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Effie Afton >> Eventide
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Great was the surprise at Dr. Prague's mansion, on the following
morning, when Annie's flight became known. No token was left by which a
clue to her course might be discovered. Sheldon carried himself like a
crazy one. The old doctor bustled about, and said he would search the
world over to bring her back. Kate cried, and the children loudly
bewailed the loss of their dear governess. Mrs. Prague seemed the only
calm and rational one in the household; she declared herself glad to get
rid of the baggage, and considered her flight proof positive of her
guilt.
This view seemed rather plausible certainly. If innocent, why did she
not remain and boldly refute the tale Sumpter had told?
When the news of her flight was made known to Esquire Hardin, he laughed
heartily, and called up Sumpter to join him. The latter expressed
himself "sorry if he had unwittingly been the cause of an unpleasant
occurrence in Dr. Prague's family."
"What, the deuce!" said Hardin, "do you suppose they wish to harbor a
young witch?"
"Why, no,--but this gentleman, Mr. Sheldon."
"Give yourself no uneasiness in regard to me, sir!" said Sheldon,
sternly. "I will manage and control my own affairs."
"Bravely spoken, Frank!" remarked Hardin, "Now let us adjourn to the
dinner-saloon and drink a merry bout over fortunate denouement."
CHAPTER XIII.
"It was a bitter pain
That pierced her gentle heart;
For barbed by malice was the dart,
And sped by treachery's deadliest art,
The shaft ne'er sped in vain."
The wild winds wailed wofully over the lonesome prairie, smiting sadly
upon poor Annie's heavy heart as she sat in the hard, jolting coach,
which, owing to the bad state of the roads, made but sorry progress. It
was already dark, and the driver said they had yet ten miles to ride in
order to reach the nearest post town. They entered a dense timber land,
and the wheels struck deep into a loose, gravelly sand, so the poor
horses could scarcely drag on at a slow walk. The coachman hallooed and
cracked his whip about their ears, but all to no effect; the animals
were worn down by a hard day's travel; and Annie, annoyed by his
boisterous vociferations, at last put her head out the window and begged
him not to beat the jaded animals, but let them proceed at their own
pace.
"All one to me, miss," was the answer; "did it to please you; thought
you mought be a hungry, or mebbe sort o' tired, a settin' in there all
alone so. Whoa, Johnny! take it easy since it is the lady's wish. We
shall be just as well off a hundred years hence, I dare say, and supper
will be sweeter, the longer delayed."
With this philosophical reflection, he relapsed into silence, and for
two hours they continued to drag through the heavy sand, with nothing to
relieve the monotony, save the shrill bark of the wolf, far in the deep
forest, answered by the deep growl of the bear, or piercing cry of the
ferocious catamount.
Annie shivered with nervous terror at these wild, savage sounds; and
when at last, as they reached the open prairie, and struck a harder
bottom, the horses mended their paces, she felt sensibly relieved. At
length they entered a small, new town, and drew up before a large,
awkward building. The steps were lowered and Annie alighted, and soon
found herself in a long, dingy apartment, with a bright pine-wood fire
blazing and crackling in a huge, yawning fire-place at its farthest
extremity. She was chilled, and sat down before the glowing hearth to
warm her benumbed fingers. Presently a tall woman, in a short-sleeved
frock and large deer-skin moccasins, strode into the room, and with a
deep, ungainly courtesy asked, "What the lady would be thinking to take
for a bit of supper?"
Annie answered she would take a biscuit and cup of tea, if she pleased,
and then retire to her apartment, as she was much fatigued.
"And won't you have a chunk o' venison, or cold 'possum, to make your
biscuit relish, miss?" asked the woman.
"No, I thank you," said Annie; "I don't feel much hungry to-night."
"Why, I reckoned you must be well-nigh starved, a ridin' all day long,
and nothing to lay your jaws to; but, howsomever, you know your own
wants best."
The woman went out, and soon returned with Annie's supper spread on a
pine board. Annie could hardly repress a smile at sight of the novel
tea-table. Her meal was quickly despatched, and she again signified her
wish to retire. It was a rough, dismal apartment into which she was
ushered, but, tired and jaded, she threw herself on the hard couch, and,
despite the trouble at her heart, slept soundly till morning.
On rising, her first thought was to examine her little stock of money,
and she found it amounted to only seventeen dollars and a half, out of
which she must pay her coach and tavern fare. It was evident that she
must seek some employment to assist in defraying her travelling
expenses. The question was, whether she should remain where she was, or
go on as far as her scanty means would carry her. She went out to make
some inquiries of the woman who had waited on her the night previous.
"Get some work to do, miss!" said she in a tone of surprise. "What can
you do? Can you cut fodder, or cradle rye, or catch 'possums?"
Annie smiled, and said, "No, but I can teach school, do sewing, or
housework."
"Wall, I don't know; you look a mighty fine lady to be asking for work;
but then it is none o' my business to be pryin' into other folks'
concerns. We are new settlers here, and have to get along as close as we
can. I don't reckon you'll find anybody rich enough to hire ye in these
diggins. You'll do better along further east, where folks are richer and
more 'fined."
Matters looked unpromising, and Annie concluded to follow the woman's
suggestion, and travel on as far as the small funds would carry her. But
in the two years she had been at the west, the facilities for travelling
had improved, and prices were also reduced, so that her little purse
carried her much further on her route than she had expected. When it
finally gave out, she with great joy found she was but fifty miles from
her destination, and with a courageous heart resolved to perform the
remainder of the journey on foot.
Accordingly, she set forward. The weather was fine, and she did not
doubt her ability to accomplish the distance in two days, at farthest.
Every mile passed inspired her with fresh courage, for was she not so
much nearer a heart that loved her? O, how she longed to be clasped to
that warm, beating bosom, and weep her sorrows forth to one she knew
would pity, sympathize, and strive to heal!
CHAPTER XIV.
"Do you come with the heart of your childhood back,
The free, the pure, the kind?
Thus murmured the trees in the homeward track,
As they played at the sport of the wind."
The autumn evening stole calmly, sweetly on. Again October's harvest
moon rode through the liquid ether, and poured her silvery beams over
the wild, old forest of Scraggiewood, as we saw it long ago when Annie
Evalyn's years were calm and golden-hued as Luna's gentle rays. She was
coming now to the low, cottage home. With weary, languid step, she
threaded the old, familiar path, and it seemed to have grown rougher,
and the forest looked wilder and darker than in the days gone by. Poor
Annie! the darkness and gloom were in thy weary, world-tossed heart.
That heart beat wildly as she drew nearer the wished-for spot. What if
she should see no light gleaming through the aperture in the rocky
walls? What if the door should be fallen away, and no aunty there to
welcome the wanderer's return? She quickened her pace, and a few moments
banished all fears. The cottage came in view, and a bright light
streamed through the rough-cut window. Now Annie clasped her hands, and
thanked God that her journey was well-nigh ended. She saw her aunt
bending over the embers on the hearth, as she paused a moment on the
threshold. Then, entering softly, she stole to the side of the old lady,
and, passing an arm round her neck, whispered in a low, trembling tone:
"Here's Annie, come home to love and you, dear aunty."
The old woman sprang so suddenly from her kneeling posture as nearly to
throw the slender form upon the floor, and gazed wildly in the speaker's
face.
"Why aunty, don't you know me?"
"Bless me, it is her voice! but how could she rise up here on my
hearth-stone to-night, like a witch or fairy?"
"No, aunty; I am no witch or fairy that has risen on your hearth. I
walked all the way through the dim old forest to reach you, and it looks
just as it used to, only darker and more frightful."
"Come here, darling, 'tis you! I know that voice. O how many times I've
dreamed I heard it in the long, lonesome nights!" and she wept, laughed,
and kissed her recovered child in a perfect abandonment of joy. "And so
you have come home at last to see your old aunty? I've had awful
feelings about you lately, hinney, and boding dreams; and ofttimes I've
been sorry I let you go into the evil world; 'for if it should use her
hard, would it not break both our hearts?' I said to myself. 'But, then,
Annie is so pretty and good, and has got so much book-learnin' and so
many accomplishments,' something would say. 'Ay, that's the mischief of
it. Such things always make bad folks envy those that possess them, and
Annie is so tender-hearted and shrinking, I'm afeard, I'm afeard for
her.'"
Annie sunk her head on her aunt's shoulder while she was speaking thus,
and the tears, she had been striving to suppress since her entrance,
began to roll over her cheeks thick and fast. The excitement and anxiety
of the journey had in a measure diverted her mind from the events which
caused it; but now that she had gained the wished-for haven, her aunty's
words brought the past before her vision; that mortifying
humiliation--all she had enjoyed, all she had hoped for, and O, all she
had lost!--rushed upon her recollection, and she sobbed aloud.
"O, mercy, mercy, it is as I feared!" exclaimed the old woman, in an
agonized tone; "something has hurt my darling, and now I mark how pale
and thin she is grown. Annie, Annie, tell your aunty what's the matter."
Annie made a strong effort to calm her emotion.
"I am fatigued and overcome," she said.
"Ah! it is something more than that, child--I can tell; but you shall
rest till to-morrow. I'll make you a nice cup of tea, and then you shall
lie in your little cot-bed once more. I've always kept it dressed white
and clean, and often been in there nights before I laid my old bones
down to rest, and wished I could see my darling there, breathing long
and sweet, as she used to, in happy dreams."
Annie was glad to retire, for she was indeed fatigued. Her aunt tucked
the counterpane snugly around her, and hung a shawl before the window,
"for hinney looked too pale and slender to bear the cold air now," she
said. Then she insisted on sitting by the cot till her darling slept;
but Annie begged she would not.
"Go to bed, aunty, and get a good sleep, so as to be rested and fresh to
hear a long tale of my adventures to-morrow," and the kind old soul,
after kissing the white brow, bade Annie good-night, and sought her
pillow.
It was long ere Annie slept, and when at last she did so, hideous shapes
and direful omens floated through her dreams. Once she awoke, when all
was dark and still, to find a burning fever on her cheek, and dull,
throbbing pain in her temples. At peep of dawn the old woman rose and
stole into the apartment. She wanted to see her little pet sleeping in
her cot-bed, as she used to years before. There she lay, her arms thrown
above her head as when a child, and the rich chestnut curls lying in
dark relief on the snowy pillow. But the deep, sweet respirations, and
the healthful glow of childhood were not there. A blue circle surrounded
the closed lids, and a fever-flush burned in the centre of each cheek.
The aunt saw her darling was ill. She took one thin, hot hand in hers,
and felt the pulse fluttering fast and wild. The sleeper woke and
started up, turning her eyes quickly round the apartment.
"Don't you know where you are, Annie?" asked the aunt. "This is your old
room at Scraggiewood, and I'm your aunty."
"O, yes! I remember now; but I think I'm sick, my poor head aches and
throbs so badly. You used to cure all my pains, aunty."
"I hope I can cure you now, hinney. I'll go and prepare you a cooling
drink of herbs. You must be very quiet, and I trust you will be well in
a few days."
Annie submitted patiently. A week passed by ere she was able to make her
aunt fully acquainted with her woful tale. The poor woman seemed as much
afflicted as Annie, but she strove by every means in her power to soothe
and comfort the suffering heart. Netta Gray had been married to George
Wild a few weeks before her return, and was now absent on a visiting
tour, and Annie's health continued feeble. It could hardly be otherwise
with a mind so heavy and depressed. For several months she remained in
seclusion at the lowly cot in Scraggiewood.
CHAPTER XV.
"For the weak heart that vainly yearned
For human love its life to cheer,
Baffled and bleeding has returned,
To stifle down its crying here."
* * *
"Thou shalt go forth in prouder might
And firmer strength e'er long."
Up to the clear blue sky, when the sun was gone down on the silent
earth, clad in the pure white snow-mantle, and away over the tops of the
forest-pines, at the diamond stars hung in the far-off heaven, gazed
Annie Evalyn through that long, dreary winter, from the window of that
rude hut in the solitary depths of Scraggiewood. How she mourned o'er
her shattered idols, all fallen and wasted on their shrines! What a blow
had been dealt her sensitive nature! "O, it was so bitter cruel!" she
thought; "and what had she done that she should suffer thus?"
In vain her aunt tried to soothe and solace, by telling her time would
bring better hopes. Parson Grey would sometimes drop in of a Saturday
evening to coax and encourage his former pupil, and bring some nice
tit-bit to tempt Annie's delicate relish.
"You will regain your health and spirits when the spring opens, my
child," he would say. "Netta will come home, and we shall have you over
to the Parsonage, and all will seem like old times again. Then you must
resume that pen of yours, Annie, and let it write down those speaking
thoughts that lie in your inventive brain. You know my old doctrine; it
is a glorious thing to do good, and you can exert a happy and extensive
influence upon society. I know you will not abuse the noble faculties
given you by the great Creator."
"Ah, he does not know all!" Annie would think. "I once was vain enough
to suppose I possessed faculties and powers to act a brave part in life;
but they've been bruised and broken in the very outset. I've no energy,
no aspirations; because there's nothing in the future to beckon me on.
Wherever I turn is desolation; and I despise my weakness as much as I
lament my misfortune. But I'll no more of a world that has dealt me my
death-blow. Here, in this solitude of nature, let me die and sink to
oblivion."
Thus she ruminated, while the shadowy wintry days sped on; and reason,
weak and powerless in the headlong tide of passion that swept and swayed
in her breast, was buffeted and submerged in the furious waves; and yet,
when the storm had spent its fury, should it not arise clear and
brilliant, and over the subsiding tumult be heard to utter a calm, proud
jubilate of triumph and redemption?
Spring came at last. The snows disappeared; buds swelled on the tall
trees, and burst forth into canopies of leafy-green, and the feathered
songsters came hieing from southern bowers, with wings of light and
songs of gladness. Annie began to brighten; slowly, and almost
imperceptibly at first, and without her own knowledge or consent. Those
faculties she had fancied killed were only stunned.
When she found herself, one sunny April day, at her little, rude table,
inditing her beautiful thoughts on paper, she grew angry at her folly,
as she termed it, and tore the sheet. "And was she again seeking what
had once blasted her happiness? Let the desolation of the past deter her
from all intercourse with the heartless world again."
But the sunny gleams from the beauty-fraught robes of the spring-queen
had fallen on the chilled fountains, and they began to melt and flow
again. And their music _would_ be heard. As the brook down in the forest
seemed to send sweeter, more joyous echoings on the ear after its winter
sleep, so Annie's soul poured softer, holier strains of melody from its
deep well-spring of chastened, purified feeling. Yet the struggle was
not all over. Some tears, some regrets, some rebellious thoughts, yet
lingered. The wildest storm oft passes the soonest by; but traces of its
effects may remain to the end of time.
Netta returned from her travels, and the two friends, so long parted,
sat together in the old study again, and with clasped hands poured out
their hearts to each other.
Annie could not avoid saying, "My life-happiness is wrecked, Netta!" as
she completed a rehearsal of her misfortunes, "O, that I had been less
confident and aspiring! Then I had not suffered thus."
"Do not speak thus, Annie!" returned Netta, tenderly. "Your happiness is
not lost. With a mind so brilliant as yours, you must not yield to
despondency. I will do all in my power to render your life pleasant, and
so will George. He says your influence made him all he is. You rebuked
his slothful habits and urged him to activity. He felt the truth of your
words, though it wounded him deeply to have them come from you. I know
all, Annie. George loved you once, but I've forgiven him, and love you
all the better for having made me so good a husband." Here Netta laughed
and kissed her friend's cheek.
Annie returned the caress. "If I've unwittingly done you any good,
Netta," she said, "it is no greater pleasure to have done it than to
hear it acknowledged so prettily."
"But don't you think it very singular you have never received your
property from Dr. Prague?" asked Netta, turning the conversation back to
her friend's affairs. "I should have thought it but common honesty in
them to have forwarded your clothes and wages."
"O, why should they trouble themselves to give a thought to so vile and
artful a wretch?" responded Annie, bitterly.
"There, there, Annie, hush!" said Netta. "Vengeance will overtake them
for thus treating worth and innocence. And Sheldon, have you never heard
from him?"
"Never!" answered Annie, and a tear fell as she spoke.
"Not once!" said Netta. "He who could thus shamefully neglect one, so
lovely and beautiful, is not worthy of one precious drop from these
eyes."
"And yet he seemed so noble and good, it is hard to cast blame on his
conduct. O, Netta, I cannot forget him!" she exclaimed, bursting into
tears.
Ah, the love was there yet!--a little chastened and subdued, yet wanting
but a kindly touch to rouse it to all its early strength and power. A
bitter chastisement had tamed, but not conquered or expelled, the coy
truant from her breast. Should it aye sleep on, or one day know an
awakening?
CHAPTER XVI.
"Go on, go on: you think me quite a fool;
Woman, my eyes are open."
In their sumptuous drawing-room, before a sparkling grate, sat Dr.
Prague and his amiable lady, in genial after-dinner mood; he burly, and
easy-natured, enjoying his oranges; she, majestic and oratorical in her
rustling brocades.
"Doctor," said she, after a brief silence, "I wish to call your
attention to an important subject."
"Ah! what may it be?" he inquired, in a careless tone.
"Why, our Catherine's approaching union with Mr. Sumpter."
"Is the girl going to marry Sumpter? I don't like it, madam, I don't
like it;" and the usually placid doctor displayed considerable
impatience in his tone and manner.
"Why not? he is a wealthy, accomplished gentleman."
"Humph! a conceited, tricksy villain, you mean."
"Dr. Prague, is he not the friend and partner of my son-in-law, Esq.
Hardin?"
"What of it?"
"Why, a good deal of it, I should say. Is not Esq. Hardin one of the
first men in the city? I made the match between him and Marion, and I'm
proud of the alliance. You cannot say that it was not a wise and
judicious one."
"Whew! I don't know. Marion as melancholy as a mummy, and a child that
shrieks in terror whenever its father approaches. Perhaps a wise match,
but far enough from a happy one, I should say."
"The world calls it a nice match."
"Indeed."
At this point of the conversation Kate entered the room.
"Come hither, child," said her father; "do you love this Mr. Sumpter?"
"Why, no, father. I've never been able to conquer my aversion toward
him, since he vilified Annie's character, and caused her flight," said
she, wondering at her father's question.
"Then you do not wish to marry him?"
"Heavens! no."
"All right then. I'll see that you don't. Now run away, child."
"Dr. Prague, I'm astonished at you," exclaimed Mrs. Prague, in her most
towering style, as the door closed after Kate, "thus to pamper to the
follies of your offspring. Young people never know what is for their
interest. They should be held in perfect subjection to their parents'
wishes, and taught to obey their slightest commands."
"Very pretty, Mrs. Prague," remarked the doctor, carelessly, as his wife
paused for breath.
Whether he alluded to her logic or her face, we cannot say.
"Had Sheldon been discreet and saved his fortune," she resumed, "he
would have been the proper man for our Catherine."
"But he blundered and fell in love with Annie Evalyn."
"Faugh! don't mention that minx to me," said Mrs. Prague, with a sneer;
"but it must be confessed, Sheldon has very limited knowledge of
business, or he might have saved a part of his fortune at least. My
son-in-law, Esq. Hardin, by his alacrity and far-seeing judgment,
secured himself from material loss in the great land crash."
"Humph! quite as likely by his cunning and artful machinations."
"Dr. Prague, I'm astonished to hear you detract from the worth and
honesty of your son-in-law, even in our private conversation."
"I may repeat here what I've of late heard broached in public places,
that Hardin involved Sheldon in the speculations with the intention to
effect his ruin."
"Such groundless insinuations are worthy their originators," said Mrs.
Prague, in an angry, vehement tone.
"May be time will render us all wiser than we are now, madam."
"I hope it will," she answered, significantly, as with a lofty air she
rose from the luxurious sofa, and remarked, "I will now go down to
Marion's, and pass an hour in conversation with my son-in-law."
"Do so, madam," said the doctor, "and as you pass the office door, send
Kate up here with my cigar-case, if you please. It lies on the table
there."
And the majestic Mrs. Dr. Prague rustled her brocades into the private
parlor of her daughter Marion, just as the latter was hushing the
shrieks of a chubby little boy, who seemed nearly frantic with affright.
"What is the matter of him, Marion?" asked she.
"His father kissed him in his sleep and woke him. You know he always
screams at sight of Lawrence."
"Strange he should be afraid of his father; but he will doubtless get
over it as he grows older."
"I think it increases upon him."
"Is not Lawrence at home?" inquired Mrs. Prague.
"He is in the office with Mr. Sumpter, I believe," was the reply.
"Would you think it, Marion? Your father is opposed to our Catherine's
marrying Mr. Sumpter."
"Indeed, I do not wonder. I do not consider him a proper person for any
young lady of taste and refinement to marry."
"Why so? Lawrence extols him."
"Does he?"
The child had grown quiet, and now slept in its mother's arms. As her
son-in-law did not appear, Mrs. Prague soon retired.
Hardin was having a stormy scene with Sumpter. The latter had of late
grown bold and impetuous. Admitted in confidence to all Hardin's
nefarious schemes and plottings, he gained a power over the wicked man,
and began to exercise it with arbitrary sway. He was a reckless,
unprincipled gambler, and, having recently encountered heavy losses,
came with a bold demand on Hardin's purse.
"You are getting to use me shabbily," he exclaimed, angrily; "with all
Sheldon's fortune tucked away in your pocket, to say nothing of--you
know what--you refuse me so small a favor as a cool thousand. Come, hand
over, or, by Heaven, I'll inform against you!"
"You can hardly do that, without marring your own good fame," said
Hardin, ironically; "and I know you would shrink from doing that."
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