Читать книгу Mildred Keith - Complete 7 Book Collection - Finley Martha - Страница 49

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"In desert wilds, in midnight gloom,

In grateful joy, in trying pain,

In laughing youth, or nigh the tomb,

Ah! when is prayer unheard or vain?"

Eliza Cook.

The cold, grey dawn of the winter morning was stealing in at the windows as at last, sighing heavily, the governess lifted her head with a returning consciousness of her surroundings.

How dreary it all looked, in the dim, uncertain light! the disordered room, the fireless hearth—fit emblem, as it seemed, of the cold, almost dead heart within her.

Life was like a desert at that moment, a rough, weary road where thorns and briars constantly pierced her tired feet. Why should she stay? Why not lie down and rest in a quiet grave?

She rose slowly, stiff from the constrained posture, and dragged herself across the room. Opening her wardrobe door, she took from the shelf a vial labelled "laudanum." She held it a moment in her hand.

"It is only to go to sleep," she said, half aloud, "to go to sleep, and never wake again. Never? ah! if I could be sure, sure of that!"

"'And the smoke of their torment ascendeth up forever and ever.' 'Where their worm dieth not, and the fire is not quenched.'"

With a shudder, she put it hastily back, locked the door, and threw herself upon the bed.

"Oh, God, forgive me!" she cried, "keep me, keep me, or I shall do it yet! And then—forever and ever! No space for repentance, no coming back!"

At length tired nature found temporary relief in the heavy, dreamless slumber of utter exhaustion.

Hours passed, and still she slept on, hearing not, nor heeding the sounds of returning life in the household.

They were very late after their long night of revelry; breakfast was not on the table till ten o'clock, and even then no one answered the summons but the master of the house and Mildred.

The children had taken their morning meal two hours before.

"An unexpected pleasure, this, Milly, my dear," was Mr. Dinsmore's greeting.

"What, uncle, you did not surely expect me to be still in bed!"

"Well no; but I thought you would be looking fagged and worn; instead of which, your face is fresh and fair as a rose just washed with dew, and bright as the morning."

"And why not, if sufficient rest will do it?" she returned, laughingly. "I retired at twelve, and had my eight hours of sound, refreshing sleep."

"Ah, you are a wise little woman! too sensible to let late hours rob you of health and good looks, and make you old before your time. What is it Solomon says? 'Early to bed and early to rise?'"

"O, uncle, what a joke! there no use in your pretending that you don't know any better than that," she answered merrily.

"Well, perhaps I do; but he certainly says something about lying late in bed."

"Several things; one occurs to me now. 'Love not sleep, lest thou come to poverty; open thine eyes, and thou shalt be satisfied with bread.' But it cannot mean that we should not take needful rest?"

"Oh no, of course not! there's nothing gained by that. But where's Miss Worth!"

"She has not joined us since the house has been so full of guests. I think she takes her meals with the children in the nursery."

"Ah, yes; I presume so; but I had forgotten it, and it struck me that she might be ill. I thought she was looking badly last night. Did you notice it?"

"Yes; I did. I will inquire about her," Mildred said, remembering with a pang of self-reproach how ghastly a face the governess had worn on taking her seat at the piano.

She might be very ill, unable to call for help, neglected by the sleepy maids, and she herself had been up for two hours and ought to have gone to her door to inquire.

She went immediately on leaving the table, her alarm and anxiety increased on the way thither by the information, gleaned from one of the servants, that Miss Worth had not been present at the nursery breakfast.

Mildred rapped lightly, then louder, and receiving no answer, tried the door. It opened and she stole softly in.

Miss Worth lay on the outside of the bed, still dressed as she had last seen her—in the drawing room at the piano—and sleeping heavily. Her face was very pale and distressed and she moaned now and then as if in pain.

She had nothing over her; but a heavy dark shawl lay on the floor beside the chimney Mildred picked it up and spread it over her, drew down the blinds to shut out the glare of the sun, rang for the maid, and while waiting for her, moved quietly about the room putting things in their places.

"It is very cold here, for the fire is quite out and must be made up at once," she whispered, meeting the girl at the door and motioning her to make no noise. "Go bring up wood and kindling."

"De governess sick, Miss Milly?" queried the servant, sending a curious glance in the direction of the bed.

"I don't know, Dinah, perhaps only tired, for she was up very late last night; but she is asleep and must not be disturbed." And Mildred motioned her imperatively away.

It was not till an hour later that Miss Worth stirred and woke to find a cheerful fire blazing on the hearth and Mildred beside it quietly knitting.

She put down her work hastily, rose and came forward as she perceived the governess's eyes fixed upon her in a sort of perplexed surprise.

"Excuse the intrusion," Mildred said; "but I thought you seemed ill, and was afraid you might need help. I hope your sleep has refreshed you, and that you will let me order the breakfast they are keeping hot for you in the kitchen."

"Thank you, I cannot understand such kindness to me," Miss Worth said huskily. "I was very tired—not sick, I think—and I suppose the sleep has done me good."

"And you will eat something?"

"I will try, since you are so good."

The effort was but indifferently successful, yet Miss Worth steadily refused to acknowledge herself on the sick list, and insisted that she was able to work and must do so; and Mildred went away, feeling troubled and anxious.

Left alone, Miss Worth took out her writing materials, then resting her elbows on the table, her face in her hands, sat thus for a long time without moving, a heavy sigh now and then escaping her.

At last she took up her pen and wrote rapidly for several minutes, then snatching up the paper, she tore it into fragments and threw them into the fire.

Another sheet shared the same fate, and seemingly giving it up in despair, she rose and walked the floor.

"Oh, if I only knew what to do, what to say!" she moaned. "If he would but hear reason; if he would but forsake his evil courses! And yet!—Oh, if I had a friend! just one wise, true friend to advise and help me! But I dare not breathe my terrible fears to any mortal; and who is there that would care to listen?"

Her eye fell on the Bible lying there on the table, and with the sight came the recollection of the texts Mildred had quoted to her.

She almost heard a gentle, tender voice saying "Come unto me—and I will give you rest," and falling on her knees she cried to him,

"Lord Jesus I do come! I give myself to thee; and oh, I beseech thee in thy great mercy and loving kindness to help me in this my hour of perplexity and distress!"

Strange what a blessed calm succeeded the storm. She rose from her knees wondrously soothed and quieted. She had found a Friend who had pledged His word to help her and who had all power in heaven and in earth. What need she fear? "If God be for us, who can be against us?"

There might be trouble in store for her—great and sore trouble—but He would help her through.

There was a sound of gay young voices in the halls without and on the stairway; a carriage had driven to the door, an open barouche, and presently she saw it going down the avenue and that Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore and the three young ladies were in it.

The older children were away from home, as she knew, spending a few days at a neighboring plantation; the younger ones were probably in the nursery.

She watched the carriage till it was lost to sight far down the road, then was turning from the window, with the thought in her mind that it would be a blessing to Juliet Marsden, as well as herself, if it were taking her home to her father's care, when she caught sight of a horseman coming from the opposite direction.

She stood still, scanning him narrowly as he turned in at the gate and came cantering up the avenue; as he drew near she recognized him with a start of surprise—terror mingling with it at first, but changing instantly to joy that he had assuredly missed the object of his visit.

It was her scoundrel brother; yet spite of all the distress and anguish of mind he was causing her, she was conscious of a thrill of sisterly pride in his handsome face and form, and the grace and ease of his horsemanship.

But she must seize this unhoped-for opportunity; there were motives she could urge which escaped her thoughts the previous night, and that might, perhaps, have weight with him; and much now depended upon prompt action on her part.

She flew down the stairs and admitted him herself, before he had had time to ring; and fortunately no servant had perceived his approach.

He looked at her in extreme surprise.

"How is this?" he inquired, with an ill-natured sneer, "have you been promoted to the office of porter?"

"Hush!" she answered, in an imperative whisper. "Come in here;" and she led the way into a little parlor close at hand.

"Excuse the impertinence, Madame, but I did not come to see you," he said angrily, as he followed her in.

"I am well aware of that fact," she said in a calm tone of quiet firmness, as she turned and faced him. "Nevertheless, I believe I am the one, and the only one you will see; and it is well, for I have something of importance to say."

"Where is Miss Marsden?" he demanded.

"Gone for a drive, and all the other ladies with her; Mr. Dinsmore also. The last of the guests left an hour since, and we may chat for a good while without much fear of interruption."

"Suppose I don't choose," he returned, straightening himself with a defiant air.

"Harry, you must hear me!" she said, laying a detaining hand upon his arm, for he was moving toward the door.

"That's a strong word, and one you've no right to use to me," he answered moodily, yet yielding to her determined will.

She pointed to a chair, and he sat down.

"Speak and be done with it," he said.

Tears sprang to her eyes, but she forced them back.

"Are you mad, Harry, that you venture a return to this country?" she asked in an undertone, her voice trembling with excitement, "can you have forgotten the danger that hangs over you?"

"It's trifling, considering the changes five years have made," he said, with affected nonchalance; but his cheek paled.

"Don't deceive yourself, don't trust to that; I recognized you at the first glance," she said, with the earnestness of one determined to convince.

"Well, one of my own family would, of course, be more apt to do so than any one else. And I was never known in this part of the country."

"No; but people travel about a great deal; Northerners come South frequently; especially in winter; and you may, any day, come face to face with some old acquaintance who will recognize you, and have you arrested; and then—" she hid her face and shuddered. "O Harry," she cried, "I shall live in terror till I know you are safe on the other side of the ocean."

"I'll go in all haste when I have secured my prize," he said coldly.

"Give it up," she entreated, "you have no right to drag an innocent girl down to infamy with you. Better go and make an honest living by the labor of your hands."

"I wasn't brought up to that, and infinitely prefer to live by my wits," he answered, with an evil smile, "and they'll have to help me to the means to pay my passage to those foreign shores you so highly recommend."

"Sell this: it would surely bring more than enough for that," she said, pointing to the glittering gem on his finger.

"Paste, my dear, nothing but paste," he laughed. "Clever imitation, isn't it?"

"Ah, Harry, a fair type of its owner, I fear," she said sorrowfully.

"Thanks for the compliment," he answered with a bitter laugh. "Well, after all, it is a compliment, taken in the sense that I'm as clever an imitation of what Miss Marsden takes me for, as this is of a real diamond; and perhaps she's as good a judge of the first article, as you are of the other; ha! ha!"

"Harry," cried his sister, "are you utterly heartless? have you no pity at all for that poor silly girl?"

"Pooh! Gertrude, I have to look out for myself; and other people must do the same; I tell you it is a case of necessity," he answered doggedly.

"No," she said, "there cannot be a necessity for wrong doing, and if persisted in it must end at last in terrible retribution; both in this world and the next," she added in low, tremulous tones.

"I'll risk it," he said with an oath. "And as to the girl, why she'd break her silly heart if I should forsake her," he added, with an unpleasant laugh, "You've no idea how deeply in love she is."

"You are mistaken: she has no heart to break, and loves nobody, half so well as herself. She will never be the woman to stand by and comfort you in adversity: therefore you will be doing a foolish thing to make her your wife, even though you consult your own interest alone."

At that he only laughed, saying that as the girl's money was all he wanted, he didn't care whether she stood by him or not after he once got it into his possession.

She renewed her warnings and entreaties, urging every motive she could think of to induce him to give up his wicked designs upon Juliet Marsden, and forsake all his evil courses; but in vain; his heart was fully set in him to do evil, and neither love of his mother and sisters, nor pity for the deluded girl, could move him.

Nor did fear of punishment deter him. He was no coward, he said, glorying in his shame, and showing himself utterly devoid of wisdom 'for the fear of the Lord, that is wisdom; and to depart from evil, is understanding;' and the Bible calls those fools who make a mock at sin, despise instruction and hate to depart from evil.

At length there was a sound of approaching wheels; upon which he exclaimed in a relieved tone, "There, you'd better go; it won't help either you or me for us to be caught together."

"No," she assented, rising hastily, "I must go. O, Harry, think of what I've been saying, and don't rush headlong to destruction!"

"There! I've had enough of it!" he retorted angrily. "I'll do as I please. And do you keep yourself quiet."