lady 
 — a brilliant belle, and all that — it will help to re- 
 mind you of how you looked when a chickabiddy of 
 eleven." 
 
 He tears out the leaf, scrawls under it, " Princess 
 Olga, with the love of the most loyal of her lieges," 
 and hands it to her. She takes it, her lips a little 
 compressed, pique, pain in her eyes, plainly enough in 
 spite of her pride, if he cares to look. But Frank has 
 a happy knack of never looking, nor wishing to look, 
 below the surface of things, and he has something to 
 think of besides his little cousin's whims just at 
 present. 
 
 "I am off," he says, jumping up. "And — look 
 here. Oily — go to sleep like a good little thing when 
 you go to bed, and don't lie awake o' nights in this 
 wicked way counting the clock. It will bring gray 
 hairs and wrinkles before you reach your twelfth 
 birthday. You will wake up some morning and find, 
 like Marie Antoinette, all these long curls turned from 
 gold to silver in a single night." 
 
24 HOW LITTLE OLGA GETS LOST. 
 
 He pulls out one of the long tresses, fine as floss 
 silk, to an absurd length, as he speaks. 
 
 "And besides, I am going to reform, to turn over 
 a new leaf, numbers of new leaves, to become a good 
 boy, and go to bed at ten. So say nothing to nobody, 
 Oily, and, above all, above everything, shut those blue 
 peepers the moment your head is on the pillow, and 
 never open them, nor the dear little pink ears, until six 
 the next morning." 
 
 He gives the pink ear an affectionate and half- 
 anxious tweak, smiles at the grave face of the child, 
 flings his hat on, and d(iparts. 
 
 The little girl stands watching him until he is out 
 of sight, then, with a deep sigh that would have in- 
 finitely amused Master Frank could he have heard, 
 turns for consolation to the drawing. Is she really so 
 pretty as this ? How clever Cousin Frank must be to 
 sketch so — dash off things, as he calls it — all in a 
 moment. She has it yet, yellow, faded, stored away 
 among the souvenirs treasured most. 
 
 " Madame votre mere says will mademoiselle not 
 come for one leetle walk before her supper?" says the 
 high Norman sing-song voice of Jeannette, appearing 
 from the house ; " it will give ma'amselle an appetite 
 for her tartine and strawberries." 
 
 "Very well, Jeannette. Yes, I will go. Here, 
 take this up to my room. I will go on this way. 
 You can follow me." 
 
 So, with a slow and lingering step, the little heiress 
 of many Ventnors sets off. She is a somewhat preco- 
 cious little girl, old-fashioned, as it is phrased, a trifle 
 prim in speech and manner, except now and then when 
 the wild child-nature bursts its trammels, and she 
 
HOW LITTLE OLGA GKTS LOST. 25 
 
 runs, and sings, and romps as wildly as the squirrels 
 she chases. Just at this moment she is under a cloud. 
 Cousin Frank has wounded and disappointed her. He 
 will not tell her where he goes or what he does all 
 these long hours of absence. 
 
 " Up the village " is vague and unsatisfactory to a 
 degree ; he has broken his promise about taking her to 
 Abbott Wood, and she likes to play croquet with 
 Geoff and Leo Abbott. Frank's promises, she is be- 
 ginning to discover, are very pie-crusty indeed ; he 
 makes them with lavish prodigality, and breaks them 
 without a shadow of scruple. All these things are 
 preying on Miss Ventnor's eleven-year-old mind for 
 the first few minutes, and make her step lagging and 
 her manner listless. Then a brilliant butterfly swings 
 past her, and she starts in pursuit — then a squirrel 
 darts out of a woodland path and challenges her to a 
 race — then a tempting cluster of flame-colored marsh 
 flowers catches her eye, and she makes a detour to get 
 them — then she finds herself in a thicket of raspberry 
 bushes, and begins to pluck and eat. Overhead there 
 is a hot, hot sun, sinking in a blazing western sky like 
 a lake of molten gold. 
 
 In these woody dells there are coolness and shadow, 
 sweet forest smells, the chirp of birds, the myriad 
 sounds of sylvan silence. A breeze is rising, too. She 
 goes on and on, eating, singing, chasing birds and bui- 
 terflies, rabbits and field mice, all live things that 
 cross her path. 
 
 All at once she pauses. Where is Jeannette ? She 
 lias been rambling more than an hour, she is far from 
 home, the sun lias set, she is tired, the place is strange, 
 she has never been here before. Her dress is soiled, 
 
26 HOW LITTLE OLGA GETS LOST. 
 
 her boots are muddy ; woods, trees, marshes are around 
 her — no houses, no people. Oh ! where is she — where 
 is her honnef 
 
 " Jeannette ! Jeannette !" She stops and cries 
 aloud : " Jeannette ! where are you ?" 
 
 Her shrill, childish voice echoes down the dim 
 woodland aisles. Only that, and the gathering still- 
 ness of the lonesome evening in the wood. 
 
 " Jeannette ! Jeannette ! Jeannette !" 
 
 In wild affright the young voice peals forth it# 
 piteous cry. But only the fitful sighing of the twi- 
 light wind, only the mournful rustle of the leaves, 
 only the faint call of the little mother birds in their 
 nests, answer her. Then she knows the truth — she is 
 lost ! 
 
 Lost in the woods, far from any habitation, and 
 night close at hand. Jeannette has lingered behind to 
 gossip ; she, Olga, has gone heedlessly on ; now it is 
 coming night ; she is alone, and lost in the black, 
 whispering, awful, lonely woods ! 
 
 She stands still and looks around her. Overhead 
 there is a gray and pearl-tinted sky, very bright still 
 in the west, but with a star or two gleaming over the 
 tree-tops. In the forest it is already pitch-dark. In 
 the open, where she now stands, it will be light for 
 half an hour yet. To the right spreads the pine 
 woods, whispering, whispering mysteriously in the 
 solemn darkening hush ; to the left is a waste of dry 
 and dreary marsh land, intermediate and blankly gray 
 in the gloaming. No house, no living thing to be seen 
 far or near ! 
 
A WILD GIRL OF THE WOODS. 27 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A WILD GIRL OF THE WOODS. 
 
 HAT shall she do? The child ia not a 
 coward — she has been so sheltered, so 
 loved, so encompassed by care all her 
 short life, that fear is a sensation almost 
 unknown. If it were noonday she would not fear now, 
 she would wander on and on, calling for Jeannette 
 until some one came to her aid, some one who would 
 be sure to take care of her and bring her home. But 
 the gathering darkness is about her, the tall black 
 trees stand up like threatening giants, the deep recess- 
 es of the wood are as so many gaping dragon's jaws, 
 ready to swallow her up. Perhaps there are ghosts in 
 that grim forest — Jeannette has a wholesome horror 
 of revenantSy and her little mistress shares it. Oh ! 
 what shall she do ? Where is papa ? where is Frank, 
 mamma, Jeannette, any one — any one she knows, to 
 come to the rescue ? She stands there in that breath- 
 less, awesome solitude, a panic-stricken, lonely little 
 figure, in her soiled dress, and muddy, blue kid boots. 
 "Jeannette! Jeannette! JEANNETTE!" 
 The terrified voice pierces wildly the stillness, its 
 desolate echo comes back to her, and frightens her 
 more and more. Oh! what shall she do? Must she 
 stay here in this awful, awful place until morning ! 
 What will become of her ? Are there bears, or lions, 
 or robbers in that spectral forest ? She has on a neck- 
 lace of gold beads — will they kill her for that ? 
 
2? A WILD GIRL OF THE WOODS. 
 
 "Jeannette! Jeannette !" she cries, in sobbing 
 despair, but no Jeannette answers. She is indeed lost, 
 hopelessly lost, and the dark, dreadful night is already 
 here. 
 
 All this time she has been standing still, now a 
 sudden panic seizes her. Fiery eyes glare at her out 
 of the vast depths of the wood, strange weird moans, 
 and voices in pain, come to her from its gloomy vast- 
 ness. She turns wild wath fright, and flies, flies for 
 life from the haunted spot. 
 
 She runs headlong — how long or how far she never 
 knows. Panting, gasping, slipping, falling, flying on ! 
 She does not cry out, she cannot, she is all spent and 
 breathless. Something terrific is behind her, in hot 
 pursuit, ghost, goblin, fiery dragon — who knew what ? 
 stretching forth skeleton hands to catch her — a phan- 
 tom of horror and despair ! And still the silvery 
 twilight deepens, the stars shine out, and still she 
 rushes on, a wildly-flying, small white figure in the 
 lovely summer dusk. 
 
 At last — overtasked nature can bear no more, she 
 falls headlong on the soft, turfy ground, her eyes 
 closed, her hands clenched, and lies panting and still. 
 Is she dying, she wonders ; she feels dizzy and sick — 
 is she going to die far from papa and mamma, and 
 Frank, alone in this lonesome place ? How sorry they 
 will all be to-morrow, when they come upon her lying 
 like this, all cold and dead. She thinks of the Babes 
 in the Wood, and wonders if the robins will cover her 
 with leaves. 
 
 "Hullo!" 
 
 It is no voice of ghost or goblin. It is unmistak- 
 ably a human salute, and very close by. She lifts 
 
A WILD GIRL OF THE WOODS. 29 
 
 herself silently, too utterly exhausted to reply, and 
 sees standing beside her, in the dusk of the warm 
 night, the figure of — a girl ? Z^ it a girl ? She puts 
 back the tangled golden locks, and gazes up in a 
 dazed, bewildered way, at this apparition. 
 
 " Hullo !" says the voice, again. It is not a pleas- 
 ant voice ; the face that looks down at her is not a 
 pleasant face. It is a girl, of twelve or so, in a scant 
 skirt, a boy's blouse belted with a strap of leather, a 
 shaggy head of unkempt reddish hair, a thin, eager, 
 old-young face, long bare legs, and bare feet. 
 
 " Hullo !" 
 
 For the third time she hails the prostrate Olga 
 with this salute, in a high-pitched, harsh tone, and for 
 the third time receiving no reply, varies it : 
 
 " I say, you ! Ye ain't deef, are ye ? Can't ye 
 speak? Who are you? What are you doin' here, 
 this time o' night?" 
 
 Still no reply. The rasping voice, the scowling 
 look, the wild air of the unexpected figure, have 
 stricken Olga mute with a new terror. No one has 
 ever looked at her, or spoken to her like this, in all 
 her life before. 
 
 " Deef are ye, or sulky — which ? Git up — git up, 
 I say, or I'll make ye ! Say, you ! who are you ? 
 What are ye about here, lying on the ground ? Why 
 — lor ! ef it ain't the Ventnor gal !" • 
 
 She has taken a stride toward Olga, who springs 
 to her feet instantly. They stand confronting one 
 another in the dim light, the little white heiress shak- 
 ing with fatigue and fear, the fierce-looking, wild 
 creature glancing at her with eyes like a cat. 
 
 " Say ! If ye don't speak I'll scratch ye, I'll bite 
 
30 A WILD GIRL OF THE WOODS. 
 
 ye — ril pull your ugly long hair out by the roots ! 
 Ain't you the Ventnor gal ? Come now — say !" 
 
 She makes a threatening step near. The poor 
 little princess puts up two imploring hands. 
 
 " Oh ! please, please don't bite me ! I don't mean 
 any harm. I am only lost, and fell down here !" A 
 great sob. " I am Olga Ventnor, and I want to go 
 home — oh ! I want to go home !" 
 
 She breaks down in a great passion of sobs. The 
 impish-looking child before her bursts into a discord- 
 ant, jeering laugh. 
 
 " She wants to go home ! Oh, she wants to go 
 home ! Oh ! please somebody come and take this 
 young lady home ! Look at her ! Ain't she putty 
 with her old white dress, and muddy shoes, and shiny 
 beads. Say, j^ou ! give me them beads this very min- 
 ute, or I'll snatch 'em off your neck." 
 
 With rapid, trembling fingers, the child unfastens 
 the necklace, and holds it out to her tormentor. 
 
 " What business have you, you stuck-up little pea- 
 cock !" continues the imp, wrenching, savagely, the 
 costly trinket asunder, " with hair down to your waist, 
 yellow hair too, the color of your beads, and all in nasty 
 ringlets ! Oh, lordy ! we think ourselves handsome, 
 don't we ? And embroidery and lace on our frocks, and 
 pink, and blue, and white buttoned boots, with ribbon 
 bows ! Pve seen you. And a French servant gal to wait 
 on us, in a white cap and apron ! And a kerridge to ride 
 in ! And white feathers in our hats, and kid gloves, 
 and silk stocken's ! We're a great lady, loe are, till we 
 get lost in the woods, and then we can't do nothin' but 
 sit down and blubber like a great calf ! Why, you 
 little devil !" she takes a step nearer, and her tone and 
 
A WILD GIRL OF THE WOODS. 31 
 
 look grow ferocious, "do you know that I hate you, 
 that I would like to tramp on you, that I spit at you !" 
 which she does — '*th;it I would like to pull out every 
 one of them long curls by the roots ! And I'll do it, 
 too, before I let you go !" 
 
 The child is deadly white, deadly still with fear. 
 She does not speak or move, cry out or turn to run — 
 some terrible fascination holds her there breathless 
 and spell-bound. 
 
 " What business have you," cries the creature, with 
 ever-increasing ferocity, "with curls, and silk dresses, 
 and gold beads, and servants, and kerridges, while 
 your betters are tramping about bare-footed, and beat, 
 and abused, and starved? You ain't no better nor 
 me ! You ain't so good, for you're a coward, and a 
 cry-baby, and a little fool ! And I'm goin' to hev 
 them curls ! And if you screech I'll kill you ! I will ! 
 I hate you — I've hated you ever since I sor you first !" 
 
 She darts a step nearer. Olga recoils a step back- 
 ward. Still she makes no outcry, no attempt to run. 
 That fascination of intense terror holds her fast. 
 
 " I know you, and I know all about you," goes on 
 the goblin. "I know your cousin, Frank Livingston ; 
 he comes to our house — he gives presents to Lora and 
 Liz Sleaford. He's sweet on Lora, he is. She wears 
 long curls. Lor bless you, too. Like tar ropes they are, 
 over her shoulders. I'm Sleaford's Joanna ; if I don't 
 kill you, you'll know me next time, won't you ? And 
 I hate you because you're a young lady, with kerridges, 
 and servants, and nothin' to do, and long yellow ring- 
 lets down your stuck-up back." 
 
 The ringlets seem to bo the one unforgivable sin ; 
 she glares at them vengefully as she speaks. 
 
32 
 
 " I'm goin* to pull them out. I never thought I'd 
 hev the chance. There ain't nobody here to help or 
 come if you yell. I don't care if they beat me to 
 death for it, or hang me — I'll pull 'em out !" 
 
 She springs upon her victim with the leap of a 
 wild-cat, and buries her claw-like fingers in the pale 
 gold of the clustering hair. There is no mistaking her 
 meaning — she fully intends it ; her fierce eyes blaze 
 with a baleful fire. And now, indeed, Olga finds her 
 voice, and it rings out shrill, pealing, agonized. 
 
 " Papa ! papa ! Oh, papa !" 
 
 " Hi !" answers a sharp voice. Then a sharper 
 whistle cuts the air. "Hi! Who's that? Call 
 again !" 
 
 " Papa ! papa ! papa !" 
 
 There is a crashing among the trees, and not a 
 second too soon. With a violent push, and — an oath 
 — this diabolical Little Barefoot flings her victim from 
 her, and leaps away into the darkness with the fleet- 
 ness of a fawn. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 sleafoed's. 
 
 T is not papa who comes rushing to the res- 
 cue, but it is a man who stoops and picks 
 her up — a young man with a gypsy face, a 
 gun over his shoulder, and two or three 
 yelping dogs at his heels. 
 
 *' What the dickens is the row ?" he asks. " Hold 
 up, little 'un. Good G ! she's dead !" 
 
sleaford's. 33 
 
 It looks like it. She lies across his arm, a limp 
 and inert little form, all white drapery, blonde curls, 
 and pale, still face. The moon is rising now, the big 
 white shield of the July night, and he takes off the 
 crushed Leghorn flat the better to behold his prize. 
 
 "By thunder!" he exclaims, aloud, "it's the little 
 Ventnor. The little great lady, the little heiress. 
 Now, then, here's a go, and no mistake." 
 
 He stands at a loss, utterly surprised. She has 
 been as a small Sultana in the eyes of all Brightbrook, 
 every one knows her, and to find her like this, dead, to 
 all seeming, murdered, it may be, appalls him. 
 
 "She wasn't dead a minute ago ; she was screech- 
 ing for her papa like a good 'un. Perhaps she ain't dead 
 yet. Maybe she's fainted or that, frightened at some- 
 thing. Don't seem to be anybody here to frighten 
 her, nuther. Wonder what's gone with the French 
 ma'amselle? Well, I'll tote her to the house anyhow ; 
 if she's alive at all the gals '11 fetch her round." 
 
 He swings her as he might a kitten over his shoul- 
 der. He is a long-limbed, brown-skinned young 
 fellow of twenty, whistles to his dogs, and starts over 
 the star-lit fields at a swinging pace. All the way he 
 whistles, all the way his keen black eyes keep a bright 
 lookout for any one who may be in hiding. No one 
 seems to be, for he reaches his destination, a solitary 
 red farm-house standing among some arid-looking 
 meadows. A field of corn at one side looks, in the 
 shine of the moon, like a goblin play-ground, but the 
 house itself seems cheery enough. Many lights twinkle 
 along its low front, and the lively strains of a fiddle 
 greet him as he opens the door. 
 
 The interior is a remarkable one enough. The 
 2* 
 
34 
 
 room is long and low, the ceiling quite black with 
 smoke, as are also the walls, the broad floor a trifle 
 blacker, if possible, than either ; the furniture, some 
 yellow wooden chairs, two deal tables, a wooden sofa, 
 and a cupboard, well stocked with coarse blue delf. 
 It is, in fact, the farm-house kitchen, and in the wide 
 fire-place, despite the warmth of the night, a fire is 
 burning. Over it hangs a large pot, in which the 
 family supper is simmering and sending forth savory 
 odors. 
 
 The occupants of the room are four. On one of 
 the tables is perched a youth of eighteen, black-eyed, 
 black-haired, swarthy-skinned, playing the Virginia 
 reel with vigor and skill. 
 
 Two girls, young women, as far as size and de- 
 velopment make women, though evidently not more 
 than sixteen, are dancing with might and main, their 
 hands on their sides, their heads well up, their cheeks 
 fluslaed crimson, their black eyes alight, their black 
 hair unbound — two wild young Bacchanti. 
 
 The one spectator of the reel sits crouched in the 
 chimney-corner, her knees drawn up, her elbows on 
 them, her chin in her palms, a singularly witch-like 
 attitude, barefooted, shock-headed, with gleaming, 
 derisive dark eyes. 
 
 The door is flung wide, and enters the young man 
 of the woods, with his burden, his gun, and his dogs. 
 The reel comes to a sudden stop, and six big black 
 eyes stare in wild wonder at this unexpected sight. 
 
 "Why — what is it?" one of the girls cries — "a 
 dead child, Dan ? What for the Lord's sake have you 
 got there ?" 
 
 " Ah ! What ?" says Dan. " Here, take her, and 
 
85 
 
 see if she's living or dead. I can tell you who she is, 
 fast enough, or who she was, rather, for she looks as 
 dead as a door-nail now, blessed if she don't. Here ! 
 fetch her to if you can, you, Lora ; it will be worth 
 while, let rae tell you." 
 
 He lays the limp child in the arras of one of the 
 girls. The firelight falls full upon the waxen face as 
 they all crowd around. Only the crouching figure in 
 the ingle nook stirs not. There is a simultaneous out- 
 cry of recognition and dismay. 
 
 " It's little Missy Ventnor !" 
 
 " It's the kernal's little gal !" 
 
 " It's Frank Livingston's cousin I" 
 
 " It's the little heiress !" 
 
 Then there is a pause, an open-mouthed, round- 
 eyed pause, and gasp of astonishment. It requires a 
 moment to take this in. 
 
 " And while you're staring there like stuck pigs," 
 sayH the sarcastic voice of Brother Dan, " the young 
 'un stands a good chance of becoming a stiff 'un in 
 reality, if she ain't now. Can't you sprinkle her with 
 water, you fools, or unhook her clothes, or do what- 
 ever ought to be done. You, Lora, tote her into the 
 next room, and bring her round, and you, Liz, dish up 
 that hash, for I'm as hungry as a hunter." 
 
 Issuing these commands, he draws up a chair to 
 the fire, as though it were Deceinber, and proceeds to 
 load a little black pipe to the muzzle. Thus engaged, 
 his eyes fall on the huddled-up figure opposite. 
 
 " Oh !" he growls, " you^re there. Miss Fiery Head, 
 layin' in the chimney-corner, as usual. Git up and set 
 the table. D'ye hear ?" 
 
 She does not seem to ; she blinks up at him like a 
 
36 sleaford's. 
 
 toad, and does not stir. With an oath he seizes a 
 billet of wood, and hurls it at her, but she ducks with 
 a mocking laugh, and it goes over her head. As he 
 stoops for another, she springs to her feet, and sets to 
 work to do his bidding. 
 
 Meanwhile, in the next room, the two sisters are 
 doing their unskilled best to bring Miss Yentnor 
 " round." It is the parlor of the establishment, has a 
 carpet on the floor, cane-seated chairs arranged primly 
 around, a rocker to match, sundry gay and gaudy 
 chromos on the walls, china dogs and cats on the man- 
 tel, green boughs in the fire-place, and a crimson lounge 
 under the windows. On this lounge they lay her, 
 they sprinkle her plentifully with water, force a little 
 whisky into her mouth, slap her palms, undo her dress, 
 and after some ten minutes of this manipulation there 
 is a long-drawn sigh and shiver, the eyelids flutter, 
 open, shut, open again, and two blue eyes look up into 
 the gypsy faces bending above her. 
 
 "There !" says one of the sisters, with a long 
 breath of satisfaction, " you're all right now, ain't 
 you? Gracious ! how white and limpsy you was, to 
 be sure. First time I ever saw anybody in a faint 
 before in my life. Drink a little drop of this, it's 
 whisky and water." 
 
 But Olga pushes away the nauseous beverage with 
 disgust. 
 
 " I don't like it," she says, faintly ; " the smell 
 makes me sick. Please take it away." She pushes 
 back her tangled hair and looks vaguely about her. 
 " Where am I ?" she asks, beginning to tremble. 
 "What place is this?" 
 
 " Oh, you're all right ; don't be scared, deary," says 
 
SLEA ford's. 37 
 
 the sister called Lora ; " this is Sleaford's. Pm Lora 
 Sleaford ; this is my sister, Liz. Bless us, what a 
 pretty little thing you are, as fair as a lily, 1 do de- 
 clare ! I wish I was ; but I am as black as a crow. 
 We all are, father and all, even our Joanna, in spite of 
 her horrid red hair. Don't be frightened, little missy ; 
 we know who you are, and you are all safe. And we 
 know your cousin, Frank Livingston ; he is a right 
 nice fellow, comes here most every night. Likely's 
 not he'll be here in a little while, now, and then he 
 can take you home. Liz ! there's the boys calling for 
 their supper, and I hear father. You'd better go and 
 get it for them." 
 
 "Joanna's there," says Liz, not stirring ; "let Aer." 
 
 "When you know very well she won't if she takes 
 the notion," retorts Lora, angrily ; " there ! there's 
 father calling you. Now, you must go." 
 
 It seems she must, for she does. Lora tunis back 
 again to her charge. There is not much difference in 
 these two sisters, and naturally, for they are twins, 
 but Lora is rather the better looking, and decidedly 
 the better natured of the pair. 
 
 " How did you come to be with our Dan, anyhow ?" 
 she asks, curiously. " AVhere did he find you ? and 
 what on earth made you faint away ?" 
 
 The question arouses memory. Olga shuts her eyes 
 with a shudder, and turns so white that Lora thinks 
 she is going to faint again. 
 
 " Oh ! that dreadful girl ! that dreadful girl !" she 
 says, with a shuddering gasp. 
 
 " What dreadful girl ? What do you mean ? Did 
 you get lost, and did somebody scare you in the 
 woods? What was she like?" demands Lora, sharply. 
 
38 SLEAFOED'S. 
 
 But Olga canDot tell. She trembles, and shivers, 
 and covers her eyes with her hands, as if to shut out 
 some dreadful vision. " She said she would pull my 
 hair out, and then— and then I got dizzy, and it got 
 dark, and — and that is all," she replies, incoherently. 
 
 "Now I wonder if it wasn't our Joanna?" Miss 
 Sleaford says, musingly. " It would be just like her 
 — little imp ! If I thought it was — but no, Joanna 
 was in the house ever so long before they came. Well, 
 don't you cry, little deary. Frank Livingston will be 
 here pretty soon, and he'll take you home. Now I'll 
 go and get you something to eat. You're hungry, 
 ain't you, and would like some tea ?" 
 
 " Oh, I only want papa ! — nothing but papa !" sobs 
 the child, quivering with nervous excitement. " Oh, 
 papa, papa, papa !" 
 
 '•' Well, there, don't make a fuss ; your papa will 
 coDie directly, I tell you. And you are all safe here, 
 wnd needn't be afraid. Now I'll go and get you some- 
 thiiAg — toast and tea — if there is any tea. So stop 
 cryiing, or you'll make yourself sick." 
 
 Miss Sleaford departs. In the kitchen the two 
 young men, and their father, Giles Sleaford, are seated 
 at one of the deal tables, partaking of steaming hash 
 with the appetites of hunters and constitutionally hun- 
 gry men. The father is like the sons, a powerful, 
 black-bearded, sullen-looking man. Evidently he has 
 heard the story, for he looks up, with a glower, as his 
 daughter enters. " Well ?" he says, in a growling sort 
 of voice ; *' how is she ?" 
 
 " Oh, all right," Lora responds. " Crying for her 
 papa, of course. She won't take any of that stuff," 
 pointing to the greasy dish of hash with some disdain ; 
 
sleaford's. 39 
 
 " I must make her some toast, if there is any raised 
 bread." 
 
 *' There ain't any raised bread," says Liz. 
 
 ** Make her tea," suggests Dan ; " that's the stuff 
 they drink. Store tea, and some short-cake." 
 
 " There ain't no tea," says Liz again. 
 
 " Get some, then," growls the master of the house ; 
 " she's worth taking care on. Send to Brick's and get 
 some." 
 
 " Joanna !" calls Liz, sharply ; " d'ye hear ? Go !" 
 
 She turns to the chimney-corner, where, crouched 
 again, like a small salamander, in her former attitude, 
 is Joanna, basking like a lizard in the heat. 
 
 " Won't !" returns Joanna, briefly ; " go yourself." 
 
 "What?" cries Giles Sleaford, turning in sudden 
 ferocity from the table — " what ?" 
 
 " Says she won't," says Liz, maliciously — " says go 
 myself." 
 
 The man rises and takes down a horsewhip from a 
 shelf near, without a word. The dark, glittering eyes 
 of the girl follow him, but she does not stir. " Won't, 
 won't she?" says Mr. Sleaford. "We'll see if she 
 won't. You little !" — two oaths and a hiss- 
 ing blow. " You won't go, won't you, you little foxy 
 I" 
 
 With each imprecation, a cut of the whip falls 
 across the shoulders of the crouching child. Two or 
 three she bears in silence, then with a fierce scream of 
 pain and passion, she leaps to her feet, darts across 
 the room, and spits at him like a mad cat. 
 
 " No, I won't, I won't, I won't ! — not if you cut 
 me in pieces with your whip ! I won't go for tea for 
 her ! I won't go for nothin' for her ! I won't go for 
 
40 sleafokd's. 
 
 you — not if you whip m6 to death ! I won't go ! I 
 won't, I won't, I won't !" 
 
 The man pauses : used as he is to her paroxysms 
 of fury she looks so like a mad thing, in her rage at 
 this moment, that he actually holds his brutal hand. 
 
 " Oh, come, dad, you let her alone," remonstrates 
 his younger son ; " don't cut her up like that." 
 
 But recovering from his momentary check, Giles 
 Sleaford lays hold of her to renew the attack. As he 
 does so Joanna stoops and buries her sharp white 
 teeth in his hand. And at that same instant a small 
 white figure, with blanched face and dilated eyes, 
 glides forward and stands before him. 
 
 " Don't ! Oh, don't !" Olga Yentnor says. " Oh ! 
 pray, pray don't beat her like that !" She holds up 
 her clasped hands to Giles Sleaford, who, partly from 
 the pain of the bite, partly from surprise, recoils and 
 lets go his hold. Instantly Joanna darts away, opens 
 the door, and disappears. 
 
 " That's the last of her till dinner-time to-morrow," 
 says the younger Sleaford, with a laugh, " she'll roost 
 with the blue-birds to-night. Dad mayn't think so, 
 but he'll drive that little devil to run a knife into him 
 yet." 
 
 There is many a true word spoken in jest, says the 
 adage. In the dark and tragical after days that 
 somber speech comes back to young Judson Sleaford 
 like a prediction. 
 
A DEED OF DARKNESS. 41 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A DEED OF DARKNESS. 
 
 O it befalls, tliat in spite of threats and 
 horsewhip, Joanna has her own way, and 
 does not go for the tea. Giles Sleaford 
 retires to the chimney-corner, grumbling 
 internally, as is his sullen wont, and looking darkly 
 askance at the small intruder. He makes uneasy signs 
 to his daughters to take her back whence she came, as 
 he fills his after-supper pipe. Both his sons are already 
 smoking, and the tobacco-laden atmosphere half 
 chokes the child. 
 
 "Come, dear," says Lora, taking her by the hand. 
 
 " But what is she to have to eat?" queries Liz. " I 
 suppose, Jud, you wouldn't go for the tea ?" 
 
 " No, I wouldn't," answers Jud, promptly. " I'm 
 dead tired. I don't stir out o' this corner, 'cept to go 
 to bunk to-night. Besides, she says she don't drink it 
 — heerd her yourself, didn't yer?" 
 
 " Perhaps she'll take milk," suggests Dan. " Ask 
 her. Lorry." 
 
 " Oh, yes, please, I will take milk," Olga responds, 
 shrinking into herself ; "anything. Indeed, I am not 
 in the least hungry." 
 
 " And ril poach her an egg,^'' says Liz, brightening, 
 now that this difficult question of the commissariat is 
 settled. "I'll fetch it in in five minutes. You undress 
 her, Lora, and put her to bed." 
 
 *• But I want to go home !" Olga says, beginning to 
 
42 A DEED OF DARKNESS. 
 
 tremble again. " I must not stay here all night. 
 Papa and mamma do not know where I am. You 
 must not undress me, please. I must go home." 
 
 "But, little missj^, you can't go home to-night. 
 See, it is eleven o'clock now, and even if Frank 
 Livingston does come, which ain't likely (though what 
 keeps him I can't think), it will be too late for you to 
 go back to your home with him. It is a good three 
 miles if it is an inch." 
 
 " Oh ! what shall I do ?" poor little Olga sobs, " and 
 papa will be frightened to death, and mamma will 
 worry herself sick. Oh ! I wish Cousin Frank would 
 come. But he will not — I know he will not. I made 
 him promise this afternoon." 
 
 " What ?" says Lora Sleaford, blankly. 
 
 "I made him promise. He stays out so late, you 
 know, and I made him promise he would not any 
 more. And that is why he has not come," explains 
 Olga, with a sob. 
 
 " Well, I do declare !" cries Miss Sleaford, looking 
 anything but pleased. " You made him promise I A 
 bit of a dolly like you ! Well — you see it's yourself 
 you have punished after all. If you had let him alone 
 he would have been here two hours ago, and you 
 might have been home by this." 
 
 Miss Yentnor covers her face with her mite of a 
 pocket-handkerchief, and sobs within its folds. She is 
 too much a little lady to do her weeping, or anything 
 else, loudly or ungracefully, but none the less they are 
 very real tears the cobweb cambric quenches. 
 
 "So you didn't want Mr. Frank to come here," 
 goes on Lora, still sulkily ; " how did you know he 
 came ?" 
 
A DEED OF DARKNESS. 43 
 
 "I did — didn't know. I only knew he — he stopped 
 out late. And he said — said — it was up the village. 
 And I made him prom — promise he wouldn't do so any 
 more. Oh, dear, dear, dear !" 
 
 " There, there, stop crying," says Lora, relenting ; 
 "you'll certainly make yourself sick. Here's Liz with 
 something to eat. It ain't what you're used to, I 
 dare say, but you must take something, you know, or 
 you won't be able to go home to-morrow either." 
 
 This argument effectually rouses the child. She 
 dries her tears, and remembers suddenly she is hungry. 
 Liz comes forward with a big black tray which is 
 found to contain a glass of milk, a poached Qgg, some 
 raspben-ies, a bit of butter, and a triangular wedge of 
 short-cake. 
 
 " Now," she says, " that's the best we can do for 
 you. So eat something and go to bed." She places 
 the tray before the child, and Lora draws her to a 
 window, where a whispered conference takes place. 
 
 "Well, I never !" says Miss Sleaford the second, 
 in high dudgeon ; " the idea ! Gracious me ! a chit 
 like that, too !" 
 
 It is evident Lora is retailing the embargo laid on 
 Master Frank's visits. 
 
 " It is lucky she doesn't know about the presents, 
 the jewelry and things. What an old-fashioned little 
 puss !" 
 
 There is more whispering, some giggling, and Olga 
 feels in every shrinking little nei've that it is all about 
 her. She drinks the milk, and eats the fruit, essays 
 the eggf and mingles her teari"' with her meat. Oh I 
 how alarmed papa and mamma will be, and what a 
 dreadful place this is to spend a whole long night. 
 
44 A DEED OF DARKNESS. 
 
 Will they leave her alone in this room? will they 
 leave her in the dark 
 
 " Now then !" exclaims Liz, briskly, " I see you've 
 done, so I'll just take the things, and go to bed. 
 Father and the boys have gone, already, and I'm as 
 blinky as an owl. Lora " 
 
 "I'll stay for a bit," says Lora. She is not an ill- 
 natnred girl, and she sees the speechless terror in the 
 child's eyes. " You go to bed. I can sleep it out to- 
 morrow mornino^." 
 
 Liz goes without more ado. Lora sits down beside 
 the little girl, and begins to unbutton her boots. "You 
 know you can't go home to-niglvt," she says, sooth- 
 ingly, "and you are sleepy and nearly tirted to death. 
 Now you must just let me fix you up a bed here on the 
 lounge, and I'll only take off your dress, because you've 
 no night-gown to put on. I'll stay here with you, and 
 to-morrow the first thing my brother Judson will go 
 over to your cottage, and tell your folks. Now be 
 good ; don't look so pale and scary ; there's nothing 
 to be afraid of here, and I'm going to stay with you 
 all night." 
 
 " All night ?" questions Olga, lifting two large 
 earnest eyes. 
 
 " Oh, yes, all night," says Lora, who differs from 
 George Washington, and can tell a lie. " Now, I'll 
 fix your bed, and sing you to sleep, and you will be at 
 home to-moiTOw morning before you know it." 
 
 She produces sheets and a quilt, and improvises a 
 bed, lays Olga in it, and takes a seat by her side. 
 
 " I will sing for you," she says. " You shut those 
 pretty bine peepers riglit away, and don't open them 
 till breakfast-time to-morrow." 
 
A DEED OF DARKNESS. 46 
 
 She begins in a sweet, crooning voice a camp-meet- 
 ing hymn. The low singing sound soothes the child's 
 still quivering nerves. Gradually her eyelids sway 
 heavily, close, open again, shut once more, and she is 
 fast. Then Miss Sleaford rises with a great yawn. 
 
 " Off at last, and a tough job it was. Hush ! 
 twelve o'clock ! I thought it was twenty. I wonder 
 if that young limb, Joanna, is back ? Most likely not, 
 though. It's queer she don't take her death o' fever 
 'n ague, sleeping out doors." 
 
 She gives a last look at the sleeper. 
 
 " Fast as a church," she whispers. 
 
 She takes the lamp, leaves the room, shuts the door 
 softly, and goes up-stairs under the rafters to join her 
 sleeping sister. The old red farm-house is very still. 
 In the kitchen black beetles hold high carnival ; in the 
 parlor the moonlight streams in on the pale hair and 
 quiet face of the little lost heiress. Outside, the trees 
 sway and rustle in the night breeze, and the stars burn 
 big and bright in the mysterious silence of early 
 morning. 
 
 One ! two ! three ! 
 
 With a start Olga Ventnor awakes. It is the 
 wooden Connecticut clock in the kitchen, loudly pro- 
 claiming the hour. Awakes witli a chill and a thrill 
 of terror, to find herself quite alone. Lora gone, the 
 light fled, the pale, solemn shine of the moon filling 
 the place, and that loud strident clock striking three. 
 Oh, to hear Cousin Frank's footsteps now stealing up 
 and on to his room ! Oh, for Jeaunette — Lora — any 
 one — anything but this silent, spectral, moonlit room I 
 
 Stay ! What is that? 
 
 She is not alone. Yonder in the corner, under the 
 
46 " A DEED OF DAERTTESS. 
 
 chimney-piece, crouches a figure all huddled in a heap, 
 knees drawn up, and arms clasped around tbem. With 
 appalling distinctness she sees it, the shock head of 
 hair, the thin, fierce face, the bare feet and legs. She 
 has seen it before. The moonlight is full upon it, the 
 eyes are wide open and gleam like a cat's. The crea- 
 ture sits perfectly motionless, and stares before her. 
 Perfectly motionless, also, Olga lies, in a trance of 
 terror, scarcely breathing, feeling numb and frozen 
 "with deadly fear. The thing stirs at last, shakes 
 itself, turns to the bed, glares at it, and rises slowly 
 to its feet. Olga's heart has stopped beating, she has 
 no voice to cry out, all her faculties are absorbed in 
 one — seeing. The apparition speaks in a muffled whis- 
 per to itself : 
 
 " I'll do it ! I'll do it if they kill me— if they whip 
 me till I'm dead. I hate her ; I always hated her. I 
 hate 'em all, but her most. I never thought I'd have 
 the chance, and" now she's here and asleep, and I'll do 
 it, I'll do it, I'll do it !" 
 
 She tiptoes to the bed ; there is a gleam of blue 
 steel. Is it a knife? She is close — she stretches out 
 one long, thin hand, clutches a handful of fair, float- 
 ing hair. The malignant face, the gleaming eyes, the 
 wild hair, are within three inches of Olga. Then, 
 with a shock, the child leaps from the bed, rushes 
 frantically across the room, her shrieks rending the 
 stillness, flings open the door, and falls headlong in 
 the passage. 
 
SLEAFORD's JOANNA. 47 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 SLEAFORD'S JOANNA. 
 
 into the moonliglit five hours before 
 the child Joanna had fled, pale with pas- 
 sion, pain, defiance, ablaze with wrath 
 against all the world. It is a customary 
 mood enough with this elfish child, twelve only in 
 years, a score, if hatred, envy, malice, and all ill-will 
 can age a child. To be flogged like a hound, to be 
 sent supperless to bed, to be starved in attic or cellar, 
 to swelter in fierce August noontides, or shiver among 
 the rats on bitter January nights, these are old and 
 well-known experiences in Joanna's life. To be forced 
 to labor from day-dawn until midnight, with every 
 bone aching ; to go barefoot through slush and snow ; 
 to sleep and live worse than the dogs — for they are 
 cared for ; to hear only brutal words, and still more 
 brutal oaths, from her task-master's lips ; to be jeered 
 at, to go clad in rags — this has been the life of this 
 girl of twelve, the only life she can ever remember. 
 Lora and Liz are well, gayly clad indeed ; they sing, 
 they dance, they idle, they work or let it alone as they 
 choose. Is not Joanna there, the household drudge, 
 the homely, red-haired, rustic Cinderella, with never 
 godmother or other mother, in fairyland or out of it, 
 to come to the rescue with a pumpkin coach and a pair 
 of glass slippers ? She knows that lovely legend of 
 happy childhood, this most unhappy little outcast, and 
 sighs bitterly sometimes as she looks at the big golden 
 globes she cuts up for the cows and pigs. 
 
48 SLEAFOED'S JOANNA. 
 
 There are fairy godmothers in the world, no doubt, 
 and handsome young princesses, but they never, oh, 
 never come near Sleaford's Farm. And who ever con- 
 ceived a Cinderella with fiery-red hair, freckles, and 
 long mottled shins ? A cinder-sifter she has been 
 born, a cinder-sifter she must die. 
 
 She has these thoughts sometimes, formless and 
 vague mostly, but bitter always. It would have been 
 better if Giles Sleaford had left her in the gutter to 
 starve ten years ago, instead of fishing her out of it, 
 as he says he has done. He makes a great deal of that 
 far-off city gutter in his grumbling way, for she is not 
 his daughter, this bare-limbed unfortunate ; she is no- 
 body's daughter, so far as she can find. 
 
 He has taken her out of the slime where she was 
 born, he tells her, and slaves early and late to give her 
 a home, and this is her thanks, dash her ! Her mother 
 afore her was a good-for-nothin' — dash, dash her — 
 what can be expected from the unlicked cub of such a 
 dam — dash her ! double dash everything and every- 
 body, his own eyes and limbs included. Giles Sleaford 
 was an Englishman once, he is a cosmopolitan now ; 
 has tramped over the world in a vagabond sort of way, 
 is a man under a cloud, banned and shunned by his 
 neighbors. He has neither bought nor rented this 
 farm, and yet he is in undisturbed possession. He 
 does not work ; he fishes, shoots, prowls, drinks, fights ; 
 is a worthless brute generally. Yet he has plenty of 
 money, his daughters dress in expensive finery, and 
 there is a rough sort of plenty always at their house. 
 He is of horses horsey, and bets and loses heavily. He 
 is a bit of a prize-fighter, a little of a gambler, a dark 
 and dangerous fellow always. Some mystery shrouds 
 
JOANNA. 49 
 
 him ; he throws out vague hints now and then of the 
 power he holds over a certain very rich man and mag- 
 nate of the place. He is brutal to all, to his own sons 
 and daughters, but most of all to the hapless creature 
 known as Sleaford's Joanna. That he has not killed 
 her outright in one of his fits of fury is not due to him, 
 one of the Sleaford boys or girls generally interfering 
 in bare nick of time. Their drudge is useful, they do 
 not want her beaten to death, or the prying eyes of 
 the land brought to bear on their rustic household. So 
 Joanna is still alive to scour the woods, and terrify 
 small, fair-haired heiresses into fits. 
 
 The moon is shining brilliantly as she leaves the 
 house. She looks up at it, her hands locked together 
 in a tense clench, her teeth set, her eyes aflame with 
 the fires of rage and hatred, her shoulders red and 
 welted with the stinging blows of the whip. It is a 
 mute appeal to Heaven against the brutality and cru- 
 elty of earth — that Heaven of which she knows noth- 
 ing, except that it is a word to swear by. 
 
 She wanders slowly on, not crying — she hardly 
 ever cries. The silence, the coolness, the beauty of 
 the night calms her ; she does not mind spending it 
 among the dewy clove?*, or under a tree ; she sleeps 
 there oftener in summer than anywhere else. She 
 takes a path well known to her bare feet — it leads to 
 her favorite sulking place, as the Sleaford girls call it, 
 and is perhaps the ugliest spot within a radius of 
 twenty miles. It is called Black's Dam. An old dis- 
 used mill falling to pieces stands there, the water in 
 the staornant pond is muddv and foul. It is a desolate 
 spot in broad day, it is utterly dismal and dark by 
 night. Some fellow-feeling draws her to it — it, too, is 
 3 
 
50 SLEAFORD'S JOANNA. 
 
 lonely, is ugly, is shunned. Black's Dam is her one 
 friend. The rained mill is haunted, of course ; corpse 
 candles burn there, shrieks are heard there, it is peo- 
 pled by a whole colony of bogies. But Joanna is not 
 afraid of ghosts. Ghosts never horsewhip, never swear, 
 never throws sticks of hickory at people's heads — do 
 nothing, in fact, but go about in white sheets after 
 nightfall, and squeal to scare people. The only corpse- 
 lights she has ever seen are lightning-bugs, the only 
 supernatural screams the whoo-whoo of a belated owl. 
 The sheeted specters never appear to her ; when she 
 is exceptionally lonely sometimes she would rather be 
 glad of the company of one or two. But ghosts are 
 not sociable, they never seem to have much to say for 
 themselves, so perhaps it is as well. On rainy nights 
 she sleeps in the old mill ; after unusually bad beat- 
 ings she has staid there for days, feeding on berries, 
 and been found and forced back again at last, a gaunt 
 skeleton. More than once she has sat and stared at 
 the green, slimy water until the desire to spring in and 
 end it all grows almost more than she can resist. 
 "Only old Giles Sleaford will be glad of it," she 
 thinks; "I'll keep alive just to spite him." And, sad 
 to say, it is this motive that actually holds the creature 
 back from self-destruction many a time. 
 
 The tempter is very strong within her to-night, but 
 Giles Sleaford is not the object of her vindictive, sup- 
 pressed wrath. It is Olga Ventnor. She has grown so 
 used to his oaths and blows that she looks for nothing 
 else ; but a hundred demons seem aroused within her 
 by the sight of the beautiful, golden-haired, richly- 
 robed child. This is the sort to whom fairy god- 
 mothers come, for whom magic wands are struck, who 
 
SLEAFORD's JOANNA. 51 
 
 go to balls, and dance with the handsome prince, and 
 marry him, and live happy forever after. This is 
 what she might have been, but never can be. All the 
 beauty, and the riches, and the fairy gifts are for this 
 little curled darling of the gods ; for her — the lash, 
 the feeding of the pigs, the rags, the rye bread, the 
 ugly, ugly red hair ! 
 
 She has reached the dam, and sits down on a flat 
 stone on the brink. It is unspeakably lonely — the 
 moon shines in a cloudless midnight sky ; the water lies 
 black, solemn, still ; the old mill stands sinister, mys- 
 terious, casting long shadows. Hardly a breath stirs ; 
 some frogs croak dismally in the green depths — that 
 is all. 
 
 She sits in her favorite attitude, her knees drawn 
 up, her chin in her palms, and stares vacantly before 
 her. One thought, one only, possesses her — her hatred 
 of this delicate little beauty and heiress, with her pearl- 
 fair face and long light hair. She would kill her if 
 she could ; she has all the will in the world at this 
 moment to be a little murderess. Shocking — unreal ? 
 Well, no ; think how she has been brought up — think 
 of the records of juvenile depravity you read and 
 shudder at in the newspaper every day. The demon 
 of envy holds her — a passionate outcry against the in- 
 justice of her fate, that has given the golden apples of 
 life to this one, the scourings of the pig-trough to her. 
 " Unjust ! unjust !" something wilhin her cries, 
 " why has she all — I nothing ?" It is the spirit that 
 has hurled kings from thrones, wrought revolutions, 
 filled the world with communism — that will beat the 
 air impotently to the end of time. No savage could 
 be more untaught than this child. There was a Power 
 
52 SLEAFORD'S JOAiq-NA. 
 
 up there who had created her, but who looked down 
 on all this and made no sign. There was a Heaven for 
 well-dressed, respectable ladies and gentlemen, and 
 little heiresses. There was a Hell for such as she, 
 wicked and poor, where they would go when they» 
 died, and burn in torment forever. This much she be- 
 lieves — it comprises her whole theory of religion. 
 
 She sits for a long time brooding, brooding. She 
 meant to have done something to that girl that would 
 mark her for life — spoil her beauty in some way — but 
 she has been prevented. No doubt by this time 
 Frank Livingston has come and fetched her home, 
 and her chance is gone forever. Frank Livingston, 
 too, is a lily of the field, a handsome dandy, but lie 
 awakens none of this slumbering gall and bitterness 
 within her. He is simply something to be silently ad- 
 mired, revered, and wondered at, a being of bright- 
 ness and beauty, of splendid raiment, lacquered boots, 
 diamond studs, and a general odor of roses and Ess. 
 Bouquet. He is the prince to be worshiped at a dis- 
 tance, and not to be lightly touched or spoken to. 
 She wonders sometimes to behold him pulling Lora 
 about in very unprincely fashion, and to see that 
 buxom damsel slap his face, and frowsle his silky 
 chestnut hair. For him, he takes no more notice of 
 this uncanny-looking child, with the eldritch red locks, 
 than of one of the half-dozen ill-conditioned dogs 
 that yelp about the premises. That he is the object 
 of her silent idolatry would have tickled Master Frank 
 beyond everything. 
 
 She rises at last, shivering in the bleak night wind. 
 She is as nearly nude as it is possible to be in a state 
 of civilization, and the chill damp pierces through her 
 
SLEAFORD'S JOANNA. 53 
 
 tatters. Why she does not go into the mill until the 
 morning she never knows ; she turns, instead, and 
 walks slowly back to the farm. 
 
 The house is all dark and silent. The dogs fly at 
 her, but a word quiets them ; they, too, know Joanna's 
 witch-like ways. Jud Sleaford swears she spends half 
 her nights riding the air on a broom-stick — she comes 
 and goes, like the night-wind, where she listeth. 
 
 She goes to the parlor window, and flattens her 
 nose against the pane. Her eyes are keen as any 
 ferret's. Yes, there she is — she has not gone home — 
 asleep — alone! — in her power ! The girl's eyes light ; 
 they glitter in the dark. There she is, asleep, alone, 
 in her power ! 
 
 She goes round to a side window, opens it, and 
 enters. Dogs, guns, and men are plentiful at Slea- 
 ford's — bolts are scarce ; there is no fear of burglars. 
 She enters, drops lightly to the ground, goes straight 
 to a shelf in the kitchen, takes down something bright 
 and steely, and steals into the parlor without a sound. 
 Instead of going straight to the bed she crouches in 
 her corner, to brood, perhaps, over the deed of dark- 
 ness she is about to do, or it may be to count the cost. 
 She will be blamed in the morning, no doubt — is she 
 not blamed for everything that goes wrong? she will 
 be beaten nearly to death — quite to death, perhaps, by 
 Giles Sleaford. Well, she does not care. They will 
 hang him for it. If she were quite sure about the 
 hanging, she feels she would be whipped to death 
 without a groan. 
 
 The clock striking three arouses her. It is time to 
 be up and doing — in an hour or two the boys will be 
 down. Indecision forms no part of her character ; 
 
54 THE ABBOTTS OF ABBOTT WOOD. 
 
 she gets np at once, and approaches the bed with her 
 formidable weapon. It is the family shears, bright, 
 large, keen as a razor, and her object is — not to cut off 
 Olga Yentnor's head, but — her hair ! 
 
 Olga is awake, is staring at her, frozen with fright. 
 She has not counted on that, and with a snarl of baffled 
 malice, she plunges her hand in the golden tresses, and 
 uplifts the scissors. But in the twinkling of an eye 
 the child springs from the bed, rushes from the room, 
 shrieking like a mad thing. There is a heavy fall, the 
 sound of startled voices up-stairs, and opening doors. 
 In that moment the scissors are flung aside. Joanna 
 is out of the window, and away like the wind to 
 Black's Dam. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE ABBOTTS OF ABBOTT WOOD. 
 
 HREE miles away from Sleaford's Farm, and 
 nearly four from Ventnor Villa, there 
 stands the stateliest mansion in all the 
 country round, the pride, the marvel, the 
 show place of Brightbrook. It is down on the coast ; 
 the waves of the Atlantic wash up to the low sea wall 
 that divides iti. from a shelving and sandy beach. A 
 beautiful beach, of late years known to fame, and 
 spoiled for all lovers of the quietly picturesque by 
 being transformed into a popular watering-place. But 
 in these days, fashion and capitalists have not marked 
 it for their own, and Brightbrook Beach is an en- 
 
THE ABBOTTS OF ABBOTT WOOD. 56 
 
 chanted spot, on whose fine white sands you may lie 
 the long summer day through, lazy, and happy, and 
 cool, and watch the sea-gulls swirl overhead, and the 
 little, limpid, oily waves wash and whisper up to your 
 very feet. 
 
 The thermometer may stand among the hundreds 
 elsewhere, down here it is cool as some merman's grot, t 
 There are always breezes, and fishing boats, and far- 
 off yachts, and forever and forever the beautiful, 
 changeful, illimitable sea. Or you may lean over Mr. 
 Abbott's low stone wall in wild weather, the wind 
 blowing great guns, both hands clutching your hat, 
 and watch with awe-stricken eyes the spirit of the 
 storm abroad on the waters. The great beetling 
 green waves leap up like Titans, dashing their frotli^ 
 spray in your face ; the roar is as the crash of Niagara. 
 Fascinated, you may stand for hours watching this 
 war of the gods, and go home, at last, inclined to 
 opine that Brightbrook Beach in a storm is even more 
 bewitchincj than BriMitbrook Beach in summer sweet- 
 ness and sunshine, and to envy John Abbott, Esquire, 
 his handsome home, his beautiful wife, his pretty little 
 daugliter, his colossal bank account, and, most of all, 
 that grand old ocean lying there for his perpetual 
 pleasure, a thing of beauty and a joy forever. 
 
 If Mr. Abbott's taste in a site is good, his style of 
 architecture lies open to question. It is a house as 
 much like an old Baronial Hall as a genuine American 
 country-house can ever make up its mind to be. 
 What Mr. Abbott's idea in building a castle is, is 
 known to Mr. Abbott only. A grand Elizabethan 
 manor, with turrets, and peaked gables, and quaint. 
 
66 THE ABBOTTS OP ABBOTT WOOD. 
 
 vine-clad stone porches, and painted windows, with 
 stone mullions. 
 
 It is new, and it looks three hundred years old at 
 least, and reflects some of its seeming grandeur and 
 antiquity upon its master, perhaps. And Mr. Abbott 
 needs it. He is painfully new. He would like a moat 
 2 and a drawbridge, and battlements, and a donjon keep, 
 and a man-at-arms on the outer bastion, and he could 
 have afforded them all. For, though extremely new, 
 he is oppressively rich. He is so rich that his wealth 
 forces itself upon you aggressively. You are disposed 
 to resent it as a direct personal affront ; no one man 
 can logically have a right to so many millions in bank 
 shares, and bonds, and stocks, to whole blocks in New 
 York and Philadelphia, to the larger half of all 
 Brightbrook, to such gorgeous furniture, inlaid with 
 precious woods and metals, to pictures worth treble 
 their weight in gold, to sculpture such as no one short 
 of a prince, or grand duke, or Yankee billionaire can 
 possess, to horses shod with the shoes of swiftness, to 
 wines like molten gold and rubies, to diamonds — 
 Koh-i-noors, says Brightbrook, every gem of them. It 
 is true Mrs. Abbott seldom wears these rich and rare 
 ornaments, never, indeed, in Brightbrook, but she has 
 them all the same, and then, in some ways, Mrs. 
 Abbott is a very — well, peculiar lady. 
 
 For that matter, Mr. Abbott is a — peculiar — gen- 
 tleman also. His servants say so, with bated breath, 
 and furtive glances behind them ; all Brightbrook 
 says it, as he rides by, monarch of all he surveys, 
 pompous and stout. Colonel Yentnor say's it with a 
 shrug, and holds rather aloof from him, although his 
 claret and cigars are, like Caesar's wife, above re- 
 
THE ABBOTTS OF ABBOTT WOOD. 67 
 
 proacb, and he is the only man of quite his own 
 standing in the place. The two ladies are much 
 better friends, despite the valetudinarian state of the 
 one, and the — peculiarity of the other. 
 
 When Brightbrook points out to the stranger and 
 pilgrim within its gates the wonderful castellated 
 mansion known as Abbott Wood, and expatiates on 
 its manifold beauties, it never fails to add a word of 
 the still greater beauty of Mr. Abbott's wife. She 
 was a widow, Brightbrook will tell you confidentially, 
 when Mr, Abbott married her, a Mrs. Lamar, widow 
 of a young Southern ofiicer, and mother of a six-year- 
 old boy, very poor, very proud, with the bluest of all 
 blue Virginian blood in her veins, and a pedigree 
 
 " Oh ! if you come to pedigree," says Brightbrook, 
 with suppressed triumph, " there^s a line of ancestry, 
 if you like ! Dates back to the days of Charles the 
 Second, and Pocahontas, and nobody knows how long 
 before. But slie was poor, quite destitute, they do 
 say, after the war, and — and Mr. Abbott came along, 
 immensely rich, as you may see, and — she married him." 
 
 " But you do not mean to say," cries the tourist, a 
 little scandalized, "that that was why she married 
 him. Because she was quite destitute, and he was 
 immensely rich ?" 
 
 " And a very good reason," responds Brightbrook, 
 stoutly, "only — they do say, he and she don't quite hit 
 it off as — well, you understand ! She's a great lady, 
 and very proud — oh ! most uncommonly proud, we 
 must say, and he " 
 
 A shrug is apt to finish the sentence. 
 
 " And he is not," supplements the stranger. " No, 
 1 should think not, when he marries any man's wido^ 
 3* 
 
58 THE ABBOTTS OF ABBOTT WOOD. 
 
 on these terms, and consents to be snubbed forever 
 after. You say she snubs him? flings her genealogical 
 tree in his face ; invokes the spirit of Pocahontas and 
 the dead and gone Lamar, and all that sort of thing ?" 
 
 " Oh, dear no !" cries out Brightbrook, shocked, 
 " nothing of the kind. Much too proud a lady for 
 anything of that sort. Only — only she has a crushing 
 sort of way with her — holds herself like this !" 
 Brightbrook draws itself haughtily up, folds its 
 arms, and flings back its head, " and looks at you out 
 of a pair of scornful eyes. Never says a word, you 
 know, but sweeps out of the room, like an empress 
 going to the block. That sort of thing puts a man 
 down, you know. And then Mr. Abbott, he 
 curses." 
 
 " Ah ! curses, does he ?" says the tourist, laughing. 
 " Well, that shows he is human, at any rate. I 
 think I might curse myself under such provocation. 
 The sweeping, empress sort of style must be deucedly 
 uncomfortable in a wife." 
 
 " And when he curses, Mrs. Abbott looks more 
 haughty and scornful than ever. She's a very pious 
 lady, Mrs. Abbott." 
 
 " Yes, I should think so ; pride and piety make a 
 happy combination — a pleasant curricle for any man 
 to drive. So this magnificent dame condescends to 
 go to the village church on Sundays, and kneel among 
 you rustics, in perfumed silks and laces, and call her- 
 self a miserable sinner? Or," seeing Brightbrook 
 vigorously sliaking its head, " perhaps she stoops still 
 lower, and patronizes the camp-meetings for which 
 your fine woods are so famous ? No again ! Then 
 where does she go ?" 
 
THE ABBOTTS OF ABBOTT WOOD. 59 
 
 " Bless you !" cries Brightbrook, exultingly, " she 
 has a chapel of her own ! And a chaplain. And an 
 altar. And vestments. And candles — wax. And in- 
 oense. And a little boy in a purple silk dress, and a 
 white lace overdress. And the Rev. Mr. Lamb comes 
 down every Saturday night, and stays until Monday 
 morning. They say she goes to confession to him. I 
 shouldn't think Mr. Abbott would like that. Bless 
 you, she's high — ever so high — what's that other word 
 now " 
 
 " Ritualistic — Anglican ?" 
 
 " Thanks, yes. And the chapel, St. Walburga's, is 
 a wonder ; you really must go over and see it. The 
 carved wood from Belgium, and the painted windows, 
 with most beautiful saints, and the gold candlesticks, 
 and the floor of inlaid wood, and carved stalls along 
 the sides, and no pews ! The pulpit, they say, is a 
 work of art, and cost a little fortune abroad. Artists 
 and that come down from the city and rave about it. 
 Oh ! you really must go to St. Walburga's on Sunday." 
 
 " I really think I must," says the stranger and pil- 
 grim, and very likely he goes. He finds the park 
 thrown open ; it actually is a park of many acres, with 
 green bosky glades where deer disport, sunlit terraces, 
 where peacocks strut, statues gleaming palely amid 
 green gloom, flashing fountains, casting high, cool jets, 
 velvet lawns, all dotted with brilliant beads of flowers, 
 rose gardens, where every rose that grows blooms in 
 fragrant sweetness, and, best of all, with thick wood- 
 land of maple and hemlock, beech and elm, willow 
 and chestnut sloping down to the very sea. Rustic 
 seats are everywhere, cool avenues tempt the unwary, 
 with arching boughs meeting overhead, and shutting out 
 
60 THE ABBOTTS OF ABBOTT WOOD. 
 
 the hot summer Sunday afternoon sun, artificial lakes 
 spanned by miniature bridges, and tiny gondolas, fish- 
 ponds, where swans float, and gold and silver beauties 
 sparkle. There is a gate-lodge that is a very bower of 
 sweetbriar and climbing pink roses. All this loveli- 
 ness is thrown open to Brightbrook every Sunday, and 
 nothing pleases the master of Abbott Wood better 
 than to see his grounds filled with wondering, admir- 
 ing, well-dressed people. He comes out among these 
 faithful retainers, nearly all his tenants, and patronizes 
 them blandly and oppressively. 
 
 Strains of music float from the painted windows of 
 St. Walburga's, and you are expected to assist at 
 " vespers," as a delicate attention to my lady. If you 
 are a city stranger, you will most probably be singled 
 out by the watchful eye of Mr. Abbott, and taken 
 through the house. You will see armor and stags' 
 heads in the hall — a hall wide enough to drive the pro- 
 verbial " coach-and-four " through, a great carved chim- 
 ney-piece with a coat-of-arms. It is the heraldic de- 
 vice of Mrs. Abbott's family, and it is everywhere, 
 emblazoned in the panes, in the wood-work, on the 
 covers of the books. The rooms are all lofty, frescoed 
 or satin-draped, filled with objects of "bigotry and 
 virtue," — the furniture — but the pen of an upholsterer, 
 or a Jenkins, would be required to describe that. 
 There are rooms in blue satin, rooms in luby velvet, 
 rooms in amber reps, rooms in white and gold, a libra- 
 ry all rose-red and dark oak, a picture-gallery with 
 portraits of the present house of Abbott, master and 
 mistress, Mr. Geoffrey, and Miss Leonora. There are 
 flowers, and birds, and beauty, and brilliance every- 
 where. 
 
THE ABBOTTS OF ABBOTT WOOD. 61 
 
 You go into the chapel, and its dim religious light 
 soothes your dazzled eyes and excited senses. The or- 
 gan is playing — my lady herself is organist — some soft 
 , Mozavtian melody. Up in the pulpit, that costly an- 
 tique work of art and oak, kneels the Reverend Igna- 
 tius Lamb, in surplice and stole, his eyes closed, his 
 hands clasped, in an ecstasy ! He is suspected of a 
 leaning Rome-ward, but it certainly does not extend 
 to his nose, which is snub. A pretty, curly-haired boy 
 in the purple silk and snowy laces of acolyte, stands 
 slowly swinging his censer, vice Master Geoffrey Lamar, 
 retired. Geoffrey Lamar is there, though, a strong- 
 looking young fellow of sixteen or so, with close- 
 cropped dark hair, a sallow complexion, and a rather 
 haughty-looking face. He has not inherited his 
 mother's beauty — he is by no means a handsome boy. 
 By liis side, very simply dressed, in dotted muslin, 
 sits his half-sister. Miss Leonora Abbott, a tiny fairy 
 of eight, with a dark, piquant face, dark loose hair, 
 the little young lady of the house, sole child of John 
 Abbott, millionaire. Sole child, but not one whit 
 more to him than his wife's son, the scion of the dead 
 and blue-blooded Lamar. It is well known that Ab- 
 bott Wood and half his fortune are to be his, that he 
 looks to this lad to perpetuate the family greatness — 
 to merge his own obscurity in the blaze of the Lamar 
 brilliance, and become the ancestor of a long line 
 of highly-fed, highly-bred, highly-wed descendants. 
 Every man has his hobby, this is John Abbott's. lie 
 is self-made, he takes a boisterous, Bounderby sort of 
 pride in proclaiming it. lie is an uneducated man, 
 that speaks for itself, it is unnecessary to proclaim it 
 He is a vulgar man, a loud-talking, deeu-driiiking. 
 
62 THE ABBOTTS OF ABBOTT WOOD. 
 
 aggressive, pompous, purse-proud man. His wife's 
 guests were wont to slirug their shoulders, suppress 
 significant smiles, or protrude delicate under lips as 
 they listened. And seeing this, Mrs. Abbott has given 
 up society, that super-refined pride of hers has been 
 excoriated a hundred times a day by the rich clod she 
 calls husband. She has renounced society, buried her 
 self in the solitude of Abbott Wood, with only her 
 books, her music, her easel, her children, for company. 
 She sees as little of Mr. Abbott as possible ; she is 
 always perfectly polite to him, she defers to his wishes, 
 and is a supremely miserable woman. Even her piety 
 fails to comfort her, and she is very much in earnest, 
 poor lady, with her pretty, picturesque, lady-like relig- 
 ion. She works altar-cloths and copes, with gorgeous 
 Milks, and bullion, and gold fringe ; she reads her high- 
 I'.hurch novels; she plays Mozart in the twilight, and 
 tiings in Gregorian chant i» the chapel, but all in vain — 
 that settled unrest and misery leaves her not. " Dona 
 nobis pacem " sounds from her lips like the very cry 
 of a soul in pain, but peace is not given. She despises 
 her husband, his loud vulgarity and blatant purse-pride, 
 while her own heart is eaten to the core with that other 
 pride which the world tolerates and honors, pride of 
 birth and long lineage, and which, perhaps, in the eyes 
 of Him before whom kings are dust, is quite as odious 
 as the other. Perhaps that peace she«eeks so despair- 
 ingly might be found, if she hearkened a little to the 
 text from which the Reverend Ignatius is fond of 
 preaching, "Learn of Me, for I am meek and humble 
 of heart, and ye shall find rest for your souls." 
 
 For Mr. Abbott — well, he is sharper-sighted than 
 his wife gives him credit for, in spite of chill defer- 
 
THE ABBOTTS OF ABBOTT WOOD. 63 
 
 ence and proud politeness, he knows that she scorns 
 and disdains — that she has scorned and disdained hira 
 from the first. And he resents it, silently, passion- 
 ately. He loves liis wife. She would open those dark, 
 lustrous eyes of hers in wondering contempt, if she 
 knew how well. But she does not know it — the scorn 
 in her eyes would drive him to murder her almost, and 
 he knows that scorn would be there. Coarse braggart 
 and rich upstart he may be, but he would lay down 
 that strong life of his for her sake. And that she is 
 colder than marble, less responsive than ice, is at the 
 bottom of more than half these fierce outbursts of 
 anger that so disgust and repel her. Abbott Wood is 
 a roomy mansion, and more than one skeleton abides 
 therein. 
 
 It has been said that something of mystery hangs 
 over, and makes interesting, the master of the house. 
 Colonel Ventnor, riding with him one day, has seen a 
 little corner of that dark curtain which shrouds his 
 past, lifted. It was at the time Ventnor Villa was 
 being built. Mr. Abbott, glad of such a neighbor, 
 bad interested himself a good deal in the proceedings, 
 and saved the colonel a number of trips down from 
 the city. Colonel Ventnor, a refined man in all his 
 instincts, did not much like the rough-and-ready lord 
 of Abbott Wood, but he was obliged by his good- 
 nature, and accepted it. It had happened some four 
 years before this memorable evening on which little 
 Olga loses herself in the woods. 
 
 It is a dark and overcast autumn evening, threat- 
 ening rain. Leaving the villa and the workmen, 
 they ride slowly along the high-road, Mr. Abbott de- 
 tailing, with the gusto customary with him when talk- 
 
64 THE ABBOTTS OF ABBOTT WOOD. 
 
 ing of himself, some of his adventures as a San Fran- 
 cisco broker and speculator in '49. Suddenly his horse 
 shies as a man springs forward from under a tree, and 
 stands directly before him. 
 
 " Blast you i" roars Mr. Abbott, " what the 
 
 are you about ? You nearly threw me, you beggar ! 
 AVhat d'ye mean by jumping before a gentleman's 
 horse like this ?" 
 
 " Beg pardon, sir," says the man, with a grin and 
 a most insolent manner, " didn't go for to do it, Mr. 
 Abbott. Don't use your horsewhip, sir," for Mr. Ab- 
 bott has raised it ; " you might be sorry to strike an 
 old friend." 
 
 He removes his ragged hat as he speaks, and the 
 fading light falls full upon him. John Abbott reels 
 in his saddle, the whip drops from his hand, his florid 
 face turns livid. 
 
 "It is Sleaford !" he gasps, "by G !" 
 
 Colonel Ventnor looks at him. He is a gentleman 
 in the best sense of the much-abused word — he swears 
 not at all. Then he looks at the tramp. He is a 
 swarth-skinned, black-looking vagabond, as perfect a 
 type of the loafer and blackguard, he thinks, as he 
 has ever seen. 
 
 " I will ride on, Mr. Abbott," he says, quietly ; 
 " much obliged for your good-nature about those men. 
 Good-night." 
 
 " Stay ! hold on !" cries Mr. Abbott. The color 
 comes back with a purple rush to his face, his eyes 
 look wild and dilated. " I — I do — I have known this 
 fellow in California. He's a poor devil that used to 
 work for me. I haven't anything to say to him in 
 private. You needn't hurry on his account, you know." 
 
THE ABBOTTS OF ABBOTT WOOD. 65 
 
 " Oh, certainly not," responds Colonel Ventnor. 
 " Still, as there is a storm brewing, I think it will be 
 well to get to the hotel at once, and so avoid a 
 drenching. I will see you again before I return to 
 town." 
 
 He lifts his hat and rides away, but not before he 
 has heard the hoarse laugh of the tramp, as he lays 
 his hand with the same impudent familiarity on Mr. 
 Abbott's bridle. 
 
 Next day, when he returns to the villa, he finds that 
 gentleman waiting for him, and issuing sonorous orders 
 to the masons. He is almost offensive in his officious 
 friendliness and voluble explanations. 
 
 "A poor beggar, sir, that I knew out in 'Frisco. 
 Knew all sorts out there — hundreds of the great un- 
 washed, miners, gamblers, blacklegs, all sorts. Had 
 to, you know, in my business. Sometimes made some 
 of them useful — a man has to handle dirty tools in 
 most trades, you know. This fellow was one of them. 
 Sleaford his name is — Giles Sleaford, a harmless 
 beggar, but lazy as the deuce. Think I must do some- 
 thing for him for old acquaintance sake. Got a large 
 family, too — riots of boys and girls — quite a * numerous 
 father,' as they say. Where's the good of being as 
 rich as Rothschild if a man's not to do good with it? 
 
 D it all ! let us help one another, I say, and 
 
 when we see an unfortunate chap down, let us set him 
 on his legs again. I think I'll let Sleaford have the 
 Red Farm ; there's nobody there, and it's a capital 
 bit of land. He wasn't half a bad sort ; there were a 
 devilish deal worse fellows than Black Giles out in San 
 Francisco." 
 
 Colonel Yentnor assents politely, and keeps his own 
 
66 THE ABBOTTS OF ABBOTT WOOD. 
 
 opinion of Mr. Abbott's dark friend to himself. Mr. 
 Abbott has been looking him in the eye, in a very 
 marked manner, during this little speech. It is a 
 glance that says plainly enough, " This is my version 
 of the affair — I expect you to believe it, or take the 
 consequences." But Colonel Ventnor's quiet high- 
 breeding is too much for poor Mr. Abbott always. It 
 puts him in a silent rage, much as his wife's calm, up- 
 lifted repose of manner does. 
 
 "Curse them all!" he thinks; "these aristocrats 
 are all alike. Look down on a man as the dirt under 
 their feet, if he ain't brought up to parley voo fransey 
 and jabber German and that. And they can do it 
 with a look too, without a word of bluster or noise. I 
 defy any man alive to stand up before the missis when 
 she's in one of her wl^ite, speechless rages, and look 
 her in the eye. I wish I knew how they do it." 
 
 He sighs, takes off his hat, scratches his head per- 
 plexedly with his big, brown, brawny hand, and slaps 
 it on again a little more defiantly cocked than before. 
 "And now here's Black Giles," he thinks, gloomily, 
 " as if I hadn't enough on my mind without him. I 
 wonder how much he knows — I wonder " 
 
 He mounts his horse and rides off, pondering 
 gloomily, in the direction of the Red Farm. It was a 
 different-looking place in those days to what it became 
 later. Mr. Abbott was a very thorough landlord, no 
 tenant might wreck and ruin any farm of his. This 
 Red Farm, so called from the color of the house, and 
 the great maples burning scarlet about it, was one of 
 the choicest bits of land in the State, and in high cul- 
 tivation. And here the Sleaford family came, two 
 boys, three girls, the youngest a mere child then, but 
 
THE ABBOTTS OF ABBOTT WOOD. 67 
 
 a weird-looking, cowed starveling — and squatted. It 
 could not be called anything else ; Giles Sleaford 
 laughed from the first at the notion of his farming, or 
 even making the pretext. The boys were like wild 
 Indians — they fished, shot, snared birds and rabbits, 
 stole melons, robbed orchards, were a nuisance gener- 
 ally, and let the farm look after itself. The girls were 
 of the same ne'er-do-well stamp, boisterous young 
 hoidens, handsome " prize animal " sort of damsels, 
 with flashing black eyes, and impudent retorts for all 
 who accost them. The neighbors wonder — why does 
 Mr. Abbott, that most particular gentleman, let this 
 wild lot ruin the Red Farm, and bear it like the meek- 
 est of men? Why does Giles Sleaford always have 
 well-filled pockets, good horses and clothes, whether 
 he works or idles ? They ask the question more than 
 once, and he laughs loud and long. 
 
 " TFAy does he?" he cries. "Lord love you, that's 
 little of what he would do for me. He loves me like 
 a brother. He's an uncommon fine gentleman, ain't 
 he? and got a lovely place, and a handsome wife — so I 
 hear. I haven't been there to leave my card yet. Why 
 does he ? Bless your souls, he would turn out of bis 
 big house and give it to me, if I coaxed him hard 
 enough." 
 
 Brightbrook does not know what to make of it. It 
 whispers a good deal, and looks furtively at the rich 
 raan riding by. What secret has he in his life, that 
 Giles Sleaford is paid to keep? He looks like a man 
 who might have a dark record behind him. And what 
 would Mrs. Abbott say if she knew ? But Mrs. Ab- 
 bott does not know, gossip does not reach her ; she 
 lives in a rarefied atmosphere of her own, with her 
 
68 THE ABBOTTS OF ABBOTT WOOD. 
 
 dainty work, her ornaments, her children, and the ple- 
 beian name of Sleaford penetrates it not. 
 
 And so years go on. The Red Farm goes to ruin. 
 Colonel Ventnor and family come with the primroses, 
 and depart with the swallows. Abbott Wood grows 
 more beautiful with every passing year, and the skele- 
 tons in its closets grin silently there still, when it falls 
 out that this summer evening Olga Ventnor goes 
 astray in the woods, and before ten at night all 
 Brightbrook is up and in quest. 
 
 ^ 4« H< 4i 4: ^ 
 
 "She may be at Abbott Wood," Frank Livingston 
 suggests — Frank Livingston, calm and unflurried in 
 the midst of general dismay. It is a theory of this 
 young man's that things are sure to come right in the 
 end, and that nothing is worth bothering about ; so, 
 though a trifle anxious, he is calm. " She spoke to 
 me," he adds, with a twinge of remorse, " this after- 
 noon about taking her there. Promised to go over 
 and play croquet with Leo and Geoff." 
 
 Colonel Ventnor waits for no more. He dashes 
 spurs into his red roan steed, and gallops like a mad- 
 man to Abbott Wood. On the steps of the great 
 portico entrance he sees the master of the mansion, 
 smoking a cigar, and looking flushed and angry. A 
 domestic white squall has just blown over — not with 
 the " missis ;" there are never squalls, white or black, 
 in that quarter — with one of the kitchen-maids, who 
 had done, or undone, something to offend him. He 
 has flown into a tremendous passion with the fright- 
 ened woman, cursing up hill and down dale with a 
 heartiness and fluency that would have done credit to 
 that past-master of the art of blasphemy, Sleaford him- 
 
THE ABBOTTS OF ABBOTT WOOD. 69 
 
 self. The fact is, his wife had put him out at dinner, 
 as she has a way of doing, and his slumbering wrath 
 has had to find vent somewhere. Now the fuming 
 volcano is calming itself down in the peaceful night 
 air, with the help of a soothing cigar. He stares to 
 see the colonel ride up, all white and breathless. 
 
 " Little Olga ? No, she wasn't there — hadn't been 
 — was perfectly sure of it. Lost ! — the colonel did 
 not say so ! How was it ?" 
 
 In a few rapid sentences Colonel Ventnor tells him. 
 Mr. Abbott listens with open mouth. 
 
 " By jingo ! poor little lass ! He will join the hunt 
 immediately. That French woman ought to have her 
 neck wrung. He would be after the colonel in a 
 twinkling." 
 
 And he is — mounted on his powerful black horse. 
 And all night long the woods are searched, and morn- 
 ing comes, and finds the missing one still missing. 
 The sun rises, and its first beams fall upon John 
 Abbott, tired and jaded, coming upon Sleaford's. It 
 is a place he avoids ; he looks at it now with a scowl, 
 and for a moment forgets what he is in search of. No 
 one has thought of looking here ; neither does he. 
 He is about to turn away, when the house door opens, 
 and Giles Sleaford, unwashed and unshorn, comes 
 forth. 
 
 *' Hullo !" he says, roughly ; " you ! What may 
 yit^i want this time o' day ?" 
 
 "We are looking for the colonel's little girl. You 
 haven't seen her, I suppose ?" says Mr. Abbott, quite 
 civilly. 
 
 " Haven't I ?" growls Black Giles ; " that's all you 
 know about it. I have seen her. She's here, and I 
 
70 THE ABBOTTS OF ABBOTT WOOD. 
 
 wish she was anywhere else, keeping honest people 
 from their sleep. She's in there fast enough if you 
 want her. Why doesn't her own dad come after her ? 
 I should think yon had enough to do to mind your 
 own young 'uns, and your wife, from all I hear." 
 
 He laughs a hoarse, impudent laugh, that brings 
 the choleric blood into John Abbott's face, and a 
 demon into either eye. But, wonderful to relate, he 
 restrains himself. 
 
 Other members of the hunt ride up now, and it is 
 discovered that little Miss Olga is very ill, and nearly 
 out of her senses — why, nobody knows. She woke up 
 in the night, Lora supposes, and finding herself alone, 
 took fright, and ran screaming out into the passage, 
 and there fell, striking her head against the bottom 
 stair, and hurting herself badly. Whether from the 
 hurt or the fright, she is at present in a very bad way, 
 and there is not a moment to be lost in removing her. 
 Frank is of the party. He takes his insensible little 
 cousin in his arms and kisses her, with tears of genu- 
 ine remorse in his boyish eyes. If he had gone with 
 her as she wished, this would never have happened. 
 Now she may never ask him for anything in this 
 world again. As he carries her out, a small figure, 
 looking like a walking scarecrow, with wild hair, pale 
 face, torn skirts, bare legs and feet, comes slowly and 
 sullenly forward, and watches him and his burden 
 with lowering, scowling glance. 
 
 ** Here you, Joanna !" calls out one of the Sleaford 
 girls, sharply. " Come into the house, and help redd 
 up. Come in, this minute !" with a stamp of her foot, 
 " if you don't want a little more of what you got last 
 night." 
 
THE ABBOTTS OF ABBOTT WOOD. 71 
 
 The girl makes no reply. She slowly obeys, but 
 her eyes linger to the last on Frank Livingston and 
 his cousin. All the long liglit curls fall over his 
 shoulder, the poor little fever-flushed face is hidden 
 on his breast. 
 
 "One of yours, Sleaford?" says Mr. Abbott, gra- 
 ciously, looking after Joanna. " I didn't know you 
 had one so young." 
 
 There is nothing in this speech apparently to pro- 
 voke laughter, nor is it a time for mirth, but such is 
 its effect on Mr. Sleaford. He opens his huge mouth, 
 and emits such a roar that the whole group turn and 
 look at him indignantly. The joke is so exquisite 
 that he heeds not, but laughs until the tears start from 
 his bleary eyes. 
 
 " Glad you find me so funny," says Mr. Abbott, 
 huflily. "You ain't always in such good humor this 
 time of morning, are you?" And then, as Mr. Slea- 
 ford's only response is to take out his pipe, and indulge 
 in another fit of hilarity, he turns and rides indig- 
 nantly away in the rear of his party. 
 
 Mr. Giles Sleaford, left alone in his retreat, smokes 
 between his expiring gasps of laughter, and solilo- 
 quizes : 
 
 "'Is she one of yours, Sleaford?' And *I ^idn't 
 know you had one so young !' O Lord ! I haven't 
 laughed so much in a month of Sundays. Old Jack 
 Abbott don't often make jokes, maybe, but when he 
 does they're rum 'uns. * Didn't know I had one so 
 young !' It's the best thing I've heerd this many a 
 day — I'm dashed if it ain't." 
 
72 THE MISSES SLEAFORD AT HOME. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE MISSES SLEAFORD AT HOME. 
 
 HE story they tell is one that won't wash," 
 says Frank Livingston. " I appeal to 
 you, Geoff. The notion of meeting a 
 wild girl in the woods, and being half 
 scalped when Dan Sleaford finds her ! Then, when 
 they have her safely housed and asleep, of that same 
 wild creature coming down the chimney " 
 
 " Down the chimney ?" exclaims Geoffrey Lamar, 
 amazed. 
 
 " Oh ! well, something very like it, and going at 
 her again with uplifted dagger. It's a fishy sort of 
 yarn as they tell it. But," adds Frank, reflectively, 
 " it is a peculiarity of Dan Sleaford's stories that they 
 all have a piscatorial flavor." 
 
 The two young gentlemen are pacing arm in arm 
 under the horse chestnuts surrounding Ventnor Villa. 
 They form a contrast as they slowly saunter there — 
 young Livingston two years the elder, tall, slender, 
 very handsome, quick, volatile, restless ; young Lamar 
 shorter, stouter, with a face that even at fifteen has a 
 look of thought and power — a mouth with that square 
 cut at the corners that betokens sweetness as well as 
 strength, steady gray eyes, close-cut dark hair, and 
 the careless, high-bred air of one born to the purple. 
 
 "It does sound rather oddly," he remarks ; "but 
 what motive have they for telling an untruth ? And 
 something has frightened her, that is patent enough. 
 Poor little Olffa !" 
 
THE MISSES SLEAFORD AT UOME. 73 
 
 " They're a queer lot, these Sleafords," says Frank, 
 reflectively — "a most uucoraraoiily queer lot. And 
 there's a mystery of some sort hanging over the head 
 of the house. You don't mean to say, old fellow, 
 that, living in Brightbrook so long, you don't know 
 any of them — eh ?" 
 
 " Well, in point of fact, you see, I do not live in 
 Brightbrook much. I spend Christmas and New 
 Year weeks down here, and either the July or August 
 of every long — but that is all. One month I give to 
 yachting, and then, of course, all the rest of the year 
 is spent at college. You are here a good deal more 
 than I am, and Abbott Wood is so out of the way. 
 As it happens, I have never even heard of these peo 
 pie until to-day." 
 
 Frank stares at him, then straight ahead, and 
 whistles. 
 
 "Well, that is I say — you don't mind my 
 
 asking, do you ? have you never heard your governor 
 speak of them ?" 
 
 " Never." 
 
 " Because Black Giles seems to know him most re- 
 markably well. Says he used to be a pal of his, long 
 ago, out in San Francisco." 
 
 " What ?" 
 
 " Yes, I know it's a queer statement. And up tho 
 village they say " 
 
 lie pauses. A deep line graves itself between 
 Geoffrey Lamar's eyebrows. Ilis step-father is a sen- 
 sitive subject with him. 
 
 " Well," he says, rather coldly, "they say— what?" 
 
 " I wouldn't mention this sort of thing if you were 
 Mr. Abbott's son," goes on Frank, magnanimously, 
 4 
 
74 THE MISSES SLEAFORD AT HOME. 
 
 "but it is different you know. Giles Sleaford, when 
 half seas over, has a way of talking — nasty, swearing 
 sort of way that makes a fellow long to pitch him out 
 of the window — of your governor. Red Jack Abbott 
 — so the disrespectful old bloke calls him — used to be 
 out there in San Francisco the Damon to his Pythias. 
 But never mind," says Frank, pulling himself up, "you 
 don't like the subject ; beg pardon for introducing it, 
 but I am such a fellow to say whatever comes upper- 
 most. All these returned Californians have a shady 
 sidewalk in their past pathway, if we only knew it, I 
 dare say." 
 
 Geoffrey Lamar does not seem to derive the cheerful 
 consolation Frank intends from this philosophical 
 remark. A frown contracts his forehead, and there 
 is a pause. 
 
 " You know those people very well," he, says, after 
 that full stop. 
 
 " Oh ! uncommon. I'm Vami de la maison — I have 
 the run of the whole house, like the family cat. It's 
 uncommonly jolly. I'll fetch you some evening, if you 
 like. We have musical and danceable reunions. Jud 
 plays the fiddle, Dan the flute, Lora the banjo, and 
 they all can sing. Lora gives me lessons on the 
 banjo !" Here Frank tries to look grave, but suddenly 
 explodes into a great laugh. " And we play euchre 
 and seven-up, and I lose all my loose cash regularly. 
 It's the best fun going. George Blake comes, and lots 
 more. I would have asked you long ago, only you are 
 such a solemn old duffer, and of too aristocratic a 
 stomach to digest such vulgar doings. But if you'll 
 come I'll present you. They'll kow-tow before you, 
 for are you not, oh, potent young seigneur, the lord of 
 
THE MISSES 8LEAF0RD AT HOME. 75 
 
 the land, and you shall have a good time. Not just at 
 once, of course ; must wait until the princess, poor 
 little ducky, is on her little pins again before I go any- 
 where." 
 
 It will be observed that Mr. Frank's style of con- 
 versation is exceedingly degage — quite free and easy, 
 and of the slang a trifle slangy. The prince of wild 
 Joanna's imagination has a most unprincely way of 
 expressing himself. 
 
 " Say you'll come. Get rid of that owl-like face, 
 and stop trying to look like your own grandfather. 
 What a fellow you are, Lamar ! I would mope myself 
 into the horrors if I lived as you do. Say you'll come 
 to the very next Sleaford swarry. We have clam- 
 bakes after the concert and the valse h deux-temps ; 
 codfish chowder, barbecued rabbit, and sich — every- 
 thing highly genteel and en regie. And you can wash 
 it down with whisky ad libitum, or you can join the 
 ladies in cider-cup and bottled lager, if you prefer such 
 effeminate tipple. You will come ?" 
 
 " Yes, I will come," Geoffrey answers, laughing. 
 " These are attractions not to be declined. I say ! 
 stop a moment, Livingston — whom have we here ?" 
 
 A brilliant, black-eyed, buxom brunette, dressed in 
 the loudest possible style, pink, and purple, and yel- 
 low all swearing at each other in her costume, ad- 
 vances toward them, a green parasol shading her 
 already over-ripe charms from the too ardent glances 
 of the sun. 
 
 " What !" cries Frank, falling back and striking an 
 attitude. " Do these eyes deceive me ? That form — 
 that smile — that green umbrella ! 'Tis she ! Lora ! 
 light of my eyes, beloved of my soul, whither away 
 
76 THE MISSES SLEAFORD AT HOME. 
 
 in such haste with the thermometer up in the nineties. 
 What! still silent! Speak, loveliest, of thy sex — 
 speak, ere I perish ! Whither goest thou in such 
 haste ?" 
 
 JVIiss Lora Sleaford furls her green parasol, not at 
 all discomposed by this impassioned address, and ad- 
 ministers a gentle rebuke with the nozzle across 
 Frank's shapely nose. 
 
 " Don't be a donkey," is her retort. "I suppose, 
 considering I lost a night's sleep with that little girl, 
 and had a sight of trouble with her every way, I have 
 a right to walk up and ask how she gets along. Why 
 weren't you there last night ?" 
 
 " Pressing business engagements, over which I had 
 no control, my dearest Lora ; but I see those beauteous 
 orbs are riveted on the manly countenance of my 
 friend. He is perishing for an introduction — was 
 begging me with tears in his eyes, just before you came 
 up, to obtain him the entree to Sleaford's, and the ac- 
 quaintance of Sleaford's two lovely daughters. Come 
 here, Geoff, a moment, will you. Miss Lora Sleaford, 
 allow me to present to you ray young friend, Geoffrey 
 Valandigham Lamar." 
 
 Miss Sleaford bows gracefully, really gracefully, 
 smiles radiantly — black eyes, red cheeks, coral lips, 
 dazzling white teeth, all a-sparkle together. She evi- 
 dently takes Frank's chaff as a thing of course, and is 
 perfectly well used to that style of address. Geoffrey 
 laughs, but reddens a little, with some of that becom- 
 ing boyish bashfulness that Frank Livingston has 
 never known. 
 
 " Blush not, my Geoffrey !" says that young man of 
 the world, with an encouraging slap on the back, 
 
THE MISSES 8LEAF0RD AT HOME. 77 
 
 "Miss Lora's charms floor us all at first, but we get 
 used to 'em after a time. So will you. Don't bo 
 ashamed of yourself — speak to her prettily — .she's not 
 half so dignified, bless you, nor unapproaeliable, as 
 she looks. So you're going to the house, are you, 
 Lora ? That is a very pretty attention on your part. 
 The little one is asleep now. Doctor says she'll pull 
 through. But what a queer go it all is, this cock-and- 
 bull story Dan tells, about a wild girl, and the rest of 
 it!" 
 
 " It is true enough. I guess it was our Joanna," 
 replies Lora, complacently adjusting a pair of flat gilt 
 bracelets. 
 
 " You don't say so ! Joanna ! What a little devil's 
 doll she is, to be sure. Shall we see you home, my 
 friend and I, after your call, my Lora ? Nothing 
 would give us greater rapture, you know." 
 
 But Miss Sleaford declines, with a toss of her white 
 feathers. She is not going home, she is en route for 
 Brightbrook — Dan and the trap are waiting outside 
 the gate. And so, with a parting bow and smile, in- 
 tended to do deadly execution on young Lamar, Lora 
 trips away to the hall door. 
 
 Mrs. Ventnor, looking pale and anxious, receives 
 her, and thanks her in very fervent words, and a 
 handsome present of jewelry, for her kindness to her 
 child. She has summed up Miss Sleaford at a glance, 
 and sees she is the type to whom breastpin and brace- 
 lets are always acceptable. There is another lady in 
 the room, a lady who looks like a queen in a picture, 
 Lora thinks, so grand, so stately, so beautiful is she. 
 She awes even Miss Sleaford, who is not easily awed. 
 It is Mrs. Abbott, she knows ; she has seen her more 
 
78 THE MISSES SLEAFOED AT HOME. 
 
 than once ; the mother of that dull, plain-looking youno^ 
 fellow outside. And yet, though one is beautiful and 
 the other almost devoid of beauty, there is a resem- 
 blance between the two faces, in the firm mouth and 
 proudly-curved chin, in the level, rather chill glance 
 of the full dark eye, in the haughty poise of the head 
 and shoulders. For you need not look twice at young 
 Geoffrey Lamar to know that although he has not 
 fallen heir to his mother's beauty, he has to her pride. 
 This grand dame goes up to Lora, and holds out 
 one long, slim white hand. 
 
 " We are all your debtors," she says, in a slow, 
 sweet, trained voice. " In saving our dear little Olga 
 you have served us all. If you will accept this, as a 
 
 little token of my great regard " 
 
 She slips from her finger a circlet of rubies, and 
 the quick blood comes into Lora Sleaford's face. 
 
 '* Thank you, ma'am," she says, almost bashfully. 
 With some trouble she gets the rich hoop on one of 
 her fat fingers, and makes her courtesy and departs, 
 enchanted with her visit and its results. 
 
 But little Olga is really very ill, and lies tossing 
 through the warm July days, fever-flushed, wild-eyed, 
 thirsty, wandering. 
 
 Over and over again the wild girl of the woods is 
 bending above her, her hands in her hair, her deadly 
 weapon poised, and Olga's shrieks ring through the 
 room, and they have to hold her in her bed by force. 
 All the long lovely locks are cut off close, cruelly 
 close to the poor little burning head, and there are days 
 when neither doctor nor nurse can tell how that fierce 
 struggle is to end. 
 
 Lora Sleaford comes often to inquire, and Joanna, 
 
THE MISSES SLEAFORD AT HOME. 79 
 
 crouching like a toad in her corner, hears the story of 
 the severed golden hair. A moment after she has 
 slipped from her place, and gone out into the night. 
 She throws herself down on the dark, dewy grass, and 
 buries her face in her folded arms. She has got the 
 dcvsire of her heart, and she is not glad ; a vague sort 
 of remorse and unrest fills her. She did not want to 
 kill this little heiress, only to frighten her ; to cut off 
 her hair, not to give her a brain fever. If she dies, 
 will they hang her — Joanna ? She knows Lora knows, 
 and has told others. Well, let them hang her if they 
 like ; she did not mean to do it, and hanging cannot 
 hurt much worse than horsewhipping. She does not 
 care ; she is past care, past hope, past help. It does 
 not matter — nothing matters. Better to be dead at 
 once, and done with it. But she hopes this little girl 
 will not die. And presently — perhaps it is because 
 she is all aching and half sick to-niglit, great tears 
 well up, and fill and fall from her eyes, that burn gen- 
 erally with so baleful a light. 
 
 She has been beaten by Giles Sleaford, she has had 
 her ears boxed by Dan, she has been scolded by Liz, 
 she has worked like a slave since early morning, she is 
 sor6, and hungry, and hopeless, and sick. 
 
 "I wish I was dead," she sobs, her face hidden in 
 
 the sweet wet grass. " I wish I had never been born !" 
 ****** 
 
 But little Olga does not die. She is a delicate 
 child, and it requires the best of medical skill and 
 ceaseless care to bring her through. There comes 
 what is called the crisis — there is a night when no one 
 at Ventnor Villa nor Abbott Wood thinks of sleep — a 
 night when Frank Livingston paces the wet grass. 
 
80 THE MISSES SLEAFORD AT HOME. 
 
 under the summer stars, until day-dawn, filled with 
 fear and remorse for his share in the tragedy — a night 
 when Colonel Ventnor walks the halls and passages, 
 pale as no one has ever seen him pale before — a night 
 when Mrs. Abbott sits through the long mute hours 
 clasping the hand of the sick child's mother in her 
 own, and with bated breath watching for that dread 
 change. It comes, it passes, and burning heat changes 
 to profound slumber, and tossing delirium to gentle 
 perspiration, and little Olga is saved ! 
 
 The news flies — it visits many homes, and some- 
 time that day reaches Sleaford's, where Lora relates it 
 to the family assembled at supper. 
 
 " So you see, little monkey," she winds up, address- 
 ing Joanna, "you ain't a murderer after all, and won't 
 be hanged this time. But you had better look out, 
 and not try that sort of tiling again. You mayn't get 
 off so easy another time." 
 
 " It's only a question of a year or two — eh, Jo ?" 
 says Jud Sleaf ord, tweaking the girl's ear. " You're 
 bound to come to it some day. Of all the little limbs 
 of Old Nick jTever met, you top the lot." 
 
 "I am what you all have made me," the child 
 flashes out, with sudden fire, jerking herself free. "I 
 only wonder I haven't killed somebody long ago — 
 some of you, I mean. I will yet, if you don't let me 
 alone." 
 
 A growl from Giles silences her, but in her poor, 
 darkened, heathenish little soul that night there is a 
 wordless thanksgiving for the news she has heard. 
 
 " I don't know what got into me," she thinks, with 
 a feeling akin tg compunction ; "she never did nothin' 
 to me when all's said and done. I'm sorry I scared 
 
THE MISSES SLEAFORD AT HOME. 81 
 
 her ; I'm sorry, yes, I am, that she's had to lose all her 
 pretty hair." 
 
 The otlier members of the Sleaford family circle 
 are relieved also, but for a different reason. 
 
 " I'm sure I'm glad of it," Liz says, in a querulous 
 tone ; "the place has been like a grave-yard ever since 
 that night ; not a soul's been near the house, except 
 once, George Blake. Can't we have a dance, Dan, 
 some night next week ?" 
 
 " And tell Frank Livingston, Dan, to fetch young 
 Lamar," suggests Lora. " I am dying for a dance. I 
 saw two or three of the girls down at the Corners 
 yesterday, and they were asking when we meant to 
 have another spree." 
 
 " Dad means to go to the city next Tuesday," sug- 
 gests Jud, " and as he ain't particularly useful or orna- 
 mental on an occasion like that, I vote we have the 
 high jinks while he's gone." 
 
 This resolution is unanimously carried by the 
 house, and next Tuesday is fixed for the Sleaford fete. 
 The young ladies at once set to work to prepare their 
 costumes and decorate the house. Dan issues the invi- 
 tations verbally, and all are accepted, including that 
 extended to Master Geoffrey Lamar. Frank goes with- 
 out saying. With a load off his conscience now that 
 Olga is recovering, Frank is in wild high spirits and 
 ready for anything. lie is generating a great deal of 
 steam in these days of Olga's convalescence, and re- 
 quires a safety-valve of some sort. He spends consid- 
 erable of his precious time in the sick-room, and it is 
 found does Olga more good by his lively presence than 
 all the doctor's stimulants. Geoffrey Lamar and little 
 Leo Abbott, too, are there a great deal — their conver- 
 4* 
 
82 THE MISSES SLEAFORD AT HOME. 
 
 sation and company excite the child a little, but the 
 good results counterbalance the evil. Still, four or five 
 days of this sort of thing — this state of unnatural 
 goodness — has a depressing effect on Frank, and the 
 Sleaford " swarry " is hailed with rejoicing. 
 
 " We always present some little delicate offering 
 to the young ladies on these occasions," he remarks to 
 Geoffrey, " not bouquets or floral litter of that sort ; 
 but something sensible and solid. On various festive 
 seasons of this nature, I myself have contributed a 
 ham, a plum cake, a turkey, some port wine, and other 
 graceful trifles of that sort. The present being a 
 special festival, it is my intention to appear in com- 
 pany with two imperial quarts of champagne. You, 
 young sir, being a lily of the field, and this your debut, 
 will be exempt from taxation. The honor of your 
 presence is suflScient in itself." 
 
 " It rather reminds one of Mrs. Nickleby and the 
 love-stricken old gentleman in small-clothes, who 
 threw the vegetable marrows," says Geoffrey, laugh- 
 ing. " I wonder, Frank, you care to mingle with such 
 a lot. You really seem to like it." 
 
 " And I really do, my aristocratic young friend. 
 Human nature in all its varieties interests me in the 
 abstract ; human nature, as represented by Miss Lora 
 Sleaford, interests me consumedly in particular. A 
 romp with that girl is equal to a boxing-match any 
 day to put a fellow in condition. Leave all your fas- 
 tidious notions at Abbott Wood, with your evening 
 dress ; put on a shooting-jacket, and come and be 
 happy." 
 
 They are the latest guesLs. The old red farm-house 
 is all alight when they draw near, the scraping of Jud's 
 
THE MISSES SLEAFORD AT HOME. 83 
 
 violin is their greeting as they enter. Some half- 
 dozen young ladies in gay muslin dresses, gilt brooches 
 and chains, and rainbow ribbons are there, and repre- 
 sent the Sleaford " set " in Brightbrook. The young 
 men are generally of a better stamp, and muster 
 stronger ; the lower rooms look filled to overflowing 
 as the two late guests arrive. A momentary hush of 
 awe greets Geoffrey Lamar, but it does not last ; the 
 festive group here assembled are not awed easily or 
 long. 
 
 *' For Heaven's sake do not introduce me to any- 
 body !" whispers Geoffrey, nervously, afraid of a 
 torrent of Frank's " chaff." " Just let me alone, and 
 I'll drift into port myself." 
 
 There is one face present that he recognizes, that 
 of George Blake, and he seeks refuge by his side. 
 Blake is a bright young fellow, poor, but of good con- 
 nections ; his mother, a widow, teaches music in the 
 village ; George, an only son, is at present beginning 
 life in the oflice of the Brightbrook News. He is 
 about eighteen or nineteen — indeed, none of the gen- 
 tleman are on the aged side of twenty. 
 
 But Mr. Blake is destined for higher duty than 
 playing protector — Miss Liz Sleaford sails up, resplen- 
 dent in crimson ribbons and cheap jewelry, and claims 
 him as her own. They are all in the parlor — Jud, the 
 musician, is perched on a sort of pedestal in a corner 
 to be out of the way, as there is not an inch of spare 
 room for the coming engagement. The dance is a 
 waltz. Frank is spinning round with Lora, as a mat- 
 ter of course, Mr. Blake is blessed with Liz, five other 
 couples revolve and bump against each other with 
 much force, and great good-humor. 
 
84 THE MISSES SLEAFORD AT HOME. 
 
 Geoffrey has seen a great many waltzes, but the 
 energy, the vim, the " go " of this one he has never 
 seen equaled. And it is a night in early August. 
 The full harvest moon is pouring its pale splendor 
 over the warm, sweet world without ; the faces of the 
 waltzers are redder in ten minutes than the moon was 
 when it rose. The living whirlwind flashing past him 
 so confuses Geoffrey that he gets up at last, and with 
 some difficulty makes his way into the kitchen. This 
 apartment has but two occupants — Dan Sleaford, and 
 a small, scantily-dressed damsel of twelve, who ap- 
 pears to be assistant cook. Dan is the chef. At an 
 early age he developed one talent, a talent for clam 
 chowder ; many years of cultivation, and that talent 
 has soared to the heights of positive genius. No 
 " swarry " at the Sleaford's would be considered per- 
 fect without a chowder ; it is indeed the piece de 
 resistance of the feast, and is generally the only dish 
 contributed by the feast givers. So Dan, in a state 
 threatening spontaneous combustion, bends over the 
 steaming caldron, from which odors as of Araby the 
 Blest are wafted out into the silent night. The 
 youthful person with him, in a sulky and slipshod 
 manner, is emptying numerous baskets, and arranging 
 their contents on the two deal tables, covered, at 
 present, with very white cloths, and set out with the 
 blue delf, two-pronged forks, and a miscellaneous 
 collection of knives. It requires some skill on Mr. 
 Sleaford's part to keep one eye on the chowder, and 
 bring it to the pitch of perfection for which he is so 
 justly celebrated, and keep the other fixed sternly on 
 his small assistant, to see that she purloins none of the 
 provisions. On the present occasion the spread is 
 
THE MISSES SLEAFORD AT HOME. 85 
 
 something gorgeous. There is, first of all, the cham- 
 pagne — two silver-throated beauties contributed by 
 Frank. Then a basket of able-bodied little mutton 
 pies, the delicate attentions of Mr. George Blake, who 
 has a weakness that way. Then a plum cake, with 
 sugar coating an inch thick, the luscious offering of 
 the young Brightbrook baker. Then a leg of Iamb 
 *' with fixins," aiiglice, peas and mint sauce. A bottle 
 of mixed pickles, a wedge of cheese, a can of sweet 
 biscuits and sundries, the tribute by the representa- 
 tive of the grocery. In addition, a great earthenware 
 pot of tea is steeping for the ladies, while the whisky 
 and other spirituous fluids, together with a box of 
 cigars, adorn a shelf of the cupboard. These delica- 
 cies, with the chowder — always with the chowder — 
 comprise a supper fit for Brillat Savarin or the 
 Olympian gods. 
 
 Geoffrey takes a seat on the sill of one of the open 
 windows, trying to catch a breath of cool air, and 
 amused in spite of himself by the novelty of all this. 
 Dan Sleaford politely essays conversation, but, dis- 
 tracted between the chowder and his handmaid, the 
 attempts are not brilliant. In spite of his Argus eyes, 
 Joanna manages to filch a mutton pie, a handful of 
 mixed biscuits, and a piece of cheese, and secretes this 
 victual somewhere about her garments. Geoffrey 
 watches the elfish child with curiosity ; she is of a type 
 he has never seen before. He has a chivalrous venera- 
 tion for all things feminine, engendered by his beauti- 
 ful and stately mother; but this changeling — it isdifii- 
 cult to imagine her belonging to the same order of 
 beings as his sister Leo, or Olga Ventnor. This even- 
 ing her best frock, such as it is, has been donned ; she 
 
86 THE MISSES SLEAFOED AT HOME. 
 
 wears shoes and stockings, and an effort lias been made 
 to brush down the thick shock of darkly-reddish hair. 
 He sees the pale, pinched features — features not home- 
 ly in themselves, but spoiled by an expression of set- 
 tled suUenness and gloom. She looks uncanny, and 
 most pathetically unchildlike. When Dan Sleaford 
 girds at her, she shrinks as if she expected a blow. 
 Her hard life is written in every line of her downcast 
 and smileless f ace. 
 
 Inside, the fun waxes fast and furious ; peals of 
 laughter ring out, the house quivers with the tread of 
 the dancers. Jud's fiddle never falters nor fails. A 
 schottische follows the waltz, then a quadrille, then a 
 polka ; then George Blake performs a solo, the High 
 land Fling — a dance which has more genuine fling 
 about it, as executed by Mr. Blake, than any of the 
 company has ever before beheld. Then there is a con- 
 tre dance. Then Dan Sleaford, crimson of visage, 
 presents himself at the parlor door, and in stentorian 
 accents announces the chowder and accompaniments, 
 and tersely commands them to " come on !" 
 
 " What, Geoff, old boy ! taking lessons in cook- 
 ing ?" cries Frank, wiping his hot face. " Phew ! what 
 a blazer of a night ! — and, by Jove ! what a girl Lora 
 Sleaford is to spin ! There's more go in her than in any 
 human being I ever met. She has been dancing every 
 time, and hasn't turned a hair, while I — I give you my 
 word, old fellow, I'm fit to drop." 
 
 But a bumper of foamy iced lager restores the ex- 
 hausted one, and the company sit down to supper. A 
 very noisy company it is, a very hungry company too, 
 and despite the height of the thermometer, boiling 
 chowder, steaming tea, roast lamb, and mutton pies 
 
THE MISSES 8LEAF0RD AT HOME. 87 
 
 disappear with a celerity that speaks well for the faith 
 the consumers have in their own powerful digestions. 
 Every one helps himself and his partner to whatever 
 chances to be handiest ; cheese and pickles vanish in 
 company, lamb and pound-cake, mutton pies and peas. 
 The gentlemen slake their thirst with flagons of lager 
 beer, or the more potent whisky ; while the ladies 
 genteelly partake of hot tea and iced champagne, one 
 after the other, and with perfect equanimity. 
 
 It is all a wonderful experience to Geoffrey Lamar. 
 For Frank — he and George Blake — they are the choice 
 spirits of the board. He is amused, a trifle disgusted 
 also, it may be, but the hilarity carries him away, and 
 he finds himself laughing almost as noisily as the rest. 
 Once or twice he glances about for the attendant 
 sprite, but she is no longer in waiting ; every one 
 helps himself. She is in a corner of the fire-place, as 
 though she felt the heat no more than a salamander, 
 munching her pilfered dainties, and staring, with 
 bright, watchful eyes, at the people before her. No 
 one notices her, or thinks of offering her anything to 
 j^at or drink. The dogs get an occasional morsel 
 thrown them — she gets nothing. 
 
 Supper over, dancing is resumed with ardor and 
 vigor. There is singing, too, spirited songs with ring- 
 ing choruses, in which the strength and lungs of the 
 "swarry" is thrown. Miss Lora gives them — to a 
 banjo accompaniment — " Sing, oh ! for a brave and 
 gallant bark, a brisk and lively breeze," — which, hav- 
 ing a fine resounding chorus, goes near to lift the roof 
 off. Liz does the sentimental, and warbles "Thou 
 hast learned to love another, thou hast broken every 
 vow." Frank Livingston trolls forth, in a very nice 
 
88 THE MISSES SLEAFOED AT HOME. 
 
 tenor, " Sarah's Young Man," and the Messieurs Slea- 
 ford uplift their voices in a nautical duet. The re- 
 mains of the phim cake, and some cool lemonade are 
 passed around among the fair sex. The gentlemen 
 adjourn at intervals to the kitchen cupboard for a 
 " modest quencher," a quiet cigar, and Geoffrey Lamar, 
 growing rather bored, keeps his seat on the window- 
 sill, and wishes it were time to get out of all this noise 
 and heat, and go. 
 
 His interest in Joanna does not flag. She is a 
 curious study, and he watches her. After supper she 
 clears off the things, washes the dishes, puts them 
 away, sweeps up the floor, all in profound silence, and 
 with deft, swift hands. Then, instead of going to bed, 
 although it is past midnight, she produces a tattered 
 book, and resumes ber corner to read. With hands 
 over her ears, eyes riveted to the page, she is seeming- 
 ly lost to all the tumult around her. He watches her 
 in silence for awhile, then he speaks. 
 
 " What are you reading ?" 
 
 He has to touch her^to make her hear — then she 
 looks up. How changed her look ! the sullen moodi- 
 ness has passed away, her eyes are eager, her face 
 bright with the interest of her book. But in that in- 
 stant the old look of dark, frowning distrust returns. 
 She points to the page without a word. 
 
 " ' Monte Cristo,' " he reads. " Do you like it? " 
 
 She nods. 
 
 " But the first and last seems to be torn out — that 
 must spoil the interest, I should think. Do you read 
 much ?" 
 
 She purses up her mouth and shakes her head. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
THE MISSES SLEAFORD AT HOME. 89 
 
 "No books — no time." 
 
 " You are fond of stories ?" 
 
 "Oh! ain't I !— ji»«t !" 
 
 "Would you like me to bring you a book the next 
 time I come ?" 
 
 She looks at him, wondering, distrustful. He is a 
 young gentleman, and he is taking notice of her — he 
 is speaking to her kindly. No one does that. lie is 
 offering her a book — no one ever gives her anything. 
 Her sullen look comes back ; she does not know what 
 to make of it. 
 
 " I will bring you some books," he says, " and I 
 will ask your sisters to let you read them. Books that 
 will suit you better than * Monte Cristo.' " 
 
 " Sisters !" she repeats. " I ain't got no sisters. 
 
 But if you ain't foolin' " distrustfully. " You are 
 
 foolin', ain't you, mister ?" 
 
 He assures her of his sincerity. 
 
 " Well, then, don't you go and bring no books 
 here. 'Cause I wouldn't be let to have 'era ; old Giles 
 would burn 'em up. But I know what you could 
 do " with a cunning look. 
 
 "Well— what?" 
 
 " Do you know Black's Dam, and the old mill down 
 there in the woods ?" 
 
 " Yes, I know them." 
 
 " Then — if you ain't foolin' — fetch 'em there, and 
 leave 'em in the mill. Pit find them ; no one else ever 
 goes there. But I know you won't." 
 
 " You will see. You will find one there to-morrow 
 night. What's your name?" 
 
 " Sleaford's Joanna," she says, with a shrill laugh, 
 " or Wild Joanna — 'tain't no odds which. I'm both." 
 
90 GEOFFEEY LAMAR. 
 
 * What is your other name ?" 
 
 " Got no other name. Got no father, no mother, 
 no friends, no nothin'. I'm only Sleaford's Joanna." 
 
 She goes back to her book, and when, hours after, 
 the soiree breaks up, she is bending over Dumas' ex- 
 travaganza still. Geoffrey bids her good-night — the 
 only one of the party who has addressed her the whole 
 evening. 
 
 And that brief conversation is the mustard-seed, 
 so small as to be hardly visible, from which all the 
 dark record of the future is to grow. There are 
 many memorable nights in Geoffrey Lamar's life, 
 but none that stands out more ominously vivid than 
 this. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 GEOFFREY LAMAR. 
 
 EOFFREY LAMAR goes to no more Slea- 
 ford soirees, he has no taste for that sort 
 of revelry, but he does not forget the odd, 
 elfish child who wastes midnight oil ovei 
 the adventures of Dumas' wonderful hero. 
 
 He goes next day to Black's Dam, with a volume 
 under his arm, and places it on a rude seat he finds in 
 the ruined mill. It is a dull, sunless day, and the evil 
 look of the place depresses him. What a strange, 
 hideous retreat this child chooses ; it is like herself, 
 eery and frowning. The dark, stagnant pond lies 
 under the gray sky, green and poisonous, the dull 
 croak of a frog making itself heard now and then. It 
 
GEOFFREY LAMAR. 91 
 
 looks black and bad ; so, too, does the deserted mill, 
 falling dry and tindery to decay. Heavy woods and 
 rank undergrowth shut it in on every hand. There is 
 no path, long ago it was overgrown and forsaken, only 
 a slender line worn by the bare feet of the desolate 
 child. A great pity for the forlorn, ill-treated little 
 creature fills him. 
 
 " Poor little wrifftch !" he thinks ; " all work and no 
 play, ignorance, brutality, starvation — it is hard lines 
 for her." 
 
 He leaves the book and returns to the village. He 
 and Leo are due at the villa to-day ; they are to dine 
 with convalescent Olga. It is the first time she has 
 left her chamber, and, robed in the daintiest of all her 
 dainty white robes, she is carried down by papa to 
 where the table is set under the trees, and where she 
 is received with acclamations by Frank, and Geoffrey, 
 and Leo. All the long ringlets are gone, she looks 
 pallid and thin, but very, very pretty. She is the lit- 
 tle queen of the feast, she is petted and spoiled to her 
 heart's content. And Olga likes to be petted, and 
 ceases to regret the loss of her lovely long hair, and 
 decides there are w^orse things in the world than brain 
 fever, after all. 
 
 Late that evening, after a hard day's woiii — for it 
 is wash-day at the farm-house, and she has had to 
 carry water from early morning — Sleaford's Joanna 
 steals out by the back way, and darts off to her casile 
 in the wood. 
 
 Some faint hope that the young gentleman who 
 gpoke to her last night may keep his word stirs within 
 her, but it is very faint. Joanna is not used to people 
 who keep their word, and why should he ever think of 
 
92 GEOFFREY LAMAR. 
 
 her again ? It surprises her when she remembers he 
 noticed her at all. 
 
 Frank Livingston has been coming to the house 
 for months, and has never spoken to her a single word. 
 She has provided herself with a candle in a bottle, and 
 some matches, in case the book should prove to be 
 there. And if it does not rain, as it looks very much 
 like doing, she will stay at the mill all night. 
 
 The gray light of the overcast day is dying out 
 when she reaches her gruesome retreat. But it is not 
 ugly or forbidding to Joanna ; the quietest, the hap- 
 piest, the most peaceful hours of her life are spent 
 here. The frogs that croak in the green, slimy waters, 
 croak at her with the voices of friends ; their ugly faces 
 uplifted from the ooze are the friendliest faces she 
 knows. She has read "Robinson Crusoe" of late, and 
 wild visions of flying from Sleaford's farmstead, and 
 taking up her permanent abode here, rise before her 
 ecstatically. To live here all by herself, never to work, 
 never to be scolded or beaten, that would be bliss. But 
 it is not practicable, the Sleafords would never let her 
 go like that — who would fetch water, and carry wood, 
 and wash dishes, and scrub floors, and make beds, and 
 see to the dinner, and run errands, if she left? And 
 grapes do not grow in Brightbrook woods, nor wild 
 goats run about, waiting to be caught and eaten, as in 
 Crusoe's lovely isle. 
 
 Still, she has done the best she can ; she has brought 
 an armful of clean straw, a pillow and a quilt or two, 
 a supply of candles and matches, and spends many a 
 tranquil summer night here, watching the stars shining 
 down on her, through the broken roof. These nights 
 
GEOFFREY LAMAR. 93 
 
 are the nearest approach to happiness Sleaford's Joanna 
 knows. 
 
 She reaches the mill, enters, and finds a book in red 
 and gilt binding lying on the bench. Her heart gives 
 a bound — she has a passion for reading ; such a volume 
 as this she has never before beheld. She wipes her 
 ^rimy fingers on her frock, and takes it gingerly up. 
 There is still light enough to read the title, the " Old 
 Curiosity Shop." It is full of pictures, she gloats over 
 them, the sentences look short, the print is large and 
 clear. 
 
 There seems to be plenty of conversation ; as Joanna 
 expresses it, "it looks open-worky." She hugs the 
 book to her breast, her eyes shine with delight. Oh, 
 how good of him — that nice, pleasant-spoken young 
 gentleman, to remember her — her! whom nobody ever 
 remembers ; to come all this way and leave this beauti- 
 ful book. 
 
 A great throb of gratitude fills her, all good is not 
 crushed out of the child ; then a pang swift and sharp 
 follows. If he knew how bad she is, how she has 
 nearly killed poor little Miss Ventnor, would he have 
 been so kind ? No, she feels sure not ; he would 
 shrink from her as from a toad. She is a toad, a 
 venomous toad, Liz says so — an imp, Jud calls her — a 
 little devil is Dan's pet name for her — lazy little hussy, 
 Lora says, and Old Giles' names mostly are too bad to 
 repeat. No, if he knew what she was like, he never 
 would fetch her any books. 
 
 It is dark now ; she lights her candle and begins 
 to read. She is not afraid of being interrupted, no 
 one ever comes to Black's Dam. More than one 
 wretched suicide has sought its villainous waters, and 
 
94 GEOFFREY LAMAR. 
 
 it is of evil savor in the nostrils of Brightbrook. It is 
 a weird picture, the dark, stagnant pond, the dark 
 woods, the dark night sky, the deep and mysterious 
 stillness, that glimmering light among the ruined tim- 
 bers of the old mill, and the strange little creature 
 crouched in a heap, devouring, with greedy eyes, the 
 story of Little Nell. 
 
 Presently the sighing wind rises, falls, stirs the 
 trees, wails lugubriously through the pines, and then 
 great drops begin to fall and plash heavily on the 
 roof. She neither hears nor heeds ; she is far away 
 amid the Kentish meadows with Little Nell, held 
 breathless and enchained by the pathos of the tale. 
 
 She has never read anything like this ; she laughs 
 with Dick Swiveller, she identifies herself with the 
 marchioness, she is lost in wonder at the goodness and 
 wisdom of Nelly. It is very late, and she has read 
 quite half the book, when a large drop falls directly 
 on the glittering candle, and it splutters and goes out.^ 
 It is burned nearly to the end anyhow, it is useless 
 relighting the fragment. She closes her book with a 
 profound sigh, and for the first time becomes conscious 
 that it is raining hard and that a gale is surging 
 through the woods. 
 
 Well, it does not matter ; her truss of straw, and 
 quilts, are in a dry corner, but she would as soon go 
 home in the rain as not. But before going anywhere, 
 she sits for nearly half an hour, her knees clasped in 
 her arms, her black melancholy eyes staring out at the 
 wet wildness of the lonesome night. 
 
 That story of Little Nell troubles and disturbs her. 
 How different from Nell is she — how wicked, how 
 miserable ! But then no one has ever loved her, or 
 
GEOFFREY LAMAR. 95 
 
 cared for her, or taught her. No nice old grandfather 
 has ever doted on her ; no funny Kit Nubbles has been 
 her friend ; no Mrs. Jarley has protected and been 
 kind to her. 
 
 She wonders what it is like to be happy, to have^ 
 father, mother, friends ; a home without cursing, or 
 drinking, or whipping ; nice dresses, and plenty of 
 books to read. It would be easy enough to be good 
 then, but she — a strange, mournful wonder fills her 
 as she looks back over the brief years she can remem- 
 ber. 
 
 She is bad, no doubt ; she is very bad — but what 
 has she done to have such a hard, hard life ? She is 
 only a poor little thing, after all ; only twelve years 
 old. Was she born wicked, she wonders, and different 
 from other children ? In a blind, pathetic sort of way 
 she tries to solve the riddle, but it baffles her. She 
 gropes in utter darkness of heart and soul. It would 
 be pleasant to be good, she thinks, but it cannot be ; 
 no one could be good at Sleaford's. And if she was 
 born a little imp, as they tell her, it is of no use try- 
 ing. She can no more be like Little Nell than she can 
 be like Miss Olga Ventnor, or Miss Leo Abbott, with 
 their floating, perfumed hair and silk dresses, and fair 
 faces, and pretty, glittering trinkets. No, and she 
 will not try ; and so, with another great hopeless sigh, 
 Sleaford's Joanna gives up the puzzle and goes to 
 bed. 
 
 Three days after this it occurs to Geoffrey Lamar 
 to take a second look at the odd child at Sleaford's. 
 So he mounts his horse, and rides slowly into the 
 woodland path that leads to the Red Farm. It is a 
 mystery to him, as it has been to others, why Mr. Ab- 
 
96 GEOFFREY LAMAE. 
 
 bott lets this shiftless lot run riot in the best farm he 
 owns, but it is a mystery he cannot fathom, unless 
 Frank Livingston's unpleasant hints have some foun- 
 dation. 
 
 In his secret heart he neither likes nor respects his 
 step-father ; he distrusts him, he shares his mother's 
 unspoken shrinking and aversion. All the man's tastes, 
 and instincts, and ways are low. Geoffrey is a gentle- 
 man, lad as he is, and the son of a gentleman ; his 
 feelings are by nature refined ; he hates coarseness, 
 vulgarity, pride of wealth ; his intellect is beyond his 
 years, and his reason tells him Frank's hints are more 
 than likely to be true. Mr. Abbott is good to him, is 
 proud of him, is fond of him, is lavishly generous to 
 him, and the boy fights with his feelings and keeps 
 them down. He ought to be grateful, and he is, but 
 despite all that Mr, Abbott can come not one whit 
 nearer to the son than to the mother. 
 
 As he rides along, a sudden joyous caroling over- 
 head makes him pause and look up. Twit, twit, twit — 
 twee-e-e-e ! A whole shower of silvery notes, but the 
 bird is nowhere to be seen. Then the warble changes ; 
 a blackbird whistles, a bobolink calls, it is the chat- 
 ter of a squirrel, the to-whit-to-whoo of an owl, the 
 harsh croak of a frog, the shrill chirp of a cricket, 
 then rapidly the clear, shrill song of a lark. 
 
 Geoffrey sits dumbfounded. Has a mocking-bird 
 been let loose in Brightbrook woods ? Suddenly a wild 
 peal of laughter greets him, there is a rustle of boughs, 
 and from a tree under which he stands, a thin, elfish 
 face looks down. 
 
 " It's only me, mister, mocking the birds. I often 
 do it. I can whistle, too. Listen !" The sweetest, 
 
GEOFFREY LAMAR. 97 
 
 shrillest whistle he has ever heard takes up the air 
 * Sweet Home," and performs it as lie could not do to 
 ?ave his life. " There !" says the voice. " I'll sing for 
 you now, if you like. Didn't know I could sing, did 
 you ? All the Sleafords sing, law bless you ! but I 
 only do when I feel like it. Did you ever hear * Lani- 
 gan'sBall?'" 
 
 A sweet, strong voice begins that classical ditty, 
 jind the woods give back the melodious echo. Geof- 
 frey Lamar listens in siletit amaze. Why, the elf is a 
 prodigy ! — a musical prodigy ! Where, in that small, 
 starved body has she room for a voice like that ? 
 
 Siie finishes at last, and whistles a bar or two of 
 the air by way of closing symphony. 
 
 ** That was an awful nice book you lent me," she 
 goes on. " I've read it through twice. I haven't 
 soiled it a mite, and it's down at the mill. I — I'm 
 lots obliged to you, you know. Didn't think you'd 
 ever fetch it." > 
 
 She descends a branch or two from her lofty roost, 
 and brings herself to a level with the rider. 
 
 " It zsSleaford's Joanna !" says Geoffrey, his breath 
 Dearly taken away. " Why, you must be a witch. Who 
 taught you to sing and whistle, and twitter like a bird, 
 in this fashion ?" 
 
 "Nobody taught me — taught myself. It's jest as 
 easy as nothin' at all." 
 
 " Can you sing anything but * Lanigan's Ball ?' " 
 Joanna nods. 
 
 " Know a hymn. Lora heard your mar sing it at 
 her meetin'. Goes like this." 
 
 The silvery childish treble uplifts and peals out 
 with a force that fairly amazes him. The hymn, from 
 5 
 
98 GEOFFREY LAMAR. 
 
 those lips, amazes him still more. It is "Rock of 
 Ages." " 
 
 " Rock of Ages, cleft for me, 
 Let me hide myself in Thee I" 
 
 How strangely from those impish lips sound the 
 grand, strong words ! 
 
 " Nothing in my hand I bring, 
 Simply to Thy cross I cling; 
 Naked, come to Thee for dress. 
 Helpless, look to Thee for grace; 
 Rock of Ages, cleft for me, 
 Let me hide myself in Thee I" 
 
 " Upon ray word, you are a marvel !" Geoffrey says, 
 catching his bated breath. " And so you like the 
 book? Would you like another?" 
 
 " Oh !" ejaculated Joanna, rapturously ; " wouldn't 
 I just !" 
 
 " Well, you shall. I will leave it this evening at 
 the mill. Who taught you to read ? Have you ever 
 been at school ?" 
 
 " School !" Joanna echoes, scornfully ; " I guess 
 not. Catch Old Giles sending me to school. Not but 
 that I'd like to go, mind you. No, Jud teaches me. 
 He ain't so bad, Jud ain't — don't curse nor hit me 
 like the rest. Teached me some writin', too, but not 
 much." 
 
 " And you would like to learn more ?" 
 
 " You bet ! But 'tain't no use. Old Giles would 
 beat me to death if I spoke of such a thing." 
 
 " Do you mean to say he really beats and swears at 
 you ?" 
 
 Joanna laughs shrilly. 
 
 " Oh, no, not at all ! He wouldn't hurt nobody ! 
 Look here, mister !" 
 
GEOFFREY LAMAR. 99 
 
 She uncovers her shoulders by a dexterous hitch, 
 and shows him long black and blue welts purpling the 
 flesh. 
 
 "Did that last night ; was drunk, you know. Beat 
 me till I couldn't stir." 
 
 " What had you done ?" Geoffrey asks, sick at 
 heart. 
 
 "Nothin' 'tall. Didn't fetch the boot-jack quick 
 enough. Got me into a corner where I couldn't wrig- 
 gle away, and lashed me till Jud took the whip out of 
 his hand. Says he'll beat ray soul out next time. May 
 if he likes, i" don't care." 
 
 She begins to whistle defiantly, but tears of pain 
 and wrath well up in spite of her, and she winks them 
 angrily away. 
 
 " Poor little soul !" the lad says, strongly touched. 
 And at the pitying words all her bravado breaks 
 down, and she suddenly covers her face, and sobs 
 wildly : 
 
 " I wish I was dead — I do ! I wish I was dead and 
 buried !" 
 
 "Hush," he says, distressed, "that is wicked. 
 Don't cry ; I am going to try and do something for 
 you. I am going to help you if I can. I am sure 
 you would be a good girl if you had a chance. It is 
 a shame — a shame ! They use you worse than a dog !" 
 
 " Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! oh, dear !" the poor little 
 wretch sobs. It is the first time in her life the flood- 
 gates have thus been opened, ^he cries wildly now, 
 as she does all things, as if her very heart were burst- 
 ing. It is the first time any one has ever been sorry 
 for her, and the sympathy goes near to break her 
 heart. 
 
100 IlSr WHICH MR. ABBOTT ASSERTS HIMSELF. 
 
 " Do not cry," he says. " Look here, Joanna, I 
 will leave the book for you to-night, and I will come 
 to see you again in — let me see — two days. Now, 
 good-by, and do not get whipped, if you can, till I 
 come back." 
 
 With which the youthful knight-errant of tattered 
 damsels in distress turns his horse's head, and rides 
 slowly and thoughtfully homeward, revolving in his 
 mind a decidedly bold project, which, if carried into 
 effect, bids fairs to alter the whole future life of Slea- 
 ford's Joanna. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 IN WHICH MR. ABBOTT ASSERTS HIMSELF. 
 
 HE light of the August sunset lies low over 
 Abbott Wood, as young Geoffrey Lamar 
 rides slowly up the shaded avenue, still 
 lost in thought. And yet not eo deeply 
 absorbed but that the glowing beauty of green glade, 
 and sunny slope, scented rose-thicket, waving depths of 
 fern and bracken, ruby lines of light slanting through 
 brown boles of trees, strike him with a keen sense of 
 delight. It is his, all this fair domain, this noble in- 
 heritance ; no birthright, but the generous gift prom- 
 ised him often by the master of Abbott Wood. And 
 that sense of proprietorship accents vividly his pleas- 
 ure in its green loveliness, as he rides up under those 
 tall, arching elms. He is not an embryo artist, as is 
 Frank Livingston. He does not rant of light and 
 shade, of breadth and perspective, of tone and color, 
 
IN WHICH MR. ABBOTT ASSERTS HIMSELF. 101 
 
 and backgrounds and chien-oscuro, or the rest of the 
 art-jargon in which his flighty friend excels, but he 
 loves every tree, and stone, and coppice, and flower, 
 and bird about the place, and means, please Heaven, 
 it shall be his home, wander whither he may, through 
 life. 
 
 Mr. Abbott is in the stables, smoking and lectuiing 
 the grooms, when Geoffrey resigns his horse to the 
 boy who caters to him. He nods affectionately to his 
 step-son. It has been said he is fond and proud of 
 him — proud, after an absurd fashion, that the lad is a 
 gentleman by birth and breeding, while resenting at 
 the same time the grave reserve the youth maintains 
 between them. But Geoffrey is in a grateful and gen- 
 tle mood at this moment ; moreover, he is in the char- 
 acter of a suppliant, and returas his step-father's 
 greeting with cordiality. 
 
 " I've been deucedly put out just now, Geoff, my 
 boy," Mr. Abbott says, quitting the stables with him ; 
 " not so much with these fellows, though they are a 
 set of lazy dogs, who shirk work whenever they can. 
 But I was down at Cooper's this afternoon, and the 
 way that place is going to wreck and ruin under that 
 shif'less lot is enough to turn a man's hair gray. I 
 gave old Job a bit of my mind, let me tell you, and 
 out they go next quarter day, by the Lord Harry ! 
 Mind you, Geoff, when you're master here, keep no 
 tenants on your land like the Coopers. Out with 'em 
 neck and crop !" 
 
 *' Cooper is not a model farmer," says Geoffrey, 
 coolly, ** but in comparison with another of your ten- 
 ants, his place is a paradise. I mean Sleaford's — the 
 Red Farm." 
 
102 IN WHICH ME. ABBOTT ASSERTS HIMSELF. 
 
 A dark frown bends Mr. Abbott's "brows. He takes 
 out his cigar and looks at the boy. 
 
 " Sleaford's !" he growls. " What do you know of 
 Sleaford's ? What takes you there?" 
 
 " Frank Livingston took me the other evening. 
 They had a dance of some sort. But I have passed 
 the place often, and can see. Besides, every one is 
 talking of it, and wondering you do not send them 
 adrift.^" 
 
 " Every one be — every one had better mind his own 
 business ! You too," Mr. Abbott would like to add, 
 but he knows the state of haughty surprise Geoiffrey's 
 face can assume when it likes, and does not care to 
 provoke it. "I don't explain to all Brightbrook — hang 
 'em — my reasons, but I don't mind to you. Black 
 Giles Sleaford was a — well, acquaintance of mine out 
 in San Francisco, some fourteen years ago, and he did 
 me — well, a sort of service, in those days. He's a 
 worthless devil, I allow, but what's a man to do ? 
 Turn his back on an old fri — acquaintance ; and leave 
 him to starve, when he's rolling in riches himself ? It's 
 the way of the world, I know ; but, by Jupiter, it ain't 
 John Abbott's way. So he's at the Red Farm, and 
 there I mean to let him stay. It ain't the same case 
 as the Coopers, at all.- But look here, Geoffrey, boy, 
 don't you go there. I don't like it. I don't ask many 
 favors ; just grant me this one. They're low, dear 
 boy, and it ain't no place for a young gentleman born 
 and bred, like you. Livingston may go if he likes ; 
 he's a good-for-nothing rattle-pate at best, but you're 
 not of that sort. Don't you go to Sleaford's, Geoff, 
 any more — to please the old man !" 
 
 He lays his hand, in his earnestness, on the lad's 
 
IN WHICH MR. ABBOTT ASSERTS HIMSELF. 103 
 
 shoulder, and looks with troubled eyes down into his 
 face. Geoffrey shrugs his shoulders — the old, instinct- 
 ive feeling of shrinking from his step-father nevei 
 more strongly upon him. 
 
 " I am not likely to go there as Frank does," he 
 answers, carelessly ; " he likes that sort of thing — I do 
 not. But once or twice more I believe I must. I have 
 a little project on hand connected with one of that 
 family which will take me there again — at least as 
 often as that." 
 
 Mr. Abbott's gaze grows more and more perturbed. 
 
 " One of that family !" he repeats. *' You don't 
 mind my asking which one, do you, Geoff ? It ain't 
 
 " he hesitates ; bully, braggart, bold man that he 
 
 is, he has a strong respect for this boy. " It ain't — 
 excuse me — one of the girls ?" 
 
 He fears to meet that icy stare he knows so well 
 from both mother and son, and resents so bitterly. 
 But to his surprise Geoffrey only laughs. 
 
 " Exactly, sir, one of the girls — the youngest. I 
 will not tell you what it is just now. You will think 
 ii absurd, I dare say. I will speak to my mother first, 
 and she will inform you. There ! I see her on the ter- 
 race. Excuse me, sir, she is beckoning." 
 
 He darts away, his face lighting. As a sculptor 
 may regard some peerless marble goddess, almost as a 
 good Catholic may reverence some fair, sweet saint, so 
 Geoffrey Lamar looks upon his mother. To him she is 
 liege lady ; to him she stands alone among women for 
 beauty, culture, grace, goodness. Her very pride 
 makes a halo around her in his love-blind eyes. 
 
 John Abbott does not attempt to go after him. 
 Neither mother nor son need him or desire him ; he 
 
104 IN WHICH MR. ABBOTT ASSERTS HIMSELF. 
 
 would be but a barrier to their confidence, a blot on 
 the landscape. He feels it now, as he has felt it a 
 thousand times, with silent, impotent wrath, but his 
 anger is mingled just at present with another feeling 
 — fear. 
 
 " His mother !" he says, vacantly ; " he is going to 
 tell his mother ! One of the Sleaford girls — the young- 
 est. I — I don't like the look of this." 
 
 Mrs. Abbott stands on the terrace, the crimson 
 western light falling full upon her, and smiles as her 
 son draws near. She is a beautiful woman, tall, slen- 
 der, olive-skinned, with dark, solemn. Southern eyes, 
 and languid, high-bred grace in every slow movement. 
 She is like a picture as she stands here — like a Titian 
 or a Murillo stepped out of its frame — in her trailing 
 dress of violet silk, the delicate laces, the cluster dia- 
 mond at her throat, the guelder-rose in her hair. She 
 looks as a queen might — as a queen should — regal, 
 royal, superb. 
 
 " I hope you are in very good humor, mother," is 
 Geoffrey's greeting, plunging into business at once ; 
 " because I have come to ask a favor—a very great 
 favor, you may think." 
 
 Mrs. Abbott's smile, faint but very sweet, answers. 
 Her eyes rest on her boy lovingly, lingeringly — he is 
 very, very dear to her. She loves her little Leo, too ; 
 but there is this difference — she loves Geoffrey for his 
 father's sake as well as his own. 
 
 " Do I ever refuse you anything, I wonder ?" she 
 says, slightly amused. " You are a tyrant, Geoff, and 
 abuse your power. It is one of my failings, but I can- 
 not say no." 
 
 "But I am uncommonly afraid you will this time. 
 
IN WHICH MR. ABBOTT ASSERTS HIMSELF. 105 
 
 It ^ no trifle. It will be a responsibility, and you may 
 think it derogatory besides." 
 
 The smile fades from her face. 
 
 " You could never ask me to do anything you 
 thought that," she quietly says. 
 
 " Nor do I — you may. It will be a bore, I am sure. 
 The only thing to be said in its favor is, that you will 
 be doing good." 
 
 " Doing good can never be derogatory. Go on, 
 Geoffrey, out with this wonderful request. What a 
 philanthropist, by-the-bye, you are getting to be." 
 
 The proud, smiling look returns — she takes his arm, 
 and they saunter slowly up and down the terrace. 
 
 "Don't call names, madre mio," laughs Geoffrey. 
 "Well — here goes ! But thereby hangs a tale, to 
 which you must listen by way of prologue or argu- 
 ment. The favor come after. Lend me thine ears 
 then — I will a tale unfold." 
 
 And then — not without dramatic power and pathos 
 — he tells the story of Sleaford's Joanna. 
 
 " She is treated as you would not see a dog in your 
 house treated, mother ; she is in a very hot-bed of ig- 
 norance, and vulgarity and vice.- And I am sure she 
 is not naturally bad. She has a love for reading which 
 speaks well for her, and her voice — ah ! well, you will 
 have to hear that before you can believe it. This is 
 the story, mother — the favor is, will you stretqli out 
 your hand — this beautiful hand," the young knight ex- 
 claims, kissing it, " and save that wretched child !" 
 
 " My Geoff !" the lady answers, a tremor in her 
 voice, " how ?" 
 
 "Send for herjicre — make Miss Rice give her les- 
 sons* in English and singing, lift her out of the slougii 
 
106 IN WHICH MR. ABBOTT ASSERTS HIMSELF. 
 
 of darkness in which she is lost now. Save her body 
 and soul ! You can, mother." 
 
 There is emotion in the lad's voice, in his earnest 
 face, in his deep, glowing gray eyes. His mother 
 stops in her walk, tears on her dark lashes, both hands 
 on his shoulders. 
 
 " My boy ! my boy ! but it is like you. Oh ! I 
 thank the good God for giving me such a son. Yes, 
 what I can do, I will. It is an awful responsibility, an - 
 awful thought, that the life, the soul of any human 
 cfbature may be in our hands. If I can help her, save 
 her, as you say, I am ready. I say nothing in your 
 praise. Heaven has given you a great heart, my 
 Geoffrey — your father's noble soul. To lift the lost, 
 to save the unfortunate, what can be nobler? Yes, I 
 will do it. Send her here when you will." 
 
 ,The outburst is over — she pauses. She seldom 
 gives way'to her feelings like this. There is silence 
 for a little ; both descend to the lower earth again. 
 
 " But she cannot associate with Leo," Mrs. Abbott 
 fiays, in her usual manner, " such a child as that !" 
 
 "Certainly not. What I thought was, that after 
 Miss Rice had finished Leo's lessons for the day, she 
 should dismiss her, and take in hand Joanna. Her 
 name is Joanna. Leo always finishes by three — Joanna 
 could come from three to six. Of course. Miss Rice 
 will be willing, and glad of the extra salary." 
 
 " Of course. These people will make no objection 
 to the little girl's coming, wall they ? They must be 
 very dreadful from what you say. I wonder that Mr. 
 Abbott, particular as he is, allows them on his land.'* 
 
 " Others wonder too," Geoffrey responds, dryly. 
 *' The fact remains — he does. I really do not know 
 
IN WHICH MR. ABBOTT ASSERTS HIMSELF. 107 
 
 whether they will object or not. I spoke to no one, 
 of course, until I had spoken to you. If they refuse, 
 why, we can do no more. I will ride over and see to- 
 morrow. Meantime, I suppose it will be necessary to 
 mention it to Mr. Abbott." 
 
 " I suppose so " — the smooth brow of the lady con- 
 tracts a little — she docs not like mentioning things to 
 Mr. Abbott — " but it cannot matter* to him." 
 
 " No, but still he likes " 
 
 " Yes, yes, it shall be done. I see him yonder, and 
 will speak to him at once, if you like." 
 " Thank you, mother." 
 
 She approaches her husband. She walks with the 
 slow, swaying grace of a Southern woman, the lights 
 and shadows from sunshine and trees fleckinof the vio- 
 let sheen of her dress. Her son watches her, so does 
 her husband, both with eyes that say, "Is she not the 
 fairest of all the fair women on earth ?" 
 
 Mr. Abbott removes his cigar, and stands with a 
 certain deference of manner, as his wife draws near. 
 If her dark head is lifted a trifle higher than usual, it is 
 instinctive with her when about to ask what sounds to 
 her like a favor. If the voice in which she speaks has 
 a prouder inflection than customary, it is unconsci- 
 ously and for the same reason. In briefest words she 
 tells the story. Geoffrey has taken a fancy to help a 
 poor little village child — may she come here and re- 
 ceive lessons from Miss Rice, when Miss Rice has fin- 
 ished every day with Leonora ? 
 
 It is not often Mrs. Abbott voluntarily seeks her 
 husband, or asks him for favors. His coarse face 
 quite lights up into gladness now. 
 
 " Certainly, certainly, certainly !" he says, " any- 
 
108 IN WHICH MR. ABBOTT ASSERTS HIMSELF. 
 
 thing you and Geoff wish. Half a dozen village girls 
 if you like, my — my dear. The lad's the best lad 
 alive — sensible, steady, good-natured. I'm fond of 
 him, that I am, Mrs, Abbott." 
 
 "Tlianks," Mrs. Abbott says, bending her stately 
 head. She turns to go, has gone half a dozen steps, 
 when her husband's voice reaches her. 
 
 "Nota." 
 
 She turns slowly. He seldom calls her by. her 
 name ; he stands, looking rather sheepishly now at his 
 cigar. 
 
 " You've never been over to Laurel Hill — the new 
 place I bought last week. It's an uncommon pretty 
 spot — eight miles t'other side of Brightbrook. Sup- 
 pose you let me drive you there to-morrow ?" 
 
 If he were a suppliant 'lover he could hardly look 
 more humble, more anxious. The line between his 
 wife's straight, dark brows deepens. 
 
 " To-morrow I dine with Colonel and Mrs. Yentnor." 
 
 " Well, next day then." 
 
 " Next day I am going up to New York to do some 
 very necessary shopping." 
 
 " Well, the day after. Oh ! hang it, Nora, say yes ! 
 You never go anywhere with me now, and I don*t so 
 often ask you, neither." 
 
 " Certainly I will go," she says, but she says it so 
 coldly, so distantly, that the man sets his teeth. " I 
 did not know you thought it a matter of any moment. 
 I will go the day after to-morrow, or whenever you 
 wish." 
 
 " I don't wish," he returns, shortly. " Don't trouble 
 yourself, Mrs. Abbott, I don't wish for anything. 
 We'll never mind Laurel Hill !" 
 
y 
 
 Iff WHICH MR. ABBOTT ASSERTS HIMSELF. 109 
 
 He resumes his cigar, turns his back upon her, 
 thrusts his hands in his pockets, and strides away. 
 But half an hour after, as he still stalks sulkily up 
 and down, a thought strikes him, a most unpleasant 
 thought. It turns him hot .all over. 
 
 " By the Lord !" he cries, taking out his cigar, 
 aghast, "I shouldn't wonder but what it isP"* 
 
 A great bell, up in one of the windy, make-believe 
 Gothic turrets, clangs out ; it is the dinner-bell of 
 Abbott Wood. The master is not dressed, a faint 
 odor as of stables hangs about him, but he is in no 
 mood to conciliate his stiff wife, and make a dinner 
 toilet. He is chafed, rubbed over so much the wrong 
 way, and it affords him a grim sort of pleasure to set 
 her at defiance, and outrage her sense of sight and 
 smell, by appearing just as he is. . He marches into 
 the dining-room, grisly, forbidding, ireful. It is a 
 beautiful and spacious room — the dinner service is all 
 in the way of plate, napery, crystal, china, that money 
 can do to make that most ungraceful necessity — eating 
 — graceful. Flowers are there in profusion, a golden 
 after-glow fills the apartment, the viands are as nearly 
 perfect as possible, the mistress of the mansion a fair 
 and gracious lady, Geoffrey the most polished of 
 youthful Paladins, little Leo like, an opera fairy in 
 pink silk, but the master, stern and unsmiling as the 
 Death's Head, of the Egyptian banquets, takes his 
 • place, and begins his soup in unsocial silence and 
 glumness. At last he looks up. 
 
 " I didn't ask the name of the little beggar you 
 propose to bring here," he says to Geoffrey. " Who 
 is she?" 
 
 The youth glances at . him in surprise. Theso 
 
110 IN WHICH ME. ABBOTT ASSEETS HIMSELF. 
 
 sudden changes of temperature are not uncommon in 
 Mr. Abbott's moral thermometer, but they are always 
 disconcerting. 
 
 " Her name is Sleaford's Joanna — or more prop- 
 erly, I suppose, Joanna Sleaford." 
 
 Mr. Abbott's spoon drops with a clash in his plate. 
 As a thunder-cloud blackens the face of the sky, so a 
 swarthy frown darkens the face of the man. 
 
 " I thought so," he says. " It's well I made sure 
 in time. I withdraw my consent, madam. No brat 
 of Sleaford's ever sets foot in this house !" 
 
 " Sir !" Geoffrey cries, hotly. 
 
 It is the tone, the look, insolent beyond measure, 
 Addressed to his mother, that stings him. For Mrs. 
 Abbott, she does not say a word. She looks once at 
 vhe man before her, then back at her plate. 
 
 " Ah ! sit down, my lad — there is nothing for you 
 tJ get your mettle up about. Only Sleaford's Joanna 
 won't come here. Leo is my daughter — I'll know who 
 ohe associates with. And, by heavens ! it sha'n't be 
 with a cub out of Giles Sleaford's den !" 
 
 The veins in his forehead stand out purple — he 
 brings his clenched fist down on the table until the 
 glass rings. 
 
 Geoffrey's face flushes crimson, he looks at his 
 mother, prepared to resent this violence. She is a 
 shade paler than usual, a little curl of scorn and dis- 
 gust dilates the delicate nostrils — otherwise she is per- 
 fectly calm. 
 
 " Do not excite your-self, Mr. Abbott," she says, in 
 slow, iced tones, " there is really no need. Resume 
 your dinner, Geoffrey. Of course it shall be quite as 
 Mr. Abbott wishes." 
 
IN WHICH MR. ABBOTT ASSERTS HIMSELF. 11 1 
 
 And then silence falls — such silence ! Mrs. Abbott 
 seems slowly to petrify as she sits. Geoffrey's face is 
 rigid with wrath. Mr. Abbott makes short work of 
 his dinner, and departs without a word. Only little 
 Leo, of the quartet, dines at all. 
 
 But one sentence, at rising, passes between the 
 mother and son. 
 
 " You will tell this poor child she cannot come," 
 Mrs. Abbott says, and Geoffrey nods. 
 
 But an obstinate look comes about his mouth ; he 
 is not easily baffled ; those resolute lips, that curved 
 chin, were not given him for nothing. Joanna may 
 not come here, but he will go instead to Miss Rice, 
 and arrange with her to give the girl lessons at her 
 own rooms. His pocket-money is abundant ; he will 
 pay for her himself. She shall be taught, that is as 
 fixed as fate, if he has to buy Sleaford's consent with 
 his last penny. Contradiction has the effect on young 
 Lamar it has on all determined people — it only re- 
 doubles his determination. 
 
 It rains the next day, a steady, drizzling, persist- 
 ent rain. But he cares very little for a wet jacket ; 
 sleeping on his resolution only makes him more 
 resolute. He mounts his " dapple gray " and rides 
 through the dripping woods to Sleaford's. No mock- 
 ing-bird is perched among the branches to-day, to 
 waylay him with its delusive melody. He reaches the 
 house, puts his horse under cover, and enters. Only 
 two of the family are to be seen — Joanna, scrubbing 
 a floor that very much needs scrubbing, and Giles 
 himself, smoking, in the corner, a meditative pipe. He 
 greets his visitor with a surprised nod, and watches 
 him curiously. For Joanna — it is evidently one of 
 
112 IIT WHICH ME. ABBOTT ASSERTS HIMSELF. 
 
 her dark days ; her small face looks cross and cantan- 
 kerous, she curtly returns his salutation, she °crubs the 
 boards with ill-tempered vehemence. The rain beats 
 against the panes, the house and everything about it 
 looks dismal and forlorn. 
 
 " Well, Joanna," Geoffrey says, in an undertone, " I 
 promised to come, and I am here. But my pix)ject 
 has failed for the present. I intended you to come' to 
 Abbott Wood every day for lessons, but it seems it 
 cannot be. We must hit on some, other plan. You 
 would not mind going up tbe village every afternoon, 
 would you ?" 
 
 Before Joanna can reply, Sleaford takes his pipe 
 from his mouth, and breaks in. He has caught the 
 words, low as they are spoken. 
 
 " What's that ?" he demands, gruffly. 
 
 "I meant to tell you," Geoffrey courteously re- 
 turns, " and ask your consent. Of course, all this is 
 subject to your control. Your little girl is clever, I 
 think, and has a fine voice. I intended to have her 
 taught, and that voice cultivated — always with your 
 permission. I thought at first of getting her to come 
 
 every day to our house, but " 
 
 . " Well, but what ?" 
 
 " It cannot be, it seems. Still, I can manage it. 
 She can go to Brightbrook and take her lessons there 
 instead." 
 
 " Stop a bit," says Giles Sleaford, ■ resuming his 
 pipe ; " why can't she go to Abbott Wood ?" 
 
 " Well," Geoffrey replies, with that frank regard 
 for simple truth that is characteristic of him, " the 
 fact is, Mr. Abbott objects. Not that it matters at 
 all — the other way will do just as well." 
 
IN WHICH MR. ABBOTT ASSERTS HIMSELF. 113 
 
 " Stop a bit !" repeats Mr. Sleaford ; "did you put 
 it to your guv'ner, * I want to learn a little girl,' says 
 you, * that don't know nothin' but cussin' and lowness, 
 and make a lady out o' her !' Did you put it like 
 that ?" 
 
 " Something like that — yes." 
 
 " Namin' no names at fust ?" 
 
 " Exactly." 
 
 "And what did he say thenT'' 
 
 " Well, he said yes," answers Geoffrey, a little em- 
 barrassed, but still adhering to truth. 
 
 "And when he found who it was he wouldn't. 
 * Give her a name,' ses he. * Sleaford's Joanna,' ses 
 you. * I'm d — d if you do !' ses he, * none o' that lot 
 comes here !' That was it, wasn't it ?" 
 
 "Well, more or less," Geoffrey returns, laughing 
 in spite of himself. "You must be a wizard, I think, 
 Mr. Sleaford. But it really does not matter, you 
 know ; the other way " 
 
 " Stop a bit !" reiterates Giles Sleaford. " Was it 
 your intentions as how your mar should look arter 
 Joanner when she went up to the big house, and kind 
 o' help to eddicate her and that ?" 
 
 " It was, but as I say " 
 
 " Stop a bit ! hold on — it ain't the same no way, 
 sendin' her to the village to- a teacher woman. The 
 gal shall go to your guv'ner's house or she shan't go 
 at all. Now you stop a bit, don't do notUin' afore to- 
 morrow, and maybe — I name no names, mind you ! — 
 and maybe she can be let to go to your mar." 
 
 With which Mr. Sleaford relapses into ruminative 
 silence and slowly refills his pipe, which has gone out. 
 There is a grim sort of grin on his forbidding face as 
 
114 '' nobody's child.'' 
 
 he does so, and he swallows a chuckle or two as he 
 watches the heir of Abbott Wood rise and go away. 
 
 " So Red Jack won't, won't he ?" he says, half 
 aloud, with one of these suppressed chuckles; " because 
 she's a Sleaford ! Ah ! well, we will see." 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 R, ABBOTT is sitting alone in the library 
 at Abbott Wood. For the very great per- 
 sonage he is in some respects, his position 
 is an undignified one. He has tilted back 
 the carved and cushioned chair in which his bulky 
 body reposes, elevated his boots on the low black mar- 
 ble mantel, and is rapidly filling the room with tobacco 
 smoke. A frown still rests on his brow ; he has not 
 forgiven his wife — he is not disposed to forgive her ; 
 it is only one more added to the lengthy list of affronts 
 she has put upon him. 
 
 "And if ever I get a chance," he mutters, as he 
 smokes, "I'll pay you back with interest, my high and 
 mighty lady !" * 
 
 Little Leo has just left him. She is his at any rate; 
 he will have her with him when he chooses, in the very 
 teeth of her scornful mother. The child is sufficiently 
 fond of him; he is foolishly indulgent to her, aftor the 
 manner of his kind ; but now she, too, has quitted 
 him. Nine has struck, and nurse has come and borne 
 her off. At present he is solacing himself with a pipe, 
 
115 
 
 the evening paper, and some crusty port, until it shall 
 be time to go to bed. 
 
 " A wet night, by jingo !" he says, as in the pauses 
 of rattling the paper he hears the dash of the rain 
 against tlie glass, and the sough of the wind in the 
 trees. 
 
 The room in which he sits is a grand one — a hun- 
 dred years old to look at, at least : everything in it, 
 about it, is richly hued, deeply tinted, warmly toned. 
 There is an oriel window, where sunset lights fall 
 through on a dark, polished oaken floor in orange, and 
 ruby, and amethyst dyes. A soft, rose-red carpet cov- 
 ers the center of the floor ; a tiger-skin rug is stretched 
 in front of the shining grate. Mellow-brown panels 
 are everywhere where books are not. Books are 
 many ; hundreds of volumes in costly bindings — pur- 
 ple, crimson, white and gold — not a " dummy" among 
 them all. There are bronzes, and a few dark paintings 
 of the literary lights of the world, quaint old furni- 
 ture, all carved with arabesques and griffin's-heads, 
 and upholstered in bright crimson cloth. Here, too, 
 as in nearly every room of the house, is burned in the 
 panes the escutcheon of his Southern wife. It looks a 
 very temple of culture and learning, and, with the usual 
 fine irony of fate, John Abbott is its high priest. 
 Not one, of all these hundreds of costly volumes, do«s 
 his stumpy brown fingers ever open ; his literature is 
 confined to the New York and Brightbrook daily 
 papers, and all the sporting journals he can buy. 
 
 As he sits and puffs his clouds of smoke, and 
 swallows his wine, there is a tap at the door, and a 
 man-servant enters. 
 
 " Well," inquires Mr. Abbott, " what now ?" 
 
116 " nobody's child." 
 
 " There is a man in the hall, sir, to see you partic- 
 ular. He says his name is Sleaford." 
 
 The servant looks at him with covert cunning as 
 he makes the announcement. In a place like Bright- 
 brook there can be no such thing as a secret. Tlie 
 servants of Abbott Wood have heard of the Sleaford s, 
 but this is the first time one of that celebrated family 
 has presented hims^elf at the manor. Mr. Abbott 
 drops his paper, and slowly rises from his chair, a gray 
 pallor overspreading the peony hue of his face. 
 
 "Sleaford!" he repeats, blankly; "did you say 
 Sleaford ?" 
 
 " Sleaford, sir — Giles Sleaford. He is waiting in 
 the vestibule, dripping wet. Told him I didn't know 
 you were at home, sir, but would see. Are you at 
 home, sir ?" 
 
 "Show him in, you fool, and be quick !" 
 
 The man retreats. Mr. Abbott resumes his chair, 
 breathing quickly, that grayish shade still on his face, 
 and tries to resume his usual bluff, blustering manner 
 as well, but in vain. He is frightened — braggart, 
 boaster that he is ; his hand shakes — he is forced to 
 fling aside his paper with an oath. 
 
 " Sleaford !" he thinks ; " this time of night — and 
 
 such a night ! Good G ! what is he after now ?" 
 
 *^ The door reopens, and, dripping like a huge water- 
 dog, his hat on his head, his hands in his pockets, 
 Giles Sleaford stalks into the room. " Oh, you are to 
 home !" he says, with a sneer ; " the flunkey said as 
 how he didn't know. It ain't the kind o' night heavy 
 swells like John Abbott, Esquire, of Abbott Wood, 
 would be like to go out promenadin'. It's as black as 
 a wolf's mouth, and comin' down like blazes." 
 
*' nobody's child. ' 117 
 
 "Sit down, Sleaford," says Mr. Abbott, in a tone 
 of marked civility. He sends one of the carved and 
 cushioned chairs whirling on its castors toward hira, 
 but Mr. Sleaford only glances at it with profound 
 contempt. " It is, as you say, the deuce and all of a 
 night to be out in. But now that you are here, if 
 there is anything I can do for you " 
 
 " Ah ! if there is !" returns Mr. Sleaford, still sar- 
 donic ; "as if there was anything a rich gent like 
 Mr. Abbott couldrCt do for a poor bloke like me. As 
 if I would tramp it through mud and water a good 
 three mile for the pleasure of lookin' at your jim- 
 cracks, and axin' arter your 'elth. Yes, there is some- 
 tliin' you can do for me, and what's more, you've got 
 to do it, or I'll know the reason why." 
 
 The sneer changes to a menace. Mr. Abbott rises 
 with precipitation, opens the door quickly, and looks 
 down the long, lighted passage. There are no eaves- 
 droppers. He closes the door, locks it, and faces his 
 man. The danger is here, and he does not lack pluck 
 to meet it. 
 
 "What do you want?" he demands ; " it was part 
 of our bargain that you were never to come here. 
 Why are you here ? I'm not a man to be trifled with 
 — you ought to know that before to-night." 
 
 " There ain't much about you, Jack Abbott, that I 
 don't know," Sleaford retorts, coolly. " Don't take on 
 none o' your rich-man airs with me. This is a snug 
 crib — all this here pooty furniture and books cost a 
 few dollars, I reckon. You wouldn't like to swop 'em 
 for a cell in Sing Sing, and a guv'ment striped suit? 
 What am I here for? I'm here to find out why one o' 
 
118 " nobody's child." 
 
 my kids ain't to oome to your wife to get a eddication, 
 if that there young sport, your step-son, says so ?" 
 
 The two men look each other straight in the eyes 
 — fierce, dogged determination in Sleaford's, malig- 
 nant, baffled fury in Abbott's. 
 
 "So ! this is what you want, Black Giles?" 
 
 " This is what I want. Jack Abbott. And what I'll 
 have, by the Eternal ! Mind you, I don't care a cuss 
 about eddication, nor whether the gal ever knows B 
 from a cow's horn, but the young gent wants it, and 
 you were willin' till you found out who she w^as, and 
 then you wouldn't. Now, I'll stand none o' that. My 
 gal's comin' up here to be eddicated by your wife," 
 says Mr. Sleaford, beating out his proposition with the 
 finger of one hand on the palm of the other, "which is 
 a lady born and bred, and by your step-son, which he's 
 what all the gold that ever panned out in the diggins 
 can't make you — a gentleman. You forbid it yes'day 
 — you'll take that back to-morrow, and whenever the 
 young swell says the word, Joanner's comin' up here 
 for that there eddication !" 
 
 All this Mr. Sleaford says, slowly and impressively 
 — by no means in a passion. His hat is still on his 
 head — politeness with Black Giles is not a matter of 
 hat. And he fixes Mr. Abbott with his "glittering 
 eye," while he thus dogmatically lays down the law. 
 Mr. Abbott, too, has cooled. Indeed, for two ex- 
 tremely choleric gentlemen, their manner has quite 
 the repose that marks the caste of Vere de Vere. The 
 master of the mansion takes a turn or two up and 
 down the slippery floor before he replies. The tenant 
 of the Red Farm eyes him with stolid malignity. 
 
 " I wish you wouldn't insist on this, Giles," he 
 
** nobody's child." 119 
 
 Bays, in a troubled tone, at last. " I have a reason for 
 it. Come ! I'll buy you off. I'll give you " 
 
 "No, you won't. I ain't to be bought off. She's 
 got to come. But I'm out o' cash. I want three hun- 
 dred dollars." 
 
 John Abbott's eyes flash, but still he holds himself 
 in hand. 
 
 *' You are joking ! Only last week I gave you " 
 
 "Never mind last week, that's gone with last 
 year's snow. It's no good palaverin' — you know what 
 I want. All your money wouldn't buy me off. She's 
 got to come." 
 
 Again silence — again broken by Mr. Abbott. 
 
 " How old is this confounded girl ?" he demands, 
 and mentally consigns her to perdition. "Your girls 
 ought to be all grown up, Sleaford." 
 
 "Ought they. Well, they ain't. She's twelve, 
 just." 
 
 " Twelve ! What nonsense ! Why, your wife's 
 been dead these sixteen years." 
 
 "Ah !" says Giles Sleaford. 
 
 It is a brief interjection, but the tone, the glare 
 that goes with it brings back the blood in a purple 
 glow to the other man's face. 
 
 " We won't talk about that^'^ says Sleaford between 
 his teeth, " nor what followed. 'Cause why ? I might 
 forget you was the richest, respectablest gent here- 
 abouts, and fly at your throat, and choke the black 
 heart out o' you. Gimme that money and let me git I 
 The blackest night that ever blovved is better than a 
 pallis with you in it." 
 
 With a cowed look, Mr. Abbott goes to a desk, 
 counts over a roll of bills, and hands it to his tenant. 
 
120 ** nobody's child." 
 
 " Sleaford," he says, almost in a supplicating tone, 
 "I wish you would go away from here. People are 
 talking. The Red Farm is going to the dogs. It's 
 not that I care for that. I don't care for that, but 
 — but I don't want people to talk. I've been a good 
 friend to you, Giles " 
 
 The wild-beast glare that looks at him out of Giles 
 Sleaford's eyes makes him pause. 
 
 *' About money, I mean," he resumes hurriedly. 
 " I'm not stingy, no man ever called me that. Name 
 your price and go. Back to San Francisco : you can 
 have a good time there ; and let by-gones be by-gones. 
 I'll come down handsome, by Jove, I will." 
 
 Giles Sleaford pockets the money, and looks at 
 him with wolfish eyes. 
 
 " I'm a poor devil," he says, " but if I was poorer, 
 if I was a dog in a ditch, I wouldn't take half your 
 millions and leave you. I had work enough to find 
 you, Lord knows ! But I have found you, and while 
 you and me's above ground we'll never part." 
 
 He turns with the words and leaves the library. 
 No more is said, no good-night is exchanged. Mr. 
 Abbott in person sees his visitor to the door, and lets 
 him out. The darkness is profound, a great gust of 
 wind and rain beats in their faces, but Giles Sleaford 
 plunges into the black gulf and tramps doggedly out 
 of sight. 
 
 % ^ % H« % % 
 
 Next day, as Geoffrey Lamar is leaving the house 
 after breakfast, on purpose to ride to the village and 
 see Miss Rice, the teacher, his step-father approaches, 
 in a shuffling way, and lays his hand on his shoulder. 
 
 " If I said anything t'other day at dinner," he 
 
** nobody's child." 121 
 
 says, gruffly, but apologetically, "I want you to over- 
 look it, dear boy. I was put out, and I showed it. 
 Let that little girl come whenever you like." 
 
 Geoffrey glances at him, rather haughtily. It is one 
 of his failings that he is slow to forgive. 
 
 " It is a matter of no consequence whether she ever 
 comes here or not. I am perfectly satisfied to let it 
 drop." 
 
 " No, you ain't, dear boy — you know you ain't. You 
 want her to come, and so does your mother. Tm sorry 
 — I can't say no more. Fetch her here and i*orget 
 my words." 
 
 " Very well, sir," Geoffrey returns in his grand 
 manner — his head thrown back, his mouth somewhat 
 stern. It is a very natural manner with the lad, and 
 is exceedingly effective with most people. So it is to 
 Sleaford's he rides, instead of to the village, and the 
 result is, that, dressed in her holiday best, Sleaford's 
 Joanna presents herself on Monday afternoon at 
 Abbott Wood to begin her education. 
 
 Mrs. Abbott looks at the wild creature in wonder 
 and pity. Out in the woods there is a certain free, 
 lithe grace about the girl — in this grand room, before 
 this grand lady, she stands shifting from one foot to 
 the other, downcast of face, awkward of manner, shy, 
 silent, uncouth. Even the attempts at civilization, the 
 shoes and stockings, the smoothed hair, the washed 
 and shining face, embarrass her by their painful nov- 
 elty. Miss Rice is there, a little, brisk, old body, with 
 round, bird-like eyes, and the general air of a lively 
 robin, in her brown stuff dress. 
 
 "My son tells me you can sing," Mra. Abbott says 
 6 
 
122 
 
 in her slow, sweet way. "Will you sing something 
 for us that we may judge?" 
 
 As well ask her to fly ! Joanna stands mute, a des- 
 perate feeling creeping over her to make a dash for 
 the door, and fly forever to Black's Dam. 
 
 "You cannot?" with a smile. "Ah! well, it is 
 natural. Miss Rice will play something for you 
 instead, and I will leave you to get acquainted." 
 
 So Mrs. Abbott, with fine tact, goes, and Joanna 
 draws a free breath for the first time. So much 
 beauty, and condescension, and silk dress, have over- 
 whelmed her. Miss Rice is insignificant — she never 
 overwhelmed any one in her life. She goes to the 
 piano, and plays what she thinks Joanna will like, a 
 sparkling waltz, and a gay polka. 
 
 Joanna does like it, and listens with rapture. 
 
 " Now tell me some of your songs, and I will play 
 the accompaniment," says Miss Rice. 
 
 Joanna goes over half a dozen. " Old Dog Tray," 
 "Wait for the Wagon," "Sally, Come Up." Miss 
 Rice knows none of them. 
 
 "Here is 'Nobody's Child.' Can you sing that?" 
 she asks. 
 
 As it chances, Joanna can, and does. All her em- 
 barrassment is gone with Mrs. Abbott. Her strong 
 young voice takes up the air, as Miss Rice softly 
 strikes the chords, and peals out full and clear. There 
 is a mournful appropriateness in every word. 
 
 "Out in the dreary and pitiless street, 
 
 With my torn old shoes, and my bare cold feet, 
 
 All day I have wandered to and fro, 
 
 Hungry and shivering, nowhere to go. 
 
 The night's coming down in darkness and dread, 
 
 And the cold sleet is beating upon my poor head. 
 
" nobody's child." 123 
 
 Ah 1 why does the wind rush about me so wild ? 
 Is it because I am Nobody's Child ?" 
 
 Miss Rice listens, surprised and delighted. And 
 Mrs. Abbott, just outside the open window, listens too, 
 and mentally decides that Geoffrey was riglit. This 
 girl is worth saving, if only for sake of that charming 
 voice. She sings with expression, the pathos of the 
 words find an echo in her untaught heart. She, too, 
 is Nobody's Child. 
 
 " Oh, you have a lovely voice, indeed !" cries little 
 Miss Rice, enthusiastically, "and after a few months 
 training — ah, well, only wait ! That will do now ; we 
 will see what else you know, and get out a few 
 books." 
 
 The " what else " turns out to be nothing at all. 
 She can read with tolerable correctness, and write a 
 little. She cannot sew, knit, crochet — knows nothing, 
 in fact. 
 
 " It is virgin soil," says Miss Rice, briskly, to her 
 patroness ; " plenty of weeds, and no cultivation. 
 Well, we must pluck up the weeds, and plant the seeds 
 of knowledge. Good-day, my dear lady." 
 
 Miss Rice trips away, and Joanna more slowly fol- 
 lows. She passes the Gothic lodge, and is well out of 
 sight of that neat little structure, when the master of 
 Abbott Wood comes suddenly upon her, and stretch- 
 ing out his brawny right hand, catches her by the 
 Mrist. He has been lying in wait. 
 
 " You are Joanna Sleaford ?" 
 
 She jerks away her hand. Roughness is the atmos- 
 phere of her life, and impish Joanna is Joanna at once. 
 " No, I ain't." 
 
 ** Who are you, tlien ? Don't tell me lies I" 
 
124 '* nobody's CHILD." 
 
 " Don't you tell them ! I am Sleaford's Joanna." 
 
 " What d'ye mean ? It's, the ^ame thing." 
 
 " Oh, no 'taint. My name ain't Sleaford, mister." 
 All Joanna's usual pertness is in her elfish tone and 
 face. 
 
 " What is it, then ?" 
 
 "Don't know, and don't care. Sleaford's Joanna 
 does as good as anything else." 
 
 She begins to whistle — then breaks off to laugh 
 shrilly. 
 
 *' You'll know me next time for certain. What are 
 you starin' at? It ain't good manners, old gentle- 
 man." 
 
 To tell the truth, he is staring as Joanna has never 
 been stared at before in her life, a blank expression of 
 new-born consternation in his face. 
 
 " Little girl," he says, " I am Mr. Abbott, and I 
 want you to answer me a few questions. Who are you, 
 if you are not Sleaford's daughter?" 
 
 "Told you before I didn't know. I don't tell lies. 
 You mightn't think so, but I don't. It's sneaky. 
 Picked me up in a gutter, he says. Wish he'd left me 
 there. Gutter's better than his house any day." 
 
 " How old are you ?" 
 
 " Jest gone twelve." 
 
 "Do you remember nothing of the time before 
 you lived with Sleaford ? Nothing of your father or 
 mother ?" 
 
 " Never. Had none, maybe. Grew in the gutter, 
 I guess. Say, mister, it's getting late. I want to go 
 home." 
 
 " Go, then," he says, mechanically. 
 
 He draws back, and she darts off fleetly as a squir- 
 
WHAT THE YEARS MAKE OF JOANNA 125 
 
 rel. He stands and watches her out of sight, that 
 blank expression still on his face. 
 
 "Of all that could happen I never thought of that," 
 he mutters. " I never thought Black Giles was so 
 deep. No, I thought of everything, but I'm blessed 
 if I ever thought of that.^'' 
 
 She has disappeared, and the dinner-bell is sum- 
 moning the master of the house. He turns up the 
 avenue, but all that day, and for many days after, 
 John Abbott muses and muses, and is strangely silent 
 and still. 
 
 And so it comes to pass, that from that day a new 
 life begins for Sleaford's Joanna. 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 "WHAT THE YEARS MAKE OF JOANNA. 
 
 T is a December afternoon, and brightly, 
 crisply clear. The last yellow light of the 
 wintry sunset, shining in between parted 
 curtains of lace and heavy crimson drap- 
 ery, falls upon a young girl seated at a grand piano, 
 toucliing the keys with flexible, strong fingers, and 
 singing in a full, rich contralto, that makes every- 
 thing in the room vibrate. It is the winter drawing- 
 room of Abbott Wood, a spacious and splendid apart- 
 
126 WHAT THE YEARS MAKE OF JOANNA. 
 
 ment, vast and lofty, but the trained, powerful voice 
 fills it easily. She is singing exercises and solfeggios ; 
 she has been so practicing for the past hour, running 
 up in showers of silvery high notes, holding the high- 
 est, sometimes, so long and steadily that you gasped 
 from sympathy, and then running down the scale 
 until the last low, sweet tone melted into the chords 
 her fingers struck. The girl is young — seventeen — 
 tall, slight, a little angular at present, but promising 
 well for the future. She is dressed in a black alpaca 
 that has seen service, and which is neither particularly 
 neat nor well-fitting — a rusty garment, that looks dis- 
 tinctly out of place in that glowing room. Her hair, 
 of which she has a profusion, and which is red-brown 
 in hue, but more red than brown, is knotted up in a 
 loose and careless knot, without the slightest attempt 
 at the becoming. Her face is pale and thin, the fea- 
 tures good, but the expression set and severe for 
 seventeen. 
 
 " What a peculiar-looking girl !" people say of her 
 when they see her first, and are apt to look again with 
 some curiosity. " She is not pretty at all, but it is 
 rather a — a striking face," and the word describes it 
 very well. It is not pretty ; it is far from plain ; and 
 it is a face most people are apt to look at more than 
 once. It is what five years have made of Sleaford's 
 Joanna. 
 
 Five years ! They work changes from twelve to 
 seventeen ; this is what five years, much care, instruc- 
 tion, and painstaking on the part of good Miss Rice 
 have made Joanna. A slim young person, with a face 
 that seldom smiles ; an unlimited capacity for discon- 
 tent with her own life, that increases every day of 
 
WHAT THE YEARS MAKE OF JOANNA. 127 
 
 that life ; an utter apathy as to dress, tidiness, needle- 
 work ; a conviction that she is hopelessly ugly, and 
 that it is of no use wasting time trying to redeem that 
 ugliness ; a delicious voice, a tolerable amount of pro- 
 ficiency as a pianist — that is Joanna. 
 
 She sits alone. Voices and laughter — young 
 voices — reach her from the grounds ; once her name 
 is called, but she pays no heed. A gay group are out 
 there, enjoying the windless winter evening, but with 
 gayety this girl has little — has ever had little — to do. 
 Wild Joanna she can be called no longer ; she seems 
 quiet enough ; Sleaford's Joanna she is still — the 
 household drudge, even as she was five years ago, with 
 work-reddened, work-hardened hands. She grows 
 tired of exercises after a little, and begins, almost un- 
 consciously, to sing snatches of songs — English, Ger- 
 man, Italian — a very pot-pourri. Then, all at once, she 
 strikes a few solemn, resounding chords, and begins 
 Rossini's "Stabat Mater," and the instrument quivers 
 with force of those grand tones — 
 
 ** Cujus animum gementum I" 
 
 It is a glorious anthem, sung with passion, pathos, and 
 power. 
 
 " Bravo !" says a voice ; "encore, mademoiselle. If 
 I had a bouquet I would throw it." 
 
 Slie glances round and smiles, and when she smiles 
 you discover for the first time that this girl might be 
 ahnost handsome if she chose. For she has a rare 
 smile, that quite transforms her sallow, moody face. 
 She has very fine teeth, too, not in the least like pearls, 
 but fully equal to those beautiful enameled half circles 
 that grin at you from dental show-cases. 
 
128 WHAT THE YEARS MAKE OF J0AN:N'A. 
 
 "Sing * When Swallows Build,' Joanna," says the 
 new-comer, throwing himself on a sofa near, and look- 
 ing at her with kindly eyes. 
 
 It is Geoffrey Lamar down for the Christmas fes- 
 tivities — Geoffrey at twenty-one, not so very much 
 unlike the Geoffrey of sixteen. Grown taller, though 
 still not tall, looking strong and well-trained, both as 
 to muscle and mind, retaining that resolute mouth and 
 chin, retaining also that slightly haughty air, and those 
 deep-set, steadfast, sea-gray eyes. He retains every- 
 thing, even that pleasant friendly regard fai* Sleaford's 
 Joanna, to which she is indebted for her power to-day 
 to make the room ring with the " Stabat Mater." 
 
 She turns over the music, and finds the song. 
 " What have you done with the others ?" she asks, 
 carelessly. 
 
 " Oh ! Livingston is there, and where girls are con- 
 cerned he is always a host in himself. There were a 
 great many pretty people present at the Yentnors' last 
 night," says Geoffrey, laughing, "but Frank was the 
 belle of the ball. Do you want me to turn your 
 music, Joanna? Because, if you do, I will sacrifice 
 comfort to politeness and get up." 
 
 "No, don't trouble yourself," Joanna answers. 
 "As you work so hard all the rest of the year, I sup- 
 pose you claim the right to be lazy at Christmas. 
 And besides, I am not used to politeness." 
 
 "No?" says Geoft'rey, and looks at her thought- 
 fully ; "it strikes me you seem a trifle out of sorts of 
 late, Joanna. You are as thin as a sliadow and nearly 
 as mute. Tell me — is it the old trouble ? Do these 
 people treat you badly still ?" 
 
 She shrugs her shoulders, an impatient, ireful look 
 
WHAT THE YEARS MAKE OF JOANNA. 129 
 
 darkens her face. " What does it matter," she says, 
 in a voice of irritated weariness. "I ought to be used 
 to it by this, but the trouble with me is, I get used to 
 nothing. Do not mind my looks — I am always thin 
 and cross — it is natural, I suppose ; and as to being 
 mute, when one has nothing pleasant to say one had 
 best hold one's tongue. Every one is good to me here, 
 better than I deserve. That ought to suffice." 
 
 She begins her song, but the impatient ring is yet 
 in her voice. Geoffrey lies still and watches her. lie 
 has the interest in her we all have in the thing we 
 have saved and protected ; he would like to see her 
 repay that interest by blooming looks and bright 
 laughter ; but his power fails, something is amiss. 
 She is educated, refined, cared for, but she is not 
 happy — he has a vague, uneasy suspicion she is not 
 particularly good. Antagonistic influences are at 
 work, driving her two ways at once — here all is lux- 
 ury, refinement, high-breeding, tender care — there all 
 is coarseness, vulgarity, brutal usage. Long ago Giles 
 Sleaford was implored to give her up altogether, but 
 be obstinately and doggedly refused. 
 
 "She is not your daughter," Geoffrey has urged. 
 "You do not care for her. Give her to us. She is 
 none of yours." 
 
 " IIow d'ye know that, youngster?" Sleaford says, 
 a cunning look in his bleary eyes. " /^ never said so, 
 an' I'm the only one as knows." 
 
 " Well, if she is, then, you should have her welfare 
 at heart. Let her come to us for good and all. She 
 is attached to my mother, and would like it." 
 
 " Ah ! I dare say ! She's a lazy jade, an' would like 
 to be a fine lady, with nothin' to do but play the 
 6* 
 
130 WHAT THE YEARS MAKE OF JOANNA. 
 
 pianny and sing songs. Bat it won't do, young gent. 
 I don't see it no way. I ain't goin'to give up Joanna." 
 
 " If money is any inducement " begins Geoffrey 
 
 after a pause. He is exceedingly tenacious of purpose 
 — he hates to give up anything on which he has once 
 set his mind. 
 
 *'Look a here, young gentleman," says Giles Slea- 
 ford ; " I ain't got no spite agin you. You're a game 
 young rooster, and I respects yer. But let this here 
 come to an end. I won't give up Joanna to you or no 
 living man. That gal's the trump card in my hand, 
 though the time ain't come to play her yet. She may 
 keep on goin' to your 'ouse — I've said so, and I'll stick 
 to it — but back here she comes, rain or shine, every 
 night for life. Now drop it !" 
 
 And so, night after night, Joanna turns from the 
 beauty and grandeur of Abbott Wood to the bleak 
 ugliness and disorder of the Red Farm ; from good- 
 natured Miss Rice to scolding Liz, or sneering Lora ; 
 from the stately kindness of Mrs. Abbott to the im- 
 precations of Black Giles ; from the melodies of 
 Chopin and Schubert to the grimy kitchen labor, the 
 wash-board and scrubbing-brush of Sleaford's. It is 
 an abnormal life, two existences, glaringly wide apart, 
 and the girl is simply being ruined between them. 
 
 " Ah ! that is fine," says a second voice, and a 
 second face appears at the open window. " My word 
 of honor, Joanna, you have a voice ! Sing us some- 
 thing else." 
 
 She starts a little, and something — it is so faint 
 you can hardly call it color — flashes into her face. She 
 does not glance round, her fingers strike a discordant 
 chord, she stops confusedly, her head droops a little. 
 
WHAT THE YEARS MAKE OF JOANNA. 131 
 
 " How like the Grand Turk, surveying his favorite 
 Sultana, Lamar looks !" goes on, sarcastically, this 
 voice ; "stretched out there, drinking in ail this mel- 
 ody. Luxurious sybarite, bid the Light of the Harem 
 sing us another 8he pays no attention to my defer- 
 ential request." 
 
 But before Lamar can obey, Joanna has begun 
 again. Without notes this time, some subtile chord of 
 memory awakened, she sings a song she has not 
 thought of for years, the first she ever sung in this 
 house — Nobody^s Child. 
 
 There is a pause. The trite saying of " tears in 
 the voice " comes to the mind of Geoffrey — pain, 
 pathos, passion, are in the simple words. She feels 
 them — oh ! she feels them to the very depths of her 
 soul. Nameless, homeless, parentless, a waif and 
 stray, a castaway of the city streets — nothing more. 
 All the kind charity, the friendly good-nature of these 
 rich people, cannot alter that. 
 
 As she sings the last words, two young girls, who 
 have been lingering in the door-way, unwilling to dis- 
 turb the music, enter. A greater contrast to the 
 words she has been singing, to the singer herself, can 
 hardly be imagined. They are heiresses, both ; they 
 have everything this girl has not — name, lineage, 
 wealth, beauty, love. They are Olga Ventnor and 
 Leo Abbott. 
 
 They advance. Leo's arm is around Olga's waist ; 
 she is one of the clinging, affectionate sort of little 
 people, as addicted to caresses as to bonbons. She 
 hardly comes up to Olga's shoulder, though but a year 
 younger. She is a pretty little brunette of fifteen, 
 plump, pale, dark-eyed, dark-haired, dressed io the 
 
132 WHAT THE YEARS MAKE OF JOAT^NA. 
 
 daintiest and brightest of costumes. She worships 
 Olga, and looks up to her ; she is her ideal, immensely 
 wiser, and more grown up than herself — her superior 
 in every way. 
 
 Miss Olga Yentnor, at sixteen, is certainly a very 
 fair young lady. Tall, slight, erect, graceful, the 
 delicate head proudly poised, and " sunning over with 
 curls," still worn girlish fashion, loose on her shoulders, 
 the " flower face " quite without flaw, a little proud, 
 perhaps, but very, very lovely. The eyes are more 
 purple than blue — "pansy eyes" a stricken youth of 
 eighteen has been known to call them — a thought cold 
 in expression, but rarely beautiful. She is dressed in 
 pale gray silk, very simply made, and trimmed with 
 garnet velvet, a ribbon of the same color tying back 
 her profuse blonde hair — no rings, brooches, bracelets, 
 jewelry of any kind, yet looking, from top to toe, the 
 superb princess her Cousin Frank calls her. 
 
 It is the said Cousin Frank who stands at the 
 window. He saunters in now, and what the years 
 have done for him is to transform an extremely good- 
 looking youth of seventeen into an extremely hand- 
 some young man of twenty-two, with a most desirable 
 light mustache, quick, restless blue eyes, a vivacious 
 society manner, and a pensive way of looking at young 
 ladies, and bending over them, and holding their fans 
 and quoting Doetry at them, that even at two-and 
 twenty he has found very efi^ective. That Mr. Frank 
 is a flirt of the most pronounced male order, and has 
 been consumed by four grand passions already, is a 
 matter of history. He has a studio on Broad w^ay, and 
 paints young ladies' heads very prettily. He is also 
 celebrated as the best leader of Germans in the city, 
 
WHAT THE YEARS MAKE OF JOANNA. 133 
 
 and, in short, is an ornament and acquisition to society. 
 He, too, is down for the Christmas festivities, and to 
 make himself agreeable to his Cousin Olga, home 
 from school. Leo does not go to school — masters and 
 Miss Rice fuse knowledge into her at home. 
 
 " Why do you sing that, Jo?" Leo says, quitting 
 her friend, and putting that caressing right arm 
 around the pianist instead. " It is a melancholy little 
 thing, and we don't want melancholy little things this 
 happy Christmas time. Do not sing it any more." 
 
 She touches the untidy reddish hair with a gentle 
 touch. She is a loving little heart, and she is very 
 sorry for this poor Joanna, who has such a hard life, 
 and such disagreeable relations. It comes naturally 
 to her to love all by whom she is surrounded, to be 
 generous, and unselfish, and impulsive, and without a 
 particle of pride. In this last, she is quite unlike 
 mother, brother, and bosom ^iend. Miss Ventnor 
 glances across, but does not go near the piano. She 
 crosses to a distant window instead, and Geoffrey 
 Lamar gets lazily up from his recumbent position, and 
 joins her. 
 
 "■ It will certainly snow to-morrow," the young 
 lady says, looking up with those great " pansy eyes " 
 at the twilight sky. "I am very glad. A green yule 
 — you know the proverb. Christmas without snow 
 and sleigh-bells — nature could not make a greater mis- 
 take." 
 
 " What lovely eyes !" Geoffrey Lamar thinks. 
 
 He has thought so often before, but each time they 
 meet after a few months' separation, this girl's beauty 
 strikes him with the force of a new revelation. He 
 looks across at Frank Livingston, devoting himself to 
 
134 WHAT THE YEAES MAKE OF JOANNA. 
 
 little laughing Leo, with that empressement he considers 
 this sort of tiling needs, and his straight strong eye- 
 brows contract. The sapphire eyes may be never so 
 bright, but they are bespoken. 
 
 Other eyes, black and somber, watch covertly 
 Frank's flirtation. Leo is a little girl, he cares nothing 
 about her, he is merely keeping his hand in, it is never 
 well to get out of practice, but he looks at the same 
 time as if Miss Abbott were the only creature of her 
 sex in the universe. 
 
 " Do look at Joanna," Olga says ; " what a dark 
 and angry face." 
 
 "Truly," Geoffrey utters, in some surprise. 
 
 Her face does look dark, angry, menacing ; she 
 strikes the chords of the piano as though it were au 
 enemy's face. , 
 
 "What is the matter with her? A moment ago 
 she was all right. Sh^ is an odd girl — a girl of moods 
 and whims." 
 
 " A girl I do not like," Olga Ventnor says, with a 
 very decided uplifting of the head ; "a girl I fear and 
 distrust. I wonder how you all can make so much of 
 her, Geoffrey — can think so well of her. I do not wish 
 to injure her, but I could never like her, or treat her 
 as Leo does. Not that there is much in that," she 
 adds, laughing, "dear little Leo loves all the world." 
 
 "You do not like her — yoH do not trust her," 
 Geoffrey repeats ; " now why, I wonder ! If it is be- 
 cause of your first meeting " 
 
 " That was nothing," Olga says, m the same quick, 
 decided tone. "I have forgotten and forgiven that 
 long ago. She was only a wild, half-savage child then. 
 It is now I do not trust her. She is quiet, she says 
 
WHAT THE YEARS MAKE OF JOANNA. 135 
 
 little, she is attached to your motlier, she likes Leo a 
 little, she studies hard, she sings well, she keeps her 
 place, but " 
 
 " Well," he says, smiling, " go on. What a wise- 
 acre you are becoming. But " 
 
 He likes to hear her talk, to be with her, to look in 
 those deep, purple eyes, to meet that radiant smile. 
 She is a beautiful creature, so brightly beautiful that 
 it is a delight only to look at her. 
 
 "It is not so easy to explain what I mean. You 
 have read of men who tame animals? They take a 
 young tiger and feed it on milk. It grows up, gentle, 
 sleek, playful as a kitten. One day they give it raw 
 meat, the next it turns on its keeper, without warning 
 or provocation, and tears him to pieces. Joanna is 
 like that tiger — to be trusted liO more than the tiger. 
 You look shocked. I cannot help it. I know she is 
 your protegee^ and that you are bound to defend her, 
 but it is the truth all the same. I do not know it, I 
 feel it. And one day you will see. Now, do not let 
 us talk about her. What are you doing in town ? 
 Walking the hospitals? How dreadful ! What do 
 you want, studying medicine ? As if you ever meant 
 to practice ! Being a * Saw-bones,* a *Bob Sawyer !'" 
 she laughs, the clear girlish laugh that is sweeter than 
 all Joanna's music to his ears. " I like Bob Sawyer, 
 but at the same time there is no sense in your follow- 
 ing his foot-steps. You know you never mean to be a 
 doctor." 
 
 " Indeed, that is precisely what I do mean ; what I 
 hope, what I am positively sure I shall be this time 
 next year. Let me write M. D. after my name, and I 
 die happy." 
 
136 WHAT THE YEARS MAKE OF JOANNA. 
 
 " You will never be a doctor," the young lady re 
 peats, in her decided way ; she is used to having 
 opinions of her own, and having them listened to with 
 respect ; " that is to say, a practicing doctor. It is 
 your whim, your hobby, and a very horrid one, I 
 think. What dreadful sights you must see, what 
 shocking suffering, what frightful disease." 
 
 " Yes," he answers, gravely, " God knows I do — 
 sights, suffering, I pray you may never dream of. 
 But to ameliorate all that, to heal the suffering, to 
 give health to disease, to soothe pain, is not that a 
 godlike mission, Olga ?" 
 
 "To those to whom the sight and suffering are 
 necessary — yes — to you, no. One need not witness 
 the misery of others in order to alleviate it. You are 
 going to be very rich ; you will not work as a doctor. 
 There are enough without you, and they need it more 
 than you do." 
 
 He smiles at her, at the fair, earnest, proud young 
 face. 
 
 " You talk like my mother. What a wise little 
 lady you are, princess ! If I thought you could really 
 
 take an interest in the matter " he stops, the color 
 
 coming into his face. 
 
 "I take an interest in all my friends," Miss Vent- 
 nor says, with great calm. " Frank, are we going 
 home to dinner, or are w^e not ? Because I believe we 
 promised mamma " 
 
 Livingston needs no second bidding. He rises 
 with alacrity, and is at her side in an instant. Half 
 an hour of Leo has bored him ; the art of flirtation is 
 one of the lost arts, so far as she is concerned, and 
 Lamar has monopolized Olga long enough. 
 
WHAT THE YEARS MAKE OF JOANNA. 137 
 
 "1 am so sorry you must go," Leo says, plaintively, 
 "but as your mamma is ill, and you have to take her 
 place, Olga, I suppose you must. Good-by, dear. Be 
 sure you come early to-morrow evening." 
 
 For to-morrow is Leo's birthday, and there is to 
 be a gathering of the clans and a dance. 
 
 The four stand together, a charming group of 
 young heads and fair faces. The fifth looks at them, 
 and holds herself aloof. She is as young as they, she 
 might be as fair under other circumstances, but she is 
 not of them ; unlike them, she has not spoken a word, 
 she has played on steadily, no one knows what. They 
 hear the piano, they see the performer, and one is 
 nearly as much to them as the other. They are kind 
 to her — yes, polite to her always, and there are times 
 when she would rather they struck her. She is Slea- 
 ford*8 Joanna — they are of the golden youth of the 
 earth, well-born, high-bred. Heaven and earth are 
 not farther apart than they. 
 
 Geoffrey and Leo go out with their guests. The 
 windless, mild December twilight, gray and star- 
 studded, is beautiful, as they saunter to the gate. 
 
 "And Olga predicts snow," says Geoffrey, laugh- 
 ing, " in the face of that sky." 
 
 "If she predicts it you may be sure it will come," 
 says Frank. "The elements themselves dare not op- 
 pose the imperial will of the Princess Olga !" 
 
 "Look at the new moon !" cries Leo, "and wish. 
 What are you wishing for, Geoff? — what do you wish 
 for, Olga ? / wish for a snow-storm to-morrow, and 
 then a lovely night." 
 
 They all look. What do they all wish for ? Geof- 
 frey's eyes rest on Olga, before he looks at the sky. 
 
138 IN WHICH JOANNA ENTERS SOCIETY. 
 
 His wish might be read, if there were eyes to read it. 
 Olga looks up too — for what does beautiful Olga Vent- 
 nor wish ? 
 
 *' *I saw the new moon late yes'treen, 
 Wi' the auld moon in her airms,'" 
 
 she quotes. " I see her now. Do not come any far- 
 ther, Leo, in your bare head. It grows chilly ; you 
 may catch cold." 
 
 So they part. All the way back to the house Leo 
 chatters, but Geoffrey is silent. 
 
 "We have left Joanna alone all this time," she 
 says, as they re-enter, "beg pardon, Jo, but — why, she 
 has gone !" 
 
 She has gone. She has risen a moment after they 
 left, taken her hat, gone out of a side door, and gone 
 home. The grand portico entrance is not for her, and 
 the home she goes to is Sleaford's. 
 
 CHAPTER IL 
 
 IN WHICH JOANNA ENTERS SOCIETY. 
 
 AMMA," says Leo Abbott, " I wonder why 
 papa dislikes Joanna so much ?" 
 
 They make a pretty picture, mother 
 ^ and daughter. Mrs. Abbott, gracious 
 and handsome as ever, sits at her embroidery-frame, 
 with a basket of silks, and floss, and zephyr, m rain- 
 bow shades, beside her. She is making tapestry, like 
 a mediaeval countess in a baronial hall — a huge piece; 
 
IN WHICH JOANXA ENTERS SOCIETY. 139 
 
 with four large figures. It is a Scriptural subject, 
 "Susanna and the Elders," though at this stage of 
 proceedings it is not so easy to tell which is Susanna, 
 and whicli are the elders. Leo nestles on a footstool 
 at her feet. She is one of the caressing sort, who al- 
 ways nestle on footstools and cushions, like kittens, 
 and who like to purr, and be petted. There is no 
 affectation about it — it is all very natural and very 
 pretty in Leo. 
 
 The lady looks up from her frame, and her dark, 
 large-lidded eyes rest on her daughter. 
 
 " Are you not mistaken ?" she says, quietly. " Why 
 should your papa dislike Joanna ?" 
 
 " Ah ! why indeed ? I am sure I do not know — 1 
 think Joanna charming. All the same, papa dislikes 
 her — more, he looks sometimes as if he were actually 
 afraid of her !" 
 
 " Afraid ! my child, what nonsense yon talk." 
 
 But the inflection of Mrs. Abbott's voice as she 
 says it is perfectly calm — the faintest of smiles dawns 
 about her mouth, as she takes a fresh needleful of 
 gold-colored silk, and puts a long, slanting stitch in 
 Susaima's back hair. As if anything of this wonder- 
 ful discovery was new to her ! 
 
 " Well, perhaps it is nonsense," says Leo, resign- 
 edly ; "all I have to say, mamma, is, you watch papa 
 the next time he and Joanna meet, and see for your- 
 self." 
 
 Mrs. Abbott's amused smile deepens. 
 
 " My dear," she remarks, " I will, if you will tell 
 me this — when do they ever meet ?" 
 
 Leo looks up at her with puzzled eyes — then slowly 
 a light breaks upon her. 
 
140 IN WHICH JOAT^T^A ENTERS SOCIETY. 
 
 " That is true," she says, amazedly ; " they never do 
 meet. I have never seen them in a room together in 
 all these years ! Now, how is tliat. I wonder?" 
 
 " Watch and see," replies Mrs. Abbott, enigmati- 
 cally, taking some bister-hued floss this time, to shade 
 the eldest Elder's complexion. " What has started the 
 subject now ?" 
 
 " Why, this. Half an hour ago, after I left Miss 
 Rice, and before Joanna had come, papa called me 
 out to take a walk with him in the grounds. I went, 
 and as we were going down the laburnum walk, Joanna 
 came up — she generally does take that side entrance. 
 The moment papa saw her, he stopped in what he was 
 saying, looking so flurried, you cannot think, and drew 
 me with him between the trees. 'I don't want to meet 
 that young woman,' he said. But, mamma, he watched 
 her out of sight with the strangest look ! It was 
 exactly (only that is absurd) as if he was frightened 
 — as if he was afraid of her/" 
 
 " Well, my dear, you do not generally stand in awe 
 of your papa — why did you not ask him about it?" 
 says mamma. 
 
 " Oh ! I said : * Why, papa, what is the matter ? 
 You do look so oddly ! You are not afraid of our 
 Joanna, are you ?' He gave rae such a look — as cross 
 as he can look at me, and he says ' Afraid ! that be 
 blowed ! And our Joanna, too ! Who made her 
 yours, I wonder ! I don't like her, and I don't like to 
 see her gadding here. She's no fit chum for you — a 
 gentleman's daughter, by Jove !' " 
 
 Leo mimics her father's blustering voice so well? 
 that Mrs. Abbott has to laugh. 
 
 " Then he told me to run away into the house, and 
 
IN WlllCn JOANNA ENTERS SOCIETY. 141 
 
 went off by himself. But it is very odd, I think. I 
 am sure Joanna lias the manner of a lady — when she 
 likes — and is good enough to be companion to any- 
 body." 
 
 "Ah! when she likes!" repeats Mrs. Abbott, sig- 
 nificantly. There is a pause. " Your friend, Olga, 
 seems to share in your papa's dislike, Leo," she says, 
 still absorbed in the Elder's leathery complexion. 
 
 " Yes," Leo' answers, thoughtfully ; " Olga does 
 not like Joanna, and there is not much love lost, I 
 think. Joanna, mamma," laughs Leo, "could be one 
 of the good haters old Dr. Johnson liked, if she chose. 
 I will tell you though who does like her more than his 
 mother would quite approve of, I guess, if she knew." 
 
 "Who?" demands Mrs. Abbott, looking startled, 
 and letting the "I guess" slip in the excitement of the 
 moment. 
 
 " George Blake — Miss Rice's nephew, you know. 
 He comes here sometimes with Frank to play croquet. 
 lie is in the office of a New York daily paper, and is 
 quite clever, they say, and he runs down here once or 
 twice a week, to see his mother — he aaysP'^ Leo 
 laughs. 
 
 " You think it is not to see his mother ?" 
 
 " I think it is to see Joanna. You always send our 
 Perkins home with her when she is here late, and 
 George Blake waylays them, and takes Jo out of his 
 hands. Perkins walks behind until they reach Slea- 
 ford's, then he touches his hat, says * good-night. Miss,' 
 and comes home and tells the others. And then I have 
 seen him watch Jo when we all play croquet." 
 
 "It seems to me you see a great deal, little Leo," 
 says mamma, repiovingly. "Fifteen-year-old eyes and 
 
142 IIS- WHICH JOANNA ENTEES SOCIETY. 
 
 ears should not be quite so sharp, and you should 
 never, never on any account hearken to the gossip of 
 servants." 
 
 Miss Leo blushes. Her mamma has not permitted 
 her to read many novels, she has seen next to no 
 "grown-up" society at all; all the same her feminine 
 soul tells her George Blake is a victim to the tender 
 passion, and consumed with love for Joanna. 
 
 "Does this George Blake make much money?" in- 
 quires Mrs. Abbott, after another pause, deserting the 
 Elder and returning to Susanna, her mind projecting 
 itself into the futu?*e of her protegee. After all, the 
 young man might make a very good husband for the 
 girl. 
 
 " Fifteen dollars a week," responds Leo, promptly, 
 " and he pays seven out of that for his board ! And I 
 don't think Joanna would make a good housekeeper, 
 or manage on fifteen dollars a week. And besides, 
 she wouldn't have him." 
 
 " My dear !" says her mother, smiling again. 
 
 " Oh, no, she wouldn't, mamma," Leo iterates with 
 conviction ; " she treats him with the greatest disdain, 
 scolds him when he meets her, and sometimes makes 
 him go back. But he meets her next time just the 
 same. I wonder what Miss Rice would say ? She is 
 awfully proud of George, thinks he is going to be a 
 Horace Greeley by and by " 
 
 There is a tap at the door. It proves to be Miss 
 Rice in person, who wishes to know if Miss Leo will 
 come and practice that duet she is to sing to-night 
 with Joanna. So Leo goes, and Mrs. Abbott takes 
 another strandiof pale gold silk, and looks at Susanna's 
 flowing tresses with a very thoughtful face. 
 
IN WHICH JOANNA ENTEEtS SOCIETY. 143 
 
 She thinks of Joanna and her husband. What 
 Leo has discovered to-day for the first time is a very 
 old story to Leo's mother. It surprised her at first, 
 it puzzles her still, but she does not object to it — she 
 has found it useful in more ways than one. Mr. 
 Abbott, in words, has never, since that first day, 
 objected in the least to the presence of Geoffrey's 
 ward, as they call her, but in action he has objected 
 to her, all these five years, as strongly as man can. 
 He avoids her as he might a snake ; if they meet by 
 chance he beats a retreat ; if she enters a room where 
 he is, he leaves it ; he breaks off whatever he is saying 
 to listen to her when she speaks. If she stays for 
 dinner, as she lias on one or two occasions, he dines in 
 solitude. 
 
 This is all very remarkable, but more remarkable 
 still is that look his face assumes at sight of her ; that 
 look is so extraordinarily like one of shrinking fear. 
 Who is this girl? What is she to the Sleafords? 
 What to her husband, that all this should be so ? 
 What secret binds him and this man Sieaford together 
 in its dark tie ? 
 
 For Joanna, she is evidently unconscious of her 
 power. She sees that Mr. Abbott avoids and dislikes 
 her, but she is used to that, and does not mind. She 
 dislikes him in turn, so they are quits. That she has 
 any further hold upon him, she is unaware. Mrs. 
 Abbott thinks of all this, but she has little desire to 
 lift the vail ; the screen that hides her husband's past 
 life is a merciful one ; she shrinks from ever knowing 
 what lies behind. If she does not wish for the pres- 
 ence of Mr. Abbott, when her children's young friends 
 assemble at Abbott Wood, she has but to keep Jo- 
 
144 IN WHICH JOANNA ENTERS SOCIETY. 
 
 anna by her side — he will not come. Slie takes advan- 
 tage of this to see rather more company than was her 
 wont. Joanna's presence is a guarantee that Mr. Ab- 
 bott's uncultured remarks will not put her to the blush. 
 
 Brightbrook has some very desirable residents now, 
 very nice people, indeed, who come there for the 
 summer, and there is abundance of pleasant society 
 for Leo. Mr. Abbott intrudes not, for Joanna is 
 always there to sing. Long ago, Mrs. Abbott, who 
 really likes the girl, would have taken her to Abbott 
 Wood " for good " had Giles Sleaford not resolutely 
 refused to give her up. 
 
 Those five years have not altered him in any way, 
 except that he daily grows more besotted with drink 
 and "dry rot." He lets Mr. Abbott comparatively 
 alone ; his pockets are always well filled, his girls and 
 boys well dressed, the old rude plenty reigns at the 
 farmstead, the old " swarrys " still obtain, it is the 
 rendezvous of a very lively lot of yoiing men and 
 maidens. People have grown to accept Sleaford and 
 his thriftless family, and pretty well ceased to wonder 
 at his connection with Mr. Abbott. A billionaire is a 
 privileged being. They are proud of Abbott Wood 
 and its burly lord ; he has in a great measure made the 
 place, he is the Seigneur of the soil, owns half the vil- 
 lage, and the big white hotel that in summer is so well 
 and fashionably filled. Hillside breezes, trout streams, 
 gunning, boating, bathing, fishing (see prospectus), all 
 are here, and city folk come with their wives and little 
 ones, their maid servants, and man servants (some- 
 times), and enjoy them. 
 
 Mrs. Abbott likes Joanna, and takes an interest in 
 her welfare. Yes, but Joanna loves Mrs. Abbott, 
 
IN WHICH JOANNA ENTERS SOCIETY. 145 
 
 reveres her, admires her, thinks her the most beauti- 
 ful, accomplislied, and perfect being on earth. Her 
 worship of tliis great lady is, to a certain extent, her 
 religion, her salvation. If she is tempted to do wrong, 
 to give way to passion, the thought, "Mrs. Abbott 
 will not like it," is sufficient to restrain her. Her 
 smile is Joanna's guerdon, her praise the girl's delight, 
 to please her is the highest ambition of her life. The 
 lady has tried to teach her, to make a Christian of her, 
 to give her yet a higher standard, but it is not so easy 
 to evangelize this young heathen. The leopard does 
 not change his spots ; Joanna does not change her 
 nature in spite of beautiful music, painted windows, 
 "embroidered altar-cloths, and the flowery periods of 
 the Rev. Ignatius Lamb. She listens, and chafes in- 
 wardly — and yet, as constant dropping will wear a 
 stone, so five years of this have subdued the girl, and 
 made her turn her thoughts, with a certain stricken 
 awe, to those great truths she reads and hears. There 
 is a Heaven, and she may go to it, she, Sleaford's 
 Joanna, quite as readily as fair Olga Ventnor herself. 
 That fact she has grasped, and it does her good, in- 
 creases her self-respect, and spurs her on to better 
 things. She is far less fierce, she gives up bad lan- 
 guage, she tries to listen in silence to the taunts and 
 sneers at home, to rise superior to her surroundings. 
 But oh ! it is weary work — it is a never-ending strug- 
 gle ; she falls back again and again, the old bitterness, 
 the old despair, clutch her hardly at times. Envy, 
 hatred, and all uncharitableness devour her heart, and 
 tear it to pieces between them. It is an abnormal life 
 she leads, two lives, and she is supremely miserable. 
 She strives to be4;ontent, to be thankful — it is impos- 
 7 
 
146 IN WHICH JOANNA ENTERS SOCIETY. 
 
 sible. She loves Mrs. Abbott, she reveres her, she 
 would do anything in the world to win her praise — the 
 best of this poor Joanna begins and ends there. To 
 her she is passionately grateful ; to the rest of the 
 world her heart is like a stone. Even to Geoffrey, her 
 first friend, she is almost apathetic — she likes Leo, that 
 is all. There is, perhaps, one other exception, but this 
 exception only adds to her unhappiness — it fills her 
 with a gnawing, miserable unrest. She feels wicked 
 and helpless, and all the time she longs to be good, to 
 be noble, to be true. Her good and bad angels war 
 strongly for the soul of Joanna. 
 
 Long ago she confessed her first sin — her attack 
 upon Olga Ventnor. She goes to Mrs. Abbott and 
 confesses it voluntarily, looking downcast and ashamed. 
 The lady listens very gravely. 
 
 " I feared so," she says: " it is good of you to con- 
 fess it, Joanna. To be sorry for a fault is to amend 
 it. But I think you ought to apologize to Miss 
 Ventnor." 
 
 "Oh!" Joanna says, with a gasp — That is quite 
 another thing — to tell this kind, good, gentle lady is 
 easy. 
 
 "I think you ought. It nearly killed her. She 
 does not suspect, and she will meet you here. I do 
 not order you to do so — I leave it to your own con- 
 science. But I think you ought." 
 
 That is all. There is a struggle in the wild heart 
 of Sleaford's Joanna — the first struggle between right 
 and wrong, and right conquers. She goes lingeringly 
 up to Olga Ventnor, standing for a moment alone, and 
 stammers out her confession. 
 
 " It was me," she says, confusedly. " I didn't mean 
 
IN WHICH JOANNA ENTERS SOCIETY. 147 
 
 to hurt you — only to cut off your hair. Tin very sorry. 
 I hope you — you don't mind !" 
 
 " YouP Olga exclaims, horror in her eyes. All 
 the terror of that terrible time returns to her. She 
 looks at her with fear, with abhorrence, and turns and 
 flies. 
 
 Joanna stands mute, motionless. Half an hour 
 after, when Olga, her first panic over, and ashamed of 
 what she has done, returns, she finds her standing 
 there still. 
 
 " I am sorry," Olga says, but her head is very erect 
 as she says it — she does not look sorry. "I do not 
 mind in the least — now. I did not think when I ran 
 away. I hope you do not mind." 
 
 The black eyes look at her. They are so fierce, so 
 full of hatred, that Olga recoils. 
 
 " I will mind as long as I live !" Joanna says, and 
 turns from her, striking down the hand she has half 
 held out. 
 
 So ends Joanna's first impulse to try and be 
 " good." Alas ! most of her impulses end in the 
 same way. 
 
 « He iK * * * 
 
 There are lights, and flowers, and fair faces, and 
 music, and feasting in silent, stately Abbott Wood to- 
 night, for the little daughter of the house is fifteen, 
 and her friends, and Olga's, and Geoffrey's are down 
 from the city in force to wish her many happy returns. 
 She has had her wish. It has snowed all day, and now 
 the moon, a brilliant Christmas sickle, shines down on 
 glistening snow, black, bare trees, gaunt hedges and 
 avenues, but it is windless, and still mild. It is no 
 green yule, and great fires blaze high in gleaming 
 
148 IN WHICH JOANNA ENTERS SOCIETY. 
 
 grates, for no abomination of pipes or registers dese- 
 crate winter at Abbott Wood. The " mistletoe 
 bough " bangs from the drawing-room ceiling, though 
 the custom of kissing under it is more honored in the 
 breach than the observance ; holly, and arbutus, and 
 winter berries adorn walls and windows, and there are 
 flowers, flowers, flowers everywhere. A tolerably 
 large company are coming — nearly all young people, 
 for it is understood it is little more than a girl's party, 
 after all. 
 
 " Remember ! come early, Joanna," is Mrs. Abbott's 
 last injunction ; " and be in your best looks and voice 
 to-night." 
 
 Joanna shrugs her shoulders. 
 
 "My looks do not matter in the least. My voice I 
 will try and have to order," is her answer. It is for 
 her voice she is here, she knows, not for herself. 
 
 She comes early, and dresses in a little room that 
 is kept for her use. There is so much envy and 
 bickering with Lora and Liz, that she keeps but few 
 of her things at home. Mrs. Abbott provides her 
 dresses, of course, but simple ones always. Joanna 
 will have nothing else, and Mrs. Abbott sees that 
 gayety would not accord with the fitness of things. 
 She wears to-night a dress of dark-blue silk, but so 
 plainly made that nothing could be less smart ; a gold 
 cross and chain ; her abundant reddish hair braided 
 as tightly and compactly as possible about her small 
 head, and she is ready. And she looks very well — 
 " slim and genteel, and quite the lady," Mrs. Hill, the 
 housekeeper, tells her, condescendingly, "only she 
 j ought to put a bit of pink ribbon or blue flower in her 
 hair." 
 
IN WHICH JOANNA ENTERS SOCIETY. 149 
 
 Joanna laughs. 
 
 " To put pink ribbon in red hair would be to paint 
 the lily, Mrs. Hill," she says, good-humoredly. Of 
 personal vanity she has not a particle ; her red hair 
 does not discompose her in the least. 
 
 She goes down, and Mrs, Abbott glances at her 
 approvingly. Quite plain, severely simple, yet well- 
 dressed — it is as it should be ; Joanna does her no 
 discredit. 
 
 " If only you sing as well as you look, my dear, I 
 shall be quite satisfied," she says, kindly. 
 
 Leo is there, all in white — a costly toilet, white 
 lace over pearl-colored silk, and strands of pearls in 
 her dark, perfumed hair. Her bronze eyes shine, her 
 cheeks flush, her childish face is bright with excite- 
 ment. She kisses Joanna in childish glee. Mr. Ab- 
 bott reconnoiters once, sees Joanna, and flees. 
 
 The company come early, and come rapidly — it is 
 in the country — city hours do not obtain, and it is 
 only Leo's party. A number of youthful guests are 
 staying in the house, nearly a dozen more come from 
 Ventnor Villa, with Olga and Frank. 
 
 Olga is like a vision, like an Undine, like a water- 
 lily. She wears some pale, sheeny silk, half silvery, 
 half green, with quantities of tulle, and bunches of 
 pale pink roses. Even Joanna catches her breath as 
 she looks at her. That gold hair, that clear, star-like 
 face, that imperial poise of head and shoulders, that 
 exquisite water-nymph dress. 
 
 " Oh !" Joanna says, " how lovely ! how lovely !" 
 
 " How lovely !" a voice echoes. 
 
 It is Geoffrey Lamar, whose deep gray eyes glow 
 as they look on this Peri. A second later, and he is 
 
150 IN WHICH JOANNA ENTEES SOCIETY. 
 
 by her side. Frank Livingston, looking insouciant 
 and handsome, comes over to present his felicitations 
 to Miss Abbott. The rainbow throng meets, mingles, 
 disperses. Joanna, in the shade of a great jardiniere, 
 watches it all. Frank engages Leo for the first dance ; 
 Geoffrey has Olga ; others seek partners ; dancing 
 begins almost immediately. Colonel Ventnor seeks 
 out Mr. Abbott in the library, and, with two other 
 papas, enjoys a quiet game of whist. 
 
 The band music rings merrily out, the young peo- 
 ple merrily dance. Joanna does not dance. Young 
 ladies are in the majority — as it is in the nature of 
 young ladies to be — and no one notices her until it is 
 time to sing. Then she glides to the piano, at a 
 signal from Mrs. Abbott, and her fine voice breaks 
 through the chatter and hum, and talkers stop, per- 
 force, to listen. She sings alone, then with Leo, then 
 alone again, for people crowd around her, and there is 
 soft clapping of gloved hands and gentle murmurs of 
 praise. 
 
 " Sing us a Christmas carol," says Mrs. Venftnor ; 
 " to-morrow is Christmas Eve." 
 
 She thinks a moment, and then, in a softened voice, 
 a little tremulous, she sings a very old hymn : 
 
 " Earthly friends may change and falter, 
 Earthly friends may vary; 
 He is born, who cannot alter, 
 Of the Virgin Mary." 
 
 "Oh ! how sweet !" Mrs. Ventnor says, tears in her 
 eyes ; " please — please sing another. Your voice goes 
 to my heart." 
 
IN WHICH JOANNA ENTERS SOCIETY. 151 
 
 The girl lifts two dark, melancholy, grateful eyes 
 to the lady, and sings again : 
 
 " He neither shall be born 
 
 In housen nor in hall, 
 Nor in the place of paradise, 
 
 But in an ox's stall. 
 He neither shall be rock'd 
 
 In silver nor in gold, 
 But in a wooden manger 
 
 That rocks upon the mold." 
 
 Then she rises, and they make way for her to pass 
 with a certain deference and wonder. 
 
 " Who is she — that plain girl with the beautiful 
 voice?" they ask in undertones. As she moves on, 
 Frank Livingston meets her, and holds out his hand. 
 
 " It is the first time I have had a glimpse of you to- 
 night. Mademoiselle Cantatrice," he says. " You sing 
 more and more like an angel every day. You always 
 make me want to go into a corner and cry whenever 
 you open your mouth !" 
 
 Joanna laughs. The compliment is ambiguous, to 
 say the least, but her somber face lights into moment- 
 ary brightness at his careless words. The next moment 
 he is gone. He has espied Olga standing in a window- 
 recess alone. He bends above her, says something 
 laughingly, encircles her slight waist with his arm. 
 Only for a second — with a most decided motion she 
 frees herself, and waves him off. It is all in a moment, 
 but in that moment every trace of gladness leaves 
 Joanna's face. She turns angrily, frowningly away. 
 She will not sing any more. She goes out of the ball- 
 room, finds her shawl and hat, and sullenly quits the 
 house. She glances back at the lighted windows with 
 a darkling face. Music follows her, daucing is re- 
 
152 IN WHICH JOANNA ENTERS SOCIETY. 
 
 commencing, she will not be missed. She does not 
 care if she is. 
 
 She walks down under the black trees to the gate. 
 There she stops, folds her arms on the top of the low 
 stone wall, and stands still. There is nothing more 
 coldly melancholy than moonlight on snow ; it suits 
 her mood, this steel-cut landscape, all ebony and 
 ivory. As she stands, a figure comes out of tlio 
 shadow and approaches her. She stares at it, but iu 
 no surprise or alarm. 
 
 "Oh !" she says, ungraciously enough ; "it is 
 you ! " 
 
 " It is I. I thought you would come out, Joanna. 
 You mostly do, you know. Are you going home ?" 
 
 "What are you doing here ?" Joanna demands, still 
 ungraciously, and not moving. 
 
 " Oh, you know," George Blake answers. " It is 
 my off-night, and I could not keep away. Try and be 
 civil to a fellow, Joanna. Are you going home ? Let 
 me go with you." 
 
 She stands silent. George Blake is in love with 
 her — she is amazed, but not in the least flattered by 
 the fact. Plain Sleaford's Joanna, as she is, she has 
 some nameless fascination for him. He has been in 
 the habit of going to the Sleafords' for years without 
 being in the least smitten by either of the fair Misses 
 Sleaford. Suddenly, without knowing why or where- 
 fore, he is possessed of a j^assion for this girl, Joanna, 
 that holds him as with bonds and fetters. His mother 
 would not approve ; Joanna snubs him unmercifully — 
 all the same, his infatuation deepens with every day. 
 
 "Are you coming?" young Blake asks; "or are 
 you going back to the house ?" 
 
IN WHICH JOANNA ENTEES SOCIETY. 153 
 
 She glances over ber shoulder once more at those 
 lighted windows, with a frown. 
 
 " I will go home. Oh, yes, you may come. They 
 will not miss me — they are too well engaged." 
 
 "I suppose all the cream of the cream are there?" 
 he says, gayly drawing her arm through his, quite 
 happy for the time — " the Van Rensselaers, the Vent- 
 nors, and the rest. Livingston is there, of course ?" 
 
 " Of course," she says, shortly. 
 
 " And devoted to the lovely princess? Ah, what a 
 match he will make ! — beauty, riches, everything — must 
 have been born with a diamond spoon in his mouth — 
 that fellow." 
 
 She does not reply. She shivers, and draws her 
 shawl wnth impatience about her. 
 
 " How cold it is !" she says, almost angrily. " Do 
 not talk. Let us hurry. It is nearly two o'clock." 
 
 But George does talk, gayly and fluently. He 
 talks so much that he is unconscious she listens in 
 silence. They reach the farm, wrapped in quiet and 
 darkness, without meeting a soul. All are in bed, but 
 Joanna has a key. 
 
 " Good-night," she says, " and don't be so foolish 
 waiting for me another time. What would your 
 mother say ?" 
 
 He laughs. 
 
 " My mother thinks I am virtuously asleep in New 
 York. We do not tell our mothers everything. It 
 would not be good for 'em. Good-night, Joanna." 
 
 He goes off, whistling, through the white, still, 
 
 frozen night. Joanna gets in, and reaches her room, 
 
 but she does not go to bed. She sits there in the 
 
 chill, ghostly moonlight a long time — so long that the 
 
 7* 
 
154 IN WHICH JOANNA CAPS THE CLIMAX. 
 
 moon wanes, and sets, and the stars fade out, and the 
 deep darkness that precedes dawn falls on the earth. 
 Far off, at Abbott Wood, the gay birth-night party is 
 breaking up, and good-byes are being spoken, to the 
 merry music of sleigh-bells. But the dark morning 
 sky is not darker than the set face of Sleaford's 
 Joanna. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 IN WHICH JOANNA CAPS THE CLIMAX. 
 
 T is the afternoon of New Year's Day — a 
 windy and overcast afternoon. Fast drift- 
 ing clouds are blown wildl}^ over a leaden 
 sky, " onding on snaw ;" a gale surges with 
 the roar of the sea through the pine woods ; far off, the 
 deep diapason of that mighty sea itself blends its 
 hoarse roar in the elemental chorus. The marshes lie 
 all flat and sodden with recent rain and melted snow. 
 It is a desolate picture on which the girl looks who 
 leans over the gate at Sleaford's, and gazes blankly 
 before her, with eyes as dreary as the landscape itself. 
 She looks flushed and weary, and with reason ; the 
 long soughing blast sweeps cool and kindly as a friend's 
 hand over her hot forehead. Her wild hair blows 
 about in its usual untidy fashion — her dress is a torn 
 and soiled calico wrapper. No " neat-handed Phillis," 
 this, no spotless dimity household divinity, but simply 
 Sleaford's Joanna resting after the toils of the day. 
 
 The red farm-house behind her lies silent and som- 
 ber, the bark of one of the many dogs, now and then, 
 
IN WHICH JOANNA CAPS THE CLIMAX. 166 
 
 alone breaking the silence. The household are away, 
 excejit the master, and he is sleeping off a heavy din- 
 ner, washed down by copious draughts of whisky, in 
 the upper chamber, sacred to his use. For is it not 
 New Year's Day, and have not Liz and Lora to receive 
 their gentlemen friends ? Neither the weather nor the 
 roads being propitious, and Sleaford's being two or 
 three miles out of the way, the young ladies have ac- 
 cepted the invitation of a couple of their friends, and 
 have gone en graiide teiiue to Brightbrook to receive. 
 Dan and Jud, in their Sabbath best, are " calling." 
 Giles, Joanna, and the dogs are keeping house. 
 
 It has been no holiday for the girl ; she has never 
 had a holiday in her life. There has been a dinner 
 party at the farm-house, and she has been cook. The 
 office has been no sinecure — there has been a goose 
 stuffed with sage and onions, a large, vulgar, savory 
 bird, to roast — a turkey, with dressing, to boil, a plum 
 pudding ditto, sundry vegetables, and stewed fruits, to 
 go with these dainties. Yesterday a huge beefsteak 
 aad kidney pasty was concocted, and a ham boiled. To 
 these viands a select company of six young ladies and 
 gentlemen, exclusive of the family, have turned their 
 hungry attention. The Miss Sleafords, in brand-new 
 silk suits, have gone to meeting in Brightbrook, and 
 brought their friends back with them. Joanna has 
 cooked, but has refused to wait at table. 
 
 " There is your dinner ; wait on yourselves, or go 
 without," she has said, briefly, and they have waited 
 on themselves without much grumbling, for everything 
 has been done to a charm. Now they are gone again ; 
 3he has washed the dishes and " redd up," and, tired, 
 dushed, heavy-hearted, she stands leaning over the 
 
156 IN WHICH JOANNA CAPS THE CLIMAX. 
 
 fence, looking with those great black, melancholy eyes 
 of hers, at that low-lying, fast-drifting sky. 
 
 But it is neither the weariness of labor, the dreari- 
 ness of utter solitude, the loss of a holiday that all 
 the rest of the world is enjoying, that weighs her down. 
 To all these things she is inured ; custom has blunted 
 their edge, she hardly feels their pain. It is something 
 else, something belonging to that other life that is not 
 connected with Sleaford's — that other life that seems 
 to belong to another world. 
 
 The changes that have occurred since the Christmas 
 birthnight party are these. The Ventnors have re- 
 turned to town, their visitors with them. Before going 
 they had given a party, to which Joanna was bidden, 
 in kindliest, gentlest words, by kindly, gentle Mrs. 
 Ventnor. The girl had gone, of course ; it was not 
 optional with her to decline. She is asked to sing, and 
 goes for that purpose. The Abbotts are there, all 
 who were at AbbottV Wood the other night, and many 
 more. Once more Olga, in palest rose silk, looks lovely 
 as a dream ; everything she wears seems to become 
 her more than the last. Once more very young men 
 flock around her as butterflies round a rosebud ; and 
 at this party something has occurred that has stung 
 this poor, sensitive, morbid Joanna to the very heart. 
 Only Mrs. Abbott, and one other, have power enough 
 over that heart to sting it to its core — it is that other 
 who unwittingly has done it. 
 
 Joanna has been singing. Some passionate pain at 
 her heart makes the song — a despairing love song — 
 ring out with an intensity of power that thrills all who 
 listen. Mrs. Van Rensselaer, the greatest of all great 
 ladies, has taken the girl's hand in her grand duchess 
 
IN WHICH JOANNA CAPS THE CLIMAX. 157 
 
 manner, and said some overpovveringly condescending 
 things. It is one of Joanna's innumerable faults that 
 sbe hates patronage, and all who patronize. Instead 
 of being overwhelmed by the gracious kindness of 
 Mrs. Van Rensselaer, who has patronized the greatest 
 artists in her time, Joanna frees her hand, and cuts the 
 lady brusquely and decidedly short. She turns her 
 back deliberately upon her — her — Mrs. Van Rensse- 
 laer ! — and moves away. The lady stands petrified. 
 The expression of her rigid amazement and dismay, 
 her stony stare, are too much for Frank Livingston, who 
 witnesses the performance. He retreats into a window 
 recess to laugh. There he encounters Geoffrey Lamar, 
 \flio, with knitted brows, has also beheld this little 
 scene. 
 
 " By Jove !" Frank cries, throwing back his head, 
 and laughing explosively, " it is the most delicious 
 joke ! the great Mrs. Van Rensselaer snubbed — snub- 
 bed by Sleaford's Joanna ! Behold the glare of that 
 Medusa face ! On my word, I believe she will have a 
 fit!" 
 
 "Mrs. Van Rensselaer deserves it !" Geoffrey says, 
 flushing with anger. " Why cannot they let the girl 
 alone ? God has given her an exquisite voice, and such 
 women as that think to uplift her by their patronizing 
 praise. She has served Mrs. Van Rensselaer right !" 
 
 " Bravo, Geoff ! Set lance in rest, and ride forth 
 in defense of your protege. Do you know what it re- 
 minds me of? — that old story of James the First, the 
 baronet-making king, and his nurse. The old lady 
 asks him, you know, to make her son a gtmtleman. 
 *ril niak your son a baronet, if ye like, Lucky,' saya 
 the king, ' but the deevil himsel' wadna mak him a 
 
158 IN WHICH JOANNA CAPS THE CLIMAX. 
 
 gentleman.' The cases are similar. You may make 
 Sleaford's Joanna a singer if you like, Lamar, but — 
 your mother herself cannot make her a gentlewoman." 
 He goes off laughing. A figure, standing motion- 
 less, hidden by a flower-wreathed pillar, has heard 
 every word. And the white marble of the pillar is 
 not whiter than her face. Livingston is quoting Shake- 
 speare over his shoulder as he goes : 
 
 " Oh, when she's angry she is keen and shrewd; 
 She was a vixen when she went to school, 
 And though she is but little, she is fierce I" 
 
 An hour after he comes up to her, as she stands a 
 liittle apart, after singing again — a sweet little Scotch 
 ballad, that has touched even him. 
 
 "I foresee we are all going to be proud of our 
 ■Srightbrook nightingale," he says, gayly. " When 
 y'our biography is written, we will recall — and put on 
 airs in consequence — that we knew and heard you first. 
 By-the-bye, the honor of discovery lies with Lamar. 
 Kow was it, I wonder, that I, knowing you so long 
 "before him, never found you out, or thought what a 
 singing bird you were ?" 
 
 She looks at him. To this day he does not under- 
 stand, perhaps, the fiery wrath and scorn of her eyes. 
 " YouP^ she says, and he winces and stares at her 
 tone. "You! Why, you never thought of any one 
 but yourself in all your life !" 
 
 "Upon my word," says Mr. Livingston, when he 
 recovers a little, " here is a facer ! First she floors 
 Mrs. Van Rensselaer — now me. What have I done, I 
 wonder? I haven't been patronizing, have T, Olga?" 
 
 Miss Ventnor's beautiful, short upper lip curls. 
 
IN WHICH JOANNA CAPS THE CLIMAX. 159 
 
 "She is never very civil, but to-night she is really 
 quite too horrid. Mrs. Van Rensselaer is very angry." 
 Then she remembers Joanna is her mother's guest, and 
 stops. " I suppose it is to be expected, poor creature ; 
 the better way is to say nothing to her at all. This 
 waltz is yours, I think, Frank, if you wish to claim it." 
 
 If he wishes? Frank's blue, speaking eyes answer 
 the question, but Olga only laughs. 
 
 "Keep your sentimental looks for Rosa Brevoort, 
 sir," she says, tossing back her sunshiny tresses ; " she 
 believes in them — I do not. No, nor your pretty 
 speeches, either — so don't go quoting Tennyson at rae ! 
 Young men who quote poetry and look as you do at 
 overy girl you dance with, ought to be bowstrung, or 
 put in the pillory." 
 
 Miss Olga speaks with some irritation. She means 
 vhat she says. She laughs at Livingston's love-mak- 
 ing ; she derides his tender glances ; she declines being 
 llirted with, but for some cause it annoys her. Perhaps 
 Mhe does not choose to make one in the long litany of 
 Prank's flirtees. Of that family compact, settled five 
 /ears ago, she has not heard a word. 
 
 And this being New Year's Day, as she stands here 
 alone, and untidy, at the gate, Joanna is thinking of 
 all this. Every day of her life she chafes more and 
 more ; either existence, perhaps, she could stand, but 
 both are killing her. 
 
 " Why have I ever known these people?" her soul 
 cries out in its bitterness. "Better, oh ! a thousand 
 times better to drudge in Sleaford's kitchen, to cook 
 dinners, and wash pots and pans, and know no higher, 
 fairer life. I might live as an animal does then — eat, 
 and sleep, and never think. But to know them, to see 
 
160 IT^^ WHICH JOANNA CAPS THE CLIMAX. 
 
 their life, to mingle with it, to be among them, but 
 never of them — I cannot endure it much longer. It 
 will either end in my killing myself or running away !" 
 
 As she speaks, and she speaks aloud — much solitude 
 has taught her the habit — a man comes up the slushy 
 road, and stands near her, unseen. 
 
 " Kill myself," she repeats, in a low, tense tone, 
 " and why not ? It is the shortest solution to the diffi- 
 culty. Perhaps even he would care then ! But no," 
 contemptuously, " he would say, * By Jove, you know 
 — poor Joanna !' and waltz with Olga ten minutes 
 after. Still, I swear, I have half a mind to go down 
 to Black's Dam and do it !" 
 
 At this moment she is handsome ; her sallow cheeks 
 flushed, her black eyes shining with unholy fire. She 
 strikes her clenched hand, in her desperate mood, on 
 the bar, so as to bring blood. The strange fascination 
 that has held George Blake from the first, sweeps over 
 him like a resistless torrent now. He leans forward, 
 his face flushing darkly red. 
 
 " Don't drown yourself, Joanna," he says ; " do bet- 
 ter. Marry me !" 
 
 She looks at him. She has not heard him ; he has 
 overheard her, but he does not discompose her in the 
 least. She looks at him a full minute without speak- 
 ing. It is one of the traits of Joanna's curious char- 
 acter, that she can stare any man or woman alive out 
 of countenance, without winking once. 
 
 " Do better ?" she repeats. " Would that be doing 
 better ?" Her eyes never leave his face. " Are you 
 rich '?" she demands. 
 
 " No, poor — poor as a church mouse ; a penniless 
 
IN WHICH JOANNA CAPS THE CLIMAX. 161 
 
 beggar of a paragraphist. But it would be better 
 than Black's Dam." 
 
 " Would it ?" she says again. " I am not so sure of 
 that. Black's Dam would end everything — going with 
 you would not. It would be only exchanging one sort 
 of hardship for another. And I don't want to marry 
 — you P"* 
 
 " I am awfully fond of you, Joanna," the poor young 
 fellow pleads. " I would work for you. We could 
 live in New York on my pay. And you would have a 
 good time. I get free passes to all the theaters, you 
 know, and all the sights, and that. We could board, 
 you know. You would not have to work. And you 
 would like New York. Do think of it, Joanna." 
 
 " New York ?" she repeats, and her great eyes light. 
 "Yes, I would like New York. I will think of it, 
 George Blake." 
 
 She declines further courtship — does not even ask 
 her adorer in, and dismisses him summarily enough. 
 
 " I wish you would go. I don't want to talk. I am 
 tired to death — oh, so tired ! so tired !" drawing a long, 
 hard breath. "I was up nearly all last night. I will 
 go in and go to bed." 
 
 "And you will think of it, Joanna?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, I will think of it. I would like to go to 
 New York. I cannot endure my life here much 
 longer." 
 
 " And I may come soon again ?" 
 
 "Come whenever you like," she says, half impa- 
 tiently, half indiflFerently. "I suppose I ought to feel 
 pleased, I have so few friends, but I don't. If I ever 
 ruii away with you, you will be sorry for it all the rest 
 of your life." 
 
162 IN WHICH JOANNA CAPS THE CLIMAX. 
 
 It is an ominous prediction, and he thinks of it with 
 bitterness of spirit in after days. But the glamour is 
 upon him now ; he would not have his eyes open if he 
 could. 
 
 " I will risk it," he answers, fervently. *' I will risk 
 all things, so that you come." 
 
 ^ 5j» rjC ^ *|C 3|s 
 
 Three days after this, Mrs. Abbott announces a sec- 
 ond change. 
 
 , " The week after next," she says, " Leo, and my son 
 and I are going to New York to spend a month with 
 the Ventnors. The only difference it will make to 
 you, Joanna, is that you will go to Miss Rice's cottage 
 for your daily lessons, instead of coming here." 
 
 Joanna listens almost apathetically. Yes, the only 
 difference. And yet she is conscious of a pang in lis- 
 tening to the lady's calmly-kind words. She loves 
 Mrs. Abbott, and she loves so few — so few. 
 
 She goes home that evening, home to Sleaford's, and 
 no prescience tells her it is for the last time — the very 
 last time, forever. She has no intention of running 
 away with George Blake ; she thinks as little of him 
 as of the dry twigs that snap under her feet. 
 
 She feels wearied and aimless — the feeling is grow- 
 ing upon her day by day. She saunters listlessly along, 
 after a fashion very unlike her naturally swift, strong, 
 springy walk. 
 
 What is the use of feeling sorry Mrs. Abbott is 
 going away ? What is the use of feeling sorry for 
 anything — loving anything ? It is only added pain. 
 
 It is a perfect January evening — cold, sparkling, 
 clear. There is snow on the ground, white and unde- 
 filed, here in this woodland path — feathery snow on 
 
IN WHICH JOANNA CAPS THE CLIMAX. 163 
 
 the black, hare boughs. A brilliant sky is above, pale 
 blue, rich with sunset tints, pearl, ruby, orange, opal, 
 paling slowly to silvery gray. There is no wind. It 
 is a sparkling January gem, set in hazy mist. She 
 reaches the house, takes one last wistful look at all 
 that loveliness of sky and earth, and goes in. The 
 family are assembled, all but old Giles. They are dis- 
 cussing some matter with considerable eagerness. 
 
 " She won't do it," Liz is remarking ; " not if you 
 offered her as much again. She has got all sorts of 
 stuck-up notions since these people have took her in 
 hand. She won't go a step ; you'll see." 
 
 *' I loill see !" growls Dan Sleaford ; " and what is 
 more, I will make her feel if she refuses. Set a beg- 
 gar on horseback, indeed ! The old man ought to 
 knowed better than ever let her go." 
 
 " If she hadn't gone, neither you nor Watjen would 
 want her now," remarks Jud. 
 
 " Hush !" says Lora ; " here she is !" and the con- 
 versation immediately stops. 
 
 She glanced at them carelessly, and throws off her 
 jacket and hat. There is always plenty for her to do 
 when she gets home ; but, for a wonder, neither of the 
 girls issue orders now. There is a pause — Dan breaks it. 
 
 "Look here, Jo," he begins, in a wheedling tone, 
 " I've got some good news for you. Here's a chance 
 for you to turn an honest penny at last. You'd like 
 to earn some pocket-money, wouldn't you ?" 
 
 She looks at him distrustfully, and does not answer. 
 Rough Dan Sleaford, in this lamb-like mood, is a little 
 more to be suspected than in his natural state. He is 
 a younger copy of his father — coarseness, cruelty, 
 drunkenness included. 
 
164 IN WHICH JOANNA CAPS THE CLIMAX. 
 
 " You know Watjen's ? You've heard of Wat- 
 jen's ?" he says, in the same insinuating tone ; " him 
 as keeps the lager-bier garden and concert hall up the 
 village? He's lately come from New York, you know, 
 and does as they do it there." 
 
 Yes, she has heard of Watjen's — a low drinking 
 place, where the roughs of Brightbrook most do con- 
 gregate, and where the lowest of both sexes perform 
 for the amusement of the smokers, and drinkers, and 
 bummers of the place. SI e nods shortly. 
 
 " Well — he's an out-and-out good fellow is Watjen, 
 and he's heerd of your singin' — how you can tip 'em 
 French and Dutch songs as easy as wink, and play the 
 pianny like everything. Well — (mind you, the best 
 singers of New York come and sing for him ; the 
 highest-toned sort o' ladies !) — Watjen wants to en- 
 gage you. He'll give you one-fifty a night, and I'll 
 drive you over and back every evenin'. There !" 
 
 Dan closes this brilliant offer with a flourish. To 
 do Herr Watjen justice, he has offered double that 
 amount for each night, with the promise of an increase, 
 should Joanna find favor in the eyes of his patrons. 
 But Dan judges it is not well to dazzle her with the 
 whole splendid truth. Joanna sits mute as a fish. 
 
 " Well !" he cries, " don't ye hear ! One-fifty a 
 night to do what you darn please with ! D'ye hear?" 
 
 " I hear." 
 
 " Why don't ye answer, then ?" Dan's voice and 
 temper are rising. The girls exchange aggravating, 
 I-told-you-so smiles. " I want an answer. Is it yes or 
 
 no 
 
 9" 
 
 "It is no." 
 
 She says it so composedly, that for a moment he 
 
IN WHICH JOANNA CAPS THE CLIMAX. 16t' 
 
 cannot take in the full for^e of the refusal. He gives 
 a gasp, and sits with his mouth open. 
 
 " Wha-a-a-t !" 
 
 "I say no. I wouldn't sing in Watjen's beer gar- 
 den for a thousand dollars a night — for ten thousand 
 dollars a night ! I wouldn't set foot in it to save his 
 life and yours !" 
 
 There is no mistaking this time. Her voice rings 
 with scorn, and she turns to leave the kitchen. Dan 
 Sleaford leaps to his feet like a tiger, and seizes her 
 by the arm. 
 
 " Say that again, d you !" he cries, hoarse with 
 
 passion — " say it again !" 
 
 She looks at him unflinchingly, her eyes flashing 
 fi^:e — literally flashing fire. 
 
 " I wouldn't go to save your neck from the gal- 
 lows," she says, between her teeth, " where it is due !" 
 
 He waits for no more. The array of horsewhips 
 from which Giles was wont to select for her benefit is 
 still there. He seizes one, blind with fury and drink ; 
 there is a sharp hissing through the air, and it de- 
 scends. It rises and falls again, quick as light. Then, 
 with a scream of passion, pain, rage, that those who 
 hear never forget, she turns upon him. In that mo- 
 ment a mad power possesses her — she is stronger than 
 he. She wrenches the whip out of his grasp, lifts it — 
 the butt-end this time — and brings it down with all 
 the force of fury aci'oss his head. It lays it open — the 
 whip has a heavy handle ; a rain of blood pours over 
 his eyes, and blinds him. He relaxes his hold, stag- 
 gers backward blindly, and falls. There is a simul- 
 taneous shriek and rush, Joanna flings the whip into 
 the midst of them, and flies. 
 
166 IN WHICH JOANNA RUNS AWAY. 
 
 She is beside herself — she knows not what she has 
 done, or whither she is going. She rushes on like a 
 mad thing, heedless of all obstacles, and falls prostrate 
 at last on the edge of Black's Dam. As a hunted 
 animal flies instinctively to its lair, so her feet have 
 carried her here, and here she falls, panting, spent, for 
 the time being perfectly insane. Jud Sleaford has 
 often predicted that she will murder some of them, 
 and Jud's prediction seems to have come true at last. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 IN WHICH JOANNA RUNS AWAY. ^ 
 
 OW long she lies she cannot tell. A panic of 
 horror and despair at herself and the deed 
 she has done, fills her. Has she murdered 
 him? She has threatened often enough 
 to kill some of them in her ungovernable bursts of 
 temper, if they will not let her alone. Has she 
 done it at last ? It is not sorrow that stirs her, nor 
 fear ; it is a panic of darkest despair and misery such 
 as in all her miserable life she has never felt before. 
 She crouches there in the snow, feeling no cold, numb 
 soul and body. A hurried step crunches over the 
 frozen ground. There is an exclamation ; a hand 
 touches her shoulder, and strives to lift her head. 
 
 " Joanna !" a breathless voice says ; " Joanna, what 
 is this?" 
 
 It is a friendly voice. She lifts her stricken, despair- 
 ing eyes to a friendly face. The sight breaks the tor- 
 
IN WHICH JOANNA RUNS AWAY. 167 
 
 por of agony ; she springs to her feet, and flings her 
 arms about his neck. 
 
 " George Blake !" she cries, with a choking sob. 
 "George Blake ! George Blake !" 
 
 The young fellow holds her to him — pity, terror, 
 blank consternation in his face. 
 
 "Joanna, what is all this? What have you been 
 doing ? What has that — that brute been doing to 
 you ? Do you know they say that you " — he chokes 
 over the words — " that you have killed him ?" 
 
 She gives a gasp, and still clings hold of him. The 
 whole world seems slipping away ; she seems to stand 
 in the wide universe alone in her desolation, with only 
 this single friend. 
 
 "I have been to the house," he goes on ; "all is 
 confusion there. Jud has gone for a doctor. There 
 is blood on the floor, and on the whip-handle they say 
 you struck him with. He is lying, bleeding still, and 
 stunned, on the settee in the kitchen. The girls say 
 you have killed him. Oh ! Joanna, speak, and tell me 
 what it is !" 
 
 She tries to do so. Her words are broken and in- 
 coherent, but he manages to get at the story — the 
 provocation, the attack, the reprisal. His eyes flash 
 with honest indignation. 
 
 " The brute ! the cowardly scoundrel ! You served 
 him right, Joanna — you acted in self-defense. Even 
 if he is killed, which I don't believe, you have served 
 him right. But he will not die. A beast like that 
 stands a great deal of killing. Don't shake so, my 
 dear ; don't wear that haggard face — it will be all 
 right. I tell you it is only what you ought to have 
 done long ago. The black, sullen dog ! to take his 
 
168 IN WHICH JOATsTNA RU:N^S AWAY. 
 
 horsewhip to you !" He grinds his teeth. "T hope he 
 will bear the mark of yonr blow to his dying .day !" 
 
 She slips out of his arms, and sits down on a fallen 
 log, her hands clasping her knees, after her old fash- 
 ion, that miserable, hunted look never leaving her eyes. 
 
 " I knew you would come here," the young man 
 goes on, seating himself beside her ; " it is always your 
 sanctuary in troubled times, my poor Joanna. Oh, my 
 dear, my dear ! my poor, ill-used, suffering girl ! if I 
 could only take your place, and endure all this for 
 you !" 
 
 She holds out her hand to him silently. He is so 
 good, so leal, her one loyal friend and knight. Great 
 slow tears well up, and soften the blank anguish of 
 her hopeless eyes. 
 
 " I will tell you what I will do," he says, after a 
 pause. " I feel sure the fellow will not die — these 
 venomous reptiles are so tenacious of life — still, we both 
 feel anxious. If you will wait here, I will go back to 
 the house and find out. I will return and tell you the 
 truth — the worst certainty is better than suspense. 
 Only promise me" — he clasps the cold hand he holds 
 hard — " you will not do anything — anything rash while 
 I am gone." 
 
 He looks toward the pond, lying dark and stagnant 
 under the evening sky; then his troubled eyes seek her 
 face. 
 
 *' Promise me, Joanna," he says, " you will stay here 
 until I return." 
 
 "I promise," she says, and he knows she will keep 
 her word. 
 
 He rises instantly, and without a moment's delay 
 starts off on his mission. 
 
IN WHICH JOANNA RUNS AWAY. 169 
 
 She keeps her word to the letter. She sits as he 
 has left her, never even stirring until he returns. The 
 last opal-tinted gleam of sunset dies away, the frosty 
 January stars come thickly out, the night wind rises 
 bleakly, the frogs croak dismally down in the fetid 
 depths of their slimy pools. She does not stir; apathy 
 succeeds agony; she hardly feels ; she is benumbed, 
 stupefied — she neither cares nor fears longer. 
 
 Presently, but it is a long time, too, the footsteps 
 crunch once more over the frozen snow, and George 
 Blake comes rapidly forward. One look at his face 
 tells his news — it is bright, eager, smiling ; his step is 
 alert and buoyant. 
 
 "All right, Joanna," he calls, gayly. "It is as 1 
 said; the fellow is going to live to grace the gallows 
 yet. It is an ugly gash, and has let him a lot of blood 
 — as much as if he were a bullock — but it is bandaged 
 up now, and he's asleep. I heard the doctor tell him," 
 says George, laughing, " it was the best thing could 
 have happened to him; it had , probably saved him a 
 fit of apoplexy, and that he ought to keep you as a sort 
 of family leech, to break his head at intervals. * It is 
 very bad blood,' says the doctor, * and youVe the bet- 
 ter for losing a gallon or two of it.' " 
 
 George's laugh rings out boyishly; the relief is so 
 unutterable. 
 
 But she does not look glad, she does not speak, she 
 does not smile. She sits quite still, looking straight 
 before her, at the pale, snow-lit, star-lit landscape. 
 
 His face, too, grows grave as he regards her. 
 
 "And now, Jo," be says, resuming his seat beside 
 her, "what next?" 
 8 
 
170 IN WHICH JOANNA KUNS AWAY. 
 
 He has to repeat the question before she seems to 
 hear, then the blank gaze turns to his face. 
 
 "You cannot go back there," he says, and he sees 
 her shrink and shudder at the thought. "You cannot 
 stay here. Then what are you to do?" 
 
 She makes no reply. 
 
 In all the wide world, he wonders, as he watches 
 her, is there another creature so forlorn, so homeless as 
 this? 
 
 " Perhaps you will go to Abbott Wood ?" lie sug- 
 gests. And at that she finds her voice, and breaks out 
 with a great despairing cry. 
 
 " Oh, no, no, no ! Never there ! Never there any 
 more ! Oh, what will Mrs. Abbott say ? Oh me ! 
 oh me ! oh me ! " 
 
 He sits in silent distress. Great sobs tear and rend 
 their way up from her heart. She weeps wildly aloud. 
 He has never seen Joanna cry before — few ever have 
 — and the tortured sobs shake him through and 
 through. 
 
 "Don't, Joanna !" he says. "Oh, do not ! I can- 
 not bear to hear you. Don't cry like that !" 
 
 As well ask the tide not to flow. Repressed nature 
 will have its revenge ; she must weep or die. She 
 sobs on and on, until the paroxysm spends itself, and 
 she stops from sheer exhaustion. A jealous pang 
 wrings George Blake's heart — how she loves this Mrs. 
 Abbott ! But still the question is unanswered — what 
 is to be done-^and the night wears on. George's watch 
 points to ten. He holds it out to her in silent appeal. 
 
 " Wait," she says. " Let me think. Let me think !" 
 
 The hysterics have done her good ; her apathy is 
 swept away ; she is fully aroused to a sense of her 
 
IN WHICH JOANNA RUNS AWAY. 171 
 
 situation — to the importance of that question — what 
 next ? 
 
 She sits and thinks. Impossible to return to Slea- 
 ford's— horror fills her at the thought. More impos- 
 sible still to go to Abbott Wood after this terrible 
 deed. Besides, even if she could, even if Mrs. Abbott 
 would consent to overlook her almost being a murder- 
 ess, Giles Sleaford would never let her stay. Slie 
 would be brought back to the farm by force — then, 
 what is to be done ? 
 
 She looks up at last ; her black eyes turn to the 
 face of her companion, and fix there in such a long, 
 searching stare that he is disconcerted. 
 
 "What is it, Joanna?" he asks. "You know 
 there is nothing in all the world I would not do for 
 you." 
 
 '■'' Nothing T'* she tersely repeats. 
 
 " Nothing that man can do." 
 
 " You asked me the other day to marry you. Will 
 you marry me now .^" 
 
 " Will I ?" his face lights up with quick joy — he 
 catches both her hands ; " will I ? Oh, Joanna !" 
 
 "Will you take me to New York to-night, and 
 marry me to-morrow ?" 
 
 " Sharp work !" he says, " but even that may be ac- 
 complished. I will take you to New York, and I will 
 marry you ! Joanna ! Joanna ! how happy you have 
 made me !" 
 
 " I !" she says, mournfully, " I make any one happy ! 
 Oh ! George Blake, you will hate me one day for this ! 
 I ought not to ask it — I am a wretch — almost a mur- 
 deress — not fit to be any good man's wife. And you 
 are good. Oh ! I ought not ! I ought not !" 
 
172 IN WHICH JOANNA EUNS AWAY. 
 
 "You ought — you must !" he exclaims, alarmed: 
 "What nonsense you are talking, Jo! Murderess, 
 indeed ! The pity is you did not give the cur twice as 
 much. Ah ! what care I will take of you, Joanna, 
 bow happy I will make you. You will forget this 
 wretched life and these miserable people. You shall 
 have my whole heart and life." 
 
 " And your mother," she says, in the same mourn- 
 ful voice, " what will she say ? And your aunt — good 
 Miss Rice ? Oh ! you foolish fellow ! Take me to 
 New York, but do not marry me. Let me earn my 
 own living — I am young, and strong, and willing, and 
 used to hard work. I will be a kitchen-maid — any- 
 thing. No life can be so hard, so sordid, as the life I 
 lead here." 
 
 "I will marry you," he says, "I refuse to release 
 you. You said you would be my wife and you must 
 — I cannot live without you. Oh ! Joanna," the young 
 fellow cries out in a burst of passion, " you torture me ! 
 Cannot you see that I love you ? " 
 
 She shakes her head. 
 
 " No," she says, " I cannot see it, nor understand it. 
 What is there in me — plain, red-haired, ill-tempered 
 Joanna, to love? And I do not care for yow." 
 
 " That will come in time. I will be so good to you, 
 BO fond of you, you will not be able to help it. Say no 
 more about it, Joanna. I claim you and will have 
 you." 
 
 " Very well," she answers, resignedly; "remember, 
 whatever comes, I have warned you. Now settle all 
 the rest yourself. I trust you — I am in your hands." 
 
 "And I will be true to your trust," he says, fer- 
 vently, " so help me Heaven ! " 
 
IN WHICH JOANNA RUNS AWAY. 173 
 
 He lifts one of lier hands, the red, work-hardened 
 hands, to his lips. And then for a little they sit in 
 silence. 
 
 It is a strange betrothal — the hour of night, the 
 gloomy scene, white snow, black woods, dead silence, 
 starry sky, and Black's Dam, evil and ominous, at their 
 feet. All George Blake's life long that picture stands 
 out, distinct from all others, in his memory — he and 
 this strange girl who fascinates him, sitting there, the 
 only creatures, it seems, left in all the world ! 
 
 " Let me see," he says, returning to the practical, 
 "there is no up-train to the city before five o'clock. 
 That is the one I generally go by, when I spend a 
 night in Brightbrook. It is now past eleven : how are 
 we to get through the intervening hours ? You will 
 perish if we stay here." 
 
 " And I must have something to wear," says Joan 
 na, glancing at her dress. It is the grimy, well-worn 
 old alpaca. " Let me see. They are not likely to sit 
 up to-night with him, are they ? " 
 
 " Not in the least likely, I should say. He is all 
 right ; was snoring like a grampus when I left. Why ? '* 
 
 "I must get into the house, and get something to 
 wear. I cannot go to New York like this." 
 
 He see that she cannot, but still he looks anxious 
 and doubtful. 
 
 " It is a risk," he says. 
 
 " Not at all, if they do not sit up. I can always 
 get in, and once in bed I am not afraid of that family. 
 They sleep as if for a wager. It is a risk I must run. 
 I must have a better dress, a shawl and hat. And I 
 can wait indoors until it is time to start for the star 
 tion." 
 
174 IN WHICH JOANITA EUISrs AWAY. 
 
 "An hour will take us," Blake says. "Come then, 
 Joanna, let us be up and doing. I shall get into a 
 fever waiting, if we stay here." 
 
 They go — starting on the first stage of that journey, 
 that is to lead — who can tell where ? 
 
 It is nearly midnight when they reach the Red 
 Farm. No sign of recent tragedy is there — quiet slum- 
 ber evidently reigns. It is better even than they had 
 dared to hope. 
 
 " Where will you wait ?" the girl asks. " It will 
 be cold for you." 
 
 "I will walk about," he answers. " The night is 
 mild, and my overcoat is proof against frost-bite. 
 Only do not be caught, Joanna, or change your mind, 
 or fall asleep. I will never forgive you if you fail me 
 now !" 
 
 "I will not fail," she says, firmly. "Before four I 
 •will be with you again." 
 
 She leaves him, and admits herself after her old 
 fashion — bolts and bars are few and far between at 
 Sleaford's. All is still. She takes off her shoes and 
 creeps up stairs and listens. 
 
 All still. 
 
 Now the question arises, what shall she wear ? She 
 does not want to disgrace George Blake. Nearly all 
 the things Mrs. Abbott has given her are in her room 
 at Abbott Wood — Liz and Lora immediately confis- 
 cating to their use anything attractive she brings to 
 the farm. She has absolutely nothing of her own fit 
 to put on. No — but the other girls have ! Joanna 
 has not the slightest scruple in the matter. They take 
 everything of hers ; it is a poor rule that will not work 
 both ways. She will help herself from Lora's ward- 
 
IN WHICH JOANNA RUNS AWAY. 175 
 
 robe ! They are of the same height. Lora is a "fine 
 girl," and stout enough to make two of such a slip as 
 Joanna, but lit does not signify. She softly opens the 
 wardrobe, and begins operations. It is a small closet 
 adjoining their bedroom, and dark as a pocket ; but 
 she has brought a candle-end with her from the kitchen. 
 She lights it now and sets to work. 
 
 As well take the best when she is about it ! There 
 hangs the new black silk suit, gotten up expressly for 
 New Year's Day, and worn on that occasion only. She 
 takes it down from its peg. Here is Lora's Sunday 
 hat, a black velvet beauty, with crimson roses and 
 snowy jjlume. To twist out this latter appendage is 
 the work of a second — the red roses for the present 
 must stand. Now she wants a wrap. Here is a cloth 
 jacket, handsomely trimmed ; she unhooks it. Then, 
 as she is moving away, a last article catches her eye. 
 It is a crimson wool shawl, a rich and glowing wrap, 
 and the pride of Liz's soul. 
 
 Some faint spirit of diablerie, more than actual 
 need, makes her add this to the heap. She returns to 
 the kitchen, her arms filled with her spoils. She has 
 already secured one or two little gifts of Mrs. Abbott's 
 and Leo's. A gold breastpin, a pearl and ruby ring, 
 and her very last New Year's gift — a little gold watch 
 and chain — the watch Mrs. Abbott's present, the chain 
 Geoffrey's, the ring Leo's. And now in the warm 
 kitchen she arrays herself deliberately in pilfered 
 plumes, with a sort of wicked zest in the tremendous 
 uproar tliere will be to-morrow. Dan's mishap will be 
 nothing to this — Liz and Lora will go straight out of 
 their senses. 
 
 "It is not stealing," the girl says to herself. "I 
 
176 IN WHICH JOANKA KUNS AWAY. 
 
 have worked for them all my life ; I have earned these 
 things ten times over. And they have taken lots of 
 mine — Mrs. Abbott's gifts. I have a right to take 
 what I want." 
 
 Whether or no, they are taken, and will be kept. 
 Onc-e dressed she seats herself, and waits impatiently 
 for the clock to strike four. She is eager to be off, to 
 turn her back forever upon this hated house, these 
 hated people — to begin the world anew. A new life is 
 dawning for her ; whatever it brings it can bring 
 nothing half so bad as the life she is leaving. New 
 York ! the thought of that great city and its possibili- 
 ties dazzles her. Of George Blake she thinks little. 
 He is, perforce, part of that new life, but she would 
 rather he were not. She does not care for him ; he 
 tries her with his boyish fondness and insipid love- 
 making. Still, she cannot do without him — so Mrs. 
 George Blake, willy nilly, it seems she must be. 
 
 One, two, three, four ! from the old wooden Con- 
 necticut clock. She draws a long breath of relief, 
 rises, makes her way out, as she made it in. 
 
 The night has changed — the morning is dark, 
 damp, dismal. George Blake is waiting, poor faithful 
 sentinel. He comes up, his teeth chattering, white 
 rime on mustache and hair. 
 
 "At last," he says, wearily ; "give you my honor, 
 Joanna, I thought the time would never come. What 
 a. night this has been ! Shall you ever forget it ?" 
 
 She does not speak ; she looks back darkly at the 
 house she is leaving. 
 
 " Good-by, you dreary prison," she says. "I may be 
 miserable in the time that is to come, but I can never 
 again be as miserable as I have been in you.'' 
 
IN WHICH JOANNA RUNS AWAY. 177 
 
 " You shall never be miserable. Qin you not trust 
 me, Joanna?" he says, reproachfully. 
 
 "Come !" is her only answer, lie draws her hand 
 through his arm, and they are off, walking fleetly, and 
 in silence, along the bleak, windy road. 
 
 It wants a quarter of five when they reach the sta- 
 tion. It is quite deserted, but there is a fire in the 
 waiting-room. 
 
 He takes her in, and sees for the first time the silk- 
 en robe, the velvet hat, the crimson shawl. 
 
 " My word, Joanna !" he says, laughing, " how smart 
 you are ! As a bridegroom cometh out of his cham- 
 ber ! Where did you raise all this superfine tog- 
 gery?" 
 
 " It belongs to Lora," answers Joanna, in the most 
 matter-of-fact tone possible, " all but the shawl — that 
 belongs to Liz ! The watch and brooch are my own. 
 I di<l not want to shame you by being shabby." 
 
 He stares at lier, then bursts out laughing ; but he 
 is not best pleased, either, at these vague notions of 
 meum and tuum. There is no time, however, to re- 
 monstrate ; the train rushes in almost immediately, 
 and the instant it stops the runaways are aboard. 
 
 " Now then !" George Blake exclaims, " we are off 
 at last ; let those catch who can I In three hours we 
 will be in New York." 
 
 It is a silent trip. The young fellow sits lost in a 
 hapi)y dream. He will marry Joanna. They will 
 board in the city for a little, then his mother will 
 "come round," and his wife can live with her, while 
 he will run down three or four times a week. By and 
 by his salary will be raised, he will become an editor 
 himself, he will take a nice little house over Brooklyn 
 8* 
 
178 IN WHICH JOANNA EUNS AWAY. 
 
 way, with a garden, a grape arbour, some rose trees and 
 geraniums, and he and Joanna will live happily forever 
 after ! 
 
 That is his dream. For Joanna, what does she 
 dream of as she sits beside him, her lips compressed, 
 a line as of pain between her eyebrows, her eyes look- 
 ing out at the gray, forlorn dawn. Nothing bright, 
 certainly, with that face. 
 
 They reach the city. The noise, the uproar, the 
 throng, the stony streets, bewilder her — she clings to 
 her protector's arm. He has decided to take her for 
 to-day to a hotel, and not present her to his landlady — 
 an austere lady — until he can present her as his lawful 
 wedded wife. So he calls a " keb," and they are driven 
 off to an up-town Broadway hotel. 
 
 "Is it always as noisy as this ?" she asks, in a sort 
 of panic. " My head is splitting already." 
 
 " Oh, you will get used to it," he laughs ; " we all 
 do. You won't even hear it after awhile — I don't. 
 Here we are. Now you shall have breakfast, and then 
 I will start off, and hunt up a clergyman." 
 
 He squeezes her hand, but there is no response. 
 She withdraws it impatiently, and goes with him into 
 one of the parlors, where George engages a room for 
 his wife, and registers boldly as " Mr. and Mrs. George 
 P. Blake." Mrs. Blake is shown to her apartment, 
 where she washes her face, smooths her hair, straight- 
 ens herself generally, and then goes down with Mr. 
 Blake, to breakfast. 
 
 "Now, Jo," he says, when that repast is over, "you 
 will return to your room, and I will go out and get 
 you something to read, to pass the time, for I may be 
 gone some hours. I will fetch a parson with me if I 
 
IN WHICH JOANNA RUNS AWAY. 179 
 
 can ; if not, we will go this evening before a clergy- 
 man, and be married. Try not to feel lonesome. In a 
 few hours you will be my wife !" 
 
 Joanna does not look as if there were anything in 
 this prospect of a particularly rapturous nature, but 
 she goes to her room, and later accepts the magazines 
 he brings her, to while away the hours of his absence. 
 But it is a long day. She yawns over the stories and 
 pictures for awhile, then throws herself on a sofa, and 
 falls asleep. 
 
 It is late in the afternoon when she awakes. 
 George is there to take her to dinner, waiting impa- 
 tiently. 
 
 "It is all right," he tells her. "The Reverend 
 Peter Wiley is my friend ; I have explained to him as 
 much as is necessary, and we are to go to his house at 
 nine this evening. I shall want some one to stand up 
 with me, so after dinner I'll run down to the office, if 
 you don't mind being alone a little longer, and get one 
 of our fellows." 
 
 They dine, and George again departs ; Joanna 
 once more returns to her own room. And now it is 
 drawing awfully near — this great change in her life — 
 she is about to become George Blake's wife. As she 
 sits here alone, her face buried in her hands, her whole 
 life seems to rise up before her — her whole dark, love- 
 less, most miscT.ible life. A dreadful feeling of sullen, 
 silent anger possesses her as she sits alone here, her 
 hands clasped around her knees, her eyes staring 
 straight before her, after her usual crouching, ungainly 
 fashion. All the wrongs of her lifetime rise up before 
 her, a dark and gloomy array. Fatherless, motherless, 
 what had she done to be sent into the world banned at 
 
180 IIT WHICH JOANNA RUNS AWAYc 
 
 her very birth ? Hard fare, hard words, hard blows, 
 oaths, kicks, cuffs, constant toil, half naked, lialf 
 frozen, jeers, scorn, forever and forever ! There it 
 stands, the bitter, bad catalogue, never to be forgotten, 
 never to be forgiven. A long life-time of reprisal will 
 be too short to wash white the score her memory holds 
 against almost every human creature she has ever 
 known. 
 
 And yet, stay ! Not quite all — not George Blake, 
 poor foolish fellow, who has run away with her, or 
 rather with whom she has run away. The tense lines 
 of brow and mouth relax a little. It is too bad to 
 have made him do it ; he will never know what to do 
 with her all the rest of his life. He will be sorry for 
 it presently — she feels that, although, perhaps, he does 
 not just now. But she has not thought of him, only 
 of herself ; it has been her one chance of escape from 
 that earthly hell, and she has taken it. What is she 
 that she should spare any one ! After all, George 
 Blake has asked her once, let him "dree his own 
 weird," she will alter no plan of hers out of pity for 
 him ; he is useful to her, and when his day comes let 
 him 
 
 She stops. A quick footstep passes her door, a 
 raan's step, a man's voice whistles a gay air. Both are 
 familiar ; they strike on her heart like a blow. She 
 springs up and flies to the door. Down the long pas- 
 sage a tall figure goes. A lady passes him ; the whis- 
 tle ceases, he uncovers as she goes by ; then he too is 
 gone. 
 
 For a moment she stands stunned, her face quite 
 white, her eyes all wild and wide, in a sort of terror, 
 her heart beating thick and fast. Then she darts to 
 
IN WHICH JOANNA RUNS AWAY. 181 
 
 the window, and but just in time. He is passing out 
 the last liglit of the evening sky falling full upon him 
 — handsome, as usual, carelessly elegant, as usual — the 
 dazzling image that has always appealed so powerfully 
 to this wild girPs imagination — that has made him 
 from the first, in her eyes, unlike any other man she 
 has ever seen. What is the charm ? He is only a 
 well-looking, well-mannered, well-dressed young gen- 
 tleman, the type of a class that in after years she meets 
 " thick as leaves in Vallambrosa," and yet, to the last 
 day of her life, something stamps Frank Livingston 
 as a " man of men " among them all. In one flashing 
 glance those quick eyes take in every detail of face, 
 and figure, and dress, even to the rosebud and gera- 
 nium leaf peeping out from under his dark paletot, the 
 white vest, the kid gloves. There is but time for a 
 glance. He lights a cigar, beckons a coupe, springs 
 in, and is gone. 
 
 She sits down as she has been sitting before, but m 
 a dazed sort of fashion that frightens even herself. 
 She tries to take up her train of thought where she has 
 dropped it — in vain. A swift, incomprehensible revul- 
 sion begins within her. She will not marry George 
 Blake — no, no ! never, never ! She springs up again, 
 and puts out her hands as if to keep even the idea off. 
 She will not marry George Blake — she will die first I 
 How has she ever thought of such a thing? Why has 
 she ever come here ? Why is she staying here now? 
 If she stays he will come back and make her marry 
 him. Make her ! She laughs a scornful little laugh, 
 all by lierself, at the thought. But then his pleading 
 face and wistful boyish blue eyes rise before her. And 
 he ia so foud of her, so ridiculously fond of her. 
 
182 IN WHICH JOANNA SEEKS HER FORTUNE. 
 
 "Pshaw!" she says aloud, impatiently, "he is a 
 fool to want me. He will get over it." 
 
 Bat she must not stay — it will not do to meet him. 
 She must have been mad with misery ever to think of 
 marrying him — him! Alas, for George Blake ! The 
 haughty head erects itself, the straight throat curves. 
 In one moment her mind is made up, beyond power of 
 change. And all by one fleeting glimpse of Frank 
 Livingston going to the opera. 
 
 She puts on her hat — Lora'shat — pulls it well down 
 over her face, throws the heavy crimson shawl over 
 her arm, and is ready to go. She writes no line or 
 word of farewell — what is there to say? And she is 
 not romantic. Geoi-ge will see that she has gone — 
 that is enough. Where is she going ? She does not 
 know — only — not to marry young Mr. Blake. She 
 Opens the door, walks quickly down the long corridor, 
 her head defiantly erect, prepared to do battle with 
 George Blake should they meet. But she meets no 
 «>ne. The elevator is just descending ; she enters and 
 ^oes down. A moment later and she is out, under the 
 isparkling New Year stars, alone, homeless, penniless, 
 in the streets of New York. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 IN WHICH JOANNA SEEKS HER FORTUNE. 
 
 HE yellow-tinted twilight has given place to 
 silvery dark, lighted by a broad full moon. 
 All lamps in the great thoroughfare are 
 alight, windows are blazing like great 
 jewels. Her spirits rise, the fresh night wind is like 
 
IN WHICH JOANNA SEEKS HER FORTUNE. 183 
 
 utrong wine, the old gypay instinct of freedom awakes 
 within her. It is well ! She is strong, she is free! 
 Oh ! blessed freedom, boon beyond all boons of earth ! 
 And for one whole day and night she has thought of 
 resigning it for life-long bondage to George Blake ! 
 Free to do what she chooses, go where she likes ; the 
 world is all before her, a great city full of infinite 
 possibilities is around her ! No man is her master ; 
 no man ever shall be ! 
 
 She walks on and on, her blood quickening, her 
 heart rising. She could sing aloud in this first hour 
 of her exultation. She is free ! her old life lies behind 
 her, with its shame, its pain, forever and ever. She is 
 liere in the city of her desire, the world all before her 
 where to choose ! 
 
 How brilliant the scene is to those country eyes ; 
 liow the lamps shine, how the great windows flash 
 out ! But the roar, the rush of many people and 
 vehicles dizzies and bewilders her. Will she indeed 
 (;ver get used to it, as George Blake says ? But she 
 puts away the thought of George Blake ; a hot, swift 
 pang of remorse goes with it. How cruel, how un- 
 grateful he will think her, and "ingratitude is the vice 
 of slaves;" She will not think of him ; it is 'AX she can 
 do to keep from having a vertigo, amid all this light 
 and noise. 
 
 Presently she becomes conscious that curious eyes 
 are watching her. She does not know it, but she is a 
 conspicuous object even on Broadway. Her great 
 amazed black eyes, the unmistakable country stamp 
 about her, something out of the common in her eager 
 face, the brilliant shawl, render her a distinct mark in 
 the moving picture. 
 
184 IN WHICH JOANNA SEEKS HER FORTUNE. 
 
 And then all at once she realizes that she is being 
 followed, that a man is close at her elbow, has been 
 for some time, and is looking down at her with a sinis- 
 ter leer. He is a big, burly man, with a red face, a 
 mangy, purple mustache, all nose and watch-chain, like 
 a Jew. She glances up at him angrily ; he only re- 
 turns it with a smile of fascinating sweetness. 
 
 "You was waitin' for me, my dear, wasn't you?" 
 he says, insinuatingly. 
 
 She does not reply, only hurries on, her heart begin- 
 ning to beat. A policeman passes and eyes the pair 
 suspiciously, but Joanna does not know enough of city 
 wavs to appeal to him. She takes these tall men, 
 bound in blue and brass, to be soldiers, and is afraid 
 of them. She walks rapidly — so rapidly, with that 
 free, elastic step she has learned in treading the woods, 
 that her pursuer anathematizes her under -his breath. 
 She has got off Broadway now, and takes corners and 
 streets as they come, and still, with a perseverance 
 worthy a much better cause, her tormentor follows. 
 He has no breath left for conversation. He is stout, 
 his wind is gone, he is gasping like a stranded fish ; he 
 lags a step or two behind, and a stern chase is always 
 a long one. Joanna is as fresh as when she started. 
 Suddenly she turns round and faces him, and some- 
 thing in her eyes looks so wicked, so dangerous, that 
 the fellow stops. The next moment she has flown 
 round a corner and disappeared. There is nothing for 
 the owner of the mangy mustache but to get on the 
 first car and go back. 
 
 She wanders on and on, glancing about her suspi- 
 ciously now, lest the florid gentleman should have suc- 
 cessors, but no one troubles her. She w^onders where 
 
IN WHICH JOANNA SEEKS HER FORTUNE. 185 
 
 she is. Up here the streets are quiet ; long rows of 
 handsome brown houses, as much alike as pins in a 
 paper, are on either hand. Pedestrians are few and 
 walk fast ; the blue and brass soldiers pass her now 
 and then, but say nothing. Lights gleam from base- 
 ment windows. She pauses and looks wistfully at the 
 pictures within. Long tables, laid with white damask, 
 glass and silver sparkling as at Mrs. Abbott's, servants 
 moving about. Sometimes it is a parlor interior, a 
 long, glowing room lit with great glass globes, a young 
 girl at the piano, the music coming to where the home- 
 less listener wearily stands ; mamma with a book or 
 work, papa with his paper, little children flitting about. 
 A great pain is at her heart. Oh ! what happy people 
 there are in the world ! Girls like her, with bright 
 homes, happy, cherished, beloved, good. She is not 
 good ; she never has been, she never will be — it is not in 
 her nature. She has been born different from others — 
 more wicked, sullen, fierce, vindictive, and now, last of 
 all, ungrateful. A great sob rises in her throat ; she 
 moves hurriedly on. She is cold, and tired, and home- 
 sick — she, who has never had a home, who, more than 
 ever before, is homeless to-night. The hard pavement 
 burns and blisters her feet, used to tread elastic turf. 
 It is growing very late, and very cold. Where shall 
 she stay until morning? She cannot walk much long- 
 er ; her wearied limbs lag even now. What shall 
 she do? 
 
 The quiet of these up-town streets begins to fright- 
 en her. The blinds are all closed now ; the sweet 
 home-pictures can dazzle her no more. She must get 
 back to where there are light and life — to that bril- 
 liant, gas-lit, store-lit street she found herself in first. 
 
186 IN WHICH JOANNA SEEKS HER FORTUNE. 
 
 But she cannot find it ; she is in another bright 
 thoroughfare before long, but it is not the same — it is 
 the Bowery. 
 
 A clock somewhere strikes ten. Her head is dizzy, I 
 a mist is before her eyes, her feet fail, a panic seizes 
 her ; she grasps a railing to keep from falling. She 
 can go no farther, come what may. 
 
 A little ahead there is a building that looks like a 
 church. She moves toward it, goes up the steps, and 
 sinks down in a heap. A pillar screens her partly ; 
 she crouches into the farthest corner, shuts her eyes, 
 and tries to rest. 
 
 What shall she do? 
 
 The question beats like a trip-hammer through her 
 (lazed brain. She has no money, not one penny ; she 
 <loes not know one living soul of all these restless 
 hundreds who flit by. And yet it is characteristic of 
 her stubborn resolution that she never once repents 
 liaving run away from George Blake, nor thinks of 
 making her way back to him. She knows the name 
 of the hotel she has quitted ; it is probable she might 
 /ind it again, but the thought never occurs to her. 
 Whatever comes, all that is past and done with ; she 
 will never take a single step backward to save herself 
 from the worst fate that can befall. 
 
 What shall she do? She feels she cannot stay 
 crouched here on the cold stones all night. Whither 
 shall she go ? — to whom appeal ? She has spent many 
 a night in the open air before — nights as cold as this 
 — but the old mill was her safe shelter, the familiar 
 croak of her friends, the frogs, her welcome, the 
 solemn surge of the forest her lullaby. Here there 
 are men more to be feared than wild beasts, pitiless 
 
IN WHICH JOANNA SEEKS HER FORTUNE. 187 
 
 people, who look at her with hard, staring eyea, the 
 " car rattling o'er the stony street," noise, light, 
 danger. She has spent no night like this in all her life. 
 
 Soon what she fears most comes to pass — the 
 gleam of that fatal red shawl catches the quick eye of 
 a passer-by. He stops, pauses in the tune he is whis- 
 tling, peers for a moment, then bounds up the steps, 
 and stands beside her. 
 
 "Sa-a-y, you, hullo!" 
 
 She looks up. It is only a boy, a gamin of the 
 New York streets, with a precocious, ugly, shrewd 
 little face — a boy of perhaps thirteen. The infinite 
 misery of her eyes strikes this young gentleman with 
 a sense of surprise. 
 
 " Sa-a-y," he repeats, " dodgin' a cop ?" 
 
 Tlie tone is questioning ; the words, of course, are 
 perfectly incomprehensible. She does not reply. 
 
 " Sa-a-y ! Can't yer speak ? Dodgin' a cop ?" 
 
 The tone this time is sympathetic, and is meant to 
 reassure her. If she is performing the action in ques- 
 tion, he wishes to inform her he has performed it him- 
 self, and that she may count on his commiseration. 
 
 " I don't know what you mean," she says, wearily. 
 " I am from the country ; I have lost my way in the 
 streets. I have no home, no friends. I was very tired, 
 and I sat down here to rest.'* 
 
 Her head drops against the cold pillar. She is ut- 
 terly spiritless and worn out. He stares at her for a 
 moment, says " Golly !" softly to himself, and slowly 
 resumes his whistle. He is debating whether to believe 
 what she says or not. 
 
 "Sa-a-y I" he drawls, after a little, "got any 
 money ?" 
 
188 IN WHICH JOANNA SEEKS HER FORTUNE. 
 
 " Not a penny." 
 
 He resumes bis whistle once more. Once more the 
 keen eyes of the boy of the streets goes over her, takes 
 in the silk dress, the gleam of gold, the crimson shawl, 
 the weaiy, weary face. 
 
 "Sa-a-y ! what brought ye up to York?" 
 
 " I came with a — friend. But I did not want to 
 stay. I came out and lost myself. You need not ask 
 me questions. I cannot tell you more than that. I 
 do not know what to do. I have no money to go to 
 another hotel." 
 
 " Another hotel ! Cricky ! We've been in a hotel 
 — Fifth Avenoo or the Windsor, I shouldn't wonder. 
 Sa-a-y, I'm blessed if I don't believe you're tellin' the 
 truth !" 
 
 She looks up at him indignantly. The cute, boyish 
 face is a good-humored one, and his youth gives her 
 courage. 
 
 " I wish you would tell me what to do," she says, 
 piteously. " You belong here, and must know. I can- 
 not stay here all night." 
 
 " Should think not. Well, you might go to the 
 station for protection." 
 
 " The what ?" 
 
 " The station — -^oliss, you know." 
 
 "Why should I go there?" she exclaims, angrily. 
 "I have done nothing wrong. How dare you suggest 
 such a thing !" 
 
 "Blessed if yon ain't a green un !" the boy says, 
 grinning. " If you won't go there, and get lodgin' 
 free gratis for nothin', where will ye go ? Sure you 
 got no money ?" 
 
 " Certain. Not one penny." 
 
IN WHICH JOANNA SEEKS HJ:R FORTUNE. 189 
 
 " Well, what's tbat a shinin' so — a gold chain ? If 
 it is gold — the real Jeremiah, mind — you might put it 
 up the spout, and get money that way. I^ll show you 
 your uncle's." 
 
 She looks at him with such bewildered eyes that he 
 grins again. 
 
 " Oh ! she's a green un, and no mistake. Looky 
 here," he says, adapting his conversation to his com- 
 pany, "if I get you a lodgin', a clean, comfortable, 
 'spectable lodgin', will you pawn your jewelry to pay 
 for it ? 'Cause if you will, I guess I can help you." 
 
 " Oh ! most willingly !" she says, relieved. 
 
 The brooch and chain are gifts she hates to part 
 with, but anything is better than risking a night here. 
 She rises at once, and hastily begins to divest herself 
 of them. 
 
 " Don't you take 'em off now," the boy says, good- 
 naturedly. " To-morrow '11 do. Come along. It's a 
 goodish bit of a walk. We might take a car, but 
 you've no money, and I haint earned salt to my por- 
 ridge to-day." 
 
 " Do you work ?" Joanna asks, eyeing the box and 
 brushes he carries. 
 
 " You bet ! Sells papers in the mornin' and shines 
 boots the rest o' the time. Haint done a stroke worth 
 a cent to-day. Times is awful bad," says this man of 
 business, despondently. " Gents that always took a 
 shine before, goes muddy now, sooner'n part with a 
 blamed nickel !" 
 
 " Where are you taking me ?" the girl inquires. 
 She is in some trepidation, although the lad's face is 
 not a bad one, and she is dead tired. 
 
 " Home, to our house — my old woman's, you know. 
 
190 IX WHICH JOANNA SEEKS HER FOKTUNE. 
 
 Laundress she is ; does up gents' and ladies' fine linen. 
 We've got a spare room in the attic, and now and then 
 we lets it for lodgin' to girls out o' place — help, ye 
 know. Mother knows 'em by dozens. They pays a 
 dollar and a half a week and grubs theirselves. It's 
 empty now, and I guess you can have it. You look 
 the right sort, you do. Mother don't take no other, 
 mind you. 'Taint much farther — up four pair, but the 
 roof's handy for dryin'." 
 
 Joanna is too spent to talk, so in silence they pres- 
 ently reach the place. It is up four pairs, and very 
 long pairs at that ; she feels as though she could never 
 reach the top. They do reach it, however ; the boy 
 opens a door, there is a flood of light, a gush of 
 warmth, and they are "there." 
 
 It is now after eleven, but late as is the hour, the 
 boy's mother is still pursuing her avocation. Upon a 
 stove glowing red-hot, stands an array of smoothing- 
 irons; at a long, narrow table in the middle of the 
 floor the woman stands, polishing the bosom of a shirt. 
 
 The room is perfectly neat and clean, two lamps 
 light it brightly. The woman herself is in a spotless 
 calico dress and long white apron, and looks both re- 
 spectable and, like her son, good-natured. On a trun- 
 dle-bed, in a corner, two children lie asleep. 
 
 "Bless us, Thad, how late you are!" she begins. 
 Then she sees his companion, and stops inquiringly, 
 but in no surprise, and smiles a welcome. " Good 
 evening, miss. Come in, and take an air of the fire. 
 You look half froze." 
 
 Joanna advances. The mother takes in, as the son 
 has done, the silk dress, the golden trinkets, the fine crim' 
 son shawl, and her face grows first puzzled, then grave. 
 
IN WHICH JOANNA SEEKS HER FORTUNE. 191 
 
 She turns to her son, with something of a frown, and 
 motions him into an adjoining room. 
 
 " Who is this you have brouglit?" she asks. "/ 
 don't know her." 
 
 "No more do I," Thad rejoins; "but she's all 
 right — bet you ten cents on it ! She ain't no help — no 
 more she ain't a street-tramper. She's a country gal, 
 and greener'n grass. Cut away from her friends, I 
 guess, and come to New York to seek her fortune. 
 They all do it ! Don't she hope she may find it !" 
 
 " Where did you pick her up V" the mother asks, 
 still dissatisfied. 
 
 Thad explains at some length. Thad's mother list- 
 ens, neither satisfied nor convinced. 
 
 " I'd rather have my room empty forever, you know 
 that," she says, with some asperity, " than harbor half 
 the ruck that's going. If I thought she wastiH all 
 right, I'd bundle her off again, and let her go to the 
 station, and box your ears into the bargain ! I won't 
 have girls picked up from the streets. I only lodge 
 respectable young women out of place." 
 
 "Well, she's a respectable young woman out o' 
 place," says Thad. " S-a-y, mother, don't let us stand 
 here jawin'. Give a fellow his supper, can't you, and 
 let him go to bed." 
 
 "And you say she's got no money?" says the 
 woman. 
 
 " No ; but she's got a gold chain, and the best o' 
 clothes, and is willin' to put 'em up the spout first thing 
 to pay you. Say, mother, you can't turn her out, so 
 cheese it all, and give us some supper." 
 
 He returns impatiently to the kitchen, where Jo 
 anna still sits in a cane rocker near the stove. The 
 
192 IN WHICH JOANNA SEEKS HER FORTUNE. 
 
 warmth, the rest, the silence, have lulled her into sleep. 
 Her head lies against the back, her hat is off, her pale, 
 tired face has the look of a spent child. 
 
 The woman bends over her, and gradually the per- 
 turbed expression leaves her face. No — on that brow 
 the dreadful brand of the streets has never rested. 
 She is little better than a child in years ; the story she 
 has told Thad must be true. She is one of those fool- 
 ish, romance-reading country girls who run away from 
 home and come to New York to seek their fortunes. 
 There are so many of them — so many ! Poor souls ! 
 the fortune they mostly find is ruin and sin for life, 
 and a death of dark despair. This girl has evidently 
 been well off ; her dress is of rich silk, handsomely 
 trimmed and made, she wears a gold chain and watch, 
 a breastpin, and ring. And the shawl on her lap ; the 
 woman's eyes glisten as she lifts it. All her life it has 
 been her ambition to own a shawl like this, all wool, 
 deeply, darkly, beautifully red. All her life it has 
 been an ambition unattained. 
 
 " I will keep her a fortnight for this shawl," she 
 thinks, replacing it, "if she's a mind to make the bar- 
 gain." 
 
 Thad is calling lustily for his supper. It is soon 
 set before him — some slices of cold corned beef, some 
 bread and butter, and coffee. The lad falls to with an 
 appetite, and his mother gently awakens Joanna. 
 
 " You must be hungry," she says ; " take some sup- 
 per and go to bed." 
 
 But Joanna is not hungry ; she dined late, and 
 fared well. She is very, very tired, though, and will 
 go to bed, with her hostess's permission. 
 
 " My name is Gibbs," suggests the matron, taking 
 
IN WHICH TOA NNA SEEKS HER FORTUNE. 193 
 
 one of thti l^raps, "Mrs. Gibbs. Will you tell me 
 yours ?" 
 
 For a moment there is a pause. She has no name. 
 The hated one of Sleaford is not hers ; she would not 
 retain it if it were. Blake, she thinks of giving ; but 
 no, she has no right to poor George's name. The only 
 one that belongs to her is Joanna — Wild Joanna. Then 
 it flashes upon hor — she has only to reverse that, and 
 she is now chri'.*(:ened for life. 
 
 " My name is Wild," she says, "Joanna Wild." 
 
 " And y&ii look it," thinks Mrs. Gibbs, going on 
 with the lamp ; " wild by name, and wild by nature, I 
 dare say. But you're not a street-tramper, and that's 
 a beautiful shawl, so it's all right." 
 
 The room is a tiny attic chamber, with a sloping 
 roof, and lit by only two lights of glass. The bed is 
 wide enough to lie down on, but certainly to turn in it 
 would be a serious risk. Still it looks perfectly clean, 
 and that is everything. The floor is bare ; one chair 
 comprises all the furniture there is space for. 
 
 "I hope you will sleep well," says Mrs. Gibbs, kind- 
 ly. *' There's a bolt on the door, if you've a mind to, 
 but you're quite safe up here." 
 
 "Thank you," Joanna says. "Good night." 
 
 Mrs. Gibbs returns to her son and her work — two 
 is her. general hour for retiring. 
 
 " Gone to roost, has she ?'* inquires Thad, still going 
 into his supper with energy and appetite. "She's a 
 rum un, she is. Wonder if her mother knows she's 
 out ?" 
 
 And so, by the mercy of Heaven, Joanna is saved 
 from the streets, and sleeps deeply, dreamlessly, and 
 long, in her hard little attic bed. 
 9 
 
194 IT^ WHICH JOAT^^NA FINDS HER FORTUNE. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 IN WHICH JOANNA FINDS HER FORTUNE. 
 
 IITH the rising of the next morning's frosty 
 sun, Joanna's new life may fairly be said 
 to begin. 
 
 It is rather late when she descends to 
 the room with the cooking-stove, which is kitchen, 
 parlor, dining-room, and children's sleeping-room, in- 
 clusive. The little black stove so superheats it that 
 the windows are open, and two or three pots of hardy 
 rose geraniums flourish on the sills. They make a 
 pleasant spot of color to the girl's country eyes, with 
 their vivid green leaves and pink blossoms. Sunlight 
 finds the room as tidy as lamplight. Mrs. Gibbs 
 stands over a tub in a corner, washing, a little boy 
 and girl of five toddle about, each with a doll made 
 out of a bottle. This is the home scene that greets 
 Joanna. 
 
 " Good morning," Mrs. Gibbs says. " How did you 
 rest, my dear ?" 
 
 Mrs. Gibbs' language and manners are superior to 
 her station, and Mrs. Gibbs greatly prides herself 
 thereon. She is a person of literary tastes, and has 
 seen better days. The better days were in the life- 
 time of the late Mr. Gibbs, when she had but little to 
 do, and a great deal of time to read romances, of 
 which she is exceedingly fond. 
 
 Mr. Gibbs was by profession a mason's assistant, in 
 other words, a hod -carrier, and one day, overcome by 
 sun-stroke, fell off a scaffolding and was instantly 
 
IN WHICH JOANNA FINDS HER FORTUNE. 195 
 
 killed. That was four years ago, and since then Mrs. 
 Gibbs had adopted the occupation of laundress, and 
 wisely eschewed romance. But what she has read has 
 left its mark. Her eldest son making his appearance 
 about the time she completed "Thaddeus of Warsaw," 
 was named after that hero. After a pause of seven 
 years, twins arriving almost simultaneously with a copy 
 of " Alonzo and Melissa," these innocents were chris- 
 tened after that romantic pair. It is Alonzo and Me- 
 lissa who are now pressing to their chubby bosoms two 
 root-beer bottles, and pausing in their play to stare 
 with round, wondering eyes at the new-comer. Thad- 
 deus has departed to retai^the day's news, and after- 
 ward " shine " gentlemen's boots. 
 
 " I slept very well," Joanne answers, and holds out 
 her hand with a smile to the little ones. 
 
 She loves children, and her eyes brighten at sight 
 of them. Many good traits are in the girl's character 
 that have never had a chance to come out — this is one 
 of them. She has never known a child in her life. 
 
 Alonzo and Melissa look at her, and, with the in- 
 tuitive instinct of children and dogs, see in her a friend 
 at once. 
 
 " Perhaps you won't mind getting your own break- 
 fast ?" says Mrs. Gibbs. " I'm busy, as you see. 
 There's the teapot on the stove, and the dishes, and 
 bread and butter are in the pantry. Set the table 
 yourself and take your breakfast." 
 
 " I feel as if I were a burden to you," Joanna says, 
 "bat I hope it will not be for long. I have no money 
 now, but the very first I earn I will give you." 
 
 She says it with an honesty and earnestness her 
 hostess sees is very real. Mrs. Gibbs finds she " likes 
 
196 IN WHICH JOANNA FINDS HER FORTUNE. 
 
 the looks of her" by cla5'light, though she is an un- 
 common-looking 5'Oung woman somehow, too. 
 
 " What do you intend to do ?" she asks, rubbing 
 away at the shirt she is at work upon. 
 
 She smiles a little to herself as she asks — she knows 
 so well what the answer will be. All these girls who 
 run away from their friends seem to have but one idea 
 — to go on the stage and dazzle the New York public 
 as full-fledged Lady Macbeths. They may leave home 
 plain and unattractive enough, but something in the 
 air of the great city is to make them beautiful and 
 talented, and send them home to their relatives in a 
 few years, dazzling visions of loveliness, fame, and 
 wealth. It happens like that to their favorite heroines, 
 why not to them ? But Joanna's reply is not to order. 
 
 "I intend to work," she says steadily ; "there is no 
 kind of housework, I think, I cannot do. I am very 
 strong, and very willing. I can wash, iron, cook — I 
 have done it all my life." 
 
 Mrs. Gibba is so astonished that she pauses in her 
 washing, and, with suds up to her elbows, gazes admir- 
 ingly at the speaker. 
 
 " Well ! upon my word !" she says. Then she 
 laughs, and vigorously resumes her rubbing. "I didn't 
 expect that, you see," she explains. "Work is the 
 last thing girls that run — come up from the country — 
 seem to think of. I have known lots of 'em, and I 
 never knew one yet who wanted to work. They can 
 get enough of that at home. They want to go on the 
 stage, and be ballet girls, actresses, what not. They seem 
 to think the New York flagstones are made of gold. 
 Poor things, they soon find out their mistake ! Some- 
 ' times they go back ashamed and half starved, some- 
 
IN WHICH JOANNA FINDS HER FORTUNE. 197 
 
 times they stay on, and — ah ! dear me, the city is a 
 bad place for a friendless country girl. And you want 
 to work. Oh, well ! you will get that fast enough ; 
 always plenty to do for willing hands and hearts. And 
 housework's easier got than most things, than places 
 in stores, or sewing, or genteel things like that. But 
 I wonder, seeing it's a hard life, that you came up for 
 that. By your dress you should have been pretty well 
 off down there — wherever it is. You won't make 
 enough at housework, let me tell you, to buy silk 
 dresses like that, and gold watches and chains." 
 
 Joanna glances down at her silk robe and smiles, 
 wondering what good Mrs. Gibbs would say if she 
 knew the truth. 
 
 " You must have had a good home," continues the 
 widow, "and kind friends. Take my advice. Miss 
 Wild, and go back before it is too late. The city is 
 not what you think it. Go back to your good home, 
 no matter how hard you may have to work, and thank 
 the Lord you've got it." 
 
 " It was not a good home," Joanna says, steadily. 
 "I had not kind friends. It was a bad, cruel place to 
 live in. Yes, bad, and they were bad people. I had 
 no friends in that house." 
 
 "And yet your dress, your jewelry " 
 
 "Oh ! the dress ! that is nothing !" the girl says, 
 with a touch of her old impatience ; " the watch and 
 chain were New Year gifts from a lady who was kind 
 to me. But I cannot go back — I never will go back. 
 I am willing and able to work ; you may recommend 
 me without fear. The jewelry I will sell and pay you 
 — the watch I should like to keep for the lady's sake," 
 her voice falters a little. " You have been kind to me 
 
198 IN WHICH JOANNA FINDS HER FORTUNE. 
 
 — you have saved me from the streets. As sure as I 
 live, you will find me grateful." 
 
 There is silence. Mrs. Gibbs rubs away, Joanna 
 clears off the breakfast service. Suddenly the widow 
 breaks out : 
 
 "Look here, Miss Wild, I don't want to take no 
 mean advantage of you, but, of course, I can't afford 
 to keep you for nothing. But I will keep you, board, 
 and everything, for — say a fortnight — that will give 
 you time to look about you and get used to town, for 
 that red shawl of yours. There ! I like that shawl. 
 If you think it a fair exchange, say so." 
 
 She looks eagerly as she makes the proposal, evi- 
 dently fearing a refusal. That any one can possess 
 such a beautiful garment, and be willing to part with 
 it, is what she does not expect. But Joanna's face 
 lights with relief at the offer. 
 
 *' The red shawl !" she exclaims, laughing, and again 
 wondering what honest Mrs. Gibbs would say if she 
 knew how she had come by it, " why, certainly. I am 
 glad to be rid of it — Zcould not wear a red shawl if I 
 wanted to. I am sure I do not know why I bought it. 
 Take it and welcome." 
 
 The widow draws a long breath — the desire of many 
 years is attained at last. 
 
 " Well, I'm sure, I'm much obliged. It's a beauti- 
 ful shawl, all wool, soft as silk, and such a lovely color. 
 I will tell you what I'll do," cries Mrs. Gibbs, in a 
 burst of gratitude, "you shall stay for three weeks, if 
 you've a mind to, and Thad shall take you about Sun- 
 days, and I'll find you a nice easy place in a small fam- 
 ily, as waitress, or nurse-girl, or something of the sort 
 Would you mind wearing a cap, and white apron ?" 
 
IN WHICH JOANNA FINDS HER FORTUNE. 199 
 
 It appears, upon explanation, that Joanna would 
 mind those badges of servitude, although otherwise 
 preferring the situation of children's nurse. 
 
 " Well, then, it must be general housework, I sup- 
 pose," says Mrs. Gibbs, " but never mind. I'll find you 
 a nice, easy place, with only two or three in the fam- 
 ily, and every Sunday out. You must come to see me 
 often, and look upon this as your home whenever out 
 of place." 
 
 Amicable relations of the warmest kind being thus 
 established through the medium of Liz's brilliant red 
 shawl, no more is said. But fate has decreed that Jo- 
 anna is not to get that " nice, easy place," or begin life 
 as a maid of all work. Her voice and her five years' 
 steady training stand her in stead at last, in the very 
 way she least expects. 
 
 It begins by the cordial friendship that springs up 
 in the bosoms of Alonzo and Melissa for Miss Wild. 
 They take to her, and she to them, in a way quite won- 
 derful, considering the brevity of the acquaintance. 
 
 On the evening of the third day, as Joanna sits in 
 the rocking-chair before the glowing stove, with Me- 
 lissa and her " bottle baby " in her lap, it chances that, 
 half unconsciously, she begins to sing. It is that little 
 Scotch song Frank Livingston used ,to like, *' My ain 
 ingle side." 
 
 Mrs. Gibbs is ironing. Outside a wild night is clos- 
 ing in, with high wind, and lashing sleet, and rain. 
 As Joanna sings and rocks, she is thinking how this 
 lierce tempest is surging through the pine woods, rat- 
 tling the timbers of the old mill, troubling the frozen 
 depths of Black's Dam. She shudders to think that 
 but for George Blake — oh, poor George Blake ! — she 
 
200 IN WHICH JOANNA FINDS HER FORTUNE. 
 
 might be lying at this hour dead in its foul waters. 
 What are they doing at Sleaford's ? — what at Abbott 
 Wood ? What does Mrs. Abbott, Geoffrey, Leo, think 
 of her ? Is George Blake seeking her through the vast 
 city in vain ? Is Frank Livingston going to the opera, 
 or the theater, or a ball somewhere up in these sta1:ely 
 brown-stone streets ? 
 
 As she thinks she sings, and as she sings, Mrs. Gibbs 
 gradually ceases work, and listens with open mouth. 
 The Scotch song is finished ; she begins another, a 
 German cradle song this time, a crooning, sweet sort 
 of lullaby, that Leo used to like at this hour. The 
 iron in the listener's hand has grown cold ; she stands 
 lost in wonder at this singing bird she has caged. 
 
 " Lord bless me, Miss Wild !" she says, when Jo- 
 anna ceases, "wherever did you learn to sing like 
 .that?" 
 
 The girl looked up at her vacantly, not yet returned 
 from dream-land. 
 
 "Eh?" she says ; "singing? Was I singing? I 
 did not know it. I was thinking of something else." 
 
 Mrs. Gibbs stares. 
 
 " Upon my word. Miss Wild," she exclaims, " you 
 are a strange young woman ! Why, you sing like a 
 — like a — like Mademoiselle Azelma herself !" 
 
 " Who is Mademoiselle Azelma ?" 
 
 " She's a singing lady — a German. Who learned 
 you to sing in German ? I declare, I never was more 
 surprised in my life !" 
 
 " Indeed ! Because I can sing ? Oh, yes, I can 
 sing — I can play, too, although my hands do not look 
 like it," Joanna says, smiling. 
 
 "You're the most wonderful young girl I evei 
 
IN WHICH JOANNA FINDS HER FORTUNE. 201 
 
 came across !" repeats wondering Mrs. Gibbs. " Who 
 would ever think you could sing like that ? Do sing 
 another — out loud this time. Never mind Lissy — she's 
 asleep." 
 
 Joanna obeys. She uplifts that fine, pure, strong 
 contralto of hers, and sings " Roberto o tu che adoro," 
 and the Italian, and the compass of voice, and the 
 thrilling sweetness of the song itself, completely con- 
 founds good Mrs. Gibbs. She gives up utterly, and 
 sits down. 
 
 " Well, I never !" she says, and stares blankly at 
 the girl. " I never in all my life !" — another stare. 
 "I do declare I never did !" says Mrs. Gibbs, and gets 
 up again with a gasp. 
 
 Joanna laughs outright. She has a delightful 
 laugh — merry, girlish, sweet — but its sound is so un- 
 usual it startles herself. 
 
 " Is it so very wonderful, then ?" she says, still 
 laughing. " I know I sing well ; I was well taught." 
 
 " Tell me this," says Mrs. Gibbs, almost angrily — 
 " why did you say you had no friends, when you have 
 the education, and manners, and dress of a lady ? 
 Why, your musical education must have cost a sight." 
 
 " I suppose it did. I told you I had one friend — 
 the lady who gave me my watch. When I was a lit- 
 tle, half-starved, ill-used child, she heard me sing, and 
 thought my voice worth cultivating. She has educated 
 me ; I owe her everything. She would have taken me 
 for good, long ago, only those I lived with would not 
 give me up." 
 
 " Why did you not go to her when you ran 
 away ?" 
 
 '* I would not have been allowed to remain, There 
 9* 
 
202 IN WHICH JOANNA FINDS HER FORTUNE. 
 
 were other reasons besides. But you need not be 
 afraid ; I will work just as well when you get me that 
 place, as though I could not sing a note." 
 
 " You work !" retorts Mrs. Gibbs, almost contemp- 
 tuously ; " with such a voice as that ! I will get you 
 no place. I will speak to Mr. Ericson about you 
 instead." 
 
 Joanna looks inquiringly. 
 
 "Mr. Ericson is a German," says the widow, re- 
 suming her work — " a teacher of music and singing. 
 I do up his linen. His brother is proprietor of a the- 
 ater — a little German theater — and Mile. Azelma sings 
 there, and makes ever so much money. But Mile. 
 Azelma is a very difficult lady to get along with ; 
 whenever she is out of temper, it flies to her throat, 
 and she cannot sing that night. Professor Eric* on 
 swears at her awful in Dutch, and says if he could get 
 any one to take her place, he would send her about 
 her business. Now, I have heard her, and I do think 
 you sing better than she does ; and then you have 
 been trained to singing, which is everything. To-mor- 
 row I am going to take his shirts home, and you shall 
 go with me, and sing for him. If he takes a fancy to 
 you your fortune is made." 
 
 " But I don't want to go on the stage," Joanna 
 says, blankly ; "I could not. I never was in a theater 
 in my life. I never thought of such a thing." 
 
 "Then you had better begin, for it's the very thing 
 to suit you, with that voice. You will earn ten times 
 as much as in any other way, and if you know how to 
 take care of yourself, it's as safe as any other life. 
 It's a most respectable little theater, only not first-class, 
 of course. Fashionable people don't go there. Mr 
 
IN WHICH JOANNA FINDS HER FORTUNE. 203 
 
 Ericson has given me and Thad tickets often. Make 
 up your mind, ray dear, that that voice wasn't given 
 you for nothing, or all that teaching either, and earn 
 your living in the easiest way. Corae with me to-mor- 
 row, and let Mr. Ericson hear you." 
 
 Joanna is startled ; the idea is new, but she is open 
 to conviction. She goes with Mrs. Gibbs on the mor- 
 row, and is presented in due form to Herr Ericson, a 
 little, yellow man, with a bushy white mustache and 
 a frowning brow. 
 
 "You can sing?" he says, scowling under his eye- 
 brows at the girl. " Bah ! Mrs. Gibbs does not know 
 singing when she hears it. You can play ? There is 
 a piano — while I pay for my shirts, sit down and sing 
 a song." 
 
 His brusque manner sets Joanna more completely 
 at her ease than any civility. He looks at her con- 
 temptuously. She will show this cross little man she 
 can sing. She seats herself, plays a prelude, and be- 
 gins one of her best German songs. The little pro- 
 fessor counts out his laundress's money, stops suddenly, 
 fixes his spectacles more securely on his nose, rises has- 
 tily, crosses to the piano, and scowls a scowl of intense 
 surprise. 
 
 " Good !" he says ; a trifle more snappishly though, 
 if possible, than before. " You can sing. And you 
 have been trained. That is a very good song, and ren- 
 dered with expression. You want to go on the stage ?" 
 
 Joanna shrugs her shoulders. 
 
 "I really do not care about it, Herr Professor. I 
 never thought of such a thing until Mrs. Gibbs sug- 
 gested it." 
 
204 IN WHICH JOANNA FINDS HER FORTUNE. 
 
 " Humph ! If I get you a place will you accept it ?" 
 
 « A place ?» 
 
 "A situation — an engagement to sing at my broth- 
 er's theater. The salary will not be much at first. 
 You can go on in the chorus, and so get used to the 
 stage. And I have a project in my mind. Yes, a pro- 
 ject " 
 
 He breaks off, and walks rapidly up and down, his 
 hands in his pantaloons' pockets, frowning horribly, 
 and biting his mustache. 
 
 " Look you here !" he says, " you can sing. You 
 suit me. ■ You are the sort of a young woman I have 
 been looking for for some time. Plenty can sing. 
 Bah ! that is nothing ! A voice without cultivation — 
 that is the devil ! You have been trained. In a week 
 you might go before an audience and make your debut. 
 You shall go before an audience. You shall make 
 your debut ! Tell me this — who are your friends ?" 
 
 "I have none, Mr. Ericson." 
 
 " Good ! Better and better ! Friends are the very 
 deuce ! Now listen to me. Hundreds would jump at 
 the offer I am going to make, with voices as good as 
 yours, only not the cultivation — mind you ! You have 
 a voice — yes ! You will make a success — true ! You 
 will never be a great cantatrice !" shaking one nervous 
 finger at her ; " do not think it. Not a Nilsson, not a 
 Patti — nothing like it — but a fair singer, a popular vo- 
 calist, that you will be. And you shall make your 
 debut at ray brother's theater, and you shall be paid, 
 and you shall be my protegee. Mile. Azelma shall go 
 to the devil ! But you will make no engagement with 
 my brother, for I have another project in my head," 
 tapping that member. " Later you shall hear. To- 
 
IN WHICH JOANNA FINDS HER FORTUNE. 205 
 
 day I will speak to my brother ; to-morrow night you 
 shall go on in tlie chorus. Goo<i day !" 
 
 He turns them out of the room, then flies after, and 
 calls back Mrs. Gibbs. For Joanna, she is fairly be- 
 wildered with the rapidity of all this. 
 
 *' You take care of that girl, Madame Gibbs !" the 
 professor says, frowning fiercely. " Mark you ! she 
 has a fortune in her tliroat." 
 
 It all comes to pass as the professor wills. He is a 
 sort of human whirlwind, with no idea of letting any 
 other living creature have a will of his own where he 
 is. He does speak to " my brother" — a large, mild man 
 of true German stolidity. He provides ^costume for 
 the debutante, ^aud sends her on in the chorus. It is a 
 small theater ; the performance is German, the actors, 
 the singers, the audience are all German. Joanna 
 goes on and goes off with a phlegm that even Pro- 
 fessor Ericson admires. She is nothing daunted by all 
 the faces, and is used to drawing-room performances. 
 
 After a night or two, she begins to enter into the 
 spirit of the tiling, and to like it. The professor loses 
 no time ; he begins at once to drill her in Mile. Azel- 
 ma's principal roles. She hears that popular prima- 
 donna, and feels convinced she can equal her, at least. 
 A spirit of ambition, of rivalry, arises within her. The 
 first time Azelma's temper flies to her throat, she, Miss 
 Wild, is to take her place. 
 
 That time is not long coming. Mile. Azelma's 
 latest costume fits badly, her larynx is at once affected ; 
 that evening she is too seriously indisposed to sing — 
 something else must be substituted. Nothing else 
 shall, swears the Herr Professor. And in a beautiful 
 costume, Miss Wild, to the surprise of everybody, 
 
206 IN WHICH JOANNA FINDS HER FORTUNE. 
 
 takes Mile. Azelma's part, and sings better than that 
 lady ever did in all her life. The audience applaud 
 — they, like the management, are tired of the leading 
 lady's caprices. Herr Ericsoh glows with delight. 
 He fairly clasps Joanna in his arras when she comes 
 off. 
 
 " You sing like an angel," he cries, in a rapture. 
 " Mile. Azehna may go hang herself ! Ah ! T foresee 
 my project will be a grand success." 
 
 Next day the project is unfolded. It is to travel 
 through the country, with Joanna, and Sinother protege 
 of his, a young Italian tenor he has picked up and in- 
 structed, anc^ive concerts. Madame Ericson, who is 
 also a vocalist of no mean ability, gots with them. 
 They will be a company of four ; and they will storm 
 the provinces ! They will make their fortunes ! They 
 will see life ! They will cover themselves with im- 
 mortality ! 
 
 It suits Joanna exactly. Already she is anxious 
 to leave New York. Twice she has passed Frank Liv- 
 ingston on the street, and once on horseback in the 
 park. On neither occasion has he noticed her, but the 
 rencontre has set her heart beating wildly. Riding in 
 the park, with a young lady by his side, he has looked 
 like a demi-god in Joanna's dazed eyes, something so 
 far above and beyond her, that she wonders to remember 
 she has ever spoken to him at all. And her last words 
 to him were a bitter rebuke. She is not safe in New 
 York ; he, or George Blake, may meet and recognize 
 her, any day. To all who have kno'vn her, she wishes 
 to be forever lost. 
 
 Early in May the little company are to start. All this 
 time Joanna has gone on living with Mrs. Gibbs, whom 
 
THE TRAGEDY AT SLEAFORD'S. 2W 
 
 she has paid and repaid, over and over again. The 
 rest of her earnings are swallowed up by a wardrobe, 
 which the Ilerr Professor insists shall be handsome 
 and abundant. She is to sing songs in character, and 
 many costumes are needed to fit them all. 
 
 The winter days fly by. May comes, warm and 
 sunny. From Brightbrook she has heard nothing. 
 She does not want to hear. That life is dead and 
 done with, it holds no memory that is not of pain. 
 Sleaford's Joanna lives no more. Miss Wild does, 
 and her new life seems to open pleasantly and promis- 
 ingly enough. About the middle of May they leave 
 New York, and Joanna is fairly launched in her new 
 
 life. 
 
 ♦ •» 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE TRAGEDY AT 8LEAF0RD'8. 
 
 ND at Brightbrook ? 
 
 It chances that Mr. Giles Sleaford is ab- 
 sent from the bosom of his family while all 
 these disastrous affairs are going on. Mr. 
 Sleaford is a patron of the ring, and a pugilistic en- 
 counter for the championship of a town some forty 
 miles away takes place about this time. 
 
 In company with some other congenial souls, Giles 
 is on the spot, betting heavily, drinking deeply, swear- 
 ing roundly, and using his own fists — mawlers, Mr. 
 Sleaford terms them — freely when occasion offers. And 
 so it falls out that for nine days after the flight of Jo- 
 anna, that flight remains a secret to Black Giles. 
 
 On the evening of that ninth day Mr. Sleaford re 
 
208 THE TEAGEDY AT SLEAFORD S. 
 
 turns to his home and family, blacker than usual, more 
 savage than usual, a sadder, though by no means a 
 wiser man, cursing his luck, his eyes, the road, the 
 weather, and prefixing the British adjwtive "bloody" 
 to each, as he jogs along. 
 
 The road is certainly rutty, the weather especially 
 gloomy and raw. A keen January wind is blowing, 
 and driving the sleet in fierce, slanting lines into Mr. 
 Sleaford's inflamed and whisky -bleared eyes. 
 
 A great bitterness is upon him ; the vanity of all 
 things earthly, of P. R. set-to's in particular, has been 
 forced upon him rudely. The man he has backed has 
 been beaten, shamefully and hopelessly, and put in 
 chancery in three rounds. Put not your trust in prize 
 fighters, has been sadly brought home to Mr. Giles 
 Sleaford. 
 
 He ambles on, on his jaded horse, stopping at every 
 "pub," until, as the black and sleety winter night is 
 closing in, he reaches the Red Farm. 
 
 The cheery light of fire and lamp streams far out 
 over the iron-bound road ; warmth and the savory 
 smell of supper greet him. But Mr. Sleaford's pater- 
 nal greeting is growled out, strongly impregnated with 
 whisky fumes, and is a gruff command for Joanna to 
 come and pull off his boots. His (adjective) hands are 
 so (adjective) froze that bless his (adjective) eyes, if 
 he can do it himself ! 
 
 There is a pause ; Jud and the two girls exchange 
 glances. They are all afraid of their father, except i 
 Dan, and Dan at the present moment is not there.) 
 Neither is Joanna, Mr. Sleaford sees, but in her place 
 is a strapping country lass of fifteen or so, whom he 
 eyes with surly amaze and disfavor. 
 
THE TRAGEDY AT SLEAFORD'S. 209 
 
 "Well, bless ray (adjective) eyes!" repeats Mr. 
 
 Sleaford, ferociously, " what the do you raean, by 
 
 standin' there like a passell of stuck pigs, and starin'? 
 Why the don't you call that gal ?" 
 
 "Looky here, dad," says Jud, to whom the girls 
 mutely appeal, " it's no good making a row, but Joanna 
 ain't here. She's cut and run — there !" 
 
 " Hey ?" roars Giles Sleaford, staring in fierce 
 amazement at his son. 
 
 " True as gospel, dad — cut and run a week — nine 
 days ago — with George Blake." 
 
 "And stole all our things — my new silk suit and 
 hat, and Liz's shawl !" chimes in Lora. 
 
 " Went off at break of day, to New York, with 
 Blake," continued Jud, plucking up heart of grace to 
 face his formidable father. " Cut Dan's head open 
 with a horsewhip first, and all for wanting her to sing 
 at Wat Jen's." 
 
 Giles Sleaford's jaw drops ; his eyes start as if 
 about to fall from their sockets. He is still " far wide " 
 — he only takes in the one blank fact that Joanna has 
 run away. 
 
 "This is how it was," goes on Jud, seeing his pa- 
 rent's mystification. 
 
 And thereupon gives a dispassionate aud perfectly 
 correct version of the whole proceeding. He does not 
 spare Dan ; in his heart Jud exults in the pluck Joanna 
 has shown, and chuckles inwardly whenever he looks 
 at his brother's wound. He, himself, has never lifted 
 his hand to the girl. 
 
 Giles Sleaford listens in dead silence. Even after 
 his son has done, he sits staring with open mouth aud 
 eyes, quite rigid and mute. 
 
210 THE TRAGEDY AT SLEAFORD'S. 
 
 This is so unexpected and thrilling that the Misses 
 Sleaford exchange apprehensive looks ; they have ex- 
 pected an outburst of rage and red-hot oaths — they 
 hear neither. 
 
 With a snap, Black Giles's jaws come together 
 again, as the chops of a dog close over a bone. Then 
 he takes down his short black pipe, and slowly begins 
 to load it to the muzzle — all without a word of com- 
 ment. He lights up, fills the kitchen with volumes of 
 smoke, always in awful and ominous silence. 
 
 Presently Dan comes in, and his father eyes in a 
 peculiar way the longitudinal strip of plaster that 
 adorns his brow. No greeting, except a grumbling 
 sort of grunt on Dan's part, is exchanged. 
 
 Mr. Sleaford sits buried in profound reflection. 
 Supper is announced, strong and savory, as it is in the 
 nature of the Sleaford repasts to be. Fried beefsteak 
 smothered in onions and grease, mashed potatoes, hot 
 buckwheat cakes and tea. Giles takes out his pipe, 
 and falls to, with the sharp-set air of a man who has 
 traveled forty miles, and who does not permit the loss 
 of two hundred dollars, and a household drudge, to 
 impair his appetite. But the Sleaford family are, one 
 and all, valiant trenchermen and women. 
 
 Seen through the lighted windows, it is a cheerful 
 picture enough of rough, homely comfort and abun- 
 dance — the bountifully spread table, the five healthy, 
 dark-skinned, highly-colored faces — but the repast is 
 eaten in perfect silence, except a few whispered re- 
 marks between the girls. 
 
 Outside, the sleet is still lashing the glass, and the 
 night has fairly closed in, in dense darkness and storm. 
 This is the subject of the whispers, and a matter of 
 
THE TRAGEDY AT SLEAFORD'S. 211 
 
 Bome concern to the Misses Sleaford, who are due at a 
 dance some few miles up the village, and tlie unpleas- 
 ant weather is something of a damper to their expected 
 enjoyment. 
 
 After supper, still without a word, Giles gets up, 
 buttons his rough coat, puts on his fur cap, twists some 
 yards of red scarf about his neck, and leaves the house. 
 The young people look at each other uneasily. 
 
 " Did you tell the old man ?" asks Dan. 
 
 " Jud did," says Lora, " and he never said a word 
 — not one single blessed word. I wonder where he's 
 going ?" 
 
 " What d'ye bet it ain't to Abbott Wood ?" says 
 Jud, carefully putting his beloved fiddle in its case. 
 " That old red rooster up there knows more about our 
 dad than any one else. He's going for money. He's 
 been pretty well shook, for I know he backed the 
 Brightbrook Beauty heavy, and he's gone for another 
 supply of the needful. I thought he'd raise the roof 
 when he heard of Joanna's bein' gone, but bless your 
 eyes, he took it like Mary's little lamb ! I wonder 
 where Jo is, to-night ?" 
 
 "Yes, I wonder!" says Liz, viciously. "I wish I 
 had her here for about ten minutes, I would pay her 
 out for ray beautiful new red shawl." 
 
 If they could have seen Joanna at that moment, 
 they would have seen her "going on " in the train of 
 Mile. Azelma, and facing a New York German audi- 
 ence for the first time. 
 
 " If you gals are coming, come," growls Dan. " I 
 am going to get round the sleigh, so bo ready, as I 
 won't wait — mind that." 
 The young ladies hurry off, giving sundry directions 
 
212 
 
 to Joanna's successor, the stout-limbed rustic maiden, 
 at present supping off the fragments of the feast. 
 They will not be home until morning ; she need not sit 
 up for father, and she is to have breakfast for them, 
 hot and hot, when they return in the morning about 
 six. Then they ascend to their chamber to adorn 
 themselves for the dance, envelop themselves in shawls 
 and " clouds," and finally stow themselves away in the 
 back seat of the sleigh, and are driven through the 
 white whirling storm to their destination. 
 
 Their father, meantime, has reached his, which 
 proves to be, as Jud has predicted, Abbott Wood. 
 He still maintains that ominous composure which has 
 so surprised his family, but there is a fierce light of 
 dogged determination in his sinister eyes. It is some- 
 thing more than common that takes him to Abbott 
 Wood. Since he first became the tenant of the Red 
 Farm, fully six years before, he has only entered that 
 house once — one other stormy night. He is going 
 there again, through darkness, and tempest and wind, 
 and this time, too, its master shall do his bidding, or 
 he, Giles, will know the reason why. As before, 
 Joanna is the cause that brings him. 
 
 He reaches the house, a huge black bulk in the 
 darkness, but few lights to be seen. He grinds his 
 teeth, and shakes his fist at it, as he rings a peal that 
 brings two startled men-servants hurriedly to the 
 door. 
 
 " Is your master in ?" he surlily demands. 
 
 The men stare, but the fierce, black-bearded face 
 commands civility, and an answer. 
 
 Not in. At Brightbrook. Dinner party. Will 
 be back to-night, but do not know when. 
 
 \ 
 
THE TRAGEDY AT SLEAFORD'S. 213 
 
 " You're sure he ain't in ?" says Giles, eyeing the 
 men in a way that makes them step Imrriedly back. 
 ** 'Cause why ? YouMI save him some trouble if he is, 
 by tellin' him Giles Sleaford is here, and wants to see 
 him, uncommon particular." 
 
 Ho is not in, both men assure him, with the earnest- 
 ness of personal alarm. 
 
 " Hah ! Werry well, then. When he does come 
 in you tell him this : * Giles Sleaford's been here,' 
 ses you. 'Giles Sleaford,' ses you, 'come through all 
 this here bloomin' storm a-purpose to see you to-night, 
 and he must see you to-night. Giles Sleaford,' you 
 ses, *left them words — must see you to-night. He 
 can't wait, leastways he won't, not here, but he'll wait 
 for you at his own place,' you ses, ' till after one 
 o'clock, and you'd better come I Them,' you ses, ' was 
 Giles Sleaford's own expressions.' You tell your mas- 
 ter them words, my man, when he comes from that 'ere 
 dinner-party." 
 
 With which Giles Sleaford turns away, remounts 
 his horse, and rides back to the Red Farm. 
 
 The girl has not retired ; she is nodding stupidly 
 over the kitchen stove. With an oath she is dis- 
 missed to bed, and goes. She is a dull, lumpish crea- 
 ture, and is frightened to find herself alone with the 
 rats and black beetles, and this savage man. 
 
 She has Joanna's little room under the rafters, 
 adjoining Giles's own, and opposite the two occupied 
 by the Sleaford boys and girls. She gets into bed, and 
 falls fast asleep in a moment. 
 
 She does not know how long she sleeps. All the 
 events of that dreadful night are blurred and con- 
 founded in her dull brain. She awakes suddenly to 
 
214 THE TRAGEDY AT SLEAFORD'S. 
 
 the sound of the fiercely-beating storm, the rain, 
 freezing as it falls, lashing the windows like lines of 
 steel, the wind roaring dismally through the woods. 
 It is very cold, too, and she shivers on her hard bed. 
 
 Other sounds reach her from below, the sounds of 
 voices talking — loud and angry voices. Can the girls 
 have come back ? No, these are not girls' voices, they 
 are the harsh, strong voices of disputing men. More 
 and more frightened, she tries to hear — there are two, 
 and both seem to be talking together. Now she 
 recognizes the voice of her master — the other is 
 unknown. 
 
 " You don't believe me ! " She hears these words 
 distinctly, shouted rather than spoken by Sleaford ; 
 " by ! then you shall believe me ! I have them up- 
 stairs in my room unbeknown to any in this house. 
 Come along ! by you shall see them, you shall be- 
 lieve me ! I have them, by the Eternal, and what's 
 more, I have you, and I'll not spare you ! No, may I 
 be everlastingly if I do ! " 
 
 The imprecations with which this apostrophe is in- 
 terlarded turns the blood of the young person who 
 listens, as she ever after informs her audience, into a 
 mask of ice. The sound of heavy footsteps stumbling 
 up-staira follows, two men enter the adjoining room. 
 
 There is a fumbling noise as of a search, a smothered 
 mumble of threats and curses in the amiable tones of 
 Mr. Sleaford — silence on the part of the other man — 
 then an exclamation of triumph. 
 
 " There ! " cries Sleaford, " look there ! Don't you 
 touch 'em, or I'll let daylight through you. Just look 
 at 'era. Here's the first — you've seen that afore. 
 Here's the second — look ! that's new. Maybe ye be- 
 
THE TRAGEDY AT SLEAFORD'S. 215 
 
 lieve me now ? Keep off — keep off, you, or by 
 
 all that's great I'll have your blood ! D'ye think I'll 
 let them go, after keeping 'em these eighteen years ? 
 Ha ! you would, would you ? " 
 
 There is a crash — it is a falling lamp, an explosion 
 — a fierce struggle — some dreadful oaths. Then — over 
 the crash of the storm, of lashing sleet and howling 
 wind, there is a shriek, a dreadful, unnatural scream 
 of agony, then a heavy fall, a hollow moan, then 
 silence. 
 
 The girl in the bed huddles up in a heap, frozen 
 with terror. There is a stamping sound ; it is one of 
 the men stamping out the flame of the oil, then a 
 pause, then rapid footsteps rushing down the stairs. 
 A door opens, shuts, then again there is the darkness, 
 the tumult of the storm, and silence in that awful 
 inner-room. 
 
 It is a dreadful silence, dreadfully broken. A groan 
 falls on the strained ear of the poor terrified girl. 
 
 " Help ! " a faint voice calls, " I am stabbed." 
 
 She does not dare stir, her teeth chatter, the bed 
 shakes beneath her with fright. 
 
 " Help ! " says that failing voice once more, " for 
 God's sake ! " 
 
 She cannot move, she seems frozen fast to the bed 
 wherein she crouches. That terrible cry comes no 
 more — profound stillness reigns in that frightful next 
 room. 
 
 How the hours of that night pass this frightened 
 creature never can tell. Her hair does not turn white, 
 which speaks well for its stability of color. She never 
 moves — she has buried herself in a heap under the bed- 
 clothes, and lies there, shivering and quaking. 
 
216 THE TRAGEDY AT SLEAFORD S. 
 
 With the first gray streak of dawn she rises, numb 
 and stiff, puts on her clothes, opens with shaking 
 hand the door, shuts her eyes fast, lest they should 
 light on some horrible specter, and bolts down stairs, 
 out of the horrid liouse, far over the soaked and sod- 
 den fields, as fast a.s her legs can carry her, away, away, 
 anywhere, anywhere, out of that horrible place ! 
 
 It is a wild, blusterous morning ; the storm is not 
 yet spent ; jagged clouds frown on the earth, sur- 
 charged with rain ; the wind beats her fiercely ; the 
 pallid, blank day has hardly begun. But at the near- 
 est house the goodman has risen, and is opening hia 
 doors and windows, when a flying figure comes leaping 
 toward him, flings open the house door, and falls pros- 
 trate on the threshold. He picks her up, puts the pant- 
 ing creature into a chair, and, in gasps, and incohe- 
 rently, she tells her tale. It is brief — murder has been 
 done at Sleaford's. 
 
 The man sets off, rouses some few of the neighbors, 
 and starts for the house. On their way they meet the 
 double sleigh holding the jaded sons and daughters of 
 the house, and to them the tale is unfolded. Five 
 minutes brings them to the farm. They hurry in, up 
 stairs, and pause involuntarily at that closed door. 
 Even Dan stands for a moment, afraid to see what 
 is on the other side. 
 
 " Oh, go on !" cries Lora, with a hysterical sob. 
 
 " Open the door, man," says somebody ; " it may 
 not be as bad as you think." 
 
 He obeys. A shocking sight meets their eyes. The 
 signs of a struggle are everywhere ; the broken lamp, 
 the charred floor, the overset chairs, and blood — every- 
 where blood ! It has crept under the bed, it has smear- 
 
GEOFFREY HEARS A CONFESSION. 217 
 
 ed the furniture ; it dyes to the hilt a long, curved, 
 murderous-looking knife lying near. Prone on the 
 floor, on his face, a man is lying — a big, broad-shoul- 
 dered, burly man — his hands and clothes crimson with 
 the terrible tide that besmears everything. 
 
 ** It is father !" says Lora, with a terrible cry. 
 
 They lift him up, and Liz falls backward at the 
 ghastly sight, and faints dead away. His face is rigid 
 and besmirched ; from his left side blood still flows in 
 black, coagulated drops. It is the master of the house, 
 destined never more to swear, or drink, or fight, or 
 horsewhip, while his name is Giles. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 GEOFFREY HEARS A CONFESSION. 
 
 |T is the forenoon of the day after. 
 
 Mrs. Abbott sits alone in her favorite 
 sitting-room — a dainty apartment in white 
 and gold ; a carpet like snow, covered with 
 purple and yellow-hearted pansies ; chairs like ivory, 
 upholstered in pale, creamy tints, that harmonize well 
 with the calla-lily hue of the lady's complexion. There 
 are flowers in abundance — in pots, in vases,, in crystal 
 cups ; they fill the air with summer fragrance. There 
 are but few pictures, in heavy gilt frames, and these 
 are portraits — her own, her son's, her daughter's, one 
 or two world-wide celebrities, and one lovely, sunlit, 
 Southern landscape. There are books everywhere, in 
 choice bindings ; an open piano ; rich draperies of 
 10 
 
218 aEOFFREY HEARS A CONFESSION. 
 
 creamy silk and lace ; and last, but by no means least, 
 a fire burning brightly in the grate. 
 
 Mrs. Abbott herself, in a white cashmere morning- 
 gown, trimmed with Valenciennes, sits back in the 
 pult'y depths of a great chair, her book lying idly on 
 her lap, her dark, dreamy eyes on the fire, her thoughts 
 anxious and perplexed. Like all the rest of the world 
 of Brightbrook, she is thinking of the Sleafords. 
 
 It is not yet eleven, but ill news flies apace ; it was 
 brought to Mrs. Abbott by Leo an hour ago. The 
 servants never gossip in their lady's presence, but they 
 do not mind Miss Leo, and Miss Leo runs with the 
 news to her mamma. For Joanna's sake, a certain 
 amount of interest attaches to these people, and deeds 
 of violence and bloodshed like this are rare in this 
 peaceful community. Some unknown man had visited 
 Sleaford's late last night, had had a quarrel with Slea- 
 ford, had stabbed Sleaford. That is the vague version 
 that has reached the mistress of Abbott Wood, and 
 that has set her thoughts wandering painfully to a 
 subject she would fain forget. 
 
 She has been inexpressibly shocked by the girl's 
 conduct. She had hoped to do her so much good, to 
 lift her above her surroundings — a doubtful sort of 
 good, always — had hoped to refine and subdue her, 
 
 had thought that task accomplished, and now ! 
 
 She has heard the whole disgraceful story — how for 
 little or no provocation the girl had set fiercely upon 
 one of the young men, and laid open his head with a 
 blow of a loaded whip-handle, how she fled to the 
 woods, how she entrapped foolish young George Blake 
 into running away with her, how she has added robbery 
 to attempted murder, and gone to New York. 
 
GEOFFREY HEARS A CONFESSION. 219 
 
 Bat the sequel is strangest, wildest of all ; it 
 almost exceeds belief. When George Blake's frenzied 
 mother and maiden aunt rush up in pursuit of the 
 fugitive pair, what do they find ? A deserted bride- 
 groom ! What do they hear? An incomprehensible 
 story ! She has run away with him — yes ; but she has 
 also run away from him ! When Blake, with his 
 friend, reached the hotel some two hours after his 
 quitting it, they found an empty room, and a lost 
 bride-elect. Poor George, like a man demented, has 
 been hunting the city ever since, but in vain. If the 
 pavement had opened and swallowed her she could 
 not more completely^ have disappeared. She has 
 threatened suicide often — has she escaped Black's 
 Dam to find death in the North River ? Mrs. Blake 
 is jubilant, but hides her feelings, and returns with the 
 tale to Brightbrook. 
 
 And it is over this Mrs. Abbott is painfully ponder- 
 ing, as she sits and looks at the fire. Geoffrey, too, is 
 on the track ; he scouts the idea of suicide. He main- 
 tains that Joanna must have been insulted and goaded 
 beyond endurance. He has faith in her innate good- 
 ness and gratitude. In running away from George 
 Blake she has acted for his good. He does not, will 
 not, give her up. " If she is above ground I will find 
 her!" he says, in that quiet, inflexibly determined way 
 of his ; but as yet even he has not obtained the 
 faintest clew. 
 
 Down in the servants' hall two tall footmen stand 
 aside with very grave faces, and whisper mysteriously. 
 They know rather more of the affair Sleaford than 
 most people, but they have an excellent place, little to 
 do, good wages, and they judiciously only whisper. 
 
230 GEOFFREY HEARS A CONFESSION. 
 
 Very late last night, in all that storm, the man Slea- 
 ford was here, and left a peremptory order for master, 
 when master returned. Master rode home about 
 eleven, was given that message, swore roundly at the 
 giver, turned his horse, faced the sleet and wind, and 
 rode off again. About two this morning he returned, 
 pale as a corpse, drenched, frozen, staggering, stained 
 with blood! Stained with blood — his vest spotted, 
 one of his hands cut, his face bruised, as if in a strug- 
 gle. All this is seen at a glance. Then he went to 
 his room, locked the door, and has not been seen since. 
 His man left his hot shaving-water and a cup of coffee 
 in the dressing-room. He did not appear at missus' 
 breakfast. It has a very ugly look ; the two men 
 have reason to whisper gravely over it, and hold them- 
 selves apart. 
 
 But the birds of the air carry news of bloodshed, 
 ft is being rumored already, in awe-stricken tones, 
 through the village, who Giles Sleaford's midnight 
 visitor was. 
 
 Mrs. Abbott throws aside her book at last, with a 
 heavy, impatient sigh, and rises, and goes to a win- 
 dow. She draws aside the draperies and looks out. 
 A storm of wind and wet is sweeping past ; the " Jan- 
 uary thaw " has set in in pouring rain. The landscape 
 looks all blurred and blotted out, the sky black and 
 low, the trees twisting and rattling in the gale. Where 
 is that unfortunate Joanna, this wild winter day? the 
 lady thinks, with a shiver. Poor creature ! it seems of 
 no use trying to do anything with this sort of people ; 
 they are true to their own reckless natures, and under 
 that light outer coating of varnish are tameless and 
 reckless to the end. 
 
GEOFFREY HEARS A CONFESSION. 221 
 
 As she stands and gazes at the drifting rain, she 
 coming through it the figure of a man. He ap- 
 proaches the house — some one of the servants, she 
 thinks. But a moment after there is a tap at the door, 
 and one of the tall men enters, looking flurried and 
 startled. 
 
 " Well ?" his mistress says, in some surprise. 
 
 "It's — it's a young man, ma'am," the man stam- 
 mers, " to see you, if you please. A young man by 
 the name of Sleaford." 
 
 " Sleaford !" she repeats the name, almost startled 
 herself ; it has been in her thoughts all the morning 
 so persistently, and is so associated with tragedy 
 now. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am, he wishes to see you most particular, 
 he says. It's a matter of life or death." 
 
 " To see 7ne .^" more and more surprised. " Are 
 you sure you have not made a mistake ? Are you sure 
 it is not Mr. Abbott ?" 
 
 " He said most particular ray missus. I put the 
 question to him wasn't it master, and he said nOy Mrs. 
 Abbott, and a matter of life and death." 
 
 "Show him in." 
 
 She moves back to her chair before the fire, and 
 the young man by the name of Sleaford is shown in. 
 He casts one careless glance around the beautiful white 
 and gold boudoir, and stands, hat in hand, dripping, 
 dark, strong, weather-beaten, a handsome, gypsy sort 
 of young fellow, my lady thinks, not without a sort of 
 admiration, as if he were a fine or a well-painted pic- 
 turesque brigand in a Salvator Rosa picture. 
 
 "You wished to see me ?" her slow, sweet, legato 
 tones break the silence. " Will you sit down ?" 
 
222 GEOFFEEY HEARS A CONFESSION. 
 
 He looks at the frail, pretty, white and amber chair, 
 and shakes his black head. 
 
 "No, lady, I will stay but a minute. My name is 
 Judson Sleaford, my father was stabbed last night. 
 He is dying to-day, and he has sent me to you." 
 
 He addresses her with perfect ease of manner, 
 entirely unembarrassed by his errand, her stately pres- 
 ence, or the splendors around him. 
 
 " Yes," she says, wondering more and more, " to 
 me?" 
 
 " To you, lady — most particular to you. He didn't 
 say so, but I think he would rather Mr. Abbott knew 
 nothing about it. He says it is a matter in which you 
 are concerned, and he wants to make a dying confes- 
 sion to your son." 
 
 "To my son?" 
 
 " To young Mr. Lamar. Mr. Lamar can tell you 
 later. Is he at home ?" 
 
 "My son is in New York," Mrs. Abbott replies, 
 turning very pale ; " he is in search of Joanna." 
 
 " Thafs unlucky," says Jud, with perfect coolness, 
 " because dad — I mean father — can't hold out much 
 longer, and he says it's important. As w^ell look for 
 last year's partridges as our Joanna — he won't find 
 her. Couldn't you send for him, lady ? He could get 
 a dispatch and be here in five hours." 
 
 " Certainly," Mrs. Abbott says, " if it is necessary. 
 But " 
 
 "Dad wouldn't take all this trouble if it wasn't. 
 It's of importance, you'd better believe, lady, and 
 worth hearing, whatever it is. You'd best send for 
 him, and tell him to look sharp, if he wants to see the 
 old man alive. He's sinking fast. The doctor says he 
 
GEOFFREY HEARS A CONFESSION. 223 
 
 would be dead now from loss of blood if he wasn't as 
 strong as five ordinary men." 
 
 " I will send for him at once — at once," the lady- 
 says, rising ; " but 1 cannot imagine " 
 
 She stops, looking pale and puzzled. 
 
 " No more can I," says Jud. "All the same, dad 
 can't die easy with it on his mind — so he says. I'll 
 tell him, then, the young gentleman will be telegraphed 
 for, and will come ? Put it strong, please, lady, so 
 that there may be no mistake." 
 
 "He will come the instant he gets the dispatch," 
 Mrs. Abbott says, and Jud Sleaford, with a bow, de- 
 parts. 
 
 " Come down at once. Go straight to Sleaford's." 
 
 These are the words she writes and sends to the vil- 
 lage by a mounted messenger, which flash over the 
 wires to New York, and find Geoffrey rising from a 
 midday luncheon. 
 
 He knits his brows perplexedly as he reads — an odd 
 message, signed by his mother. A moment later his 
 face clears. It concerns Joanna — she has returned, or 
 there is news of her. He looks at his watch — it wants 
 an hour of train-time. He will get to Brightbrook at 
 4.30, to Sleaford's at 5. If Joanna is back, by fair 
 means or foul, he will compel Giles Sleaford to give 
 her up. His interest in the girl he has befriended is 
 deep and strong — he can hardly understand its depth 
 and strength himself. 
 
 The dim afternoon is fast darkening into night, aS; 
 by the swiftest conveyance he can find at the depot, 
 he drives through the rainy woods to the Red Farm. 
 All the rest of his life the memory of that drive never 
 leaves him — it is like no other that has gone before, or 
 
224 GEOFFREY HEARS A CONFESSION. 
 
 that comes after. His whole life is changed from that 
 hour. The picture of the desolate scene will never 
 leave him ; in after years he starts from his sleep often, 
 in disturbed dreams living it over again. It is always 
 dark, that picture, with the melancholy drip, drip, 
 of the rain, the forlorn trees, the desolate flats and 
 marshes. It has been said that we die many times be- 
 fore we are laid in our coffin. Looking back, it always 
 seems to Geoffrey Lamar that on that evening he died 
 first. 
 
 He reaches the farmstead — a strange stillness and 
 gloom rest upon that noisy household. He has crossed 
 its threshold but twice before ; this is the third and 
 last time. The thought of that somber red house can 
 never return to him again without a thrill of the pain, 
 and shame, and horror of this night. 
 
 In the kitchen he finds the girls and their youthful 
 handmaid, huddled together, a shrinking group. 
 
 They have feared their harsh father in life, they 
 fear him more in his grisly death. They will not go 
 near his room : a superstitious dread holds them back ; 
 death, and such dark death as this, appals them. Jud 
 is nurse and companion. Dan has deserted the house, 
 and hangs moodily about the premises. A chill strikes 
 Geoffrey — something more than news of Joanna is here. 
 
 "What has happened?" he asks. "Why have I 
 been sent for, and told to come here ?" 
 
 "Don't you know?" Lora asks, in wonder. To her 
 it seems as if all the world must know,/as if it had 
 happened months ago, instead of but a few hours. 
 " Father's been murdered, and has sent for you." 
 
 "Your father — murdered !" 
 
GEOFFREY HEARS A CONFESSION. 225 
 
 He stares as he pronounces the horrible word, qnite 
 aghast. 
 
 " Murdered ! smd sent for him !" 
 
 " Oh ! he ain't dead yet," the girl says, beginning 
 to sob hysterically. "He can't die, he says, until he 
 sees you. But he is dying, and there is not a moment 
 to lose. Jud said to call him as soon as ever you came. 
 Liz, go and call him." 
 
 "Go yourself !" is Liz's whimpering retort. "I — 
 I'm afraid." 
 
 " You go, Beck," Lora says to the girl ; and Beck, 
 possessing plenty of stolid stupidity, which stands in 
 good stead of moral courage sometimes, goes. 
 
 Jud appears directly. 
 
 "It's lucky you've come," he says. " He won't hold 
 out till morning. He's awake and ready to see you. 
 Come up. Look out for the stairs. It's dark, but 
 dad, poor old chap, don't want a light. Here ! come 
 in." 
 
 The chamber of the tragedy is but dimly lit by two 
 pale gray squares of twilight, but it is sufficient to 
 show the grayer face of the dying man. Geoffrey is a 
 physician ; at a glance he sees that death is there. It 
 is a question of very few hours. He is a ghastly sight, 
 black-bearded, bloodless, with staring eyes, and gasp- 
 ing breath. Some of the old fierce light lingers in these 
 glazing eyes ; they kindle at sight of his visitor. 
 
 " You go, Jud," he says. " I'll speak to this 
 young gent alone." 
 
 The wonderful strength of the man is in his voice 
 yet — the old imperious ring in his tone. 
 
 Jud obeys. 
 
 " If you want anything," he says to Geoffrey, 
 to* 
 
226 GEOFFREY HEARS A CONFESSION". 
 
 " knock with your heel on the floor. I'll go down and 
 take a smoke, and I'll hear you. There's the stuff he 
 takes, on the table. Don't let him talk too much ; the 
 doctor says 'tain't good for him." 
 
 " Will you go and hold your jaw ?" interrupts the 
 dying man with a glare. 
 
 Jud shrugs his shoulders and goes, and Geoffrey is 
 
 alone with Giles Sleaford. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Nearly an hour passes. 
 
 Down stairs the group sit and wait. They wonder 
 what their father can have to sa}'^ — something about 
 Joanna, they infer. Dan slouches uneasily in and out 
 of the house, the girls cling together in silence. Out- 
 side the night and rain fall, the wind sobs feebly. 
 
 " Show a light, can't ye ? " Dan growls, stum- 
 bling in, and Beck obeys. 
 
 But even the bright lamp cannot dispel the gloom, 
 the awe. In that upper chamber there is silence — no 
 telegraphic boot-heel has summoned aid. Can they be 
 talking all this time ? 
 
 " It must be awful dark up there," Lora whispers. 
 " Jud ought to go with a light." 
 
 But Jud will not go until summoned, "if he 
 knows himself," he asseverates. And he is not sum- 
 moned for still another half hour. 
 
 It is nearly seven when the bedroom door opens, 
 and a footstep slowly descends the stair. Very slowly, 
 unsteadily, it seems, and then the door opens, and 
 Geoffrey Lamar conies in. 
 
 They start to their feet, one and all, at sight of 
 him. What has happened? Is father — dead? For 
 death only should change any face as Geoffrey Lamar's 
 
GEOFFREY HEARS A CONFESSION. 227 
 
 18 changed. So white, so haggard, the eyes so wild, so 
 vacant, like the eyes of a sleep-walker, fixed in a blank, 
 sightless stare. 
 
 " Oh ! what is it ? " they all cry out. " Is father 
 dead ? Is father dead ? " 
 
 His dry lips part, he makes an effort to speak, 
 shakes his head, points upwards, and turns and goes. 
 Still in that same blank way, as if dazed or stunned by 
 a blow. The conveyance in which he came is waiting, 
 but he never thinks of it ; he plunges on through the 
 rain, across the sloppy fields and marsh land, under 
 the dripping trees — straight on, with the blind, un- 
 erring instinct still of the sleep-walker. 
 
 And, strangest of all, he does not go home. He 
 goes on to the village, to the hotel, asks for a room, 
 and locks himself in. 
 
 And then he falls, rather than sits, in a chair, 
 covers his face with his hands, and so remains motion- 
 less a long time. He is trying to think, but his brain 
 is spinning like a top — heart, soul, mind are in con- 
 fusion. His thoughts are chaos — no order comes. A 
 great, nameless horror, of sin, and shame, and dark- 
 ness, and ruin has fallen upon him. Past and future 
 are blotted out — the present is only a hopeless whirl of 
 sudden despair. He sits for a long time ; then he 
 starts up, and begins pacing the room, as a madman 
 might ; his teeth are set, his face blanched, his eyes 
 full of infinite misery, his hands locked. Walking or 
 sitting, he still cannot think. The blow has been too 
 sudden, the agony too great. Later, he will think, 
 until thought becomes almost insanity ; to-night he is 
 wild, distraught, master of himself no more. 
 
 He sits again, starts up again, and walks until ex- 
 
228 A LONG JOURNEY. 
 
 hausted. Then he flings himself down, his folded 
 
 arms on the table, his face resting on them, with one 
 
 great heart-wrung sob, and so lies, mute and prone. 
 
 And when morning dully and heavily breaks, it so 
 
 finds him. He has not slept for a moment the whole 
 
 night through. 
 
 ♦ •* 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A LONG JOURNEY. 
 
 HAT night Giles Sleaford dies. 
 
 A little group surrounds his bed — the 
 doctor, the clergyman, a magistrate, his 
 son Jud, and Dan just within the door. 
 And the last words of the dying man are these : 
 
 "Nobody done it. It was — a accident. He's 
 acted — all square with me — and — it sha'n'u be said — 
 Giles Sleaford — played it — low down — on him. I've 
 
 told the truth — to the young gent Nobody done 
 
 it. I fell — on the knife. You — gents all — remember 
 that when I'm — toes up." 
 
 With many gasps he says this — the gray shade of 
 death on his face, its clammy moisture on his brow. 
 There is a prolonged death-struggle, the strong life 
 within him fights hard, but the rattle sounds, he 
 stiffens out with a shiver through all his limbs, and 
 lies before them — dead. 
 
 And John Abbott is vindicated ! It is the doctor 
 who brings the news to the master of Abbott Wood — 
 the doctor, who is also the family physician of the 
 Abbotts. He rides with a very grave face, yet curious 
 to see how the man will take it. Yes, the servant said, 
 
A LONG JOURNEY. 229 
 
 dubiously, his master is in, but he doesp't know 
 whether he will see any one. Dr. Gillson scribbles a 
 line or two, folds it up, sends it, and the result is he is 
 , shown at once to Mr. Abbott's study. There, Mr. 
 Abbott, unshorn and haggard, with blood-shot eyes 
 and disordered dress, sits and looks at him with sullen 
 suspicion as he comes in. 
 
 " What is this message of yours ?" he demands, 
 surlily. " I am not well to-day. I did not wish to 
 see any one. I " 
 
 " I came from Sleaford's," interrupts the doctor, 
 regarding him covertly. "The man Giles is dead." 
 
 "Dead !" John Abbott says. "Dead I" The last 
 trace of florid color leaves his face, and leaves it per- 
 fectly livid. "Dead I" he repeats, with a dull, vacant 
 stare. 
 
 " Dead !" reiterates Dr. Gillson. " I have just left 
 his death-bed. Mr. Abbott," he says, his hand on the 
 millionaire's arm, " it is known throughout the place 
 that you were the man who visited him at midnight or 
 the night before last !" 
 
 John Abbott turns his inflamed eyes upon the physi 
 cian's face, still in that dazed, vacant way. " Well?' 
 he says, moistening his dry lips. 
 
 "It is known you had a struggle with him, thai 
 violent words passed. It is known that for years he 
 has held some secret power over you. Pardon me for 
 repeating all this, but it is public talk now in Bright- 
 brook. You have been suspected of — killing Giles 
 Sleaford." 
 
 " It — it isn't true," Mr. Abbott answers, still in that 
 dull, slow way, so unlike his usual furious manner ovei 
 even trifles. " I didn't kill him." 
 
230 A LONG JOURNEY. 
 
 "No," the doctor says; "although your own asser- 
 tion would not vindicate you. But he has." 
 
 " What ?" 
 
 " On his death-bed just now, his last words were 
 a vindication of you." 
 
 John Abbott gives a great gasp — whether of 
 amaze or relief the doctor cannot tell — stares at him 
 a moment, grasps the arms of his chair, sits erect, and 
 waits. 
 
 " His last words vindicate you," repeats the medi- 
 cal man, emphatically. "* Nobody did it' — I repeat 
 what he said — 'it was an accident. I fell on the 
 knife.' Mr. Powers and the Rev. Cyrus Brown were 
 both listening, as were also his sons. My dear sir, I 
 congratulate myself on being the first to bring you this 
 good news." 
 
 Dr. Gillson feels no particular regard for the man 
 ))efore him, beyond the regard that all well-constituted 
 minds must feel for a man who can sign a big check 
 with the easy grace of John Abbott. He has signed 
 more than one for the doctor. 
 
 There is a moment's deep silence — the blood comes 
 back with a red rush to Mr. Abbott's face. A carafe 
 of water stands on the table ; he fills himself a full 
 glass and drinks it oif. Then he rises, thrusts his 
 hands in his trousers pockets, and begins walking ex- 
 citedly up and down. 
 
 " Have you told my wife this ?" are his first words, 
 and the surly tone of his previous greeting has re- 
 turned. 
 
 " Certainly not, Mr. Abbott. I should think Mrs. 
 Abbott wouLi be the very last to hear anything of this 
 
A LONG JOURNEY. 231 
 
 disagreeable nature. It is hardly a topic fitted for a 
 delicate lady's ears." 
 
 Mr. Abbott resumes his quick march, his forehead 
 frowning, his glance sullen. 
 
 "Look here !" he says ; "this mi»?t seem a fishy 
 sort of business to you, and I know there has been a 
 deuced deal of talk about it. Brightbrook is such a 
 beastly talkative little hole, and every man makes his 
 neighbor's business his own. I knew Giles Sleaford 
 years ago— ay, a round score of them, and in the past 
 he did me some — well — services, that I haven't forgot. 
 No, it ain't my way to use a dirty tool, and then fling 
 it aside. IVe befriended him, poor beggar, since he 
 <;ame here. And I was with him that night, by his 
 own request, and we did have a dispute. He had 
 something belonging to me — I wanted it, and he drew 
 u knife. There was a brief struggle for the possession 
 of the property — mine, mind you, by every right — and 
 in that struggle his foot slipped, and he fell forward 
 on the weapon. There is the whole story, so help me. 
 K don't mind owning I've been uneasy about it, for if 
 )n^ hadn't spoken before he died, things looked ugly 
 t'or me. But he has spoken, you tell me, like a trump, 
 iind told the truth, by Heaven ! Well ! — and so poor 
 Giles, poor beggar, is gone ! Well, we must all go 
 when our time comes. Will you have a glass of wine, 
 doctor? It's rawish sort of weather, and the roads 
 are beastly." 
 
 Dr. Gillson knows what the Abbott vintages are 
 like, and accepts. Mr. Abbott rings, issues orders, and 
 resumes his march. 
 
 " I'm glad you haven't told my missis. She's ner- 
 vous, and, as you say, it ain't quite the topic for a lady, 
 
/ 
 
 332 A LONG JOURNEY. 
 
 I hope she won't hear anything of it. A man don't 
 want his family to know everything. And so poor 
 Giles is gone ! Well, well ! he was a desperate fellow 
 in his time, and strong as an ox. It's a little hole lets 
 a man's life out, ain't it, doctor? Here's the wine, 
 doctor. Help yourself." 
 
 " I saw young Lamar last evening," the doctor re- 
 marks ; " fine young fellow that, and an honor to a 
 noble profession. Capital port this, Mr. Abbott — will 
 you try it yourself ?" 
 
 " Saw Lamar ? Saw Geoff ? No, did you though ? 
 Didn't know he was down. Yes, I'll take a thimble- 
 ful, my mouth feels parched to day. Yes, a fine young 
 fellow, as you say, doctor — no call to learn your busi- 
 ness. I provide for him as if he was my son. No 
 need for Mm ever to look at tongues, or feel pulses. 
 But he would do it, sir. Amuses him, I suppose. 
 This house will be his when I pass in my checks. I 
 love that boy, sir, as if he was my own." 
 
 From this moment Mr. Abbott's spirits rise, until 
 they are at fever heat. He drinks his own wine, he 
 snaps his fingers at imaginary foes, he clears the Red 
 Farm from the rabble who infest it, he holds up his 
 head, and feels he is a man again. He has never 
 breathed quite freely in the lifetime of Giles Sleaford. 
 It was like standing on a volcano, that might split 
 open and vomit fire at any moment. And now Slea- 
 ford has gone, and cleared his character. " Bully for 
 old Giles ! " is Mr. Abbott's somewhat inelegant in- 
 ward exclamation, his eyes sparkling, the fluid color 
 deep in his vinous cheeks. Joanna, too, is gone — it is 
 a blessed relief to be rid of both. He has nothing to 
 fear now. 
 
A LONG JOURNEY. 233 
 
 " Even if they find them — them things," Mr. Ab- 
 bott muses, "those loggerheads of boys won't be able 
 to make top or tail of 'em, and there were things no 
 living soul knew but Black Giles himstlf. Tisn't 
 likely he told those louts of his. He bled me pretty 
 freely in his lifetime, and he wasn't the sort to be 
 overburdened with family affection, or to care too 
 much for them he left behind him. But I wish I had 
 — I had those things." 
 
 He ponders over it a good deal, and the result is, 
 he takes his courage in his two hands later in the day, 
 and rides over to the house of death. A large and 
 motley assemblage are there, indoors and out. There 
 is to be a sort of " wake," of a somewhat festive char- 
 acter too, for copious refreshments for the watchers 
 are in course of preparation. But the great man 
 of Brightbrook is met on all hands by such dark looks, 
 and sullen and sinister glances, such angry, ominous 
 silence, that he prudentlj' does not press the matter 
 that has brought him, but rides away again as he 
 came. Dan Sleaford, in particular, eyes him with so 
 much latent malevolence, that he breathes more 
 freely, although no coward, when half a mile of marsh 
 land lies between them. It only confirms him in his 
 resolution, however, to sweep, without loss of time, all 
 this evil-disposed vermin off his land. 
 
 Mrs. Abbott is reading a note when he enters his 
 own drawing-room, with a surprised and perplexed 
 face. It runs : 
 
 "Brightbrook House, Jan. 29, 18 — . 
 " My dear Mother : I am pressed for time, and 
 so shall not visit the house before returnino; to the 
 
234 A LONG JOURNEY. 
 
 ci'ty. An important matter calls me away for a few 
 weeks, so do not be anxious if I am not with you for 
 some little time. Most affectionately, 
 
 " Geoffrey Lamae." 
 
 Such a strange note — so short, so curt, so incom- 
 prehensible. To go without calling to see her, to be 
 absent for some weeks, to say not one word about his 
 summons to Sleaford's, or what passed there. Mrs. 
 Abbott sits fairly puzzled, and a trifle displeased. It 
 is not in the least like Geoffrey, this brusqueness, this 
 mystery. 
 
 " Has Geoff come ?" Mr. Abbott asks, entering in 
 high good spirits, red, bluff, breezy. • 
 
 She glances at him in surprise, folds her note, and 
 puts it in her pocket. 
 
 " Geoffrey is not here. How did you know he was 
 down ?" 
 
 " Oil ! old GJllson told me — met him last night at 
 the station. You don't mean to say, Leonora, he 
 hasn't been here at all ?" 
 
 It is a token that Mr. Abbott's spirits are at their 
 highest, when he calls his wife by her name, or gives 
 her the loving glance he does at this moment. And 
 both name and glance from him are particularly odious 
 to Mrs. Abbott. She rises coldly as he approaches. 
 
 " My son has not been here, Mr. Abbott. He did 
 come down, but he has again gone." 
 
 She turns to leave the room, but the seigneur of 
 Abbott Wood, in his new-born happiness, interposes. 
 
 " Oh ! hang it all, Nora, don't run away, as if I 
 was the plague ! Sit down and let us have a cozy 
 talk. A man might as well be married to an icebergj 
 
A LONG JOURNEY. 235 
 
 blessed if he mightn't. I don't see you hardly from 
 one week's end to t'other. No man likes to be kept 
 off at arm's length that way, blessed if he does. It 
 ain't nature. I don't complain, mind you — I'm proud 
 of you. You're the handsomest woman, the best- 
 dressed woman, the highest-stepping woman I ever 
 see — dashed if you ain't ! And all the men say so. 
 And I love the ground you walk on. I wouldn't have 
 you different if I could. You suit rae to a T ! Only 
 don't be so stiff and stand-offish all the time. Do sit 
 down, Nora, and let us have a cozy chat." 
 
 " You have been drinking, Mr. Abbott," his wife 
 says, in cold disgust : " keep off ! Do not come near 
 me ! I cannot talk to an intoxicated man." 
 
 " No, I ain't drunk — had a glass or two, but bless 
 you, I ain't drunk. I tell you, you're a stunner, Nora, 
 and I love you, by George I do, and I love your son, 
 and half I have shall be his. There ! I can't say no 
 fairer than that. It was the best day of my life, the 
 day I married you ; only you are so high and mighty, 
 and won't sit down as a wife should, and have a 
 cozy " 
 
 But Mrs. Abbott waits to hear no more of this 
 tipsy, uxorious maundering. As he comes toward her, 
 she swiftly leaves the room, retreats to her own, and 
 locks the door. Leo is there drawing, and she looks 
 up in alarm to see her mother's white face, and burning 
 dark eyes. 
 
 She starts up. 
 
 " Mamma ! what is it ?" 
 
 Some vague resemblance to the man below looks 
 at her out of Leo's eyes, and she puts out her hands to 
 keep her off. 
 
236 A LONG JOURNEY. 
 
 " No !" she cries, " do not ! It is nothing." She 
 sinks down and covers her face. " Oh !" she thinks, 
 with a bitterness that is greater than the bitterness of 
 death, " what a wretch I am ! How richl}^ I deserve 
 my fate ! For his money I sold myself, degraded my- 
 self ! Shall I never get used to ray foul bondage? I 
 try, I pray, I strive, but in spite of myself I am grow- 
 ing to loathe that man." 
 
 * :ic 4c % 4c 4c 
 
 Little more than a week later, and Geoffrey Lamar 
 i i in San Francisco. Jaded, travel-worn, pale, he goes 
 about the business that has brought him tliere, giving 
 no time to sight-seeing, or study of life occidental. 
 That business takes him to a church in the suburbs, to 
 the search of a certain register, where he finds what 
 he fears to find, what he has hoped he will not find. 
 It takes him to still another and similar errand, and 
 with similar result. He has been fatally successful in 
 both quests. One more visit remains to be made, then 
 he returns, with every hope of his life crushed out, it 
 seems to him, forever. It is to a public building, a 
 dingy brick edifice, with barred and grated windows, 
 high spiked walls, and watchful sentinels, but, saddest 
 of all prisons, a lunatic asylum. He sees the resident 
 physician and states his errand, and the name of the 
 person he has come to see. The doctor eyes him curi- 
 ously. 
 
 "It is an odd thing," he says, smiling, " but you 
 are the first visitor in thirteen years who has asked to 
 see that patient. Yes, she is here, and she is well, that 
 is, physically. Mentally, of course " 
 
 The doctor taps his frontal development, and shakes 
 his head. 
 
A LONG JOURNEY. 237 
 
 "Is she a violent case ?" Geoffrey asks. 
 
 " Oh, dear, no ; quite the reverse. Gentle as a child, 
 and, seemingly, as sane as you or I, except at intervals. 
 But, of course, it is all seeming. It is a hopeless case. 
 She will never be any better." 
 
 " What do you know of her history?" 
 
 " What do you know of it ?" the doctor retorts. 
 " Pardon me, but I never betray trust." 
 
 " I know everything. She has been here for fifteen 
 years ; she has lost a child ; her brother placed her 
 under your care for temporary aberration, thinking she 
 would recover. She has not recovered. She grieves 
 for her child, and it is part of her lunacy that she 
 must wait here until that child — now grown up — comes 
 for her. Her husband is a rich man. Your orders are, 
 every care and comfort compatible with close confine- 
 ment. Her name is Mrs. Bennett." 
 
 " All correct," the doctor answers. " I see you 
 know. But her child is dead. You are a relative, I 
 presume ?" 
 
 " I am not a relative. I -have been sent here by 
 one. But you mistake in one point. Her daughter is 
 not dead." 
 
 " No ? You surprise me. I certainly was so in- 
 formed. Mr. Bennett's remittances from New York 
 are regular as clock-work. She has every care and at- 
 tention, as you will see. If you are ready, I will ac- 
 company you now." 
 
 They ascend some flights of stairs, traverse sundry 
 corridors, and enter at last a pleasant, sunny little room. 
 There a woman sits sewing. A carpet is on the floor, 
 a canary is in a cage, some pots of roses and geraniums 
 
238 A LONG JOURNEY. 
 
 are in the windows, but the windows themselves are 
 grated like the rest. 
 
 "A visitor for you, Mrs. Bennett," the doctor says, 
 cheerily, " a young gentleman from the States." 
 
 Mrs. Bennett rises, and makes an old-fashioned 
 little courtesy. She is a thin-faced looking woman, 
 with*dark, wistful eyes, and black hair, thickly threaded 
 with gray. Once she must have been rather pretty, 
 but that once was long ago. 
 
 "I do not know you, sir," she says, slowly scanning 
 his features. "Perhaps you bring me news of my 
 child ?" 
 
 It is difficult to imagine her insane — so gentle, so 
 collected are look and tone. 
 
 "I do," Geoffrey answers, with emotion, and he 
 takes the poor creature's hand. "Your daughter is 
 alive and well, and I believe will come for you before 
 long." 
 
 "I have been waiting a long time, a very long 
 time," the poor soul says, wiping her eyes. "I get so 
 tired sometimes, so tired, and then I think perhaps 
 she will never come at all. And it is a little lonely 
 here," glancing deprecatingly at the doctor, "although 
 everybody is very kind to me, very kind indeed. But, 
 oh, I want my little Joan — my little Joan !" 
 
 The pathos of her tone touches his heart. 
 
 " Your little Joan will come, I promise you that, 
 and very soon," he answers. 
 
 " And will she take me away ?" with a wistful, tear- 
 ful glance, " for I want to go away. I have been here 
 so long — so many, many years. I would like a change 
 now. I never make a noise, do I, doctor? nor make 
 trouble, like the other people here. I am very quiet. 
 
A LONG JOURNEY. 239 
 
 And I will do everything she tells me if she will only- 
 take me away." 
 
 " She will take you away, I am sure of that." 
 
 " I get so tired, you know," she goes on, piteously. 
 "No one ever comes to see me. My husband is busy 
 working, and sends money to pay for me, and, of 
 course, he cannot leave his business to come. And 
 Giles has gone away. Giles is my brother, but I am 
 afraid of him ; he is cross, and he curses. So did my 
 husband, but he was good to me. I have been here a 
 long time, and I have been very patient, and now I 
 want to go away, for I am tired of this house, and so 
 many noisy people." 
 
 Geoffrey reassures her, and makes a sign to the doc- 
 tor to go. Her plaintive voice, her sad, weary eyes, 
 pierce his heart. They bid her farewell, and leave her 
 wiping her poor dim eyes, and murmuring softly that 
 she will be very good if Joan will only come and take 
 her away. 
 
 Three days later Geoffrey Lamar starts on his re- 
 turn journey to New York. A great change has come 
 over him. That old look of invincible resolution has 
 deepened to gloomy sternness ; he has aged in three 
 days — he looks ten years older than on the night he 
 sat by Giles Sleaford's death-bed. All the youthful 
 brightness has gone — care-worn, haggard, silent, ho 
 sits the long days through, while the land whirls by 
 him, seeing nothing of all that passes, hearing nothing 
 of all that goes on. Wrapped in himself and his somber 
 thoughts, thinking, thinking always — so the time wears, 
 and at last the long overland journey is at an end, and 
 he treads the familiar New York streets once more. 
 
 He makes no delay in the city. What must be 
 
240 A LONG JOURNEY. 
 
 done is best done quickly. All his plans are formed 
 beyond possibility of change — new plans for a new 
 life. The past is dead and done with, a wholly new 
 existence must begin for him at once. 
 
 He goes down to Brightbrook, and reaches the vil- 
 lage late in the afternoon. The sunset of a sparkling 
 winter day is paling its crimson fires, and tinging with 
 its ruby glow the trees, the urns, the western windows 
 of the great house. He enters the avenue on foot, and 
 walks up under those noble trees with a quick, firm 
 step. "For the last time," he thinks, as he looks 
 around. And it was to have been his — his home — this 
 fair domain, this goodly inheritance. For its loss he 
 feels no pang — a far heavier blow has fallen upon him. 
 The loss of fortune can be borne — the loss of honor is 
 all. And all is lost — even honor. 
 
 He asks for Mr. Abbott, and is shown into the li- 
 brary where that gentleman sits, perusing the evening 
 paper and smoking a cigar. He smokes and drinks a 
 great deal. At sight of his stepson he starts up, 
 throws down the paper, turns with radiant face, and 
 holds out both hands. 
 
 "What — Geoff! Back? Dear old boy, how we 
 have missed you. And where have you been all this 
 little forever ?" 
 
 He stands with those welcoming hands outstretched, 
 a glow deeper than the glow of the sunset, streaming 
 through the painted oriel, deeper than the port wine 
 he drinks, on his rubicund face — the glad glow of 
 welcome. But Geoffrey Lamar, pale, stern, avenging, 
 draws back from those eager hands. 
 
 " No," he says, " we have shaken hands for the last 
 time. I stand in this house, and speak to you for the 
 
LEO'S BALL. 241 
 
 last time. It is the bitter blight and disgrace of my 
 life, that I have ever spoken to you at all ! " 
 
 The man falls back from him, his hands drop, his 
 eyes start, he stands staring stupidly at his stepson. 
 
 " What — what — what d'ye mean ? " he stammers at 
 last. 
 
 "What I say. On his death-bed Giles Sleaford 
 sent for me, and told me his story — and yours. I 
 know the black secret that has bound you two guilty 
 men together. I hold the papers that cost him his 
 life. I have been to San Francisco, and have verified 
 the proofs of your guilt. And John Abbott, scoundrel 
 and BIGAMIST, I have returned to denounce youP 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 LEO's BALL. 
 
 ITIE last light of the fair, frosty day, gleam- 
 ing in myriad hues through the -stained 
 glass, falls on the picture within the 
 library — the darkly-polished floor, with its 
 great rose-red square of carpet, its pictures, bronzes, 
 books, and on the figures of the two men. On John 
 Abbott, millionaire and magnate, sitting huddled to- 
 gether in his arm-chair, his face covered with his 
 hands, his guilt brought home to him, unable to look 
 for one second into the fiery eyes of Geoffrey Lamar. 
 On Geoffrey Lamar, standing haughty and wrathful, 
 with gleaming eyes, compressed lips, and knotted fore- 
 head. On that high, pale brow the veins stand out, 
 11 
 
242 leg's ball. 
 
 swollen and purple, with the suppressed passion within 
 hira. And yet, little has been said, and that little in a 
 tense, repressed tone, lower even than usual. 
 
 It is only on the stage, perhaps, that people in these 
 supreme moments of death and despair make long 
 speeches, only in fiction that the dying lie among their 
 downy pillows and make exhaustive confessions of 
 romantic lives. In real life, in the hours of our utmost 
 need, we are apt to find ourselves mute. 
 
 John Abbott has not spoken one word. He has 
 attempted no denial, no vindication ; he has fallen into 
 his cliair, and crouclies there, crushed by the tremen- 
 dous blow that has fallen upon him. Geoffrey speaks 
 at intervals, in a harsh, unsteady voice, very unlike his 
 own, but the fiery wrath that consumes him is so deep, 
 so deadly, his hatred and abhorrence of this man so 
 utter, that all words fail and seem poor and weak. 
 
 " I have little to say," he says, in that low, concen- 
 trated voice of passion. " I was a child ^hen the 
 wrong was done. I am a man now, and I do not strike 
 you dead before me, and nothing less can atone. This 
 is the last time I will see you or speak to you while I 
 live ; the last time I will ever set foot in this accursed 
 house. I go from you to my mother, to tell her the 
 truth — the horrible, shameful truth, that may strike 
 her dead while she listens. But if I knew it would, I 
 would still tell her." 
 
 He breaks off ; all this he has said in pauses and 
 gasps. He puts up his hand to his throat ; he feels as 
 though he were strangling. For the cowering wretch 
 before him, he neither moves nor speaks. 
 
 "If she survives the blow, she will go with me. If 
 I know my mother, you have seen her, too, for the last 
 
leg's ball. 243 
 
 time in your life. For your wealth, your doubly-ac- 
 cursed wealth, she married you ! She has paid the 
 penalty of that crime. She will renounce you and 
 it within this hour. If she should not " 
 
 He stops, that strangling feeling of fury that he 
 is repressing chokes the words he would utter. 
 
 " If she should not," he resumes, " she shall see 
 rae no more. But I know her. She will go with me. 
 Leo, too — she is yours no longer. I will make a home 
 for them, far from here, where your vile name will 
 never be heard. I will search for Joanna — she, too, 
 shall know the truth — shall know your crime — shall 
 know her rights and her mother's wrongs, and to 
 her and God I leave vengeance. Do you think she 
 will spare you, John Abbott ? Do you know the pen- 
 alty of the crime you have done? Six months hence, 
 in a felon's cell, condemned to years of labor, I fancy 
 your millions will avail you little. I am willing that 
 my name, stainless hitherto, should be dragged 
 through the mire, so that yOu are punished. To your 
 daughter, and to heaven, I leave our wrongs. I go 
 now to find my mother." 
 
 " Stay !" John Abbott says. He lifts his head, and 
 even Geoffrey, in his whirl of rage and shame, is struck 
 by the' ghastliness of that face. His voice, too, is 
 hoarse and guttural. " Stay I I have no right to ask 
 favors — I don't ask any. But — don't tell to-night." 
 
 Geoffrey stares scornfully a moment, then turns 
 to go. 
 
 " I don't ask it for myself — to be spared. ^ I don't 
 want to be spared. But there is a party to-night — 
 Leo's." All his words come thickly and with a slow 
 effort. "The house is full of people down from New 
 
244 
 
 York — her friends and your mother's. All is ready. 
 Spare the little one for one more night — only one. 
 Let her be happy with her friends until to-morrow. 
 Come to-morrow — come as early as you like. It is all 
 true, I deny nothing. Take them away. Only not 
 to-night — for little Leo's sake !" 
 
 He says it all in brief, broken sentences ; then his 
 head droops, and he is silent again. 
 
 Geoffrey stands a moment. For Leo's sake ! That 
 is a powerful appeal. And only until to-morrow. 
 The house full of guests too ; the exposure would be 
 horrible. And for Leo's sake. Yes, he will wait. 
 
 " For Leo's sake," he says frigidly, " I will wait 
 until to-morrow. To-morrow at noon I will send for 
 my mother to the hotel. I enter this house no more." 
 
 He goes with the words, and the master of Abbott 
 wood is alone. Alone ! with hell in his heart, with 
 despair, and remorse, and agony, and loss, and love, 
 and fear, all tugging at his heart-strings together. It 
 has come — the crash he has always feared. The 
 thunderbolt has fallen and riven his hearth. Giles 
 Sleaf ord, in his ^rave, has risen to revenge his sister's 
 wrongs. 
 
 The last yellow glimmer of the wintry twilight 
 fades out in gray ; darkness falls on the world. Many 
 feet pass his door ; a servant enters to light the gas — 
 the library will be needed to-night. John Abbott 
 stumbles past him in the dark, and goes to the room 
 that is sacred to himself alone — the room called his 
 study, where he sees his tenants, transacts business, 
 signs checks, pays help, and smokes pipes. Here he 
 will be undisturbed by his servants, his wife, his 
 daughter, or their butterfly friends. 
 
leg's ball. 245 
 
 This party of Leo's is in honor of a young South- 
 ern beauty, a friend of Olga Ventnor's, on the eve of 
 her departure for Europe. It is called Leo's ball, but 
 in reality it is not merely a young girl's party ; many 
 distinguished people are present — her mother's friends, 
 besides the great folks of Brightbrook. The Ventnors, 
 of course, are down — Olga from her finishing school, 
 tall and imposing, even at sixteen, with proudly-poised 
 head, delicate, lovely face, perfect repose of manner 
 — more beautiful than her most sanguine friends ever 
 predicted. A trifle imperious, certainly, as though she 
 were indeed a Princess Olga, looking with blue, dis- 
 dainful eyes on the slim-waisted, slightly-mustached 
 young dandies who adore her. They write sonnets to 
 her eyes and eyebrows, her smile, her form ; they paint 
 her picture ; they toast her at clubs ; they dream of 
 her o' nights ; they grow delirious with the promise 
 of a waltz ; they kiss her gloves, her finger-tips ; they 
 are ready to shoot each other for a flower from her 
 bouquet — and she laughs at them all, with girlish, joy- 
 ous indifi^erence, and tyrannizes over them with right 
 royal grace. That compact in which Frank Living- 
 ston is concerned has not been mooted to her yet, and 
 the family conclave begin to have their doubts as to 
 how it will be received. 
 
 A young lady who has such pronounced opinions 
 of her own at sixteen, as to the color and make of her 
 dresses, and hats, and gloves, will be apt to have pro- 
 nounced opinions, also, on the more important subject 
 of a husband. Frank at present is abroad on a sketch- 
 ing tour, it is understood, through Italy and Switzer- 
 land, and sends her long, racy letters by every mail. 
 But she laughs at the letteis, as she does at the ador« 
 
246 LEO S BALL. 
 
 ers, and flings them aside as indifferently. Whether 
 she walks in " maiden meditation " or not, she is cer- 
 tainly " fancy free." To-night, in white silk embroi- 
 dered with pink rose-buds, with real pink rosebuds and 
 lilies of the valley in her hair and corsage, it is need- 
 less to say she is a vision of beauty. That goes with- 
 out saying at all times. 
 
 Leo, too, in rose silk and illusion, looks like a rose 
 herself, her bright black eyes shining after their old 
 joyous fashion with the delight of the hour. 
 
 The rooms are flooded with light, flowers are in 
 profusion everywhere, the guests are numerous, the 
 supper and band down from the city, and Mrs. Abbott 
 in pearl moire and those fabulous diamonds that might 
 rival Lady Dudley's own — quite an ideal hostess for 
 high-bred beauty and grace. Outwardly, that perfect 
 repose seems above being ruflled by any earthly con- 
 tretemps, but inwardly she is ruflled nevertheless. For 
 Leo has just told her, with wide-open, wondering eyes, 
 that Geoffrey has been and is gone. 
 
 "Impossible!" Mrs. Abbott says, incredulously. 
 " Why on earth should he do that ? There must be 
 some mistake." 
 
 "No mistake, mamma ; Davis let him in. He 
 went to papa in the library, stayed half an hour, and 
 went away." 
 
 " Without word or message to me ! And after six 
 weeks of absence ! Oh, this is intolerable ! Geoffrey 
 never used to act so. What can it mean ?" 
 
 " I don't know, mamma," Leo says ; " it is very 
 odd, certainly. Perhaps, hearing there was to be a 
 party, he did not wish to stay. But it is not a bit like 
 Geoff." 
 
LEo's BALL. 247 
 
 "Hero is your father now." 
 
 A slight frown contracts Mrs. Abbott's smootli 
 foreliead — lier husband has given her to understand 
 he will not put in an appearance at this party, and 
 
 now She misses Joanna as much, perhaps, for 
 
 this reason as any other — she was a most useful sheep- 
 dog to keep this wolf at bay. These people are nearly 
 all strangers to him — why should he want to join them ? 
 It is his own house certainly, but 
 
 "I wanted to see you a moment, Nora," he says, 
 approaching, and even she notes with surprise the 
 livid, leaden pallor of his face, the trembling of hia 
 hands, the husky break of his voice, " a moment alone." 
 
 "There is nothing the matter?" she demands, in 
 sudden alarm. "Geoffrey, it is nothing about himf'* 
 
 "It is nothing about him." 
 
 "But he has been here, and is gone. What does it 
 mean ? Yoa saw him — why did he not come to me ?" 
 
 " On account of this party. He's coming to-mor- 
 row — at h-ast he intends to see you. I — I don't feel 
 well, Nora ; I am going to my room — the study. I 
 shall stay there all night." 
 
 "Yes," she says, indifferently, "you had better. 
 You do not look well. Excuse me — I see a new ar- 
 rival." 
 
 " Shake hands, Nora, and say good-night." 
 
 She draws back from him, intensely annoyed. Has 
 he been drinking more than usual? Shake hands with 
 him before all these people ! What a preposterous 
 idea ! She draws decidedly bnck. 
 
 "There is no need of hand-shaking, Mr. Abbott. 
 I have no wish to excite my friends to laughter — nof 
 make a scene. You had better go to bed, as you say, 
 
248 leg's ball. 
 
 and as quickly as possible. You really look extremely 
 ill, and are attracting the attention of the guests." 
 
 His hand drops ; he takes one last, long, look as she 
 moves away to meet the new arrival. She is like a 
 queen, he thinks — so stately, so graceful, so fair. 
 Among all the women present, there is not another so 
 regal. Then he turns away, and at a little distance 
 encounters his daughter. 
 
 " Why, papa," she exclaims, quickly, " what is the 
 matter? You are looking awfully pale — for you. 
 Are you sick ? " 
 
 " I ain't well, Leo. I'm going to ray room, the study, 
 you know. I came to say good-night. That's a 
 pretty dress, my girl, and you look as fresh and pink 
 as a rose. I'm glad to see you so handsome and happy. 
 You — you are a little fond of your poor old dad, ain't 
 you, Leo ? " 
 
 "Why, papa " 
 
 " Oh ! yes, I know. I ain't like your mother, or 
 those heavy swells around, but I've been a good father 
 to you, now, haven't I? I don't think I ever refused 
 you anything in my life, now did I ? And you'd — you'd 
 be sorry if anything happened me, now wouldn't you ? " 
 
 Leo looks at him anxiously. The same thought, 
 alas ! crosses her mind as her mother's — has he been 
 drinking ? Mr. Abbott is apt to be maudlin in his 
 cups, so his pathos is always open to doubt. 
 
 " You had better go to bed, papa," says Leo, as her 
 mother has done. " You look very badly. And per- 
 haps you had better send for Dr. Gillson." 
 
 "I don't want Dr. Gillson, my girl. I know what 
 you're thinking of, but it ain't that. I'm not drunk. 
 Good-night, little one — kiss your old dad." 
 
leg's ball. 249 
 
 Miss Loo's pink lips touch daintily the cold cheek 
 of her father. Tiien she, too, flits away to meet her 
 partner for the first dance. Mr. Abbott is not a sub- 
 ject to be sentimentalized over, even if he is a little 
 pale. Much drinking has alienated from him even the 
 respect and affection of his daughter, although she is 
 fairly fond of papa, too. But it is not in the same way 
 or degree in which she is fond of mamma and Geoff. 
 
 Mr. Abbott goes to his study, followed by the' 
 crashing, brilliant music of the band. Ladies and gen- 
 tlemen glance at him, and wonder who he is. His face 
 strikes them all with a sense of tragedy and discord, 
 that jars upon the scene. But he disappears and is 
 forgotten. He shuts himself in, but he does not shut 
 out the triumphal swell of the music, nor the sound of 
 the dancers' feet. The joyous tumult of the ball 
 mocks him in his seclusion. He has shut out the world 
 with its brightness, its gladness, its joyous life, and the 
 world goes on just as merrily without him. It comes 
 well home to him in this hour. He has been something 
 — he is nothing — he will never be anything in this 
 world again. 
 
 He sits down and has it out. It does not require long 
 thinking. To-night ends everything. To-morrow he will 
 stand alone, wife, son, daughter, home, friends — gone. 
 And he has loved them all. After to-morrow all who 
 have known him will fall off from him, his name will be a 
 by-word and a reproach, bis memory a thing to be exe- 
 crated. He will be denounced — is the girl Joanna likely 
 to spare him ? There will be a trial through which his 
 wife, his daugh'er will be dragged, and their name de- 
 filed. There will bo the sentence — the prison walls, 
 the prison dress, the prison labor, the prison fare, the 
 
250 leg's ball. 
 
 prison life, the chain, the lash, the prison death — that 
 will be the story. All his wealth is powerless here. 
 
 He goes to a drawer in a desk, unlocks it with slow 
 deliberation, and takes out one of the articles it con- 
 tains. It is a revolver, a handsome weapon, silver- 
 mounted, perfect of its kind. lie examines the cham- 
 bers, reloads carefully, and with a face that seems cut 
 in gray stone. And still, as he labors at his ghastly 
 task, the dance music swells and sinks joyously, the 
 sound of the dancers' flying feet, the echo of their 
 laughter reach him, and he listens as he works. Then 
 he goes to the window, opens the closed shutter, and 
 looks out. 
 
 It is a lovely night, following a lovely day. The 
 deep blue sky a-sparkle with frosty stars, the moon 
 flooding lawn, and terrace, and copse with crystal 
 light. Never has Abbott Wood looked more beauti- 
 ful, never has he loved it so well. He is taking his 
 last look at it, at the cold, far-off, shining sky, at the 
 fair white earth, at his home that has been his pride 
 and boast so long. He is hearkening to the sweet 
 crash of the band — the wild music of a waltz will be 
 the last sound of time he will take into eternity. 
 
 For the end has come. The wages of sin — death 
 — is here ; the coward's cure for all ills of earth — sui- 
 cide — is at hand. lie will never see the scorn, the 
 hatred in his wife's eyes, the shrinking horror of his 
 daughter's face, the abhorrent gaze of all men. For 
 him there will be no felon's cell, or lash. His sin has 
 found him out, and the retribution is now. 
 
 He lifts the pistol. A gay burst of laughter just 
 outside his door greets him on the moment. Over that 
 merry peal, over the last soft strain of the waltzers, 
 
AFTER THAT NIGHT. 251 
 
 another sound breaks — a dreadful sound. But it 
 reaches no ear, and only the solemn eyes of the stars 
 look into that silent room. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 AFTER THAT NIGHT. 
 
 P^^^T is close upon noon of the next day. Sun- 
 Kf^fl^^P^ shine floods the charming breakfast-room 
 rW/lw ^^ Abbott Wood, glints on crystal, on 
 | |:;^,.... ■ 'H silver, on egg-shell china, and on a group of 
 gay guests, on the lady of the house in exquisite morn- 
 ing-robe and cap, on her pretty daughter in amber 
 cashmere, rich with golden floss embroideries. The 
 guests have had a brief nap, a cozy cup of tea, and 
 now "booted and spurred," are saying farewell to 
 their gracious hostess and her bright little daughter. 
 The party last night was delightful. All are departing 
 in fine spirits, making appointments for the coming 
 summer and country meetings. They go at last, and 
 with a tired sigh Mrs. Abbott sinks into her chair. 
 She is not very strong, and last night's fatigue tells 
 upon her after her quiet life. Besides, she is worried 
 about her son. Here it is high noon, and he has not 
 put in an appearance to explain his 'singular conduct. 
 As she sits mussing about it her maid approaches with 
 a note. It is from the culprit, and is very brief. 
 
 " Brightbrook House, Thursday Morning. 
 " My D£AB Motuer : — I am especially anxious to 
 
252 AFTER THAT NIGHT. 
 
 see you, but I cannot go to Abbott Wood, so, I sup- 
 pose, I raust ask you to meet me here at your earliest 
 convenience. I will remain in all day expecting you. 
 Love to Leo. Ever affectionately, 
 
 "G.Y.Lamar." 
 
 Mrs. Abbott knits her brows in direst perplexity 
 over this enigmatical note. " Cannot go to Abbott 
 Wood!" But he was here last night. "Must ask 
 you to meet me here ! " How very odd ; how ex- 
 tremely unpleasant. What can it mean? Is Geoffrey 
 losing his senses? She will go at once and find out. 
 Her hand is on the bell, when her maid again hurries 
 in, pale, scared, horror-stricken. 
 
 " Oh ! Mrs. Abbott ! Oh ! madam ! something 
 awful has happened !" The girl drops into a chair 
 panting with sheer affright. " Oh ! ma'am, I don't 
 know how to tell you." 
 
 Mrs. Abbott looks at her a moment and grows 
 white. 
 
 " Is it — anything about my son ?" she asks, almost 
 in a whisper. 
 
 " Mr. Geoffrey ? Oh ! no, ma'am, nothing about 
 him. It's master, please. Oh ! how shall I tell you ! 
 It's dreadful— dreadful !" 
 
 Mrs. Abbott draws a long brcfith, and stands erect 
 again,- pale, composed, a trifle haught3^ There is 
 nothing about Mr. Abbott that can very greatly sur- 
 prise or shock Mr. Abbott's wife. 
 
 " Do not be an idiot !" she says, sharply. " What 
 is it ? Say what you have come to say, and go. I am 
 going out." 
 
 " Oh ! no, ma'am, you can't go out to-day. Oh ! I 
 
AFTER THAT NIGHT. 253 
 
 beg pardon, but you don't know. Prepare yourself — 
 oh ! please do — for — for the worst. Mr. Abbott is 
 very — very ill." 
 
 Mrs. Abbott recalls his looks, his incoherent speech 
 last night, and slightly shrugs her graceful shoulders. 
 It has happened to Mr. Abbott to be very — very ill 
 before, of — delirium tremens ! 
 
 " Have you sent for Dr. Gillson ?" she says, coldly, 
 and moving away as if to go. 
 
 *' Oh ! my dear lady, wait ! It — it isn't what you 
 think. Dr. Gillson was here hours and hours ago, but 
 he can do nothing. Nobody can. Oh ! ma'am," with 
 a burst, "master's dead !" 
 
 " Dead !" Mrs. Abbott repeats the solemn word, 
 awe-stricken, and gazes incredulously at the girl. 
 "Dead!" that strong, burly, red-faced man. The 
 thought of death in connection with her husband has 
 never come near her — he and the idea have been so 
 entirely antagonistic. "Dead I" she repeats for the 
 third time, mechanically, in slow, wondering tones. 
 
 "Davis, his man, found him early this morning, 
 ma'am," the girl says, with a hysterical, feminine sob, 
 "and sent for the doctor at once. But it was too late. 
 He had been dead many hours then. The doctor knew 
 the house was full of people, and would not let Davis 
 tell until they were gone. He is in his study still, 
 ma'am, where they found him, a-lying on the sofa, 
 dressed. And, oh I if you please, there's to be an in- 
 quest." 
 
 Mrs. Abbott sits down, feeling suddenly sick and 
 faint. A passion of remorse sweeps over her ; she 
 covers her face with her hands, and her tears flow. 
 Idle tears, no doubt — not tears of sorrow certainly. 
 
254 AFTER THAT NIGHT. 
 
 She has never cared for this Jead man — she conamitted 
 a sin against herself and her womanhood by marrying 
 him. Life by his side has been but " dragging a length- 
 ening chain." She has held him in utter contempt, 
 and has let him see it. But "he who dies pays all 
 debts ;" and now, for all this, a very passion of pain, 
 of remorse, of humiliation, fills her. And, last night, 
 he came to her in some great need, and she rebuffed 
 him ! Now he is dead ! But moments of weakness 
 are but moments with this woman, whose life for many 
 years has been one long, bitter self-repression. She 
 lifts her head and looks at the girl aaain. 
 
 "It is very sudden — it is dreadfully sudden. Was 
 it — apoplexy ?" 
 
 The maid resumes her weeping as her mistress 
 leaves off. It is not sorrow on her part either — simply, 
 the shock has unnerved her. 
 
 " Oh ! ma'am — Mrs. Abbott — that is the worst ! 
 No, it isn't apoplexy — is isn't anything natural. It 
 was suicide !" 
 
 " Suicide !" The lady recoils a step in pale horror, 
 and puts out her hands. 
 
 " Oh ! dear lady, yes. That is the awful part. It 
 was suicide. He shot himself. While everybody 
 was dancing and enjoying themselves last night, he 
 went into his study and done it. Davis found him all 
 cold and stiff this morning — shot through the head. 
 Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! Oh ! Mrs. Abbott, don't faint ! 
 Oh ! here is Mr. Geoffrey. Oh ! thank the Lord ! Mr. 
 Geoffrey, sir, come and say something to your ma !" 
 
 For it is Geoffrey who hurries in, pale, excited, 
 with startled face, and hastens to his mother's side. 
 
 " My dearest mother, the news has but just reached 
 
AFTER THAT NIGHT. 255 
 
 me. Dr. Gillson brought it, and I have hastened here 
 at once. It is very shocking. Mother, do not give 
 way so ! Motlier, mother, what is this?" 
 
 *'I have killed him," she whispers, and her head falls 
 on his shoulder, her arms encircle his neck, and she 
 lies white and speechless with horror and remorse. 
 
 "Nothing of the sort !" her son says, energetically. 
 "Mother, listen to me — I know what I am sayinjj — 
 you had nothing to do with this tragic death. It was 
 I. I saw him last night — a terrible secret of his past 
 life has been made known to me, and I came and 
 accused him of his crime. I threatened him with 
 public exposure. This is the result. I do not regret 
 my part in it; I simply did my duty; I would do it 
 again. I I'epeat — with this ghastly ending you had 
 nothing to do. And, mother, he deserved his fate; 
 he merits no pity — from you. He was a villain — dead 
 as he is — I say it ! Look up, shed no tears for him, 
 except in thanksgiving that you are free." 
 
 All this the maid hears as she hurries from the 
 room. She sees the stern, white face of the pitiless 
 young Rhadamanthus, and w^onders what nameless 
 crime it can be poor master can ever have done. 
 ♦ ♦«%«♦ 
 
 Four days later they bury the master of Abbott 
 Wood in that vast gray stone vault over in Bright- 
 brook Cemetery — that gray mausoleum bearing the 
 name Abbott over its gloomy front, and which, until 
 time ends, John Abbott will occupy alone. 
 
 It is a very large and imposing funeral, and Mrs. 
 Abbott, in trailing crapes and sables, looks pale but 
 composed, and handsomer than ever. Leo's tears, 
 people note, are the only tears that fall. There has 
 
256 AFTEE THAT NIGHT. 
 
 been an inquest, but no cause, except that useful and 
 well-worn one — temporary aberration of mind — can be 
 assigned for the rash deed. 
 
 Business has summoned Geoffrey Lamar to the city 
 on the day before, and among the melancholy cortege 
 he is conspicuous by his absence. All the Ventnors are 
 down to console the widow and orphan. But Mrs. 
 Abbott's high-bred calm stands her in as good stead 
 now, as in all the other emergencies of life — consola- 
 tory platitudes would simply be impertinences here. 
 As yet she knows nothing, only — that she is free ! 
 After a very dreadful and disgraceful manner truly, 
 but still — free. 
 
 They bury the dead man, and his will is read. The 
 widow is superbly dowered, her son inherits Abbott 
 Wood and half the great fortune the millionaire has 
 left. Servants and friends are handsomely remembered. 
 No fairer or more generous will was ever made. 
 
 People begin to find out his good points ; he was 
 rough-and-ready, certainly, says Brightbrook, but an 
 off-hand, whole-souled fellow, free with his money al- 
 ways, and if he swore at a "help "this moment, he 
 was just as ready to tip him a dollar the next. He 
 wasn't such a bad sort of man. Brightbrook owes 
 him everything — he has made the place, built churches, 
 schools, town halls, jails, almshouses, laid out the park, 
 donated the fountain, erected model cottages for his 
 tenants, was a capital landlord, if he was a little strict. 
 So, in spite of the suicide, he is after a manner canon- 
 ized in the village. 
 
 As to the death itself — people rather shirk that— 
 he did not live happily with his wife — she and her son 
 looked down upon him from first to last. And he 
 
AFTER THAT NIGHT. 257 
 
 drank to excess. And he had had D. T., and in one 
 of these fits the deed was done, and that was all 
 about it. 
 
 The day after the funeral Geoffrey Lamar returns. 
 He wears no mourning, and settled sternness and 
 gloom rest on his face. The first inquiries he makes 
 are for the Sleafords, and he learns the Sleafords are 
 gone, driven away, the farm deserted, the house empty. 
 Lora has married a love-stricken butcher, and gone to 
 live in the next town ; Liz has drifted away to the city, 
 the boys have disappeared, loneliness reigns at Slea- 
 ford's. 
 
 The Red Farm is for rent, Geoffrey rides over and 
 looks at it — already it has tlie air of a deserted house, 
 already desolation has settled upon it, already the 
 timid avoid it after nightfall, already it is hinted Slea- 
 ford " walks." 
 
 It is very strange that these tM'O men, connected in 
 some way in their life-time, should so quickly and aw- 
 fully follow each other to a violent death. 
 
 "They were ugly in their lives," says a ghastly wit 
 of the village, "and in death they are not divided." 
 
 No news of Joanna as yet, and of late the search 
 has rather been given up. George Blake, poor faith- 
 ful, foolish fellow, still mourns and searches, Geoffrey 
 proposes soon to recommence, but he has another and 
 sadder duty first to fulfill. lie has yet to tell his 
 mother the frightful truth, that she has never for one 
 hour been John Abbott's wife — that Leo is "nobody's 
 child," that neither he nor one of them have any 
 shadow of rightful claim on all this boundless wealth 
 the dead man has left. 
 
 As the night falls of that day, that day never to 
 
258 AFTER THAT KIGHT. 
 
 be forgotten in their lives, he tells her. They sit alone 
 in her darkening sitting-room, with closed doors, look- 
 ing out at the falling winter night, the red gleam of 
 the fire flickering in the snow, and gold, and amber of 
 the bijou room. 
 
 Infinitely, gentle, infinitely tender are his words ; 
 be holds her hands, he breaks it to her, this revelation 
 that is to drag her pride in the very dust. For a long 
 time it is impossible to make her comprehend, the hor- 
 ror is too utter — she cannot, she will not take it in. 
 
 Then suddenly a sliriek rings through the house, 
 another and another, and she starts up lik6 a woman 
 gone mad — she breaks from him, she beats the air with 
 her hands, her frenzied cries resound. For the mo- 
 ment she is mad. What was John Abbott's suicide, a 
 hecatomb of suicides, to such horror as this ! Then 
 she sways and falls — almost for the first time in her 
 son's knowledge of her — headlong in a dead faint. 
 
 After that, there are weeks, that in all the future 
 time are blank. 
 
 She lies very ill, ill unto death, frantic, delirious, 
 burning with fever, talking rapidly, wildly, incoherent- 
 ly ; shrieking out at times that she will not believe it, 
 that she cannot believe it, that John Abbott, with that 
 pistol hole in his head, is pursuing her, and that Geof- 
 frey is holding her until he comes up. 
 
 Her ravings are continuous, are frightful. Night 
 and day her son is beside her ; Leo is kept out of the 
 room by force—it is too shocking for her to see or 
 hear. Every one, doctors included, think she will die ; 
 but her superb, unbroken health hitherto saves her 
 life now. 
 
 Slowly the fever subsides, slowly life and reason 
 
AFTER THAT NIGHT. 259 
 
 come back, and pale, spent, weak as a babe, white as 
 a snow spirit, she looks out one May day, and sees the 
 green young world, the jubilant sunshine, the sweet 
 spring flowers once more. 
 
 In two or three weeks she is to be taken away — for 
 her health. Abbott Wood is to be left in charge of 
 Mrs. Hill and one or two of the servants. Mrs. Ab- 
 bott, her son, and daughter may be absent for years. 
 After all, says Brightbrook, that cold, proud woman 
 must have cared a little for her plebeian husband to be 
 stricken with fever in this way by the shock of his 
 death. And Brightbrook has thought her especially 
 cold a!id heartless at the funeral. So easy it is to be 
 mistaken. 
 
 Early in June they depart. Nothing is said to Leo 
 — time enough to tell her later, and then only part of 
 the miserable whole. She must learn that they are 
 poor, of course, that another claimant with a better 
 right exists for Abbott Wood, that they must look to 
 Geoffrey and his profession now for their support. 
 
 For it is needless to say that neither mother nor 
 son can touch one penny of that man's money — the 
 money that is rightfully Joanna's. They are not going 
 abroad to travel, as all the world thinks ; they are 
 going to a little house in one of the suburbs of New 
 York for the present, while Geoffrey begins his new 
 life of hard labor, heavily handicapped in the race. 
 
 For obvious reasons his mother retains the name of 
 Abbott, loathsome to her ears, but Leo must be con- 
 sidered first now. No one — not even the Ventnors — 
 are to know of them or their plans ; that world and 
 all in it has gone forever ; nothing but poverty, seclu- 
 sion, anguish, shame remains. 
 
260 AFTER THAT NIGHT. 
 
 For the Ventnors — 0!ga finds it very lonely, that 
 vacation at the pretty rose-draped villa, and mourns 
 disconsolately for her friends. She is nearly seven- 
 teen now — "a fair girl graduate, with golden hair," 
 glad that the thralldora of her fashionable school is 
 over. But this fall and winter she is to go on, under 
 the best masters, with music, painting, and languages ; 
 live very quietly at Brightbrook, and early in April start 
 with papa and mamma for that two years' European trip. 
 
 Some American heiresses have lately been marrying 
 brilliantly abroad — marr3nng both fortune and title — 
 and every day Frank Livingston's chances grow fewer 
 and farther between. His mamma's anguish breaks 
 out whenever she thinks of it. She writes him agonized 
 appeals to meet the Ventnors, and try, fry, try with 
 Olga, before one of those all-fascinating British ofiicers 
 and nobles carry off the prize. But Frank, smoking, 
 sight-seeing, church-visiting in Rome, seeing statuary, 
 and paintings, and frescoes, a great deal, going to 
 cozy little artist reunions, sketching and painting 
 after a desultory fashion, and having a good time, 
 does not concern himself very greatly about his fair, 
 far-off cousin. Art is his mistress at present, storied 
 Rome the idol of his heart, his big brown meerschaum 
 rather more to him than all the heiresses and beauties 
 in wide America. If Olga has a mind, and is pleased 
 to approve of him when next they meet, he has no 
 objection. If not — he shrugs his shoulders, and hums 
 that couplet that has consoled so many when the 
 grapes were sour and hung beyond reach, 
 
 "If she be not fair to me, ^ 
 What care I how fair she be!" 
 
 * * « * 4: 4( 
 
AFTER THE STORY ENDED. 261 
 
 And now this record has come back to the begin- 
 ning — to that wet October evening when Miss Vent- 
 nor drove past the Red Farm in the pony carriage, 
 and pointed it out to lier friend. Giles Sleaford is 
 dead, Lora is married, Liz has gone cityward, the 
 *' boys " have disappeared, Joanna has run away with 
 George Blake, and is not to be found. Sleaford's is a 
 ** haunted house." At Abbott Wood silence and lone- 
 liness reign. It, too, is a deserted mansion. Its mas- 
 ter has died a tragic death, Mrs. Abbott, Leo, Geoffrey, 
 are abroad, traveling for health and forgetfulness. 
 At Ventnor Villa Olga practices, sings, paints, reads 
 French, German, Italian, rides, drives, blooms a rose of 
 the world, 
 
 ''Fair as a star, when only one 
 Is shining in the sky." 
 
 And so, with sweet, slow voice, she tells her friend, in 
 brief, this wet October night, the story of the 
 Sleafords. 
 
 PART THIRD. 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 AFTER THE STORY ENDED. 
 
 "lijf^Jfeg^ijlND now, my dearest Hilda, having nar- 
 
 |#£Tpl rated all the incidents of the voyage, I 
 
 I^S^i propose to answer your very artful ques- 
 
 ■ ' « tion about a certain person. Well, yes, 
 
 Ic beau coushi, as you term poor Frank, is still here, 
 
 still hovering as the moth around the flame, to quote 
 
262 AFTER THE STORY ENDED. 
 
 your rather hackneyed simile. He followed us down 
 liere from New York, a week ago, and is poor mamma's 
 cavalier servant^ and to me, the most devoted of 
 friends and cousins. Friends and cousins, I repeat. 
 You need not smile — he will never be more. All that 
 you say of his good looks, and charming manners, and 
 sunny temper, I admit. Still looks, and manners and 
 temper, are not all that one requires in a husband. 
 You perceive I put your delicately-vailed hints into 
 plain English. I am not a sentimental person. I read 
 my Tennyson, and my novels, and dimly, and as in a 
 dream, I realize what it is all about — this grand pas- 
 sion writers make the burden of their song. But I 
 have never felt it, and for Frank Livingston I never 
 will. I like him too well ever to love him. And yet, 
 
 my Hilda, I have my ideal " 
 
 The pencil — she had written this with a slender 
 golden trinket, suspended from her chatelaine — pauses 
 here, and the writer looks out before her with dreamy 
 azure, half-smiling eyes. She sits on the low sea wall 
 of Abbott Wood, her sketch-book on her lap, and 
 scribbles, on thin foreign paper, this letter. The sea 
 lies below her, dimpling and sparkling in the lovely 
 light of a June afternoon. A great willow bending 
 over the wall droops its feathery plumes nearly to her 
 fair head. Her hat is on the grass beside her, she 
 has been sketching, but nothing in the view is love- 
 lier than herself. She sits here, a tall, slender, most 
 gracefuT figure, dressed in light muslin, her pale golden 
 hair plaited about her head. There is not a touch of 
 brown in the perfect tinting of that pale gold, and 
 her eyebrows and lashes are fairer than her hair. Her 
 eyes are really wonderful in their limpid sapphire blue. 
 
AFTER THE STORY ENDED. 263 
 
 Her complexion is colorless, but has the vi\id warmth 
 of first youth and perfect health. A little gold cross 
 clavsps some creamy white lace at the throat, a white 
 cashmere wrap, embroidered in gohl, lies with her hat. 
 As she sits there, she is a vision of radiant youth and 
 dazzling blonde beauty. 
 
 She sits for a little, watching with that misty, far- 
 off look the tiny waves, slipping up and down the white 
 sands, then she takes up her pencil and resumes. 
 
 " I have my ideal, and he is not in the least like 
 Frank. Beauty shall by no means be an essential, nor 
 a perfectly cloudless temper either — we might weary 
 of perpetual sweetness and sunshine. But, oh ! my 
 Hilda, he shall be noble, he shall be capable of self- 
 sacrifice, he shall be a king among men to me. He 
 shall be above rae in all ways " 
 
 A second time she breaks off, this time she 
 crumples up the flimsy sheet of perfumed French 
 paper, and thrusts it into her pocket. P^or a step 
 comes quickly down the path behind her, and a man's 
 voice sings, as he comes, with mellow sweetness, " La 
 Donna e mobile." She glances round, half petulantly, 
 as he draws near. 
 
 " You are like a shadow," she says, in a tone that 
 suits the glance ; "like a detective on the trail. How 
 did you know I was here ?" 
 
 *' Don't be cross, Olga," says Frank Livingston, 
 throwing himself on the grass beside her. " How can 
 I tell ? Some spirit in my feet — how is it Shelley 
 goes ? — led me to the charmed spot. What are you 
 doing — sketching ?" 
 
 " I came with that design, but I believe, unlikely 
 as it may sound — I have been thinking." 
 
264 AFTER THE STORY ENDED. 
 
 *' Ah ! dare I hope- 
 
 "No, Frank, it was not of you, so do not put on 
 that complacent look. Did mamma tell you to bring 
 me home ?" 
 
 " Your mamma is asleep, my dearest Olga, and does 
 not need you in the least. Do you know, I find it 
 difficult to realize after all our wanderings that w^e are 
 home once more. And here ! This place seems 
 haunted. The last time I was here was with Geoffrey 
 Lamar." 
 
 He takes off his hat, and the soft sea wind stirs 
 his dark curly hair. It is a new Frank Livingston, 
 bronzed, bearded, mustached, muscular, improved 
 almost out of knowledge by years, and travel and 
 cultured association. He looks handsome as a latter- 
 day Adonis, in his gray tweed suit, and with a dash 
 of his old Bohemian insouciance upon him still. 
 Lying here, with the flickering sunshine siftir^ through 
 willow plumes on his upturned face and uncovered 
 head, he is wonderfully good to look at, and the half 
 smile comes back into Olga Yentnor's eyes as they rest 
 on him. 
 
 "You look like a picture as yon lie there, Frank," 
 she says, in an amused tone. " Do not stir, please — I 
 want to sketch you. You are a thing of beauty and a 
 joy forever, when you fall into picturesque attitudes, 
 and hold your tongue. You spoil everything when 
 you open your mouth. You ought to go through life 
 posing, and never destroy the illusion by speaking a 
 word. I shall send this to Hilda Stafford in my next 
 letter. Do you know, Frank, she admires you im- 
 mensely ?" 
 
 " Lady Hilda does me much honor," says Living- 
 
AFTER THE STORY ENDED. 265 
 
 Bton, composedly. " You, too, my dear cousin, with 
 your more than doubtful compliments. The role of 
 barber's block which you so kindly assign me " 
 
 "Turn a hair-breadth this way," interrupts Miss 
 Ventnor, " and please be silent. I never can sketch 
 and talk. I will have you in black and white in a 
 second, and I know Lady Hilda will wear you next 
 her heart." 
 
 LivingvSton laughs, but with a vexed look, and 
 obe3'S. His blue eyes, very like Olga's own, rest on 
 the lovely face above him, with a look Olga Ventnor 
 has seen in the eyes of many men before to-day, and 
 which certainly, in the present case, stirs her pulses 
 no more than if Frank were her pet Spitz dog. It is 
 a face that can be very mutinous and imperious, as 
 he knows to his cost, a face that can be as exasperat- 
 ing as it is alluring, and that is saying much. Some- 
 thing akin to irritated impatience and pain stirs within 
 him as he looks. 
 
 "As you sit where lusters strike you, 
 Sure to please, 
 Do we love you most, or like you, 
 Belle Marquise ? " 
 
 he quotes, under his breath. 
 
 " I told you not to talk ! " says Olga, austerely ; 
 "but a talker you are or nothing, my poor Frank. 
 There ! I think that will do. How Hilda will thank 
 me in her secret soul for this treasure ! " 
 
 A saucy smile dimples the perfect mouth, the sap- 
 phire eyes glance down laughingly at the figure on the 
 grass. But Frank, still gazing, is absorbed in his 
 poem. 
 
 12 
 
266 AFTER THE STORY ENDED. 
 
 ** You had every grace in heaven, 
 
 In your most angelic face, 
 
 With the nameless finer leaven, 
 
 Lent of blood and courtly race ; 
 And was added too. in duty, 
 Ninon's wit, and Bouffler's beauty, 
 And La Valliere's ' Yeux Caloutes' 
 
 Followed these. 
 And you liked it when they said it 
 
 On their knees, 
 And you kept it, and you read it, 
 Belle Marquise 1 " 
 
 " The words must have been written for you, I 
 think — you fit the portrait — fair, heartless, icy — ad- 
 mirably well. I wonder if you have a heart, like other 
 people, most beautiful Olga, or if, as in the case of the 
 Marquise, that inconvenient essential was left out ? " 
 
 "I think I have got your exact expression, or, 
 rather, lack of it," goes on Miss Ventnor, very busy 
 with her work, and evidently quite deaf. "This 
 sketch is worthy of being immortalized in oils and 
 forwarded to the autumn Exhibition. What were you 
 saying a moment ago? Something uncivil, I think, 
 from the sound. But you generally are uncivil, and 
 unpleasantly personal in your remarks, I grieve to ob- 
 serve, when you do me the honor to address me. 
 Nothing in the world, my dear Frank, is in worse form 
 than vituperation, and it pains me to observe that you 
 are falling sadly into the habit. And poetical vituper- 
 ation is worst of all. You will excuse my mentioning 
 this. The cousinly — I may almost say the maternal 
 — interest I take in you mast plead the pardon of 
 rebuke." 
 
 Livingston laughs again, and takes up the sketch- 
 book, but the sting of her indifference rankles. It is 
 
AFTER THE STORY ENDED. 267 
 
 60 real, the pang is in that. She is indifferent to all 
 men, she is more than indifferent to him. 
 
 In her beauty, her pride, her grace, and her power, 
 she is like some young queen, looking with blue, 
 scornful eyes upon her adorers and slaves. 
 
 As he turns the leaves of the sketch-book he sud- 
 denly stops, a look of surprise, of pleasure, of recogni- 
 tion flashes from his eyes. A touch of eager color comes 
 into his face ; he takes out a little time- yellowed, 
 faded, pencil-drawing from between the leaves. 
 
 "You remember it?" Olga says, calmly. "You 
 did that. What centuries ago it seems, and I have 
 kept it all this time. I wonder why ? It has no in- 
 trinsic value, and certainly it -could not have been for 
 sake of the artist. No, Frank, you need not put on 
 that pathetic look — I assure you it was not for the 
 sake of the artist. What a dowdy little thing I look, 
 and what a wistful expression you have given me. 
 Did I really look like that, at ten years old ? " 
 
 For faded, yellowed, dim, it is the pencil-sketch 
 made by Frank fully eleven years ago. 
 
 " * Princess Olga, with the love of the most loyal of 
 her lieges,'" he reads at the bottom, " even then, eleven 
 years ago, I was in love with you. Princess O'ga." 
 
 "You were in love with Lora Sleaford," returns 
 Miss Ventnor, composedly, " with her flame-red cheeks 
 and tar-black hair. You always were a person of 
 atrocious taste, I regret to remember. You were a 
 shocking boy in those days. You used to stay out until 
 the small hours, playing cards, singing songs, and 
 making love at Sleaford's." 
 
 " And you used to lie awake and watch for me — I 
 
268 AFTER THE STORY ENDED. 
 
 remember that. The Princess Olga of those days must 
 have been rather fond of me, I think." 
 
 "Very likely. I used to be a dreadful little idiot, 
 if I recall myself rightly. That picture is associated 
 in my mind with my getting lost in the woods, and 
 that wild creature Joanna going to tear out my hair, 
 and all the misery and illness that followed. I wanted 
 you to take me to play croquet with Leo Abbott that 
 afternoon, I remember distinctly. I also remember 
 distinctly you would not." 
 
 His eyes are upon her — trouble, longing, imploring 
 in their pleading. But she is not inclined to spare him. 
 
 " You would not," she repeats, a somewhat hard 
 inflection in her voice. "You were Lora Sleaford's 
 lover in those days. You wanted to go to her, no 
 doubt. You broke your promise to me. You left me, 
 whistling a tune, that sketch of myself to comfort me, 
 and a childish ache and loneliness that I do not forget 
 to this day. You are right. Cousin Frank, I must have 
 been fond of you then. I wonder what absence of 
 yours could give me a heart-ache now ?" 
 
 A triumphant smile lights her face, an exultant 
 sense that it is in no man's power to touch, or move, 
 or hurt her. 
 
 "None, I am quite sure, though it were the ab- 
 sence from which there is no return," he answers, 
 coldly. 
 
 " I wandered away," she goes on, retrospectively, 
 "and lost myself in the woods, and you — how little 
 you cared ! Ah ! well — all that is a decade of years 
 ago, and Lora Sleaford is the butcher's lady over there, 
 with a waist two yards round, and no end of little 
 butchers growing up about her. I saw her yesterday, 
 
AFTER THE STORY ENDED. 269 
 
 Frank, in the midst of her jewels, and thought of your 
 first love, and the banjo business, and laughed to my- 
 self. No peony, no pickled cabbage was ever so glar- 
 ingly purple as her cheeks. What a mistake first love 
 is, to be sure !" 
 
 " Or last love, or any love, in your eyes." 
 
 " Or any love — we are so fatally in the power of 
 those we love. They can so wring our hearts ; their 
 going is such misery, their loss such despair. You see, 
 heartless as I am, I can imagine all that." 
 
 " Having seen a great deal of it, having caused 
 wholesale slaughter wherever you went. Only you 
 took care your knowledge should be from observation 
 — never from experience." 
 
 "Never from experience. You sound sarcastic, 
 Frank, but it is very true, nevertheless. As to caus- 
 ing it — your great gallantry compels you to say so, no 
 doubt. Poor little yellow pencil sketch ! Put it back. 
 It is the only souvenir of ray childhood, and of — yop 
 — I possess. Let me cherish it still." 
 
 He does as he is told — people do obey her as a 
 general thing — she is more than a trifle imperious even 
 in trifles, this queenly Olga, and Livingston is not in- 
 clined to rebel. He is conscious of irritating pique 
 always, when with her ; her words wound and vex him. 
 
 She is a merciless mistress — it is questionable if any 
 lover" of hers has ever been a happy man, even in the 
 first fleeting hour of his fool's paradise — most certain 
 is he to be supremely miserable a little farther on. 
 
 He turns the leaves of the book mechanically, but 
 he hardly sees the sketches, full of vigorous life as 
 they are. Olga is almost as skilled an artist as him- 
 self. 
 
270 AFTER THE STORY ENDED. 
 
 " Look there !" she says, laying her finger on a page^ 
 "does that resemble any one you know ?" 
 
 It is a young man in the dress of a monk, standing 
 in a striking attitude, his handsome head thrown back, 
 one hand shading his eyes. His cowl has fallen on his 
 shoulders, his left hand rests on the head of a huge 
 dog. 
 
 Both stand listening intently. It is in water-colors 
 — a steel gray sky is above ; around, nothing but snow 
 — a white, frozen world. 
 
 Livingston looks, and is conscious, in some queer 
 way, that the face of the monk is like his own. 
 
 " It is a monk and a dog of the Hospice of the 
 Great St. Bernard," says Olga. " I saw him one even- 
 ing from my bedroom window, listening and looking 
 like that. Do you not see the likeness, Frank ? He 
 is your image, height, features, complexion, only he 
 was more distinguished than you, and had much more 
 courtly manners. He looked as if he might have been 
 a young Austrian prince, come there to renounce the 
 world, and live for God and his fellow-men. I was 
 very much impressed — I know he must have been of 
 noble blood — he had the manners and bow of a court 
 chamberlain. And sitting there, that cold, bleak, gray 
 evening, I sketched my handsome young monk and his 
 dog. How grave lie looks — as if the old life of courts 
 and kings were a dream — the shadow of a dream 'Svith 
 a touch of loneliness in the profound peace. And I 
 thought of 2/ow, Frank, and imagined you in cowl and 
 
 robe, and with that look in your eyes " she breaks 
 
 off with a laugh, this malicious coquette, as Living- 
 ston looks up, certainly with a very different expres- 
 sion from that in the peaceful, pictured face. 
 
AFTER THE STORY ENDED. 271 
 
 " ' I envy them, these monks of old. 
 
 Their books they read, their beads they told, 
 To human weakness dead and cold, 
 And all life's vanity.' 
 
 There is something grand in the idea, is there not ? to 
 renounce all that life holds of brightest and sweetest, 
 at that age, and for that reason ? Turn another leaf." 
 
 " I am tired of sketches," he says, impatiently, but 
 turns as he says it. " This is Geoffrey Lamar !" be 
 exclaims. 
 
 *' Drawn from memory — yes," she answers. "Frank, 
 where ^s Geoffrey Lamar?" 
 
 " Heaven knows ! slaving at his profession, poor fel- 
 low, I suppose, to support his mother and sister." 
 
 "I never understood that matter rightly," Olga says, 
 " except that Geoffrey made some great sacrifice for 
 honor's sake, and renounced for himself and Leo all 
 Mr. Abbott's wealth. What was it about?" 
 
 " Heaven knows again. I suppose Geoffrey does; 
 he is the sort of fellow to know his own mind pretty 
 thorouglily. I fancy the money was illy come by, 
 Bomo one had a better claim than even Leo, and so 
 Geoffrey gave it up. Noble, as you say, but a trifle 
 Quixotic, for the missing heir, whoever he may be, it 
 seems cannot be found. But if the heir is never found 
 it will make no difference to Lamar. He will work 
 like a galley-slave until the day of his death, for his 
 mother and sister, but he will never permit them to 
 touch a penny of dishonorably-gotten gain. There 
 are not many like that." 
 
 Olga says nothing, but a sort of glow comes into 
 her face — a look that is never there except when she 
 listens to some deed heroic. 
 
872 AFTER THE STORY ENDED. 
 
 " He is of the stuff that made paladins cf old," goes 
 on Livingston, " with uplifted notions on every subject 
 under the sun — a sort of Sir Galahad, you know, to 
 ride to the aid of damsels in distress. Witness his 
 adoption of Sleaford's Joanna. By-the-bye, I wonder 
 whatever has become of Wild Joanna. I must step 
 in and inquire of Mistress Lora one of these days. 
 Not that she is likely to know." 
 
 "When did you see Geoff— the Abbotts, last?" 
 Olga inquires. 
 
 " I saw Geoff in New York, but *we met by chance 
 the usual way.' He does not live there, but somewhere 
 out of the world, where he is working himself to skin 
 and bone, jndging by his look. They have sunk the 
 Abbott, and call themselves Lamar now — the old 
 pride, you know. I do not see much sense in it myself. 
 They might at least use the property until the missing 
 heir turns up. I would have liked to go and see Leo, 
 but Geoffrey's manner was cold and discouraging. 
 And one cannot force one's self whether or no, you 
 know." 
 
 "I do not know. My experience — of you — is 
 particularly the reverse, but I suppose cousins are 
 always an exception. As you are here, Frank, you 
 may as well make yourself useful, and carry my sketch- 
 book home. I am going." 
 
 She rises — a lofty, slender, white figure — picks 
 up her cashmere and gold wrap, puts on her pretty 
 hat, and turns to go. 
 
 " Come, Frank !" she says, and glances back, with 
 one of those brilliantly sweet smiles that are as fatal 
 to men as the siren song of the fabled Lurley. What 
 is Frank that he should resist ? He is but mortal, and 
 
AFTER THE CONCERT. 273 
 
 the spell of the enchantress is upon liim. Is he in 
 love with her? really in love? He asks himself that 
 question sometimes, but never when by her side. Then 
 the glamour of the white witchery is upon him, and 
 he lives but to do her bidding. Coldness, coquetry, 
 are forgotten now; he picks up the big flat book, 
 throws on his hat, and is by her side. And he thinks 
 of a lilting couplet — though remembering recent 
 rebuke he does not quote it: 
 
 ** You throw off your friends, like a huntsman his pack, 
 For you know when you will you can whistle them back." 
 
 All the way to Ventnor Villa Olga is very silent 
 and thoughtful. The sun is setting as they reach it, 
 and she lingers a moment to look at its rose and 
 gold beauty. But she is not thinking much of the 
 sunset — not at all of the young cavalier by her side. 
 
 "Like a paladin of old," she muses, dreamily. 
 * Yes, it is true. lie is noble, great, good, self-sacrifi- 
 cing. I wish — I wish I could see — Leo Abbott — 
 again." 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 AFTER THE CONCERT. 
 
 ||p«M^j|HE lamps are lit in the pretty drawing-room 
 I^Ej^ti! ^^ ^^® villa. Dinner is over, and the one 
 fj^^k;] guest, the Reverend Ignatius Lamb, sits 
 [IW .v?^;] ! jjgji,. ]yf,.g Ycntnor's sofa, talking earnestly. 
 The ex-rector of St. Walburga's is the incumbent of a 
 beautiful little church in the village now, not so rich 
 or rare a gem certainly as St. Walburga's in the days of 
 12* 
 
274 AFTER THE CONCERT. 
 
 Mrs. Abbott — still, an extremely pretty structure. 
 Gothic as to style, mediaeval as to painted saints on 
 golden backgrounds, aristocratic as to congregation, 
 and all that there is of the most ritualistic, as to doc- 
 trine. 
 
 Mrs. Ventnor, pallid, languid, graceful, reclining 
 on her couch, listens with weary interest. She has a 
 pew at St. Chad's, and is especially anxious about the 
 success of Mr. Lamb's latest project — that of founding 
 a convent and an orphan asylum, on a grant of land 
 recently presented to the church by Colonel Ventnor. 
 The order is quite a new one, the Sisters of the Suffer- 
 ing — Mr. Lamb himself the founder, and to establish 
 the Mother House in Brightbrook, with an asylum and 
 a day-school, is a project very near to the reverend 
 gentleman's heart. 
 
 "I saw the Reverend Mother last week," he is say- 
 ing to Mrs. Ventnor, " and it was she who proposed 
 this concert. For obvious reasons, it is more conven- 
 ient at present than either a picnic or fair. Mother 
 Bonaventure knows this singer — this Miss Jenny Wild 
 — knew her before she entered religion — you under- 
 stand, and speaks of her in the very highest terms. 
 Her moral character — Miss Wild's, of course — is per- 
 fectly unexceptionable. And she is more than willing 
 to assist us by giving a concert and donating the pro- 
 ceeds. She is said to excel in charities indeed, and is 
 especially interested in orphan children. In addition to 
 her concert she promises two hundred dollars. All this, 
 with the noble donation of your excellent husband, my 
 dear madam, will enable us to start work at once, without 
 incurring pecuniary liabilities. Everything is arranged, 
 and the concert takes place on Monday evening. Miss 
 
AFTER THE CONCERT. 275 
 
 Wild is at present in New York, but will reach 
 Brightbrook on that day. May I hope, my dear Mrs. 
 Ventnor, that you will endeavor to be present?" 
 
 "I go nowhere of late," Mrs. Ventnor responds, 
 languidly, " as you are aware. My wretched health, 
 you know — but assuredly, if possible, I will be present 
 at the concert." 
 
 " And Miss Olga — we may, I presume, count upon 
 her without fail." 
 
 The door opens as he speaks, and the Reverend 
 Ignatius pauses, and is conscious of a shock — not an 
 unpleasant one. He holds distinct views upon the 
 celibacy of the clergy, and has always advocated them, 
 but at this moment he feels that under certain in- 
 "duences a man and an Anglican priest may be untrue 
 to the convictions of his life, and yet be excusable. 
 
 She comes in, tall, slender, white-robed, her lovely 
 hair falling like a bath of sunshine over her shoulders, 
 her gold and snow drapery trailing about her, a faint 
 flush on her cheeks, a starry light in the blue, blue 
 eyes. Behind her comes her faithful shadow, Frank, 
 and the Reverend Ignatius* frowns slightly, and 
 realizes that handsome distant cousins are a most dan- 
 gerous and objectionable class of men. 
 
 " My dear, how late you are," mamma murmurs, as 
 Olga stoops and kisses her, " we have dined without 
 you. Dr. Gillson, you know, is most peremptory on 
 the point of my always dining at the same hour." 
 
 " Pray make no excuses, mamma — it does not mat- 
 ter in the least," Olga says, gayly. " Frank and I will 
 dine tete-a-tete. We have been quarreling all the after- 
 noon, and can recommence over our soup. Anything 
 
276 AFTER THE CONCERT. 
 
 new in Brightbrook, Mr. Lamb ? What of the new 
 convent ?" 
 
 " Olga thinks of renouncing this wicked world, and 
 going in for Mother Abbess. The role would suit her, 
 I think. She has rather the look at this moment of a 
 vestal virgin — a Norma — a Priestess of the Sun. That 
 sort of people never cared for anybody but themselves, 
 and were made of ice-water more or less, I believe." 
 
 " My dear Frank, how often have I told you sar- 
 casm is not your strong point ? You mean to be cyni- 
 cal, but in reality I am almost sure I should like it. 
 The habit of the Sisters of the Suffering is in admirable 
 taste — a trained black robe, a white coif, and long 
 black vail are always picturesque and becoming. 
 What of our fair, Mr. Lamb — or is it to be a picnic?" 
 
 Mr. Lamb explains. It is to be neither. It is to 
 be a concert — a ballad concert, with Miss Jenny Wild 
 as prima-donna, and Monday next is the appointed 
 night. 
 
 "Miss Jenny Wild? Jenny Wild? I do not 
 know that name. Who is she ? Do you know her, 
 Frank ?" 
 
 " Never heard her — heard of her though. Sings in 
 character — ballads chiefly, and is very popular. Good 
 contralto they say, but seldom comes to New York. 
 It is not to be supposed you would know her. Miss 
 Ventnor — scampering over the face of the earth as you 
 have been for the past five years. Come to dinner. I 
 do not know how it may be with you, but I am con- 
 sumedly hungry." 
 
 They go. Frank may be in love with the exquisite 
 face across the table, but that fact does not impair his 
 appetite to any serious extent. If it exists, it is per 
 
AFTER THE CONCERT. 277 
 
 haps a love of the eyes, not of the heart, for he is dis- 
 tinctly conscious of being much more comfortable 
 away from his adored one than with her. 
 
 Her presence, her triumphant beauty, have upon 
 him the effect of a fever. He seeks to woo and win 
 her, and he feels that if he succeeds he will be in a 
 state of unrest and discomfort all the rest of his life. 
 She exacts too much, her ideal is too high ; he can 
 never reach it ; it is always uncomfortable to dwell on 
 the heights. Still, the family expect it of him, and to 
 show the white feather in love or in war is not the 
 nature of a Livingston. In an off-hand sort of way ho 
 has been making love to his pretty cousin ever since 
 he can remember, but to distinct proposal he has never 
 yet come. In his pocket, to-night, a letter lies from 
 his mother, urging, entreating, commanding him to 
 speak before he leaves Brightbrook. Business calls 
 him away on Tuesday next, and the Rubicon must be 
 crossed between then and now. He is not a nervous 
 young man as a rule ; but, truth to tell, the thought 
 makes his heart beat a little quickly. Perhaps it is 
 not to his discredit that he is a trifle afraid of this regal 
 Olga. He is not the first man who has feared this 
 chill, white goddess. This is Thursday evening. He 
 has still one, two, three, four days and nights to screw 
 his courage to the sticking-place, and put his fate to 
 the touch, to " win or lose it all." 
 
 " I will speak to-morrow," he thinks, looking at her 
 across the cut flowers and crystal. " Hang it all ! why 
 should I be afraid ? 
 
 '* ' Praise as you may, when the tale is done. 
 She is but a maid to be wooed and won.' " 
 
 But to-morrow comes and he does not speak. He 
 
278 AFTER THE CONCERT. 
 
 does not feel sentimental, as it chances, and no fellow 
 can propose in cold blood. And Saturday, and Sun- 
 day, and Monday come, and still golden silence reigns, 
 and his fate hangs in the balance. And Monday even- 
 ing is the evening of the concert, and there is no longer 
 chance or time. 
 
 The whole Ventnor family go. Olga, in India mus- 
 lin, with touches of crimson here and there in her pale, 
 crisp draperies and laces, is, as ever, bewildering. A 
 fairly fashionable assembly fills the hall, and Miss 
 Ventnor finds an acquaintance who seems to know all 
 about the musical star of the night. 
 
 "A very charming songstress, I assure you," the 
 lady says. " She travels with her guardian and hi& 
 wife — Germans, I believe — and has a very sweet and 
 powerful contralto, with an odd sort of patlios in it 
 that most people are captivated by who hear her sing. 
 I have seen her give nearly a whole evening's enter- 
 tainment herself, singing song after song, in character, 
 with a rapidity and power quite amazing. It is very 
 good of her to proffer her services in this way ; but 
 then she is good ; it is quite like her. She is the most 
 generous and large-hearted creature in the world — and 
 beyond reproach, I assure you. In all quarters Miss 
 Wild is most highly spoken of." 
 
 *'Yes?" Olga says, indifferently. She is not much 
 interested, naturally, in Miss Wild or her character. 
 Her glass sweeps the hall, and she is busy acknowledg- 
 ing bows. It is something of a bore to be here at all, 
 after seasons of Patti and Nilsson abroad. Still, it is 
 for Mr. Lamb, and she is Olga Yentnor — and 7iohlesse 
 oblige. 
 
 The curtain rises ; the stage is handsomely deco- 
 
AFTER THE CONCERT. 279 
 
 rated. A slim, dark young man, with great Italian 
 eyes and accent, appears, and sings, '* Let Me Lil^e a 
 Soldier Fall," in a very fine baritone voice. Then there 
 is a piano solo — Liszt's " Rhapsodic " No. 2, performed 
 in a masterly manner by Herr Ericson, and then Miss 
 Jenny Wild is before them, and "Love My Love" is 
 ringing through the concert-room, in a voice that makes 
 even Olga Ventnor, difficult as she is, look up in pleased 
 surprise. And looking once, she looks again. The 
 singer, a tall, finely-formed young woman, dressed 
 simply enough, in dark silk, is a person to command 
 from most people a second glance. It is hardly a hand- 
 some face, but it is a striking one ; the features are 
 good, the eyes dark and brilliant, and with an intensity 
 of expression not often seen. There is vivid dra- 
 matic power in her rendering of the song — the voice 
 has that sweet, touching, minor tone Olga has heard 
 of. But something beyond all this strikes and holds 
 Miss Ventnor. "As in a glass darkly "she seems to 
 recognize that face, that voice. She knits her brows, 
 and tries to recall. In vain — Miss Jenny Wild refuses 
 to be placed. She concludes her song, and disappears 
 in the midst of a tumult of applause. 
 
 "She is really a very fine singer," Olga says to the 
 lady by her side, " but it is the oddest thing — I seem 
 to have seen and heard her somewhere before." 
 
 "You have attended some of her concerts, per- 
 haps ?" the lady suggests. 
 
 "No, it cannot be that — this is the first concert I 
 have attended since my return to America. Frank !" 
 imperiously, " are you asleep ? What are you thinking 
 of, sitting there, with that dazed look?" 
 
 " Of Miss Jenny Wild. Somewhere — in some other 
 
280 AFTER THE CONCERT. 
 
 planet, perhaps — I must have met that young lady be- 
 fore. Ah ! she is good-natured ; she responds to the 
 encore. Here she is again." 
 
 Miss Wild reappears, bowing graciously to the 
 hearty call she has received. Her fine dark eyes 
 calmly survey the house, and lift and rest for the first 
 time on the Ventnor party. They fall on Frank 
 Livingston, and meet his puzzled glance full. 
 
 A slight flush rises to her face, a slight smile dawns 
 about the lips, then her graceful figure is drawn up, 
 and she is singing " Within a Mile of Edinboro' Town." 
 The old, ever-welcome favorite is listened to with de- 
 light, and a great basket of flowers is presented to the 
 singer. Olga hands Frank her bouquet. 
 
 *' Throw it," she says ; " she deserves it. She sang 
 that delightfully. Miss Jenny Wild is worth coming to 
 hear. But, oh! where have I seen and heard her before ? " 
 
 Frank throws the cluster of white roses with un- 
 erring aim — it lights at the feet of the songstress. 
 She stoops and picks it up, and again that slight 
 glance, and flush, and smile rest on Livingston, as she 
 bows and quits the stage. 
 
 The Italian sings again. Herr Ericson performs a 
 ringing Rondo, and Miss Wild sings the grand aria, 
 "Nabuco " from Verdi, quite magnificently, and again 
 is rapturously encored. Once more she responds with 
 another Scotch song, " Sleeping Maggie," and once more 
 her eyes look and linger with evident amusement on 
 the profoundly puzzled face of Frank Livingston. 
 Then the concert is over, and they are out-in the sweet 
 darkness of the June night. 
 
 " Whp is Miss Jenny Wild?" cries Olga, im- 
 patiently ; " I hate to be puzzled, and she puzzles me. 
 
AFTER THE CONCERT. 281 
 
 Frank, I command you ! find out all about her, and 
 tell me why her face and voice are so ridiculously 
 familiar. And she has, evidently, seen you before — 
 she did you the honor to look at you more than once 
 in the most marked manner." 
 
 " I go to-morrow," is Frank's answer, "and whether 
 I shall ever return to discover Miss Jenny Wild's an- 
 tecedents, or for any other reason, depends entirely on 
 you, Olga, and what you will say to me to-night ! " 
 
 The hour has come — the two are alone, lingering 
 for a moment before saying good-night and going in. 
 They stand on the piazza ; the June stars shine above 
 them ; the silence of midnight is around them. 
 
 She glances at him in surprise ; she is humming 
 " Within a Mile of Edinboro' Town." 
 
 "* For I cannot — wunnot — wunnot — wunnot buckle 
 to ! ' " she sings, and then breaks off to laugh. 
 
 "What a tragical face ! What a desperate tone ! 
 What a dramatic speech ! You go to-morrow, and 
 ■whether you will ever return depends on what I will 
 say to-night ! Really, Frank, the concert, and the 
 impassioned singing of Miss Wild have been too much 
 for you. Must you really go to-morrow ? I am sorry. 
 Hurry back." 
 
 " Are you sorry, Olga ? Shall you miss me ? Do 
 you care for me, I wonder, the very least in the world ? 
 Oh, you know what I mean ! Do not laugh at me, for 
 God's sake!" with almost angry impatience. "You 
 have laughed at me long enough ! I love you, Olga ! — 
 I want you to be my wife ! " 
 
 The words, thought of so long, come abruptly 
 enough — roughly, indeed. lie sees in her face the 
 familiar, mocking look ho knows so well — a look 
 
282 AFTER THE CONCERT. 
 
 nothing seems to have power to soften or change. 
 But at the irritated passion of his voice and face it 
 dies out, and she looks at him with smiling, gentle, 
 half amused eyes. ' 
 
 " I like you so much, Frank, that I am sorry you 
 have said this. You do not mean it, do you ? We 
 have been playing at flirtation all our lives, and, by 
 mistake, you have fancied the play earnest to-night. 
 You are not in love with me — you do not want me to 
 be your wife. You would be miserable if I said yes, 
 and you know it. But fear not. I am not going to 
 say yes." 
 
 "Say it and try ! I will risk the misery. All my 
 life will be devoted to you, every thought of my heart, 
 if you will marry me, Olga." 
 
 "Marry you !" she repeats; "marry you^ Frank !" 
 There is that in her tone makes Livingston redden 
 angrily and throw back his head. She laughs a little 
 in spite of herself. " " I never thought of such a thing 
 in my life," she says, with cruel coolness. 
 
 "Do you mean to tell me," the young man de- 
 mands, in no very tender tone, " that you did not 
 know it was a compact made and agreed to years and 
 years ago ?" 
 
 " Never !" she answers, with energy, " never ! In 
 such compact I had no share — of such compact I never 
 heard. Oh, yes !" contemptuously, in reply to his 
 indignant glance; " I have heard hints, innuendoes, 
 seen smiles and wise glances; but do you think I 
 heeded them ? They are the impertinences relatives 
 seem to think they have a right to. There is but one 
 person on earth who has a right to speak to me of such 
 a thing — my dear father — and he has been silent. 
 
AFTER LONG YEARS. 283 
 
 And I do not care for you, Frank — in that way. I 
 am very fond of you — there never was a time when I 
 was not, I think," she says, and holds out her hand 
 with the sweet, alluring smile that makes men her 
 slaves, "there never will come a time when I shall not 
 be. But not like that. There is not a friend I have 
 in the world I would not sooner lose than you; so 
 shake hands and forget and forgive all this. Let us 
 say good-night and good-by, and when you return — 
 say in three or four weeks — you will have forgotten 
 the fancy of to-night. Do not look cross, Frank, it 
 does not become you — and come in." 
 
 She slips her hand through his arm, and, half 
 laughing at his moody face, draws him into the house. 
 The gas burns low in the drawing-room, the piano 
 stands open; she strikes the keys as she stands, smiling 
 over her shoulder, and sings: 
 
 *' The fairest rose blooms but a day — Good-by I 
 The fairest spring must end with May, 
 And you and I can only say: 
 Good-by, good-by. good-by I" 
 
 CHAPTER HI. 
 
 AFTER LONG YEARS. 
 
 HE morning that follows this night of the 
 concept is bleak and raw for June. A drab 
 sky frowns on a sunless world; the wind 
 is as much like November as the month of 
 roses, and the weather-wise predict rain. But in this 
 threatening state of the weather Miss Jenny Wild hires 
 a pony carriage, and starts all by herself for a drive. 
 
284 AFTER LONG YEARS. 
 
 Not for an aimless drive — she seems to know very well 
 where she wants to go. She is very plainly dressed, 
 in black, a straight dark figure sitting upright in the 
 little carriage, a black straw hat, with a blue vail 
 twisted round it, on her head. She pulls this vail over 
 her face as she drives through the village, and, glancing 
 hardly to the right or left, takes the woodland road, 
 and pulls up at tlie Red Farm, erstwhile Sleaford's. 
 
 Here she sits and gazes for a long, long time, with 
 darkly-thoughtful face and brooding eyes, at the 
 dreary and deserted house. There her most miserable 
 childhood was spent ; working in that kitchen her 
 most miserable girlhood wore on ; in that attic room 
 how many supremely wretched nights of cold, and 
 pain, and isolation, and heart-break the child Joanna 
 struggled through ! In that adjoining chamber her 
 merciless task-master had met his fate, and passed to 
 his death. In that parlor, with its shattered panes, 
 how many a jolly revel had been held, in which her 
 part was only additional drudgery. And yet she had 
 liked them, too; there were light and music, and 
 laughter and dancing, and youth, and at one of them 
 she had first seen Frank Livingston's gay, handsome 
 face — the same face, older, manlier, she had looked 
 upon again last night. Oivt of yonder broken gate 
 she had watched him come one never to-be-forgotten 
 morning, with his fair little cousin in his arms. Last 
 night he had sat by that fair young cousin's side, and 
 listened to her singing. Always these two'^'are asso- 
 ciated in her mind, and always with a sense of dull, 
 morbid pain. In that gloomy kitchen she first saw 
 Geoffrey Lamar, the true, noble-hearted friend who 
 had done all in his power to lift her out of her misery 
 
AFTER LONG YEARS. 285 
 
 and out of herself. Here wild Joanna suffered and 
 slaved, was beaten and girded at ; from here she fled, 
 out into the world, with George Blake ! And to-day 
 she might have been George Blake's wife, if chance — 
 or Providence — had not thrown in her way Frank 
 Livingston, and so in a moment changed her whole 
 life. 
 
 She turns from the eerie spot at last, and goes on 
 to Black's Dam. Here, too, time and decay have lain 
 their ruinous finger. The old mill, her shelter and 
 solace so often, has fallen to utter decay, the pond is 
 almost dry — silent desolation reigns. She turns from 
 it with a shudder, and drives away. Great drops of 
 rain are beginning to patter, but she cares almost as 
 little for a wetting now as in the old days. She drives 
 to Abbott Wood — the old gate-keeper lives still in the 
 vine-wreathed Gothic lodge, but he can give her no 
 news of his missing mistress. 
 
 A lawyer from the city does everything that is to 
 be done in these latter days. Of Mrs. Abbott or Mr. 
 Geoffrey no one seems to know anything. The rain 
 falls heavily as she drives through the lovely, leafy 
 avenues, up to the grand, silent, somber house. The 
 blinds are down, the shutters closed ; it looks as if it 
 were mourning for those it has lost. She does not go 
 in, though she is invited to do so by Mrs. Hill. She 
 feels she cannot look at those fair, empty apartments, 
 filled by the haunting faces of half a dozen years ago. 
 Her own is among them — the restless, unhappy, aim- 
 less Joanna of seventeen. She is neither aimless nor 
 restless now. She has found her niche and work in 
 life, and they suit her well. But happy ? Well, she 
 is hardly that, and yet a very different, a much wiser, 
 
286 AFTER LONG YEAES. 
 
 gentler, nobler Joanna, than the dark, discontented 
 protigee of Geoffrey Lamar. Softened and good she 
 has grown, through years of kindness and affection 
 given to her lavishly and loyally by the Herr Professor 
 and Madame Ericson, All that is best in her has 
 its day at last. Of friends she has many ; of lovers 
 she has had her share ; of admirers more than she 
 * cares to remember. And love has redeemed her, and 
 "Miss Jenny Wild" is all that they say of her, and 
 more, giving of her abundance to all who ask and 
 need. 
 
 That afternoon Professor Ericson and his family, 
 as he calls them, leave Brightbrook. By the morning 
 train Mr. Frank Livingston has gone up to New York, 
 and while Miss Wild is recalling the days of her youth, 
 he is spinning along, a cigar between his lips, the 
 morning paper in his hand, far from the scene of his 
 despair. Truth to tell, he looks anything but despair- 
 ing this morning, in a most becoming English suit of 
 the very roughest gray tweed, fresh, vigorous, good- 
 looking, alert. Broken-hearted at his rejection he has 
 a right to be, and may be ; but a broken heart is be- 
 coming to some people, and Livingston is apparently 
 one of them. In his secret soul there is rather a sen- 
 sation of relief, that as the train bowls along it bears 
 him in its throbbing bosom a free man ! He has done 
 what destiny and his Maker, and the united houses of 
 Ventnor and Livingston expected of him, and she has 
 said No, and there is no appeal. And when Mr. Liv- 
 ingston dies, and worms eat him, whatever the imme- 
 diate cause may be, he is comfortably convinced it 
 will not be love. So, in a fairly cheerful mood, he 
 surveys his fellow-passengers, unfolds his Brightbrook 
 
AFTER LONG YEARS. 287 
 
 paper, and reads what the musical critic of that sheet 
 has to say about last night's concert. Miss Wild is 
 lauded, and Livingston is disposed to laud also. Slie 
 sang remarkably well, and looked very imposing. That 
 grand aria from "Nabuco" is still ringing in his ears, 
 and it occurs to him once more to wonder why her face 
 should be so oddly familiar. Not a pretty face, he 
 decides, but a good one, a striking one, and once seen 
 not easily forgotten. And then he turns to another 
 column and subject, and forgets all about it. 
 
 He spends three or four days in New York, among 
 old friends and old haunts. His principal object in 
 coming to town is to tell his mother the result of his 
 proposal, and so make an end of that business at once 
 and forever ; but his mother has gone on a visit. He 
 proposes to follow her, for he knows it is a subject on 
 which she is more than anxious ; but it is news that 
 will keep, and he does not hurry himself. On the 
 evening of the third day he sees by the bills that Miss 
 Jenny Wild is to give one of her character concerts, 
 and makes up his mind to go. 
 
 "Perhaps I shall be able to place her this time," 
 bethinks, "and so get rid of her altogether. I be- 
 lieve I was dreaming of her half the night last night." 
 
 So, a little after the commencement of the concert, 
 Mr. Livingston saunters in, and finds a large and 
 fashionable gathering. Many of the faces present are 
 familiar ; one lady in a private box bows, and smiles, 
 and beckons, and in a few moments he is shaking hands 
 with Mrs. Van Rensselaer and her daughters. 
 
 "So glad to meet you once more, my dear boy," 
 that great and gracious lady exclaims, " and looking 
 80 extremely sun-burned and well. We heard you had 
 
288 AFTER LONG YEARS. 
 
 returned with the Ventnors, and were staying with 
 them at that charming villa. And how is dear Mrs. 
 Ventnor, and the lovely Olga, after their prolonged 
 European tour?" 
 
 *' Mrs. Ventnor is much as usual, and Olga is rather 
 lovelier than usual," says Frank. 
 
 "And when are we to congratulate you, Mr. Liv- 
 ingston ?" says the elder Miss Van Rensselaer, a dash- 
 ing and daring brunette, but not quite so young as she 
 used to be. " Ah ! we hear more than you think, we 
 stay-at-homes. We expected Olga would have cap- 
 tured a duke at least, so many rich American girls are 
 making brilliant matches this year. And yet there 
 she is, la belle des belles, back again and — as we under- 
 stand — unattached \ But you can open the mysteries, 
 no doubt." 
 
 "I only know Olga refused half the peerage !" says 
 Livingston, with calm mendacity. " As for your very 
 flattering hints, Miss Van Rensselaer, you do me too 
 much honor in inferring I have anything to do with 
 it. I might as w^ell love some bright particular star, 
 and so on, as my beautiful Cousin Olga. Such 
 daughters of the gods are not for impecunious artists 
 like myself. Ah ! here is Miss Wild, and as Mar- 
 guerite, singing the famous * Jewel Song.' How well 
 she is looking, and in what capital voice she is to- 
 night." 
 
 "You have seen her before?" Miss Brenda Van 
 Rensselaer inquires. 
 
 " Once before, at a concert last Monday night. Her 
 voice has the ringing of mountain bells, and what 
 pathos and dramatic force she has. She would make a 
 
AFTER LONG YEARS. 289 
 
 fine actress. It strikes me Miss Wild grows on one. I 
 like her better now than I did even then." 
 
 "Oh ! she is lovely," cries Miss Brenda, gushinj^ly. 
 " We are the greatest friends. She is received by the 
 ver)' best people. She is perfectly charming in private 
 life, and, unlike most artists, always so willing to sing. 
 She comes to us to-night after the concert ; mamma 
 has a reception. I think her drawing-room songs are 
 even more beautiful than her stage singing." 
 
 "Come and make her acquaintance," says Mrs. 
 Van Rensselaer, graciously. 
 
 " Thanks — I will," Livingston responds. 
 
 He is exceedingly taken by Miss Wild, he loves 
 music almost more than he does art, and her voice, her 
 look are so sympathetic that they draw him irresistibly. 
 Besides, he wants to discover what is that familiar look 
 about her that so perplexes him now. 
 
 " Who is Miss Wild ?" he asks, as, in the midst of 
 hearty applause, she quits the stage. 
 
 "Ah! who, indeed?" returns the elder Miss Van 
 Rensselaer. " Find somebody to answer that if you 
 can ! No one knows ; she arose first a little pale star 
 out West, and went on shining and enlarging until she 
 is the star of first magnitude. You see her now. 
 Hark to the clapping — she will return in a moment — 
 they always encore her songs. Flattering, but rather 
 a bore, I should think. Here she is ; what will she 
 give us now, I wonder ?" 
 
 An hour later he stands in the Van Rensselaer 
 drawing-rooms, and awaits his introduction to the can- 
 tatrice. He cannot tell why he is so vividly inter- 
 ested in her, unless it is caused by that puzzling famil- 
 iarity. But interested and impatient he is, and as he 
 13 
 
290 AFTER LONG YEARS. 
 
 has never been to meet any artist of the kind 
 before. 
 
 "Mr. Livingston, Miss Wild," says, simply, his 
 hostess, and he looks down into two dark, jewel-like 
 eyes, into a smiling face. He is conscious of bowing 
 and murmuring his pleasure — another moment and 
 some one else has claimed her, and she turns — is 
 gone. 
 
 He looks after her with knitted brows, and ever 
 deepening perplexities. That tall figure, that gentle, 
 earnest face, those great gem-like eyes — they are in 
 some mysterious way as well-known to him as his own 
 face in the glass. He tries to approach her more than 
 once as the evening wears on, but she is always 
 surrounded. The charm of her manner evidently 
 carries all before it, as well as the charm of her voice. 
 
 Presently, when he is about to give up in despair, 
 he hears her singing, and makes his way to the piano. 
 The words she sings he has never heard before — the 
 air is tender and very sweet. 
 
 *' My darling! my darling! my darling! 
 
 Do you know how I want you to-night? 
 The wind passes, moaning and snarling, 
 
 Like some evil ghost on its flight. 
 On the wet street your lamp's gleam shines redly; 
 
 You are sitting alone — did you start 
 As I spoke? Did j^ou guess at this deadly 
 
 Chill pain in my heart ? 
 
 ** Out here where the dull rain is falling, 
 
 Just once — just a moment — I wait; 
 Did you hear the sad voice that was calling 
 
 Your name, as I paused by the gate ? 
 It was just a mere breath, ah, I know, dear, 
 
 Not even Love's ears could have heard; 
 But, oh, I was hungering so, dear, 
 
 For one little word. 
 
AFTER LONG YEARS. 291 
 
 " Ah, me ! for a word that could move you, 
 Like a whisper of magical art! 
 I love you ! I love you ! I love you ! 
 
 There is no other word in my heart " 
 
 She looks up ; her eyes meet his. Has she been 
 conscious of his presence there all along ? Her hands 
 strike the wrong chords ; there is a jar and discord ; 
 a flush rises over her face ; she laughs, and suddenly 
 breaks off. 
 
 " Oh, go on !" half a dozen voices cry ; " that is 
 lovely." 
 
 "I sing it from memory," Miss Wild says. "It is 
 a little poem I lit upon the other day in a magazine, 
 and it seemed to fit some music I had. I will sing you 
 something better instead." 
 
 She sings "Kathleen Mavourneen," and looks no 
 more at Frank Livingston. He stands wondering, and 
 of his wonder finding no end. He turns over absently 
 some sheets of music bearing her name, and as he 
 does so, from one of them a written page falls. It is 
 the song she has broken off. Instantly he commits 
 petty larceny, and puts it in his pocket. 
 
 " It will serve as an excuse to call upon her and 
 restore her property," thinks this "artful dodger." 
 " Find out who she is I must, or I shall perish misera- 
 bly of curiosity." 
 
 "Kathleen Mavourneen " is finished, and she makes 
 a motion to rise ; but her listeners seem insatiable. 
 
 " Only one more — one little, little one, dear Miss 
 Wild," a young lady says. 
 
 She pauses, glances at Livingston's absorbed face, 
 smiles, and begins, " My Ain Ingleside." And then, 
 in one second, like a flash, a shock, the truth bursts 
 
292 AFTER LONG YEARS. 
 
 upon biin. He has heard that song before ! In the 
 drawing-room of Abbott Wood he has heard the same 
 voice sing it ! He stands petrified, spell-bound, breath- 
 less, his eyes on her face. Sleaford's Joanna ! Yes, 
 yes, yes ! the reddish, unkempt hair shining, dark, 
 becomingly dressed, the sweet voice perfected, 
 womanly, and sweet, but still — Sleaford's Joanna ! 
 
 How it comes about he does not know, but five 
 minutes later he is standing with her alone, both her 
 hands clasped close in his. 
 
 " It is !" he exclaims ; " I cannot be mistaken. It 
 is Joanna !" 
 
 "Sleaford's Joanna," she answers, and tears slowly 
 fill her eyes, though her lips are smiling. " I saw you 
 knew me, puzzled as you looked, and thought the old 
 song would put an end to your evident misery. Yes, 
 Mr. Livingston, after all these years, it is Joanna." 
 
 " And I am the first to find you," he says, triumph- 
 antly, " that is a good omen. Tell me where you live. 
 I must come to see you, and talk over the old days. 
 You shall not make a stranger of so old a friend, 
 Joanna." 
 
 " So old a friend !" she draws away her hands and 
 laughs. "Were you and I ever friends? Ah, yes, 
 come and see me. It does me good to look at a Bright- 
 brook face. And I am glad — yes, glad, that yours is 
 the first." 
 
 " And that is Sleaford's Joanna," Livingston thinks, 
 going home through the city streets, feeling dazed and 
 in a dream ; " fair, stately, famous ! What will Olga 
 say when I tell her this ?" 
 
" CARRIED BY STORM." 293 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 ** CARRIED BY STORM." 
 
 HEN Mr. Frank Livingston carries his 
 blighted affections away with him from 
 Brightbrook and his fair, cold cousin 01 ga, 
 it is, as has been said, with the intention 
 of seeing his mother and making an end of that, and 
 then starting off for a summer sketching tour, through 
 Canada and British Columbia. 
 
 That was his intention. The last week of June is 
 here, and so is Mr. Livingston. Canada and British 
 Columbia — places misty, afar-off, unseen and undesired. 
 Three weeks have come and gone, warm, dusty weeks, 
 and every day of these twenty-one days has seen him 
 by the side of Miss Jenny Wild, and for more hours a 
 day than he cares to count. 
 
 Miss Wild is still singing — not every night, but one 
 or two evenings a week. She is a favorite with the 
 musical public, and her concerts are always well at- 
 tended. On the nights she sings, a slender and exceed- 
 ingly handsome young man may be observed in one of 
 the front seats, drinking in with entranced looks every 
 note of that sweet, bell-like voice. Miss Wild on the 
 stage, in trailing silks and stage adjuncts, is a very 
 imposing and graceful person. 
 
 She has a face that lights up well, dark, pale, and 
 clear ; great star-like eyes, and the most beautiful 
 smile and teeth — the young gentleman in the front 
 seat thinks — in all the worhl. She is hardly hand- 
 some — at times she is positively plain ; but vet there 
 
294 ** CAEEIED BY STORM." 
 
 are others, when, flushed and sparkling with excite- 
 ment and applause, her dark eyes shining, she is 
 brilliantly attractive. She possesses, in an eminent 
 degree, that magnetic unknown grace, quite apart from 
 beauty, and called fascination. Her smile enchants ; 
 her eyes hold you ; her voice haunts you ; her tricks 
 and graces of manner captivate before you know it. 
 Where the charm exactly lies no one can tell, not her 
 most bewitched admirer, but it is there, subtile and 
 irresistible. The tones of her voice, the words she 
 says and sings, the light of her eyes and her smile 
 linger in the memory of men after lovelier women are 
 forgotten. Perhaps it is a little in her abounding 
 vitality, her joyous life, her lavish largeness of heart, 
 that has room and to spare for all who come. Friends, 
 admirers, lovers, if you will, she has many, and fore- 
 most among them Frank Livingston. For Frank 
 Livingston to be in love, or what he calls such, is no 
 new experience. He has loved many women, and been 
 cared for, more or less, a good deal, in turn. Hand- 
 some, insouciant^ inconstant, he is yet a gallant and 
 gracious young fellow, for whose faults fair flirts are 
 quite as much to blame as his own intrinsic infidelity. 
 Three weeks ago a young lady refused him — at present 
 he is the ardent admirer of another. In any case he 
 would have taken his rejection with philosophy, and 
 consoled himself promptly — possibly with some good- 
 looking young squaw, if he had gone to British Colum- 
 bia. He has not gone to that chilly land, and Miss 
 Jenny Wild, the songstress, has found favor in my lord's 
 sight. She bewitches him — her force of character, her 
 great popularity, the number of his rivals, the evident 
 preference she shows him, turn his head. He ignores 
 
** CARRIED BY STORM." 295 
 
 past and future, he lives in the present — in the sun- 
 light of those dark, entrancing eyes. He spends every 
 afternoon by her side, in tlie park, in the streets, in 
 her parlor. He sketches her in half a hundred atti- 
 tudes — he is painting her portrait — he is perfectly 
 happy ! 
 
 For Miss Wild — well, Livingston cannot quite make 
 her out. Her eyes and smile welcome him always ; 
 she takes his bouquets, she sings him the songs he likes. 
 Her doors are open to him when closed to all the rest 
 of the world. And something in all this puzzles him. 
 If it were any one else, it would be most encouraging 
 preference ; but this is Joanna, and Joanna is different. 
 He does not understand her. He is by no means sure 
 of what her answer would be, if he were inclined to 
 speak to-morrow. She likes him — yes, of that there 
 can be no doubt ; but if he were to say, "Joanna, will 
 you be my wife ?" he has very strong doubts of what 
 her answer would be. But he really has no intention 
 of asking any such thing. The present is delightful ; 
 it is charming to be with her — that suffices. To-day is 
 good — why lift the vail that hides to-morrow ? To be 
 epris is one thing, to ask the lady to marry one is 
 another. 
 
 " And so to-night is your last appearance for the 
 summer?" he says, "and you all go to your Newport 
 cottage to-morrow? Well, New York is no longer 
 habitable, of course ; but what an elysium I have 
 found it for the past month ! I, too, shall go to New- 
 port, Joanna !" 
 
 " And that sketching and hunting tour in British 
 
296 *' CAKRIED BY STORM." 
 
 Columbia ? And that visit to your anxious mamma ? 
 What of them ?" she asks, laughing. 
 
 They sit alone in the cool, green-shaded parlor, 
 Joanna doing lace work, Frank on an ottoman more or 
 less at her feet, with the Browning he has been read- 
 ing aloud tellingly, on his knee. 
 
 " I must see my mother," he answers, frowning 
 impatiently, " but it will be a flying visit. As for 
 British Columbia — well, British Columbia will always 
 be there, and other summers will come. But the 
 chance of going to Newport — in this way — may not 
 occur again." 
 
 " I think it had better not occur now. Start on that 
 visit to Mrs. Livingston to-morrow, and take train from 
 there to Montreal. It will be best, believe me. You 
 have had a surfeit of Newport and surf bathing, I 
 Bhould think, before now." 
 
 " Neither Newport nor surf bathing will be novel- 
 ties, certainly. But I do not go for them, you know 
 that. Do you forbid me to follow, Joanna ?" 
 
 "Why should I ?" she says, and her dark eyes rest 
 on him a moment. " I like you to be with me. No, 
 do not say anything complimentary, please — I was not 
 angling for that ; I mean what I say. It brings back 
 the old times and the faces I seem to have lost out of 
 my life. That past is a dark memory enough, and 
 yet it holds good things — Mrs. Abbott, Geoffrey, and 
 dear little Leo. I can never regret its pain when I 
 think of them." 
 
 "And does it hold no one else ?" he asks, jealously. 
 
 "Ah, you were no friend of mine in those days. 
 Do not deny it — I have an excellent memory for the 
 few who cared for me in that desolate time. And you 
 
** CARRIED BY STORM." 297 
 
 were not among them. Why shouhl you have been? 
 I was only an ugly and uncouth creature, rude in man- 
 ner, and look, and speech. I was not of your world 
 then. I am not now. No, the gap is not bridged over 
 yet. Do you think I do not know it ? — do you think 
 I do not know it never can be ? I am a singer, I am 
 popular, I make money, if that is all — fashionable 
 people like Mrs. Van Rensselaer ask me to their par- 
 ties because I sing and amuse their guests. But I am 
 nameless, homeless, a vagabond, and a wanderer. And 
 to know who I am is the one unsatisfied desire, the one 
 ceaseless longing of my heart. Surely I must have a 
 name — surely in some veins the same blood must flow. 
 There were the Sleafords — I do not know to this day 
 whether they were related to me or not." 
 
 ** *A little more than kin, and less than kind,' " 
 Livingston quotes. "What does it matter, Joanna ? 
 You have hosts of friends who love you for yourself. 
 You have made a name the world honors. Why 
 regret what you may be better without knowing?" 
 
 Her work has dropped, her hands clasp her knees 
 as she leans forward, in the old fashion he remembers; 
 her great eyes look dreamy, and wistful, and far 
 off. 
 
 "I would give half my life to know. I will never 
 rest until I know. The Sleafords I have lost sight 
 of; even Lora had left, and gone West before I had 
 reached Brightbrook. For the boys — it is doubtful if 
 they could tell me anything, even if I found them. 
 The secret of my life Giles Sleaford alone held, and 
 he carried it with him into the grave. I would give 
 all I possess to know. You cannot understand this — 
 you who Jiave always had name, and home, and re- 
 13* 
 
CARRIED BY STORM. 
 
 lations, and love — this ceaseless heart-hunger for some 
 one to whom we belong. Ah, well ! it is folly to sigh 
 over the inevitable. But all the same, it leaves me 
 to-day what I was six years ago, and you — you had 
 much better be wise, and go to Canada, and shoot 
 raoose ! The past weeks have been pleasant — yes — 
 but they are over. Say good-by to-morrow, and do 
 not come to Newport." 
 
 " I shall never be wise if that is wisdom," he says, 
 coolly. " I am always happiest when with you. Let 
 me be happy in my own way. I shall make that 
 filial visit, of course — that cannot be postponed— 
 but I shall return and spend my summer at New- 
 port." 
 
 She smiles and says no more. She resumes her 
 work, and he his Browning. If Livingston cannot 
 understand her, neither can she understand herself. 
 AH her life he has been in her eyes something dif- 
 ferent from other men. In her ignorant youth he 
 was the " Prince Charming " of her fairy tales. In 
 her dreary girlhood a slight, a word from him could 
 stab her as no other had power to stab. She does not 
 understand why this should be — she only knows it is 
 so. There is no reason why she should care for him. 
 There are a hundred good and sound ones why she 
 should not. The fact remains — she does care for 
 him; she will care for him possibly to her life's end! 
 
 That night is Miss Wild's last appearance for the 
 season, and that night the house is thronged with her 
 admirers and friends. That night she is brilliant as 
 she has never been brilliant before, as she never will 
 be again, for it is the very last time she will ever face 
 an audience ! But though she does not know it, some 
 
** CARRIED BY STORM." 299 
 
 t 
 
 thrilled, excited feeling sends a streaming light into 
 her eyes, a deep flush into her too-pale cheeks, a ringing 
 sweetness and power into her voice. 
 
 She sings as she has never sung before. She bears 
 her audience away — she is recalled again and again, 
 flowers are flung to her, the theater rings with excited 
 applause. Foremost — wholly carried away, is Frank 
 Livingston. Always excitable, the success of to-night 
 turns his head. She is bewitching- -she is a very 
 queen of song — she is radiant in her triumph — she 
 is irresistible ! Head and heart are in a tumult — this 
 is love, and he will win her — this bewildering woman, 
 who turns the brains of all men ! 
 
 It is all over — it h'h.s been an ovation — and they 
 are in her rooms — Herr Ericson and madame his wife, 
 the Italian baritone, and Frank. In her trailing silks 
 and laces, with sapphire ornaments, she looks abso- 
 lutely handsome — she looks like a goddess in Living- 
 ston's dazzled eyes. They are alone in one of the softly 
 lit rooms — her piano stands open, but it is he who 
 strikes the silvery chords, looking up with eyes that 
 flash in her smiling face. It is he who sings, in an ex- 
 cited, exultant voice, the little song he purloined, the 
 song he first heard her sing at Mrs. Van Rensselaer's 
 party : 
 
 " Do you think I am ever without you ? 
 
 Ever lose for an instant your face, 
 Or the spell thiit breatlies alway about you, 
 
 Of your subtile, ineffal)le grace ? 
 "Why, even to-night, put away, dear, 
 
 From the light of your eyes though I stand, 
 I feel as I linger and pray, dear, 
 
 The touch of your hand. 
 
 *' Ah, rae! for a word that could move you 
 Like a whisper of magical art I 
 
300 "carried by storm." 
 
 I love you ! I love you 1 I love you ! 
 
 There is no other word in my heart. 
 Will your eyes, that are loving, still love me ? 
 
 Will your heart, once so tender, forgive ? 
 Ah ! darling, stoop down from above me 
 
 And tell me to live." 
 
 " I love you ! 1 love you ! I love you ! " he cries, 
 and rising, takes both her hands in his feverish clasp. 
 *' Joanna, I love you ! I always have from the first, I 
 think, but to-night you have carried my heart by 
 storm ! " 
 
 She does not speak. His flushed face, glowing 
 eyes, and ringing voice, hardly lowered as he speaks 
 the passionate words, tell her of the wild excitement 
 within. 
 
 " My darling, stoop down from above me and tell 
 me to live!" he repeats; "do you hear, Joanna? 
 — I love you ! I tell you, you have carried my heart 
 as you do your audience, by storm ! '* 
 
 She stands silent. But the hands he clasps are not 
 withdrawn ; the sweet, dark, tender eyes do not droop 
 — they are fixed on his face. 
 
 "Silence is consent!" he gayly cries. He draws 
 a ring off his little finger, and slips it on one of hers. 
 " I bind you with this," he says, " for to-night, to- 
 morrow I will bring you a better." 
 
 He tries to clasp her, but she draws suddenly 
 back. 
 
 " Oh, do not ! " she exclaims, almost in a voice of 
 pain. 
 
 They are the first words she has spoken, and there 
 is a tone akin to terror in them. But she smiles a 
 moment after, and looks down at the ring. 
 
301 
 
 " You are all my own," he says ; " I love you and 
 I claim you. Wear that until to-morrow. My dar- 
 ling, you sang and looked like an angel to-night." 
 
 " Supper ish waiting," says the stolid German voice 
 of stout Madame Ericson ; " you had better come." 
 
 They go, and Livingston quenches his fever and 
 excitement in iced champagne. 
 
 Somewhere in the small hours the little party 
 breaks up, and he goes home through the summer 
 moonlight full of triumph and exultation, still hum- 
 ming softly to himself the haunting words of the 
 song. 
 
 But long after he is asleep, long after she is for- 
 gotten, even in his dreams, Joanna sits in her room, 
 and watches the slender yellow July morn lift itself 
 over the black, silent streets, full of troubled pain and 
 unrest. 
 
 " Carried by storm," she repeats to herself ; " car- 
 ried his heart by storm ! Ah ! Frank Livingston, is it 
 your heart, your fancy, your excitable imagination — 
 what ? But whatever it is, my love — my love, I love 
 you ! " 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 *' LITTLE LEO." 
 
 IGHT brings counsel," says the adage, and 
 "colors seen by candle-light do not look 
 the same by day," says the poet. Both 
 are exceedingly true. Livingston rises 
 next morning, and his first thought, as he recalls all 
 
302 
 
 tliat passed last night, is one of simple, utter, intense 
 consternation. Carried away by the excitement of 
 the moment, by the charm of her eyes, her voice, tlie 
 appearance of the crowd, he has asked Sleaford's 
 Joanna to be his wife. The memory absolutely stuns 
 him. All the fever of his throbbing pulses is allayed 
 now, and he knows he no more is in love with her tlian 
 he was with his cousin, Olga. Once again, as often 
 before, his heated, hot-headed recklessness has played 
 him false, his fickle fancy led him astray. He has 
 asked the last woman in the world he should have 
 asked to be his wife, and she has not said no. She 
 has said nothing, he remembers that now ; but in these 
 cases saying nothing is equivalent to saying yes. 
 
 Well, his fate is fixed — he must be true to her he 
 has asked ; she must never know of this revulsion of 
 feeling — Sleaford's Joanna must be his wife. It is 
 thus she forces herself on his imagination — no longer 
 as Jenny Wild, the singer, fair and stately, but wild, 
 ragged, devil-may-care — she rises persistently before 
 him. He does all he can to banish the memory — in 
 vain. The image of the little barefoot tatterdemalion, 
 the drudge of Sleaford's, is the only image rebellious 
 recollection will bring up. And last night he told her 
 he loved her. 
 
 It is with a very gloomy face, a very impaired 
 appetite, Mr. Livingston sits down to his breakfast. 
 He is not much of a hero, this fickle Frank — less of a 
 hero than usual, even at this crisis of his life. But un- 
 happily — or the reverse — the world is not made up of 
 heroes, and Livingston goes with the majority. What 
 will his mother say, his fretful, ambitious, fastidious 
 mother ? What will the Yeutnors say ? What will 
 
" LITTLE LEO." 303 
 
 Olga? — Olga, who has always especially disliked and 
 distrusted Joanna — Olga, who has pride of birth 
 enough for a royal princess. He can see the wonder, 
 the incredulity, the scorn of the blue, chill eyes. 
 
 But it is too late for all such thoughts, what is 
 done cannot be undone, he has chosen and must abide 
 by his choice. He must keep faith with her, and she 
 deserves a much better man. She shall never suspect 
 that he regrets. He will inform his mother — the 
 sooner the better ; he will accept her wrath and her 
 reproaches, he will marry Joanna out of hand, and 
 hurry her away with him to Italy. That will look 
 like flight, and flight will look like cowardice, but he 
 has not much trust in his own moral courage. In 
 Italy they can live as artists live — he certainly has 
 nothing very brilliant to offer his bride — he will cast 
 off the idleness of a life-time, and go to work with a 
 will. Of course, Joanna must go on the stage no 
 more ; poor he may be, but not so poor as to compel 
 his wife to work for her living. 
 
 " In Rome I can keep her on black bread and 
 melon rinds ! " he says, with a rather grim laugh, 
 " until fame and fortune find me out. She is the sort 
 of woman, I think, to whom love will sweeten even 
 black bread and melons. Though why she should care 
 for me Heaven knows ! She is worth a million such 
 weak-minded, vacillating fools as I am ! " 
 
 He takes his hat, and tries to clear the cloud from 
 his brow, and to look like his natural self, as he hurries 
 through the sunlit, hot, hot, streets, to Joanna's cool, 
 green-shaded, up-town bower. He is not very success- 
 ful perhaps, or her eyes are not easily baffled, for in 
 one long, grave, steadfast glance she reads all his 
 
304 
 
 trouble in his tell-tale face, then turns slowly away. 
 The rooms are littered with trunks, bags, boxes, and 
 all the paraphernalia of a flitting. 
 
 "You find me in the midst of my exodus," she 
 says, dropping his hand, and going on with her work. 
 " I always oversee my packing myself. So many 
 things are sure to be left behind. Find a seat if you 
 can, although it is hardly worth while to ask you. In 
 ten minutes we start." 
 
 She is putting on her hat, and twisting a gray tissue 
 vail around it, before the glass, as she speaks. Except 
 that first earnest, searching look, she has not turned to 
 him once, although there is no slightest change in her 
 pleasant friendly manner. 
 
 "Joanna!" he begins, impetuously, a touch of 
 remorse stinging him, " you must still wear the ring I 
 gave you last night. I protest, I forgot until this mo- 
 ment all about the other." 
 
 He does not think of all that his words imply. It 
 is early hours for a lover to forget. She says nothing 
 — her white slender hands are uplifted, arranging the 
 hat. He glances at them, and sees no ring." 
 
 " What !" he says, " you have taken it off already ?" 
 
 " Your ring ?" she says, quietly. " Oh, yes, it was 
 too large. Take it back, wear it again — pray do ; it 
 is of no use to me. I may lose it, carrying it about, 
 and indeed I cannot wear it. It is greatly too large 
 for anything but my thumb." 
 
 She laughs, and holds it out to him. He can do 
 nothing but take it. 
 
 " Very w^ell, as you say, it must be too large ; I will 
 send you a more suitable one before the week is out. 
 
** LITTLE LEO." 305 
 
 I, too, am off this morning, Joanna, to hunt up my 
 missing mother, and tell her all !" 
 
 She turns a little pale, but her eyes are fixed on the 
 orlove she is buttoninjT. 
 
 " Pray do not," she 8ay«, earnestly. " Oh, pray do 
 not — just yet. Give me time, give yourself time. 
 You are not sure of yourself — wait, wait ! There is 
 no hurry. Truly, truly Frank, I would much rather 
 you did not. Promise me you will not speak to your 
 mother." 
 
 " Carriage is waiting, Jenny, my dear," says Pro- 
 fessor Ericson, popping in his bald head, " and not a 
 second to lose. Good-morning, Mr. Livingston. Time 
 and trains, you know, wait not for any man." 
 
 " Promise," she exclaims, looking at him with those 
 dark, intense, serious eyes. 
 
 But he only smiles and clasps her gloved hands. 
 
 " I will write to you," he says, " and send you that 
 ring. You will wear it, will you not ? I promise you 
 it shall be pretty, and not too large. And do not let 
 your countless admirers nor the dissipations of New- 
 port make you forget during my enforced absence. I 
 shall not be a day longer than I can help, and I shall 
 have much to say to you of my — of our future plans, 
 when next we meet." 
 
 Nothing more is said. He places her in the car- 
 riage beside Madame Ericson, and leans forward to 
 talk until it starts. It has not been a very lover-like 
 meeting or parting, and he notices that Joanna is very 
 pale as she leans out with a smile to wave her hand in 
 adieu. Then they wore out of sight, and he is thought- 
 fully stalking along to the depot to take the train to 
 his penitential destiuatioD. 
 
306 
 
 It is a long, hot, dusty, disagreeable ride. Living- 
 ston sits in the smoking-car, and plays euchre, and 
 gets through unlimited cigars and newspapers, and the 
 grimy hours as best he may. : 
 
 Twilight is falling, misty and blue, as he reaches 
 his journey's end, and, glad to stretch his legs a bit, 
 he starts off briskly to walk to a hotel. The streets 
 are crowded; the lamps are lit, and, twinkle through 
 the summery gloaming. Suddenly there is a com- 
 motion, a shouting, a scattering and screaming of the 
 crowd. A pair of horses have taken fright at some- 
 thing, and started at a furious pace along the streets. 
 There is a rushing and shrieking of women — the 
 runaways dash across the sidewalk, upsetting every- 
 thing and everj^bod}'', and lashing out at all obstacles. 
 Stop them ! stop them ! shout a score of hoarse voices. 
 They flash past Livingston like a black whirlwind, 
 and he leaps aside barely in time. A young girl beside 
 him is less fortunate. The carriage-pole strikes her, 
 and she is flung heavily to the ground, directly at his 
 feet. The excited crowd dash by, heedless of the 
 prostrate figure, and Livingston, stooping down, lifts 
 her in his arms, and finds her insensible, and bleeding 
 freely from a cut in the head. 
 
 This is a situation ! He glances about in con- 
 sternation, and sees near the glowing globes of a 
 druggist's. To hurry thither, to summon assistance, 
 to place her in a chair, and support her there while 
 the man of drugs examines her wounds, is but the work 
 of a moment. 
 
 " A very nasty little cut," the druggist says, " and 
 unpleasantly close to the temple. Still, she is not 
 killed, and this wound will not amount to much if 
 
** LITTLE LEO." 307 
 
 she has received no other hurt. Knocked down by 
 the carriage-pole, you say ? Poor young lady ! Hold 
 up her head, sir, if you please; I will stop the 
 bleeding, and bind up the cut with a strip of 
 plaster." 
 
 Livingston obeys. lie looks for the first time 
 closely at the drooping face before him, and finds 
 his interest and sympathy considerably heightened 
 by the fact that it is an exceedingly pretty face, despite 
 blood-stains and pallor. She is a very young creature, 
 not more than sixteen to look at, with a dusk, sweet 
 face, and quantities of wavy dark hair. The long 
 lashes rest on ivory-pale cheeks. With gentle tonch 
 the druggist puts aside the loosened braids of hair, to 
 bind up the wound. Two lines he has read somewhere 
 occur to Frank's memory : 
 
 ** Love, if thy tresses be so dark, 
 How dark those hidden eyes must be !" 
 
 "A pretty little soul," he thinks. "I wonder who 
 she is, and what we are to do with her next ?" 
 
 Even as he thinks it, there is a flutter of the droop- 
 ing lids, a quiver through all the slight frame, and 
 then slowly two dark, deep eyes unclose and look up 
 in bewilderment into the strange faces bending over 
 her — the faces of men. 
 
 " Oh ! what is it ?" she says, shrinkingly. " Where 
 
 am I? What has happened? My head " She puts 
 
 up her hand in a frightened sort of way, and her lips 
 begin to quiver like a child's. " Oh ! what is it ?" she 
 says again. 
 
 " You were knocked down by a runaway horse — do 
 you not remember ?" Livingston says, gently. " Your 
 
308 
 
 head is hurt a little, but not much, I hope. Do you 
 feel hurt anywhere else ?" 
 
 She looks at hira — dark, solemn, childish eyes they 
 are — and her lips quiver still. 
 
 "I — I don't know. Oh ! let me go home, please ! 
 I must go home !" She essays to rise, then falls back, 
 with a little sob of pain. " My foot hurts me," she 
 says, sobbing outright; "but, oh, please, I want to go 
 home !" 
 
 She is indeed like a child. Livingston takes her 
 hand in both his, and tries to soothe her as he might 
 a child. 
 
 •" You shall go home ; do not be distressed, do not 
 be afraid. I am sure you are not much hurt. I will 
 take you home. Stay here, while I go and get a car- 
 riage. I will not be a moment." 
 
 She looks up at him again, and to his utter amaze 
 says this : 
 
 " I know you. You are Frank Livingston !" 
 
 " Good Heaven !" the young man exclaims, stunned 
 by this unexpected speech, " and who are you ?" 
 
 Instead of answering, she droops back in her chair, 
 so white, so death-like, that the druggist springs over 
 his counter for a restorative. 
 
 " Never mind asking her questions now," he says. 
 " Do you not see she is fainting ? Go for the carriage, 
 and get her home as quick as you can. She ought to 
 be put to bed, and attended to at once. She has had 
 a severe shock." 
 
 Livingston obeys. In a moment he is out of the 
 store — almost in another he is back with a cab. 
 
 " She is better again," the shopman says. " Take 
 her home at once. It is at 37 Pine street, she says — a 
 
** LITTLE LEO." 309 
 
 mile off or more. Tell the man to drive very slowly, 
 and as easy as he can. Her ankle is hurt, I think. You 
 will have to carry her to the carriage." 
 
 This is neither difficult nor unpleasant. He lifts 
 the light, youthful figure in his arms, and carries her 
 with infinite gentleness and care, and deposits her on 
 the back seat. Then he gets in opposite her, gives the 
 cabman the address, and they are driven slowly through 
 the lamp-lit city streets. He looks at her in intense 
 curiosity, as she sits before him, her head drooping 
 against the back, her eyes closed, her face drawn into 
 an expression of silent pain. He can ask her nothing 
 now. She looks almost ready to faint away for a third 
 time. 
 
 " Poor little soul !" he thinks, exceedingly sorry for 
 her — " poor little pretty child. I wonder who she is, 
 and how she comes to know me?" 
 
 But conjecture is useless ; he cannot place her. 
 Long before they reach 37 Pine street, what he has 
 feared comes to pass. She droops forward, and faints 
 dead away from sheer exhaustion and pain. 
 
 Livingston will never forget that drive ; it is al- 
 ways twilight, lit with yellow stars of light, and the 
 slender figure lying inert and senseless in his arras. 
 
 They reach their destination at last — a cottage set 
 in a pretty garden. A lady comes hurriedly out of the 
 door as they draw up. There is still light enough to 
 see her face plainly — a pale, handsome face — and 
 Frank Livingston utters a cry. 
 
 *' Good Heaven !" he exclaims, for the second time, 
 ** Mrs. Abbott, is it really you ?" 
 
 His cry is echoed, and it is her only reply, for she 
 catches sight of the drooping figure in the carriage. 
 
310 
 
 "My Leo ! my Leo !" she cries out, "oh, what is 
 this ? What has happened? Oh, great Heaven, is she 
 dead ?" 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Abbott, no, only hurt a little, and 
 unconscious just at present from the shock. Do not 
 alarm yourself — indeed there is no need. Let me carry 
 her in and send for a doctor at once. I am sure she is 
 not seriously hurt. I will tell you all about it in a 
 moment." 
 
 He carries her into the parlor, and lays her on a 
 sofa. In a moment Mrs. Abbott has recovered the 
 self-repressed calm habitual to her. She give a few 
 hurried directions to the driver, and then bends over 
 her pale little daughter. 
 
 " I have sent for my son," she says. " I chance to 
 know where he is. Frank Livingston, is this really 
 you ?" She holds out one slim, transparent hand, and 
 looks wonderingly in his face. " Tell me all about it, 
 and how you come td be with my little Leo like this." 
 
 "And it is Leo — little Leo ? " he says, gazing down 
 at the still white face, " dear little Leo, and I did not 
 know her. What a stupid dolt I grow. She recog- 
 nized me at once. Accident has been good to me to- 
 day, since it has thrown me in the way of the friends 
 I have been longing for the past five years to meet." 
 
 He tells her what has happened in rapid words, and 
 as he ends, a latch-key opens the hall-door, and a 
 young man hurriedly enters. 
 
 " An accident ? " he says, in alarm. " Leo hurt ? 
 Mother, what is this ? " 
 
 It is Geoffrey Lamar. He kneels beside his still in- 
 sensible sister, without a glance at the stranger, pale 
 with ala^'m, and takes her wrist. 
 
311 
 
 " Geoffrey, look here," his mother says, " do you not 
 recognize your friend ? " 
 
 " Frank ! " 
 
 He springs to his feet and holds out both hands. 
 
 " Dear old Geoff ! " 
 
 And then there is a long, strong, silent clasp, a 
 long, glad, affectionate gaze. Then Geoffrey returns to 
 Leo. 
 
 " "What is this ? " he asks again. " What has hap- 
 pened to Leo ? " 
 
 Livingston repeats his story, and in a moment Dr. 
 Lamar is in action. He carries his sister up to her 
 room, followed by his mother, while Frank sits below 
 and anxiously waits. He looks out across the darken- 
 ing flower-beds to the starry sky and thinks how 
 strangely, after all these years, he has found his friends. 
 Half an hour passes before Geoffrey returns. 
 
 " Well ? " Frank anxiously says. 
 
 " It is not particularly well, still, it might have been 
 worse. The shock is more to be apprehended than the 
 hurts — she is a tender little blossom, our poor Leo. 
 She has injured her ankle, in addition to the cut in her 
 head. How fortunate you chanced to be on the spot. 
 Thank you, Frank, for helping my little sister." 
 
 He holds out his hand, all the love his heart holds 
 for that little sister shining in his eyes. Livingston 
 takes it, and gazes at him. What a distinguished- 
 looking fellow he is, he thinks, how gallant a gentleman 
 he looks, how thoroughbred, how like his mother in that 
 erect and stately poise of the head, that clear, steady 
 glance of the eye. 
 
 " You lijive not changed in the least, Frank," Geoffrey 
 says. " I would have known you anywhere." 
 
312 ** JOAN BENNETT." 
 
 " You have changed, old fellow," Frank returns, 
 "but not for the worse. And so you have been here 
 all the time, our next-door neighbor almost, while I 
 have been looking for you high and low. What paper 
 walls hold us asunder ! What are you about ? Prac- 
 ticing your profession ? " 
 
 " As you see, and after an up-hill struggle enough, 
 conquering fate at last, I am happy to say. And now 
 that you have found us, we mean to keep you for a 
 while," Dr. Lamar says, gayly. " So make up your 
 mind to stay until further notice. Our mansion is not 
 particularly commodious, as you may see, but we al- 
 ways manage to have a spare room for a friend. And 
 of all the friends of the old time, my dear fellow, you 
 know not one can be more heartily welcome than your- 
 self." 
 
 There is little pressing needed. Frank does object, 
 but those objections are easily overruled. It puts off 
 the evil hour of maternal tears and reproaches, and 
 that is something. So he stays, and his secret will be 
 his secret for a few days longer, at least. 
 
 CHAPTER yi. 
 
 '^JOAN BENNETT." 
 
 jOANNA sits in almost total silence during 
 the short drive to the depot. The look in 
 Livingston's eyes haunts her, the forced 
 gayety of his tone has struck on her heart 
 like a blow. She has known it will be there sometime, 
 
313 
 
 •but not so soon, not the very morning after his im- 
 pulsive declaration. 
 
 " Carried by storm." Ah, but not held long. 
 More than he has yet felt himself she has read in his 
 face — pain, regret, the resolution to make the best at 
 all cost of the most fatal words of his life. 
 
 Professor Ericson chatters like a German magpie ; 
 luckily, like the magpie, he waits for no answer. 
 They reach the station barely in time to get tickets, 
 checks, and seats, and then are off through the jubi- 
 lant sunshine of the brilliant summer morning. Madame 
 Ericson composes herself by a shady window with a 
 German novel ; the professor goes off to the smoking 
 car, and Joanna is left undisturbed to gaze at the fly- 
 ing landscape, and muse over lovers who propose in 
 haste and repent just as hastily. As it chances — if 
 things ever chance — her seat is near and facing the car 
 door. As it opens to admit the conductor on his 
 rounds, her glance alights for a second on the figure 
 of a brakeman standing on the platform. 
 
 She leans forward, with a sudden eager interest 
 that drives even her lover from her mind, to look 
 again. Surely, that strong, tall figure, and all that 
 blue-black curly hair, are familiar. He turns for a 
 moment, sending a careless glance backward to where 
 she sits, and Joanna sinks back in her seat with a gasp. 
 
 For years she has been seeking him vainly, and he 
 stands before her now, when no one could be farther 
 from her thoughts. 
 
 They are near New York before Herr Ericson re- 
 turns. Joanna seizes upon him at once. 
 
 " There is a brakeman on board this train that I 
 know," she says, eagerly. " I want to see him — I 
 U 
 
314 
 
 must see him, and you will please hunt him up for me, 
 and tell hira so. Perhaps you have seen him — a tall, 
 dark, good-looking young man. He was out there not 
 half an hour ago," 
 
 The professor stares a moment, then laughs. 
 
 "Mein Gott ! She wants to see the handsome 
 young brakeman ! Shall I tell him to call on Miss 
 Jenny Wild, the celebrated vocalist, or " 
 
 " Look ! look ! There he is," Miss Wild exclaims, 
 unheeding, " standing on the platform. No, do not 
 speak to him until Madame and I are in the carriage ; 
 then give him my card and tell him to appoint an hour, 
 and I will be at home to receive him. Say no more than 
 that ; he will not refuse, I am sure ; he will be too curi- 
 ous. It is the most fortunate thing in the world ; he is 
 a person I have been wishing to see for years and years." 
 
 They rise and leave the train, find a hack, and take 
 their seats, always with an eye on the tall, dark young 
 brakeman. He is a handsome fellow, as he leans in an 
 attitude of careless strength against the car, his straw 
 hat pushed back off his sunburned, gypsy face, a red 
 handkerchief knotted loosely about his throat. 
 
 "He might stand as a model for a Roman bandit, 
 at this moment," Joanna thinks, with a smile ; "the 
 dark and dashing brigand of romance. There ! the 
 professor has accosted him, and now — see the profound 
 astonishment depicted on his face ! " she laughs softly, 
 as she watches the puzzled amaze of the young man, 
 and that laugh clears away the last of the vapors. 
 After all, Frank Livingston has not hurt her very 
 badly, judging by that clear laugh. 
 
 " He will come," says -the professor, returning, and 
 wiping his warm face, " but he is a greatly bewildered 
 
315 
 
 young man. He denies knowing any Miss Jenny 
 Wild — thinks she must be mistaken in supposing she 
 knows him, but will be at her service, if she likes, in 
 an hour. I told him that would do — will it ?" 
 
 "Admirably," Joanna says, still laughing. "I saw 
 his incredulity in his face ; he is watching us distrust- 
 fully at this moment. An hour is short notice ; but 
 short or long, I shall be most exceedingly glad to see 
 him." 
 
 Promptly at the hour's end, the young brakeman, 
 in much the same costume as on the car, with the 
 addition of a linen coat, presents himself at the cottage 
 and inquires for Miss Jenny Wild. He is ushered 
 into a pretty parlor, and in the subdued light, sees 
 advancing a tall and elegant-looktng young lady in 
 navy-blue silk, with a creamy white rose in her hair, 
 a smile of welcome on her lips, and one hand extended. 
 She stands without a word before him. The young 
 man stands in turn, and gazes, more puzzled perhaps 
 than he has ever been before in his life. She is the 
 first to speak. 
 
 " Well," she says, laughing outright, " will you not 
 shake hands ?" 
 
 "Z don't mind," the young fellow answers, and 
 takes in his great brown paw the slim, cool member 
 she extends, " but I'll be blessed if I know you ! And 
 yet it does seem to me I've seen you before, too." 
 
 "I should think so — seen me, felt me, boxed my 
 ears many a time and oft !" 
 
 " What !" 
 
 " Ah ! you would not do it now, I dare say. You 
 are much too gallant, no doubt, but such is the fact. 
 
316 '' JOA?^^ BENNETT." 
 
 Look very hard, Judson. Surely five years cannot 
 have changed me so very much." 
 
 "By Jupiter !" Judson Sleaford shouts, "it is — it 
 is — our Joanna !" 
 
 " Your Joanna — Sleaf ord's Joanna — Wild Joanna ! 
 Yes — Miss Jenny Wild now, though, to all the rest of 
 the world. Dear old Jud ! how glad I am to see you 
 at last !" 
 
 He holds her hands and stands gazing at her, eyes 
 and mouth wide with wonder. 
 
 " Joanna ! Our Joanna ! got up like this — a swell 
 — a high-toned young lady — dressed in silk and roses ! 
 Well, by George ! And here I've been looking for 
 you high and low for the past five years ! Upon my 
 soul, Jo, I can hardly believe my eyes ? Js it you ? 
 Why, you used to be ugly, and now I swear you 
 are " 
 
 " Ugly still, Jud — fine feathers make fine birds, 
 that is all. But sit down, I am dying for a long, long 
 chat with you. Dear old fellow, how nice, and brown, 
 and well j-^ou are looking !" 
 
 She draws forward a puffy chair of satin and 
 springs, and Judson Sleaford sinks down on it. But 
 his black eyes are still riveted on Joanna's face ; he 
 cannot believe them. He is trying to recall the bare- 
 footed, red-haired, fiercely-scowling child he remembers 
 so well, and place lier side by side with this smiling, 
 charming, " high-toned " lady, so good to look at, and 
 make one of the two. And he cannot. No man 
 could. Every trace of that Joanna is gone ! 
 
 "I can't believe it," he cries out. "It is all a 
 fraud ! It isn't Joanna at all. You can't be. Why, 
 she had red hair, and you " 
 
*'J0AN BENNETT." 317 
 
 "Have red hair still — not so rosy though as in 
 those days. Don't stare so, Jud. Your eyes will 
 drop on the carpet ! It is I, myself — I, Joanna — no 
 other. I wish it were." 
 
 "Why?" bluntly— "why should you wish it? / 
 think you are one of the luckiest girls that ever was 
 born." 
 
 " Do you ?" she says, a tinge of bitterness in her 
 tone. " Because I wear silk dresses and live in a New- 
 port cottage? Well, it is better certainly than life at 
 the Red Farm, but as for being the luckiest girl ever 
 b^rn " 
 
 " What do you call it then ?" he demands — " having 
 the fortune of a princess left you in this way ? By 
 Jove ! I call it the greatest stroke of luck that evei 
 was heard of, out of the Arabian Nights." 
 
 Joanna stares in turn. 
 
 " The fortune of a princess ? What do you mean ? 
 -Thave had no fortune left me. I sing for my living, 
 
 and make a very good one, but as for fortune Well, 
 
 pay for ray dresses, and so on, and have some pocket- 
 money left, if you call that the fortune of a princess." 
 
 It has seemed that by nc possibility can Judson 
 Sleaford stare harder than he has been doing, but at 
 these words he absolutely gasps. 
 
 " Do — do you mean to say," he demands, as soon 
 as he can speak, "that you don't know?" 
 
 " Don't know what ?" 
 
 " Good Lord above ! Do you mean to tell me 
 Geoffrey Lamar never hunted you up after all ?" 
 
 " Geoffrey Lamar ? I have not seen or heard of 
 Geoffrey Lamar since I left Brightbrook nearly six 
 years ago." 
 
318 "jOAN BENNETT." 
 
 Judson Sleaford falls back in his chair, and looks 
 helplessly at her. 
 
 " And all this — this cottage and furniture, and that 
 dress, and — and everything — do you mean to say you 
 work for and earn all that ?" 
 
 " I work for and earn all that. I have never had 
 a penny I did not work for and earn. I do not know 
 what you are talking about. I wish you would cease 
 staring and explain," cries Joanna, almost losing 
 patience. 
 
 Jud takes out his red handkerchief and wipes his 
 heated face. His amazement at finding Wild Joanna 
 in this stately young lady, walking in silk attire, is 
 not for a moment to be equaled by the amazement he 
 feels at finding her ignorant of who she is. Mingled 
 with the amaze is delight that it has been reserved for 
 him to tell her. 
 
 *' Then, by thunder, this is the luckiest day's work, 
 Joanna, you have done in a long time ! Just let me 
 catch my breath, will you, and don't hurry me. I'll 
 tell you everything directly, everything you've been 
 wanting to know all your life. First of all let me ask 
 you some questions. You know rich John Abbott 
 shot himself ?" 
 
 "Yes, I know that. Poor Mrs. Abbott." 
 
 " Ah ! poor Mr. Abbott, I should say. You don't 
 happen to know why he did it ?" 
 
 " Certainly not. I only saw it in the papers, and 
 the reason assigned was temporary aberration of 
 intellect." 
 
 " Yes, jest so. Temporary fiddlestick ! He knew 
 what he was about — he was going to be found out, 
 and was afraid of the law and his high and mighty 
 
*'J0AN BENNETT." 819 
 
 missis. So he put a bullet through his brain, and 
 got out of it that way. Then — do you know what 
 Mrs. Abbott and young Lamar did then ?" 
 
 " Shut up Abbott Wood and left the place. Yes, 
 but even that I only discovered a few weeks ago. One 
 can hardly wonder — so sensitive as Mrs. Abbott was, 
 and after so shocking a tragedy. I am not surprised 
 she has never returned. But where are they, Jud- 
 sonr 
 
 " You would like to see them ?" he asks, looking 
 at her curiously. " You are as fond of them as 
 ever ?" 
 
 *' Can you ask ? They were my friends when I 
 had not a friend in the world. They did all they 
 could to lift me out of the misery and degradation 
 they found me in. As fond of them as ever ! I tell 
 you, Judson Sleaford, I would lay down my life for 
 Mrs. Abbott." 
 
 "Ah!" Jud says, in a peculiar tone, "and for 
 Geoffrey Lamar ?" 
 
 " And for Geoffrey Lamar. What I am to-day I 
 owe to them. All I have, or ever may have, I owe to 
 them. Why do you look like that, and speak like 
 that ? What do you know of them ? Tell me where 
 they are, if you know that." 
 
 " I don't know that. And you need not be in a 
 rush to find them as far as they are concerned. I dare 
 say, if the truth was known, you're about the last per- 
 •jon in this world they want to see. Why, I heard 
 Geoffrey Lamar as good as swear to find yon, if you 
 were above ground, and rCvStore you to your rights, and 
 this is the way he keeps his word !" 
 
 " Heard him swear ! Swear to whom ?" 
 
320 ^^JOAN BENNETT." 
 
 "To dad — poor old chap — the night he died." 
 
 " And restore me to my rights ? What are you 
 talking of, Jud ?" she asks, in a maze of wonder. 
 
 " I'm talking of what I heard with my own ears, 
 though nobody knows to this day I heard it. I'm talk- 
 ing of what I heard dad tell young Lamar on his death- 
 bed, and young Lamar swore to tell you. He hasn't 
 done it, it seems. Dad sent for him to do justice to 
 you at last, and tell him what hold he had over his 
 step-father, who yoa were, and let him right you, see- 
 ing he was your friend." 
 
 " Who you were !" She hears those words and 
 starts to her feet. She stands before him, her hands 
 clasped, her eyes wild and wide, her lips breathless and 
 apart. 
 
 " Who I am ! Judson— at last !" 
 
 " Ah ! don't be in a hurry, Joanna. I don't know 
 whether you will like it or not when you know — so 
 fond as you are of Mrs. Abbott, too. I tell you it 
 knocked Lamar over like a bullet. If ever you saw a 
 corpse take a walk — I don't suppose you did — he looked 
 like that when he left the house. But he believed what 
 he was told, and dad gave him the paper that proved 
 your father and mother's marriage, and your baptism, 
 out in San Francisco. He needn't deny it, for I saw 
 it all, if you ever have to go to law about it — and I 
 would, by Jupiter ! Fortunes like that don't go beg- 
 ging every day, and you're the rightful heiress of every 
 stick, and stone, and penny. Fight it out, Joanna, and 
 I'll stand to you through thick and thin." 
 
 "But who — who — lo/io am I?" Joanna cries out. 
 " Tell me that — never mind the rest. Who am I?" 
 
 " Oh, I forgot," Jud says, coolly and slowly. " Your 
 
THE STOEY. 321 
 
 name is Joan Bennett, and you're the eldest daughter, 
 and sole heiress, of the late John Abbott, Esq., mil- 
 lionaire I" 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE STORY. 
 
 OU see, it was the night dad died,'* says Jud 
 Sleaford. "You know about that, don't 
 you ? It all began about you. You had 
 run away with Blake while dad was away 
 attending a prize-fight. When he came home, and 
 heard of it — it was the very dickens of a day, I re- 
 member, in the way of wind and rain — he just mounted, 
 and rode straight as a die for Abbott Wood. I reckon 
 he thought Mr. Abbott had made off with you, or had 
 some hand in it. He was stone white with rage. What 
 would have happened there and then, if Abbott had 
 been at home, the Lord only knows. He was not, and 
 dad came back, in one of his black rages. But it 
 seems he had left word for Abbott to follow ; and 
 Abbott did follow that very same night." 
 
 Jud is rapidly telling his story, and a very vivid 
 narrator he is. The first overwhelming shock of sur- 
 prise is over, and Joanna sits listening, pale, breathless, 
 absorbed. 
 
 " We were a 11 off to a dance, I remember," goes on 
 Judson, " only the girl was at home. Early in the 
 morning, as we were driving back, we were met by old 
 Hunt — you know, next place to ours — with the word 
 that there had been a row at our house, and that dad 
 was done for. We hurried on, and there we found 
 
322 THE STORY. 
 
 him, poor old fellow, ' weltering in his gore,' as the 
 stories put it, and almost at the last gasp. Almost, 
 but not quite. Dad was so uncommon strong, that he 
 gave death a tough tussle for it before he would go. 
 We got him to bed, sent for the doctor, and from first 
 to last I was his nurse. The girls were afraid of him, 
 he was as savage sick as well, poor old dad, and Dan — 
 but you know what Dan was — he wouldn't be paid to 
 enter the room. 
 
 *' Well — I took care of dad. I gave him his medi- 
 cines and his drinks, and that, and did the best I knew 
 for him. By and by he got back his voice, and the 
 first thing he says was ; *Send for the young swell — 
 young Lamar.' 
 
 " ' Abbott's step-son ?' I says, for, of course, we all 
 knew from the girl that Abbott had been there, and 
 that it was in a fracas with him he had got his death- 
 blow. And dad's eyes shot out sparks of fire after their 
 old fashion. 
 
 " * Can't you hear, you fool ?' he says, in a fierce 
 whisper. * Abbott's step-son, young Lamar. Go for 
 him, bring him here at once. I have something he 
 ought to know to tell him. He must come.' 
 
 "Of course, I went. It was another pelting storm, 
 and when I got to the house I saw the missis. I gave 
 her the message. Young Lamar was in New York, but 
 she telegraphed for him at once, and that same after- 
 noon, just before dark, he came, and I took him up- 
 stairs to dad's room. 
 
 "Now dad, although he was dying as fast as he 
 could, kept up a wonderful deal of strength to the very 
 last. His voice sounded much as ever, a little weaker, 
 but to hear him you would never know he was so near 
 
THE 8T0RT. 323 
 
 his end. And he had worked himself up into a fever, 
 waiting for Lamar. He could not die, he said, until he 
 had seen him. I brought the young fellow in, and 
 offered to fetch a light, but dad wouldn't have none. 
 He ordered me out of the room, and I went, but only 
 as far as the closet where we hang clothes. You re- 
 member how thin the partitions were, and the holes in 
 the lath and plastering ? I was curious to know what 
 he had to say so particular. I was sure it was some 
 revenge he was going to take on John Abbott. I sat 
 there and listened, Joanna, and found out all about it 
 and you at last." 
 
 There is a brief, breathless pause. Jud draws a long 
 breath. Joanna hardly seems to breathe or stir. 
 
 " Oh, go on ! " she says, in a whisper, and young 
 Sleaford resumes. 
 
 " I'll tell it in my own way — not in dad's — he 
 cursed a good deal, you know, and abused Abbott. 
 You won't care for that. It seems that long before, 
 when Abbott was quite a young man, and just begin- 
 ning to get on in California, dad came there, a widower, 
 with all of us, from Liverpool, and a sister of his with 
 him, who took care of us. This sister, it appears, was 
 a good-looking young woman, and John Bennett — 
 that was Abbott's name then, and his right name — 
 took a fancy to her, and her to him, and he made her 
 his wife. His wife, mind you, all right, and tight, and 
 legal. Well — he lived with her for a while, and was 
 good enough to her and that, and gave dad a helping- 
 hand as well, and then all of a sudden he started off 
 somewhere up country to the mines, on a spec, in- 
 tending to come back all fair and square when his 
 business was settled, and not meaning desertion, or 
 
324 THE STOEY. 
 
 anything like that. But that's what it proved to be — 
 he did not come back — dad never set eyes on him 
 again till he set eyes on him as the rich John Abbott, 
 of Brightbrook, and his wife never saw him in this 
 world more. Whether they have met in the next is 
 more than I know ; she was alive and well on the 
 night dad told the story. 
 
 "Well, Bennett — or Abbott, whichever you like — 
 had struck a vein of luck up there in the hill country, 
 among the mines, and wasn't coming back. It was a 
 wild region, no women there, and he didn't want to 
 fetch his wife. So he wrote ; all honest and square, 
 you see, at first, and sent money. Then the wife had 
 a baby — you — and got a fever of some sort after, and 
 went straight stark out of her mind. At first her 
 husband was anxious about her, got nurses and so on, 
 but after a time, as that seemed to do no good, he 
 sent word to dad to put her in an insane asylum, and 
 he would pay the damage. The young one — you again 
 — was to be put out to nurse, and be took proper care 
 of. It — you again — was christened Joan, after its 
 mother, Joan Bennett. Bennett didn't come himself, 
 you understand — was too busy making money, but he 
 sent the needful to dad, and dad obeyed so far as to 
 put his sister in the asylum, and pocket the money sent 
 for you. Things went on like that for a couple of 
 years, then all at once Bennett disappears, and from 
 that day not a trace of him was to be found. After 
 that dad went to the bad. While Bennett sent money 
 it was well enough, but dad always hated work, and 
 shirked it, so poverty came, and he dodged about with 
 us 'uns from pillar to post, until at last, after some 
 nine years of it, he settled us in a wild part of Penn- 
 
THE STORY. 825 
 
 Bylvania to shift for ourselves^ and started off himself 
 on the tramp. There's a fate in these things, maybe. 
 He tramped along until he came to Brightbrook, and 
 « there, of course, one of the first people pointed out to 
 him was tlie rich man of the place, Mr. John Abbott. 
 Of course dad knew his man at a look. There he was, 
 as large as life, as rich as Rothschild, with a new wife, 
 a new daughter, a new name, and a step-son. The 
 other wife, the lawful wife, was alive and well, out in 
 San Francisco, as dad knew, and here he was, a bloom- 
 ing bigamist, with proudest, piousest lady in the land, 
 for number two. 
 
 " Well, dad was tickled, you may believe. All 
 this time he had kept you, not because he wanted you, 
 or cared about you, but because he didn't know what 
 to do with you. You were a trump-card in his hand 
 now. 
 
 " He took a night, and thought it all over, before 
 he showed himself. Abbott was in his power, he 
 knew, but he did not dislike Abbott, and he made up 
 his mind not to be too hard on him, to get a good liv- 
 ing out of him, and let him off at that. He didn't 
 bear no malice, he didn't want to show Abbott up, 
 there was nothing to be gained by that, there was 
 everything to be gained by holding his tongue. Dad 
 didn't want to be a gentleman, and rob Abbott out- 
 right, he only wanted to be flush in his own way. As 
 to deserting his crazy wife, and taking up with this 
 handsome lady, dad didn't blame him for that either, 
 it was only what be would have done himself. As to 
 you, he made up his mind to say you were dead. He 
 didn't quite know why, but he thought that if Abbott 
 guessed who you were he might try to spirit you 
 
326 THE STORY. 
 
 away. Then, when he had thought it well out, and 
 settled his plans, he waylaid Abbott, in company with 
 Colonel Ventnor, and I heard him laugh as he told 
 Lamar that night — ay, dying as he was, he laughed, 
 when he thought how struck of a heap John Abbott 
 was when he first saw his face. After that I needn't 
 tell you what followed. He got the Red Farm give 
 to him, sent for us 'uns, and settled us all there. You 
 know the life we led, jolly for us, but deuced hard for 
 you, I must say. Dad owned he fairly hated you after 
 that, why he didn't know, but he did. All the hate he 
 might have bestowed on your father, he gave to you ; 
 so you were ill-treated morning, noon, and night. 
 And I'm ashamed to say by me as well as the rest. I 
 ask your pardon now, Joanna." 
 
 The young fellow says it with real feeling ; he is 
 honestly sorry, and she sees it. She gives him her 
 hand, and he starts to find how cold it is. 
 
 " You need not," she says. " You alone never 
 were cruel to me, Judson! But, oh, my childhood ! 
 my youth ! What a childhood, what a youth has 
 been mine !" 
 
 " Ah !" Judd says, with a hard breath of sympathy. 
 "Well then, the next was the coming of Geoffrey 
 Lamar, and the sudden interest he took in you. Per- 
 haps, John Abbott suspected — nobody knows — he re- 
 fused to let you come to Abbott Wood. You remem- 
 ber the evening Lamar came and told you so ? Dad 
 took the matter in hand, through pure contrariness 
 and cussedness, as he owned ; he went to the big 
 house, and he made Abbott let you come. His wife 
 should look after you, and nobody else ; his daughter 
 should be your companion ; his high-toned step-sou 
 
THE STORY. 327 
 
 your friend. And he had his way. And now, 
 whether Mrs. Abbott suspected or not, I don't know — 
 that's what I've puzzled over many a time since. Did 
 she suspect, and did she do all that kindness to you to 
 quiet her conscience, knowing she was wronging you 
 all the time? I can't make it out. Them fine ladies 
 will do a great deal sooner than lose their money and 
 position. Was she one of them, or not ? As to 
 Lamar, I do believe it was all news to him. I tell you 
 he looked like a corpse. And no wonder. There it 
 was ! his mother was not that man's wife — a fellow 
 like that, that at his best was like the dirt under her 
 feet ; his little sister was a — illegitimate ; and they 
 were prouder than Lucifer ! You can guess how 
 Geoffrey Lamar felt as he sat and listened to the story 
 of his mother's disgrace, told by the lips of a dying 
 man." 
 
 Joanna has covered her face with her hands. Oh ! 
 she can guess it — the shame, the horror, the appalling 
 force of that most horrible blow ! Oh, Geoffrey ! 
 truest friend ! noblest heart that ever beat ! and this 
 was his reward for saving her ! 
 
 " When you ran away with Blake," goes on Jud, 
 "dad suspected foul play on the part of Abbott, 
 thought he had a hand in the business, and went there 
 at once. That night they had it out. Dad had the 
 certificates of your mother's marriage and your baptism, 
 and swore to expose Abbott. There was a struggle. 
 Abbott strove to master dad, and get them. Dad 
 pulled out a knife, and would have stabbed Abbott 
 without doubt, but that he slipped forward, fell on 
 his own weapon, and stabbed himself. Then Abbott 
 fled. At first dad did not realize how badly he was 
 
328 THE STORY. 
 
 hurt, and had strength enough left to replace the 
 papers in their hiding-place before he called for 
 help. But the girl was frightened and wouldn't 
 come. He tried to crawl from the room, but fainted, 
 it seems, from loss of blood. There he lay, wounded 
 and bleeding, until morning — if he had been cared for 
 in time he could have lived, not a doubt about it. 
 And that was the story he had to tell Geoffrey Lamar. 
 He gave him the papers, told him where to find your 
 mother, and so sent him away. I saw young Lamar 
 as he left the house — I never want to see a face look 
 like that again. 
 
 "That night dad died, but first of all he cleared 
 John Abbott of any share in his death. I suppose he 
 thought he had had revenge enough. And so he 
 had. 
 
 " Well, we buried poor old dad. I never said a 
 word to anybody — it was no good, I had no proofs; 
 Lamar had them, and you were gone. Abbott carried 
 things with a high hand with Dan, turned us out as 
 fast as we could bundle. And I don't wonder. For 
 my part, I was ready to go. I was tired of life on 
 the farm. Lora married, Liz came to town, Dan went 
 to sea, and I drifted up to the city. Then, one morn- 
 ing, about six weeks after, I picked up a paper, and 
 the first thing I saw was the suicide of the rich man 
 of Brightbrook — nobody knew why. But I knew. 
 I wrote to Lora, and heard how Mrs. Abbott and her 
 son and daughter had left the place, and that Abbott 
 Wood was shut up. It has been shut up ever since. ; 
 It stands there to-day, and you are its mistress, and 
 heiress by right of every penny John Abbott — or 
 Bennett — has left." 
 
THE STOBY. 329 
 
 Her hands drop, she is deadly pale, her eyes burn 
 in the fixed pallor of her face. 
 
 "As for Lamar, it is strange," Jud continues, 
 slowly, " and yet, perhaps it is not strange either. He 
 promised dad, on his word of honor, he would hunt 
 you up, and see you restored to your rights, and he 
 has not done it. You see, to do it, all the world would 
 have to know of his disgrace, and his mother's and 
 Leo's, and they all are so infernally proud. Still, 
 Lamar seemed the sort of fellow to do right at any 
 price, and not stop to count the cost. He hasn't this 
 time, it seems. It must have been a tremendous blow 
 to Mrs. Abbott. I wonder where they are? In Europe 
 somewhere, I suppose, flourishing on your money. It 
 ain't fair, by Jove, and I'd hunt them up if I was you, 
 and have my rights. Your mother's living, or was 
 then — you can find and bring her forward, and I'll 
 swear to all I've told you. Possession is nine points 
 of the law, they say, and they have that and the 
 money, still " 
 
 " I must find them !" Joanna cries; " but oh ! not 
 for that — not for that ! I must find ray mother — 
 my mother! mine! that I — I, Sleaford's Joanna, 
 should have a mother ! Oh, Judson, help me — I must 
 find my mother at once, at once, at once !" 
 
 "And the fortune?" says Judson, looking at her 
 curiously. 
 
 " The fortune ! Ah, dear Heaven, what is fortune, 
 a thousand fortunes, to that ? To find my mother ! 
 my. poor, lonely, imprisoned mother ! And I must find 
 ^Irs. Abbott and Geoffrey Lamar. What they must 
 havo Kuffoiod ! Ah, what they must have sulforod !" 
 " And what they have kept — don't forget that. Thej 
 
330 THE STORY. 
 
 have the fortune all this time. And they never looked 
 for you." 
 
 " They have — they must ; I will not believe it. Oh ! 
 if they were not good, not noble, not unselfish, then 
 there is no goodness, no nobility, no unselfishness on 
 earth. I will not believe it. Mrs. Abbott never knew. 
 I would stake my life on that. Geoffrey has looked 
 for me — I believe it as I believe in heaven. To doubt 
 them would be for me ruin. I could no more have 
 faith in honesty or truth on earth. Oh ! I shall find 
 them ; I shall know" no rest until I have found and 
 comforted them, as much as I can comfort — until in 
 ever so little I have returned to them what they so 
 freely, so generously gave to me. The bread they cast 
 upon the waters shall return to them ; the waif they 
 tried to rescue shall prove her gratitude and love. And 
 Leo is my sister — dear, dear, dearest little Leo ! Oh, 
 my God ! what a grateful heart I ought to have this 
 day — what a happy girl I ought to be ! And I am. 
 I will find them — I will comfort them. I will find my 
 mother — I will devote my life to her. Help me, Jud 
 — help me in this, and thank you, thank you a hundred 
 times for what you have told me to-day !" 
 
 Her face is transfigured ; it is, young Sleaford 
 thinks in wonder and awe, like the face of an angel — 
 lit with love, wet with tears, more than beautiful, with 
 the beauty of a noble, a true, a grand, unselfish soul. 
 
 " I will do all I can," he says, rising. " I didn't 
 think you would take it like this. I will hunt the 
 world over if you say so. Joanna, you're a trump, 
 and no mistake ! " 
 
 •' Come this evening," she says ; " give me until 
 then to think." 
 
HOW JOANNA CAME BACK. 331 
 
 She sinks down, and once more covers her face. 
 And so Jiidson leaves her, with bated breath, and 
 hushed footfall, and solemn — feeling a sensation upon 
 him as though he were going out of church. 
 
 But in the garish sunshine, in the bustling, busy, 
 outer world, his old self returns as he sets his hat 
 rakishly on his mop of blue-black hair. 
 
 " I'm blessed if I ever see any one so changed," he 
 thinks in wonder ; *' she's no more like that Joanna 
 than — than I'm like an archbishop. We did our best 
 to spoil her, and a little more might a' done it, only 
 there's some sort cani^t be out and out spoiled, do what 
 you will, and she's one. She's a stunner — she's a brick 
 — she's fit to be an angel, and with the angels stand. 
 But for all that, Lamar and his mother will wish her 
 at the dickens the day she hunts 'em up. It's nature — 
 I would myself, in their place." 
 
 CHAPTER VIIL 
 
 HOW JOANNA CAME BACK. 
 
 EOFF," Leo says, with some hesitation, 
 " what is the matter with Frank ?" 
 
 " Matter with Frank ?" repeats Geof- 
 frey, looking up from the evening paper, 
 abstractedly, " there is notliing the matter with Frank. 
 He looks in very good health." 
 
 "I don't mean his health," returns little Leo, pout- 
 ing, " I mean — I mean his looks. A person may have 
 something the matter with him, and still his liver and 
 lungs be all right." 
 
332 HOW JOANNA CAME BACK. 
 
 " Oh, you mean the secret sorrow sort of thing, do 
 you?" with an amused look. "Well — yes — come to 
 think of it, Livingston does look a trifle hipped — as if 
 he had gotten a facer, somehow, in the set-to with life. 
 But it is only what he must expect, as well as the rest 
 of us," says Dr. Lamar, philosophically, going back to 
 his paper. " As we ride onward in life, care mounts 
 the crupper with most of us." 
 
 "It seems odd it should with him," Leo says, half 
 to herself, and with a touch of regret. " Whenever I 
 wished to recall the happiest, brightest fsce of old times, 
 his was the one that always started up. It never used 
 to wear a cloud. And now " 
 
 " I see typhoid is spreading," remarks Dr. Lamar, 
 glancing up from his sheet, " and two or three cases of 
 malignant typhus have appeared. This looks badly 
 and the sanitary state of this city is a disgrace to " 
 
 But Leo does not wait for the conclusion of this 
 uninteresting speech. She has caught a glimpse of 
 some one coming up the road, and starts to her feet ; 
 she knows that tall, graceful figure, that negligent 
 walk. 
 
 Brother and sister have been for some time out here 
 in the scented summer dusk. Mamma is reading one 
 of her pious little books in her room, and their guest 
 went to the city in the afternoon. It is their guest 
 who approaches, with a certain air of weariness and 
 boredom, now. In his hand he carries a large bouquet, 
 whose fragrance heralds his approach. 
 
 " Ah, Livingston," Geoffrey says, genially, "back? 
 Good evening. Were you successful ? Did you find 
 your mother ?" 
 
 " No," Frank says, moodily, "I did not. There is 
 
HOW JOANNA CAME BACK. 333 
 
 a fatality in it, I think. It has been a regular game of 
 hide and seek. She left yesterday for Saratoga. 
 Where is Leo ?" 
 
 The sound of the piano in the dusk of the parlor 
 answers. Leo is well enough to limp about all day, 
 and sing in the twilight. Hers is a voice like herself, 
 low, and soothing, and sweet, suited to nothing more 
 pretentious than little home songs and tender love dit- 
 ties. It is one of these she sings now, " Take Back the 
 Heart thou Gavest." 
 
 It is too dark to read. Dr. Lamar lays down his 
 paper, and essays conversation on the cheerful subjects 
 of typhoid and typhus. But Frank's replies are mono- 
 syllabic ; he is listening to that gentle little plaint with 
 a savage sort of soreness at his heart. Even here his in- 
 fidelity faces him, in the innocent voice of the singer, 
 in the mournful words of the song. 
 
 Geoffrey sees he is not in the mood for talk, and 
 resigns himself to listen also. Little Leo's singing is 
 always pleasant to the fraternal ear. Certainly, Liv- 
 ingston is very much changed, he thinks, he used to be 
 rather a rattle-pate ; melancholy and Frank never used 
 to be on speaking terms. Can it be connected with 
 Olga? the young doctor wonders. He sighs as he 
 wonders ; she rises before him, a vision of pure, pale 
 loveliness, a daughter of the gods, divinely tall and 
 most divinely fair — no other he sees equals her. Happy 
 Frank, if he is to win her. But is he worthy ? He is 
 the sort of a fellow to fancy himself in love many 
 times, but Olga Ventnor has a deep nature, a strong, 
 steadfast heart ; the man she gives herself to should 
 be brave, and loyal, and true. 
 
 A good fellow enough, Frank — a fellow to make a 
 
334 HOW JOANNA CAME BACK. 
 
 different sort of girl happy, but never Olga Vent- 
 nor. 
 
 The song ends ; silence falls ; Frank rises and ap- 
 proaches the piano. 
 
 "A melancholy ditty," he says, half -smiling. 
 " Will you have some white roses, Leo ? They used 
 to be your favorite flowers — used they not ? You see 
 I remember old times and tastes. And as a reward of 
 merit, sing for me again — something not quite so 
 heart-broken this time." 
 
 A flush rises to Leo's dusk, mignonne face. She 
 does not thank him for his floral offering other than 
 by that fleeting blush, but she buries her pretty little 
 nose in their sweetness, and gives them a surreptitious 
 kiss, a little for themselves, a great deal for their 
 giver. 
 
 " I will sing whatever you like," she says, in that 
 shy, sweet way of hers. " I sing all Claribel's songs, 
 and like them best — they are so simple, you know, and 
 so, just suited to me." 
 
 " So sweet, you know, and so suited to you," amends 
 Livingston, rallying, and dropping into this sort of 
 thing from sheer force of habit. 
 
 " Shall we have lights ? " Leo asks. 
 
 The half-light is charming ; his presence sets every 
 little youthful nerve thrilling as he leans, tall and dark, 
 against the piano. 
 
 " Not unless you wish it. I like this hour * 'twixt 
 the gloaming and the mirk,' as the Scotch say. Can 
 you not sing from memory ? 
 
 " Oh, yes," Leo answers, and sings. It is another 
 of Claribel's ; not sad this time, but with a gay, lilting 
 refrain : 
 
HOW JOANNA CAME BACK. 336 
 
 ** And I will marry my ain love, , 
 
 For true of heart am I." 
 
 I 
 
 "True of heart!" Livingston thinks; "true of 
 heart ! " Is it in him to be that to any one ? he won- 
 ders. It is a noble quality, truth of heart ; but noble 
 qualities seem to have shaken hands and parted from 
 him of late. 
 
 It is precisely five days since he first came to the 
 Lamar cottage, days that have flown so pleasantly that 
 their flight has been unfelt. All his life is about to be 
 changed ; on the brink of that supreme change he 
 may surely linger for a moment, Sybarite that he is, 
 looking neither backward nor forward. But the brief 
 respite is at an end ; this is the close of the last day. 
 
 " Sing * Robin Adair,' " he says, in the pause that 
 follows ; " you used to sing it long ago ; and I will re- 
 turn to Geoff and smoke while I listen. It will be my 
 parting remembrance of you — this twilit room, * and 
 the words of the old Scotch song." 
 
 " Your parting !" she exclaims. The little brown 
 hands on the keys falter and fall, in the dusk ; the 
 small face whitens. " What do you mean ?" 
 
 "That I tear myself away from this enchanted 
 spot, this * Island of Tranquil Delights,' to-morrow 
 morning by the 9.50 train ; and ' Robin Adair' shall 
 speed the parting guest. Ah, little Leo, it is five long 
 summer days since I came, and the good days of this 
 life are not long-lived. My pleasant visit is ended ; 
 to-morrow I go back to grim reality, to grim duty, to 
 grim New York. I will carry this picture with me, 
 and paint it some day — this half-lit interior, this open 
 piano, and — you. Ah, little Leo ! little Leo I believe 
 me, I am sorry to go." 
 
336 HOW JOANNA CAME BACK. 
 
 And then he stops suddenly, and goes off to Geof- 
 frey and his cigar ; and little Leo is left to realize the 
 swift, startling truth that her heart will go with him 
 to New York or wherever he chooses to take it, and 
 that she will foKow her heart, oh, so gladly ! so 
 lovingly ! if that blissful day ever comes when he 
 will ask her. But just at present she is a maiden un- 
 asked, and her duty is to be *' plucky," and sing " Robin 
 Adair," while he smokes over there in the garden chair. 
 
 And she does it bravely, too, to the end. If the 
 sweet voice is low, it is always low ; if it falters, it is 
 a pathetic little ballad ; if it closes with something 
 like a sob, the last chord of the accompaniment drowns 
 that. 
 
 The summer darkness is friendly and hides much. 
 But she sings no more. She comes close to her brother 
 and, sitting on a low stool, nestles her head against 
 his knee. He lays his hand lightly on that dark, 
 drooping head. 
 
 "Tired, little Leo?" he says, gently. "Does the 
 ankle hurt ?" 
 
 "A little," she answers, in a stifled voice. 
 
 Opposite, Livingston sits smoking, silent, dark, in 
 deepest shadow. Overhead there is a primrose, star-lit 
 sky, around them sleeping flowers and fragrant shrubs, 
 summer stillness, a faint breeze, and the noise and 
 lights of the great city afar off. 
 
 As they sit there, a silent trio, Mrs. Abbott — Lamar 
 she calls herself now — descends and joins them. She 
 looks very frail and white, but the rare beauty and 
 stately grace remain. 
 
 " In the dark ?" she says, smiling. " Why do you 
 not light the parlor, Leo, and go in ?" 
 
HOW JOANNA CAME BACK. 337 
 
 "It is pleasanter here, mother," says her son, bring- 
 ing forward a chair. " Have you a wrap ? Yes, I see. 
 Well, sit down ; it is a lovely night — let us enjoy 
 it." 
 
 " ' Let us crown ourselves with roses before they 
 fade,'" quotes Livingston out of the dusk. "My roses 
 fade with this evening. To-morrow I go, and I shall 
 bear witli me the memory of one of the pleasantest 
 visits of my life." 
 
 There are exclamations from Mrs. Lamar and 
 Geoffrey. Leo says not a word. 
 
 " So soon ?" Mrs. Lamar says. " Oh ! I am sorry." 
 
 She is sorry. It has seemed wonderfully good to 
 see a face out of the old life — the old life that has had 
 its pleasures and its friendships, as well as its bitter 
 pain. 
 
 " Thank you for saying that," Frank returns ; 
 " thank you still more for the tone of sincerity in 
 which it is said. Mrs. Lamar, I wish you would do 
 me a favor ; I wish you would let Olga Ventnor come 
 and see Leo." 
 
 There is a movement in the quiet figure leaning 
 against Geoffrey's knee, but she does not speak. 
 
 "Olga!" the lady *iays, startled. "Oh! indeed I 
 do not know. All that is at an end " 
 
 " You have chosen that it shall be," says Frank ; 
 " there is no other reason why. And it is a little un- 
 just to Leo, I think. She has no friend of her own 
 age, and — pardon me — it must be a little lonely for 
 her sometimes." 
 
 " No, no — oh, no !" from Leo ; " no, no, indeed, 
 mamma. Do not think that." 
 
 ** And Olga is dying to see her," pursues Living- 
 16 
 
338 HOW JOANNA CAME BACK. 
 
 ston, unheeding ; " and Olga is a charming girl, I 
 assure you. Quite all she promised to be, and more. 
 How often have I heard her long to see you all again ! 
 Come, Mrs. Abbott — come, Lamar, be generous to old 
 friends — say she may come." 
 
 " I see no reason why she may not," Geoffrey 
 answers, slowly ; " but it is a matter of feeling with 
 my mother, and one for her decision alone. Would 
 Miss Ventnor care to come ?" 
 
 " Do you ask that, Lamar ? If I tell her, she most 
 assuredly will not come to see you. Does your re- 
 membrance of Olga lead you to think she is one of the 
 * out of sight, out of mind ' friends ? You hardly do 
 her justice." 
 
 " You are her loyal knight, at least," Dr. Lamar 
 says, and laughs a little constrainedly, " and plead her 
 cause well. Will congratulations be premature, or are 
 they an old story by this time ? We are such ancient 
 friends and cronies ay, you know, that it is not imper- 
 tinent to ask." 
 
 There is a tremo-r in the figure leaning against his 
 knee, then a strained, painful hush, in which she can 
 count her own heart-beats. A brief pause follows ; 
 Livingston removes his cigar t(5 knock off the ash with 
 care, and speaks : 
 
 " If you mean an engagement between me and my 
 cousin Olga, there is certainly no need of congratula- 
 tion. We are not engaged, and we never will be. 
 But we are excellent friends and cousins all the same." 
 
 " But I thought — we all thought," says Mrs. Ab- 
 bott, surprised, "that it was an understood thing 
 you and Olga were to marry. We thought the fami- 
 lies » 
 
now JOANNA CAME BACK. 339 
 
 " So did I," says Livingston, with a half laugh, 
 "and on that hint I spake. We were all mistaken, it 
 seems. Olga thought differently, and has reserved 
 herself for a better man." 
 
 " Ah ! and that better man " 
 
 " Is mythical at present — has not yet put in an ap- 
 pearance. But no doubt he will, and Olga will wait 
 serenely, although it should be a score of years hence. 
 She will certainly never make a mistake matrimonially. 
 What principally concerns me is, that I was not the 
 man." 
 
 There is a pause. Frank resumes his cigar, Leo's 
 heart its wonted beating, but with a sudden contrac- 
 tion of pain that she cannot define. He has asked 
 then, and been refused. 
 
 " Refused !" thinks little Leo, looking shyly over 
 at him in the dark : " how very strange !" 
 
 " She has had many offers, no doubt ?" says Mrs. 
 Abbott, at last. "Olga must be very lovely." 
 
 " She has the loveliest face ever seen out of a picture 
 or a dream," Frank says, but he says it without one 
 faintest touch of enthusiasm. " Men raved about her 
 abroad. She has been painted again and again — her 
 beauty is almost without a flaw. But you will see her 
 for yourself. Only say the word — she will be but too 
 glad to come." 
 
 "Could we be churlish enough to refuse? Yes, 
 bring her, Frank, dear, fair, little Princess Olga ! It 
 is good of her to remember us all so long." 
 
 " Five years is not an eternity, Mrs. Abbott. And 
 I doubt if fifty would enable those who ever knew to 
 forget youP 
 
 Mrs. Abbott smiles. 
 
340 HOW JOANNA CAME BACK. 
 
 " My dear Frank, you are as charming as ever. 
 You always had a faculty for saying nice things. I 
 am afraid you are a flirt — I think, indeed, I have 
 heard it whispered that you always were. Leo, do 
 you not hear ? Have you nothing to say ? Olga will 
 come." 
 
 "I am glad, mamma." 
 
 " Only that, and you are generally so enthusiastic ! 
 You are strangely quiet to-night. Are you in pain? 
 Your ankle " 
 
 " Oh, it is all right, mamma," poor little Leo cries 
 out. 
 
 In pain — yes — but the pain is not in anything so 
 unromantic as an ankle. If he is not engaged to Olga, 
 what then is the matter? Is it that her refusal has 
 hurt him so deeply, in spite of his forced lightness of 
 manner ? 
 
 " There is another friend of the past," Dr. Lamar 
 says slowly, after a silence, "whom I suppose you 
 have never met in all your wanderings up and down 
 the world. I mean Joanna !" 
 
 The name falls so unexpectedly, that all start at its 
 sound. Livingston in the darkness turns quite white. 
 
 " Why do you suppose so ?" he answers, and his 
 voice is not quite steady. " I have met Joanna !" 
 
 There is a universal exclamation. 
 
 Dr. Lamar starts to his feet, his mother clasps her 
 hands, Leo sits erect, and looks eagerly. 
 
 " You have met her !" Geoffrey cries, excitedly. 
 *' You know where she is ! Mother, you hear this ? 
 At last !" 
 
 "I have met her — I know where she is," Living- 
 ston answers, surprised at the amount of excitement 
 
HOW JOANNA CAME BACK. 341 
 
 they showed ; ** is there anything extraordinary in 
 that?" 
 
 "There is this — that I have' searched, and caused 
 search to be made everywhere all these years in vain. 
 I had almost made up my mind she was dead — so 
 impossible has she been to discover. And all this 
 time you have known where she was " 
 
 "Not all this time, if you mean these six past 
 years — only within the past two months," says Frank, 
 feeling oddly cold and conscious, and wondering what 
 they would say if they knew. 
 
 " And where is she ? In New York ?" 
 
 "At Newport, I think, just now. How exercised 
 you are over the matter, Lamar. I always knew, of 
 course " 
 
 "My dear fellow, you know nothing, absolutely 
 nothing, of the truth. It is the most important con- 
 cern of my life to find Joanna. She is safe and well, 
 and married to Blake ?" 
 
 " Safe and well, but not married to Blake, or any- 
 body else." 
 
 " What ! She ran away with him, you know " 
 
 " I know," Frank says, wincing; " but she ran 
 away from him, as you must recall, after." 
 
 "It was true, then? Odd girl — strange, wild 
 Joanna ! And what became of her — what did she do ? 
 No harm befell her, I trust?" 
 
 " None whatever, but much good. She found 
 friends, honest and real friends, and she has worked 
 her way to comparative fame and fortune. She is 
 wild Joanna no longer. She is a refined and thoroughly 
 well-bred young lady, with gracious manners, and all 
 womanly sweetness, and goodness, and grace." 
 
342 HOW JOANNA CAME BACK. 
 
 He speaks warmly, his handsome face flushes in 
 the dark. 
 
 "Thank Heaven !" he hears Mrs. Abbott murmur, 
 and Geoffrey, too, seems deeply moved. 
 
 " I am more thankful than I can say," he says, 
 after a little. "I always knew the elements of a noble 
 character were there, crushed, warped, as they had 
 been. Thank Heaven, indeed ! But tell us about her, 
 Frank. You can form no idea of how deeply we are 
 all interested in the well-being and history of Joanna." 
 
 So Frank tell it. Out there, in the sweet summer 
 dark, he tells the storj^ of provocation, and reprisal, 
 and flight, and pain, and struggle, and hardly-won 
 victory. Joanna has told it to him — simply, uncon- 
 scious of its real pathos — and he repeats it tenderly, 
 dwelling on all her goodness, her free generosity, her 
 brave great-heartedness, her bounty to all weak, 
 oppressed, and suffering things. 
 
 " She gives like a princess, freely, with both hands, 
 to all who need," he says. "I know that the dearest 
 desire of her heart is to see you all again. She speaks 
 very little of herself, but that much I know." 
 
 " Will you bring her to us ?" Mrs. Abbott says, 
 with repressed eagerness, great tears in her eyes. 
 *' Oh, my poor Joanna ! my poor, wronged, ill-treated 
 child ! Bring her to us, Frank, at once, at once ! 
 Geoffrey, you cannot go for her, I know — if you 
 could " 
 
 "Quite impossible, mother, quite unnecessary also. 
 Livingston will tell her and she will come. I will write 
 to-night and say — well, something of what there is to 
 be said — and she will come. The rest she can learn 
 here. Frank, you have done us to-night a service for 
 
HOW JOANNA CAME BACK. 343 
 
 which I thank you with all my heart. You do not 
 understand now, but you will later. Get in lights, Leo. 
 I will write my letter at once, before I am called 
 away." 
 
 So they leave the sweet-smelling garden, and the 
 starry sky, and go in. Lights are brought. Geoffrey 
 sits down to write, Mrs. Abbott goes to the piano and 
 plays dreamy sonatas, Leo gets some needlework, 
 Frank sits near, with the paper Geoffrey has thrown 
 down, and says little. Presently it is eleven, and the 
 letter is finished — a very long one, and it is bedtime, 
 and they all stand up to say good-night and good-by. 
 
 "But you will soon return with Olga?" Mrs. Ab- 
 bott says. 
 
 "Olga will soon be here," he answers, with a smile, 
 
 but Leo notices he says nothing about accompanying 
 
 her. Then it is her turn, and those two hard words, 
 
 " good-by," are spoken, and his visit has come to an 
 
 end. 
 
 ***** * 
 
 " A gentleman for you. Miss Jenny." Her maid 
 hands her a card. Joanna looks at it, and her face 
 flushes. Frank returned. 
 
 She is alone in her room. A week has passed since 
 Jud Sleaford told her his story, and no action has been 
 taken yet. She hardly knows why she waits, but it is 
 for Livingston's return, and now the week is up, and he 
 is here. She goes swiftly to where he waits, and he 
 comes forward, both hands outstretched. 
 
 "You did not expect me so soon ?" he says, the 
 first salutation over. "No, I know. But the oddest 
 thing has happened. Whom do you think I have 
 met ?" 
 
344 HOW JOANNA CAME BACK. 
 
 She has no idea, she says, and smiles at the bright 
 eagerness of his face. 
 
 " Leo Abbott — Geoff — their mother — and I have 
 been stopping with them ever since." 
 
 "Frank !" 
 
 " I thought you would be astounded. You cannot 
 be more delighted than they were, when they found 
 out I knew you, and where you were. They have 
 been looking for you, it appears, all this time. You 
 know they have given up everything — the Abbott 
 property, I mean — and Geoffrey supports them by his 
 profession. They are living in comparative poverty 
 and obscurity, but are one and all as delightful people 
 as ever. Here is an epistle for you, from Geoff, long 
 enough to make one jealous, and, Joanna, they count 
 upon your going to them at once." 
 
 She takes the large letter, and looks at the clear, 
 bold, familiar writing. 
 
 " I thank God," she says, softly, " I have got the 
 desire of my heart. And I thank you, Frank, for 
 being the bearer of good news. And you have been 
 there ever since ?" 
 
 "My mother had gone," he says, hastily. "She 
 had left for Saratoga before I left New York. I 
 mean to go after her there at once. It reminds one of 
 * Japhet in Search of a Father,' and seems almost as 
 fruitless a search," he laughs. 
 
 " Do not," she interposes, and lays her hand on his 
 arm, " as a favor to 'me — at least not yet. Wait. 
 Tell me about them. Is Leo pretty ? " 
 
 " Very pretty." 
 
 She glances at him a moment. 
 
 " And Mrs. Abbott ? " she says, then. 
 
HOW JOANNA CAME BACK. 345 
 
 "As beautiful as ever, but less proud, less cold. 
 You know what I mean. As for Geoff — dear old fel- 
 low, he is looking splendidly. Shall you go at once, 
 Joanna? They will literally be in a fever, I think, 
 until you are with them." 
 
 " I will go to-morrow." 
 
 "And I may accompany you, of course? Then I 
 must inform Olga, who wishes to visit them too. They 
 will owe me a vote of thanks, I fancy, for restoring 
 them to their friends." 
 
 " Go for your cousin at once, for I intend to go 
 alone. Yes ; I will have it so. I prefer it. Do you 
 think I cannot travel alone ? " laughing, and lifting 
 her brave, bright face. " Have you yet to learn I am 
 strong-minded, and amply sufficient unto myself? 
 And, Frank, do not tell your cousin any more than 
 your mother. Tell no one until I give you leave." 
 
 "But, Joanna "he is beginning, impetuously, 
 
 when Professor Ericson enters, and cuts him short. 
 Joanna informs him of to-morrow's journey, and that 
 Mr. Livingston will dine with him, and so his oppor- 
 tunity is gone. 
 
 He dines and spends the evening, but he does not 
 see Joanna for a moment alone. And next day she 
 departs, holding to her resolution to go unescorted. 
 He sees her off, and takes the train for Brightbrook 
 and his cousin Olga. Will they meet, he wonders,* 
 these two, at the Lamar cottage, and if so, how ? 
 Will Olga be simply, chillingly civil ? And how is it 
 that Lamar and his mother take the finding of Joanna 
 so greatly to heart ? 
 
 In the late afternoon of that day a cab sets Joanna 
 down in front of the Lamar cottage. They have not 
 15* 
 
346 HOW JOAl^T^A PAID HER DEBT. 
 
 expected her so soon, and Mrs. Abbott alone is in the 
 house. As she sits the door opens, a tall young lady 
 enters hurriedly, and falls on her knees beside her, and 
 clasps her in her arms. 
 
 " Mrs. Abbott," the familiar voice cries, " it is I. 
 Oh ! my friend, kindest, truest, dearest, best, look at 
 me — bid me welcome — say you forgive me — say you 
 are glad to see me. It is I — Joanna — come back." 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 HOW JOANNA PAID HER DEBT. 
 
 HEY sit in the half-lit parlor, the lights 
 turned low under shades, and Joanna 
 listens once more to the story Jud Sleaford 
 has told. Her hand is clasped in Mrs. 
 Abbott's, Leo nestles beside her after her usual cling- 
 ing, childish fashion, and Geoffrey is the narrator. 
 No sound disturbs him, there are tears in his mother's 
 dark eyes, otherwise she is calm. In the startled eyes 
 of little Leo there are wonder and fear, but she says 
 nothing, although what she hears now she hears for the 
 first time. For Joanna, she sits quite still, quite calm, 
 and listens to the end. Even then there is not much 
 said — there is not much that it is easy to say. Leo 
 buries her face in Joanna's lap, and is sobbing softly. 
 "Oh, how could papa — how could he — how could 
 he ?" 
 
 It is not in that tender little heart to blame any 
 one too hardly. She is afraid to look at her mother, 
 at Joanna, her sister, both so deeply wronged. Her 
 
HOW JOANNA PAID HER DEBT. 347 
 
 sister, how strange that thought. A thrill of gladness 
 goes through her as she clasps her closer in her arms. 
 She has grown so famous, she bears herself so nobly — 
 it almost compensates. And she will be a great heiress 
 — Joanna — it is her birthright, all that splendor and 
 luxury — beautiful, lost Abbott Wood. 
 
 Ah, her heart aches for Abbott Wood often and 
 often, her fair, stately home, down by the sea. All is 
 Joanna's now. Not one spark of envy or jealous 
 grudging is in her — all good fortune that can befal^ 
 her Joanna deserves, has bravely earned. They were 
 the usurpers, and held from her for years what should 
 have been hers. Her own sister ! How good, how 
 comforting is that thought. She has never felt the 
 need of a sister, mamma and Geoffrey have always 
 sufficed, but it is a rare and sweet delight to find one 
 at this late day. And this is why everything had to 
 be given up, why mamma took her former name, why 
 papa shot himself. 
 
 " Poor papa ! he used to be so fond of his little 
 Leo." 
 
 She sobs on, her face hidden, the sobs stifled in 
 Joanna's lap. No one has a tear for the dead sinner 
 but tender-hearted little Leo. 
 
 All this time they have been talking, brokenly, dis- 
 connectedly, but Leo has not been listening. She has 
 only been hearkening to her own thoughts. Now 
 Joanna gently lifts the bowed dark head. 
 
 " Crying, little Leo? Why, I wonder? Surely 
 not because poor Joanna is your sister ? Ah, my dar- 
 ling, it is the one briglit, bright spot in all this dark- 
 ness, and sorrow, and sin." 
 
 " Oh, my dear ! my dear !" Leo says, flinging her 
 
348 HOW JOANNA PAID HER DEBT. 
 
 arms about her, "do you not know I feel that ? I 
 thank the good God for giving rae so great a gift. I 
 love you, Joanna — no sister was ever more dear, but 
 I cannot help thinking of — of him. He was fond of 
 rae, you know." 
 
 She droops her face again, crying with all her heart. 
 
 " Fond of you, my little one?" Joanna says, her 
 own eyes moist. " I wonder who would not be fond 
 of you? And we all love you the better for those 
 tears. But you" — Joanna lays her hand on Mrs. 
 Abbott's, and looks up with wondering eyes into her 
 calm face — "how you bear it. I wonder as I look at 
 you. And you used to be so " 
 
 " So proud, so imperious, so exacting, so haughty. 
 Ah, say it, Joanna ! Do I not know it well ? I needed 
 the lesson I have received — the only blow, I believe, 
 that could have humbled me. All other things — sick- 
 ness, poverty, death itself — I could have borne and 
 kept my pride ; this I could not. Pride had to fall. 
 I bore it badly enough at first — in agony, in rebellion, 
 in despair. I would not believe such shame, such dis- 
 grace, could touch me. I lay for weeks at death's door. 
 I was wicked enough to wish to die. But all that is a 
 memory of the past now ; I am happy — yes, quite 
 happy, Joanna, with a deeper, and a truer, and more 
 lasting happiness. Do you remember the ninth Beati- 
 tude of St. Francis de Sales — * Blessed are the hearts 
 that bend, for they shall never break.' I have no fear 
 of a broken heart, now." 
 
 Joanna stoops and touches, with loving lips, the 
 worn, white, thin hand. 
 
 "And now," Geoffrey says, briskly, coming back 
 to the practical, " there is nothing for you to do but 
 
HOW JOANNA PAID HER DEBT. 349 
 
 to step into the property, and take the reins of gov- 
 ernment out of the hands of Blaksley & Bird. They 
 have managed the estate very well in all these years, 
 and your income must have accumulated like a rolling 
 golden river. What a rich young person you are, Jo- 
 anna — quite a modern Mademoiselle Fifty Millions ! 
 And yet how quietly you sit there and take it all." 
 
 Dr. Lamar says this in rather an injured tone. Jo- 
 anna laughs. 
 
 " What would you have ?" she says; " that I should 
 throw up my hat and hurrah ? We don't do that when 
 we come into a fortune — the luck is something too solid 
 and substantial. Besides, it conies to me so — well, not 
 pleasantly. It is not a comfortable reflection, that the 
 best, the dearest friends ever forlorn waif found in 
 her need, are thrust out to make room for — I had al- 
 most said, the viper they had nourished. It takes all 
 heart out of your millions, Geoffrey." 
 
 " Oh ! if you look at it in that light," says Geoffrey, 
 coolly; "being a woman, of course you will take the 
 romantic and unpractical side of it first. But having 
 taken it, look at the other — at the birthright usurped 
 for years. And as our going out was inevitable, you 
 must know what a delight it will be to us all to see 
 you step in and reign at Abbott Wood instead of a 
 stranger. You have grown such a regal-lookiiig young 
 woman, Joanna, that you will grace the position and 
 the house. I know of no one," says Dr. Lamar, making 
 a courtly bow, wliich includes the two ladies, " so fit- 
 ted, in mind and person, to succeed its late illustrious 
 chatelaine !" 
 
 They laugh, and all restraint and embarrassment 
 fly. Time has so softened the past, so blunted the 
 
350 HOW JOANNA PAID HER DEBT. 
 
 pain, that they can bear to talk of it all with hardly 
 a pang. 
 
 " We have kept it a secret hitherto, even from 
 Leo," says Geoffrey, " because, until you were found, 
 nothing could be gained by telling. Now, everything 
 had better be told, and the sooner you are installed at 
 Abbott Wood the better. What are your plans, 
 Joanna ? Whatever they are, for the future remem- 
 ber you are to command me. I consider myself quite 
 as much your brother as Leo is your sister." 
 
 She stretches out her hand. 
 
 "More than brother always, Geoffrey — best and 
 fltanchest of friends. And so I may command you in 
 all things ? You promise this ?" 
 
 "Undoubtedly — in all things." 
 
 "Very well — the first command I issue is, that you 
 will not say one word of this to any one. To the law- 
 yers, if you like, but make them the only exceptions. 
 Kot one word, remember, to any living soul." 
 
 " But, my dear Joanna " 
 
 "But, my dear Geoffrey, you have pledged your- 
 self blindly to obey, and must abide that rash promise. 
 1 will it so." 
 
 "And Joanna is queen regnant now, it must be* as 
 the queen wills !'" cries Leo, gayly. 
 
 " Well — if I must, I must, but I see no sense in it. 
 And your plans ? for that is not one. But perhaps it 
 is too early for you to have formed any." 
 
 " No — my plans, such as they are, are formed, and 
 are few, and simple enough. In the first place, I leave 
 the stage." 
 
 " Of course !" promptly — " that goes without say- 
 ing." 
 
HOW JOANNA PAID HER DEBT. 351 
 
 "In the second," smiling, "I stay here a week oi 
 two, with you all, if you will have me." 
 
 " If we will have her — oh !" says Leo, opening 
 wide her velvety eyes. 
 
 " Then I start for San Francisco, escorted by my 
 dear old professor, who would escort me to the world's 
 end, at an hour's notice, and take my mother, my poor 
 mother, out of her prison of years." 
 
 " Good child," says Mrs. Abbott. "You will find 
 her well, too. Geoffrey had a letter from the doctor, 
 only a fortnight ago, saying so, and saying she still 
 keeps calling for you. Ah ! Joanna, that fatal for- 
 tune will do some good after all — it will rescue her." 
 
 " In Joanna's hands it will do much good," says 
 Geoffrey, with decision. " Well, and after that ?" 
 
 "After that — after that the deluge! I hardly 
 know. Thus far I have planned, and no farther. I 
 do not quite realize it all yet. My plans and wants 
 will increase, I suppose, as I do. But oh ! through it 
 all, this fairy fortune — this strange, tragical story, 
 there is one thing I do realize to my heart's core — how 
 glad I am to be with you all again. What would it all 
 avail but for your goodness in the past. Geoffrey, my 
 first friend, I cannot thank you — indeed, I will not 
 try — but you know, you know what I feel ! And Leo 
 is my sister — my very, very own sister. It is better 
 than a score of fortunes. And you !" she puts her 
 arms suddenly about Mrs. Abbott, " my dearest ! my 
 dearest, my more than mother, how good you were to 
 me, in those long gone days. Your lessons of love, of 
 patience, of gentleness, seemed to be thrown away 
 then, but I hope — oh ! I hope, they have come back, 
 and borne fruit. Nothing good is ever lost, it all re- 
 
352 HOW JOANNA PAID HER DEBI. 
 
 turns sooner or later. I have found my own mother, 
 but I can never love her better than I love you." 
 
 It is a scene, and these women weep together, and 
 when, an hour later, good-nights are said, it is a very 
 happy little household that retires to sleep. 
 
 But Joanna does not sleep — at least for hours. She 
 is excited, she wants to be alone, to think. She has 
 the room lately vacated by Livingston. Some relics 
 of him yet remain — a glove on the table, a flower 
 given him by Leo, dead and dry on the window-sill. It 
 is of him she is thinking — he is rarely absent long 
 from her thoughts. He is coming to-morrow with his 
 cousin Olga. He must not know, not yet, not yet. In 
 these dim plans of hers for the future, his figure does 
 not appear ; she tries to place him there, but she can- 
 not. A week with Leo, and already the abrupt men- 
 tion of his name sends a flush into the dark, migiionne 
 face. Is it so, then ? And he ? She is the sweetest 
 little blossom possible, a tender, gentle, adoring little 
 heart, the sort to sit at her husband's feet, and worship, 
 and see no faults. No, in the picture of her future, 
 Joanna cannot fancy him, try as she may. 
 
 Next day he comes, and with him Olga Yentnor. 
 
 Dr. Lamar is very busy in those days, and disease 
 and death are very busy, too, in the city. 
 
 He and they do battle by day and by night; he has 
 very little time to give them at home. Fever is spread- 
 ing and will not be stamped out ; the weather is hot, 
 damp, murky, oppressive — real fever weather, and in 
 the pestilential purlieus many lie ill unto death these 
 July days. He is indefatigable in his profession, he 
 seems to live in his carriage, he begins to look fagged 
 and worn, strong and robust as he is, splendid in his 
 
HOW JOANNA PAID HER DEBT. 363 
 
 flawless vitality. His mother grows anxious, and begs 
 him to spare himself, but in vain. 
 
 Coming home on this sultry evening, tired, de- 
 pressed, hungry, out of sorts, his mind filled with grim 
 sick-rooms, and the grim faces of poverty and disease, 
 he sees a vision ! Standing in the parlor, alone, the 
 last light full upon her, dressed in some gauzy, silky 
 robe, that floats like a cloud softly over the carpet, 
 her golden braids twisted coronet-fashion around her 
 head, a diamond star flashing at her throat, he sees — 
 Olga. 
 
 It comes upon him like a shock, a shock of rapture. 
 He has not been thinking of her at all, and she is be- 
 fore him, a dream of light, of loveliness. He stands 
 quite still, quite pale, unable for a moment to advance 
 or speak, looking at her. It is she who comes for- 
 ward, blushing slightly, smiling and holding out her 
 hand. 
 
 " Are you going to swoon at my feet. Dr. Lamar ? 
 Do not, I beg — I would not know in the least how to 
 bring you to. Yes, it is I in the flesh — Olga — shake 
 hands and see. How unflatteringly amazed you look, 
 to be sure ! And yet," with the prettiest of pouts, 
 "you must have known I was coming." 
 
 " I had forgotten," says Dr. Lamar. 
 
 The words are not flattering, but he still holds her 
 hand, and gazes at her as though he could never gaze 
 enough. 
 
 " Complimentary, upon my word ! But it is just 
 like you all — out of sight, out of mind. Leo and your 
 iMDther had not forgotten, sir ! ^lon have no memories. 
 Will you not come in ? The house is thine own — or do 
 you mean to stand staring indefinitely. You remind 
 
354 HOW JOANNA PAID HER DEBT. 
 
 me of the country swain, who sighed and looked, 
 sighed and looked, sighed and looked, and looked 
 again. If you sigh and look into the dining-room it 
 will be more to the purpose. Your dinner is waiting 
 there, and your mother has been left lamenting over 
 your prolonged absence, and the fowl that is spoiling 
 while it waits." 
 
 She runs on gayly — she sees all the surprise, the 
 admiration in his face, and she likes it. She is a hero- 
 worshiper, this fair, white Olga, and Geoffrey Lamar 
 is her latest hero. She does not understand very 
 clearly, but for honor's sake he has given up a fortune, 
 and gone out single-handed to fight with fate. He is 
 a hero iti that to this romantic young lady; he is work- 
 ing himself to death among the poor and suffering, 
 heedless of rest, or food, or comfort, he is a hero in 
 that also. And it is a grand thing to be like that. 
 She adores strength, bravery, unselfish deeds. And — 
 what a distinguished-looking man he has become, but 
 then he always had that air nohle even as a boy, which 
 she admires so much, and sees so seldom. 
 
 Dr. Lamar is off duty that evening, really off duty, 
 and enjoys his home circle with a zest, a delight that 
 is not untinged with pain. To sit and look at that 
 lovely face is a pleasure so intense that he is almost 
 afraid of it. Frank is there, near Leo ; Mrs. Ventnor, 
 too, is present, talking earnestly to Mrs. Abbott. 
 
 They have much to say and hear, of the past five 
 years, and once mutual friends. She and her daughter, 
 with Frank, are stopping at the hotel near by — the 
 bandbox cottage accommodates but one guest at a time. 
 That one, Joanna, is at the piano, playing softly — so 
 softly that she disturbs the talk of no one. Livingston 
 
HOW JOANNA PAID HER DEBT. 355 
 
 tries to be devoted, and turns tbo music, but sbe sends 
 him away. 
 
 " I play from memory," she says, " or I improvise. 
 It is my way of thinking aloud ; and I like to be alone 
 when I think. Go and talk — go and amuse little Leo," 
 smilingly ; "she hates to be alone." 
 
 So he goes, and thus paired off, the evening passes 
 delightfully. It is an evening Geoffi-ey, for one, never 
 forgets. Olga is by his side ; Joanna is playing softly, 
 softly, and a little sadly. Is she happy ? Her face 
 tells nothing. The others are — he is, supremely so. 
 Outside there is the summer darkness, the stars, the 
 whispering wind. Yes, it is a picture he wall recall to 
 his dying day. 
 
 Miss Ventnor has met Miss Wild, the vocalist, with 
 some surprise, and extreme curiosity. And so she is 
 Joanna ? — really ? How stupid of her and Frank not 
 to have recognized her at once. But she has so 
 changed — so improved. Miss Wild will pardon her, 
 she trusts, for saying as much. After all, she is privi- 
 leged, being such a very old — acquaintance. May she 
 congratulate her? — her voice is enchanting, she envies 
 her whenever she hears it. How charming that they 
 should all meet again like this. And so on — more than 
 civil — gracious, indeed — quite the manner of some fair 
 young grand duchess, so uplifted that sbe can afford to 
 stoop and be sweet. 
 
 Joanna smiles at it all, not embarassed, not over- 
 whelmed, and responds very quietly. Olga does not 
 dream — none of them do — the double secret she holds, 
 her manner to Li-vingston is so simply that of a friend. 
 Still, he feels uncomfortable, and urges her to let him 
 tell. " Wait, wait," is all she will say. It is hei 
 
356 HOW JOAT^NA PAID HEE DEBT. 
 
 answer to Geoffrey, too, when he reiterates his wish to 
 make known her real position to the Ventnors. " Oh, 
 wait," she says ; " time enough for all that." And 
 they obey her. She has a strong will, this gentle 
 Joanna, and it makes itself felt. She knows her own 
 mind, and adheres to it. She forms her own plans, 
 and abides by them. She has great faith in time, and 
 waiting, and patience, to set the most crooked things 
 straight. A little, indeed, is revealed — she has dis- 
 covered her mother, out in San Francisco, and Joanna 
 is going there to join li»jr next week. It is her inten- 
 tion to return with iier and make another brief visit to 
 the Lamars. 
 
 After that — Livingston glances at her with a some- 
 what anxious face, but she smiles back at him with a 
 brightness all her own. She has the brightest smile, 
 the frankest laugh, in the world — in her presence there 
 is a sense of comfort, of peace, of rest. That subtile 
 fascination of manner has its effect on them all, and 
 her singing charms care from every heart. Mrs. 
 Ventnor is bewitched — Olga says so laughingly ; she is 
 ready to listen for hours, rapt, if Joanna will only 
 sing. 
 
 " I repeat it," Miss Ventnor says, " you have be- 
 witched mamma, Miss Wild. She is under the spell of 
 a musical enchantress. What sorcery is in that voice 
 of yours that you steal our hearts through our ears ? " 
 
 This is very gracious. Olga goes with the majority, 
 and does real homage to her old foe. The clear, noble 
 face, the quiet, well-bred manner, the siren charm of 
 voice, win golden opinions from her, fastidious as 
 she is. 
 
 " I never saw any one so changed as that — that 
 
HOW JOANNA PAID HER DEBT. 367 
 
 Joanna," she says, half laughingly, half petulantly, to 
 Frank ; "she is a witch, I think. Even I cannot re- 
 sist. There is a sort of charm about her — I cannot de- 
 line it, but perhaps you can see — that compels one's 
 liking in spite of one's self." 
 
 " And why in spite of one's self. Mile. Olga ? Why 
 should one try to resist ? " 
 
 "Ah! why? We were always antagonistic, you 
 know. And so you can see it ? Now, really you are 
 sharper-sighted than I took you to be. I thought ycm 
 saw nothing but little Leo's riante face ! " 
 
 "What?" Livingston cries, conscience-stricken ; 
 "do you know what you are saying ? Leo ! What is 
 Leo to me ? " 
 
 "I do not know what Leo may be to you at this 
 present moment," says Olga, coolly, " but if things go 
 on, she will be Mrs. Livingston to you before long. 
 Dejal we go fast, my friend. Your heart goes out 
 through your eyes, it seems. And only two months 
 ago he proposed to me ! What a crushing blow to my 
 vanity ! As for little Leo " 
 
 But the door opens, and little Leo comes in with 
 Joanna, and the cousins part — Livingston covered with 
 confusion as with a garment, and Olga's sapphire eyes 
 laughing with malice. 
 
 The days go by ; Joanna's week has nearly merged 
 into two. They hold her by force, it seems ; Mrs. 
 Abbott's pleading eyes, Leo's pleading lips, Geoffrey's 
 pleasure in her prolonged stay. The Veiitnors are 
 still here ; Livingston is every day, and all day every 
 day, almost, at the cottage. 
 
 Dr. Lamar works as hard as ever, spares himself aa 
 little as ever, and begins to really look haggard and 
 
358 HOW JOANNA PAID HER DEBT. 
 
 ill. His mother and Joanna watch him with anxious 
 eyes, and what they fear comes to pass. Olga's hero 
 goes down on his battle-field, but facing and fighting 
 the foe until he falls, prostrate and conquered. 
 
 And then there are tears, and panic, and terror in 
 the bright little household, and a sudden scattering of 
 the happy circle. And in this hour, Joanna comes 
 forward to pay her debt, to pay it, if need be, even 
 with her life. She is calm and self-possessed, where 
 all is dismay. She takes Livingston aside, and speaks 
 to him as one having authority. 
 
 "Last night I spoke to Geoffrey," she quietly says: 
 "he felt this coming on, and knew he could rely 
 upon me. He wished to be taken to the hospital, but 
 that I would not hear of. He wished me to go, but 
 that was still more impossible. Then we decided what 
 to do, and you must obey. You must leave at once, 
 and take Miss Ventnor, and her mother, and Leo with 
 you, to Brightbrook, if you are wise; this city is not 
 safe. I remain with Mrs. Abbott. A professional 
 nurse is coming, and his friend. Dr. Morgan, will 
 attend. To obey is the only way in which you can 
 help us, and with the help of Heaven, Geoffrey will 
 be restored to us soon." 
 
 " But, oh, Joanna," the young man cries out, " it 
 may be death to you !" 
 
 She smiles; it is a smile that goes to his heart. 
 
 "If Heaven pleases, but I think not. I am so 
 strong, so well, I have never been ill in my life, and 
 I am not in the least afraid. I do not think that for 
 me there is the slightest danger. But for your cousin 
 and Leo, there may be much. Take them away, Frank, 
 and do not come here any more." 
 
HOW JOANNA PAID HER DEBT. 359 
 
 "I will take them away," he answers, "but as for 
 not coming here any more " 
 
 He does not finish the sentence; he turns to go. 
 Then suddenly he comes back, and clasps her closely 
 in his arms, and kisses her again and again. 
 
 " God bless you, my own darling — my brave, noble, 
 great-hearted Joanna, and make me worthy of you in 
 the time that is to come." 
 
 Olga Ventnor, and her mother, and Leo are taken 
 away. Not willingly, rebelling, and under loud pro- 
 tests atid tears on Leo's part, white, mute grief on 
 Olga's. Her heart burns as she thinks of Joanna there 
 in the post of danger, by his side, and she here, 
 selfishly safe and free. 
 
 But she says little. What is there for her to 
 say ? and maiden pride is very strong in Olga Ventnor. 
 They see that she is pale, that as the days go on she 
 grows thin as a shadow, that she wanders about like 
 a restless spirit, that she listens breathlessly to the 
 report Livingston brings daily, and many times a day. 
 For they have not gone, that would have been too 
 cruel, and Frank hovers constantly about the cottage, 
 intercepts the doctor, waylays the nurse, and tries to 
 catch glimpses of Joanna. There are not many glimpses 
 of Joanna to be had; she literally lives in the sick- 
 room, she shares the nightly vigils, she snatches brief 
 naps in her clothes, while she insists upon his mother 
 taking her proper rest. No Sister of Mercy, no 
 adoring wife, could have watched, nursed, cared for 
 him more devotedly than does she. And the days 
 pass — the long, sunny, summer days. Everything 
 
360 HOW JOANNA PAID HER DEBT. 
 
 that medical skill can do, that tireless nursing can do, 
 are done. And they triumph. There comes a day 
 and a night of agonized suspense, and waiting, and 
 heart-break — a night in which Olga Ventnor knows in 
 her agony that if Geoffrey Lamar dies, all that life 
 holds of joy for her will die too — a night in which 
 Leo weeps, and Livingston roams restlessly, and 
 Joanna watches, and waits, and prays. And as day 
 dawns, and the first lances of sunshine pierce the 
 darkened sick-room, she comes out, white as a spirit, 
 wasted, wan, but oh ! so thankful — Oh ! so glad — Oh! 
 so unspeakably blessed. Frank Livingston starts up 
 and comes forward, pale too, and worn, and thin. 
 He does not speak — his eyes speak for him. 
 
 " Do not come near," Joanna says, remembering, 
 even in that supreme hour, prudence. *'Go home 
 and tell them all to bless God for us. Geoffrey will 
 live." 
 
 He goes and tells his glad news. Mrs. Ventnor 
 and Leo cry with joy, and are full of outspoken 
 thanksgiving, but Olga is silent. And presently she 
 rises, feeling giddy and faint, and goes to her room, 
 and falls on her knees by the bed, and there remains, 
 bowed, speechless, motionless, a long, long time. And 
 whether it is for Geoffrey she is praying, or — Joanna 
 — she can never tell. 
 
" THE TIME OF ROSES." 361 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 <<THE TIME OF ROSES." 
 
 NEVER thought to see it again, the 
 dear old place. Nowhere in the world 
 can ever seem so much like home to me 
 ^ as Brightbrook. It is good, good, good 
 to be back I" 
 
 So says little Leo, drawing a long, contented 
 breath. She stands leaning against a brown tree 
 trunk, her hat in her hand, the sunshine sifting down 
 upon her like a rain of gold, flecking her pink cambric 
 dress, her braided dark hair, her sweet, soft-cut face, 
 the great black velvety eyes. 
 
 Those dark eyes gaze with a wistful light in the 
 direction of Abbott Wood, whither she has not yet 
 been. Sitting in a rustic chair, near, Frank Living- 
 ston looks at her, thinking, artist-like, what an uncon- 
 scious picture she makes of herself, and with some- 
 thing deeper, perhaps, than mere artist admiration in 
 his eyes. 
 
 They are all here, the Lamar family, and have 
 been for two days. To Leo it is as though they had 
 never quitted it. The villa, the village, the faces of 
 Frank and Olga, everything seems as if she had only 
 leff yesterday. The gap of years is bridged over ; 
 she is rich and prosperous Leo Abbott once more. 
 Only her old home she has not seen ; she longs to go, 
 but dreads to ask. 
 
 In an invalid chair, close by, sits her brother, very 
 much of an invalid still, pallid and thin to a most in- 
 Id 
 
362 '' THE TIME OF EOSES." 
 
 teresting degree, and petted by all the womankind 
 until Livingston declares in disgust the after coddling 
 must be ten times harder for Lamar to bear up against 
 than the fever bout. Olga is an exception. Olga, 
 now that she has gotten him safely here, feels a limit- 
 less content, but she does not " coddle." She watches 
 the returning appetite, the growing strength, the 
 gradual return to life and health, with a gladness, a 
 thankfulness words are weak to tell, but she pets not 
 at all. She treats him a trifle more tenderly, perhaps, 
 than the Geoffrey Lamar, vigorous of strength and 
 life, of some weeks back ; but feel as she may, Olga 
 Ventnor is not one to wear her heart on her sleeve for 
 any man, sick or well. She is a fair, a gracious, a 
 lovely young hostess, full of all gentle care for the 
 comfort of her guests ; but Geoffrey is her mother's 
 especial province, and to her mother she quietly leaves 
 him. 
 
 It is rather against his will, truth to tell, that Dr. 
 Lamar is here at all ; but very little voice was given 
 him in the matter — his faint objections were over- 
 ruled by a vast majority, and he was en route hither 
 almost before he knew it. 
 
 Colonel Ventnor had come for his wife and daugh- 
 ter, alarmed for their safety, and, finding the patient 
 convalescent, had waited a few days, and abducted 
 him, willy nilly. The cottage had been shut up, and 
 the family are safely here, recuperating in the fresh, 
 sea-scented breezes of Brightbrook, and Olga and Leo 
 at least, in their hidden hearts, supremely happy. 
 
 For Frank and Geoffrey — well, their roses are cer- 
 tainly not thornless. For Geoffrey, he finds himself 
 yielding irresistibly to the spell of other days, and it 
 
" THE TIME OF ROSES." 363 
 
 threatens to be a fatal spell. In those other days it 
 was different — he might have hoped then — now hope 
 would only be another name for presumption. He has 
 loved Olga ever since he can remember, it seems to 
 him, and even when he thought her assigned to Liv- 
 ingston, had hoped, feeling confident of being able to 
 liold his own with that careless wooer. But all that 
 has been changed ; in those days he was the heir pre- 
 sumptive of a very rich man ; in these days he is a 
 penniless doctor, able to earn his daily bread, and little 
 more. And for all the best years of his life it seems 
 likely to be so. For himself, he has quite made up his 
 mind to it, has not been unhappy, but now — now, after 
 this inopportune visit, after long days spent in her so- 
 ciety, it will be different. He can hardly love her bet- 
 ter, and yet he dreads to stay. He will spoil his life 
 for nothing ; a hopeless passion will mar all that is 
 best in him, a love she must never know of will con- 
 sume his life, eat out his heart with useless longings 
 and regrets. 
 
 Meantime Joanna speeds on by day and by night, 
 on her long journey to her mother. Her prediction 
 has proven true — she does not take the fever. And 
 the doctor tells them all that to her indefatigable 
 nursing more than anything else do they owe Geof- 
 frey's life. 
 
 "Thank her if yon can, young man," Dr. Morgan 
 says ; " she never spared herself by night or day. But 
 for her you would be a dead man this morning." 
 
 But Geoffrey does not even try to thank her — there 
 are things for which mere words, be they never so elo- 
 quent, are a j)Oor return. Others overwhelm her with 
 tears and gi*atitude — his mother, his sister, Mrs. Vent- 
 
364 *' THE TIME OF ROSES." 
 
 nor. Olga says little, but it is at ber Joanna looks. 
 Sbe is very pale in these first days, with a tense sort of 
 look in her blue eyes ; but she holds herself well in 
 hand, and even Joanna turns away disappointed, from 
 that still, proudly calm face. Only when they say 
 good-by does a glimpse of Olga's heart appear. She 
 is the last to say it, and they are alone. She has held 
 out her hand at first,f with a smile, and the conventional 
 good wishes for a pleasant journey. Suddenly she 
 flings her arms around Joanna's neck and holds her al- 
 most wildly to her. 
 
 "You have saved his life," she whispers, kissing 
 her again and again. " I will love you while I live 
 for that." 
 
 And then she is gone. 
 
 Joanna looks after her, a glad, relieved, triumphant 
 smile on her face. 
 
 " It is so, then," she says, softly, " in spite of all — 
 in spite of pride. I am so glad — so very, very glad." 
 
 And now they are all here, and the five last miser- 
 able years seem to drift away, and the old time — "the 
 time of roses " — comes back. Leo visits Abbott Wood 
 to her heart's content — no one objects — and wanders 
 sadly under the trees, and down by the blue summer 
 sea, through the glowing rooms, speaking of her moth- 
 er's refined taste, her father's boundless wealth. 
 
 Poor papa ! Leo's tender little heart is sad for 
 him yet. Here is the chapel, beautiful St. Walburga's, 
 with its radiant saints on golden backgrounds, the 
 crimson and purple and golden glass casting rays of 
 rainbow light on the colored marbles of the floor, the 
 carven pulpit with its angel faces, from which Mr. 
 Lamb's meek countenance used to beam down on them 
 
«< THE TIME OF ROSES." 366 
 
 all. Up yonder is the organ where mamma used to sit 
 and play Mozart and Haydn on Sunday afternoons. 
 How silent, how sad, how changed, it all is now. Plere 
 is her own white and blue chamber, with its lovely 
 picture of Christ blessing little children, its guardian 
 angels on brackets, her books, and toilet things, all 
 as they used to be. 
 
 Here is Geoffrey's room, bare enough and without 
 carpet, for his tastes were preternaturally austere in 
 those days, with lots of space, and little else, except 
 an iron bedstead, and tables, and chairs. And books, 
 of course — everywhere books. And a horrid skeleton 
 in a closet, on wires, and a dismal skull grinning at her 
 under glass. 
 
 Leo gets out again as quickly as may be, with a 
 shudder at Geoff's dreadful tastes. Her first visit 
 leaves her very sad and thoughtful ; she loves every 
 tree in the old place, every room in the stately house, 
 and it is never to be home to her any more ! It is 
 Joanna's, and, of course, she is glad of that. No good 
 too good can come to Joanna ; but for all that, it 
 makes her heart ache. She may come to it as a visitor, 
 but dear, dear Abbott Wood will never be home any 
 more. 
 
 No one else goes, not her mother, not her brother ; 
 they drive in every other direction, never in that. 
 Leo goes often, and frequent going blunts the first 
 sharp feeling of loss and pain. Another sense of loss 
 and pain, keener yet, follows this. What has she done 
 to Frank? He is her friend no more ; he avoids her, 
 indeed ; he is never her escort if he can help it. Some- 
 times he cannot help it. Olga, in her imperious 
 fashion, orders him to go and take care of Leo, and 
 
366 '' THE TIME OF ROSES." 
 
 not let the child come to harm moving about alone. 
 Leo tries to assert herself, and summon pride to her 
 aid ; but Leo in the role of a haughty maiden is a 
 failure. The sensitive lips quiver, like the lips of a 
 grieved child ; the velvet black eyes grow dewy and 
 deep, with tears hardly held back. What has she done 
 to make Frank dislike her? He used not be like this ; 
 he used to be nice, and attentive, and polite. But it 
 is so no more. He goes with her when he must, and 
 talks to her after a constrained fashion, and looks at 
 her furtively, and seems guilty, when caught in the 
 act. Why should he look guilty, and glance hastily 
 away ? There is no harm in looking at her — Leo has 
 a secret consciousness that she is not bad to look at. 
 She cannot be entirely miserable over the loss of her 
 old home, while she every day grows more and more 
 miserable over the loss of her friend. 
 
 And the days go on, and the weeks pass, and the 
 end of September is here. They have heard from 
 Joanna. Mrs. Abbott has had a brief letter, very 
 brief. She has reached her journey's end in safety ; 
 she has found her mother, has taken her from the asy- 
 lum, and, after a week or two of rest, will return. 
 She sends her love to all. There is no more. It is 
 singularly short, and business-like, and to the point. 
 She writes to no one else. Livingston hardly knows 
 whether he is sorry or relieved. He has asked her to 
 write, but she has made no promise. In a fortnight 
 
 she will be back, and then They will bear the 
 
 announcement of his engagement better now than they 
 would have done a month ago. After all, it is as well 
 he waited. All sing pgeans in Joanna's praise now. 
 He grows a trifle weary, sometimes, listening. It is all 
 
ii 
 
 THE TIME OF ROSES." 367 
 
 true, no doubt ; she is a noble woman ; he will never 
 
 be half worthy of her, at his best, but He looks 
 
 across at Leo, sitting, listlessly enough, in a garden- 
 chair, her hands lying idly on her lap, her mignonne 
 face pale and spiritless ; the soft, black eyes heavy- 
 lidded and tired-looking. The sweet, childish mouth 
 has a pathetic little droop ; she looks sorry, or lonely, 
 or something. He starts up impatiently, and goes off, 
 angry with himself — his fate — all the world. 
 
 And now the Lamars begin to talk of going — 
 Geoffrey, indeed, has been impatiently talking of it, 
 and thinking of it, for some time, but has been met by 
 such a storm of reproach for his unseemly haste, that 
 he has been forced to desist. But against his better 
 judgment always, and now he will go. His work 
 awaits him. Dr. Morgan writes sarcastically to inquire 
 if he has fallen into a Rip Van Winkle slumber up 
 there in his sylvan Sleepy Hollow. He is perfectly 
 well again, no plea of invalidism can be put forth to 
 detain him, and his resolution is taken. To-morrow 
 he goes. His mother and sister can remain another 
 week, if they choose, while he has the cottage put in 
 order. They do choose, overwhelmed by the hospita- 
 ble pressifig of the Ventnors, and so it is decided. 
 
 The last evening has come. Leo is away on one of 
 her long rambles, and, for a wonder, Livingston is 
 with her. It is the hour of sunset. Colonel Ventnor, 
 his daughter, and Dr. Lamar linger on the lawn. The 
 lovt'ly after-glow, the exquisite rose-light of a perfect 
 September day yet lingers in the sky ; a faintly salt 
 breeze comes fresh from the ocean, and stirs the sleep- 
 ing flowers. On the piazza, at the other side of the 
 bouse, the elder ladies sit, and after a little the colonel 
 
'« THE TIME OF ROSES." 
 
 feels called upon to join them. Then Geoffrey throws 
 himself on the dry, crisp grass, rather tired after a 
 long day's rambling, and Olga, with a smile, seats her- 
 self on a grassy knoll close by. 
 
 "I know you are used up, if you would but own 
 it," she is saying. " J am, and do not mind confessing 
 it in the least. Ten miles is as much as I ever want 
 to do at once. I fear it was hardly wise of you, not 
 yet fully strong, to go as far as you did." 
 
 " You will insist on keeping me on the sick list," 
 he answers. "I believe I am as strong as I ever was 
 in my life. I might have gone a week ago, with per- 
 fect safety. My walk will do me no harm. And it is 
 for the last time." 
 
 There is a pause. Tlis voice is regretful — it is hard 
 to go. A little frown deepens between Miss Ventnor's 
 eyebrows. 
 
 "I hate last time," she says, petulantly, "I hate 
 saying good-by. Every year I live, every friend I part 
 with, I hate it more and more. Th^y are the two 
 hardest, hatefulest words in the language. You must 
 like it, though, you appear so desperately anxious to 
 say it, and get rid of us." 
 
 He looks up at her. She is very lovely, but she is 
 always that. Pier hat lies on her lap, her delicate face 
 is ever so little flushed, ever so little petulant, her blue 
 eyes have an almost irate sparkle. See is dressed in 
 pale blue, crisp, silky, cool, a cluster of pink roses in 
 her breast, another in her hair. She looks all azure 
 and roses, golden hair, and flower face. He turns 
 away his eyes, slightly dazzled. 
 
 " Do you believe that," he asks, quietly, *' that I 
 am glad to go ?" 
 
'' THE TIME OF ROSES." 369 
 
 "It looks like it, I confess. You have talked of 
 nothing else but going ever since you came. And 
 now you will leave us to-morrow, though the heavens 
 fall." 
 
 "It would have been wiser if I had never come," he 
 says, still very quietly ; " it would have been wiser for 
 me if I had gone the moment I was able. I did not 
 mean to say this, but, Olga, cannot you see — do you 
 not know the reason ?" 
 
 " No, I do not," she answers, still petulant, although 
 the deepening flush on her cheek tells another story. 
 " I only know you are very perverse, and are longing 
 to be off among your fever patients, and to catch it if 
 possible over again yourself." 
 
 " Would you care if I did — would you care if I 
 did?" he says, then quickly checks himself. "No," 
 he says, " do not answer that question. I had no right 
 to ask it — I recall it, and beg your pardon. I did not 
 mean to say this much, Olga, to say anything, but 
 but having said it in spite of myself, let me say yet 
 more. I love you, Olga, I love you with my whole 
 heart." 
 
 There is a startling pause. Miss Ventnor catches 
 her breath, but makes no other sign. 
 
 "Once I might have said this with something of a 
 good grace," Geoffrey goes on ; " that day has gone 
 by. I loved you even then, Olga. I can recall no time 
 when I did not. But the deluge came — the whole 
 world changed for me ; we parted, and I never thought 
 to see you again. I did not forget you ; I never could. 
 You were the one fair woman in all the world for ino, 
 but I never wished to meet you more. That way mad- 
 ness lay. ]^ut who is stronger than his fate ? You 
 Itt* 
 
370 
 
 came — we have met, I am here, I am at your feet, I 
 am saying this. My wliole heart is yours — perhaps it 
 is written in the book of fate that I am to tell you this. 
 It is presumption, I know, but I know, too, you will 
 not look on it in that light. We have been such old 
 friends, Olga, that you will listen, and pity, and for- 
 give." 
 
 Pity and forgive ! And he asks nothing but that. 
 
 " I meant to go and say nothing," — all this time he 
 has hardly stirred from his recumbent position, hardly 
 let a touch of the excitement that thrills him creep into 
 his voice — it is the most passive-looking of love-making, 
 and yet is full of repressed passion and fire. " I meant to 
 depart and make no sign. But my love is stronger 
 than my judgment. And after all it can do no harm. 
 You will forget, and I will take my dreams with me, 
 and be the less miserable for knowing that you have 
 heard and understood. If I were a richer man I would 
 plead very differently. It is that I am so absolutely 
 poor that gives me courage to speak at all. Despair, 
 you know, is a free man — Hope is a coward. When 
 we have nothing to hope for, we have nothing to fear. 
 Say you forgive me, Olga, and are still my friend in 
 spite of this." 
 
 " I will say it," she answers, with a great effort, 
 "and if you wish — more." 
 
 He turns and looks at her, surprise in his face, little 
 else. Certainly there is no gleam of hope. He has 
 settled it so completely with himself that it is impos- 
 sible she can care for him, that it is not for one falter- 
 ing reply to upset his theory. 
 
 " Olga !" he says. 
 
 Her head is averted, her cheek is crimson, her eyes 
 
HOW JOANNA SAID GOOD-BY. 371 
 
 are downcast, her fingers pluck nervously at the tufts 
 of grass and wild flowers. 
 
 ** Olga," he says again, and this time there issi wild, 
 incredulous flash of delight in his eyes. " Olga !" 
 
 " Oh," she breaks out, brokenly, " cannot you see ! 
 Why will you force me to speak ? I will not speak !" 
 with a flasli from the great blue eyes. 
 
 She rises suddenly to her feet, and scatters a shower 
 of pink petals over her lover, and over the grass. 
 
 " Olga," is all he can say, in his whirl of amazement, 
 incredulity, of mad, new joy. 
 
 There is a struggle. Then all at once she stoops, 
 and, lightly as the touch of thistle-down, her lips rest 
 on his forehead. 
 
 "If you can leave me — now," she says, flushed, 
 frightened at her own temerity, breathless, laugh- 
 ingly, " go !" 
 
 And, as she speaks, she turns, and swiftly as a fawn 
 flies, is gone. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 HOW JOANNA SAID GOOD-BY. 
 
 " Ijl^^^^^ THINK it is odd," says Mrs. Abbott, lan- 
 
 P&^'ii'l g"'<^^y» "and unlike Joanna. She never 
 
 l^-S^I has whims. Why should she wish us to 
 
 ■ * remain here, instead of going home, as 
 
 wo ought, to receive her ?" 
 
 Another week has gone by — nine days, indeed — 
 and Leo and her mother are still the guests of the 
 Ventnors. Geoffrey has gone back to his cottage 
 home, as per previous arrangement, to have it set in 
 
372 HOW JOANNA SAID GOOD-BY. 
 
 order for them, and resume his labors. One day- 
 longer than he had intended he has staid, and both 
 families have been electrified by the wonderful news. 
 And yet not, perhaps, so very greatly. Colonel Vent- 
 nor glances at his daughter, and slowly smiles. In all 
 his life he has never contradicted his darling — he is 
 hardly likely to begin now. And he is not ambitious 
 of adding wealth to wealth — she is, and will be always, 
 sufficiently rich. As the heir of John Abbott, he cer- 
 tainly never would have dreamed of objecting to young 
 Lamar, with the best blood of the South in his veins. 
 As a struggling young doctor he is not less worthy of 
 her. He is no fortune-hunter, of that the colonel is 
 M'eW assured. And Olga loves him ; his proud and 
 delicate darling, whose heart hitherto no man has been 
 able to touch. He grasps Geoffrey's hand with frank, 
 soldierly warmth. 
 
 " There is no man living to whom I v/ould sooner 
 give her," he says, cordially. " Fortune ? Ah, well, 
 fortune is not everything, and fortune is to be won by 
 the willing. You are of that number, I am sure. If 
 I fancied her fortune had to do with it, do you think 
 I would listen like this? It is because I could stake 
 my life on the truth of the lad I have known all his 
 life, that I say yes so readily. Make her happy, Geof- 
 frey — all is said in that." 
 
 Could anything be more delightful ? Geoffrey- 
 finds the whole English language inadequate to his 
 wants, in the way of thanks. Mrs. Ventnor is charmed 
 — the son of her dearest friend is the one, above all 
 others, she would have chosen for her son as well. 
 
 One thing only is a drawback — the story that must 
 be told, the one bar sinister on the spotless Lamar 
 
now JOANNA SAID GOOD-BY. 373 
 
 shield. But that cannot be told now ; not until Jo- 
 anna returns and gives permission. Some hint of it 
 he drops, necessarily obscure, before he goes. No plans 
 aro formed for the present — it is understood that Col- 
 onel and Mrs. Veutnor will not agree to any long en- 
 gagement. 
 
 "If you and Olga make up your mind to wait while 
 you win your way," he says, decisively, " it must be 
 without an engagement. I will not have her fettered 
 while you plod slowly upward." 
 
 It is not likely, under these circumstances, they will 
 make up their minds to wait. Geoffrey goes, and Olga 
 is petted to her heart's content. For Leo, she is in a 
 seventh heaven of rapture, and for a day or two posi- 
 tively forgets Frank. Another sister, and that one her 
 darling Olga ! Surely, she is the most fortunate girl 
 in the world. 
 
 And now here is Joanna coming back, has come 
 indeed, and is with Geoffrey already. " Wait until I 
 join you," is what she writes. " I have' something to 
 say to you, my Leo, that I prefer to say there." It is 
 now late on Monday evening — to-morrow morning will 
 bring her. 
 
 To-morrow comes. Frank is at the station to 
 meet her, looking worn and anxious, as he has grown 
 of late. Latterly his misanthropy, as far as Leo is 
 concerned, has grown upon him ; he distinctly avoids 
 her. lie is trying to be true, with all his. might. If 
 lie could fly from danger, he would fly, but that is im- 
 possible. So he stays on, and does the best he can, 
 trying to think a great deal of Joanna and her perfec- 
 tions. Whether she agrees or not, he means to end 
 this as soon as she returns, and let the world know of 
 
374 HOW JOANNA SAID GOOD -BY. 
 
 their relations to each other. He will not ask her 
 leave, he will assert himself, he will simply tell. Then 
 Leo will understand. They will be quietly married, 
 and go away at once. And little Leo will forget — she 
 is such a child— and be happy with some happier man. 
 
 The train stops, and a tall young lady, in a gray 
 traveling suit, and pretty gray hat, alights. It is 
 Joanna, looking well and bright, and almost handsome. 
 She smiles and holds out her hand frankly at sight of 
 him, but her manner is more that of a cordial friend 
 than of the woman he is going to marry. 
 
 " How well you are looking," he says. "Your 
 long journey seems to have given you added bloom, 
 Joanna. You are as fresh as any rose." 
 
 " It must be a yellow rose, then," says Joanna, 
 laughing, " and pale saffron bloom. I am sorry I can- 
 not return the compliment. Y^ou are looking any- 
 thing but well, Frank. You have not had a sun-stroke, 
 I hope, tliis summer ?" 
 
 She speaks lightly, but her glance is keen, and 
 there is an under-current of meaning in her tone. He 
 flushes slightly, and flecks the wheeler lightly with his 
 whip. 
 
 " Something rather like it, I believe. But I shall 
 rapidly grow convalescent now that you are back. I 
 have — we all have — missed you, Joanna." 
 
 " Thank you," she says, gently. " That is a good 
 hearing. I like my friends to miss me. How are they 
 all V— well ?" 
 
 " Quite well. No doubt you have heard the won- 
 derful news. You saw Geoffrey ?" 
 
 " Yes, I saw him," smiling, " and really it was not 
 such wonderful news. I did not faint with surprise 
 
HOW JOANNA SAID GOOD-BY. 375 
 
 when I heard it. But of course I am delighted, more 
 than delighted. She will have the noblest husband in 
 the world, and she is worthy of him. You are sure 
 you feel no jealous pang, Frank ?" laughing. 
 
 " Not one. I shall give my fair cousin my blessing 
 on her wedding-day, with the soundest of hearts — 
 where she is concerned. And your mother ?" he says, 
 shifting skillfully from what he feels to be dangerous 
 ground. " You have brought her back safe and 
 well?" 
 
 " Safe and well, thank Heaven — almost as well in 
 mind as in body. She might have left years ago, poor 
 darling, if there had been any one to take her. Ah ! 
 Frank, I feel that my whole life will not suffice to re- 
 pay her for what she has suffered. And do you know, 
 she accepted me in a moment as her child, seemed to 
 know me, if such a thing could be possible, and came 
 with me so gladly. She can hardly bear me a moment 
 out of her sight." 
 
 " You should have brought her down with you. It 
 is unfair to leave her even for a few days now." 
 
 " A few days ! My dear Frank, I return by to- 
 night's train. Meantime she is with the Professor and 
 Madame Ericson. I have not come to stay. I have 
 come" — her face grows grave — "on very important 
 business, and part of it is with you. I must see Leo 
 first." 
 
 He is stricken dumb. Their names in this conjunc- 
 tion ! He grows quite white as he leans forward to 
 look at her. 
 
 " Joanna, what do you mean ?" 
 
 She lays her hand on his, kindly, gently, but very 
 firmly. 
 
376 HOW JOANNA SAID GOOD-BY. 
 
 "Kot now, Frank — later. I must first see Leo. I 
 want her to go with me to Abbott Wood this morn- 
 ing. I have a fancy for saying what I have to say in 
 the dear, beautiful old house that she loves so well, 
 and where she — they all — were so good to Joanna. 
 Mrs. Hill will give us lunch there. I shall not return 
 to Ventnor Villa ; and if, when Leo goes back, you 
 will come in her stead, I will say good-by to you as 
 well." 
 
 She is smiling, but her eyes look dark and sad. Pie 
 sets his lips — even they are pale. 
 
 " Good-by ! Joanna, what are you saying ? There 
 is to be no good-by between us any more. You are 
 mine ; I claim you. I am going to announce our 
 engagement. It is useless for you to object. . I am.'''* 
 
 "Ah, well !" she says, wearily, "wait — wait until 
 this afternoon, at least. I am a little tired now, and 
 — and dispirited, I think. I do not want to talk of it. 
 Do you know," brightening suddenly, and smiling, "I 
 met an old friend, by purest chance, in the streets of 
 San Francisco. It was so good to see him, although I 
 had every reason to be ashamed. I was ashamed too," 
 she laughs, and colors a little. 
 
 " Who ?" Frank asks. 
 
 " George Blake — poor George ! So improved, so 
 brown, so manly-looking, and so prosperous. He is 
 editor and proprietor of a daily out there, and doing 
 well. I recognized him in a moment, but he did not 
 know me. I stopped him, however, and made myself 
 known — made my peace with him too, I am happy to 
 say. What a wretch I was in those days ! I look 
 back now and wonder if * I be I ?' You never saw any 
 one so glad as he was to meet me, and as for all the 
 
HOW JOANNA SAID GOOD-BY. 377 
 
 good-natured things he said about my changed appear- 
 ance, and so on — but you would think me frightfully 
 conceited if I repeated the half. What is to the point 
 is, that he has forgiven me, and forgotten me, so far 
 as his old fancy is concerned. He is engaged to be 
 married, and to quite a rich young lady. Is not all 
 that pleasant news?" 
 
 But Livingston is not very deeply interested in 
 George Blake, or his successes, editorial or matrimonial. 
 He is filled with disquiet by Joanna's manner ; he fears 
 he knows not what. She laughs and talks lightly 
 enough, but underneath it all he sees a resolute pur- 
 pose, and he has learned to fear her inflexible resolu- 
 tions. Why should she so connect his name with 
 Leo's ? what does she suspect ? He has striven hard 
 to be loyal and true, but those deep dark eyes are eyes 
 not easily deceived. The drive is not a long one, but 
 silence has fallen long before they reach the house. 
 
 Joanna is met, is welcomed by the Ventnors with 
 flattering warmth, is embraced by Leo and her mother 
 with effusion, and finally has a private interview with 
 the latter lady. It is not a long one, but Mrs. Abbott 
 is very pale and grave when it is over, and there are 
 traces of recent tears. 
 
 " It is like you, Joanna !" is what she says ; " I can 
 say nothing more than that. You are generosity itself. 
 I can only echo Geoffrey's words, and leave the decis- 
 ion to Leo, unbiased. She is a child in most things, 
 but in this she must judge for herself. You are her 
 sister, and your wishes should have weight. Tell her, 
 and it shall be as she says." 
 
 *' I have no fear then," Joanna says, gayly. " Leo 
 has common sense, if she is a child, and is free from 
 
378 HOW JOAI^NA SAID GOOD. BY. 
 
 fine-drawn notions and wicked pride. Leo, dear, run 
 and put on your hat. I will drive you over to Abbott 
 Wood, if Miss Ventnor will trust her ponies to my 
 care. I am quite a skilled charioteer, I assure you." 
 
 " To Abbott Wood ?" Leo says, opening wide the 
 velvet black eyes. 
 
 " Yes, dear ; and we will lunch there together. 
 Quite like old times — will it not be ? Do not be a 
 minute. I will say good-by to the others while you 
 are gone." 
 
 " Good-by ?" cries Leo, with dismay ; but Joanna 
 has left her, and is already explaining the necessity 
 for her return that very night. She cannot leave her 
 mother, who pines and frets in her absence. So she 
 says farewell there and then, to Mrs. Abbott as well 
 as the rest. 
 
 " We go south very shortly," Joanna says, " and 
 "Nvill pass the winter in Florida. Next spring, when 
 we return, of course my first visit will be here." 
 
 Frank is there as well as the rest, but to him she 
 does not hold out her hand. 
 
 " Come and fetch Leo back this afternoon," she 
 says. " I can make my adieux to you then." 
 
 She and Leo depart, and Livingston quits the 
 family group, and is seen no more by any member of 
 the household. It is a day he will not easily forget ; 
 the suspense, the dread, the pain he feels, grave them- 
 selves on his memory, making this a day apart from 
 all other days in his life. 
 
 Meantime the ponies prance along and speedily do 
 the five miles between Ventnor Villa and Abbott 
 Wood. It is a perfect day — sunny, cloudless, breezy, 
 with the odor of the sea in the crisp air, and Abbott 
 
HOW JOANNA SAID GOOD-BY. 379 
 
 Wood looking more like an ancestral park and baro- 
 nial hall than ever. They sweep up the noble drive 
 and alight in front of the house. Great urns glow, 
 filled with tropical plants ; the flower-beds blaze in 
 their autumn glory ; the deer look at them with wild, 
 shy eyes ; fountains tinkle and plash — all is in perfect 
 order. So is the house in as exquisite keeping as when 
 its mistress reigned there. Leo's eyes light as they 
 drink in all this beauty. She laughs a little, then 
 sighs. 
 
 " It is so lovely," she says — " the dear, dear old 
 home ! Go where I will I see nothing like it !" 
 
 " You love it, then ?" Joanna quietly asks. 
 
 " Love it !" Leo repeats. Her eyes flash, her lips 
 part, then she stops. She must not seem too fond of 
 jt now, ^^he remembers, lest Joanna thinks her envious. 
 '* Of course I am fond of it," she says. " I was born 
 here, and every tree, and every flower, and bird seem 
 like old friends. But it will always seem like home to 
 me, now that it is yours. If it had gone to a stranger, 
 I think it would almost have broken my heart." 
 
 "Dear little loving heart !" Joanna interposes with 
 a smile. 
 
 ** But it is yours, and you are my own precious 
 sister," goes on Leo, gayly, " and I shall expect you 
 to invite me here often. You are not to forget your 
 poor relations, you know. Mile. Fifty Millions !" 
 
 Joanna pauses, and looks down upon her. She 
 lays both hands on her shoulders and smiles down into 
 her eyes. Very sweet, and youthful, and fair is little 
 Leo, with her pretty upturned face, and large lumi- 
 nous Southern eyes. 
 
 "It must be the other way," she says. "Yoa 
 
380 HOW JOANNA SAID GOOD-BY. 
 
 must invite me here, little Leo — for Abbott Wood is 
 yours." 
 
 " Mine !" The dark eye« open wide, and stare. 
 
 "Yes, my darling — yours and yours only. From 
 this day you are the little chatelaine oi Abbott Wood. 
 Do you think I would keep your birthright — the 
 house where you were born ? the place you love so 
 dearly, where you were so good — so good — to me ? 
 Ah, no ! I never thought of that. I meant to restore 
 it to you from the first. You are my sister, my 
 father's daughter. It was for you he intended it, and 
 yours it shall be. Do not look at me with such won- 
 der-stricken eyes. Could you think so badly of me as 
 to dream I would keep it? I would not live here if I 
 
 could. There are reasons " she stops for a 
 
 moment. " No, little Leo, it is yours, all the processes 
 of law have been duly fulfilled. It is yours by free 
 deed of gift, and with it half the fortune our father 
 left. What should I do with so much money? Even 
 half is the embarrassment of riches. I can never 
 spend my income. It was for this I stopped on my 
 way here, to speak to Geofl^rey. I knew you would 
 do nothing without his consent. Pie would have no 
 voice in the matter, he left it entirely to you. It was 
 to tell your mother, I saw her alone this morning — 
 she, too, leaves it altogether to you. But I do not 
 — you must accept. There is no compulsion, you 
 know, Leo, dear," says Joanna, laughing and kissing 
 her, "only you must! And although you cannot 
 live here alone, and though neither your mother nor 
 brother will ever live here with you, I foresee Abbott 
 Wood will not be long without a mistress. I foresee," 
 goes on Joanna, her hands still on Leo's shoulders, her 
 
HOW JOANNA SAID GOOD-BY. 381 
 
 smiling eye8 still on Leo's face, " that you will soon 
 reign here, and not alone, and I hope — oh, ray little 
 Leo, with all my heart I hope you may be very, very 
 happy !" 
 
 Her voice breaks. Leo flings her arms about her 
 and hides her face on her breast. She is sobbing, 
 whether with joy, with love, with gratitude, or with 
 pain, she hardly knows. 
 
 Happy ! Ah, if Joanna only knew how unhappy 
 she is ! 
 
 " I — I don't know what to say," she sobs, wildly. 
 "I never thought of this. It is like robbing you, 
 Joanna. Oh, I don't know what to do. I ought not to 
 take this — it is your house — I cannot bear to take it 
 from you." 
 
 " Luckily you have no choice. It is yours in spite 
 of you ! If you refused it would only be left to the 
 rats and Mrs. Hill for the term of their natural lives. 
 But you will not refuse, and one day all my predic- 
 tions will come true. Oh, never look so despondent — 
 trust me, Joanna is among the prophets. And now, 
 wipe those pretty eyes, and let us consider the matter 
 settled, and at an end forever. No more thanks, or 
 tears, or scenes — they make me almost as uncomfor- 
 table as if I were a man. It is luncheon hour, and 
 here I protest is Frank Livingston coming up the 
 avenue. Leo, before he comes, I want you to tell him 
 all about this to-morrow — I mean my story, relation- 
 ship to you, and so on. Geoffrey has to tell Colonel 
 Veutnor, of course; I have given him permission. And 
 with that we will let it drop, the world will never 
 know. I shall take my rightful name — Bennett — and 
 you will keep yours until you exchange it for " 
 
382 HOW JOANNA SAID GOOD-BY. 
 
 " Mr. Livingston," says Mrs. Hill, suddenly usher- 
 ing him in. 
 
 Joanna looks at Leo and laughs, and Leo blushes 
 to the temples, as both go forward to greet him. 
 
 They take their midday refection together, and try 
 to talk easily, but both appetite and conversation are 
 failures. Everything Mrs. Hill can do to tempt them 
 she has done, but no one is at ease. Joanna looks calm, 
 and in spite of everything, is perhaps a trifle amused 
 by the marked avoidance of her two guests. She reads 
 it all so plainly, and if there is any pain at her own 
 heart, she resolutely puts it away. She has made up 
 her mind to the inevitable, and to look back and weep 
 for what is forever gone is not her way. 
 
 After luncheon they wander about the grounds for 
 awhile ; then Leo is summoned away by Mrs. Hill to 
 see some of her former pets, and Joanna and Frank 
 stroll back to the house. Tlie afternoon has w'orn on 
 — the sun is declining ; Joanna looks at her watch as 
 they stand side by side at one of the windows com- 
 manding a wide view of the sparkling sunset sea. 
 
 " Five," she says ; "my train goes at seven. Two 
 good hours yet. We will have time for some tea pres- 
 ently — a sort of stirrup-cup to speed my departure." 
 
 "Joanna!" Livingston breaks out, "this must end. 
 You torture me — cannot you see that ? You are like 
 ice — like stone — you care nothing for me at all. How 
 coolly you talk of going — of leaving me for an indefi- 
 nite period. Do you forget you are my promised wife ?" 
 
 " I have a good memory," Joanna says, " but I as 
 suredly do 7iot remember that. I have never promised 
 you anything in my life." 
 
 " Have you not ?" he demands. " What is it, ther \ 
 
now JOANNA SAID GOOD-BT. 383 
 
 Have I not asked you to marry rae ? Do you not wear 
 my ring " 
 
 She holds out both hands — ringless. 
 
 " As my hands, so my heart — free. Yes, you have 
 asked me, and I — I have said nothing, only this one 
 word from first to last — wait. You have waited — 
 well, your waiting is at an end. That is why I wished 
 to see you here — to say that. If you ever asked me 
 to marry you, ever made me any promise, ever held 
 yourself bound to me, I give it all back. You too are 
 free." 
 
 He cannot speak. He stands looking at her, so 
 pale, so conscience-stricken, that she lays her hand 
 lightly for a moment on his. 
 
 *' Do not blame yourself too much," she says, kind- 
 ly ; " do not blame yourself at all. Indeed, you de- 
 serve none. You have tried — do you think I have not 
 seen ? — and failed. That has been no fault of yours. 
 You never loved rae, Frank — no, not for one poor mo- 
 ment. You thought so that night you were * Carried 
 hy Storm ' — do you recall your own words ? They ex- 
 pressed it exactly ; but love me — never ! Trust a 
 woman to know when she is beloved. Excitement, a 
 moment's impulse, carried you away — when you had 
 time to think, you repented. You would not own it 
 even to yourself — all the same it was there. You did 
 your best, your very best, to be faithful, but there are 
 things that are spoiled by trying. Love is one of them. 
 And you know I never could accept that. In the com- 
 mon acceptation of the term I am not proud, but I am 
 far too proud to accept a husband after such fashion 
 as that. If I c.innot be beloved, I will go to my grave 
 unmarried. And I am quite sure that so I will go. 
 
384 HOW JOANNA SAID GOOD-BY. 
 
 And now, Frank, you are free — free as the wind that 
 blows, and we are friends, good friends, once again 
 and forever." 
 
 She holds out her hand, but he does not see it. 
 He has turned from her, and is pacing to and fro, 
 bitterness on his face, in his heart. Inconsistently 
 enough, the keenest sense of loss he has ever felt is 
 upon him in this hour. 
 
 " You never cared for me — it is easy for you to say 
 all this," he says, bitterness in his tone as well. 
 
 She smiles slightly, and turns away, and looks far 
 off at the golden afternoon haze over the sea. Weak 
 and unstable he is, and she knows him to be, but he 
 has power to bring a sharp contraction to her heart 
 still. 
 
 " Never cared for you ?" she repeats, dreamily. 
 " Frank, come here — do not be angry ; let us talk as 
 friends. Yes, I cared for you. When I was a little 
 child, a little, beaten, barefoot child, I cared for you. 
 When you used to come to Sleaford'a, you were in my 
 eyes as some beautiful and glorified young prince." 
 She laughs as she says it, but with a tremor in the clear 
 voice. " I fell in love with you even then. You never 
 saw me, you know, in those days, and what wonder ? 
 I thought Lora Sleaford the most enviable creature in 
 the world, because you seemed to like her ; I hated 
 your cousin because you seemed so fond of her. In 
 after years, when we used to meet here, I believe, with- 
 out knowing it, I was wildly jealous of Olga, of Leo, 
 of every pretty girl who came near you. And when I 
 ran away with George Blake, do you know what kept 
 me from marrying him ? Simply because I saw you — 
 you passed through the hotel hall, and out into the 
 
HOW JOAN^^A SAID GOOD-BY. 385 
 
 Street, and I could not. I ran away. I cared for you 
 then, did I not ? And since, when we met, and you 
 knew me, I was glad — ah, glad, glad ; and when I 
 thought you were beginning to care for me, I seemed 
 not to have a wish left in all the world. I wonder why 
 I tell you all this ? I ought not, I know, but it hurts 
 me when you say it is easy for me to give you up. It 
 is not easy — it is only right. And when that night you 
 asked me, I was glad — ah, gladder than you will ever 
 know. Only for a little ; before an hour was over I 
 feared — when to-morrow came I knew. And from that 
 time I never meant to hold you to your word. I care 
 for you so much, Frank, my friend, my brother, that I 
 give you up. We would never be happy. You would 
 repent, and I would see it, and it would break my 
 heart. Indeed it would, if I were your wife, and I 
 prefer an unbroken heart. I feel this farewell now — 
 BO, perhaps, do you, in a difiFerent way, but it will not 
 liurt either of us, I hope, very badly. But you believe 
 me, Frank, that it is because I have cared for you, and 
 do, that I gire you up ?" 
 
 She holds out her hand again. This time he takes 
 it in both his. He cannot speak ; what is there to 
 say ? It is the saddest, gentlest, humblest moment of 
 his life. Her face, too, is sad ; her eyes wistful, her 
 gaze still lingers on that fading light upon the sea. 
 
 " And when we have parted," Joanna goes on, after 
 that pause, "and you meet some one you really love, 
 and whom you know loves you, remember you are to 
 let DO foolish scruple about all this bold you back, or 
 mar the happiness of that other. And if," slowly, "it 
 is any one for whom I cure, the obligations will be 
 more binding still. If you feel you owe me anything, 
 17 
 
HOW JOANNA SAID GOOD-BY. 
 
 repay it. in that way. I will understand and rejoice. 
 To-morrow there are things Leo will tell you. Why 
 do you start ? Leo is not an alarming personage — • 
 things you ought to know, and which I prefer you 
 should hear first from her. And now I am tired talk- 
 ing, and here come Leo and Mrs. Hill. Perhaps we 
 can have that tea. It is time, for I am thirsty, and 
 must soon be off. Can we not have tea out under the 
 trees, Mrs. Hill ? It is so delicious here in sight of 
 the sea." 
 
 So they have tea, and the repast is even more silent 
 than the luncheon. The two young ladies do their 
 best, but Livingston simply cannot talk. His heart is 
 full, and in it there is little room for any but Joanna 
 just now. Then it is over. Joanna looks at her watch 
 again. 
 
 "Half-past six. I want to say good-by here, and 
 see you two off before I depart myself. Mrs. Hill, 
 please have them bring the buggy round to take me to 
 the station. Leo — Frank !" 
 
 And then the supreme moment has come, and Leo's 
 arms are around her, and Leo is sobbing on her breast. 
 She holds out both hands to Livingston, with tears in 
 the brave, bright eyes. 
 
 " Take her away," she says, in a stifled voice ; " I 
 cannot bear it. Be good to her, Frank. God b^^ss 
 you both !" 
 
 And then, somehow, she is alone, and they are gone, 
 and a last burst of yellow sunshine takes them, and 
 they are lost to view. 
 
 She sits down and covers her face, with a long, 
 hard breath. Some oft-quoted lines come into her 
 head, and keep echoing there, and will not be exorcised, 
 
WEDDING BELLS. 387 
 
 after the fashion of such things. " So tired, so tired, 
 my heart and I !" She is conscious of feeling tired, 
 old, cold, worn-out. She sits, a long time, it seems to 
 her — ten minutes by Mrs. Hill's count — and then that 
 portly matron returns, and says the carriage is waiting. 
 Joanna rises at once. She is pale, and her eyes are 
 wet, but that is natural enough. She says good-by to 
 Mrs. Hill, and slips largesse into her palm, and goes. 
 And all the way to the station, and all the way back 
 to New York, as the train thunders over the iron road, 
 it keeps monotonously boating out the refrain, " So 
 tired, so tired, my heart and I." 
 
 CHAPTER Xn. 
 
 WEDDING BELLS. 
 
 lARLY that autumn there is a fashionable 
 wedding in New York, and the beautiful 
 heiress. Miss Olga Ventnor, is the bride. 
 The bridegroom, personally, is unknown to 
 fame ; but the dear "five hundred " can see for them- 
 selves that he is a very stately and distinguished-look- 
 ing gentleman, and this goes far to condone his ob- 
 scurity. His name, too, tells for him, one of the fine 
 old names of the South — " fine old family, my dear, 
 impoverished as so many fine old families have been, by 
 the recent war," etc. That the bride, in white satin 
 and point lace, and orange blossoms, and diamond 
 stars, looks lovely, you know before I tell you. That 
 the wedding presents are numerous and splendid, the 
 wedding breakfast a triumph of culinary art ; that 
 
388 WEDDING BELLS. 
 
 the speech of the bridegroom is notable among stam- 
 mering bridal speeches — are not these things written 
 in the chronicles of the books of Jenkins — have you 
 not read it all in the daily papers, and shall I bore you 
 with a twice-told tale ? " Immediately after the break- 
 fast the happy pair departed for Europe," etc., etc. 
 
 Thus far Olga and Geoffrey. Mrs. Abbott and Leo 
 go back to their suburban retreat, their birds, their 
 books, their piano, their quiet life. Abbott Wood 
 knows no change — Mrs. Hill still reigns supreme. Jo- 
 anna is right in her prediction that Leo's mother will 
 never again dwell within its walls. 
 
 " All houses wherein men have lived and died are 
 haunted houses." 
 
 Abbott Wood is to her a haunted house, haunted by 
 terrible memories and a dreadful death. 
 
 For Frank Livingston, he goes to New York, sets 
 up his easel and atelier, and goes to work with an en- 
 ergy and will that astonish his friends. His lazy in- 
 souciance is gone — he is a holiday artist, playing at 
 picture-making, no more. What is given him to do^ 
 he does with all his might. It is no great things, per- 
 haps — he is no embryo Raphael or Dore — but his best 
 he does. And he has a fair success. He paints a pic- 
 ture that winter that is exhibited, and criticised, and a 
 good deal talked about. Belter, a very rich man, and 
 a patron of native talent, buys it at a fancy price. It 
 is a twilight scene — some bare brown fields, a dreary 
 expanse of arid marsh, a gray frowning sky, a chill 
 wind. You can feel the chill rustling of the reeds and 
 sedge grass, a broken rail fence, and a barefoot girl 
 leaning upon it. Her wild hair blows in the wind, her 
 face is wan and unchildlike ; her eyes, fixed on the far- 
 
WEDDING BELLS. 389 
 
 off sky line, have a mournful, appealing, dog-like look. 
 It is called " Heart Hungry." 
 
 It is Joanna, of course, as be has often seen her, in 
 the days when he thought of her so little. He thinks 
 of her now, almost more than of any one else, with 
 mingled affection, admiration, and remorse. How 
 noble she is, how generous, how great of heart ! He 
 feels that he could never have made her happy ; her 
 nature is too noble for his. As man and wife they 
 would have jarred. It is better as it is. All he can 
 do is to try by constant hard work to approach ever 
 so little nearer her level. He paints other pictures, 
 and they sell. He is fairly successful, and each new 
 success spurs him on to still further endeavors. 
 
 Of Leo he sees nothing ; in those busy days he 
 lias little time for visits, and besides — well, besides 
 there is a long future for all that. 
 
 Spring comes — May, June. 
 
 With the end of June returns the wedded pair, 
 looking happy and handsome, and absorbed in each 
 other, of course. Almost immediately they go to 
 Brightbrook. The Ventnors are to follow in a couple 
 of weeks, and Mrs. Abbott and Leo have promised to 
 spend the holidays with them. Mrs. Abbott is dying 
 for her son, Mrs. Ventnor for her daughter. So once 
 more they are all to be reunited, the happiest household 
 in the world. 
 
 It is Frank Livingston who drives Olga down to 
 the station to meet the expected guests. The color 
 flushes into little Leo's face at sight of him — it is a 
 surprise — nothing has been said of his coming. 
 
 "And indeed he did not want to come," says, se- 
 verely, Mrs. Dr. Lamar. She makes the most charm- 
 
390 WEDDING BELLS. 
 
 ing and radiant of young matrons. " We had almost 
 to tear him by force from his beloved studio. You 
 may see for yourself how badly he is looking — quite 
 old and ugly. And he used to be fairly good-looking 
 — now, used he not, little Leo ?" 
 
 And of course at this malicious home-thrust poor 
 little Leo is overwhelmed with confusion, and wishes 
 the carriage would open and swallow her. Frank 
 laughs lazily. He is looking rather thin, but perfectly 
 well in all other respects. And there is an expression 
 of manliness, of gravity, of determination on his hand- 
 some face, which is new and extremely becoming. 
 
 " His latest work of art," says Olga Lamar, on the 
 back seat, to Leo, " is — guess what ? A picture of you. 
 It is painted from memory, and the commission is mine 
 — as you looked in your brideraaid dress, dear — I never 
 saw you look so pretty as you did that day. What a 
 trick the child has of blushing ! He has brought it 
 down with him, and will finish it here. It is for ray 
 particular sitting-room. Do you know, we are going 
 to live in Brightbrook, and Geoffrey will actually prac- 
 tice in the village. They want a doctor, and he wants 
 work. Of course we will go to New York in winter, 
 but to all intents and purposes the villa will be home. 
 Home ! Is it not a sweet word ? We are enlarging 
 and improving it, in a number of ways. And we are 
 going to settle down into the most humdrum Darby 
 and Joan life you can imagine. And speaking of Joan, 
 reminds me of Joanna — dear Joanna ! Geoffrey had 
 a letter from her last night, and oh, Leo ! she will not 
 come. Says she is going to England for the summer ; 
 her mother wishes to visit her native land once more. 
 Is it not too bad ? And I counted so confidently on 
 
WEDDING BELLS. 891 
 
 her spending July and August with us. But so it ever 
 is. I would have ray life-pictures like Queen Eliza- 
 beth's portrait, without shadow, and it cannot be. Jo- 
 anna is the gray background this time, and yes — the 
 fact that Abbott Wood is still without a mistress. But 
 yet — I live in hope !" 
 
 She runs on gayly, and laughs down in Leo's som- 
 ber soft eyes. She is so radiantly happy — this fair Prin- 
 cess Olga, in her new life, that she seems to have re- 
 ceived a fresh baptism of brightness and beauty. 
 
 Next morning the famous picture is displayed — a 
 soft-eyed, sweet-faced girl in white silk and laces, with 
 white flowers in her dusky hair. In the shy, wide-open, 
 wondering-looking eyes, there is an unconscious touch 
 of pathos. 
 
 "Is it not charming?" Olga cries; "and do you 
 not fall in love with yourself, little Leo, only to look 
 at it ? I do. And what have you got that pleading 
 look in your eyes for, and why do you seem as if you 
 were waiting for something or — somebody ? Perhaps 
 the artist knows. Did she look like that on my wed- 
 ding-day, Frank ? As groomsman, you ought to know. 
 How do you like yourself, Leo ?" 
 
 "It is much too pretty," Leo answers, blushing, of 
 course; "it is dreadfully flattered. But I like to be 
 flattered — in that way, I think." 
 
 " You do not really think it is flattered ?" Living- 
 ston says, a few 'minutes later. 
 
 He is adding some finishing touches to the like- 
 ness, and has asked her to remain. The others have 
 moved away — they are alone, with only the summer 
 wind swinging the roses outside the window, the bees 
 booming, and the birds chirping in the trees. 
 
392 WEDDING BELLS. 
 
 "Indeed I do — grossly. And that expression — I 
 am sure I never looked like that," with a little pout, 
 " so sentimental, and lackadaisical, and all that." 
 
 " Is it lackadaisical ?" says the artist, laughing. 
 "Then I think I like lackadaisical looks. But you 
 really did wear just that pathetic expression. It was 
 a sentimental occasion, you know — and, for the matter 
 of that, you often have that waiting, wistful look. 
 It becomes great, dark, Syrian eyes, I think. Do you 
 know you, have real Oriental eyes, Leo — long, almond- 
 shaped, velvet-black." 
 
 "I think I must look like a Chinese," remarks Leo, 
 resignedly. " They have almond eyes, have they 
 not ?" But while she laughs she tingles to her finger- 
 ends with delight. 
 
 " You look like what you are, the fairest, dearest 
 darling in all the world ! Leo !" — he throws down 
 brush and maul-stick, and takes both her hands, with 
 a sudden impulse that flushes his blond face and fires 
 his blue eyes — " don't you know — I love you !" 
 
 " Oh !" says Leo, with a sort of gasp, and tries to 
 draw her hands away. She turns pale now, instead 
 of red, it is so sudden, and — somehow he looks so 
 overwhelming. 
 
 " Have I startled you ? Dear little Leo ! You were 
 always easily startled, I remember. I do not know 
 that I meant to speak this morning, but the love we 
 hide so long all in a moment breaks its bounds and 
 overflows. I love you ! You are not angry that I 
 say this?" 
 
 "No," Leo says, and laughs nervously; "only 
 curious. To how many more have you said it, I 
 wonder?" 
 
WEDDING BELLS. 393 
 
 She hits the truth so nearly that he winces ; then 
 he, too, laughs a little. 
 
 "Yes, I have said it to others, but I do not think I 
 ever meant it until to-day. I have deceived myself 
 before, and taken passing fancies for love ; that is one 
 reason why I have waited so long before speaking to 
 you. It no passing fancy now — I love you ! I have 
 little to offer, but at least I have enough to put me 
 beyond the suspicion of fortune-hunting. What I 
 have I lay at your feet, with ray heart, my life. Will 
 you take them, Leo ?" 
 
 And Leo's answer ? Well, it is not in very coherent 
 words, but it is very intelligible. One look of the soft, 
 shy eyes, one droop of the blushing face, and then 
 that face is hidden on Mr. Livingston's velvet paint- 
 ing-blouse, and broken murmurs issue from Mr. Liv- 
 ingston's mustached lips, of which " My darling ! my 
 love ! my Leo !" are the only distinct articulations the 
 listening robins and bluebirds can catch. 
 
 And there is another wedding in September, an- 
 other fair bride is given away, another young man 
 looks nonsensically happy, another bridal breakfast is 
 eaten, another wedding trip is taken. And Abbott 
 Wood, under the superintendence of Dr. Lamar ex- 
 teriorly, and Mrs. Dr. Lamar interiorly, is to be put 
 in apple-pie order for the home-coming and house- 
 warming that are to follow, and the stately mansion is 
 to have its mistress at last. Joanna's prediction is 
 verified — Leo will live there, and not alone. 
 
 For Joanna — well, letters come from England with 
 
 cheerful regularity, and they breathe all good wishes 
 
 for the happiness of the newly-wedded pair. She is 
 
 well, and her mother improves quite wonderfully iu 
 
 71* 
 
394 WEDDING BELLS. 
 
 body and mind. She expresses no regrets at not being 
 able to be present at the marriage, but she promises to 
 come and spend Ciiristmas with them at Brightbrook. 
 Her plans for her own future are formed and settled ; 
 her mother wishes to reside permanently in England, 
 and Joanna lives but to accede to her wishes. She has 
 bought a pretty place there, she writes, and calls it 
 Brightbrook, and so, after all, an English Brightbrook 
 will be her future home. 
 
 So writes Joanna. But, as it chances, Joanna is 
 not Madame Olga's only English correspondent, and it 
 is about this time that the following letter arrives 
 from the Lady Hilda Stafford : 
 
 "My Deakest Olga : — Your last was charming. 
 How vividly you picture your fair Brightbrook home 1 
 How I long to see it, and Dr. Lamar, and you ! But, 
 delightful as your Brightbrook may be, it can hardly 
 equal ours^ I fancy, and even you do not know how to 
 be more bewitching than Miss Bennett. We owe you 
 a debt of gratitude for your letters of introduction to 
 us, more particularly as she has made up her mind to 
 settle among us * for good.' She has purchased an ex- 
 quisite place here, and named it Brightbrook, as you 
 know, and the neighborhood is enchanted with its 
 American acquisition. What a voice she has ! and 
 what a pair of eyes ! I fell in love with her at sight, 
 and, I fancy, I am not the only one who has done so. 
 You met Sir Roland Hardwicke, you know, while here. 
 You have not forgotten him, I hope ; for if the fair, 
 stately, siren-voiced Joanna does not end by becoming 
 Lady Hardwicke, the fault will not be his. His case 
 
WEDDING BELLS. 395 
 
 was hopeless from the first, and he is a splendid fellow, 
 and quite worthy even of so noble a heart as hers. He 
 is every inch a soldier and a gentleman, owning a 
 handsome face, a gallant figure, a long pedigree, and a 
 longer rent-roll. Send your blessing and approval, for 
 I really think both will speedily be required." 
 
 Olga is delighted — Geoffrey smiles, and approves. 
 Both remember Sir Roland Ilardwicke very distinctly, 
 a man whose favor any woman might be proud to win. 
 But Joanna is not one to be easily won, too readily 
 pleased, and the pedigree and rent-roll, of which Lady 
 Hilda speaks, will not count for much with her. 
 
 "I hope — oh, I do hope he may please her ! " Olga 
 cries, ** dear, generous Joanna ! If ever any one de- 
 serves love and happiness, it is she. And, as his wife, 
 I am sure she will have both. Lady Hardwicke ! to 
 think of Joanna — Sleaford's Joanna," laughing, but 
 with tears in the sapphire eyes, '* wearing a title at 
 last ! " 
 
 After that the letters from Lady Hilda are waited 
 for with feverish impatience. They come often, are 
 long and satisfactory. Everything progresvses well so 
 far as she can see. She is not in Miss Bennett's confi- 
 dence, of course, but Sir Roland is a frequent — a very 
 frequent visitor at Brightbrook, and people talk of it 
 already as a settled thing. Every one loves her, she 
 is the Lady Bountiful of the parish, and Lady Hard- 
 wicke (Sir Roland's mother) has graciously offered to 
 present lier at Court next season, which shows she ap- 
 proves, etc., etc. 
 
 Early in December Mr. and Mrs. Livingston 
 return, and parties are given, far and wide, in honor 
 
396 WEDDING BELLS. 
 
 of the bride. And Frank has but one secret in the 
 world from his little wife, and that one is the fact of 
 his brief engagement to Joanna. Somehow he shrinks 
 from telling that — it is the one memory sacred to him- 
 self and his friend, that even his wife may not know. 
 He feels instinctively that it would give her pain, that 
 Joanna would not wish it, and so he hides it in his 
 heart, as in a grave. 
 
 Two days before Christmas Joanna comes. She 
 finds a rare household assembled at Abbott Wood to 
 meet and greet, and do her honor. Mrs. Abbott, 
 Olga, and Geoffrey, Frank and Leo, of course. But 
 there are others, whose presence is a cheering surprise 
 — a surprise over which she laughs and cries together. 
 The Professor and Madame Ericson are there ; there, 
 too, is portly Mrs. Gibbs, rich and rare in black silk. 
 There is Thad, quite a slim and "genteel" young 
 man, a little conceited and over-dressed, but what will 
 you at nineteen ? There are the twins, Lonzo and 
 Lizzy. There is Mrs. Hill ; and the Reverend Igna- 
 tius Lamb ; and little Miss Rice. There, in short, is 
 every one Joanna cares for most in the world. Her 
 mother is not with her, the wintry voyage was too 
 much for her, but she is so thoroughly restored she 
 can bear cheerfully to part with her treasure for two 
 or three months. 
 
 Olga looks at her keenly. Yes, Joanna is changed 
 — the change that love, happy love, alone works, is in 
 her radiant face. Looking down into Olga's beauti- 
 ful, questioning eyes, the quick blush and smile tell 
 their tale. And the sapphire eyes flash with glad joy, 
 and Olga's arms clasp her close. 
 
 " Oh, Joanna ! dearest Joanna^ is it indeed so ? as 
 
WEDDING BELL8. 397 
 
 Lady Hilda says. And you love him, and are happy," 
 she whispers, in a fervent kiss. 
 
 " Happy ! happy ! happy !" is Joanna's reply, " and 
 I love hira with all iny heart." 
 
 " Such a great, brave, generous heart. Oh, ray 
 darling ! this only was needed to complete our bliss. 
 And when is it to be ?" 
 
 "Next June, they tell rac," Joanna laughs. "In 
 May, you know, I am to be presented at court, by — by 
 his mother. And you and Geoffrey, and Frank and 
 Leo are to come over for the wedding, which is to be 
 a very grand affair indeed. Olga, I think I am the 
 very happiest and most fortunate woman in all the 
 universe !" 
 
 There are tears in the dark earnest eyes. Olga 
 gives her a last rapturous kiss. 
 
 "Not one whit happier than you deserve — you 
 could not be !" is her ultimatum, and like all imperial 
 Olga's decisions, it stands uncontradicted. 
 
 It is New Year's Eve. Christmas, with its joy 
 bells, its good wishes, its good cheer, its happy faces, 
 has come and gone, and the old year is dying to-night. 
 
 "It brought me a friend, and a true, true love," sings 
 happy Leo, as she flits about the house. Fires burn, 
 lights flash, warmth, music, feasting are within ; dark- 
 ness, wind, cold, snow are without. The long drawing- 
 rooms are fragrant with flowers, brilliant with lamps, 
 gay with happy faces. There are only the family to- 
 night, no outsiders, but they form a sufliciently large 
 assembly. 
 
 Near one of the windows Joanna stands, looking 
 out at the fast-falling snow, listening to the wind 
 
398 WEDDING BELLS. 
 
 " wuthering " among the trees. She looks a fair and 
 stately woman in her rich black velvet dress — tall, 
 imposing, gracious. Her velvet robe suits the grand 
 curves of her figure — it sweeps in soft, dark folds be- 
 hind her on the carpet. The fine lace at her throat is 
 caught by one large, gleaming diamond ; a knot of 
 forget-me-nots is beneath it, another in her hair. 
 
 " You look a queen of * noble Nature's crowning,' 
 * Joanna," says Livingston, approaching. " I must 
 paint you in that velvet di»ess, and these forget-me- 
 nots. Do you know, you have been making a pic- 
 ture of yourself for the past ten minutes, and that I 
 have been lost in artistic admiration." 
 
 " And that if it had lasted one millionth part of a 
 second longer I should have been jealous," laughs Leo, 
 coming up ; and then there is a momentary pause. 
 Livingston looks conscious. Joanna smiles down at the 
 dark-eyed fairy in creamy silk and white roses. 
 
 " And do you know, what is more to the purpose 
 than empty compliments," says Mrs. Geoffrey Lamar, 
 mailing forward in a cloud of rose pink, silky sheen, 
 "that you never sing for us now. Lady Hardwicke — 
 that is to be. You have grown very stingy about that 
 lovely voice of yours since you have been in foreign 
 parts. Come and chant us a Hew Year's anthem, or 
 an old year's dirge, for it is almost on the witching 
 stroke of twelve." 
 
 Joanna goes, and presently her full rich tones ring 
 through the room, but the wind of the winter night 
 itself is hardly sadder, wilder, than the strain she 
 sings : 
 
 "Toll, bells, within your airy heights! 
 Wail, wind, o'er moor and mere ! 
 
WEDDING BELLS. 399 
 
 On this, the saddest of all night8, 
 
 The last night of the year — 
 The last long night, when lamps are lit, 
 
 Like tapers round a bier ; 
 When quiet folk at still hearths sit, 
 
 And God seems very near. 
 
 ** The old clock strikes upon the stair. 
 
 Time's title is at its turn ; 
 And here, and there, and everywhere 
 
 The New Year tapers burn. 
 Strange, dreamy anthems fill the street. 
 
 The mists hang o'er the river, 
 The organ groans, the drums are beat, 
 
 The Old Year's gone forever 1" 
 
 " Oh ! Joanna, what a melancholy song !" cries 
 little Leo, reproachfully ; "and to-night of all nights ! 
 You give me the heart-ache. Do sing something less 
 dreary." 
 
 " Hark !" says Geoffrey, raising his hand. All the 
 clocks in the house chime out one after another — 
 twelve. The bells in Brightbrook burst forth a joyous 
 peal — the New Year has begun. Good wishes go 
 round, they touch glasses in the German fashion, and 
 drink to each other, and "eyes look love to eyes that 
 speak again." And once more Joanna touches the 
 keys. This time it is like a jubilant burst of joy : 
 
 " Swing, bells, a hundred happy ways ! 
 
 Laugh, wind, o'er moor and mere! 
 On this, the ghiddcst of all days. 
 
 The first day of the year! 
 The first s\ve(;t day. when every one 
 
 Is cheerful at his hearth; 
 The first j)urc day, when merry aim 
 
 Lights up a merry earth. 
 
 ** Swing, bells, a hundred happy ways I 
 Laugh, wind, o'er moor and mere I 
 
400 WEDDING BELLS. 
 
 On this the gladdest of all days, 
 
 The lirst day of the year! 
 The first sweet day, when well content 
 
 We gather round the hearth; 
 O God, we thank Thee, who has sent 
 
 This New Year to our earth I" 
 
 " What a grand creature she is !" Frank Livingston 
 thinks, standing a little apart, looking and listening ; 
 " the noblest woman that walks the earth !" 
 
 His little bride, never content for many minutes 
 together to be away from him, comes up, and slips her 
 hand through his arm with the old wistful, upward 
 look. 
 
 " Thinking of Joanna ?" she says. " Does she not 
 sing deliciously, and does she not look lovely to-night ? 
 Frank, I wonder, rich, accomplished, handsome as she 
 is, that you never fell in love with her in the old days. 
 I believe she never had even a passing fancy in all her 
 life until she met this Sir Roland Hardwicke. 
 Joanna — Lady Hardwicke ! Can you realize it ?" 
 
 But Frank does not say a word. 
 
 THE Ein>. 
 
1879. 
 
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 CARLETON'S 
 
 HODSEHOLD ENCYCLOPAEDIA 
 
 AND 
 
 HAND-BOOK OF GENERAL INFORMATION. 
 
 A Large, llirulsome Volume of 500 Parjea, Clear Type, Beautifully 
 Printed, and PROFUSELY ILLUSTRATED. 
 
 Elegantly Bound in Chfth, Presentation Style. 
 
 EDITED BY THE ABLEST TALENT THE WORLD AEFOBDS. 
 
 This is one of the most wonderful books ever published. It is a handy book of 
 reference npon nearly every subject that can possibly be thought of. It contains, in 
 a single volume, what can otherwise be learned only from a great many different 
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 and diffuse chapters of information, it gives what nearly every one wants to know in 
 a very few lines— in a nut-shell, so to speak. No single volume was ever before pub- 
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 In reading nearly any book or paper, there art> frequent references to a thousand 
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 TO AGENTS. 
 
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 ONE-VOLUME ENCYCLOPJEDIA, 
 
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 G. W. CABLETON & CO., 
 
 Publishers, Madison Square, New York 
 
Mrs. Mary J. Holmes* Works. 
 
 TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 ENGLISH ORPHANS. 
 
 HOMESTEAD ON HILLSIDE. 
 
 'LENA RIVERS. 
 
 MEADOW BROOK. 
 
 DORA DEANE. 
 
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 ROSE MATHER. 
 
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 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 "Mrs. Holmes' stories are universally read. Her admirers are numberless. 
 She is in many respects without a rival in the world of fiction. Her characters are 
 always life-like, and she makes them talk and act like human beings, subject to the 
 same emotions, swayed by the same passions, and actuated by the same motives 
 which are common among men and women of every day existence. Mrs. Holmes 
 is very happy in portraying domestic life. Old and young peruse her stories 
 with great delight, for she writes in a style that all can comprehend." — New 
 York Weekly. 
 
 The North American Review, vol. 8i, page 557, says of Mrs. Mary J. 
 Holmes' novel, "English Orphans": — "With this novel of Mrs. Holmes' we have 
 been charmed, and so have a pretty numerous circle of discriminating readers to 
 whom we have lent it. The characterization is exquisite, especially so far as 
 concerns rural and villa-e life, of which there are some pictures that deserve to 
 be hung up in perpetual memory of types of humanity fast becoming extinct. The 
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 so easily and naturally is it developed and consummated. Moreover, the story 
 thus gracefully constructed and written, inculcates without obtruding, not only 
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 dence of true success on character, and of true respectability on merit." 
 
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 fore, is not so intense as if they were more highly seasoned with sensationalism, 
 but it is of a healthy and abiding character. Almost any new book which her 
 publisher might choose to announce from her pen would get an immediate and 
 general readmg. The interest in her tales begins at once, and is maintained to 
 the close. Her sentiments are so sound, her sympathies so warm and ready, 
 and her knowledge of manners, character, and the varied incidents of ordinary 
 life is so thorough, that she would find it difficult to write any other than an 
 excellent taloif she were to try it." — Boston Banner. 
 
 ^^" I'he volumes are all handsomely printed and bound in cloth, sold every- 
 where, and sent by maW, J>ostage free, on receipt of price [$1.50 each], by 
 
 G. W. CARLETON & CO., Publishers, 
 
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 ments for such publications with the well-known New York House of 
 
 G. W. CARLETON & CO., Publishers. 
 
 The intention is to issue in Book Form such Novels, Stories, Juvenile 
 Works. Humorous Writings, etc., as have run throuf^h the columns of 
 The Neic York Weekly, and havo proved to bo the most popular and most 
 lasting in interest Thus the millions of Neio York Weekly readers, 
 scattered over the country, who have been particularly pleased and de- 
 lighted with certain stories in the Paper, and who would like to have 
 them in Book Form for preservation and for re-reading, will now have 
 this opportunity to buy, from time to time, such works, and so gradually 
 form a beautiful 
 
 LIBRA^^ op CHOICE BOOKS, 
 
 the very cream of the ooi*.. ^utlons to Tlie New York Weekly. 
 
 The volumes already published are as follows:— 
 
 Thrown on the World.— A Novel by Bertha M. Olat. 
 Peerless Oathleen. — A Novel by Cora Aonew. 
 Faithful Margaret.— A Novel by Annie Ashmork. 
 Nick Whiffles.— A Novel by Dr. J. H. Robinson. 
 Lady Leonora.— A Novel by Carrie Conklin. 
 Charity Grinder Papers. — A Humorous Work, 
 A Bitter Atonement. — A Novel by Bkrtiia M. Clat. 
 
 Curse of Everleigh A Novel by Ellkn Corwin Piercb. 
 
 Love Works Wonders. — A Novel by Bertha M. Clay. 
 Evelyn'i Folly — A Novel by Bertha M. Giat. 
 
 9^ These books are handsomely printed antf elesrantly bound In 
 cloth, witli gold back Htnmps. pri<io, $1.60 viuh. 
 
 93- Sold by Booksell'-rs overj-A^hcro— and sent by mtd\. postage frte, 
 on receipt of price. $1,50, by 
 
 a. W. CAELETON ft CO., FnbMen, lladiscn Square, Uev York. 
 
CHAELES DICKENS' WORKS. 
 
 A New Edition. 
 
 Amott^ the many editions of the works of this greatest rf 
 If^nglish Novelists, there has not been until now one t^t entirety 
 satisfies the public demand. — Without exception, ttey each have 
 some stroiig^ listinctive objection, — either the form and dimensions 
 of the volumes are unhandy — or, the type is small and indistinct — 
 or, the iJ lustration <i are unsatisfactory — or, the binding is poor — or, 
 Ihe price « roo hi^^h. 
 
 An entirely new edition is now^ however, published by G. W, 
 Carleton & Co. of New York, which, it is believed, will, in every 
 respect, ©ompletely satisfy the popiriar demand. — It is known as 
 
 <<€arleton'§ New Illu§trated Edition." 
 
 Complete in 15 Volumes. 
 
 The size and form is most convenient for holding, — the type ii 
 entirely new, and of a cleai and open character that has received the 
 approval of the reading community in other popular works. 
 
 The illustrations are by the original artists chosen ly Charles 
 Dickens himself — and the paper, printing, and binding are of an 
 attractive and substantial character. 
 
 This beautiful new edition is complete in 15 volumes — at the 
 extremely reasonable price of $1.50 per volume, as follows : — 
 
 I. — PICKWICK PAPERS AND CATALOGUE. 
 
 Z. — OLIVER TWIST. — UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELLER. 
 
 3. — DAVID COPPERFIELD. 
 
 4, — GREAT EXPECTATIONS. — ITALY AND AJOSRICA. 
 
 5. — DOM BEY AND SON. 
 
 6. — BARNABY RUDGE AND EDWIN DROOD. 
 
 7. — NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 
 
 8. — CURIOSITY SHOP AND MISCELLANBOUS. 
 
 9. — BLEAK HOUSE. 
 la — LITTLE DORRIT. 
 II. — MARTIN CnUZZLEWIT. 
 12.— OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 
 13. — CHRISTMAS BOOKS. — TALE OF TWC CITISS. 
 
 4. — SKETCHES BY wOZ AND HA.RD TIMES. 
 15. — child's ENGLAND AND MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 The first volume —Pickwick Papers — contains an alphabetical 
 catalogue of all of Charles Dickens' writings, with their pt^sitiois 
 in the volumes. 
 
 This edition is sold by Booksellers, everywhere — and single sped- 
 me& copies will be forwarded by mail, postage free^ on receipt o( 
 price, #1.50^ by 
 
 G. W. SARLETON k CO., Publishers, 
 
 Madison Souare, New Yetk. 
 
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFOENIA LIBRARY, 
 BERKELEY 
 
 THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE 
 
 STAMPED BELOW 
 
 Books not returned on time are subject to a fine of 
 50c per volume after the third day overdue, increasing 
 to $1.00 per volume after the sixth day. Books not in 
 demand may be renewed if application is made before 
 expiration of loan period. 
 
 fEB H 1912 
 J^L ^9 1931 
 
Tb 1^^ 
 
 ^^:>89ia 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY