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Effie Afton >> Eventide
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"None of your sneers, Hardin," growled Sumpter, fiercely; "will you give
me the money?"
"No!" thundered Hardin, with an oath; "you shall not ride rough-shod
over me in this way. Now begone from my sight!"
"Very well; good-evening, Esq. Hardin," said Sumpter, with a savage,
revengeful leer on his countenance, as he went out, slamming the door
spitefully behind him.
Hardin was alarmed, after the wretch was gone, as he reflected how far
he was in the monster's power, and in what ruin he might involve him if
he chose.
CHAPTER XVII.
"Now mark him in the tempest hour,
Will he be calm, or will he quail
Before the fury of its power?
----Read ye the tale."
There are those that know not the extent of their powers till they are
called forth and tasked to the utmost by trial and misfortune. Such an
one was Frank Sheldon. Disposed to ease and quiet in the hour of
prosperity, when adversity came, it aroused him at once to vigorous,
decisive action. Though bereft of love and fortune at a blow, as it
were, his manly spirit did not cower and sink beneath the strokes; that
he suffered is true, but he bore up bravely under the adverse fortune.
He was proud, as all great minds are, and the blight so publicly cast on
Annie Evalyn's good repute, cut him to the quick; but he hoped she might
be able to refute the aspersions cast on her by Sumpter, for he was loth
to think ill of a being that had appeared so amiable and exalted in her
nature, so lofty in soul and intellect, and was beautiful as an angel in
person. But, instead of this, she fled by night from the scene of her
confusion, leaving behind all her effects, and no clue to her intended
course. Did not this wear the appearance of guilt? Still he did not
condemn her, but learned from Dr. Prague the place of her former
residence, and wrote a letter, assuring her of a continuance of
affection, and asking an explanation of Sumpter's strange tale. No
answer was returned,--indeed, the letter never reached its destination;
but this Sheldon did not know, and was forced to regard the silence as
another proof of her cupidity.
With this view of the matter he found it less difficult to subdue his
passion. He could not, _would_ not love a guilty, artful thing.
And now fell another blow in quick succession; his land investment
proved worthless, and at a sweep his fortune went past power to recover.
Hardin expressed much regret, but Sheldon could not avoid noticing that
he clutched at every opportunity to save his own affairs, and exposed
him to the most uncertain hazards.
Old Dr. Prague loudly bewailed Sheldon's ill luck, and declared he would
never forgive himself for having advised the young man to embark in the
cursed speculations. But Sheldon begged him not to be unnecessarily
distressed, as it was no fault of his that the schemes proved abortive;
and the good doctor finally coincided, and settled down to his oranges
with tolerable serenity.
Sheldon did not long remain inactive; he left those scenes amid which
misfortune had overtaken him, and repaired to the eastern cities, where
he readily found employ in an extensive printing establishment, and
applied himself assiduously to his duties. In a short time he was
admitted to the firm, and became assistant editor of a popular magazine.
This was an occupation congenial to his tastes, as it afforded him not
only an opportunity of writing, but of reading, and becoming intimately
acquainted with the polite literature of the day.
He was one day in the editorial sanctum, examining a quantity of
manuscripts lately received, when one, in a clear, delicate female hand,
attracted his eye. There was something in the light, fairy tracery which
instantly riveted his attention. He read it through; "Woodland Winne,"
was the signature,--a _nomme de plume_, of course. He wondered who could
be the fair authoress of this beautiful production.
While thus occupied in conjectures, a gentleman entered the apartment.
"Here, Wilberforce, do you know this MS.?" said Sheldon, holding it
toward him.
"O, yes!" answered the gentleman, glancing it over; "beautiful hand, is
it not?"
"Yes; but who is the writer?"
"O, I don't know that! I have had several communications from the same
pen in the last three months, all exquisite in their style and diction,
and eliciting warm commendation from the literary press."
"And cannot you discover the fair unknown?"
"No, I have addressed her under her _nomme de plume_, and desired her
true name remitted, in confidence, if she objected to publicity; but she
has never seen fit to gratify my curiosity."
"Strange one so deserving should shun notoriety," remarked Sheldon.
"So it seems to me," said Wilberforce, who was the senior editor; "but I
came in to call you to the Literary Association; it meets at three
o'clock. Come, let's be off, or we shall be too late;--these MSS. we can
look over to-morrow."
They closed the office and went out in company. But Sheldon forgot
himself several times in the debate, as a semblance of that delicate
manuscript, enwrit with those clear, sparkling fancies, rose often
before his mental vision.
There seemed to be a spell about it, to charm and lead captive his
imagination.
CHAPTER XVIII.
"The hour of vengeance strikes,--hark to the gale!
As it bursts hollow through the rolling clouds.
Such is the hand of Heaven!"
It came at length, swift, avenging justice; awful in might, and none
could resist its angry hand.
The "pestilence that walketh at noonday," swept over the fair, young
cities of the west, and thousands fell victims to the remorseless
destroyer.
O, Cholera! great be the name of him, who, from the mazes of scientific
lore, shall call a power to rob thee of thy terrors, thou scourge of
mankind!
Lawrence Hardin returned from a southern trip to find his house left
desolate; wife and child both in their hastily-covered graves. He shook
with agony, and scarce was the first frantic burst of grief subsided,
ere the officers of justice entered his mansion and declared him their
prisoner. He glared at them wildly.
"What mean you," he asked, "by this untimely intrusion in the house of
death?"
"Prepare to accompany us to the court-room immediately," was the answer,
"to answer to a charge of swindling and forgery preferred by one John
Sumpter, who is also arrested and undergoing examination."
Hardin grew ashy-pale at these words.
"The villain!" he muttered; "so he has betrayed me. Carry me where you
will, Mr. Officer. Life is a curse to me henceforth."
Thus speaking, he resigned himself passively to the custody of the
sheriffs. They conducted him instantly to the court-house, and placed
him in the prisoner's box beside Sumpter, who cowered and moved away at
his approach. Hardin threw a look of envenomed hatred on the wretch, and
sat down. When the charges were read he merely bowed; and when asked
what he had to plead, replied: "Nothing, only that they would hang him
up as soon as convenient, and thus end his misery." He was placed in
jail with Sumpter, and several other defaulters, to await a final trial
at the autumn sessions.
And the pestilence swept on; young and old, rich and poor, all fell
before its blasting power. In the brief space of twenty-four hours, Dr.
Prague was bereft of wife and children, and left a poor, lone man, in
his solitary mansion. Where should the mourner turn for consolation? At
this crisis, he thought of his old friend, Parson Grey, and determined
to quit the city for a few weeks, till the epidemic should have
subsided, and make him a visit. He was just the calm, holy spirit he
needed to solace his afflictions; and accordingly a letter was
despatched, which brought a speedy reply, sympathizing in his distress,
and urgently inviting him to join them as soon as possible.
He visited Hardin before departing, informed him of the death of all his
family, and kindly inquired if he could be of any service to the
imprisoned man.
"No!" was the answer; "and I don't know what you came here at all for.
What do I care if your wife and brats _are_ dead? So is _my_ wife dead,
and _my_ child, and I hope soon to be. The greatest favor you can bestow
is to get out of my sight."
The doctor gazed on the hardened wretch with pity, and turned away. He
left the city in July, and the first of September the trials came on.
The large court-house was densely thronged to hear the pleas and
decision in the case of the extensive forgeries and bank frauds of
Hardin and Sumpter. There could be little doubt of the verdict, as the
evidence against the parties was powerful and conclusive, and none
seemed so regardless of the issue as the prisoners themselves. With
hard, stoical faces, they confronted the jury, as they returned from
their deliberations and resumed their seats on the platform.
Without, the elements were raging in their wildest, most terrific fury.
Broad flashes of lightning at intervals illuminated the crowded hall,
and glared on the sea of upturned human faces, marked with every variety
and shade of passion and feeling. The thunder roared and reverberated
through the heavens with tremendous crashings, as the judge arose, and,
turning toward the jury, asked, in solemn accents, if they had agreed
upon a verdict.
They had.
"Are the prisoners at the bar guilty, or not guilty?"
There came a blinding flash, followed by a deafening thunder-bolt, as
the foreman rose and pronounced the word, "_Guilty_."
Smothered screams at this moment issued from various parts of the
assembly. The building was struck and on fire. Terrible confusion
ensued. Frantic cries and shrieks mingled with the bellowings of the
storm without, rendering the scene awful beyond description. All rushed
pell-mell for the street. The crackling flames burst through the broad
windows on the side of the judges' platform, rolling a dense volume of
smoke and stifling heat into the interior of the building. In the wild
excitement and terror, the prisoners were forgotten. They stood in the
box where they had received sentence. The flames were rapidly
approaching them. Sumpter turned a glance full of hatred and vengeance
on Hardin. "You swore revenge on Sheldon," said he, "and I helped you
accomplish your iniquitous designs. You refused a paltry sum when I
asked it, and then I swore revenge on you, and this is the way I finish
it."
Hardin drew a revolver from his breast; "And this is the way I finish
mine," he said; and, taking aim, lodged a ball in the heart of Sumpter.
Then, springing quick as lightning over the box, he rushed among the
crowd and gained the street. The intense darkness favored his flight,
and, hurrying on, he gained the levees, secreted himself in the hold of
a boat, and had the good fortune to find himself floating down the river
in the morning.
CHAPTER XIX.
"Go forth, thou spirit proud and high,
Upon thy soaring way;
Plume all thy pinions for the sky,
And sing a glorious lay."
As the young sapling of the forest bends and sways in the fury of the
blast, and, when it is passed, rises and shakes the weight of rain-drops
from its pliant boughs, and stands stronger, higher, more beautiful than
before, so Annie Evalyn, when the passion-storm had spent its fury, rose
a purer, loftier being, with a heart firm and free, and a soul elevated
and sublime in its aspirations. There might be traces to tell the
tempest had been a wild one; a paleness on the brow; the lips thinned
and slightly compressed; the eyelids sometimes drooping their long
lashes over the dark, liquid eyes, and a tear stealing silently over the
marble cheek; or a slight shudder for a moment convulsing the slender
frame, as if memory painted a picture the soul shrank from contemplating.
Yet these light tokens of what _had_ been, heightened the sublime beauty
of what was _now_. Annie was no longer a child in the world's lore of
experience. Sorrow and suffering are swift teachers. They unfold and
perfect the powers with astonishing rapidity. Annie Evalyn was a woman;
with a quick eye and ready judgment to detect and discern the workings
of that great mystery, the human heart, yet simple and child-like in her
manners, as of old.
"Bless it, but this is an agreeable surprise!" exclaimed Aunt Patty, as
Annie entered the little, rock-built cottage, on a clear, cool evening
in early autumn, with a bright smile beaming on her lovely features;
"why, I didn't once think of your comin' to-night, hinney, bein' as you
were here last Saturday. But it does my old heart good to know you
remember your poor, ignorant aunty, when you are among your little
scholars and so many kind friends at the Parsonage."
"O, I never forget you, aunty!" said Annie, returning the old lady's
embrace; "this humble cot and these old Scraggiewood oaks are very dear
to my heart."
"I'm glad to hear it, dear; it is a homely spot, to be sure, but it has
sheltered us well. But what is doing at the parson's, love? All well and
happy?"
"Yes, and Aunt Rachel sent you this little box of wax-candles. She said
you loved to read evenings, sometimes, and these gave such a clear,
steady light, it would do your old eyes good to behold it."
"The dear, kind-hearted creature!" said Aunt Patty, receiving the
package and brushing away a grateful tear. "Sure she is a perfect
Christian if there is one on earth."
"O, we have some news at the vicarage, aunty! The old gentleman, in
whose family I resided during my stay in the western country, has sent a
letter to Parson Grey, narrating a sad tale of misfortunes, and
expressing a desire to visit him ere long. It seems the cholera has been
committing frightful ravages through those sections, and his entire
family have been swept away in the brief space of one week. And, O,
aunty, I dread to go on!"
"Let me hear, child."
"You recollect the man, Sumpter, who spoke those dreadful words in a
social company?"
"Yes, yes, didn't I have him here, in this very room, on a night long
ago--and Hardin too? Ay, dark, wicked schemes, and worse than those,
showed in their cups. But go on, love."
"Well, they have been arrested for forgery and found guilty. The sequel
of the affair Mr. Grey received last evening, in an extra sent him by
Dr. Prague. It appears the verdict was rendered during a violent storm,
which struck the court-house, and, in the confusion that followed,
Hardin shot Sumpter and escaped."
"O, shocking!" exclaimed Aunt Patty, with horror depicted on her
countenance. "Ay, God's vengeance is sure to overtake the wicked sooner
or later."
"We look for the arrival of Dr. Prague every day. How do you think he
will meet me, aunty?"
"How should he meet you, child, but with shame and confusion of face?"
"But he was always kind to me, aunty."
"Well, he didn't do right never to send a letter to inquire after your
fate, or forward your clothes and wages."
"He might have been prevented by his wife. I know she was a violent
woman and had ever a dislike to me."
"Nothing should prevent a man from doing what is just and right, Annie,"
said Aunt Patty, in an inflexible tone; "but it is like you to think the
best of people's failings, and I acknowledge it is a good way. Now,
hinney, I'll make a dish of tea, and we'll have a brimming bowl of
Crummie's sweet milk, with some of your favorite berries. I'm so glad!
It seems a Providence that I gathered some this mornin'. I'll slab up
some batter cakes; you know I'm pretty good at them; and just you light
one of Rachel's candles--though it is hardly dark yet, it will make the
table look so cheerful-like."
Annie did as directed, and they soon sat down to the simple meal. Aunt
Patty's face was redolent with good-humor and cheerfulness, as she
dished out the largest, ripest berries, and nicest browned cakes for her
darling.
"Do you write your pretty stories and poetries for that city magazine
now, hinney?" she asked, as they discussed their meal.
"Yes, aunty, and I have brought several numbers for your perusal. I
still want to be famous, aunty, though I once thought I didn't care for
anything more in this world; but that was in a foolish time, and is past
by now. Mr. Grey says it is better to be good than great; but if one can
be both, why, better still, I fancy. And I know I feel happy when I'm
teaching those poor little children to read and love each other, and
grow up to be blessings to their parents. This is doing good, Mr. Grey
says; but this restless heart of mine is not filled, is not content. It
feels there are other faculties, lying dormant and unemployed. The
editors of this magazine have offered two prizes,--one for the best
tale, the other for the best poem,--and I'm going to strive to win them.
The money would make you very comfortable for life, aunty; and you have
done so much for me I want to repay some of your kindness if I can."
"Dear heart!" said the old woman, tearfully, "what have I ever done for
you that is not already ten-fold repaid by seeing your bright eyes, and
feeling that you love your old aunty?"
"But I'm not wholly disinterested, aunty; don't you see I covet the fame
that would follow should I succeed? That's for me; the money for you.
Now kiss me good-night, and I'll to my cot to dream a subject for my
labor."
"God bless and prosper you, my darling!" said the fond aunt.
CHAPTER XX.
"It was a face one loved to gaze upon,
For calm serenity of thought was there.
The eyes were soft and gentle in their glance,
And looked with trusting artlessness in yours.
Placid her mien, like that of lofty souls
That after storm sink down in tranquil rest."
Once more is winding on the spring-time of the year, and once more is
Annie Evalyn away from the old forest home. Her soft, bird-like tones
echo through the sumptuous drawing-rooms of Dr. Prague's stately
mansion, in that fair western city. During his visit to the east the
preceding summer, he had succeeded in coaxing her away from Mr. Grey and
her aunt, to pass a few months with him, and cheer and enliven his
lonesome abode.
"No one could do this so well as Annie," he said, "always his pet and
darling; though his foolish, yielding old heart had been overruled by
others to treat her with wicked neglect, for which he now cursed
himself, and wanted opportunity to make amends."
So Annie kissed them all round, and went with him to pass a few months.
She had completed her prizes, and was now waiting to hear of their
reception. She had also contributed to the literary publications of the
city, and received a large share of flattery and applause; and, though
writing under a fictitious signature, her identity was well known in
private circles. Sumpter's villany and disgraceful end had effectually
destroyed his tale of her duplicity and artifice, and the highest
classes sought her friendship and society. The memory of former trial
and suffering stole over her sometimes, as she mingled again 'mid the
scenes of its enacting; but she was too wise and good to allow it to
rankle, or stir bitter feelings in her bosom. Let the past be forgotten
in the felicity of the present. Heaven had visited devouring vengeance
on the guilty ones. Let her bow in silence and adore!
It was evening. Annie sat on a low ottoman at the side of the infirm,
good-natured old Dr. Prague. A bright gas-light sparkled through a
wrought-glass shade above them, and a silver salver, containing some
golden oranges and pearl-handled knives, stood on a walnut stand near
by. A servant entered, bearing a package of papers.
"Here they are, dear uncle!" exclaimed Annie, springing forward to
receive them from the waiter's hand. "Now our evening's amusement can
commence;" and she passed him the dish of fruit, twirled the light a
little higher, and, drawing a stool close to his side, said, "Now what
shall I read first? The price of stocks, the list of deaths----"
"No, little babbler," said he, patting her curls playfully; "you know
what comes first of all. 'Woodland Winnie,' of course."
"Woodland Winnie is a silly little thing," remarked Annie.
"I'll be my own judge as to that, Miss Annie; please to read on."
"O, here is something from 'Alastor!'" she said, turning over the pages
of a new eastern magazine. "I do so love his writings; please let me
read this first, uncle. Do you know his real name?"
"No; but I sometimes fancy it may be my old ward, Frank Sheldon, as he
has always had a turn for writing, and is one of the editors of this
periodical."
"One of the editors of this magazine!" repeated Annie, in a quick,
excited tone; "I never knew that before."
"Why, I thought I told you last fall, at Parson Grey's, in some of our
talks about former days."
"No; you said he was employed in some printing establishment at the
east, that was all."
"Well, I intended to have mentioned the rest; but what makes you look so
earnest and rosy, Annie?"
"O, nothing!" she answered; "I was only thinking."
"Frank has written to me, recently, a letter of sympathy and condolence,
and says he will visit the west this summer," the old man continued,
paring an orange. "I was going to make him my sole heir, but now I've
found you, I believe I shall curtail him and take you in for a share."
"O, you had better not!" she exclaimed quickly.
"And why better not, child?"
"Because he is more deserving your generosity than I."
"More deserving? No, indeed, Annie. But see how nicely I have peeled
this orange for you," passing it to her.
"For me, uncle! You had better eat it yourself."
"Why, what ails the girl? She won't even accept an orange from my hand."
"Yes I will, uncle; but after you had prepared it so nicely, I thought
you ought to enjoy it yourself," she answered, accepting the luscious
fruit. He gazed on her affectionately while she ate the juicy slices,
with grateful relish, and when she had finished, said, "Now will Annie
read to me awhile?"
"With the greatest pleasure, uncle," she answered, returning to the
package of books, from which she read till he was satisfied.
"Your voice reminds me of those wild, bright birds I used to hear
singing in that old wilderness of Scraggiewood, when I called on a quiet
evening at that rocky cottage where you were nursed into being; a spot
fit to adorn a fairy tale. No wonder you are such a pure-souled,
imaginative creature, reared in that pristine solitude of nature. Now
you may retire, darling, and don't fail to be down in the morning to
pour the old man's coffee, because it is never so sweet as when coming
from Annie's little hands." Thus speaking, he bestowed a fatherly kiss
upon her soft cheek, and she glided away to her own apartment. A long
time on her downy couch she lay gazing on the moonbeams that glinted
over the rich flowers of the Persian carpet, while crowding thoughts and
fancies thronged upon her brain. Most prominent were those of Sheldon,
and his connection with the magazine for which she had written her
prizes. Amid wonderings and fancyings she fell asleep, to follow them up
in dreams, with every variation of hue and coloring. She was roaming
through the gravelled avenues of an extensive flower-garden, when a
rainbow of surpassing brilliancy spanned a circle in the air above her,
and wherever she turned her steps, it followed, hovering just above her
head; and the delicate colors seemed to strike a warm, heart-thrilling
joy down to the inmost recesses of her soul. She woke, with a delicious
sense of happiness, to find the morning sun throwing his golden beams
into her apartment.
CHAPTER XXI.
"And I did love thee, when so oft we met
In the sweet evenings of that summer-time,
Whose pleasant memory lingers with me yet,
As the remembrance of a better clime
Might haunt a fallen angel. And O, thou--
Thou who didst turn away and seek to bind
Thy heart from breaking--thou hast felt e'er now
A heart like thine o'ermastereth the mind;
Affection's power is stronger than thy will.
Ah, thou didst love me, and thou lovst me still!"
Annie's foot was on the stairs to descend to the drawing-room, on the
following evening, when she heard the old doctor's voice in the hall,
exclaiming, in tones of loud, hearty welcome,
"Why, bless my eyes! Frank Sheldon, my boy, do I behold you at last? And
to come upon me in this unexpected manner! I've a mind to throw this
orange at your head."
"Do so, sir, if you choose; but first hear my apology for this
unceremonious surprise. Business brought me----"
"I won't hear a word about an apology," interrupted the doctor,
bestowing a hearty slap on his young friend's shoulder. "Come in, boy,
come in;" and the doors of the drawing-room opened and closed after
them.
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