It is said he loved my Aunt Mary, Ellen's mother, and that she loved him in return, but after this sad affair there arose a coolness between them. He went to New York and married a more fashionable woman, while she, too, chose another."

"Did they ever find the money?" Jessie asked, and Walter replied:

"Never, though Aunt Debby says that Heyward indulged in a new suit of clothes soon after, and gave various other tokens of being abundantly supplied. No one knows where he is now, for he left Deerwood years ago."

"And your mother," interrupted Jessie, "tell me more of her."

The night shadows were falling, and she could not see the look of pain on Walter's face as he replied:

"For a few days she watched to see father coming back, for suspense was more terrible than reality, and those who were his friends before said his going off looked badly. From Boston her proud relatives sent her a double curse for bringing this disgrace upon them, and then she took her bed, never to rise again. The first October frosts had fallen when they laid me in her arms and bade her live for her baby's sake. But five days after I was born she lay dead beneath that western window where you so often sit. Then the proud mother relented and came to the funeral, but she has never been here since. Your father was present, too,-he bought the monument; he cried over me, and wished that he could fill my father's place."

"I wish he could, too," cried the impulsive Jessie, "I wish you were my brother," and she involuntarily laid her hand in his. "Have you never heard from your father?" she asked, and Walter replied:

"Only once. Six months after mother died he wrote to Mr. Graham from Texas, and that is the very last. But, Jessie, I shall find him. I shall prove him innocent, and until then there will always be a load in my heart,-a something which makes me irritable, cross and jealous of those I love the best, lest they should despise me for what I cannot help."

"And is that why you speak so coldly to me sometimes when I don't deserve it?" Jessie asked, twining her snowy fingers about his own.

Oh, how Walter longed to fold her in his arms and tell her how dear she was to him, and that because he loved her so much he was oftenest harsh with her. But he dared not. She would not listen to such words, he knew.

She thought of him as her brother, and he would not disturb the dream, so he answered her gently:

"Am I cross to you, Jessie? I do not mean to be, and now that you know all, I will be so no longer. You do not hate me, do you, because of my misfortune?"

"Hate you, Walter! Oh, no! I love,-I mean I like you so much better than I did when I came up here this afternoon and cried with my face in the gra.s.s. I pity you, Walter, for it seems terrible to live with that disgrace hanging over you."

Walter winced at these last words, and Jessie, as if speaking more to herself than him, continued:

"I hope Will won't tell grandma who you are, for she is so proud that she might make me feel very uncomfortable by fretting every time I spoke to you. Walter," and the tone of Jessie's voice led Walter to expect some unpleasant remark, "you know father has intended to have you live with us, but if William tells grandma, it will be better for you to board somewhere else,-grandma can be very disagreeable if she tries, and she would annoy us almost to death."

Jessie was perfectly innocent in all she said, but in spite of his recent promise Walter felt his old jealousy rising up, and whispering to him that Jessie spoke for herself rather than her grandmother. With a great effort, however, he mastered the emotion and replied:

"It will be better, I think, and I will write to your father at once."

Jessie little dreamed what it cost Walter thus deliberately to give up seeing her every day, and living with her beneath the same roof. It had been the goal to which he had looked forward through all his college course, for when he entered on his first year Mr. Graham had written:

"After you are graduated I shall take you into business, and into my own family, as if you were my son."

And Jessie herself had vetoed this,-had said it must not be.

For an instant Walter felt that he would not go to New York at all; but when he saw how closely Jessie nestled to his side, and heard her say, "You can come to see me every day, and when I am going to concerts, or the opera, I shall always send word to you by father," he rejected his first suspicions as unjust.

She was not ashamed of him,-she only wished to screen him from her grandmother's ill nature, and, winding his arm around her, he said:

"You are a good girl, Jessie, and I'm glad you think of me as a brother."

But he was not glad. He did not wish her to be his sister, but he tried to make himself believe he did, and as in the pines where they sat it was already very dark, he proposed their returning home. Jessie was unusually silent during the walk, for she was thinking of Walter's young mother, and as they pa.s.sed the grave-yard in the distance, she sighed:

"Poor dear lady! I don't wonder you are often sad with that memory haunting you."

"I should not be sad," he returned, "if I could bring the world to my opinion; but nearly all except Aunt Debby believe him guilty."

"Does my father?" asked Jessie, and as Walter replied, "Yes," she rejoined: "Then I'm afraid I think so too, for father knows; but," she hastily added, as she felt the gesture of impatience Walter made, "I like you just the same,-yes, a great deal better than before I heard the story. It isn't as bad as I supposed, and I am so glad you told it. Will Bellenger won't make me distrust you again."

By this time they had reached the house, where the deacon sat smoking his accustomed pipe, and saying to Walter as he entered:

"Where are the cows you went after more than three hours ago?"

Walter colored, and so did Jessie, while the matter-of-fact Aunt Debby rejoined:

"Why, Amos, the cows is milked and the cream is nigh about riz."

That night, after all had retired except the deacon and Walter, the former said to his grandson:

"What kept you and Jessie so late?"

"I was telling her of my father, and why he went away," returned Walter.

The deacon groaned as he always did when that subject was mentioned,-then after a moment he added:

"I am glad it was no worse,-that is, I'm glad you are not betraying Mr.

Graham's trust by making love to his daughter."

Walter was very pale, but he did not speak, and his grandfather continued:

"I am old, Walter, but I have not forgotten the days when I was young; and remembering my disposition then, I can see why you should love Jessie Graham. G.o.d bless her! She's worthy of any man's best love, and she's wound herself round my old heart till the sound of her voice is sweet to me almost as Ellen's; but she isn't for you, Walter. I know Mr.

Graham better than you do. He's n.o.ble and good, but very proud, and the daughter of a millionaire must never marry the son of a poor--"

"Don't!" cried Walter, catching his grandfather's arm. "I understand it all,-I know that I am poor, know what the world says of my father, and I will suffer through all time sooner than ask the bright-faced Jessie to share one iota of our shame. But were my father innocent, I would never rest until I made myself a name which even Jessie Graham would not despise, for I love her, grandpa,-love her better than my life," and as after this confession he could not look his grandfather in the face, he stared hard at the candle dying in its socket, as if he would fain read there some token that what he so much desired would one day come to pa.s.s.

And he did read it too, for with a last great effort the expiring flame sent up a flash of light, which shone on Walter's face and that of the gray-haired man regarding him with a look of tender pity. Then it pa.s.sed away, and the darkness fell between them just as the old man said, mournfully:

"There is no hope, my boy,-no hope for you."

CHAPTER VI.-OLD MRS. BARTOW.

The good lady sat in her chamber wiping the perspiration from her ruddy face, and occasionally peering out into the pleasant street, with a longing desire to escape from her self-imposed prison, and breathe the air again in her accustomed walks. But this she dared not do, lest it should be discovered that she was not away from home and enjoying some little pent-up room in the third story of a crowded hotel. Occasionally, too, she thought with a sigh of the clover fields, the fresh, green gra.s.s and shadowy woods, where Jessie was really enjoying herself, without the trouble of dressing three times a day, and then swelling with vexation because some one else out-did her.

"If she don't come with William, I mean to go down there and see what this family are like that she makes such a fuss about," she said.

"Marshall? Marshall? The name sounds familiar, but it isn't likely I ever knew them. If I supposed I had, I wouldn't stir a step."

At this point in her soliloquy a servant appeared, saying "Mr. Bellenger wished to see her," and putting in her teeth, for it tired her to wear them all the time, and adjusting her lace cap, the old lady went down to meet the young man, who had just returned from Deerwood. Numberless were the questions she asked concerning her granddaughter. Was she well? was she happy? was she sun-burned? were her hands scratched with briers? and what kind of people were these Marshalls?

To this last William hastened to reply:

"Clever country people, very kind to Jessie, and well they may be, for if I've the least discernment, they hope to have her in their family one of these days."