Eventide

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"O, they are a wealthy family with whom father became acquainted in the
circuit of his travels last season."

"Their name?"

"Prague, Dr. Prague, wife and daughter; also two young children, for
whom they are seeking a governess here in the east, as good teachers are
obtained with difficulty in their section of the country."

"Ah!" said Annie, in a tone of voice so peculiar that Netta turned
involuntarily toward her.

"O, Annie, Annie!" she exclaimed, and threw her arms round her friend's
neck.

"What has so suddenly alarmed you?" asked Annie, endeavoring to soothe
her.

"You won't go off with these strangers and leave us, will you, dear
Annie?"

"Why, who is a visionary now, Netta?" she asked, laughing merrily; "what
put the thought of my going away into this pretty head, lying here all
feverish with excited visions? Pshaw, Netta, you are a whimsie!"

"Then you won't go?" she said, her face brightening. "No thought of
becoming the governess this western family are seeking, and going away
with them, has entered your brain?"

"Why should there, Netta?"

"But would you say nay should you receive the offer?"

"I can tell better when the moment arrives. But there, Netta, don't
cloud that fair brow again. I feel well assured no such moment will
come."

"I'm not so sure, Annie."

"Well, well, let us kiss, and retire to be ready to receive the visitors
on the morrow."

And with a sisterly embrace they sought their private apartments.

CHAPTER V.

"O, show me a place like the wild-wood home,
Where the air is fragrant and free,
And the first pure breathings of morning come
In a gush of melody.
When day steals away, with a young bride's blush,
To the soft green couch of night,
And the moon throws o'er, with a holy hush,
Her curtain of gossamer light."

Alone Annie Evalyn was walking in the summer twilight over the rough
road toward Scraggiewood.

Near two months had elapsed since she last visited her Aunt Patty at the
rock-built cottage, and she pictured in her mind, as she walked on, the
surprise and good-natured chiding which would mark her old aunt's
reception. She gazed upward at the tall forest trees swaying to and fro
in the light evening breeze, and far into its dim, mazy depths, where
gray rocks lay clad in soft, green moss, and gnarled, uprooted trunks
overgrown with clinging vines, and pale, delicate flowers springing
beautiful from their decay. She listened to the murmuring of the brook
in its rocky bed, and a thousand memories of other years rushed on her
soul. The strange, fast-coming fancies that thronged her brain when she
in early childhood roamed those dark, solemn woods, or sat at night on
the lowly cottage stile, gazing on the wild, grotesque shadows cast by
the moonbeams from the huge, forest trees; or how she listened to the
solemn hootings of the lonesome owl, the monotonous cuckoo, and sudden
whippoorwill; or laughed at the glowworm's light in the dark swamps, and
asked her aunty if they were not a group of stars come down to play
bo-peep in the meadows.

And then she thought of George Wild, her early playfellow. He was away
now, in a distant part of the country, whither he had been sent by his
father to learn the carpenter's trade. He had come to bid her good-by
with tears in his eyes, not so much at parting from _her_, she fancied,
as from dread of the active life before him. It would be hard to tell
whether Annie felt most pity or contempt for his weakness. He was the
only friend of her early childhood, and, _as_ such, she had still a
warm, tender feeling at her heart for him; and, had he possessed a
becoming energy and manliness of character, this childish feeling might
have deepened into strong, enduring affection as years advanced. But
Annie Evalyn could never love George Wild as he _was_; and thus she
thought as she brushed away a tear that had unconsciously started during
her meditations, and found herself at the door of her aunt's cottage.
She bounded over the threshold and into the old lady's arms, bestowing a
shower of kisses ere poor Aunt Patty could sufficiently collect herself
and recover from the surprise to return her darling's lavish caresses.

"Ah, yes, you naughty little witch! here you are at last, pretending to
be mighty glad to see your old aunty, though for two long months you've
never come near her. But, bless it, how pretty it grows! and how red its
cheeks are, and how bright its eyes!" she exclaimed, brushing away the
curling locks and gazing into her darling's face.

"But you'll forgive me, aunty, won't you?" said Annie, coaxingly.
"Indeed, I meant to have come long before; but if you only knew how much
I have had to occupy my time,--so many things to learn, and such hard,
hard lessons."

"O, yes! always at your books, studying life away."

"Why, aunty! you just exclaimed how fresh and blooming I was grown, and
I've something so nice to tell you. There are some wealthy people from
the west visiting at Parson Grey's, and they were in search of a
governess for their little children. Would you think it, aunty, their
choice has fallen upon me? and I am to accompany them on their return
home. They have a daughter about my own age, sweet Kate Prague. She will
be a fine companion--I love her so dearly now."

Aunt Patty dropped her arms by her side, and remained silent after Annie
had ceased speaking.

"What is the matter, aunty?" asked she, eagerly.

"And so you, young, silly thing, are going to leave your friends and go
off with these strangers, that will treat you nobody knows how. Annie!
Annie! does Parson Grey approve of this?"

"Yes, aunty; he thinks it will be a fine opportunity for me to see
something of the world, and learn the arts and graces of polite
society."

"Ah! but these great, rich folks are often unkind and overbearing, and
oppress and treat with slight and scorn their dependents."

"O, Mr. Grey knows this family well, and recommends them in the highest
terms."

"Well, for all that, I can't bear the thought of losing you. So young
and ignorant."

"Ignorant, aunty? Why, Dr. Prague himself says I know twice as much as
his daughter Kate."

"Ah! book-learnin' enough; but I will tell you, Annie, a little
experience is better than all your books."

"Well, how am I to obtain experience but by mingling in the world, and
learning its manners and customs?"

"Ah, dear! I fear you will find this world, you are so anxious to see
and know, is a hard, rough place."

"Well, aunty, don't dishearten me at the outset. See what a nice box of
honey I've brought you from Aunt Rachel Grey. Some of it will be
delightful on your light batter cakes, with a slice of old Crummie's
yellow butter. I must go out and bid the dear old creature good-by. How
I used to love to drive her to the brook for water!"

"Ah, those were happy days for me, Annie!" said the old woman,
sorrowfully. "I shall never see the like again."

"Don't say so, aunty," said Annie, her own heart experiencing a thrill
of anguish at the prospect of leaving her old forest-home, and kind,
loving protector. "I shall return some day, may be rich and famous, and
_good_, too, I hope; for Parson Grey says 'tis better to be good than
great."

"God grant all your bright visions may be realized, Annie!" said the
aunt fervently.

"Now, while you prepare our evening meal, I'll run out and look at some
of my old haunts," said Annie, forcing back a tear, and trying to assume
a cheerful countenance.

So she wandered forth, while the grief-stricken woman spread the simple
board; but she could not relish the clear, dripping honey-comb sent by
the kind Aunt Rachel, and long after Annie slept in her little cot-bed,
did the old lady kneel over her sleeping form, weeping and praying for
her darling child. Annie spent the ensuing day with her aunt at the
cottage, and toward evening took a tearful leave, and bade adieu to
Scraggiewood.

CHAPTER VI.

"And there was envy in her look,
And envy in her tone,
As if her spirit might not brook,
A rival near the throne."

"But don't you see, Dr. Prague, it won't do at all to admit her into
society on the same footing with our Catherine? For my part I don't see
how you could, for a moment, harbor so low an idea."

In a far away period of time, the present honorable Mrs. Dr. Prague
had--shall we write it?--cut shoe-strings in her father's shop, and why
should not she be a competent judge of the low and common, since
experience is regarded as the "best teacher" in _almost_ all matters
beneath the sun?

"I say," she reiterated, finding her remark elicited no response from
her worthy husband, "Annie Evalyn is not to be compared to our
Catherine."

"I'm aware of that," was the answer in a dry tone.

"And don't you notice how the minx tries to put on the lady?"

"Not at all, madam; why should she strive to assume what is her natural
garb?"

"Now really, Hippe, you are getting incorrigible."

"Hippe" was a term of endearment, Mrs. Dr. Prague was accustomed to
apply to her husband when she wished to be very killing and
condescending, his Christian name being Hippocrates.

To this winning speech, however, the insensate Dr. vouchsafed no reply;
so his lovely wife tacked about and said, "Well, Dr., to come to the
point, this governess is a dangerous rival for your daughter."

"I know it," responded the good man, cutting up an orange, and passing a
silver plate containing several slices to his fair lady; "here, Mrs.
Prague, do regale yourself on this luscious fruit. It is the finest I
have tasted this season."

"Dr. Prague, when I am discussing matters of importance, I do not wish
to be insulted by such frivolities."

"Indeed, madam," said the doctor, withdrawing the plate, and proceeding
leisurely to the gratification of his own palate.

There was a silence of some minutes, and then the lady, after fidgeting
and arranging the folds of her brocade silk, resumed the conversation by
saying, in a huffy tone, "May I inquire what you intend to do about it,
sir?"

"Begging your pardon, madam," said the doctor, looking up from his
orange, "of what were you speaking?"

The lady frowned frightfully at this fresh instance of his inattention
to her discourse.

"I only wished to know if you thought of marrying Frank Sheldon to Annie
Evalyn, in preference to your own daughter," she exclaimed, in a biting,
sarcastic tone. The _matter_ but not the _manner_ of this speech seemed
to rouse the doctor's attention.

"Frank Sheldon! Frank Sheldon!" he said quickly; "has he arrived from
his travels then?"

"No, but he _will_ arrive some time."

"O, yes, I trust so! But speaking of Annie,--_our_ Annie you know, for
I'm proud that we have such a treasure beneath our roof----"

"Dr. Prague! are you mad? A paltry governess a treasure! I consider it a
shame and disgrace to our house, that a poor, low, dependent, is allowed
an equality in the family, and admitted through our influence to the
first classes in society. And I'm not the only one that marks the
shocking impropriety. My son-in-law, Lawrence Hardin, is possessed of a
discerning eye. He sees Kate loses wherever that girl is admitted."

This speech was accompanied by immoderate vehemence, and energetic
gestures, but it failed to produce the slightest effect upon the
phlegmatic doctor, who, having finished his orange, settled himself
comfortably in his easy-chair, and took a cigar and the morning paper to
assist his digestion.

"Thirteen increase from last week. I declare, our city is growing
sickly," he said, as his wife closed her oratorical harangue; "but,
speaking of Annie again, she has a poetical gem in one of our popular
magazines this week, which I find accompanied by a complimentary note
from the editor. She writes under a _nom de plume_, but I discovered
her. Have you read any of her writings, Mrs. Prague?"

"_Her_ writings! the bold, impertinent hussy! No, nor do I wish to. But
if I'm to be entertained with this sort of conversation, I'll go down to
my son-in-law, Esq. Hardin's; and there I'm sure to pass an agreeable
day. Nothing low ever tarnishes his discourse."

"Do so, madam," said the imperturbable husband; "undoubtedly they will
appreciate the honor of your presence."

And with a disdainful toss the lady flouted out of the room, leaving the
good doctor to the undisturbed enjoyment of his cigar and papers.

Annie Evalyn had been nine months an inmate of Dr. Prague's mansion,
when the preceding scene was enacted. Some of that experience which Aunt
Patty had pronounced "better than book learnin'," had fallen to her
share. So far from her beauty and accomplishments winning friends and
good-will, they had only seemed to provoke the sneers and invidious
remarks of those who envied her superior attractions. She had seen the
contemptuous curl of the lip, and heard the epithet, "low-born
creature." She had bitterly learned that genius and beauty are not the
current coins of society; and she sometimes thought the old adage,
"Knowledge is power," would read truer, "Money is power." But though she
had dark hours, her young heart's courage had not failed. Still the
unalterable purpose was firm, to be active, to be striving for fame,
honor and good repute. Latterly she had turned her attention to literary
subjects, and produced several pieces that received warm commendation
from the press.

Annie had been but a few weeks in her new residence, ere her quick eye
discerned that Mrs. Prague looked upon her with envy and jealousy, and
she endeavored to conciliate the lady's esteem by gentleness and
condescension; but all efforts were vain. She persisted in her coldness
and perversity. This was so unpleasant to Annie that she several times
signified her readiness to leave when her presence was no longer
desired; but the old doctor, who was her most zealous advocate, declared
he should go distracted if she left them. Kate cried and the children
howled in terror at the prospect of such a calamity. Mrs. Prague looked
lofty and said, "Miss Evalyn was a trusty governess, and they might
increase her salary if she thought it insufficient."

"Double it, if she says so," said the doctor; "but money can't reward
services like hers. How could you pay the sun for illuminating your
drawing-rooms, Mrs. Prague?"

And Mrs. Prague darted an angry glance, and said she would go down to
her son-in-law's.

CHAPTER VII.

"To love's sweet tones my heart shall never thrill;
Nor, as the tardy years their circles roll,
Shall they the ardor of its pulses chill."

Reclining on a silken sofa, in a luxurious apartment, was a lady in the
prime of youth and beauty. She was robed in a white, wrought-muslin
gown, and her glossy ringlets lay in dark relief on its snowy folds. She
was reading at intervals from a small gilt volume, but with a wandering
listlessness of manner, as though it were a weary effort to fix her
attention upon its contents.

This was the wife of Lawrence Hardin, Esq., one of the most wealthy,
influential men in that part of the country. He arrived there from the
east a few years before, bringing a large fortune, which he came in
possession of by the sudden death of his parents. He embarked largely in
speculations, and was very successful; in consequence of which, the
mercantile class in their most critical junctures looked up to him as a
superior and safeguard. He soon grew to be a man of great power and
influence, and in the full tide of prosperity bore away the beautiful
Marion Prague, the reigning belle of the city, as his bride. There was a
rumor afloat that the match afforded the fair lady but meagre
satisfaction, and that her taste and wishes were not much consulted in
the matter; but the angry importunities of her proud, self-willed mother
at length induced her to marry a man she did not love. But this idle
report was hushed after their marriage, and the devotion of the young
couple loudly descanted on in fashionable circles throughout the city;
for was not Hardin all attention, and how could she avoid loving so fine
a fellow? So the world called it a nice match, and passed on. Let us
pause for a glance behind the scenes.

A slight tap at the door of that elegant boudoir, and then it swung
softly on its gilded hinges, and a gentleman, richly dressed, with
shining hat, dark broadcloth over-coat, and a light bamboo stick in his
neatly-gloved hand, entered and approached the couch on which the lady
reclined. He was rather above the medium height, of commanding figure,
with jetty hair and mustaches and deep-set, piercing black eyes. Laying
aside hat and gloves, he sat down by the sofa, and commenced playfully
poking the long, wavy ringlets that lay on the crimson damask pillow
with the gold tip of his tiny walking-cane. She had resumed her book on
his first appearance, and continued to peruse its pages. She did not
look toward him, or speak, and it was evident, from a slightly-clouded
brow, that his presence rather annoyed than pleased her.

This was Lawrence Hardin and lady in the privacy of their own apartment.

"Why don't you speak to me, Marion?" he asked, at length.

No answer, and the brow grew darker. He bent over her, and endeavored to
take the book from her hand. She tightened her grasp for a moment to
resist his efforts, and then, suddenly relaxing her hold, turned toward
the wall.

He gazed on her several moments with a mingled expression of anger and
wounded tenderness, and then turned away.

Half an hour later the young wife met her husband in the breakfast-room,
and presided with benign and gracious dignity over his well-laid table;
inquired "if Esq. Hardin found the chocolate and sardines to his
relish;" and he extolled Mrs. Hardin's excellent superintendence of
domestic affairs; said business in his office would detain him from her
till the dinner hour, and, expressing a hope that she might pass the
morning agreeably, bowed himself out of the presence of his lovely wife,
who replied to his civilities courteously, and even smiled brightly at
his parting nod at the hall door. And the servants in attendance saw and
listened; and reported, and enlarged on the "wonderful love" and
happiness of their young master and mistress. So this _nice match_ was
noised abroad over the whole city, and a hundred families envied the
domestic felicity of Esq. Hardin and wife. O, the endless masquerade of
life!

Several weeks later the unloved husband entered his young lady's
apartment. She stood before the dressing-table, arranging her hair for
the evening. She cast a brief glance toward him, and then proceeded
quietly with her toilet. The chilling indifference wounded him acutely,
and he addressed her rather hastily: "Marion, do you think I shall
always have patience?"

"I don't know, I'm sure," she answered, carelessly; "but of what do you
complain? Do I not perform the duties of your mansion in a manner to
satisfy your fastidious tastes?"

"Don't mock or trifle," he said, bitterly. "I'm not a machine, or an
automaton, and I want something more than my servants, my drawing-room
and table well attended, to satisfy my heart."

"You knew I did not love you when you married me."

"Yes, but I did _not_ know that you hated me."

"Nor did I."

"And what have I done since to incur your detestation?"

"Nothing."

"Well, then, will you treat me with a little less of this freezing
coldness and scorn when we are alone together?"

Tears started in those beautiful eyes, and he advanced to embrace her,
but she motioned him away. No, they were not there for him. She
struggled a few moments, and then, uncovering her face, said calmly:

"Sit down, Lawrence; I will endeavor to comply with your wishes."

He drew a damask fauteuil opposite the one on which she was reclining,
and sank among its downy cushions. The rays of the setting sun streamed
into the richly-furnished apartment and fell upon the two occupants.

"What news in the city, to-day?" inquired Marion, at length.

"Nothing particularly interesting, I believe," he answered. "I was at
your father's to-night; they are making preparations for a large party
next week, given in honor of Frank Sheldon's arrival."

Some noise in the street at this moment attracted his attention, and he
rose to look forth. When he turned again, he beheld his wife lying on
the carpet pale and cold as marble.

CHAPTER VIII.

"Strange scenes will often follow on abrupt surprise."

Annie Evalyn was alone in her apartment. A servant had just left a small
package, and she was now occupied with its contents. First was a letter
from the good parson, full of fatherly advice and admonition; then one
from Netta, a sheet written full, in a neat, delicate hand, describing a
visit to Aunt Patty's cottage, and a score of messages enumerated which
the old lady had desired transmitted to her "dear hinny," as she still
called Annie. "Tell her I don't tell fortunes now, for I know she will
like to hear that; because once I remember she said, 'I wouldn't tell
fortunes, aunty, for I don't think it is respectable.' So tell her I
earn a good living by spinning on my little wheel, and try to be happy
thinking she is so. But, sometimes, when the wind howls through the deep
woods, I can't help feeling lonesome, and think, if Annie were only here
to sing some of her pretty songs, how cheery the old walls would look!
And tell her, if she should ever grow tired and heart-sick in the midst
of the world's fashions and splendors, the old thatched roof in
Scraggiewood will joy to shelter her; and the old heart here will warm
and love her into life and happiness again."

Annie felt the tears come as she read, for she had often of late
experienced a longing wish for a gentle friend in whom to confide and
trust.

Now Netta spoke of their home at the vicarage. "It was lonesome yet,"
she said, "and the old study had never worn a cheerful aspect since its
good genius departed. Father and Aunt Rachel spoke of bright-faced Annie
every day; but most of all _she_ missed the dear, loving companion when
she retired to her chamber at night." And then she wrote, "Your old
friend George Wild, has returned quite a changed being, I assure you. I
think you must have infused some of your energy and action into his
nature, for he has become an active business man. He works at his trade
in the village, and I see him frequently. We have long, cosey chats
about you, Annie." Annie laughed as she read.

"Dear little Netta!" she exclaimed, "I see through it all; it is clear
as day. But I'm willing you should use my name, darling, to subserve
your timidity. I'll answer this sweet letter this morning. I'm alone,
and now is a good time."

She looked about for her writing-materials, and suddenly remembered she
had left them in the school-room the evening previous. As she lightly
descended the stairs, the bell rang, and the hall door being open, she
came in full view of a gentleman standing on the marble steps e'er she
was aware, and in another moment he was at her side, exclaiming,

"Astonishing! Is it possible? Can this be Kate Prague?"

Annie blushed as she perceived his mistake, and hastened to rectify it.

"I am not Miss Prague," she said, "but a member of the family at
present. I think I have the honor of addressing Mr. Sheldon." He bowed
gracefully.

"The ladies are gone out for a short drive this morning. Will you be
pleased to wait their return in the drawing-room?"

He accepted the invitation and entered the apartment, offering, as he
did so, an apology for his mistake, which she acknowledged with another
rising blush.

"I think Dr. Prague received intelligence last evening that you would
not arrive till next week," she remarked, as they were seated in the
parlor. "Had they expected you sooner, I'm sure they would have been at
home to receive you."

"I did send a letter to that effect," he said; "but the improved
facilities of travelling have enabled me to reach the city sooner than I
anticipated."

A silence ensued. Annie felt ill at ease. She had received many hints of
the lofty, aristocratic notions of Frank Sheldon. She knew him to be
wealthy, and the prospective lover of Kate Prague; that is, Kate had
informed her that "Marion had been first designed for him; but by some
means that plan failed, and then mother married her to Hardin, and
Sheldon was left for her. She supposed she should marry him some time,
though she did not care a fig for him, he was so grave, and always
talking on literary subjects which she could not understand and
therefore mortally abhorred."

All this passed quickly through Annie's mind, and, rising, she said she
"thought the ladies would soon return; perhaps he could amuse himself
with the contents of the centre-table a brief while."

"O, yes!" he said politely. "I can ever pass time agreeably with books
and paintings." She courtesied and retired to her own apartment. "What a
vision of loveliness!" he mentally exclaimed when left alone. "I wonder
if Kate Prague is half so beautiful. Who can this lady be?"

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