answered Bea, going off with a laugh.

Ernestine was still too weak to see or say much this day. She had been much better on leaving Virginia, and as the trip home was taken in the most luxurious way afforded to travellers, she might have stood it very well, had it not been for the nervous excitement that completely prostrated her before home was reached. So Dr. Barnett prescribed the most perfect quiet, which was given, the girls only going in on tiptoe, now and then, to carry some little dainty, or smile their loving welcome, while Mrs. Dering spent all of her time at the bed side.

Ernestine seemed perfectly content, for she lay for hours, with dreamy eyes fixed on Mrs. Dering's face, and never spoke or moved, as though she had been beaten and bruised by her brief struggle with the world, and only wanted to lie at peace, with one dear face in constant sight; and to let her tired life drift in or out. The change was heart-breaking, and drove the girls from her room at every visit, to hide their tears, and think, as in a dream, of the time when Ernestine, gay, frivolous, careless-hearted girl, was the sunshine of the house, the one being who seemed to never feel or know the touch of care or sadness.

Roger was to go back the second day, and on the evening before, he said:

"The scenery about this little place is perfectly beautiful. Does Canfield afford a livery stable, Olive? If so, I will get a buggy in the morning, and you shall pilot me around the country."

Kat sent an expressive wink and nod of her head to Kittie and Bea, while Olive answered:

"There is a small one, I believe, where you might find something."

"Perhaps they'd loan you their wheel-barrow," added Kat, who found herself in a fair way of liking this distant relative, in spite of his usurping what she termed the family position.

So next morning Roger went down town, and came back in a rather dilapidated buggy, with a lamb-like looking horse, and said with a laugh, as he helped Olive in:

"The very best your city affords; I hope it will not break with us, for my life is not insured."

"My mind's eye rests lovingly on Congreve Hall, as presided over by my artistic sister," cried Kat, with a dramatic gesture, as they drove off; and the next moment she was looking after them with a touch of regretful sadness in her face.

"I don't like it," she said. "Bea gone, Olive going, Jean way off, Ernestine so changed;--oh, Kittie! when anything happens to you, I will be ruined for sure. You don't think you are going to fall in love, or be sick, or go away, or anything; do you?"

"Nonsense," said Kittie, but gave an expressive hug that was soothing and satisfactory, and set Kat's heart at rest.

The ride in that clear morning air, brought a warm stain of color into Olive's clear cheeks, and a sparkle to her eyes, that was very becoming; and she laughed and talked, in a careless, happy way, that left no doubt in her companion's mind as to her perfect ignorance of his love, and made him more determined not to return to Virginia, leaving her in ignorance.

It was difficult to approach the subject, while her mind was so far away from it, and his perfect a.s.surance as to her answer made it still harder for him. But Olive unconsciously led the way at last, for she was talking of their trip home, and dwelling gratefully on his care and kindness, her eyes bright with feeling, as she turned them to him suddenly:

"You have helped me through it all," she said. "I wish I could thank you for all your thoughtful kindness."

They were rolling lazily around a hill, with autumn colors on every side, and autumn's soft winds fanning the air into life, and Olive thought the answer she received was some deceptive flutter of their wings.

"Do not try," he was saying. "Every care or anxiety you have felt have been to me as my own. I have tried to show you what you were to me, and I have failed, but you cannot help but understand me, when I say that I love you, Olive."

She did not take her eyes from a distant hill-top, where their glance had rested, neither did she blush or look pleased when he finished, but was as silent for a moment as though studying on what he had said; then looked at him slowly:

"You surely do not mean it?"

"I surely do mean it, and have tried to make you see and know it, for weeks past, but your answer now is only what I had expected, for though I at first thought your indifference feigned, I soon came to see that neither I, nor any other man had ever received a thought from you, and to fear that I never would. You seemed wedded to your love of art, but now, when you know that I love you, cannot you find a little feeling somewhere in your heart for me, Olive?"

"No, I cannot," answered Olive, after a moment, and with the air of one who had been literally hunting for something, and failed to find it. "I could not help but think a great deal of you, when you made my visit so pleasant, and then was so kind when trouble came; but I never dreamed that you loved me; I really think you must be mistaken, it seems so strange. Why do you?"

There was no misunderstanding the honest wonder in her eyes, as she asked the question, and no possibility of construing it into a desire for flattery.

"I have loved you," he said, "ever since that first sad night, so long ago, when you showed a womanly strength--"

"What night?" she asked eagerly, the old vague remembrance coming back to her; and, at the interruption, he looked at her in amaze.

"Is it possible you do not remember?" he asked.

"No, I do not; but the moment I saw you, there seemed a remembrance that has worried me ever since. What is it?"

For a moment he hesitated to tell her.

"It was I, who brought your father home," he said, at last; and with a swift, painful recollection, she dropped her face into her hands, and said nothing.

"When you came to the Hall," he went on presently, "and was introduced to me, there was such an air of surprise, together with a look of pain in your face, that I immediately supposed you remembered me, and that the memory was painful, so I never spoke of it. I was travelling here in New York, and was on the train just a few seats behind your father. I saw him when he received the blow on the temple, and went to him as soon as possible, and was the one asked to see him brought safely to his home. I did not know, until my return home, two weeks later, that it was Uncle Ridley's nephew."

After he finished speaking, they rode in silence for a long way, and the peaceful old horse, finding himself unguided, turned his head homeward, and jogged off more lively. Olive did not look up again. She was evidently lost in sad memories, that his words awakened, and he had not the heart to bring her back to a subject so foreign to her thoughts as his love. So in silence, they reached home, and, as he helped her from the buggy, Olive said with trembling lips:

"I'm glad it was you. I loved papa better than any one in the world, and I can never forget that you saw him last and tried to help him." Then, after telling her mother and the girls their additional cause for grat.i.tude to him, she went off to her room, and was not seen again for some time; for when affected so that tears were her only relief, she always took them alone.

Roger went that night. He spent the afternoon sitting in Ernestine's room with them all, and telling over and over the last moments of Mr.

Dering, what he had overheard him saying to another pa.s.senger just a few moments before the accident; just how the blow came, so quick and painless, and how his last words had been of home, and how they would be surprised at his sudden departure.

Olive was not present, and fearing that Roger might consider it rude, Mrs. Dering explained the little habit of taking all her grief alone, and how the reminding of that sad night had doubtless overcome her. But Olive came down just before supper, and her face showed plainer than ever before, its traces of heavy tears, though she said nothing about it, and seemed to think her absence explained itself to the only one to whom an explanation was due.

While the girls were busy in the kitchen, and mother was with Ernestine, they were alone in the sitting-room, and Roger said to her, as they stood by the window, watching the shadows creep through the yard, and lift themselves in a misty cloud:

"Olive, have you no other answer for me, before I go?"

"No," said Olive, slowly. "You seem so different to me. In one way, I love you; I could not help it; and, in another way, you are nothing to me. I wish you would forget that you ever thought you loved me, and let me feel as though you were my brother."

"I cannot," he answered. "I do not think that I love you, but I _know_ that I do, and that I always will; and some time, when you are older, and come to feel that home-love and art cannot satisfy you, I will come back and try to win a place in the new yearning."

"You needn't," said Olive, with discouraging honesty. "I shall never love any one that way. I don't want to. All I want is mama and the girls, and to study until I am satisfied with myself, or as near it as I can be. But you mustn't let that keep you away; you will forget this, indeed, you will, and must come and see us often, and then everything will be delightful."

"No; I shall never come until I feel that I do not come in vain. Do not doubt my love, Olive, because your own heart is so free from it. It is a girlish heart, and when it reaches womanhood, I may not be the one to satisfy it, but I will come and try."

CHAPTER XX.

A SAD STORY.

Ernestine was getting better, and how could she help it, with everything heart could wish, perfect peace and quiet, and six devoted hearts and pairs of hands, ready to obey her slightest command. She did not issue many, for one of the changes that had come to her, was asking for little, complaining of nothing, even her own suffering, but lying still, patient, contented, unselfish and quiet. She seemed grateful and pleased at the least little act of kindness, a thing she would have accepted before as a matter-of-course, and complained at not receiving; and after she grew stronger, and the girls resumed their gayeties, she never seemed to regret for a moment, that she was removed from all such, and must lie still, day after day; when before, it was intolerable to pa.s.s a single day without something to pa.s.s away her gleeful spirits with Canfield, with its promising circle of girls, budding into young ladyhood, was beginning to put on quite a number of social airs, in the way of little dances, nutting parties, one or two literary clubs, and a card club; which acted upon the little place, like a fresh spring breeze, blowing in upon a pile of peaceful autumn leaves. The Dering girls were popular, and partook largely in all these innocent festivities, bringing gay accounts of them to Ernestine, to which she listened, with a quiet smile, but with never a wish to be in them.

Nothing seemed to interest her so much, as the new experience and dignity that had fallen upon Beatrice; and for hours they would chat together of the new plans, and tender little fancies, which Bea had not the courage to confess to others, and Ernestine, bolstered up with pillows, would listen, and now and then, do a little of the pretty work that was going on to the bridal garments.

After a while, when she grew strong enough to talk more, and cough less, she told them of her life, while they had been separated, and the girls never forgot the day on which they listened to it. She was partly sitting up in bed, as colorless as the snowy ruffled linen about her, with her beautiful golden hair in the old-time waves, and curly ends; her lovely eyes, with their liquid brown lights and heavy lashes, and the dainty ruffles to her snowy night-dress, fastened at the throat with a fragile bit of coral, that seemed to throw a shade of its exquisite coloring into her stainless face.

It was a lovely home-scene, for the girls were sewing in their low rocking-chairs, Olive was sketching at the window, Mrs. Dering sat at the bedside holding Ernestine's hand, and over them all the autumn sunshine fell, warm and sweet, as with a touch of loving benediction; and the trill of Jeanie's canary down stairs, was the only sound, save Ernestine's low voice, sad and sweet, in its feebleness.

"I went on the midnight train, you know," she was saying. "It seemed terrible, and with all the people around, I felt as if I was the only person out in the night. Oh, it is too horrible to feel so alone and as though no one knew, or cared where you were going, or what terrible trouble you might be in. Nearly everybody in the car was asleep, and there was only one lady; so I sat down behind her, and for a long time I was so miserable myself that I didn't notice her; then her baby woke up, and began to cry, so did her little girl, and I saw that she was sick or something; so in a little bit, I spoke to her, and asked if I could do anything. She said no, at first, but afterwards said if I would take the baby a moment, as she felt so sick and faint; so I did, and he seemed so astonished that he stopped crying, and then the little girl wanted to come over in my seat, and I helped her over, and told the lady to lie down, as she looked very pale. I knew she was astonished at my being alone, and thought that she might ask my name, and after thinking about it a while, I decided to take my very own name, my--mother's," with a little choke over the name. "She did ask me in a little while, said I looked so young, and why was I travelling alone; and I told her that I was an orphan, that my name was Florence Clare, and that I was on my way to New York; and then she looked so kind and interested that I burst right out crying. I couldn't help it. She didn't ask me any more then, but when we got to New York, no one met her, and she was terribly worried. She asked me where I was going, and I was afraid she would think something was wrong if I told her I didn't know where; so I just gave any street and number, but I said that if she wanted me to go and help her, I could just as well as not, as no one was expecting me anywhere. She seemed very glad, so I carried the children out, and after a policeman had called a hack for her, we went to the St. Nicholas; she was very sick after we got there, and after I put the children to sleep, I sat up with her nearly all night. She was a widow, she said, and had written to a friend in New York to meet her on that train, but that, probably, he had not received the letter; and that she wanted to go right on to Boston, next morning, if she was able. I asked her then if she did not want me to go with her, to take care of the children, that I was all alone in the world, and obliged to work some way and somewhere, and after asking me a great many questions, she said she would think about it. She seemed like a very good, kind lady, and I was afraid she would think there was something strange about me, so I made my story sound just as good as possible. I said I was coming to the city because I thought I could find work better than in a small place, and that I had no near relatives in the world, and would like to go with her, because she looked kind, and I would just as soon take care of children as anything else. She looked at my clothes, but they were my very plainest; and then she asked me what baggage I had, and I showed her my satchel, with nothing but some clothes in it, and then she said that I looked truthful, and too young and pretty to be alone in the city, and that I should go on with her in the morning. I don't know what I would have done if it hadn't been for her, for when I was on the train, I had no idea where I would go or what I would do. Before I left home, I tried to feel right, to forget who I was, but I couldn't; my head kept aching, and I thought every day that it ached harder, and that pretty soon I would be crazy; and then I thought of going away where I could never be found, and die somewhere, and something made me go. It seemed as if I was being pulled away, and every time I heard any of the girls say 'mama,' it came to me that you wasn't my mama, that the girls were not my sisters, then my head ached harder than ever and I couldn't cry. I thought G.o.d must surely feel sorry for me, and that he sent the lady on purpose--" and as Ernestine paused to cough and get breath, several tears were smuggled out of sight by her listeners, and Mrs. Dering's voice trembled, as she kissed the speaker, and said:

"He did, dear; believe it, I asked Him to care for and watch over you, wherever you might be, and I knew that He would."

"I went on to Boston with her," continued Ernestine, after a moment's rest. "I knew you would never find me there, and I didn't want to know that you ever looked for me; I knew you would, but I didn't want to hear about it. For awhile the lady watched me very closely, and I knew she was a little distrustful, but the children liked me, and though the work nearly killed me, I kept up. I was with the children constantly, slept, ate, and went out with them, washed, dressed and took care of them from morning 'till night; and sometimes I wished I could die, I was so tired and unhappy. I did not intend to stay with her, but meant to go on the stage just as soon as possible, though I never saw the papers, and had no chance of finding the names of companies. Once I asked to see the papers, but she didn't like it; she was never unkind really, but she always seemed a little suspicious, and when I asked for the paper, she asked what I wanted it for? I had a good place, and no need of the papers. I didn't want to tell her, for fear she would turn me off, so I just waited. One day I was singing the baby to sleep; it was the first time I had ever sung in her house, and she happened to hear me, and came in and complimented my voice, said how beautiful it was, and why didn't I use it, instead of wearing my life out nursing babies. I said right away that I wanted to, and meant to go on the stage as soon as I could; then she was angry, and threatened to find another girl if I did not at once give up such a notion. I promised I would, but I didn't and a few days later, I was out with the children, and saw an advertis.e.m.e.nt for fifty girls wanted at a play, and as soon as I got back, I told her I was going to leave. She was very angry, and kept that week's wages, but I went, and the next day I answered the advertis.e.m.e.nt. It was for girls to dance, and I said I could not, and would not, and was just going to leave, when the manager came in, and stopped me. He began by making foolish speeches about how beautiful I was, but when I started away, he begged pardon, and said I was just what they wanted for a queen, who was to come out of a flower, and did not have to dance, which would suit me, since I was so over-particular. At first I thought I never could, and it made me so ashamed, to think of being in such a crowd, that I felt like hiding my face forever. But there I was, with no home and no money, and what could I do? So I signed the contract for ten nights, at fifty cents a night, and felt that I could never look you in the face again, or any of the girls. It was not as bad as I expected, but oh, so different from what I had always thought the stage was. We all had to dress in a little room that was as cold as ice, and most of the girls were so loud and coa.r.s.e, and talked slang, and they all took a dislike to me because I was queen. They called me "old prudy," and had all kinds of coa.r.s.e jokes that made me feel as though I would die of shame; I took cold the first night, the stage was so windy, and our dresses as thin as wisps, and then I was so mortified and miserable. I nearly starved while I was there, the pay was so small, and I couldn't afford to have any fire in my room at the small hotel, and took such a heavy cold that I thought I would die coughing. Oh, how wretched I was! I wanted to die, for I thought I had fallen so low that you would never care for me again, and I never felt that I needed G.o.d as I did then. I don't think I ever prayed honestly before, but it seemed as if that terrible feeling of being alone, would kill me, so I began to go to G.o.d, as I would to you, and it became such a comfort. I wanted to be good and honest, whatever I did, so that I could feel that I still had a right to love and think of you all. I stayed with that company the rest of the winter, at a salary of two dollars a week, and did all manner of odds and ends. Sometimes go on as a subst.i.tute, sometimes as a servant or some inferior character, and often to dress the leading ladies, when they found that I could do it nicely. The manager was a gruff, coa.r.s.e man, but he had a kind heart, and after a while, he seemed to take a sort of interest in me, especially when my cough grew so bad. He brought me medicine twice, and one night asked me if I had been used to such a life. I told him, no, but would not answer any other questions. When the company broke up in the spring, he found me a place as nurse-girl in a family that he knew, and said, that in the fall, a friend of his was going to organize an opera-troupe, and that he would try and get me in, for by that time, I had sung for him, and said that opera was what I had rather be in.