It was quite late that night, and every one had gone to bed, except Mrs.

Dering, who sat sleeplessly beside the bed, holding Ernestine's hot hand, and Bea, who nestled quietly in a large rocking chair, equally sleepless, and looking alternately from the loving, watchful face of mother, to the flushed, restless one on the pillow, while the big tears dropped unheeded down her cheeks.

The doctor had said, on leaving in the evening, that when Ernestine awoke, she would be herself, and for some time Mrs. Dering had been watching the feverish flush give way to pallor, and the restless, uneasy tossing to quiet slumber, and she knew, that before long, Ernestine would be herself, and ask a dreaded question. The house was painfully still. Bea shivered as the clock's ticking sounded loudly through the halls, and thought of last night when they all stood there, in that same room, and wondered where Ernestine was; and Mrs. Dering shivered, though, for quite another reason, for her mind held far different memories.

Just then, Ernestine turned, as though awakening, and the clock began to strike twelve. Through the dozen slow strokes she did not move again, but the moment they ceased, she moaned just a little bit, in a feeble, tired way, and opened her eyes.

At the same instant, Mrs. Dering held a tiny gla.s.s to her lips, raised the pillow and said quietly:

"Drink, dear."

Ernestine did so, unresistingly, and lay for several minutes perfectly quiet, with her eyes wide open; and then they began to grow startled, and went suddenly to Bea's face, and stopped there. Bea smiled, notwithstanding she was trembling violently, and leaving her seat, came to the bed. But Ernestine was not noticing her now; she was looking all about the room in a terrified way, and suddenly sat up straight in bed, pushed her hair back, and saw her mother. For an instant she did not seem to know what it was she wanted; but it came to her suddenly, and with a beseeching cry, she threw out her arms.

"Oh, mama, mama! is it true? Am I somebody else's child?"

Bea turned away, and fell into her chair again, unable to see that pitiful, anguished face; and Mrs. Dering, sitting down on the bed, drew the trembling figure closely to her heart.

"My darling, you are my own dear little girl--" but Ernestine interrupted, with a pitiful cry:

"Oh! tell me if that letter is so, or if it means some other Ernestine?

just tell me that, quick, mama, oh please do!"

What could Mrs. Dering say, with those clinging arms about her neck, and that pleading face, and the despairing eyes never moving from hers?

"You are dreaming, darling," she began soothingly; but Ernestine threw her head back, and her voice rose to a terrified shriek:

"You won't tell me; you won't tell me," she cried wildly. "Oh, I must know if it is true; I must. Oh, mama, say it isn't; tell me that you are my own mama, that the letter don't mean me; oh mama! mama!"

"Ernestine, darling, listen;" said Mrs. Dering, with the tears running down her pale face. "You shall know the truth. You have been my little girl ever since you were two months old, but your own mother gave you to me just before she went to heaven, and she was my--;" but it was needless to say more; Ernestine gave a little moan, and dropped her head, and Mrs. Dering was sobbing, as she laid her back on the pillow; while Bea ran for some water.

CHAPTER XII.

THE STORY.

Mrs. Dering and Ernestine were alone; Ernestine had asked for the story of her own, or rather her mother's life, and now lay with her face turned away, while Mrs. Dering held her hand in that loving clasp, and began telling it quietly:

"We were all living in Virginia at the time, dear. Papa Dering lived with his uncle Ridley. Uncle Walter Dering lived in Staunton, and your mama's home and mine, also in the city, were only a little way apart, and we saw a great deal of each other. Florence Granger was her name, and she was the most beautiful girl that I have ever seen, except the little daughter here, who is going to be her mother's very image. She was lovable in every way, but possessed a restless, impatient, dissatisfied spirit, that brought her much unhappiness. She constantly yearned for some kind of life that would give her eager, uncontrollable spirits free play; she hated the restraints of home, and frequently threw out dark hints to me of what she would do sometimes, when the right moment presented itself. I often begged her to give up such restless longings, and be happy at home; for she certainly had a lovely one, and might have been the happiest of girls; but she would kiss me and laugh, and call me 'dear little proper Bess,' and really be so happy and gay for a time that I would lose my fears, and think her threats all lively fun. About this time, papa and I became engaged, and I, confiding to him a secret that I had discovered, that his brother Walter loved Florence, he said that Walter had confessed it to him but that he despaired of ever gaining her heart, and that he dreaded the depressing effect of discouragement on his health, for Walter was very delicate. So I promised to do all I could towards helping him, and finding out the true state of Florence's heart towards him, and I did so quite successfully, though it has always been a source of bitterest regret to me. I found, with very little trouble that she had no thought or feeling of love for him, and one day, when she was thoughtlessly laughing at him for something, I told her, in a hasty moment, how he loved her, and how the disappointment might kill him. I never can forget how surprised and grieved she looked, nor how bitterly I regretted my hastiness, for a more tender-hearted girl never lived, and it was impossible to guess, how, in a generous, impulsive moment, she might sacrifice herself. That night she stayed with me, and both Walter and papa called; and I saw in an instant, that in her generous pity, she was going to do a work that could never be undone. Poor Walter was nearly beside himself with joy and encouragement. She sang for him, and oh, how many times have I gone back to that night, when you have been singing to me, with your mother's voice, dear. She promised to ride with him next day, and as papa watched them, he said to me in great relief: 'She loves him, and they will be happy;' and I could only say 'I hope so, truly,' and pray that I might be forgiven for what I had done; for I knew she did not love him.

"In a few days, she came rushing to me in a perfect pa.s.sion of stormy, bitter tears, and frightened me greatly with her fierce vehemence. She declared that she hated him, that she could not endure the sight of him, and yet, not half an hour before, she had promised to marry him, and now, if I did not say something to comfort her, she would do something dreadful, sure. I was perfectly at a loss what to say or do, and trembled for the end of it all, but I knew the only way to quiet her would be to appeal to her pity and tenderness, so I talked and talked for a great while about him, how he loved her, how the disappointment now would surely kill him, how happy we would be as sisters when married, and how we would all go to Europe if papa inherited uncle Congreve's estate; and so finally won her over to a more pleasing view of the case. In the weeks that followed, I had the same thing to do many, many times, and found it more difficult to accomplish each time.

She was wildly rebellious, and in an unguarded moment, let fall her pa.s.sion for stage life, and then confided to me all her former plans, hopes, and aspirations. She had been in correspondence with members of the profession and had many secret plans laid for carrying out her ideas. She showed me several letters from Clarence Clare, then a famous actor, and I did not dream, could not even realize then, how far matters had gone. She was to have joined his troupe when he reached Staunton, left her home and gone out into the world under an a.s.sumed name, to taste and know its bitterness, when it was all too late. I was in an agony of fear, and besought her to give it up and think, before she lost herself to home and friends, but she told me I need not worry, she had written to him that morning that she was to be married, and could not fulfill her plans with him, and that I could rest in peace, for she was going to be a really good girl now, and settle down as properly as I could wish. I believed her, and was entirely deceived by the quiet, contented aspect that marked her from that day, and was overjoyed at the happiness that seemed to come to her as the day of our double marriage drew near. She spent much of her time with Walter, and the rest almost entirely with me, and we had hours of delightful chatter of when we would be sisters indeed, and always live together, for papa and Walter were devoted brothers.

"It all comes back to me now, so terribly clear, how the day before our wedding came, and Florence was in such a state of ecstatic happiness; she left me in the evening with the warmest, tenderest kisses and embraces, and said she would be on hand early in the morning, for we were to be married at ten o'clock. While we were at breakfast next morning, her maid came over in great haste, to know if she was with me, that she wasn't at home, and evidently had not been, as her room was untouched. It seemed for a moment that I could not move, so great was the terror that possessed me; then I jumped up, s.n.a.t.c.hed a hat and ran all the way to her home, without once thinking of amazed observers. She was gone. There was a little note left for me, and no word for any one else; she had gone with Clarence Clare, who had arrived the day before, and, perhaps, even as I stood there reading her hurried words, she was being married, or was already his wife. I can never tell you of the tempest of grief that fell upon two homes, or how we ever got through that wretched day. Papa came to me for just a few minutes, then hurried off to stay with Walter who had not spoken, or betrayed any signs of consciousness since the word of Florence's desertion reached him. We knew from that day that he could not live, and though he was never ill, he died slowly, lingering with us only about six months, and his last words were to papa and me, spoken just before he died: 'If she ever comes back, tell her I forgave her, that I loved her to the last, and prayed G.o.d every hour that she might be happy.'

"A little while after, papa and I were married, and moved to Richmond.

He received nothing from Uncle Congreve, you know, so we both had to go to work, and we were very happy, for papa was brave, strong and honorable, and he prospered; so that in a little while we had a cosy home of our own, and envied no one their riches.

"Mr. and Mrs. Granger, your grandparents, were very proud, and left Staunton, rather than stay where their daughter had disgraced them, and we never knew where they went to, or whether they are still living or not. Two years went by, and in that time I sent many a loving, anxious thought to Florence, where ever she was, and wondered if we were ever to meet again; and one night my answer came to me. It was a bitter night, snowing hard and blowing fiercely. Papa and I, were sitting in our cosy, warm room, and Bea was sleeping, rosy and sweet, in her little crib, when there came the feeblest kind of a ring at the door-bell, and papa went to the door. In just a second he called me, and I hurried there, to find him holding a basket, with a queer bundle in it, and looking amazed out into the night; then he set it down suddenly, and hurried out. I had not collected my thoughts, when he came in again with a fainting figure in his arms; a woman with a face uncovered, and we both recognized her in an instant. She was nearly dead with exposure, and it was a long time before she was able to speak a word, but we doctored her strongly, got her into a hot bed, and after a while she opened her eyes, and knew us. When she could talk, she told us how unhappy she had been; how, after submitting to her husband's neglect and the trials of stage life, for over a year, she had left him, and as soon as her baby was born, began looking for us. She was very feeble, and after leaving her burden on the steps, fainted in the snow before reaching the gate."

Here Ernestine, who had lain motionless all the while, gave a quick sob, and shivered from head to foot, and bending down to kiss her tenderly, Mrs. Dering went on:

"She died with us, dear, in just a few days after, and with her last breath, gave you to me; and ever since I took you, a tiny, little babe from her arms, you have been just as dear to me as though G.o.d had sent you to me, my very own."

Ernestine was shivering violently, and as Mrs. Dering finished, hid her face deeper in the pillow with a pitiful heart-broken moan, that was hard to hear, and Mrs. Dering said softly:

"Here, darling, in this box are some things that were to belong to you, in case you ever knew the truth, though with her last breath, your mother besought us to keep it from you, if we could, and we have tried, that being one reason why we afterwards left Virginia for New York State. But G.o.d knows best; it is right for you to know, or it would not have been so. The ring in the box is the one given by Walter to your mother, and she wished you, if you ever knew the story, to wear it."

Some time after Mrs. Dering left the room, Ernestine slowly turned her head, looked at the box, and with trembling fingers lifted the cover.

The first thing that met her eyes, was a picture, an exquisite face painted on porcelain, and she uttered a smothered cry as she looked at the face of her mother, of whom she was the living image. There was the same brown eyes, with their slender arches; the same fine straight nose, and wilful, determined mouth, and the same halo of sunny hair, covering the proud little head. But Ernestine, looking at it then, thought of the sweet, true, dear woman, she had always called mother, and threw it down with a bitter cry of pain. There was also a tiny note, written in a beautiful dashing hand, and after a while she read it slowly.

"BESS DARLING:

"You have always been my good angel, and I could cry if I wasn't so happy, to think how I am going to disappoint you after all. But you mustn't mind, only think how happy I am going to be, for Clarence loves me! I will be his wife when you read this, and oh Bess I cannot help but be happy then. Tell Walter he must not care, he never would have been happy with me, because I could not love him. I hope you will not feel badly when you get this; have a gay wedding, and think how happy I am.

I expect it is wrong to run off this way, but I've always done things wrong, I always will, but it might have been different, if my mother had loved home more, society less, and been as true and good to me as a mother, as you have been as a friend.

"FLORENCE."

There were many little trinkets, beside the diamond ring, which Ernestine declared she could never wear; and in a tiny little box, with "My Baby," written on the top, were four round bits of gold, each a five dollar piece.

It really seemed as though the girls could never recover from the shock.

Their faces were pale and tear-stained for many days; and only Olive, whose self-control was greatest, could venture into Ernestine's presence, without bursting into tears, and having to beat a hasty retreat. Every fault that she had ever possessed, they lost sight of now; they only thought how they all loved her, how happy and sweet she had always been about home, how lovely she was, and how dreadful it would be if they were to lose her. For Mrs. Dering had told them some things that she had not told Ernestine, among them these:

"You have many times noticed how much more careful and anxious I have been of Ernestine's health than of yours. That was because I knew that G.o.d had given me my girls well and strong, and poor little Ernestine came, burdened with the fatal seeds of her mother's disease, consumption. I have known always, for the doctor told me, that she would become its victim sooner or later; and that if she lived to womanhood, he would be surprised. I also saw in early childhood, that she had inherited her mother's restless, eager, dissatisfied disposition, though the difference in her home life has modified it greatly; and knowing the weakness that would a.s.sail her if she lived, I have battled against it, and prayed that she might ever be spared a trial, or that a greater strength would be hers, than had been her mother's. As she has grown older, I have been grieved and troubled, beyond expression, to watch the growth of that spirit, and of a selfishness, that must have been her father's, as not an atom of it belonged to her mother, and many times I would have been discouraged utterly, if I had not had the faith that G.o.d would do all things for the best, and that all He wanted was for me to do all in my power, and trust the rest to Him."

As the days went by, Ernestine did not seem to grow any better, and friends hearing she was ill, began making kindly visits of sympathy, and were greatly surprised to find her so terribly altered by the brief illness. At first she refused to see any one; but Mrs. Dering asked if she could not, as they would think it strange, and she immediately a.s.sented.

It was indeed sad to look at her face, changed so suddenly from its laughing, exquisite beauty to such a pallid, hollow-eyed, heart-broken look, and every one pitied, and wondered, and privately talked it over.

Miss Strong, who had industriously circulated the report of her visit, with many additions and wonderfully sly, meaning looks, now felt called upon to supply the public with a reason, so she told her dearest friend that Ernestine Dering had had a foolish little love affair, and broken her heart over it; and before twenty-four hours, the whole of Canfield had heard from, or told their dearest friend, the same thing; while Mrs.

Dane, and a few other sensible ladies, were indignantly denying it, with what success, persons who deny rash stories, can guess.

"I declare," cried Kat one day in desperation, "I can't bear to go up stairs. I just dream about how sad she looks, and I can't keep from crying just to think that she really isn't our sister any more than--than Susie Darrow or any of the other girls. Oh, Kittie, just suppose we were ever to find out that we were not sisters, or belonged to somebody else, or something dreadful!"

Kittie gave a long, expressive shiver, and hugged her "fac-simile" by way of satisfaction, for such a dreadful thought.

"How often we have wondered where she got her lovely hair and eyes," she said slowly. "And how many times we fretted because mama watched her so, and seemed to humor her, where she never did us. I expect we have made mama unhappy lots of times by acting jealous that way."

"Like as not," answered Kat remorsefully. "It's all dreadful, every bit of it. I'd give worlds if it had never happened."

They all tried, by every way in their power, to win Ernestine back to something of her old self; but it seemed impossible. She spent hours and hours by herself, just sitting with her hands folded, looking out of the window with no sign of life or interest in her colorless face, and rarely speaking. Just brooding, brooding, and nursing her grief, until the doctor said she must go away, take a complete change, and then she would come back herself again. He accepted the lover-story, as indeed, most every one did, for surely the general behavior and symptoms were much the same, and then, besides, what _could_ the reason be if it wasn't that?

Ernestine was perfectly indifferent about a visit anywhere. She was selfish in her grief, as in everything else, and took no interest in all their plans for her, expressing no satisfaction at the decision that Bea should go with her, and saying that she did not care when or where they went.

One afternoon, Kittie went up stairs and found her writing something and crying bitterly over it. She so seldom cried, that Kittie was alarmed, but Ernestine said it was only because she was nervous; then put her writing away, and took her old, listless att.i.tude in the chair by the window.

That night Olive heard something; she was sure that she did, and started up in bed for a moment to listen, but everything was perfectly still, so in a moment she lay down again, but could not get to sleep until long after the whistle had blown for the midnight train that went through to the city.