Lily Pearl and The Mistress of Rosedale

CHAPTER XXXIII.

LIGHT THROUGH THE RIFTED CLOUD

"She's gone, as true as you live! The carriage was at the door for herself and baggage before I knew a word about it."

With these exclamations, Mrs. Cheevers met her husband the day after the events of our last chapter. He had come to dinner with the cheering news that there was to be an ovation given to Colonel Hamilton at the Girard House on his arrival, but found his wife too much excited to appreciate the honors thus to be conferred on her pet.

"That looks squally. Perhaps she has good reasons for skulking, but it does not look to me like her original shrewdness. It would have been more natural to see her stand by and fight it out. But let her go; there is more room for the new-comers."

The matter being thus disposed of, quiet was again wooed to the peaceful home of the good uncle and aunt, who had nothing to do now but to anticipate coming pleasures. Colonel St. Clair was to remain with them also for a short rest, before finishing his journey up the Hudson.

"Lillian has told me so much about him that he will not seem like a stranger."

"Lillian's lovers are our friends, my good wife; so he will come in for a share of attention."

The hour came when a carriage containing the happy trio rolled up to the door of Mrs. Cheevers' very inviting home on Race street, where Mrs. Cheevers unceremoniously rushed out with open arms to greet them. The host was not far behind. When the first joyous greetings had partially subsided, he took Colonel St. Clair under his kind protection, and helped him gently to an easy chair in the warm, cheerful parlor.

"You will excuse me," called out Colonel Hamilton, as he stepped back into the carriage; "there is a little woman down on Twentieth street who wants a kiss from her soldier boy. I'll be back in time for that roast beef!" And the carriage turned the corner and was out of sight.

"Well, that is cool! But, wife, we are not so smart as we take ourselves to be. Why did we not have that mother who wants to be kissed up here, so that it could all be done at once? It is terrible to have such things dragging."

"I did ask her and insisted, but she said 'No' every time. 'Pearl will come right here,' she declared, 'and it is in his own home where I want to give him welcome.'"

"Noble woman!" interposed St. Clair from his chair by the grate.

"You say she is gone?" asked Mrs. Hamilton in her aunt's dressing room, where she had been escorted by the hostess herself.

"We tried hard to have her remain, but no amount of persuasion could accomplish it. She is dreadfully troubled about something. I attempted to draw her out, but you know how difficult such a thing would be. And, having watched her manner and face, I do believe that something weighs heavily on her mind."

"She need not have flown from me. My mother's reputation is sacred to her daughter. She should have known this. And you have no idea where she has gone?"

"Not in the least. She said she had been waiting for letters before going to her winter quarters, and was surprised that she received nothing from Charles."

"It is too bad! But, Auntie, I have much I want to pour into your dear heart, for somehow I feel that in stirring up its pure waters, I may step in and, perhaps, be healed a little!" and she kissed the smiling face. "What should I do without you? But I fear the gentlemen though will think we have deserted them."

There was so much to be said; so much calling to be done, and such a large circle of friends to receive, that it was not until the third day, when the dinner was being given at the Girard in honor of the wounded soldier (to which Colonel St. Clair had been officially invited), that Mrs. Cheevers and Lillian found an opportunity for the "stirring of the waters."

"Do not let me frighten you, Auntie; and may the dear Father keep me from injustice and wrong! How shall I tell you? There is no use in trying to smooth it over; I do believe that up to six months ago my child lived!"

"Lillian!"

"Yes, I do believe it! George St. Clair, and the whole family saw her! She was just sixteen, and had the same eyes and ways that I have! It was remarked by all, and my mother, at times, betrayed an unusual degree of interest in her."

"Where was this?"

"In Savannah. She was the adopted daughter of a Mrs. Gaylord, who was visiting friends in that city, and farther down in the country. I did want to see my mother so much! A dark suspicion oppresses me!"

"Lillian!"

"I cannot help it; and you will not blame me when I have told you all! My mother took that child into a carriage, with only one servant, a dastardly coward, and drove one evening down the river, in sight of the beach; then, getting her to alight, that (as she said), a better view of the sea might be obtained, the child was kidnapped in the darkness and borne away; and with every effort that could be made, no trace has ever been found of her! O, Auntie, that was my child! Will God permit such a deed to remain uncovered? Will not his anger search it out?"

"But, my dear Lillian, you must have greater proof than this before you so grievously accuse another! There is some mistake; she could not have done such a deed! Why not write to Mrs. Gaylord and learn where she found the child, and all that she knows about her?"

"I did, Auntie, but was answered by her husband, who said that his wife had very unexpectedly taken it into her head to go north while he was away, and could not say when she would return, etc. Now where that 'north' is, cannot be ascertained, as he was to immediately return to his post, in the army, I suppose."

"Have you told Pearl?"

"No, I cannot. If Mother had remained here, it may be that she could have cleared away the cloud, but how can I breathe this most humiliating suspicion into his ear? He knows of her transaction in regard to our separation, and was magnanimous enough to bury it; but it would be agony to tell him more. He does not know of that heart-breaking curse, that would be almost unendurable, were it not for the great joy that has come to me. But, Auntie; what do you think? Was Lily Gaylord my child? My Lily-Pearl?" Her large eyes were fixed with a burning gaze on the troubled face before her.

"Your child, Lillian? I do not wonder at your earnestness! yet I cannot tell you; but confide in Pearl, he will know better how to counsel."

"I cannot! This work I must do myself! But one thing is certain; my heart shall be satisfied! If alive she is mine; if dead I must know it! This poisonous canker-worm has been for years gnawing at my very soul! My convictions have been, and still are, that there was a grievous wrong done me when I was told that she had been transplanted to a purer clime! It was not death that stole her from me!"

Where was the subject of all this anxiety and solicitude on this calm, hazy October day? In Boston; as happy and peaceful as a young girl of sixteen ever desired to be.

Mrs. Gaylord had received letters from her husband saying that he was glad she had taken it into her silly head to go north, and it was his opinion she might better remain until the immediate danger that was threatening Western Virginia had passed. His brother's widow, with her children, could take care of "Birch Wood." Acting upon these suggestions she had returned to Boston and hired a suite of rooms, and, taking Willie with them, was ensconced amid all desired comforts and luxuries. Tiny was entrusted with extraordinary responsibilities and her yellow face grew brighter when enstalled as mistress of the kitchen, while Lily superintended the whole establishment. Willie was exuberant and Mrs. Gaylord peaceful. Rover had at all times his full share of attention, and his bed by the kitchen stove was soft and warm.

Mr. and Mrs. Bancroft often called, with their sunny faces, during the long winter months, but Mrs. Gaylord seldom left her warm rooms.

"Here we will stay until the war is over," said that lady one evening as they gathered around the table preparatory to an hour of reading and listening. The wind roared threateningly up from the "Bay" and the snow beat outside against the windows, but within that comfortable home reigned peace and love. Lily was again by the great sea, and, when she sat at her chamber window and looked over the dark waters and watched the rolling waves as they dashed upon the piers in the harbor, the old days came back to her; the dreams of her childhood; the longings of her restless heart while she thought of the beautiful lady who had picked her up from the billows; of the pearls deep down in the waters, where she had grown, and called her "Lily Pearl." Should she ever know how she had come by that name? She was "Lily Gaylord" now; the Phebe of other days had been put aside among the disagreeables of the past; except with Willie, who declared that she must ever be his own precious Phebe, or the brightness would be all taken out of the sunny memories; and she had answered "call me what you will, my brother, only let me live in your heart and thoughts: " and so the days went on.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

A STORM ABOUT THE WIDOW'S COTTAGE

It was a damp and chilly morning when George St. Clair left the home of the Cheevers. A shadow of pain had settled down upon the handsome face of the heroic officer, and as Pearl Hamilton saw it he exclaimed with all the fervor of the brotherly love which had grown up between them: "You shall not go alone, even to New York, for you look as disconsolate as a rejected lover; and what if your father should miss you in that terrific hub-bub? I can get back to-night, so please excuse me to my mother at dinner, Lillian;" and snatching his hat and coat from the rack he took the arm of his companion and went with him down the marble steps.

"Please, George," called out Lillian from the door; "do not let Pearl get lost by the way. My heart tells me to throw the old shoe of good luck after you, with the wish that your visit at the North may be as productive of joy as was mine nearly eighteen years ago, without any of its shadows!" It was a bright face that now beamed from the carriage, and as St. Clair waved his hand to the ladies it rolled rapidly away.

"I am glad after all that he was not obliged to go alone," remarked Mrs. Cheevers as they turned to enter the house. "I am fearful his poor back will never be strong again! In my opinion his days of fighting are over."

"I wish those days were ended for all," said Lillian, thoughtfully. "The papers bring us sad records of late. So many precious lives lost; so many loving hearts desolated! I liked Dr. Wadsworth's sermon yesterday morning from the text 'show thyself a man,' but I could but think that David meant in his living rather than in his dying! It may be noble in one to lay down his life for the preservation of his country's honor, but love is as surely bereft after all!"

They were seated now by the warm grate where the red coals were piled up in a cheerful glow, and while the aunt took some work from the basket on the table her companion gazed pensively into them. At last turning quickly around, while a smile lighted up her face she remarked: "I am dizzy! I am reminded so often of our little trick of 'whirling' in childhood, until, unable to stand we would drop down on the green grass and wait for the sensation of giddiness to pass off. But what is to be done, Auntie, when the whirling never ceases?"

"Fall down upon the grass my child and wait, but be sure that in the falling you gain the power to wait!"

"True, Aunt; and yet how like Peter we are prone to look about us while walking over the waves, until our faith gives way and we begin to sink!"

"And what did Peter do? Sit down on the first billow he met and declare 'he was dizzy' and perplexed?"

Lillian laughed. "Not much like Peter am I after all?"

While this conversation was going on in the little parlor the two colonels were crossing the Delaware, and were soon in the cars rolling rapidly towards the great metropolis.

"But, Colonel Hamilton, you must confess that it was not pleasant while receiving the sympathies and kindnesses of the people, to remember I was wounded in the army that would, if they could, annihilate yours."

"But they cannot!"

"That does not take away my chagrin! Here I am in the midst of those whom I once hoped, it may be, to conquer or slay, and from their hands receiving the 'coals of fire' that are scorching my heart instead of my head. It is this that makes me wish to bury myself away from it all."

"But, my dear fellow; you are not the only one who ever changed his convictions! Just make yourself comfortable! See how rapidly we are getting along! Here is Burlington. I wish there were a boat going up the river as soon as you arrive in the city, so that you could lie down the rest of the way."

"I am getting so 'yankeeized' that I could never wait for the slow motion of a steamer. I must take the lightning express."

"And be at your destination before tea-time?"

"So Ellen has written me."

"Well, take good care of your heart. This mixing up of fractions makes very serious troubles sometimes."

"But in the final union of whole numbers there is bliss! Why not work out the sum and hand over the product in your advice?" A merry laugh followed this query, while the long train whirled on.

There was a happy reunion in the widow's cottage when Mr. St. Clair returned with his son to occupy the easy chair that had been especially procured for him. The mother had not seen him since the time when in his rebel uniform he had bid her good-bye in the far-away home, and her eyes were swimming with tears as she looked upon his changed face.

"They did not tell me you were so thin and pale," she said as she kissed him tenderly.

"But I am very weary now; you have no idea what a night's rest will do for my good looks." Still the mother's heart beat with a low, sad throbbing.

Anna was placid and reserved. Her greetings were cordial, while none save the maternal eye peered beneath the external calm.

"Well this is cozy," he remarked, as the two young ladies drew his chair close to the table. "Still it is a little mortifying to my masculine dignity – this being waited upon by ladies instead of slaves!"

"It is the way with us up here," replied the sister; "and all you can possibly do is to submit with as much grace as you can muster for the purpose. Where is Toby?" she continued, as though missing him for the first time.

"Taking good care of his liberty. I have not seen him since he concluded to use his privileges as a free man."

The days sped rapidly by. The cool winds came sweeping up from the broad Hudson, while the frosts painted the trees with gaudy tints, blighting the flowers and searing the green grass.

"Are we not imposing upon good nature?" the son asked one morning, as, leaning on the arm of his father, they walked out among the fallen leaves that were carpeting the smoothly shorn lawn. "It seems to me we must be burdensome. Why do we not go to our rooms at the hotel?"

"Are you not more comfortable here? Mrs. Pierson is so kind, and we have all become so fully domesticated at a home fireside that it would be a sad change to take up our quarters at the public inn."

"But Ellen wrote – "

"Ah, yes – 'that she had secured rooms at Maple Grove,' which, after all, meant here under these maple trees. But if you desire it, my son – "

"I am not the only one to be considered. It seems that the mother and daughter have altogether too much work to do, with only one servant in the kitchen, and she a white girl."

The father laughed. "You have no idea how easily they perform their labor. Even the servant sings as cheerfully as though she was mistress of all, and indeed it would be hard to tell who fills that important position in this home. But I will do just as you and Ellen shall decide."

They had reached the door, and were entering as the last sentence was being finished.

"Decide what?" interrogated Ellen.

"About those rooms at the hotel;" laughed the father.

"They will remain in statu quo as long as they are paid for, will they not? As for me, I am in no hurry to leave my present quarters. My diploma is not yet secured in bread and pie making, and it would be unmanly in you to be the means of crushing my ambition."

"I think it my duty to nip in the bud any attempt at conspiracy. So while you all remain here in this pleasant sitting room, I will go into the parlor with my easy chair. Will you, my sister, invite Miss Anna to join me there? Unless your influence has diluted her frankness, she will reveal the whole matter. At any rate, this must be settled."

"A capital suggestion! Anna shall be judge, jury and all, and we poor subjects will cheerfully abide by her decision." And Ellen darted away after the young lady in question.

"For shame, to put me in such a dilemma!" exclaimed Anna, as she placed the flakey crust she was preparing on the pie tin; but the crimson wave that rolled over neck, cheek and brow did not escape the notice of her companion.

"O, you need not appear so much shocked at the thought of meeting him, for he will not make love to you. Never fear! The little foot of Lillian Belmont crushed all the romance out of his heart a long time ago. So, away; I can finish that pie while Rhoda is making the pudding."

Anna obeyed without a word, and we will let her enter alone that quiet, pretty parlor where the wounded soldier was waiting.

"Two hours as I live!" exclaimed Ellen, as the clock on the mantel struck twelve.

"It takes time to settle long accounts," replied the mother, quaintly.

"He is determined to go, I reckon;" interposed the father, cheerily; but Mrs. Pierson was silent.

"Dinner is all ready, and I am just as hungry! Can't I go and see how the matter stands?" This question was addressed to the widow, who was sitting by the window, looking out on the seared and fading grass.

There was a sad expression about the mouth, and a tremor in the voice not usually there, as she answered: "Yes, dear; Rhoda does not like to wait without a cause."

Amid laughing and jesting, the easy chair was drawn out, still containing its occupant, while Anna disappeared through an opposite door, and was not seen until the family had gathered around the well-filled table.

"Well, how is it, my boy?" queried Mr. St. Clair. "How about Maple Grove Inn? Are we to leave such delicacies as these for others untried?"

"Anna is chairman of that committee, and is to hand over the report," replied George.

There was an expression on the face of the young lady thus appealed to that caused Ellen St. Clair to look quickly towards her brother, who met her wondering gaze with a comical smile very significant in itself, and made the sister exclaim: "I should think both of you are 'chairmen,' if one was to judge from the amount of knowledge that seems lurking in your eyes. Out with it! What is the report?"

"Patience is one of the cardinal virtues, my dear," suggested the father, gravely. "Such an extended consultation requires much thought in the summing up."

"I conclude by Miss Anna's silence that the pleasing office of 'reporter' is conferred upon her unworthy servant; therefore listen to the 'summing up;'" and laying down his fork, with folded arms, George St. Clair leaned back in his easy chair. "The question propounded, with its prelude, was something after this sort: I said, My dear girl, when I was well and strong I gave into your love and tender watchful care my two honored parents and one pretty little sister, and most faithfully have you regarded my trust; and now a fourth comes creeping and hobbling into your paradise of peace and comfort, and although he has nothing to recommend him, would pray to be admitted, not to your care, but to your heart and enduring love. Will you as cheerfully grant my petition in this, as in the former instance? And her reply, after brushing away a few of the cobwebs of the past, was 'I will, with the permission of my mother, who has a right to be consulted upon all such articles of transfer.'"

"I do declare!" burst from the lips of the sister. "The great subject of remaining as honorary members of this most hospitable family, I believe, was not broached by the committee."