CHAPTER XI
HIDDEN LOVE
They seem to those who see them meet, The worldly friends of every day; Her smile is still serene and sweet, His courtesy is free and gay; Yet if by one the other’s name Should in some careless hour be heard, The heart we thought so calm and tame Would struggle like a captive bird. MONCTON MILES.
The colored girl did as she was directed, and led the way to the hall.
“We calls de hall Canady, ’cause it’s so big and cold,” said Liza, holding up her candle that Em. might view it.
There was nothing at all to be seen in it, except bare floor and bare walls, the head of the stairs, at one end, a large front window at the other, and two doors on each side leading into the four rooms. These rooms were not connected with each other, but opened only on the hall.
“Yur room is de sou’west room, Miss Em., and called Cuba, ’cause it’s warm and dry. Now less us go in de sou’east room, next to your’n, which we call Louisiany, ’cause it’s warm and damp.”
They entered that room, which had a musty and mouldy atmosphere of age and decay, and was furnished with a miscellaneous assortment of old furniture that seemed to have served its time out in the state chambers below, and had been retired to the rest and seclusion of the attic.
“I would like to look out of the window,” said Em., going to the front one and throwing open the shutters.
But she only looked down on the same scene by starlight as she had beheld by sunset—the descent of the precipice, the river, and the undulating, wooded hills beyond.
“Now, less look in de rooms on de north side,” said Liza, going across the hall. “Now this nor’east room we calls Newfoun’lan’, ’cause it’s so cold and damp,” she added as she led the way in.
It was filled up, as the other two were, with furniture that had once been very handsome and costly, but was now worn out and dilapidated.
A glance into the room sufficed.
“Now, Miss Em., I sorter to think as you’ll like dis last room better’n all de rest—dis nor’west room which we do call Alasky, because it is bofe cold and dry. It’s de lumber-room for de whole ’stablishment, and dere’s ebber so many funny and cur’us objects in it,” said the little maid as she admitted Em. into the fourth room.
“It is ‘a curiosity shop!’” exclaimed Em., looking around upon a heterogeneous multitude of articles that seemed to be the collection of a century—as most likely it was.
There were costly fragments of furniture, curiously carved chair-backs without seats; elaborately embroidered cushions without chairs; richly gilded frames without pictures; old, disfigured pictures without frames; busts without heads; statuettes without hands or feet; vases without pedestals; or pedestals without vases, and an innumerable quantity of other things too bewildering to contemplate.
Em. took up one object after another with curious interest, until at length her eyes fell upon a frameless, dusty, dark-looking picture, half hidden among broken vases and crippled statuettes.
It was the portrait of a youth in a midshipman’s uniform.
Em. took her handkerchief and wiped the dusty face and looked at it.
A bright, frank, boyish face; a pair of merry black eyes; a smiling lip, shadowed by a slight mustache; a brown complexion and short, curling black hair, met her gaze.
The eyes seemed to meet hers with a mischievious, conscious twinkle, so that she herself smiled into the smiling face.
Her heart warmed and melted before it.
“Oh, Liza,” she said, “is this a portrait, or is it a fancy sketch? Oh, how life-like it is. And to be pushed away with all this rubbish! Is it a portrait, Liza?” she eagerly inquired.
“Which, Miss Em.? That? Oh, yes! That’s poor, dear Marse Lonny’s pictur’,” replied the girl, approaching and holding the candle to it.
“Who is Marse Lonny, Liza?”
“Marse Lonny Bruce, miss, which was ole Marse Commodo’s onliest son, and was lost at sea on his fust v’yage, in de Benighted States man-o’-war _Eagle_, which it broke his mother’s heart to that degree as she pined away and died in less than a year afterwards.”
“I do not wonder, indeed,” said Em., gazing almost fondly on the bright frank face before her.
“And dey do say de commodo’ have never been de same man since. I don’t memorize poor Marse Lonny as well as I ought to, he being ole marster’s onliest son, and lost at sea; but, den, Miss Em., it ain’t my fault, ’cause I wasn’t born den; hows’ever, mammy memorizes all about him, and de very day he got his middy’s new uniform, and de fust time he ever put it on, which it is de self-same his portrait is painted in.”
“And this is his portrait,” murmured Em. in a low voice as she knelt down before the picture to get a nearer and a better view.
“Yes, miss, de onliest portrait as he ebber had took, and it was took that spring, jes’ ’fore he sailed on dat misfortnit v’yage whar he was lost.”
“And why is it poked away in the lumber-room? It seems a cruel slight.”
“Oh, my dear Miss Em., ’cause de ole marster he nebber could endure de sight ob it arter poor Marse Lonny was drowned. If ebber he come across it by accident it would knock him ober for all day. His onliest son, you know, Miss Em. So Mrs. Bruce, which hab kept house for ole marse ebber since his wife died, Mrs. Bruce she put de picture—hung it up on de wall, you know, miss, first in one room and den in t’other, but ole marster was sure to come upon it in his rambles about the house some time or other, and be upset for a whole day; so den de madam put it in dis here garret lumber-room, whar nobody nebber comes, not eben ole marster.”
“Oh, Liza,” eagerly exclaimed Em., “since it is pushed away in this rubbish room, do you think I might not have it in my room? If I were to ask Mrs. Bruce do you think she would let me have it while I stay here?”
“No call to bother de madam ’bout it. De madam gib me my orders to fix up your room comfortable and ’tractive, and to take anything out ob de lumber-room dat might be useful. And didn’t I take de fender and de handy irons out ob de lumber-room and mightn’t I take de picture? Yes, miss! I’ll take de picture and de ’sponsibility bofe!” said Liza; and suiting the action to the word she gave Em. her candle, pulled away the _impedimenti_ from before the portrait, lifted it from its place and carried it away to the southwest room, followed by Em., bearing the two lights.
Em.’s looking-glass stood upon the dressing-table. There was no glass on top of the old chest of drawers, but a good, vacant place for the portrait, and there they set it.
“Now, to-morrow, Miss Em., I’ll hunt over de lumber-room to try and find a frame dat will fit it. It _used_ to have a frame of its own, but de old madam took it to put another pictur’ in. Hows’ever, I know I can find one to fit it there, ’cause you see, Miss Em., whenever I wants anything as I haven’t got, and can’t get anywhere else, I takes a broomstick and I goes up into the lumber-room, and I tosses up everything till I finds what I want. So now, Miss Em., I bids you good-night, and to-morrow we’ll frame de pictur’ and hang it up anywhere you like,” said the kind-hearted colored girl as she left the room.
Em. went to the door and watched until she heard Liza go all the way downstairs and leave the house, locking the back door behind her.
Then she returned to her own room, fastened herself in, and fell to the contemplation of the portrait.
The bright, frank, joyous face that seemed to smile in hers fascinated her to such a degree that she could scarcely withdraw her gaze for a moment from it.
“I have read, or heard, that every one fated to die by any sudden or violent catastrophe carries the shadow of the coming ill on brow or cheek; but surely no prevision of early death darkens this glad young face!” she murmured to herself as she gazed with infinite sympathy, tenderness and compassion on this counterfeit presentment of the unfortunate young midshipman.
The sonorous hall clock began to strike eleven. Like hammer on anvil its strokes rang through the house. Em., with a long, lingering gaze, left the portrait and prepared for bed.
So ended her first day at the mountain house.
Em., wearied with the various fatigues and excitements of the time, slept soundly until morning.
She was finally awakened by a rap at her door and the voice of her little maid calling:
“It’s half-past seven, Miss Em., and de ladies has breakfas’ at eight.”
“Quite right! I will be ready in time,” said Em. as soon as she had collected her scattered senses and remembered where she was; for, indeed, on being first aroused from her sleep she could scarcely “place herself.”
“Please to open de door and let me in to make your fire, Miss Em.,” said Liza.
Em. jumped out of the bed and complied with the request.
Then her eyes fell upon the pictured face of Lonny Bruce—brighter, gladder, more joyous looking by the morning light than it had seemed the evening before.
Em. greeted it with such a smile as she would have given to a living and beloved face, and then while her little maid kindled her fire she made her simple morning toilet.
She made such good haste that when she reached the breakfast-room she found none of the family except Ronald Bruce.
“Good-morning, Em. I was in hopes you would be down first, so I came here on purpose to wait for you, Em. I want you to promise to marry me.”
“Oh, Ronald, you know I cannot do that without the knowledge and consent of all your family and all mine,” replied Em.
“Well, but _with_ their knowledge and consent,” urged the young man.
“They will never, _never_ give it, Ronald! Your family are too proud to consent to receive the daughter of a poor overseer as a relative. And _my_ family are much too proud to permit their daughter to enter any household where she would not be most welcome.”
“But, Em., what in the Blue Dees do you mean? Is the wicked, diabolical pride of your old folks and mine to interfere with our lives, so as to make us both miserable all our days?”
“I don’t know, Ronald; but we must do what is right.”
Ronald’s impatient reply was checked by the entrance of Commodore Bruce, who greeted his nephew and the young girl kindly, and then growled as usual at the _punctual unpunctuality_ of the ladies of his household.
“You can never rely on them but for one thing, and that is for always being behind time. Ah! here they are at last!”
The ladies entered, interchanged the morning salutations, and then they all went to breakfast.
It was not until they were all seated at the table that Commodore Bruce missed Mrs. Warde, and said:
“Well, how is Malvina? Is she not sufficiently recovered from her hysterics yet to come down?”
“Mamma does not feel strong enough to rise this morning, but she will try to join us at dinner in the evening,” Belinda explained.
The breakfast was then discussed, and when it was over and the family party arose from the table, Em. was about to leave the room when again the old commodore stopped her, saying:
“My dear, don’t run away! I want you to finish reading the papers for me, and I will promise not to go to sleep. I never go to sleep in the forenoon, however.”
Em. looked at Mrs. Bruce for directions.
“Go with the commodore, child,” said that lady condescendingly.
Em. followed the old man to the library, where he seated himself in his easy-chair, lay back at rest, and pointed to another chair, telling Em. to draw it up, seat herself and commence reading.
Em. obeyed him and spent the whole forenoon in perusing the papers.
It was nearly two o’clock when she got through.
“Well, now, my dear, you have given me a great deal of pleasure, and I thank you; but I will not trouble you again until Friday. The mails come in but twice a week to Greyrock—on Tuesdays and Fridays. Then I get my papers, and you shall read them to me. Go now and take a run in the fresh air until luncheon. Young blood requires a great deal of oxygen. Go.”
Em. wished to say something, but could not think what. She turned to go; then looked over her shoulder, and seeing the pale, gray, feeble old man, with his chin bowed upon his breast in an attitude of depression, weakness and sorrow, her heart was filled with compassionate tenderness for him, and she lingered, looking lovingly on him.
One thin, white, withered hand hung down by his side. With a sudden impulse of strange affection she stepped forward, raised the hand to her lips, dropped it, and would have hurried away; but the hand she had kissed was laid in benediction on her bright young head as the old man murmured:
“God bless you, my child! How kindly that was meant. Go now and take your walk.”
Em. left the room, ran up to her attic chamber for hat and shawl, and then ran downstairs out of the house to the stony front yard overlooking the descent of the precipice.
Here she was quickly joined by Ronald Bruce, who had seen her from the front drawing-room windows and ran out into the place.
“Em.,” he whispered as he joined her, “you have not answered my question yet. Are we both to be made miserable all our lives by the sinful pride of our relatives?”
“Yes, I did answer you, Ronald; but I will answer you again. We cannot tell how this will end; but whatever other people do, _we_ must do what is right. And, Ronald, if you _do_ care for me, as I believe, please do not follow me about or try to meet me anywhere. It is not discreet. Now do but look! There is Miss Belinda Warde watching us from the front parlor windows!”
Ronald turned to catch a glimpse of the lady’s face, which was withdrawn the instant it was detected.
“I am going in,” said Em.
“So am I,” said Ronald. “I only came out here to speak to you, and I don’t care if all the fine ladies in Christendom watch me. I will let them see that I love you, Em.; for I _do_ love you, and I _will_ marry you in spite of them all.”
They returned to the house and Em. ran upstairs to get ready for lunch.
Ronald went into the drawing-room, sulkily threw himself into a chair, took up a book and pretended to be absorbed in reading, in order to escape any interchange of words with Miss Warde.
But still he did not feel any more at ease when Belinda, with an offended air, arose and left the room.
The family met at luncheon.
Commodore Bruce treated Em. with more than previous kindness; but the sensitive girl perceived a shadow of coldness in the manner of the ladies towards her, and she wondered whether Miss Warde had not been making mischief by certain misrepresentations.
After luncheon, just as the ladies were about to leave the room, Mrs. Bruce called to Em.:
“Miss Palmer, I wish to speak with you alone. Follow me to my room.”
“I was going there, madam, to resume my needlework,” replied Em. as she obeyed the directions of the lady.
When they had reached Mrs. Bruce’s chamber the latter inquired:
“When is your father coming for you, Miss Palmer?”
“On Saturday evening, madam, when he will take me home to stay over Sunday, if you please,” modestly and respectfully replied the girl.
“Very well. It pleases me quite well. And you need not take the trouble to return on Monday. I shall have no further occasion for your services after this week,” said the lady with cold hauteur.
Em. turned deadly sick at heart and ghastly pale with mortification and disappointment.
But before her faltering lips could form a reply another voice came from the open door, saying defiantly:
“I am very glad to hear that, madam; for after this week I shall require all the young lady’s society all to myself. Yes, and with her consent I mean to retain it just so long as we both shall live.”