Wives and Widows; or, The Broken Life. Ann S. Stephens
her mother's protection. I was sitting on the floor by my trunk, with both hands pressed to my face, sobbing piteously, when a sweet, strange voice checked the force of that woman's harangue; some one sank down to the floor by me, and I was all at once drawn into a close embrace.
"Don't cry, dear; it is all very sad, no doubt, but you are going with us, and to-morrow will be brighter."
I looked through a mist of tears that half blinded me, and saw the kindest, sweetest face that my eyes ever dwelt upon. It was that of a young woman, perhaps twenty or twenty-two years of age. "You must not feel yourself alone, dear child," she said, smoothing my hair with one hand, from which she had drawn off the glove.
"Oh," said Mrs. Pierce, pushing her daughter behind her, "you will never believe, marm, what she is crying about—leaving home, you think it is? Oh, no; Miss is just taking on about a snip of a doll which my little girl here smashed a trifle, not meaning any harm, for children will be children, you know."
Here Mrs. Pierce patted her child's head, who cast sidelong glances at me and attempted to hide herself behind her mother's dress.
I looked up at the young lady, blushing red, and begging her in my heart not to think me so very ridiculous.
She smiled encouragingly, and turning upon Mrs. Pierce, said, very gravely,—
"I am surprised, madam, that you should think this a slight cause of grief. The smallest thing connected with the child's home must be dear to her."
Mrs. Pierce gave her head a fling, and muttered that she meant no harm. Miss was welcome to all her things back again; her children did not want them, not they.
"You are right," said the young lady, quite seriously; "have everything she has owned or loved packed up at once."
Mrs. Pierce went out muttering; the child followed her with a finger in her mouth.
"Now," said the young lady, "is there anything else you would like to take away—a bird, a little dog, or the cat you have loved; we can find room for them?"
My heart leaped. I had the dear old canary-bird; and lying upon the crimson cushions of my mother's easy-chair was "Fanny," a pretty chestnut-colored dog, that had all the grace of an Italian greyhound, and the brightness of a terrier.
"May I take her with me?" I cried, springing up and falling on my knees before my mother's arm-chair, and hugging Fanny to my bosom. "I am so glad, so grateful, so—"
Here I broke down, and burying my face in Fanny's fur, cried and laughed out my thankfulness. When I looked up, one of the handsomest men I ever saw stood by the young lady, who was smiling upon him, though I saw bright tears in her eyes.
"So this is your father's ward," said the gentleman, reaching out his hand as if he had known me all his life.
I put my hand in his, and felt my heart grow warm, as if it had found shelter from its loneliness. He exchanged glances with the lady, and I felt sure that they were pleased with me.
"Now," said the gentleman, "we have a little time, if you want to take leave of anything."
"Oh, I have been taking leave ever since she died," I answered, saddened by his words. "I couldn't do it again."
"Perhaps that is best," said the gentleman; "so get on your things; we have a long ride before us."
I started to obey him, but all at once a doubt seized upon me. Who were these people? I did not know them. Mr. Olmsly, my guardian, I had been informed, was an old man. What right had these people to take me away from my home?
I stole back to the gentleman, trembling, and filled with sudden apprehension.
"Please tell me who you are," I said; "Mr. Olmsly! I thought he was an old man."
"And so he is," answered the gentleman, smiling pleasantly, "but he is not very well, and so his daughter came after you in his place. This is Miss Olmsly."
The young lady stooped down and kissed me. My arms stole around her neck unawares, and from that moment I loved her dearly. When I turned away from the young lady's caresses, her companion said—
"Now you would like to know who I am; isn't that so?"
I nodded my head, feeling that I could tell at once who he was.
"Her brother, I am sure of that, you are both so—so—pleasant."
I was about to say "handsome," but changed it to the less flattering word.
They both laughed, and the gentleman glanced at Miss Olmsly's face, which, I was surprised to see, turned red as a wild rose.
"No, I am not her brother," he said, flushing up himself; "but I shall be a great deal at your guardian's, and I shall think that you are almost my sister. Will you like that?"
"So much!" I replied, with a light heart, for all my anxieties were put to rest. "Now I will get my things."
I went up-stairs and entered my own little room for the last time. How homelike and familiar everything looked: the little bed in the corner, with its draperies of white net; the muslin window-curtains, through which I could see great clusters of old-fashioned white roses, still wet with morning dew, and lying like snow among the vivid green of the thick leaves; my little walnut-wood desk, where I had got my first lessons—all appealed to me with a force that swept away the dawning cheerfulness which the conversation down-stairs had inspired. I sat down by the window and looked sadly out. The sash was open, and a sweet fragrance came up from the white clover-field, mingling with that of the great rose-bush, which had reached the second-story windows, ever since I could remember. I could not bear to leave all these things. Yet the house had been so lonely that I had no clear wish to stay. To me there was something terrible in leaving that safe home-shelter. I grew cold, and began to cry again. Afar off I could see the graveyard where my mother was lying. Her presence was close to me then. How could I go away and leave her resting there within sight of the old house? But she had herself arranged that I should live with my guardian. Why should these bitter regrets depress me, while obeying her? It was that strong home feeling which has never left me during my life—the feeling which prompted me to gather a handful of those white roses, and keep them till they crumbled into nothing but the ashes of a flower. Oh, how my heart ached when we drove away from that old stone house! the picture is even yet burned in on my brain. That tall hickory-tree at one end—the willow in front. Those fine old lilac-bushes, and the clustering roses reaching luxuriantly to the upper windows, in the full rich blossoming of early June. Many a time since, when in sadness and sorrow this picture has come back to my mind, I have wondered if it might not have been better had I stayed in that quiet old home.
CHAPTER II.
MY NEW HOME.
Mr. Olmsly was a very wealthy man. His property stretched far into an iron and coal district of Pennsylvania, and every day increased its value. It lay in and around a fine inland town, situated among some of the most picturesque scenery to be found in the State. His residence was about five miles from this town, and a most beautiful spot it was. The house was built on the last spur of a range of hills, which ran for some distance down the valley of the Delaware. Around this tall ridge the noble river made a bold sweep, turned an old stone mill on its outer curve, and went careering down one of the richest and most beautiful valleys that the eye ever dwelt upon. The whole of this mountain spur, the mill and the land down to the river, which swept around it like an ox-bow, was the property of Mr. Olmsly. His house of heavy stone was built half-way up the side of the ridge, in the form of the letter T, which ran lengthwise along the face of the hill, presenting a pointed roof, and one sharp gable in the front view. The walls were stuccoed like many houses to be found in European countries, and were settled back on the hill by three curving terraces, two of them blooming with rare flowers. These terraces cut the hill as with a girdle of blossoms about half-way up from its base. The first was