Transcriber’s Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

POPULAR NOVELS.

BY

Mrs. Mary J. Holmes.

I.—TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE.

II.—ENGLISH ORPHANS.

III.—HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE.

IV.—’LENA RIVERS.

V.—MEADOW BROOK.

VI.—DORA DEANE.

VII.—COUSIN MAUDE.

VIII.—MARIAN GRAY.

IX.—DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.

X.—HUGH WORTHINGTON.

XI.—CAMERON PRIDE.

XII.—ROSE MATHER.

XIII.—ETHELYN’S MISTAKE.

XIV.—MILLBANK.

XV.—EDNA BROWNING.

XVI.—WEST LAWN. (New.)

Mrs. Holmes is a peculiarly pleasant and fascinating writer. Her books are always entertaining, and she has the rare faculty of enlisting the sympathy and affections of her readers, and of holding their attention to her pages with deep and absorbing interest.

All published uniform with this volume. Price $1.50 each and sent free by mail, on receipt of price, by

G. W. CARLETON & CO.,

New York.

West Lawn
AND
The Rector of St. Mark’s.

BY

MRS. MARY J. HOLMES,

AUTHOR OF

Tempest and Sunshine.—‘Lena Rivers.—Marian Grey.—Meadow brook.—English Orphans.—Cousin Maude.—Homestead.—Dora Deane.—Darkness and Daylight.—Hugh Worthington.—The Cameron Pride.—Rose Mather.—Ethelyn’s Mistake.—Millbank.—Edna Browning.

NEW YORK:

G. W. Carleton & Co., Publishers.

LONDON: S. LOW, SON & CO.

M.DCCC.LXXIV.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by

DANIEL HOLMES,

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

Maclauchlan, Stereotyper,

145 & 147 Mulberry St., near Grand, N. Y.

John F. Trow & Son, Printers,

205–213 East 12th St., New York.

CONTENTS.

WEST LAWN.

CHAPTER I.
DORA’S DIARY.

“Beechwood, June 12th, }

11 o’clock P. M. }

“At last, dear old book, repository of all my secret thoughts and feelings, I am free to come to you once more, and talk to you as I can talk to no one else. Daisy is asleep in her crib after a longer struggle than usual, for the little elf seemed to have a suspicion that to-morrow night some other voice than mine would sing her lullaby. Bertie, too, the darling, cried himself to sleep because I was going away, while the other children manifested in various ways their sorrow at my projected departure. Bless them all, how I do love children, and hope if I am ever married, I may have at least a dozen; though if twelve would make me twice as faded and sickly, and,—and,—yes, I will say it,—as peevish as Margaret’s six have made her, I should rather be excused. But what nonsense to be written by me, Dora Freeman, spinster, aged twenty-eight,—the Beechwood gossips said when the new minister went home with me from the sewing society. But they were mistaken, for if the family Bible is to be trusted, I was only twenty-five last Christmas, and I don’t believe I look as old as that.”

Here there was a break in the diary, while Dora glanced in the mirror at a graceful little figure, with sloping shoulders and white neck, surmounted by a well shaped head with masses of reddish-brown hair, waving just enough to suggest an idea of the curls into which it might be easily coaxed; low forehead; piquant nose, with an undeniable curve which ill-natured people call a turn-up; bright, honest eyes of reddish-brown, like the hair; mouth which did not look as if it had ever said a disagreeable thing; rows of white, even teeth, with complexion remarkable for nothing except that it was natural, and just now a shade or two paler than usual, because its owner was weary with the months and years of care which had fallen on her youthful shoulders.

This was the picture Dora saw, and nodding to the tout ensemble a little approving nod, and pushing behind her ears the heavy braids of hair to see if the style were becoming, as somebody once had told her, she resumed her pen and diary, as follows:

“Where was I when vanity stopped me for an inspection of myself? Oh, I know; I had been writing things about being married, for which I ought to blush, and through which I put my pen, so— But there’s what I said of Margaret; I’ll let that stand, for she is peevish and cross, and it’s a relief to tell it somewhere. Poor Margaret! I cannot help pitying her when I look at her now, and remember what she used to be at the dear old home,—so beautiful, so petted, and admired. Ah me! that was twelve years ago, and I was a little girl when Margaret was married, and we danced on the lawn in the soft September sunlight, with papa looking on, so happy and so proud; and then the bonfires they kindled and the bells they rang at nightfall in honor of the bride, Mrs. John Russell, Esquire. Alas! when next on a week day that bell was rung, it tolled for my dear lost father, who died with apoplexy, and left his affairs all in confusion, his property, which was reputed so great, all mortgaged, and I a little beggar. Shall I ever forget John Russell’s kindness when, hurrying home from Europe, he came to me at once and said I should be his daughter, and should live with him and Margaret at Beechwood, where we came eleven years ago this very June,—Margaret a splendid-looking woman, who would not wear black because her bridal dresses were so much more becoming; and I a timid, awkward girl of fourteen, who cried so much for the dear father gone, and the old homestead sold, that people said I looked and acted older than my sister, the stylish Mrs. Russell. How glad I was when in the autumn Johnnie was born and Margaret left him so much with me, for in my love for him I forgot to mourn for father, and came to think of him as safe in heaven, where mother went when I was ten days old. Then those three delightful years at school, when I roomed with sweet Mattie Reed, whom I am going to-morrow, to visit. No matter if there were three babies here instead of one when I came home; and it was very wicked in me to feel annoyed, because I was so often expected to see that nurse did her duty, or in fact turn nurse myself to the wee little things. I cannot say that I was glad when Benny came, for with the advent of each child, Margaret grew more delicate, more helpless, and more,—I wonder if it is bad to say it,—more fault-finding with her husband, who, though the very best man in the world, is not like,—like,—well, say like Dr. West.”

Here the pen made three heavy strokes through that name, completely erasing it, after which it continued:

“I cannot tell why I should bring him up as a comparison, when I do not like him at all, even if the whole village of Beechwood is running mad about him,—I mean the old people, not the young, who sneer at him and call him stingy. If there’s anything I hate, it’s penuriousness, which holds so fast to a three-cent piece and hugs a battered sixpence. Don’t I remember our fair last winter for the benefit of the church, and how the girls, without the slightest reason for doing so, said to me, ‘Now, when Dr. West comes in, you take possession of him. You are just the one. He thinks more of you than of all of us together. You can sell him that dressing-gown and slippers. Ask fifteen at first, and if he demurs, fall to ten. They were both given, so we shall not lose. Tell him, if necessary, how shabby his present gown and slippers are looking, and how the ladies talk about it.’

“I did not believe he would come directly to my table, and, I think now, the crowd must have pushed him there, for come he did, looking so pleasant and kind, and speaking so gently when he said he hoped we should realize a large sum, and wished so much he could help us more. Of course, the gown and slippers were thrust upon his notice, so cheap, only fifteen dollars; and, of course, he declined, saying, sotto voce:

“‘I would gladly buy them for your sake, if I could, but I cannot afford it.’

“Then I fell to twelve, then to ten, and finally to eight, but he held out firmly, notwithstanding that I told him how forlorn he looked in his old ones, patched and tattered as they were. I could see a flush on his face, but he only laughed, and said he must get a wife to mend his things. It was surely my evil genius which prompted me to retort in a pert, contemptuous tone:

“‘Umph! few ladies are insane enough to marry stingy old bachelors, who would quarrel about the pin money!’

“I shall never forget how white he grew, or how quickly his hand went into his pocket, as if in quest of his purse; but it was withdrawn without it, just as that detestable Dr. Colby came simpering along, smelling of cologne, and musk, and brandy. I knew, to a certainty, that he did not pay his board bills, and yet I felt goaded into asking him to become an example of generosity to Dr. West, and buy the gown and slippers. I’d take it as a personal favor, I said, putting into my hateful eyes as much flattery as I possibly could; and he bought them, paying fifteen dollars right before Dr. West, who said softly, sadly like:

“‘I’m glad you have found a purchaser. I did not wish you to be disappointed;’ and then he walked away, while that Colby paraded his dressing-gown and slippers until I hated the sight of them, and could have cried with vexation.

“Still, when later in the evening Dr. West came back and asked me to go with him for ice-cream, I answered saucily:

“‘Thank you; I can’t leave; and besides, I would not for the world put you to so much expense!’

“If he was white before, he was livid now, and he has never appeared natural since. I wish he knew how many times I have cried over that affair, and how I detest that pert young Colby, who never has a patient, and who called and called at Beechwood until Mrs. Markham, across the way, sent in to ask who was so very sick. After that I took good care to be engaged whenever I heard his ring. Dr. West,—I wonder why I will persist in writing his name when I really do not care for him in the least; that is, care as girls sometimes care for fine-looking men, with good education, good morals, good manners, and a good profession. If I could rid myself of the idea that he was stingy, I might tolerate him; but of course he’s stingy, or why does he wear so shabby a coat and hat, and why does he never mingle in any of the rides and picnics where money is a necessary ingredient? Here he’s been in Beechwood three, yes, most four years, getting two-thirds of the practice, even if he is a homœopathist. I’ve heard that he gives liberally to the church, and he attends the extreme poor for nothing. So there is some good in him. I wonder if he’ll come to say good-by. I presume not, or he would have reserved that package sent by Johnnie, and brought it himself instead. It is marked ‘Mrs. David West, Morrisville.’ Who in the world can Mrs. David West be? I did not know he ever saw Morrisville, and I am sure he came from Boston. There’s the bell for midnight. I have written the whole hour, and all of Doctor West, except the ill-natured things I said of Margaret, and for which I am sorry. Poor Madge, as Brother John calls her, she’s sick and tired, and cannot help being a little fretful, while I, who never had an ache or pain, can help blaming her, and I will. I’m sorry, Sister Maggie, for what I have written about you, and humbly ask your pardon.”

CHAPTER II.
AUTHOR’S JOURNAL.

It lacked ten minutes of car-time, and the omnibus-driver was growing impatient and tired of waiting for his passenger, when a noisy group appeared upon the piazza: Mrs. Squire Russell, pale, languid, drooping as usual, with a profusion of long light curls falling in her eyes, and giving to her faded face the appearance of a poodle dog; Mr. Squire Russell, short, fat, henpecked, but very good-looking withal, and some half dozen little Russells, clinging to and jumping upon the young lady, whom we recognize at once as Dora, our heroine.

“You won’t stay long, even if Mrs. Randall does urge you,” said Mrs. Russell, in a half-complaining tone as she drew together her white wrapper, and leaned wearily against a pillar of the piazza. “You know I can’t do anything with the children, and the hot weather makes me so miserable. I shall expect you in two weeks.”

“Two weeks, Madge! are you crazy?” said the Squire’s good-humored voice. “Dora has not been from home in ages, while you have almost made the tour of the Western Continent. She shall stay as long as she likes, and get some color in her face. She used to be rosier than she is now, and it all comes of her being shut up so close with the children.”

“I think it is very unkind in you, Mr. Russell, to speak as if I was the worst sister in the world, and the most exacting. I am sure Dora don’t think so. Didn’t she go with us to Newport last summer, and wasn’t she more than once called the belle of the Ocean House?”

John gave a queer kind of whistle, while Dora involuntarily drew a long breath as she remembered the dreary time she had passed at the Ocean House, looking after three nurses, six children, and her sister Margaret, whose rooms were on the third floor, and to whom she had acted the part of waiting-maid in general. But her thoughts were suddenly brought back from Newport by Margaret’s next remark:

“You needn’t charge the loss of her roses to me either, John. No one can expect to be young-looking forever, and you must remember Dora has passed the bloom of youth. She’s in her twenty-sixth year.”

“Twenty-sixth year! Thunder! that’s nothing,” and Squire Russell tossed up in the air the little Daisy crawling at his feet, while Johnnie, the ten-year old boy, roared out:

“Aunt Dora ain’t old. She’s real young and pretty, and so Dr. West told Miss Markham that time she counted on her fingers, and said, so spiteful like: ‘Yes, Miss Freeman is full thirty. Why, they’ve been here eleven years, and she must have been nineteen or twenty when she came, for she was quite as big as she is now, and looked as old. Yes, she’s too old for the new minister, Mr. Kelley.’ I was so mad I could have knocked her, and I did throw a brick at her parrot squawking in the yard. Dr. West was as red as fire, and said to her just as he spoke to me once, when he made me hold still to be vaccinated, ‘Miss Freeman is not thirty. She does not look twenty, and is perfectly suitable for Mr. Kelley, if she wants him.’

“‘She don’t,’ says I, ‘for she don’t see him half the time when he calls, nor Dr. Colby either.’

“I was going to spit out a lot more stuff, when Dr. West put his hand to my mouth, and told me to hush up.”

There were roses now on Dora’s cheeks, and they made her positively beautiful as she kissed her sister and the little ones good-by, glancing nervously across the broad, quiet street to where a small, white office was nestled among the trees. But though the blinds were down, the door was not opened, while around the house in the same yard there were no signs of life except at an upper window, where a head, which was unmistakably that of Dr. West’s landlady, Mrs. Markham, was discernible behind the muslin curtain. He was not coming to say good-by, and with a feeling of disappointment Dora walked rapidly to the omnibus, which bore her away from the house where they missed her so much, Squire John looking uncomfortable and desolate, the children growing very cross, and at last crying, every one of them, for auntie; while Margaret took refuge from the turmoil behind one of her nervous headaches, and went to her room, wondering why Dora must select that time of all others to leave her.

CHAPTER III.
DR. WEST’S DIARY.

“June 13th, 10 P. M.

“How beautiful it is this summer night, and how softly the moonlight falls upon the quiet street through the maple-trees! On such a night as this one seems to catch a faint glimpse of what Eden must have been ere the trail of the serpent was there. I have often wished it had been Adam who first transgressed instead of Eve. I would rather it had been a man than a woman who brought so much sorrow upon our race. And yet, when I remember that by woman came the Saviour, I feel that to her was given the highest honor ever bestowed on mortal. I have had so much faith in woman, enshrining her in my heart as all that was good and pure and lovely. And have I been mistaken in her? Once, yes. But that is past. Anna is dead. I forgave her freely at the last, and mourned for her as for a sister. How long it took to crush out my love,—to overcome the terrible pain which would waken me from the dream that I held her again in my arms, that her soft cheek was against my own, her long, golden curls falling on my bosom just as they once fell. I do not like curls now, and I verily believe poor Mrs. Russell, with all her whims and vanity, would be tolerably agreeable to me were it not for that forest of hair dangling about her face. Her sister wears hers in bands and braids, and I am glad, though what does it matter? She is no more to me than a friend, and possibly not that. Sometimes I fancy she avoids and even dislikes me. I’ve suspected it ever since that fatal fair when she urged me to buy what I could not afford just then. She thought me avaricious, no doubt, a reputation I fear I sustain, at least among the fast young men; but my heavenly Father knows, and some time maybe Dora will. I like to call her Dora here alone. The name is suited to her, brown-eyed, brown-haired Dora. If she were one whit more like Anna, I never could have liked her as I do,—brown-eyed, brown-haired Dora.

“And she has gone to Morrisville, where Anna lived. Is this Mrs. Randall very grand, I wonder, and will Dora hear of Anna? Of course she will. I knew that when I asked her to be the bearer of that package which I might have sent by express. Perhaps she will take it herself, seeing little Robin and so hearing of Anna. O Dora, you would pity me if you knew how much I have suffered. Only God could give the strength to endure, and He has done so until I carry my burden uncomplainingly.

“Will she see Lieutenant Reed, Mrs. Randall’s brother? What a blow that story gave me, and yet I doubted its truth, though the possibility nearly drives me wild, and shows me the real nature of my feelings for Dora Freeman. Let me record the event as it occurred. This morning Dora went away to Morrisville, my old home, though she does not know that, because, for certain reasons, I have not chosen to talk much of my affairs in Beechwood. She went early, before many people were astir, but I saw her, and heard, as I believe, the roar of the train until it was miles away, and then I awoke to the knowledge that the world had changed with her going, that now there was nothing before me but the same monotonous round of professional calls, the tiresome chatter of my landlady, Mrs. Minerva Markham, and the tedious sitting here alone.

“Heretofore there has been a pleasant excitement in watching the house across the street for a glimpse of Dora, in waiting for her to come out upon the lawn where she frolicked and played with all those little Russells, in seeing her sometimes steal away as if to be alone, and in pitying her because I knew the half dozen were on her track and would soon discover her hiding-place, in wishing that I could spirit her away from the cares which should fall upon another, in seeing her after the gas was lighted going in to dinner in her white muslin dress with the scarlet geraniums in her hair, in watching her window until the shadow flitting before it disappeared with the light, and I was left to wonder if the little maiden were kneeling in adoration to Him who gave her life and being. All this, or something like it, has formed a part of my existence, but with Dora’s going everything changed. Clouds came over the sun; the breeze from the lake blew cold and chilly; Mrs. Markham’s talk was more insipid than ever, while the addition to my patrons of two of the wealthiest families in town failed to give me pleasure. Dora was gone, and in a listless mood I made my round of visits, riding over the Berkley hills and across the Cheshire flats, wondering if I did well to send that package by Dora, knowing as I did that it must lead to her hearing of Anna.

“It was sunset when I came home, a warm, purple sunset, such as always reminds me of Dora in her mature beauty. There was a stillness in the air, and from the trees which skirt the hillside leading to the town the katydids were biping their clamorous notes. I used to like to hear them when a boy, and many’s the time I’ve stood with Anna listening to them by the west door at home; but now there was a sadness in their tones as if they were saying, ‘Dora’s gone; Dora’s gone,’ while the opposite party responded, ‘And Anna too; and Anna too.’

“I had not wept for Anna since the hour when I first knew she was lost forever, but to-night in the gathering twilight, with the music of my boyhood sounding in my ears, the long ago came back to me again, bringing with it the beautiful blue-eyed girl over whose death there hangs so dark a mystery, and there was a moisture in my eyes, and a tear which dropped on Major’s mane, and was shed for Anna dead as well as for Dora gone. When I reached the office, I found upon the slate a handwriting which I knew to be Johnnie Russell’s, and for a moment I felt tempted to kiss it, because he is Dora’s nephew. This is what he had written:

“‘Mother’s toock ravin’ with one of her headaches, cause auntie’s gone, and there’s nobody to tend to the young ones. Gawly, how they’ve cut up, and she wants you to come with some jim-cracks in a phial. Yours, with regret,

John Russell, Jr.’

“I like that boy, so outspoken and truthful, but Dora will be shocked at his language. And so my services were needed at the big house over the way. Usually I like to go there, but now Dora is gone it is quite another thing, for with all my daily discipline of myself, I dislike Mrs. Russell. I have struggled against it, prayed against it, but as often as I see her face and hear her voice, the old dislike comes back. There’s nothing real about her except her selfishness and vanity. Were she raving with fever, I verily believe her hair would be just as elaborately curled, her handsome wrapper as carefully arranged, and her heavy bracelets clasped as conspicuously around the wrists as if in full dress for an evening party. To-night I found her in just this costume, with a blue scarf thrown round her, as she reclined upon the pillow. I knew she was suffering, from the dark rings beneath her eyes, and this roused my sympathy. She seems to like me as a physician, and asked me to stop after I had prescribed for her. Naturally enough she spoke of Dora, whom she missed so much, she said, and then with a little sigh continued:

“‘It is not often that I talk familiarly with any but my most intimate friends, but you have been in our family so much, and know how necessary Dora is to us, that you will partially understand what a loss it would be to lose my sister entirely.’

“‘Yes, a terrible loss,’ I said, thinking more of myself than of her. ‘But is there a prospect of losing her?’ I asked, feeling through my frame a cold, sickly chill, which rapidly increased as she replied:

“‘Perhaps not; but this Mrs. Randall, whom she has gone to visit, has a brother at West Point, you know, Lieutenant Reed, the young man with epaulets, who was here last summer.’

“‘Yes, I remember him,’ I said, and Mrs. Russell continued:

“‘He has been in love with Dora ever since she was with his sister Mattie at school. Dora has not yet given him a decided answer, but I know her preference for him, and as he is to be at his sister’s while Dora is there, it is natural to fear that it may result in eventually taking Dora away from Beechwood.’

“‘It may, it may,’ I responded, in a kind of absent way, for my brain was in a whirl, and I scarcely knew what I did.

“She must have observed my manner, for her eyes suddenly brightened as if an entirely new idea had been suggested to her.

“‘Now if it were some one near by,’ she continued, ‘perhaps she would not leave me. The house is large enough for all, and Dora will marry some time, of course. She is a kind sister, and will make a good wife.’

“At this point Squire Russell came in, and soon after I said good-by, going out again into the summer night, beneath the great, full moon, whose soft, pure light could not still the throbbing of my heart; neither could the long walk I took down by the lake, where Dora and I went one day last summer. There were quite a number of the villagers with us, for it was a picnic, but I saw only Dora, who, afraid of the water, stayed on the shore with me, while the rest went off in sail-boats. We talked together very quietly, sitting on the bank, beneath a broad grape-vine, of whose leaves she wove a sort of wreath, as she told me of her dear old home, and how the saddest moments she had ever known were those in which she fully realized that she was never again to live there, that stranger hands would henceforth tend the flowers she had tended, and stranger feet tread the walks and alleys and winding paths with which the grounds abounded. I remember how the wish flashed upon me that I might some day buy back the home, and take her there as its mistress. Of all this I thought to-night, sitting on the lone shore, just where she once sat, and listening to the low dash of the waves, which, as they came rolling almost to my feet, seemed to murmur, ‘Never, never more!’

“I do not believe I am love-sick, but I am very sad to-night, and the walk down to the lake did not dispel the sadness. It may be it is wrong in me thus to despond, when in many ways I have been prospered beyond my most sanguine hopes. That heavy debt is paid at last, thanks to the kind Father who raised me up so many friends, and whose healing hand has more than once been outstretched to save when medicine was no longer of avail. As is natural, the cure was charged to me, when I knew it was God who had wrought the almost miraculous change. And shall I murmur at anything when sure of His love and protection? Be still, my heart. If it be God’s will, Dora shall yet rest in these arms, which fain would shelter her from all the ills of life; and if ’tis not His will, what am I, that I should question His dealings?”

CHAPTER IV.
JOHNNIE’S LETTER TO DORA.

“Beechwood, June 13th. }

In the afternoon, up in the wood-house chaimber }

where I’ve crawled to hide from the young ones. }

“Dear, dear, darling Auntie:

“It seems to me you’ve been gone a hundred million billion years, and you’ve no idea what a forlorn old rat-trap of a plais it is Without You, nor how the Young Ones do rase Kain. They keep up the Darndest row—Auntie. I didn’t mean to use that word, and I’ll scratch it right out, but when you are away, I’ll be dar—There I was going to say it agen. I’m a perfectly Dredful Boy, ain’t I? But I do love you, Auntie, and last night,—now don’t you tell pa, nor Tish, nor Nobody,—last night after I went to bed, I cried and cried and crammed the sheet in my mouth to keep Jim from hearing me till I most vomited.

“Ben and Burt behave awful. Clem heard their Prayers and right in the midst of Our father, Burt stopped and asked if Mr. John Smith, the Storekeeper, was related to John the baptist. Clem laughed and then Ben struck her with his fist and Burt, who is a little red pepper any How pitched in And kicked Burt. The fuss waked up Daisy who fell out of bed and screamed like Murder, then Tish, great Tattle Tail, must go for Father who came up with a big Gadd and declared he’d have order in His own house. You know the Young Ones aint a bit afraid of Him and Ben and Burt kept on their fightin tell Clem said ‘I shall tell Miss Dora how you act.’ That stopped ’em and the last I heard Burt was coaxing Clem:

“‘Don’t tell Auntie. I’se good now, real good.’

“Maybe it’s mean in me to tell you but I want you to know just how They carry on, hoping you’ll pick up your traps and come home. No I don’t neither for I want you to stay and have a good time which I’m sure you don’t have here. I wish most you was my Mother though I guess girls of 25 don’t often have great strappin Boys like me, do they? I asked Dr. West and he looked so queer when he said, ‘It is possible but not common.’ Why not, I wonder? Now, Auntie, I don’t want mother to die, because she’s Mother, but if she should, you’ll have father, won’t you? That’s a nice Auntie, and that makes me think. Last night mother had the headache and Dr. West was here. It was after the Rumpus in the nursery and I was sitting at the head of the stairs wishing you was come home when I heard ’em talking about you and what do you think mother told Doctor? A lot of stuff about you and that nasty Reed who was here last summer. She talked as if you liked him,—said he would be at Mrs. Randall’s and she rather expected it would be settled then. I was so mad, I bumped right up and down on the stairs and said Darn, Darn, as fast as I could. Now, Auntie, I didn’t mean to lie, but I have. I’ve told a whopper and you can bite my head off if you like. Dr’s voice sounded just as if he didn’t want you to like that Reed and I diddent think it right to let it go. So this morning I went over to the office and found Dr. West looking pale as if he diddent sleep good.

“‘Doctor,’ says I, ‘do I look like a chap that will lie?’

“‘Why, no,’ says he, ‘I never thought you did.’

“‘But I will,’ ses I, ‘and I am come to do that very thing, come to tell you something Aunt Dora made me promise never to tell.’

“‘John, you mussent, I can’t hear you,’ he began, but I yelled up, ‘you shall; I will tell; it’s about Dora and that Reed. She don’t like him.’ Somehow he stopped hushin’ me then and pretended to fix his books while I said how last summer I overheard this Reed ask you to be his wife, and you told him no; you did not love him well enough, and never could, and how you meant it too. There diddent neither of you know I was out in the balcony, I said, until he was gone, and I sneazed when you talked to me and made me promise never to tell what I’d heard to father, nor mother, nor nobody. I never did tell them, but I’ve told the doctor, and I ain’t sorry, it made him look so glad. He took me, and Tish, and Ben, and Burt, all out riding this afternoon and talked to them real nice, telling them they must be good while you was gone. Tish and Jim are pretty good, but Ben has broken the spy-glass and the umberill, and Burt has set down on the kittens, and oh I must tell you; he took a big iron spoon which he called a sovel and dug up every single gladiola in the garden! Ain’t they terrible Boys?

“There, they’ve found where I be, and I hear Burt coming up the stairs one step at a time, so I must stop, for they’ll tip over the ink, or something. Dear Auntie, I do love you ever and ever so much, and if you want my Auntie and a grown up woman I’d marry you. Do boys ever marry their aunts?

“Your, with Due Respect,

“John Russell.

“p.s. Excuse my awful spellin. I never could spel, you know, or make the right Capitols.

“p.s. No. 2. Burt has just tumbled the whole length of the wood-house stares, and landed plump in the pounding barrel, half full of water. You orto hear him Yell.”

CHAPTER V.
DORA’S DIARY.

“Morrisville, June 13th.

“I was too tired last night to open my trunk, and so have a double duty to perform, that of recording the events of the last two days. Can it be that it is not yet forty-eight hours since I left Beechwood and all its cares, which, now that I am away from them, do seem burdensome? What a delicious feeling there is in being referred to and waited upon as if you were of consequence, and how I enjoy knowing that for a time at least I can rest; and I begin to think I need it, for how else can I account for the languid, weary sensation which prompts me to sit so still in the great, soft, motherly chair which Mattie has assigned me, and which stands right in the cosey bay-window, where I can look out upon the beautiful scenery of Morrisville?

“It is very pleasant here, and so quiet that it almost seems as if the town had gone to sleep and knew nothing of the great, roaring, whirling world without. Not even a car-whistle to break the silence, for the nearest station where I stopped, after my uneventful ride, is eight miles from here. There was Mattie herself waiting for me on the platform, her face as sunny as ever, and her greeting as cordial. Her husband, Mr. Randall, is a tall, well-formed man, with broad shoulders, which look a little like West Point discipline. It was very silly in one to contrast him at once with Dr. West, but I did, and Dr. West gained by the comparison, for there is an expression in his face which I seldom see in others, certainly not in Mr. Randall. He looks, as I suspect he is, proud,—and yet he is very kind to me, treating me with as much deference as if I were the Queen of England. They had come in their carriage, and the drive over the green hills and through the pleasant valleys was delightful. I could do nothing but admire, and still I wondered that one as fond of society as Mattie should have settled so far from the stirring world as Morrisville, and at last I asked why she had done so.

“‘It’s all Will’s doings,’ she answered, laughingly. ‘He is terribly exclusive, and fancied that in Morrisville he should find ample scope for indulging his taste,—that people would let him alone,—but they don’t. Why, we have only lived there three months, and I am sure half the town know just how many pieces of silver I have,—whether my dishes are stone or French china,—what hour we breakfast,—when we go to bed,—when we get up, and how many dresses I have. But I don’t care, I rather like it; and then, too, Morrisville is not a very small town. It has nearly three thousand inhabitants, and a few as refined and cultivated people as any with whom I ever met.’

“‘Who are they?’ I asked, and Mattie began:

“‘There’s the Verners, and Waldos, and Strikers, and Rathbones in town, while in the country there’s the Kingslakes, and Croftons, and Bishops, and Warings, making a very pleasant circle.’

“I don’t know why I felt disappointed that she did not mention Mrs. David West as among the upper ten, but I did, and should have ventured to speak of that lady, if I had not been a little afraid of Mr. Randall, who might think my associates too plebeian to suit him.

“We were entering the town now, and as we drove through what Mattie said was Grove Street, I forgot all about Mrs. David West in my admiration of the prettiest little white cottage I ever saw. I cannot describe it except that it seemed all porticoes, bay-windows, and funny little places shooting out just where you did not expect them. One bay-window opened into the garden, which was full of flowers, while right through the centre ran a gurgling brook, which just at the entrance had been coaxed into a tiny waterfall. I was in ecstasies, particularly as on a grass-plat, under a great elm-tree, an oldish-looking lady sat knitting and talking to a beautiful child reclining in a curious-looking vehicle, half wagon, half chair. I never in my life saw anything so lovely as the face of that child, seen only for a moment, with the setting sunlight falling on its golden curls and giving it the look of an angel. The lady interested me greatly in her dress of black, with the widow’s cap resting on her gray hair, while her face was familiar as if I had seen it before.

“‘Who are they?’ I asked Mattie, but she did not know.

“Neither did her husband, and both laughed at my evident admiration.

“‘We will walk by here some day, and maybe you can make their acquaintance,’ Mattie said, as she saw how I leaned back for a last glance at the two figures beneath the trees.

“‘There is West Lawn!’ Mattie cried at last, in her enthusiastic way, pointing out a large stone building which stood a little apart from the town.

“I knew before that ‘West Lawn’ was the name of Mr. Randall’s home, and when I saw it I comprehended at once why it was so called. It was partly because of the long grassy lawn in front, and partly because it stood to the westward of the village, upon a slight eminence which overlooked the adjacent country. It is a delightful place, and Mattie says they have made many improvements since they bought it. But it must have been pleasant before, for it shows marks of care and cultivation given to it years ago. Like that cottage by the brook, it has bay-windows and additions, while I think I never saw so many roses around one spot in my life. There is a perfect wilderness of them, in every shade and variety. These reminded me of Dr. West, who is so fond of roses, and who said once that he would have his home literally covered with them. ‘West Lawn’ would suit him at this season, I am sure. Here in Morrisville I find myself thinking a great deal about Dr. West, and thinking only good of him. I forget all I ever fancied about his littleness, and remember instead how kind he is to the Beechwood poor, who have named at least a dozen children after him. Mrs. David West! I do not see as I shall be able to meet her ladyship, as she evidently does not belong to the Vernor and Randall clique.

“But let me narrate events a little more in the order in which they occurred, going back to last night, when we had tea in what Mattie calls the ‘Rose Room,’ because the portico in front is enveloped with roses. Then came a long talk, when Mr. Randall was gone for his evening paper, and when Mattie, nestling up to me, with her head in my lap, just as she used to do in school, told me what a dear fellow her husband was, and how much she loved him. Then some music, I playing my poor accompaniments while Mattie sang her favorite Scotch ballads. Then, at an early hour for me, I went to bed, for Mattie does not like sitting up till midnight. I have a large, airy chamber, which must have been fitted up for a young lady, there are so many closets, and shelves, and presses, with a darling little bath and dressing-room opening out of it. Mattie, who came in to see that I was comfortable, told me this was the only room in which the paper had not been changed.

“‘It’s old-fashioned, as you see,’ she said, ‘and must have been on before the time of Mr. Wakely, of whom we bought the house, but it is so pretty and clean that I would not have it touched.’

“It is indeed pretty, its ground a pure white, sprinkled here and there with small bouquets of violets. Just back of the dressing-table and near the window are pencil-marks, ‘Robert, Robert, Robert,’ in a girlish hand, and then a name which might have been ‘Annie,’ though neither of us could make it out distinctly. Evidently this room belonged to a maiden of that name, and while thinking about her and wondering who she was, I fell asleep. I do not believe in haunted houses, nor witches, nor ghosts, nor goblins, but last night I had the queerest dreams, in which that woman and child beneath the trees were strangely mingled with Dr. West and a young lady who came to me with such a pale, sad face, that I woke in a kind of nightmare, my first impression being that I was occupying some other room than mine.

“This morning Mattie was present while I unpacked my trunk, and coming upon that package, I said, as unconcernedly as possible, ‘Oh, by the way, do you know such a person as Mrs. David West? I have a package for her, entrusted to me by a—a friend in Beechwood.’

“‘Mrs. David West?’ and Mattie seemed to be thinking as she examined the package, which felt like a small square box. ‘Mrs. David West? No, I know no such person; but then I’ve only lived here three months. There’s Bell Verner now coming in the gate. Maybe she will know, though they have only been here since last autumn. I’ll ask her, and you be in readiness to come down if she inquires for you, as she certainly will. You look sweet in your white wrapper, with the blue ribbon round your waist. I wish blue was becoming to me—Yes, yes, Dinah, I’m coming,’ and she fluttered down to the hall, where I heard a sound of kissing, accompanied with little cooing tones of endearment, such as Mattie has always been famous for; then a whisper, and then I shut the door, for I was sure they were talking of me. As a general thing I dread to meet grand people, I had enough of them at Newport: and so I hated to meet Miss Bell Verner; and after I was sent for I waited a little, half wishing myself away from Morrisville.

“I found her a stylish, cold-looking girl, who, after taking me in, at a glance, from my head to my slippers, said rather abruptly:

“‘Excuse me, Miss Freeman, but weren’t you at Newport last summer?’

“‘Yes,’ I answered, now scanning her, to discover, if possible, some trace of a person seen before.

“‘I thought so,’ she continued. ‘We were at the Atlantic. We could not get in at the Ocean House, it was so full. Pardon me, but I am afraid I felt slightly ill-natured at your party—the Russells, I believe—because they took so many rooms as to shut us out entirely. If I remember rightly, there were nine of you, together with three servants, and you stayed two months. I used to see you on the beach, and thought your bathing-dress so pretty. We were a little jealous, too, at our house of Miss Freeman, who was styled the belle.’

“‘Oh, no,’ I exclaimed, feeling very much embarrassed, ‘I couldn’t be a belle. I did not go much in society. I stayed with Margaret who was sick, or helped take care of the children.’

“‘Oh, yes,’ she rejoined, ‘I heard of the invalid Mrs. Russell, who exacted so much of her sweet-tempered sister. The gentlemen were very indignant. By the way, how is Mrs. Russell?’

“I did not like the way she spoke of Margaret, and with as much dignity as possible I replied that Mrs. Russell was still out of health, and I feared would always remain so. Somehow I fancied that the fact of there having been nine of us, with three servants, and that we stayed at the Ocean House two months did more towards giving Miss Verner a high opinion of me than all Mattie must have said in my praise, for she became very gracious, so that I really liked her, and wished I had as fine and polished an air as she carried with her. When we had talked of the Strykers, and Waldos, and Rathbones, Mattie suddenly asked if Bell knew a Mrs. David West in town.

“‘Mrs. David West? Mrs. David West?’ It did seem as if Miss Verner had heard the name, and that it belonged to a widow living on the Ferrytown road. ‘But why do you ask?’ she said. ‘It can’t be any one desirable to know.’

“Mattie explained why, and Miss Verner good-naturedly offered to inquire, but Mattie said no, their man Peter would ascertain and take the package. So after Miss Verner was gone, and Peter came round to prune a rosebush, Mattie put him the same question:

“‘Did he know Mrs. David West?’

“‘Yes, he knew where she lived; she had that handsome grandchild.’

“Of course Mattie deputed him at once to do my errand, and I consented, though I wished so much to go myself. Running upstairs I wrote on a card:

“‘Dr. West, of Beechwood, commissioned me to be the bearer of this little package, which I should have brought to you myself had Mrs. Randall known where to find you.

“‘Dora Freeman, West Lawn.’

“I did not see Peter again until long after dinner, and then I asked if he had done my errand.

“‘Yes, miss,’ he replied. ‘She was much obliged. She’s a nice woman.’

“‘Peter, don’t those verbenas need sheltering from the hot sun?’ Mr. Randall called out, his manner indicating that by volunteering information respecting Mrs. David West, Peter was getting too familiar.

“Mr. Randall is very proud, and so is Mattie, but in a different way. If she knew how much I wish to see Mrs. West, or at least learn something of her, she would never rest until the wish was gratified. We took a walk after tea to the village cemetery, of which the people are justly proud, for it is a most beautiful spot, divesting the dark, still grave of half its terrors. There are some splendid monuments there, one costing I dare not tell how much. It was reared to the memory of General Morris, for whom the town was named, but this did not impress me one half so much as a solitary grave standing apart from all the others and enclosed by a slender iron fence. The grass in the little yard was fresh and green, and there were many roses growing there. The stone was a plain slab of Italian marble, with only these words upon it:

“‘Anna, aged 20.’

“Even Mattie was interested, and we leaned a long time on the gate, speculating upon the Anna sleeping at our feet. Who was she, and whose the hand of love which had been so often busy there? She was young, only twenty when she died. Had many years been joined to the past since she was laid to rest? Was she beautiful, and good, and pure? Yes, she was all that, I fancied, and I even dared to pluck a rose-bud whose parent stalk had taken root near the foot of the grave. I can see it now in the glass of water where I put it after returning home. That rose and that grave have interested me strangely, painfully I may say, as if the Anna whom they represented were destined to cross my path, if ever the dead can rise up a barrier between the living.

“June 15th.

“A steady summer rain has kept us in-doors all day, but I have enjoyed the quiet so much. It seems as if I never should get rested, and I am surprised to find how tired I am, and how selfish I am growing. I was wicked enough to be sorry when in the afternoon Bell Verner came, bringing her crocheting and settling herself for a visit. She is very sociable, and asks numberless questions about Beechwood and its inhabitants. I wonder why I told her of everybody but Dr. West, for I did, but of him I could not talk, and did not.

“Saturday, June 16th.

“A long letter from Johnnie, and so like him, that I cannot find it in my heart to scold him on paper for his dreadful language. I will talk to him on my return, and tell him he must be more choice of words and must make an effort to learn to spell, though I believe it is natural to the Russells to spell badly. I can see just how they miss me at home, and I cried over the letter till I was almost sick. I am sure they want me there, and I wonder what they would say if they knew how the Randalls, and Verners, and Strykers are plotting to keep me here until September, Mattie and Bell saying they will then go with me to Beechwood. Just think of those two fine ladies at our house. To be sure, it is quite as expensively furnished as either Mattie’s or Bell Verner’s, and we keep as many servants; but the children, the confusion! What would they do? No, I must not stay, though I should enjoy it vastly. I like Bell Verner, as I know her better. There is a depth of character about her for which I did not at first give her credit. One trait, however, annoys me excessively. She wants to get married, and makes no secret of it either. She’s old enough, too,—twenty-eight, as she told me of her own accord, just as she is given to telling everything about herself. Secretly, I think she would suit Dr. West, only she might feel above him, she is so exclusive. I wonder Margaret should tell him that story about Lieutenant Reed, and I am glad Johnnie set him right. I would not have Lieutenant Reed for the diamonds of India, and yet he is a great, good-natured, vain fellow, who is coming here by and by. I think I’ll turn him over to Bell, though I can fancy how her black eyes would flash upon him.

“I have had a note from Mrs. David West, inviting me to come and see her, and this is the way it reads:

“‘My Dear Miss Freeman:

“‘I am much obliged for the trouble you took in bringing me that package, and did I go out at all, except to church, I would thank you in person. If you can, will you come and see me before you return to Beechwood? I should like to talk with you about the Doctor. Any one interested in him has a sure claim upon my friendship.

“‘Yours respectfully,

“‘Helen West.

“‘Grove Street, No. 30.’

“Nothing can be more ladylike than the handwriting, and, indeed, the whole thing. Mrs. David West may be poor and unknown, but she is every whit as refined and cultivated as either Mattie or Bell. I shall see her, too, before I leave Morrisville; but why does she take it for granted that I am interested in Dr. West? I am not, except as a good physician; and what is she to him? Here I am puzzling my brain and wasting the gas, when I ought to be in bed; so with one look at that rose, which I have been foolish enough to press,—the rose from Anna’s grave,—I’ll bid the world good-night.”

CHAPTER VI.
LETTERS.

No. 1.
Mrs. David West’s Letter.

“My dear Richard:

“Your package of money and little note, sent by Miss Dora Freeman, was brought to me with a line from the young lady by Mr. Randall’s colored servant Peter. I know you could not afford to send me so much, and I wish you had kept a part for yourself. Surely, if the commandment with promise means anything,—and we know it does,—you, my son, will be blessed for your kindness to your widowed mother, as well as your unselfish devotion to those who have been, one the innocent, the other the guilty, cause of so much suffering. God reward my boy—my only boy as I sometimes fear. Surely if Robert were living he would have sent us word ere this. I have given him up, asking God to pardon his sin, which was great.

“And so the debt is paid at last! Dear Richard, when I read that I shed tears of gratitude and thanksgiving that you were free from a load you never should have borne. It was a large sum for you to earn and pay in less than seven years, besides supporting me and Robin. He grows dearer to me every day, and yet I seldom look at him without a great choking sob rising to my throat. He is like his mother, and I loved her as if she had been my daughter. O Anna, lost darling, was she as pure and sinless when she died as when she crept into my arms and whispered of her newly found hope in Him who can keep us all from sin? God only knows. Alas! that her end should be wrapt in so dark a mystery; and ten times alas! that any one should be malignant enough to blame you, who had well-nigh died when the trouble fell upon us.

“And so you fear you are more interested in this Dora than you ought to be, or rather that she is far too good for you.

“She must be very, very good, if my boy be not worthy of her.

“Yes, the Randalls are very grand, fashionable people, as you may know from the fact that the Verners and Strykers took them up at once. I don’t know what influence they may have over Dora; not a bad one, I hope. I think I saw her the other night riding by on horseback, in company with Bell Verner. It was too dark to see her distinctly, but I heard Miss Verner say, in reply evidently to some remark, ‘I never trouble myself to know or inquire after any one out of our set,’ and then they galloped on rapidly. As I am not in Miss Verner’s ‘set’ she will not probably bring Dora to see me, but I have obviated that difficulty by writing her a note and inviting her to call on me. Did I do right? I am anxious to see her, for a mother can judge better than her son of what is in woman.

“Yours affectionately,

“Helen West.”

“By the way, did you know that Mr. Randall was the purchaser of West Lawn, our old home?

“H. W.”

No. 2.
Extract from Dr. West’s reply.

“Dear Mother:—Your letters do me so much good, and make me strong to bear, though really I have perhaps as little to trouble me as do most men of my years. If the mystery concerning poor Anna were made clear,—if we were sure that she was safe with the good Shepherd, and if we knew that Robert, whether dead or alive, had repented of his sin, I should be very happy.

“There’s Dora, I know,—a continuous trouble, but one with which I would not willingly dispense. You ask if you did right to invite her to call. You seldom do wrong; but in this case, O mother, I have become a perfect coward since Dora left me. I thought I wanted her to know all that we know of Anna and Robin; but now the very possibility of her hearing the little you can tell, and then giving it the natural construction which she might, makes the cold sweat ooze out in drops upon my face. If she comes, tell her as little as possible. It gives me a thrill of satisfaction to know that she is at West Lawn, enjoying the roses I planted. Dear West Lawn! but for that terrible misfortune which prompted us to sell it, you might have belonged to Miss Bell Verner’s set. But don’t tell Dora. I’d rather she should like me for myself, and not for what I used to be.” * * * *

No. 3.
Extract from Margaret’s letter to Dora.

* * * * “I do think you might come home, instead of asking to stay longer. It’s right shabby in you to leave me so long, when you know how much I suffer. The children behave dreadfully, and even John has acted real cross, as if he thought all ailed me was nervousness. You cannot love me, Dora, as much as I do you, and I think it’s downright ungrateful after all I’ve done for you since father died. If you care for me at all, you’ll come in just one week from to-day. I have about decided to go to Saratoga, and want you to go with me. Be sure and come.”

No. 4.
Extract from Mattie’s letter to Margaret.

“Dear Mrs. Russell:—Excuse the liberty I am taking, but really if you and your husband knew how much Dora has improved since leaving home, and how much she really needs rest, you would not insist on her coming home so soon. Husband and I and Bell Verner all think it too bad, and I for one veto her leaving us.”

No. 5.
Extract from Mr. Randall’s letter.

“Mrs. Russell.—Madam:—Both myself and Mrs. Randall are exceedingly loth to part with our young guest, whom rest is benefiting so much. You will do us and her a great favor to let her remain, and I may add I think it your duty so to do.”

Scene in Mrs. Russell’s parlor one morning about the first of July.

Squire John nervously fumbling his watch-chain, looking very hot and distressed; Johnnie all swollen up, looking like a little volcano ready to explode; Mrs. Russell crying over Mr. and Mrs. Randall’s letters, wondering what business it was of theirs to meddle and talk, just as if she did not do her duty by Dora. Who, she’d like to know, had supported Dora these dozen years, sending her to school, taking her to Newport, and buying her such nice dresses? It was right mean in Dora, and she would not stand it. Dora should come home, and John should write that very day to tell her so, unless he liked Dora better than he did her, as she presumed he did—yes, she knew he did.

“Thunderation, mother, why shouldn’t he like Auntie best?” and with this outburst, Johnnie plunged heart and soul into the contest. “Who, I’d like to know, makes the house decent as a fellow likes to have it,—a married old chap, I mean, like father. ’Tain’t you. It’s Auntie, and so the whole co-boozle of servants say. You ask ’em. Talk about what you’ve done for Dora these dozen years, taking her to Newport, and all that! I think I’d dry up on that strain and tell what she’d done for me. Hasn’t there been a baby about every other week since she lived here, and hasn’t Auntie had the whole care of the brats? And at Newport how was it? I never told before, but I will now. I heard two nice gentlemen talking over what a pretty girl Miss Freeman was, and how mean and selfish it was in her sister to make such a little nigger of her. They didn’t say nigger, but that’s what they meant. Dora ain’t coming home, no how. You can go to Saratoga without her. Take Clem, and Daisy, and Tish, and Jim. You know they act the best of the lot. Leave me and Burt and Ben at home. I’ll see to them, and we shall get on well enough.”

By this time Margaret was in hysterics, to think a son of hers should abuse her so, with his father standing by and never once trying to stop him. Possibly some such idea crept through Squire John’s brain, for, putting into his voice as much sternness as he was capable of doing, he said, “My boy, I’m astonished that you should use such shocking words as thunderation, co-boozle, dry up, and the like. Your Aunt Dora would be greatly distressed; but, Madge,” turning to his sobbing wife and trying to wind his arm around her waist, “Johnnie is right, on the whole; his plan is a good one. We’ll take Clem, and Rosa, too, if you like, leaving Johnnie, Ben, and Burt at home, and Dora shall stay where she is. She was tired when she went away, and very pale. You are not selfish, Madge; you’ll let her stay. I’ll write so now,—shall I?” and there was a sound very much like a very large, hearty kiss, while a moment after Johnnie, in the kitchen, was turning a round of somersaults, striking his heels in the fat sides of the cook, and tripping up little Burt in his delight at the victory achieved for Dora.

No. 6.
Extract from Johnnie’s letter to Dora.

“July 7th.

“Dear Auntie:—The house is still as a mouse, and seems so funny. The old folks, with Tish, Jim, Daisy, Clem, and Rosa, have cut stick for Saratoga, leaving me with Ben and Burt. You orto have seen me pitch into mother about your staying. I give it to her good, and twitted about your being a drudge. I meant it all then, but now that she is gone, I’ll be—I guess I’ll skip the hard words, and say that every time I rem’ber what I said to her, there’s a thumpin’ great lump comes in my throat, and I wish I hadn’t said it. I’ve begun six letters to tell her I am sorry, and she only been gone two days, but I’ve tore ’em all up, and now when you see her you tell her I’m sorry,—’cause I am, and I keep thinkin of when I was a little shaver in petty-coats, how she sometimes took me in her lap and said I was a preshus little hunny, the joy of her life. She says I’m the pest of it now, and she never kisses me no more, nor lets me kiss her ’cause she says I slawber and wet her face, and muss her hair and dress. But she’s mother, and I wish I hadn’t sed them nasty things to her and maid her cry.

“Dr. West was here just now, and wanted to borrow a book, but when he found it was yourn he wouldn’t take it; he said he’d write and ask permission.

“We get on nice, only cook has spanked Ben once and Burt twice. I told her if she did it agen I’d spank her, and so I will. I think I’ve got her under, so she knows I’m man of the house. The old cat has weened her kittens. Burt shut one of ’em up in the meal chest, and the white-fased cow has come in, which means she’s got a calph.”

“Yours,

“Johnnie.”

No. 7.
Dr. West’s letter, on which he spent three hours, wasting half a dozen sheets of note-paper, and which when finished did not please him at all.

“Miss Freeman:—You probably do not expect me to write to you, and will be surprised at receiving this letter. The fact is I want permission to go to that little library, which, until this morning, I did not know was yours. There are some books I would like to read, but will not do so without leave from the owner.

“I hear you are enjoying your visit, and I am glad, although I miss you very much. Of course you know your brother and sister are at Saratoga, and that Johnnie is keeping house, as he says. If you have not time to answer this to me, please say to Johnnie whether I can read the books or not.

“Yours truly,

“Richard West.”

No. 8.
Dora’s reply, over which she spent two hours and wasted five sheets of note-paper.

“Dr. West.—Dear Sir:—You really were over-nice about the books, and I should feel like scolding were it not that your fastidiousness procured me a letter which I did not expect from you. Certainly, you may take any book you like.

“And so you miss me? I wonder if that is true. I should not think you would. I’m not worth missing. I hope you will see Johnnie as often as possible.

“Yours respectfully,

“Dora.

“P. S.—I am going to-morrow to see Mrs. David West.”

CHAPTER VII.
DORA’S DIARY CONTINUED.

“It is a long time since I wrote a word in this book; I have been so happy and so busy withal; visits, rides, picnics, and everything. I did not know that life was so bright and pleasant as I have found it here in Morrisville, where everybody seems trying to entertain me. Mattie’s brother Charlie is here, but he behaves like a man; does not annoy me one bit, but flirts shockingly with Bell Verner, who flirts as hard in return. He teasingly asked me one day about Dr. West, and when Bell inquired who he was, he said he was ‘a country doctor of little pills; a sort of lackadaisical chap, who read service very loud, and almost touched the pew railing when he bowed in the Apostles’ Creed.’

“I grew so very angry defending Dr. West that Bell honestly believes I care for him, and kindly stops Lieutenant Reed when he begins his fun. I like Bell Verner more and more, only she is too proud. How I cried over that letter from Margaret telling me to come home, and how I tried not to have Mr. and Mrs. Randall answer it; but they did, and there came back such a nice response from John. What a dear, unselfish man he is, and how smooth he made it look,—so smooth that I really felt as if doing him a favor by staying until Johnnie’s letter was received, and I guessed at once the storm through which they had passed.

“Will I ever forget the day I received a letter from Dr. West? I could scarcely credit my own eyes, yet there was his name, Richard West, looking so natural. I felt the blood tingling in my veins, even though he merely wrote to ask me if he might read my books, the foolish man! Of course he might. He says he misses me, and this I think is why the letter is worth so much, and why I answered it. Perhaps it was foolish to do so, but I can’t help it now. It is not at all likely he’ll write again though I find myself fancying how I shall feel, and what he would say in a second letter. Bell Verner knows he wrote, for I told her, but pretended I did not care. To-morrow I am going at last to see Mrs. David West.

“July 15th.—I have seen Mrs. David West; have looked into her eyes, so like the doctor’s; have heard her voice; have seen the child; and oh! why am I so wretched, and why, when I came back, did I tear up that rose from Anna’s grave and throw it to the winds? I hate this room. I cannot bear it, for Anna used to occupy it; she haunts me continually. She died in this room. Richard kissed her here, and here that child was born. Oh, what am I to think except what I do? And yet it is all suspicion, based on what a gossiping woman told me. I wish she had never come here. I would rather have cooked the dinner myself than have heard what I have.

“It was arranged that Mattie should go with me to see this Mrs. David West, and I thought of little else all the morning; but when dinner came Mattie had been seized with one of her violent headaches, and it was impossible for her even to sit up. Knowing how much I had anticipated the call, and not wishing to have me disappointed, she insisted that I should go without her, Peter acting as my escort there, while the new cook, a Mrs. Felton, who, it seems, had business on that street, would call for me on her way home. This was the arrangement, and at about four o’clock I started. I had in some way received the impression that Mrs. David West lived on Elm Street, and when we passed that point I asked Peter if we were right.

“‘Yes, miss, Grove Street,—just there a ways in the neatest little cottage you ever set eyes on, I reckon.’

“Involuntarily I thought of the woman and child seen that first evening of my arrival at Morrisville, and something told me I was going straight to that cottage with its roses, its vines, and bay-windows. The surmise was correct. I knew the house in an instant, and had there been a doubt it would have been dispelled by the widow’s cap and the little child out on the grass-plat, just where they were that other summer day so like this and yet so unlike it, for then I never guessed how sharp a pang I should be suffering now.

“‘There she is. That’s Mrs. West with Robin,’ Peter said, and the next moment I was speaking to Mrs. David West, and before she said to me, ‘You know my son,’ I felt sure she was the doctor’s mother.

“The same fine cast of feature, the same kind, honest expression beaming in the dark eye, and the same curve of the upper lip,—said by some to be always indicative of high breeding. The mother and son were very much alike, except that she as a female was noticeable for a softer style of beauty. I never saw one to whom the widow’s cap was so becoming. It seemed peculiarly adapted to her sad, sweet face and the silken bands of grayish hair, which it did not conceal. There was also in her manner and speech a refinement which even Bell Verner might have imitated with advantage. My heart went out to her at once, and by the time I was seated in the rustic chair, for I preferred remaining in the yard, I felt as much at ease as if I had known her all my life.

“‘This is Robin,’ she said, turning to the child, who I now discovered was a cripple in its feet, and unable to walk. ‘Did Richard ever tell you of Robin?’

“There was a hesitancy now in her voice, as if she knew Richard had never told me of him, and doubted her own integrity in asking the question.

“‘No,’ I replied, ‘the doctor never told me of Robin, nor yet of himself.’

“‘Richard is very reticent,’ she answered; and then as she saw my glance constantly directed to Robin, she evidently tried to keep me from talking of him by asking numberless questions about Richard, and by telling me what a good, kind child he was to her.

“It is true I did not suspect her then of such a motive, but I can see now how she headed me off from the dangerous ground on which I leaped at last, for I could not resist the expression of that child’s face, and breaking away from what she was telling me of Richard, I knelt by his chair, and kissing his round cheek, asked:

“‘Whose boy are you?’

“‘Papa Richard’s and grandma’s,’ he replied, and then there flashed upon me the thought that in spite of his deep blue eyes and soft golden curls he was like Dr. West. For an instant I was conscious of a sharp, stinging pain, as I said to myself, ‘Was Dr. West ever married?’ Surely he would have told of that,—would at some time have mentioned his wife, and with the pain there came the knowledge that I did care more for Dr. West than I had supposed; that I was jealous of the dead woman, the mother of this child. Mrs. West must have divined a part of my thoughts, for she said half laughingly, like one under restraint:

“‘He has always called my son “Papa Richard,” as he is the only father the child ever knew,’ and a shadow flitted across her face as she directed my attention to a tall heliotrope near by. But I was not to be evaded; curiosity was aroused, and replying to her remark concerning the heliotrope, I turned again to Robin, whose little hand I now held in mine, and said, ‘He is your grandchild?’

“Suddenly the dark eyes looked afar off as if appealing to something or somebody for help; then they softened and tears were visible in them.

“‘Poor little Robin, he has been a source of great sorrow as well as of comfort to me, Miss Freeman,’ and Mrs. West’s delicate hand smoothed and unwound the golden curls clustering around Robin’s head. ‘So I used to unwind her curls,’ she continued abstractedly. ‘Robin’s mother. I must show you her picture when we go in. She was very beautiful, more so than any one I ever knew, and Richard thinks the same.’

“Again that keen pain, as of a sharp knife gliding through my flesh, passed over me, but I listened breathlessly, while still caressing the child she continued:

“‘His mother was my adopted daughter: I never had one of my own. Two sons have been born to me; one I have lost,’—and her breath came gaspingly like speaking of the dead,—‘the other you know is Richard. To all intents and purposes Anna was my daughter, and I am sure no mother ever loved her own offspring more than I did Anna. O Anna darling, Anna darling! I never dreamed, when I took her to my bosom, that she could—O Anna!’ and Mrs. West’s voice broke down in a storm of sobs.

“After this I could not ask her any more questions, and in a kind of maze I followed her into the house, which was a perfect little gem, and showed marks of most exquisite taste. Some of the furniture struck me as rather too heavy and expensive for that cottage, but I gave it but little thought, so interested was I in what I had heard and seen.

“‘That is Anna,’ Mrs. West said, pointing to a small portrait hanging upon the wall just where the western sunbeams were falling upon it and lighting it up with a wonderful halo of beauty.

“Instantly I forgot all else in my surprise that anything so perfectly beautiful could ever have belonged to a human being, and with a scream of delight I stood before the picture, exclaiming, ‘It is not possible that this is natural!’

‘It is said to be,’ Mrs. West rejoined, ‘though there is a look in her eye which I did not notice until a few months before she died. She was crazy at the last.’

“‘Crazy!’ I repeated, now gazing with a feeling of pity upon the lovely face, which seemed imbued with life.

“I cannot describe that face, and I will not attempt it, for after I had told of the dark blue eyes and curls of golden hair, of the pure white skin and full ripe lips, you, my journal, would not have the least idea of the face, for the sweet, heavenly expression which made it what it was can never be described on paper. The artist had put it on canvas, so at least said Mrs. David West, and I believed her, drinking in its rare loveliness and repeating again, ‘Crazy—poor Anna! Was it for long?’

“‘No, not long; she died when Robin was born.’

“‘And her husband; he must have been heart-broken,’ I ventured to say next, but if Mrs. West heard me, she made no reply, and with my thoughts in a tumult, I continued looking at the portrait until, suddenly remembering the grave which had so interested me, I asked, ‘How old was Anna when she died?’

“‘Just twenty,’ was the reply; while I rejoined, ‘I am sure then I have seen her grave. It says upon the stone, “Anna, aged 20.”’

“‘Yes, that’s all Richard would have on the marble. It almost killed Richard, but God has healed the wound just as He will heal all hearts which go to Him.’

“I don’t know why I said what I did next, unless it were that I should have died if I had not. The words were wrung from me almost against my will:

“‘Was Richard Anna’s husband?’

“‘No, no, oh no, Richard was not her husband!’ Mrs. West replied, quickly.

“Heretofore she had answered my queries concerning Anna with hesitancy, but the ‘No, no, oh no, Richard was not her husband,’ was spoken eagerly, decidedly, as if it were a fact she would particularly impress upon my mind. Then, as I stood looking at her expectantly, she went on, but this time in the old, cautious manner:

“‘I never knew who Anna’s husband was. It is a sad story, which I would gladly forget, but Robin’s presence keeps it in my mind,’ and bowing her head over the child, the poor woman wept passionately.

“‘Poor grandma, don’t cry. I love you! What makes grandma cry over me so much, and look so sorry at me? Is it because I am a little lame boy?’

“This Robin said to me, while he tried to brush away the tears of her he called grandmother. He had not talked much before, but what he said now went through my heart, and kissing his forehead, I whispered:

“‘People sometimes cry for joy.’

“‘But she don’t,’ he said, nodding toward Mrs. West, who left us alone while she bathed her face and eyes. ‘She looks so sorry, and says, “Poor Robin,” so often. I guess it’s because my feet will never walk, that she says that. I should cry too, but Papa Richard talked to me so good, and said God made me lame; that up in heaven there were no little cripples; that if I loved the Saviour, and didn’t fret about my feet, I’d go up there some day; and since then I’ve tried hard not to mind, and ever so many times a day I say softly to myself, “Will Jesus help Robin not to fret because he’s a poor lame boy, of no use to anybody.” I say it way in my mouth, but God hears just the same.’

“I could not answer for my weeping, but kneeling beside the lame boy, I wound my arms around his neck, and laid his curly head upon my bosom, just as I would have done had it been Johnnie, Ben, or Bertie thus afflicted.

“‘Seems like you was most my mother,’ he said, caressing my cheek with his soft little hand. ‘You don’t look like her much, only I dreamed once she came to me and loved me, as you do, and kissed my twisted feet, oh! so many times. It was a beautiful dream, and next day I told it to grandma, and asked her if she wasn’t sure my mother was in heaven! She did not answer until I said again, “Is she in heaven?” Then she said, “I hope so, Robin;” but I wanted to know sure, and kept on asking, until she burst out with the loudest cry I ever heard her or anybody cry, and said, “God knows, my little Robin. He will take care of her. I hope she’s there!” but she wouldn’t say for sure, just as she did when the minister and Mrs. Terry’s baby died. Why not? Why didn’t she? Lady, you look good. You look as if you prayed. Do you pray?’

“‘Yes,’ I answered, wondering if he would call my careless words a prayer.

“‘Then lady,’ and the deep eyes of blue looked eagerly, wistfully at me, ‘then tell me true, is my mother in heaven, sure?’

“What could I do,—I who knew nothing to warrant a different conclusion,—what could I do but answer, ‘Yes.’ He believed me, the trustful, innocent child, clapping his hands for joy, while the picture on the wall, wholly wrapped in the summer sunshine, seemed one gleam of heavenly glory, as if the mother herself confirmed the answer given to her boy. He did not doubt me in the least, neither did I doubt myself; Anna was safe, whatever her sin might have been; whether the wife of one husband or six, like the woman of Samaria, she surely was forgiven.

“Mrs. West had now returned, her face as calm and placid as ever, and her voice as low and sweet.

“‘You have had a sad call, I fear,’ she said. ‘Richard would not like it if he knew how I had entertained you, but I’ll promise to do better next time, though I cannot talk of Anna. Some day perhaps, you may know all, but I would rather it should be Richard who tells you.’

“She kept associating me with Richard, and though the association was not distasteful, it puzzled me somewhat, making me wonder if he had ever told her much of me.

“At that moment Mattie’s new cook, Mrs. Felton, appeared, curtseying with a great deal of humility to Mrs. West, who did not seem especially pleased to meet her. Still she greeted her kindly, and suffered her to caress Robin, whom she called a ‘precious lamb,’ a ‘poor, little, stunted rosy,’ and numerous other extravagant names.

“‘I’m back to the old place,’ she said to Mrs. West, when through with Robin, ‘but my, such a change! ’Tain’t much such times as when you were there, I tell you. Then we had a head; now we’ve none.’

“Mrs. West stopped her at this point by asking me to come again, and saying she did not know Mrs. Randall or she would call on me.

“‘You might make the first advance,’ I said. ‘You have surely lived here longer than Mrs. Randall.’

“‘Yes, I know,’ and her pale face flushed up to her soft grey hair. ‘But times have changed with me. I do not go out at all.’

“‘Come again,’ Robin said, as I turned towards him; ‘come again, lady; I likes you, cause you seem some like Papa Richard.’

“It grated harshly to hear the child say Papa Richard, and involuntarily I asked, ‘Why he did not say Uncle Richard? He is not your father,’ I added, while the child’s eyes grew big with wonder, as he replied:

“‘Then where is my father, I’d like to know?’

“Mrs. Felton laughed a hateful, meaning laugh, and said:

“‘Come, Miss Freeman, it’s time we were going.’

“With another good-by for Robin I shook Mrs. West’s proffered hand, and was soon out in the street with Mrs. Felton, who, when we were at a safe distance from the house, remarked in a very disagreeable tone:

“‘The cutest thing you ever did was to tell that child not to call the doctor papa. I’d have broke him of it long before this. It don’t sound well, ’specially after all’s been said about Mr. Richard and Miss Anna.’

“I wouldn’t question her, neither was there a necessity for it, as she was bent on talking, and of the Wests, too.

“‘I s’pose you know the doctor and his mother used to own West Lawn?’ was the next remark, which brought to my mind the conversation between her and Mrs. West.

“‘Used to own West Lawn!’ I repeated, surprised out of my cool reserve.

“‘To be sure they did; but, for some unaccountable reason which nobody ever knew, they sold it about the time Anna died, and bought the place where they live now. Of course when a person jumps right out of a good nest with their eyes wide open, nobody but themselves is to blame for where they land. Mrs. West held her head as high as the next one, drove her carriage, and used solid silver every day, and now its all gone. I lived with her as chamber-maid for a whole year. I was Sarah Pellet then.’

“I was too much interested to stop her, and suffered her to go on.

“‘I loved Miss Anna, even if she did turn out bad. She was the sweetest-tempered, prettiest-wayed girl you ever seen, and when they took her to the hospital I felt as bad as if she’d died.’

“‘To the hospital? The lunatic asylum? Did she go there?’ I asked; and Sarah Felton replied:

“‘Oh yes; they hoped ’twould cure her. Seems’s if the trouble all come to once. First, there was Robert, Richard’s twin, who went off, or was murdered, and has never been heard of since.’

“‘Richard’s twin brother ran off? When? How long ago? How long before Anna died, I mean?’ I asked, stopping suddenly as a new light dawned upon me, only, alas! to fade into darkness at the answer.

“‘Oh, better than a year. Yes, a full year; for he’d been gone a good spell before it was known to many. He didn’t live here; ’twas in New York, and he hardly ever come home. He was a wild one, not much like Richard, who was engaged to Anna, and that’s what I can’t make out,—why he didn’t marry her.’

“We were crossing a common now, where there were rustic benches beneath the trees; and feeling that unless I stopped I should fall, I was so faint and sick with what I had heard, I said that I was tired; and seating myself upon a bench, loosened my hat-strings and leaned against a tree, listening, while my loquacious companion continued:

“‘He was engaged for years, so I’ve heard, and I know he thought a sight of her. It was fairly sickish to see ’em together, he with his arm round her and she a lettin’ her head, with them long curls, loll on his shoulder. They was to be married the very day she died. ’Twas an awful sight. I went away from them about the time they sent her to the hospital; but I was back a spell, as the chamber-maid was took sick, and so I was in it all. Dr. Richard kissed her when she was dyin’, and she whispered something in his ear.’

“‘But Robin,’ I gasped; ‘Anna was surely married to somebody.’

“Again the smile I had seen before and hated curled her lip as she answered:

“‘Yes, of course she was married, for she was a very pious girl, runnin’ Sunday-schools, belongin’ to the church, tendin’ to the poor, and all that.’

“I knew that woman did not believe in Anna’s piety, but I did, and the belief gave me comfort as I gazed up into the clear blue sky and said to myself, ‘She is there.’

“Dimly I began to perceive why Mrs. West could not tell Robin that his mother was in heaven sure; but I was glad I had done so, without reasoning in the least upon the matter. I exonerated Anna, and only wrote bitter things against poor Richard, saying to the woman, ‘And Richard kissed her when she was dying?’

“‘Yes, up there where you sleep. That was Anna’s room, where she died, and where Robin was born. I didn’t see it, but them that told me did. Richard fell as flat as if struck with lightning when he came up from the office and heard what had happened, and six hours after, when they said she was dyin’ and had asked for him, he had to be carried, he was so limpsy and weak. She never noticed the child an atom, or acted as if there was one, but would whisper, ‘Forgive,—I can’t tell,—I promised not. It’s all right,—all right.’ What she meant nobody knows, for she died just that way, with Richard’s arm around her, and the doctor a-holdin’ him, for he was whiter than a rag, and after she was dead he went into a ravin’ fever, which lasted for weeks and weeks, till the allopaths give him up. Then the homœopaths come in and cured him, and that’s why he turned into a sugar-pill doctor. He was one of the blisterin’ and jollup kind before his sickness, but after that he changed, and they do say he’s mighty skilful. As soon as he got well they sold West Lawn, and Mrs. West has never seemed like the same woman since. Folks thinks they’s poor, though what’s become of the property nobody knows. Anyways the doctor supports his mother, sendin’ her money every now and agen.’

“‘But why,’ I asked, ‘did Mrs. Randall and Bell Verner never hear of all this?’

“‘Easy enough,’ was the reply. ‘Judge Verner only moved here last fall, and Mr. Randall last spring. West Lawn has changed hands three times since the doctor owned it; so it’s natural that his name shouldn’t appear in the sale. Then, it’s seven years since it all happened, and a gossiping place like Morrisville, where there are upwards of three thousand folks, don’t harp on one string forever; only them that was interested, like me, remembers.’

“This was true in detail, and was a good reason why neither Bell nor Mattie had ever heard of Anna West, I thought, as I dragged my steps homeward, hardly knowing when I reached there, and feeling glad that Mattie was still confined to her bed, as this left me free to repair at once to my own room,—Anna’s room,—where she died, with her head on Richard’s arm, and he so weak that he had to be supported. Poor Richard! I do pity him, knowing now why he so often seems sad. But what was it? How is it, and what makes my brain whirl so fast? Anna said with her dying breath that it was all right, and I believe her. I will not cast at her a stone. She is in heaven sure; yes, Robin, sure. And Richard fell as if smitten with lightning when he heard of it! That betokened innocence on his part. Then why this horrid feeling? Is it sorrow that he cared for and loved her? I don’t know; everything seems so far off that I cannot find it. What is the record? Let me see.

“Richard once lived here in this grand house; he has met with reverses, nobody knows what; he has a brother somewhere, nobody knows where; he supports his mother, and this accounts for what I termed his stinginess. How I hate myself, and how noble Dr. West would appear were it not for,—for,—I cannot say it,—the horrible possibility, and I,—I guess,—I think,—I am very sure I did care for him more than I supposed.

“July 23d.

“I have been sick for many days, swallowing the biggest doses of medicine, until it is a wonder I did not die. It was a heavy cold, taken when sitting upon the common, I heard Mattie tell Bell Verner when she came in to ask after me, and so I suppose it was, though I am sure my head would never have ached so hard if I had not heard that dreadful story. I have thought a great deal while Mattie believed me sleeping, and the result of it is this: I hate Dr. West, and never desire to see him again! There is something wrong, and I’ve no faith in anybody.

“There’s a letter from Margaret lying on the table. They are at the Clarendon, which is a new hotel, smaller than either the United States or Union Hall, but makes up for its size in its freshness, its quiet, and air of homelike comfort. At least so Margaret says; and although she complains that she does not see so many people as she would at the larger houses, she seems contented, and speaks in raptures of her nice large rooms and their gentlemanly host. I am glad she is satisfied, and that Johnnie, at home, is, as he expresses it in a letter just received, ‘as happy as a clam.’