Lily Pearl and The Mistress of Rosedale Part 16

On reaching Savannah he found that his mother had gone with the St.

Clair's to spend a week on a plantation about thirty miles distant, and accepting the invitation left for him, he prepared to follow. It was a lovely morning when the party set out on their short journey. They had determined upon a carriage-ride for the whole distance, while the others went by rail as far as they could, and were waiting for the carriage to overtake them. George St. Clair, his sister Ellen and Miss Pierson composed the little party, as they wheeled over the hard road as fast as the spirited horses could take them, while the cool, fresh breeze invigorated their young spirits.

"This air may be a little too bracing; shall I not have the curtains unrolled?" asked George St. Clair.

"O no, indeed!" replied Miss Pierson who was addressed; "this reminds me of a spring day in the north when there is snow yet upon the mountains while the valleys are green."

"Perfectly natural that it should, for this wind comes directly from your snow-capped hills"; was the answer, while the young man experienced a very perceptible s.h.i.+ver. "I wish it were not quite so cold!"

"You would soon learn to like it as I do! Do you perceive it has given me new life already? But I have discovered my selfishness! Please put down the curtains for you are looking quite miserable," she concluded, as she noticed on the face opposite an expression not usual to it. It was his thoughts, not the cool breeze however that had chilled him. The raillery of his sister recalled him, and he for a time put away the absorbing subject. "Look Ellen! Really that pile of brush and mud yonder is inhabited! Just see what miserable creatures are coming out of it.

One--two--three! I wonder if that can be the mother now following. She looks half-starved and utterly dejected! Do look at them, Ellen!"

"You must not expend all your sympathy on that one family," remarked Ellen carelessly; "for you will see them all along the road. These belong to the 'poor white trash,' as the coachman would tell you with a curl of his ebony lip. They are a small portion of that miserable cla.s.s who are so thoroughly steeped in degradation that there is no hope of improving them."

Anna made no reply, but sat a long time silently gazing out of the carriage window. Ellen too was silent, while their companion watched the speaking face of the humble governess as its color came and went like the suns.h.i.+ne and shadows through which they were pa.s.sing. At last she awoke as from a dream, and laying her gloved hand upon that of George St. Clair exclaimed: "You are good and n.o.ble! Tell me, is there no remedy for all this? I have heard so much of these while in my northern home that my heart truly aches for them! To be so utterly outcast as the family appears to be that we have just pa.s.sed, and without the ambition or power to rise out of it, is truly pitiful! What sad blots on the grand picture of American civilization! Is there _no_ remedy?"

"No remedy!" was the low reply. They seemed to be the echo only of her own words and brought with them no consolation. "Pardon me," he said a moment after; "we shall get dreadfully entangled in a web of our own weaving if we continue on this train of thought. Let us weave a few brighter garlands for memory's sake in the remaining days I am to be with you. We will talk of peace lest war should send its mutterings among us; let us antic.i.p.ate love, not hate! Miss Pierson, I deputize you to gather up the stray sunbeams for me that memory may have a regal crown to wear when I am far away. They elude my grasp and always did!"

he continued, bitterly. "But you seem to be more fortunate."

"And I am to be left out, am I, my brother? You do not know how expert I am in chasing b.u.t.terflies and riding on sunbeams! You may better engage me!"

"I would like to have you both interested in this benevolent work," he replied. "Still you are aware, Ellen, that I have very little regard for b.u.t.terflies, and beg that you will not put yourself to any extra trouble to procure one for me"; and they rode on in silence for some minutes. "Ten miles as sure as you live and we have not thought of our lunch," he cried, a little later, as they wheeled by the corners of a cross road. "We must examine the hamper for good old Katie's sake, if not for our own." Ample justice was done to Aunt Katie's skill amid jests and laughter while the gloomy clouds that had flecked each heart were forgotten.

The station was reached at last and the four ladies were soon snugly seated in the family coach, while the gentlemen followed in a hired vehicle. It was almost night when the travelers found themselves at their journey's end.

The residence of the "Washburn's" was a large ancient house, for it had been the home of the father who had bequeathed it to the son many years before with an abundance of hospitality and good cheer, as our visitors were soon made to understand. The ladies were hurried off to their warm, comfortable rooms to prepare for dinner, which had been waiting for "two whole hours" the hostess had said, and now she bustled about the dining-room to see that everything was in perfect order and the finis.h.i.+ng touches had been completed. All were gathered in the parlors at last, merry and refreshed, and as Mrs. St. Clair protested they were dreadfully hungry after their long cold ride.

"What a brilliant party!" exclaimed Mrs. Washburn, entering at the moment to announce dinner; "and yet, my dear Mrs. St. Clair, I have not told you that my brother's wife, Mrs. g.a.y.l.o.r.d, is here from Virginia!

You remember you met her two years ago."

"That is good news, certainly. I did not know that she had returned from the north, where she went after fresh air I believe."

"She has an adopted daughter, a beautiful girl who has brightened her up wonderfully. I never saw an _own_ daughter more idolized."

Mrs. g.a.y.l.o.r.d my readers have met before; will they also recognize the adopted daughter? She is almost a young lady now, having been with her new friends nearly two years, and, during the time, received every opportunity for improvement, not one of which had been lost. She is taller than when we last met her, her manners winning and graceful, while her eyes had not forgotten their mysterious wonderings or her heart its ambitious longings. At this home in the far south where she had been nearly a week there was much upon which to feed her sensibilities and awaken her imaginings.

"_I_ go in for making money off from my plantation," remarked the host in reply to a suggestion from one of the party as they seated themselves at the table when all were at last gathered. "I long ago learned who is king over this broad land, and like well to do my share in keeping the crown on his head." A hearty laugh followed when he continued: "And if this war, which is so much talked of just now, should really become a fact, I reckon some others will feel his power."

"You must be chary of your words, sir, for we have a northerner in our party," interposed Mrs. Belmont, her keen eyes fixed on the face of Anna Pierson, which crimsoned beneath her gaze.

"Miss Pierson's principles, whatever they are, must be s.h.i.+elded from irony or ridicule while in our party," said George St. Clair, with some warmth, although in a low tone of voice, intended for Mrs. Belmont's ears only.

The lady was awed and silenced. She would not for the world offend the young man, for in him too many of her fondest hopes were still centered.

She had not for a moment given up the idea that Lillian would, after a little sensible consideration, accede to her wishes and recall her rejected lover, whom she was sure only waited permission to return.

The conversation soon became sprightly and animated, but the ladies remained silent, while the face of one, at least, expressed more than words could utter.

A movement to leave the table by George St. Clair put an end to it all, and it was not resumed while the little party remained together.

Upon entering the parlor Mrs. Belmont found herself _tete a tete_ with the young lady from Virginia. The company had gathered themselves into little groups or pairs, and each seemed intent upon some individual topic separate from the others, and nothing was left for the stately lady to do but to commence conversation with her companion or remain moodily silent, which she felt greatly inclined to do. However, her position required action, and she inquired:

"How long have you been in Virginia? I understand that you are an adopted daughter of Mrs. g.a.y.l.o.r.d."

"That is all. I have been with her not yet two years."

The answer was concise and gentle. Still the deep, thoughtful eyes that had remained fixed with their wondering look on the face of the questioner as she spoke, disturbed the lady, and she moved uneasily.

Somehow it penetrated more deeply under the covering of her soul than was comfortable, but she continued:

"Where was your previous home, my child?"

"In Ma.s.sachusetts."

"Ah, a Northerner, then?"

"I do not know," replied the interrogated with a smile.

"Not know? You are an orphan I suppose?"

"I do not know."

At almost any other time Lily would have been indignant at such close questionings, but there was something about the tall stately lady in black that interested her and during the few moments they had sat there together she had read much in the dark face before her. Therefore, when she was asked further: "Have you no remembrance of a mother or of early years?" she determined to prolong the conversation, and watch closely for a peep beneath the mask she felt sure was there.

"No, I do not remember my mother, and very little about my childhood.

There are, however, a few bright memories I have treasured on account of their distinctness, and which will never leave me. The rest of my life, before I was six years of age, is but a dream."

The eyes of Mrs. Belmont were fixed with their burning gaze upon the face of the speaker, and although her heart beat more quickly and the color deepened on her cheek, yet she did not quail or remove her own calm look from them.

"A little deeper," she thought, "and curiosity will be satisfied." Ah!

how little you know those hidden depths! The bloom would die on that full round cheek, and the light of the joyous eyes would be quenched could their gaze penetrate that external covering of affability.

Therefore be content.

"What are those memories, child? Tell me all."

Lily hesitated for a moment. The command embodied in the request disturbed her not a little, but she silenced her heart and continued:

"I remember being in a small cottage by the great ocean somewhere; I do not know where, and of being unhappy, yet there were bright spots here and there, standing out with such brilliancy that the darkness seems hidden by them. I loved the ocean, and as I learned the fact that at some time I had been called 'Lily Pearl,' this awoke in me most inconceivable emotions; for this reason, no doubt, connected with a little dream that I had lived down among the pearls, and that a beautiful lady had picked me up from the waves--that dream made me love the music of its waters and long to become a part of the mighty whole.

But you are ill!"

She was about to spring from her seat when an iron grasp was laid upon her shoulder and a husky voice demanded her to "sit down!" Still they could not remain longer unnoticed, and were soon surrounded.

"The ride was too much for you," suggested the hostess.

"It is sitting in such a warm room after being out in the cold,"

suggested another, all of which met with no contradiction, and excusing herself, Mrs. Belmont retired to her private room. There we will leave her alone with her wretchedness and remorse. Dreary companions are they both through the long hours of one wearisome night; but when the morning draws near, and we find that no kind hand for us to clasp is reached down through the dreary shades, the gray dawn shrinks back and the dark pall of despair drops its thick folds around us, shutting out the glorious day beams from our vision, while the night of the soul still goes on! Wearisome night! full of spectral forms which glide in and out through the darkness, bringing from the past unwished for memories which tell us ever of what we _are_ and what we might have been.

[Ill.u.s.tration]