CHAPTER LXI.

THE DEPARTING GUEST.

They were gone, and a gloom like that of the grave fell on everything in that room. While Jessie Lee lay cold and insensible on my bosom, smitten to the heart by her father's denunciation, Mrs. Dennison took the letter from Mr. Lee and read it from end to end. After that she uttered some words which I did not understand—for the cold head upon my bosom had frozen up my faculties—and went her way from the room, and oh! thank my God! from our presence, I prayed inly, forever and ever.

I do not know when or how Mr. Lee left the room, but I was alone with Jessie, and she dead, for the moment, as if in her winding-sheet.

I had no strength to lift her, or remove her from the room, but I laid her gently on the carpet, and, taking the crimson pillows from a couch, rested her head upon them. All this had been done with great quietness; no unusually loud word had been spoken during that terrible scene—not a soul in the house, except us four, knew that anything had happened.

Striving to subdue my agitation, I went up-stairs in search of restoratives. The crystal flasks in poor Mrs. Lee's chamber had never been emptied of their contents, so I went there hoping to find something that would bring the stricken girl out of her deathly sleep.

The room was dim, but filled with the breath of flowers, as it had been in its owner's life-time. Every article of furniture was in its old place. The white bed gleamed out from the twilight of the apartment like a snow-bank; the soft lace curtains covered the windows, flowing down beneath the silken over-curtains like ripples of falling sleet. Everything was so natural, so almost holy in its stillness, that even in the terrible anxiety that filled my soul, I felt like falling down by the bed and praying that sainted one to help me save her child.

A wild petition did spring to my lips; but it was a time for action; so, snatching a flask from the dressing-table, I was turning to leave the room, when Lottie arose from a stool, at the foot of Mrs. Lee's easy-chair, and stood before me like a ghost.

"What are you doing here, Miss Hyde?" she said, in a whisper. "She does not like people to come to her room."

I held up the flask and was going on; but she seized it between both hands.

"It is for Miss Jessie—for her child—she is ill."

The girl's hands dropped.

"Take it—take it," she said, and followed me from the room.

When Lottie saw her young mistress lying so still and marble-like on the floor, a cry of anguish broke from her.

"Oh! my poor, poor lady! how much she looks like her—how much she looks like her!"

Jessie came to at last: that is, she breathed again, and her eyes opened; but this was all. She had no strength, and all the rich, young life that made her so beautiful had left her frame.

While she lay thus but half conscious, swift footsteps passed through the hall, a spasm swept over that pale face, and Jessie made a struggle to move and get away from the hateful sound. It was but a faint motion, and she was still again. Then came a low smothered sound of conversation near the door, and all was silent after that.

I had hoped that Mr. Lee would come back and help me save his child from the depths of her trouble; but he did not appear, and I dared not send for him.

"Lottie," I said, at last, "will you help me? Can you and I carry her up to her room, or must I call one of the people?"

"You and I—no one else."

We lifted Jessie from the floor, and carried her up-stairs, meeting no one.

As we came to the passage which led to Mrs. Lee's chamber, Lottie paused and drew a heavy breath; then looking down on that still face, she turned toward the sacred chamber.

I did not protest. That room seemed the most natural place for Mrs. Lee's daughter when driven forth from her father's heart.

Poor Jessie! We laid her down on her mother's bed, and there she rested for many a long day and night—if rest was ever known to a nervous fever like that which fell upon her from the hour of her father's wrath.

While Jessie lay on the bed with her eyes wide open, and shudders of distress passing over her, Lottie drew me to another part of the room, and asked, in a troubled voice, what had made her young lady so ill.

I had no other friend in whom it was possible to confide. Lottie, with all her eccentricities, was true as steel, but I did not myself know the entire cause of all this disturbance, and could not speak of it with anything like certainty, so I only answered her, as quietly as I could, that Mrs. Dennison was going away.

A quick light flashed into Lottie's eyes. She looked from side to side, as if wondering what direction to take. Her sharp intellect almost caught the truth.

"But Miss Jessie isn't fretting so about that. There's something else. Oh, Miss Hyde! do tell me what it is!"

"I cannot tell you, Lottie, what I do not understand myself."

"And you won't listen. High notions will be the death of you yet. Oh, how I hate airs! Now, if it had been me, I'd have known all about it, by hook or by crook, but it's of no use talking. Are you sure Babylon is going; if she is, her last trump has been played, and she thinks she's won High, Low, Game, and a Jack turned up. Oh, if I only had time to make this all out, but it's hop, skip, and a jump; here they jump right into the dark."

"What do you mean, Lottie?"

"Oh, nothing particular. You keep your secrets, and I'll keep mine. That's fair."

As Lottie spoke, the door of our room was open, and this gave us a view of the hall, at the other end of which was Mrs. Dennison's chamber. The door of that room also was wide open, and we saw the widow talking earnestly with her mulatto maid, who had drawn a couple of trunks from the closet, and was now emptying a wardrobe in what seemed to be angry haste. With three or four dresses flung over her arm, she turned fiercely upon her mistress, and seemed to be upbraiding her.

Mrs. Dennison answered with an imperative gesture, at which Cora tossed her head, like a racer under curb, and flung the dresses in a heap upon the bed, stamping angrily on the floor as Mrs. Dennison left the room and turned down the staircase which led to the library.

"By gracious! they are packing up, sure enough!" exclaimed Lottie, "and I standing here like a frightened goose. Take care of Miss Jessie, ma'am. I couldn't help you now—no, not if she were dying. Babylon is playing that last trump this minute."

Lottie left me instantly, and I saw her draw close to Cora, with whom she had become very intimate during the last few weeks.

"Do tell me what all this fuss is about," I heard her say. "Miss Jessie is off in hysterics, and your madam looks like a thunder-gust—quarrelling, I should surmise."

"Quarrelling? I should think so," answered the mulatto. "Here she comes all in a storm, and orders me to get ready in an hour, as if I had a dozen hands—no consideration—no feeling. In an hour, and all her dresses to fold! It's too bad! I believe she thinks I'm her slave yet; but I'll show her—I will! Just look at the pile of dresses on the bed, all to fold and pack in an hour."

"I'll help you," answered Lottie, in her stolid fashion, which I noticed she had always used with Cora, who seemed to hold her in profound contempt. "I can fold dresses first-rate."

"Oh! she would never trust you with them; but I'll tell you what will help just as well; there is her writing-table, with the drawer running over, and the top loaded with books; just pack that heap of things away in the smallest trunk."

"Well, I'll do that, if you'd rather," said Lottie, with apparent reluctance; "but not knowing how to read, you see I might get the wrong things."

"No, everything belongs to her; just empty the drawer, and pack them nicely away."

"But you're not really going?" inquired Lottie.

"In an hour."

I saw Lottie move toward the table, and begin to gather up books and papers with great indifference; but when Cora's back was turned, she grew vigilant as a fox, and seemed to be searching for some particular object with breathless anxiety. I saw her take a book, bound in purple leather, from a back part of the drawer, examine it closely, and thrust it back again as Cora turned toward her, when she became active in tying up other parcels, and packing them away.

All at once Cora seemed to have some doubt regarding the dress she was to leave out for travelling.

"Just like her, not to tell me. Goes off on her own hook in everything without a word, as if I was of no account when she wants to move. Which way did she go?"

"Toward the library," said Lottie; "gone to say good-bye to Mr. Lee, I suppose. You can hear him tramp, tramp, tramp, up and down the floor."

"Tramp or no tramp, I'll know what she wants," said Cora, who was evidently enraged at this sudden movement.

"I'll be back in a minute."

Away Cora darted along the hall, and down the stairs. Just as quickly Lottie seized upon the purple book, flung her apron over it, and ran into her own room, slamming the door in my face. After a moment's absence, she flitted back again, with both hands under her apron, as she had come forth.

"Don't sit there; don't seem to be looking after me. That yellow witch will think something is going on if you do," she said, in a hurried whisper, darting in at the door, and out again.

"But what are you taking away, Lottie?"

"Nothing—not a thing. I'm taking it back again; don't you see?"

Back she went, and directly after I heard her talking with the mulatto girl in the most friendly manner possible.

In half an hour I heard Mrs. Dennison sweep past the door, and knew that she was finding fault with Cora, because everything was not in readiness. The girl answered her sharply, and some angry words passed, such as might have been tolerated in equals, but which sounded strangely out of place between mistress and servant. I knew that this lady was going in anger from our house, but had no desire to see her before she went; for since the scene which had flung poor Jessie almost insensible on that bed, my dislike of the woman had deepened into absolute horror.

In a little more than an hour I heard the sound of heavy trunks being dragged through the hall, and the roll of a carriage along the lower terrace. Then I could distinguish the tread of Mr. Lee, words spoken in a low tone, and a rustle of garments moving down-stairs.

Then all was still for a moment. Lottie stood in the hall, listening intently; I could not breathe, my heart so longed for the sound of that woman's sure departure.

It came at last. I heard the carriage-wheels and the tramp of hoofs bearing her away. I saw Lottie fling up her arms in silent thankfulness. Jessie, too, unlocked her hands, and turned her eyes upon me, drawing a deep, deep breath, as if something had cleared the atmosphere that weighed her down.

I went up to him, reaching forth my trembling hands; the ache of pain broke away from my heart in a flood of tears. What I said, even a word I cannot recollect; but I have the remembrance of a frail woman standing before that haughty man, with her hands clasped and tears falling down her face like rain. She was eloquent, I know; for the man's face changed gradually, and his eyes grew misty as they looked into hers. But just as an outgush of hope thrilled her heart, a name dropped from her lips—a name that she loathed, and uttered bitterly, no doubt; then all the gentle light left his face, and he was iron again. So the woman went away wounded to the soul, and with limbs that almost refused to support her. She sat up all night watching with the sick girl, while her own heart scarcely beat beneath its load of dull pain.

At daylight, this unhappy creature heard faint noises in the house; but she did not move. Then came the sound of wheels upon the terrace-road; still she sat motionless. You might have shot her through the heart, and she would not have lifted a hand to put back the threatened death.

The sound of those carriage-wheels moving away through the pine grove aroused the beautiful invalid. She started up from her pillow, and throwing out both arms toward the window, cried out,—

"Father, oh, my father!"

No one answered. Her father was gone.

We were alone now—I had no explanations to make. All the family knew that Mrs. Dennison had gone away, and all except Lottie had been informed that Mr. Lee had started on a long tour in Europe. She, good, noble girl, had been so busy caring for Jessie, that the news only reached her after Mr. Lee had been gone some hours. Then she seemed greatly disturbed, and questioned me on the subject in her usual blunt, searching way.

My conversation with Lottie passed in her own room, and I cautioned her against speaking of Mr. Lee in his daughter's presence, telling her truly that no one had an idea how ill her mistress was except ourselves.

There was something more than curiosity on the young girl's mind. I am sure of that, for she was like a wild creature, and seemed frantic to know which way Mr. Lee had gone. But no one could tell her. The coachman saw him take the train for New York, that was all he knew about it; if she wanted to find out, it was not the road Mrs. Dennison had taken. She went the other way—no disputing that. He had taken pains to inquire.

That night, notwithstanding Jessie's illness was becoming more threatening each hour, Lottie, usually so kind-hearted, called me from the room to inquire if she could be spared for a day or two, and if I could lend her ten dollars. It was a great sum, she knew, but she'd pay it back faithfully; yes, if she had to sell the brooch and ear-rings that Miss Jessie gave her out of the dear lady's things.

Shall I own it? This hard-heartedness in Lottie gave me something like hope—the girl was sharp and courageous. She had thoughts which no one could fathom, and which she was evidently hoarding for the good of her benefactors. Still, I was left, in some degree, her guardian. Should I permit her to go off on some wild adventure, only from a forlorn hope that it might benefit her young mistress?

The strange girl did not put me to the test; but judging from my hesitation that I was about to refuse her the money, flew off, saying it was no matter, maybe she should change her mind after all.

The next morning, when I inquired for Lottie, she was gone.

Three days after she came back, looking very much depressed and so cross, except in the sick-room, that all the servants in the house were complaining of her temper.

She gave no explanation of her absence, except that, directly after her return, she gave me a New York paper—one that seldom reached our household—in which Mr. Lee's name was announced among the list of passengers in a steamer that had sailed the day after he left home.

All this time Jessie had been delirious, and knew nothing of the trouble that had swept half our household away. It was a mercy. Had she comprehended everything as I did, that delicate organism, so unused to suffering of any kind, must have given way with more lamentable consequences; as it was, the young life was scarcely kept afire in her bosom.

In her delirium, Jessie was always wandering off into the past, and her pure heart broke forth in a thousand sweet fancies, in which her father and mother were always the moving spirits. Strange enough, she never once mentioned Lawrence or Mrs. Dennison, even in her wildest moments; but once, when Lottie came into the chamber, holding a bottle of perfume such as Mrs. Dennison always used, the dear girl fell back on her pillow and fainted quite away.

The moment news of Jessie's illness got abroad in the neighborhood, old Mrs. Bosworth came to see us—the dear, old motherly lady—how gentle and kind she was! There seemed to be a charm in that plump hand, with the old-fashioned diamond-rings lighting up its whiteness; for when it had rested awhile on Jessie's forehead, the dear girl would drop into a soft slumber, and awake with less tremulous nerves and a clearer brain.

At last the fever burned itself out, and Jessie awoke to a consciousness of actual life. She was too weak for any powerful emotion; and when we were at last forced to admit that her father had gone, and that we had no means of communicating with him, she only heaved a feeble sigh, and, turning her head, lay, weeping softly, on her pillow, till the very exhaustion left her calmed.

Slowly, but with a steady progress, Jessie gained her strength; and, as her mother had rested among the crimson cushions of that couch, sat one day, when Mrs. Bosworth came to spend the morning with us. We had braided her hair for the first time that morning, and prisoned its coils in a crimson net, with drops of gold in the web, and flashes of gold in the tassels. The reflection of its rich Magenta tints gave a faint color to her cheeks; her white morning dress, with its profusion of Valenciennes lace about the sleeves and bosom, lost its chilly look under a rich India shawl that we had folded over it. Indeed, altogether, the dear child looked so like herself, that we were rejoicing over her when the old lady came in.

They had become very good friends during those sick-hours—that dear old duchess and our Jessie. So when the lady came in, rustling across the floor like a rich autumn, our invalid smiled almost for the first time since her illness, and held out her hand.

I was in the habit of leaving Mrs. Bosworth and Jessie to themselves, and was stealing from the room, when the old lady called me back.

"Come, Miss Hyde," she said, "help me to gain a favor of our child. She is looking so well, her hand feels so cool; do you think a little company would harm her?"

Jessie colored faintly and lifted her eyes to the old lady's face.

"He has been here every day—don't start, dear! What was more natural than that an old lady like me should want the care of a man strong enough to help her if her staff gives way? Nothing has been done that could wound you; but he is very anxious—and now that you are so well, and looking so pretty, what if we let him come up? Eh, Miss Hyde?"

Before I could answer, Lottie had left the room; with a chuckle and a leap she cleared the staircase, and, finding young Bosworth in the square balcony, presented Miss Hyde's compliments, and desired him to walk up to the tower-chamber.

I was going down to perform the same ceremony, in a different way, when Lottie met me on the stairs. I stopped on the landing to let the young gentleman pass; Lottie followed, opened the door, closed it softly, and came back.

"What's the use of shuffling about in this way?" she said. "She wants him to go up, and he wants to go. When people want a good slide down hill, what's the use of putting jumpers in the way? I'm getting sick of your notions, Miss Hyde. Wouldn't give a copper for delicacy; and as for honor, see what it's done. Don't talk to me!"

With a sort of Jim-Crow step, Lottie whirled about on the landing, gave a leap down three stairs at a time, and went off somewhat in her former style.

I was glad to see a dash of the old spirit coming back to the strange creature; but a moment after I looked out and saw her crying like a child, behind one of the large garden vases. After all, there was no real cheerfulness about Lottie. Spasmodic flashes of her nature would break out, but at heart she mourned continually.

Bosworth was sitting near Jessie, looking so pleased at being permitted to her presence, that I could not help a throb of sympathetic pleasure. He had, I am sure, been holding Jessie's hand; for as I came in, she withdrew it with a hasty movement, and its delicate whiteness was flushed, as if warm lips had touched it. No wonder the young man was happy! Jessie Lee would never have permitted that bearded mouth to approach her hand unless a true heart had beaten quicker to the touch. Lawrence had gained no favor like that in the time of his greatest power.

The old duchess was looking through her spectacles just as I came in; but not exactly at the flowers, or that bland little smile would never have made her mouth look so young, or that demure blush have settled on her soft cheek. Dear old lady! All those years, while they taught her limbs the uses of a staff, had left her heart fresh and modest as a girl's. How transparent was the gentle artifice with which she beguiled me out of the room, to search for some purple heliotrope that might soften the tints of her bouquet!

As Jessie grew better, these visits were repeated. Young Bosworth seldom failed to come with his grandmother; and after a little the old lady would often stay behind, contenting herself with some message, or a present of fruit and flowers. Then no excuse became necessary, except that Jessie required a stronger arm than mine to support her first walks in the garden; and after that the young man seemed more at home in our house than he could have been in the fine old mansion behind the hill.

Spite of the painful circumstances that had left us so lonely, we were beginning to feel the strength of our lives slowly returning. True, there was an undercurrent of deep, deep trouble all the time sweeping through an existence that seemed so bright to others.

The cruel absence of Mr. Lee, his determined silence, always lay heavily upon us; but it was not as if we had deserved the stern displeasure which had driven him away; and if we mourned over this great sorrow, there was some relief in the oppression that Mrs. Dennison's departure had taken away.

Of this woman we heard nothing, and her name was seldom mentioned, even by Lottie. We all shrunk in terror from the reminiscences connected with her. Still our lives were more endurable than they had been for many a month; and but for the aching pain which sprung out of that scene in the library, we might have been tranquil,—sad with the great loss which had fallen upon the house, but hopeful for the future.

But with that gentle woman, lying in her last sleep down in the valley, and the power of our house gone from us, we could only wait and hope that God, in his infinite justice, would yet unfold the truth to Mr. Lee, and give him back to his home.

Sometimes Jessie and I would talk over these matters when quite alone in her room; but the whole chain of events was too inexplicable and full of pain for frequent mention. Jessie hardly yet comprehended the enormity of the charge brought against her. What was in the letter which her dying mother had grasped so tightly to the last moment? Who had written it? Was the handwriting like hers—did I think? Her head had been so dizzy that she could not make out a line of it.

These were the questions she would now and then put to me. I told her what the anonymous letter to Mrs. Dennison contained, but I had no heart to enlighten her with regard to my conjectures about the other. Nor could I for one moment guess what its import might have been, except from Mr. Lee's words, and the terrible effect it had produced upon him. Never for an instant did I doubt Jessie's innocence in the matter, whatever it might prove. She was truth itself.

Sometimes I wondered if Lottie had not written those fatal missives. The girl was bright and sharp as steel. She was not without education; and I remembered, in confirmation of these doubts, that of late I had often found her writing something which she endeavored to conceal. Had she not, in her practice, copied Jessie's handwriting, and taken this method of warning her mistress? Nothing was more natural. The girl might thus unconsciously have cast suspicion on her young lady.

That Lottie was capable of writing the letters, I had no doubt—not with malice, but from an ardent desire to drive the woman who had wounded us so deeply from the house. With her crude ideas, and intense devotion to us all, she might have settled on this method of ridding the house of its torment.

I questioned Lottie on this subject, so far as I could venture, without informing her of what had passed in the library, of which she was entirely ignorant; but she declared that she knew nothing of the letter, which had been given to her mistress, till it was placed in her own hands by the man who brought our mails from the town. As for Mrs. Dennison, she would as soon touch a copperhead as write a word to that she-Babylon.

All this might be true. At any rate, Lottie looked truthful when she said it; but in her sayings and doings, the girl was not altogether as clear as crystal, and, spite of her protestations, I had some doubt left.

No person except Jessie and myself, either in the house or neighborhood, knew the reason of Mr. Lee's sudden departure. It was understood that, broken down by the death of his wife, he had sought distraction from grief in travelling. So the secret, growing more and more bitter every day—for we received no letters—rested between us two. As the time wore on, we became miserably anxious.

Had Mr. Lee utterly abandoned his daughter? Would he never return to his home and prove how true and loving she had always been? His cruel anger had thrown her almost upon a bed of death, yet he could go from his home without a word of inquiry or comfort.

Jessie was a proud girl, as I have said more than once, and as young Lawrence had good reason to know; but all her haughty self-esteem gave way where her father was concerned. She never blamed him, nor ceased to pine for his presence. What it was that had separated them she could not understand; but that her father was unjust or wrong, never entered her mind for an instant.

As for me—but what right had I in the matter? The right of anxiety such as eats all happiness out of a human life—the hungry feeling of a beggar that dares not ask for food.

I think we should have gone insane—Jessie and I—if this terrible anxiety had been without its relief; but, as days and weeks passed, bringing no letter, no message, we sunk gradually into a state of despair, not the less wearying that it was silent.

Thus six months crept by. The duties of life went on—the household routine met with no obstruction. It was wonderful how little change appeared around us. Yet the tower-chamber was empty, and he was gone,—we, two lonely women, lived on, to all appearance, the same; but oh! how changed at heart!

One day, when Lottie was in the room, I took up a New York journal, and read this paragraph from a Paris correspondent,—

"A wedding is expected to take place within the month, at the American Legation in Paris. Mr. Lee, a wealthy landholder of Pennsylvania, is to be married to Mrs. Dennison, a beautiful and fashionable widow, who is said to have been the intimate friend of his first wife."

I read this paragraph through. My face must have betrayed the deathly feeling that came over me, for Lottie came behind my chair, read a few words over my shoulder, and snatched the paper from my hand with a suddenness that tore it almost in two.

"What is it," inquired Jessie, started by this action—"any—anything about him?"

"About him? I should think so. Sin, iniquity, and pestilence. Read it, Miss Jessie, I can't; it seems as if a snake were crawling over it."

Jessie took the paper, read it, and fainted in her chair.

Lottie did not seem to regard the condition of her young mistress, but ran out of the room, clenching her hand fiercely, as if she longed for bitter contest with some one.

These paroxysms of feeling had been very unusual with her of late; for in the quiet of our mournful lives, she had been left a good deal to her loneliness in the tower, where she still kept guard over Mrs. Lee's chamber.

Sometimes she reverted to the past, and would ask anxiously if I knew where Babylon was spreading her plumes. But I had no means of informing her, being in profound ignorance of that lady's movements from the time she left our house.

This would satisfy Lottie; but I remarked that she had taken a sudden and deep interest in her geographical studies, for I seldom went to her room without finding an atlas open upon the table, and a gazetteer close by, which she seemed to have been diligently studying.

I had thought but little of these things at the time; but they came back to me with force on the very next day, when Lottie came to me in the garden, and inquired anxiously if Miss Jessie wasn't just breaking her heart over that paragraph in the newspaper.

I answered that Miss Lee was very sad and unhappy, certainly.

"I knew it—I was sure of it," cried the girl, with quick tears in her eyes. "It will kill her—she will pine away like her mother. You know she will, Miss Hyde."

"I'm afraid so, Lottie."

"Afraid, and stand by doing nothing but bathe her head with cologne, and cry over her. That isn't the way to cure all this, Miss Hyde."

"But what else can I do, Lottie?"

"You? Nothing."

She went off to a flower-bed, tore some mignonette up by the roots, tossed it from her, and came back again.

"Miss Hyde, I am tired to death of all this. The house isn't fit to live in since my dear, sweet lady was taken from it. There's been nothing but sickness, and quarrelling, and going away since, and I've about made up my mind to go away too. I can't stand it, and I won't, so there!"

"Why, Lottie," I cried, lost in astonishment, "what does this mean?"

"It means that I'm tired of doing nothing—of being slighted, and made of no account. It means that I want to see the world, and know a thing or two about life. You and Miss Jessie just mope about like sick kittens; and as for the servants—well, I don't belong in that crew, anyhow—but they are getting worse and worse. The long and the short of it all is, I have made up my mind to go away right off, and do something worth while. I only wish you would ask Miss Jessie to settle up with me now, right on the nail, for I'm in an awful hurry to get off."

Settle up! I should have been less astonished if the house-dog had made a sudden claim for wages. Lottie had always been considered as a child of the establishment, to be cared for and petted beyond all idea of payment. She had never seemed to care for money, nor know how to use it. But while enjoying her life in a state of luxurious ease, almost equalling that of her young mistress, she descended upon us with a rough demand for wages—wages from the time she entered the house, a mere child, up to that very day—no inconsiderable sum, according to her own estimate.

This singular outbreak of cupidity astonished me, and half indignantly I expostulated with the girl. But though her cheeks blazed with seeming shame, and her eyes sunk under mine, she persisted in this grave demand. All that she had received, her dear, dear mistress had given out and out—that had nothing to do with wages; there was her bill—four hundred dollars—and she wanted it in gold—hard gold, nothing else.

I went to Jessie with the bill. She did not seem to heed the amount, but was distressed at the idea of parting with her mother's faithful attendant. Hoping that something had gone wrong, and that this was a sudden impulse, she sent for Lottie, in order to expostulate with her; for it seemed like turning a bird, which had become used to its cage, loose upon the world, if we allowed the girl to have her way.

Lottie came in, looking dogged and shy; Jessie held out her hand, with a piteous smile, for she was thinking of her mother.

"Lottie, what have we done that you wish to leave us?"

"Nothing on earth, Miss Jess. I ain't mad at you, nor any one; but yet I want to go down to York and get a place. It's lonesome here."

Jessie's eyes filled with tears. It was indeed very lonesome.

"And will you leave us for that, Lottie?"

The girl was troubled; her color came and went. She was about to burst into tears—but answered still,—

"It's lonesome, and I want to go. Why can't you let me, without all this? I ain't made of cast-iron, nor yet of brass. Please give me my money and let me go."

"But you are so helpless. What will become of you in a great city?" pleaded Jessie.

Lottie came up to her and knelt in her old way.

"Let me go, Miss Jessie, and don't try to stop me, for it'll be of no use, only to make my heart ache worse than it does now. Don't be afraid about me! If God shows the birds their way through the woods, He won't let me get lost."

"Poor Lottie!" said the young mistress, looking kindly on the girl through her tears, "I would rather give up anything than you."

Lottie seized her hand, pressing her lips upon it.

"Don't, don't!" she pleaded. "You would not say a word if you only—"

"Only what, girl?"

"Nothing, nothing. I must go, that is the long and the short of it."

Lottie shook off her tears as a dog scatters the rain from his coat, and, starting up, assumed her rude manner.

"I will not keep you against your will, my poor girl," said Jessie, sadly; "but how can you find the way?"

"Easy enough, Miss. I've been studying geography and the maps, these last three months, besides reading about everything."

"And have you got any idea of a place?"

"Plenty, Miss. I shall be settled the first week. Only give me my wages, and don't try to persuade me again what my mind is made up to."

"Well, Lottie, you shall have the money. I am sure that can never repay all you have done for my mother!"

"Don't, don't, Miss Jessie! I want to make my heart like a grinding mill-stone, and you won't let me. Now don't!"

"Well, I will not distress you," replied Jessie, gently; "but remember, Lottie, when you get tired of this new life, or have spent your money, come back to your old home. No person shall fill your place."

"Oh! Miss Jess, Miss Jess! can't you stop?" cried the wild creature, absolutely flinging up her arms in desperation.

Jessie looked at her thoughtfully a moment; then, unlocking her parlor safe, counted out the gold Lottie had demanded.

"Be careful that the money does not get you into trouble, Lottie," I said, really anxious about the young thing.

Lottie took the gold in her apron, and her tears dropped over it as she turned away. She really seemed heart-broken.

"If anything should happen," said Jessie, regarding her troubles with tenderness,—"if you should lose it, or fall into want, and still not wish to come back, write to me and I will send you more."

"Would you?—would you?" cried Lottie, with quick animation; "then, oh! Miss Jess! make it six hundred now. I never, never shall want money so much again in my life."

"Six hundred, Lottie?"

"Yes, six! I tried and tried to cipher it out that much; but it wouldn't multiply or add up to the mark; but if you would now—"

She paused and looked wistfully at the gold through her tears.

Jessie looked at me for encouragement. Dear girl! she had less idea of the value of money than Lottie herself.

"She was so kind to her!" whispered the mistress, drawing close to me.

"Or if you'd just lend it to me," pleaded Lottie. "Now, Miss Hyde, don't go to killing the white dove that I see spreading its wings in her bosom this very minute; I wouldn't turn against you, nor tell anything, you know that."

"I will give her the money—the good child; how could it be in my heart to refuse her?" said Jessie.

Lottie went to the open safe and began to count out the other twenty pieces of gold, which she jingled one by one against their companions in her apron. Her breath came quickly; and when she had done she came toward us eagerly, gathering the apron in her hand, and hugging it with the gold to her bosom.

"Oh! I'm ready to jump out of my skin with joy and thankfulness!" she exclaimed. "Good-bye, young mistress—good-bye, Miss Hyde, I'm so sorry that I ever twitted you about writing poetry, and some other things I won't mention."

Lottie went out of the room in great excitement, and left us astonished and very anxious. We talked the matter over without result. If the girl was determined to go, we had not a shadow of power to prevent it, and we could not yet make up our minds that she was absolutely wrong. There was something in the bottom of her heart that we were unable to fathom.

But we determined that night to make another attempt to detain the strange girl; if that proved impossible, to send a trusty person to protect her on her way to New York and bring back news of her safety. Somewhat consoled by these resolutions, we separated for the night. The next morning, when we sent for Lottie, the servants told us that she had been gone two hours, having ridden to town with the man who brought over the morning papers, before any one but the servants was astir. We sent over to the town immediately, and learned that she had left by a train that passed ten minutes after she reached the depot.

Upon my knees in that room, I felt and knew that a murder, so crafty that the criminal herself could torture it into accident to her own conscience, had been perpetrated there. The voice of my dead friend seemed calling on me to avenge her, and save the man she had loved better than her own soul, from a thraldom worse than death. In my anguish I cried out, "What can I do? what can I do?"

Nothing answered me. I was alone, doubly alone, since that girl had left us. Never before had my helplessness been so complete. Perhaps I had indulged in some wild hope connected with Lottie, and that had been cut from under my feet by her desertion. If so, I was unconscious of it; but no lame man ever felt the loss of his staff, as I felt the cruel ingratitude of this girl. Still I had a vague trust in her, a hope changing and fantastic as the wind, but still a hope that she might not prove the thoughtless creature her conduct seemed to bespeak her.

One end of the room was less gloomy than the rest, and a bar of light cutting across it disturbed me. It came through the partially opened door of Lottie's little chamber, in which a blind had been left unclosed. I went into the room, and there, directly beneath the window, saw the girl's writing-desk, on which lay a letter and a blank-book, which I remembered to have given Lottie one day, when she had pressed me earnestly for something of the kind. The letter was placed ostentatiously on its edge, and I saw that it was addressed to me. I opened it with some trepidation and read:—

My Dear, Dear Miss Hyde:—Please do not think me a heathen and a viper of ingratitude, because I have done what I couldn't help, but remember me kindly, and make Miss Jessie do the same. It isn't in me to be really bad, or anything like it, though I sometimes do things out of the common, and make you angry, because you cannot understand why I do them; not knowing everything, how should you? There is one thing on my conscience, and I am going to own up to it. You remember when Babylon went away, I was going in a hurry into my room with something in my hand, when you wanted to know what it was. I bluffed you off and wouldn't tell, thinking to get the article back in good order before she went. But Babylon was in a terrible hurry, and I had no chance to do anything before her trunks were locked; so without meaning it at all, I was what some people might call a—well, I won't use the name, it looks dreadfully on paper, but her journal was left in my hand promiscuously, as one may say. Still I meant to return it to her, and mean to yet, if I ever get a good chance. I only thought at the time to get Mr. Lee to read it, but before I could do that, off he went, circumventing me in all respects, and making us wretched. For my part, with that book on hand—of no use too—I felt like a thief. If he had only waited till I could have seen him; but he didn't, and that has made me so unhappy that I cannot stay at home. I have copied off that she-Babylon's book, almost the whole of it, and I leave the copy for you—read it, and then say if Judas Iscariot wasn't a gentleman and philosopher, compared to this woman. I have got her book in my trunk. You wondered what I was writing so much about. Well, it was that. When she went out to ride days, Cora was sure to be down-stairs, and I knew where she kept her keys, so after awhile I had only to copy what Babylon wrote over-night, having got the rest copied by hard work. Well, at last everything was huddled up of a sudden, and I was behind-hand three or four days—so I made a dash for the book and hadn't time to put it back. I wonder if she's missed it? Mercy on us! what a time there will be when she does. I wouldn't be in that yellow girl's skin for something; but never mind, it will do her good—the black snake!

Read the book, and then you will find out what a rattlesnake we have had curled up in the bosom of our family.

Good-bye, Miss Hyde; don't think I'm crying because there is a drop just here. It's something else, I don't just know what, but crying is out of my—my—Oh, Miss Hyde! Miss Hyde! I do think my heart is breaking. I can't stand it. Don't expect me to say good-bye. Don't think hard of me for going. What else can I say. Oh, do, do think well of me; I am not a bad girl, nor ungrateful, believe that, and believe me your true       Lottie till death.

I read the letter through more than once. Then I sat down and deliberated with my eyes on the book. Had I a right to read it, after all I had seen and heard of this woman; was I justified in searching out her secrets in that way?

But for the suspicions that still haunted me regarding Mrs. Lee's death, I should have decided against it, but I had learned too much for continued hesitation. Still, my very soul recoiled from the task of searching the life of this woman. When I reached forth my hand for the book, it seemed as if my fingers were poisoned with the touch. I would not take the volume to my own room, but sat down by the window and read it through before I arose from my seat. The pages frenzied me.

Lottie wrote a bold, plain hand, copying anything before her clearly enough. In places the writing gave evidence of hurry and nervousness, but it was in no part really difficult to read. The journal began at the marriage of Miss Wells with old Mr. Dennison, and seemed to have been detached from the other portion of her life about that time. If anything preceded it, Lottie had failed to take a copy.

How many years will this last? I did not expect that this dull stagnation of life would oppress me so. I knew that he was seventy years of age, and thought it would be no great hardship to be petted as an old man's darling, for the few years that might follow. Indeed, he is a gentleman, and loves me, I am sure, more devotedly than ever a young man loved his bride. At first I really thought myself almost happy. It was so pleasant to get away from my old home, after it had been torn to pieces by hungry creditors, and all the old servants driven into new places, that protection and kindness made everything seem like a blessed new life. Mr. Dennison told me that he has loved me ever since I was a little girl, and always intended to make me his wife. He has been a firm, firm friend to my father, I know that well enough, and never would have permitted the old home to be torn up had poor papa lived. As it is, he let all the rest go, and rescuing Cora and myself from the wreck, made me his wife and gave her the liberty she would not take.

"He was kind in showing us something of the world, before he brought us here for good, yet I am not sure that it was wise to throw me suddenly into the society from which I was to be withdrawn so soon. I learned one thing there which sometimes stirs the wish in my heart that I had waited. This thing I have become assured of: I am beautiful, and beauty is a great power. No matter, it has done something for me in winning this fine old gentleman; but when I think what it might have accomplished, I feel defrauded out of half my life. No, no, I do not often feel this. My life was pleasant enough at first, when our wedding brought so many gay and clever people around us. But now that we have retreated to the plantation, everything is dull as the grave. Cotton-fields here, blossoming all over, as with snow by the handful, corn there, tall and thrifty, great live-oaks bearded with moss, and half strangled under the everlasting clasp of mistletoe, make the landscape beautiful, and these things interested me greatly for a time. But I am getting weary of them, and of the grand old house, with its endless verandas and clinging roses, its delicate India matting, and the snowy whiteness of its draperies. I long for change—pine for society, while he seems to think that his presence alone should make this place a heaven. What is it to me, that even in mid-winter I can stoop from my window and gather oranges from the green boughs that bend across it? The novelty has worn away, and this profusion of roses satiates me. You find them everywhere, hiding the fences in ridges and slopes of glossy foliage, studded thickly with great stars of whiteness, that would be exquisite but for the commonness, the negroes bringing them to me by the basketful, until I sicken with the fragrance,—yellow, white, crimson, and damask, all heaped together in gorgeous masses that delight you at first, and then become tiresome, are every day brought to me from the grounds.

"Yesterday one of the negroes came in with a whole armful of magnolias in full bloom. The marvellous white blossoms, with their great chalices running over with fragrance, filled the air with such richness as I have never dreamed of before. I sat down upon a low stool on the front veranda, and with the quivering shadows from a great catalpa-tree falling around me, had these noble blossoms heaped at my feet, yielding myself to the exquisite perfume, till the atmosphere made me faint with delight. It was a delicious, sensuous enjoyment which I shall never forget, but one cannot repeat such things, and 'not even love can live on flowers.' Where love is not and never can be, such things sicken one.

"While I sat there, with the great white blossoms breathing at my feet, and a mocking-bird up in the catalpa-tree thrilling the air with music, a horseman came riding up the avenue, now in the sunshine, now in the shadow of the great live-oaks, leisurely, as if he found pleasure in lingering on a road so beautiful and tranquil. He was a young man, tall and well-formed, who rode his horse with an easy military air full of command. Even at the distance I could see that his bearing was noble and his face a grand one.

"The sight of this man aroused me from the dreamy languor which had been so delightful, and I watched his approach with interest. Directly I was sensible that he had discovered me sitting there in the shadows; for his horse quickened its pace, and in a moment he drew up, and, leaning from his saddle, addressed me,—

"'Excuse me, madam; but I have been unable to discover any servant on the ground, and may have intruded. Does this place belong to Mr. Dennison?'

"I answered that it did, and arising from my seat, desired him to dismount. Mr. Dennison, I said, would be at home in a short time, and would doubtless be happy to see him.

"The stranger sprang from his horse, and flung the bridle to one of the men who came lazily from the house to receive it. I made a movement toward the door, but he gave a glance around at the beautiful view—the flowery thickets and rich slopes of grass—as if reluctant to leave them. Then his eyes fell upon me, and I saw them light up with sudden admiration. I did not intend it, but at the moment I must have taken some attitude of grace to bring such light into a stranger's countenance. He stood for a whole minute gazing on me as if I had been a picture. I felt myself blushing, and drew the flowing muslin of my sleeve over the arm on which his glance fell as it left my face. Then he turned away, and as I sunk to my seat again, placed himself in a garden-chair, drawing a deep breath.

"'Ah, forgive me,' he said, 'what awkwardness. I have trodden upon one of your beautiful flowers.'

"'But there still remain more than enough to make the air oppressive,' I answered.

"'For my part,' he said, smiling pleasantly, 'I could breathe it forever. Indeed, lady, you have a paradise here.'

"Was it indeed so lovely? A moment before my soul had wearied of its very beauties; now a feeling of pride that they were mine stole into my thoughts. It certainly was something to be mistress of a place like that. While our visitor seemed to give himself up to enjoyment of the scene, I saw that his eyes were constantly returning to me. I had been sitting in the open air a long time, and felt that my hair and dress must be in some disorder. This idea made me anxious. I arose, and asking him to excuse me, ran up to my room to make sure that I was not altogether hideous. One glance in the great swinging mirror reassured me. No cloud was ever more pure than the muslin of my white dress; a cluster of red and white roses held back the thick ringlets of my hair, and a single half-open bud fastened the white folds on my bosom. My maid Cora had followed me out on the veranda that morning, and thus arranged the finest flowers she could gather. Had I studied at my glass an hour, nothing more becoming could have been invented. That girl is a treasure; she loves and serves me as no other creature ever did or ever will. She was my dower, my inheritance. The only possession I had in the world was this one girl, when Mr. Dennison married me. I sometimes wonder if he knows why I love and prize her so much. I heard her voice through the window. The stranger was asking her some question which she answered modestly, and was going away. I wonder if he thinks her beautiful. To me the pure olive of her complexion, which just admits of a tinge of carnation in the cheek, is wonderfully effective. She is a brunette intensified, but oh, how the poor thing hates the blood that separates her from us by that one dark shade. No wonder! no wonder!

"Why should I think of this, while looking in the glass to assure myself that I was presentable? I cannot tell, except that this unhappy girl is an object of such profound compassion with me at all times. The education which she has received, I sometimes think, renders her life more bitter than it might have been; but my father would have it so, and perhaps he was right.

"I went down to the veranda again, and found the stranger talking to Cora, who stood with her back against one of the pillars, answering his questions with downcast eyes. She moved away as I appeared, and went into the house. I saw the stranger follow her lithe movements with his eyes, and felt myself coloring with anger. Was he searching her features from admiration or curiosity? I wish it were possible to discover.

"I had been reading, and left a book on one of the little marble tables that stood in the veranda. Some richly colored embroidery lay in my work-basket close by it, and in taking it up, the volume fell.

"The stranger stooped to replace it on the table, but his eye caught the title; a flash of crimson shot across his forehead, and he cast a quick glance at me, as if the question in my eyes disturbed him.

"'A new book, I see; have you read it?'

"He was turning over the leaves, as he asked the question.

"'Yes,' I replied, 'I have read it more than once.'

"'More than once?'

"'Yes, it is a book that requires some thought. Full of ideas and original suggestions. The story itself is a painful one. Indeed, I have my doubts—'

"'Well, you have your doubts?'

"His face flushed, his eyes searched mine with a look almost of defiance in them.

"'Yes,' I continued, coloring painfully, for I am young and afraid to express adverse opinions, 'I sometimes doubt if it is not a little wicked.'

"He laughed, 'Oh, you are young, and a woman.'

"'Well,' I answered, 'this is what I mean, when I finished reading that book, it made me restless, unhappy—discontented with everything around me.'

"'That is, perhaps, because you did not understand it.'

"'But goodness is so simple, I can understand that always.'

"'I grant you, but human life is not all perfection; unfortunately, good and evil are pretty nearly balanced on this earth, and there is nothing picturesque enough in a dead-level of goodness to interest the reader through an entire story. To attempt that, would be like painting a picture without shadows. Your real author understands the force of contrasts.'

"'But a book which has so little of the virtuous and pure in it, yields up this power of contrast, by letting no sunshine into its pages,' I said. 'The fault of this work is, that it dwells too entirely on the dark passions.'

"'Then you condemn it?'

"'No, indeed, the pictures are too grand, the passions too strongly portrayed for that. The author, whoever he is, must be a man of powerful genius. I only wish he had softened his pictures and let in a few of the gentler sentiments.'

"'And so do I.'

"He spoke with emphasis, closing the book. Then I noticed that a flush was on his face, and he cast the volume from him with a gesture of dislike.

"'You know the author of that book?' I said on the impulse.

"'Yes, lady, I know him well—some day he shall be made the wiser, by learning your opinion.'

"'Oh, I hope not. It was rash, perhaps altogether wrong. I am no critic, and only spoke as the book impressed me.'

"'That is criticism,' he answered, 'and I dare say correct, but the volume is hardly worthy of so much consideration. The author is too much honored, that you have read it at all.'

"I was about to answer, when Mr. Dennison rode up in his carriage, and seeing my companion, waved his hand with that cordial welcome so universal in the South. The moment he appeared, I felt chilled, and took up my embroidery, knowing well that no more conversation that I could join in, would be offered that day.

"Certainly, Mr. Dennison is a handsome old gentleman. As a father, one might be very proud of him, but now a strange feeling comes over me at his approach. I turn from his elaborate elegance of speech and manner with a wish for something fresher. Cora is not more my slave than I could make him, but the task of perpetual fondness is too much. Oh, if he had only adopted me!"