CHAPTER XVII

THE RESCUE

She took the fruits of my advice;— And he, repulsed—a short tale to make— Fell into a sadness, thence into a fast, Thence to a watch, thence into a weakness. SHAKESPEARE.

“Mammy says, how if you don’t come in to breakfast it will all be sp’ilt,” were the prosaic words that cut short this trying interview, as little Molly put her smoothly-brushed black head into the door.

“Run and tell mammy we will be there immediately,” said John.

The little lass sped away on her errand.

“Come, sir! Come!” exclaimed John cheerfully. “Our boys were out among the partridges on Saturday afternoon and bagged a rare lot of fat ones. The mother has dressed them for breakfast, and we mustn’t let them spoil by waiting! Come, Em., little woman, cheer up! Nobody’s dead and nobody’s dying!”

Now it was the first impulse of Ronald Bruce to decline John Palmer’s further entertainment, and to hurry away without waiting for breakfast, but a glance from Em.’s imploring eyes restrained him, and he sulkily followed John and herself to the dining-room, where Susan, with the brightest smiles, bade him good-morning.

As they seated themselves at the table Em. purposely took a chair with her back to the window so that her troubled face might be thrown into shadow and escape the notice of her mother.

But if Susan Palmer failed to observe the tearful eyes of her daughter, she did not neglect to watch her guest and to see how he slighted her delicious broiled partridges and cream rolls.

“I am afraid you are not as hearty as usual this morning, Mr. Bruce!” she said at length.

“Oh, quite so, thanks! But this is rather earlier than I am accustomed to take breakfast,” said the young man ingeniously.

Susan had the good sense to seem satisfied with the explanation; but she remembered all the while that the early breakfast hour had not prevented Mr. Bruce from making a valiant onslaught upon the edibles on the occasion of his last visit.

As soon as breakfast was over Ronald prepared to take leave of the family.

His horse was brought around to the door by ’Sias.

“Now I hope you will come to see us just as often as you can conveniently, Mr. Bruce! Why, a visit from you, with your sea stories, is as good as a voyage round the world to John and the boys, penned up as they are in this here wally with a wall of mountains round them! Come often, sir! And la! why, if breakfast at seven o’clock in the morning is too airly for you, we might have it at eight or nine, or any time,” said Susan Palmer cordially, as Ronald Bruce took leave of her.

“Thanks, very much; I shall remember your kindness,” returned the young man, without committing himself by a promise.

He took a light and cheerful leave of the younger members of the family, and then went to the window where Em. stood looking out.

She turned as he joined her.

He took her hand and said:

“I do not know when I shall be permitted to see you again, my dear and only love; but be sure of this—I will never give you up, Em.! Never, as I hope for heaven! God bless you, my darling!”

And so saying, he pressed her hand and turned away.

John Palmer went out with him.

“I am sorry, sir, that I cannot join in my wife’s invitation to you. But under the circumstances I think you and Em. had better not see each other again. I am grieved to the soul, I am, about all this. And—see here! I cannot let you go in this way! I’ll tell you what, now, listen! If you will agree not to see, or to speak to, or write to Em., or to hold any sort of communication with her, for the space of one year from to-day, and if at the end of that time you and Em. retain your partiality for one another, and you come to me with the written consent of your lady mother and your gentleman uncle, why, then I will take back all my objections to the match! There, now! I can say no more than that. What do _you_ say?” demanded John in a frank, hearty, almost joyous manner.

The countenance of the young man was not, however, gratefully responsive.

“I ask no concessions of you, Mr. Palmer, because I can make no promises. I _must_ have Em. for my wife if I can, and as _soon_ as I can. Her happiness, as well as my own, depends upon it!” he answered, as he placed his foot in the stirrup and threw himself into the saddle.

“Very well! Then my hope is in Em. She is a dutiful daughter, and she will obey me,” concluded John Palmer, as he waved his departing guest adieu and returned into the house.

He looked around for Em.; but the girl was nowhere to be seen. He inquired for her and was told that she had gone upstairs to make the beds.

“And I would just like to know,” said his wife, who had been his informant, “what they have been doing to Em. up there at the commodore’s to make her look so ill. I take my oath she does not look like the same child. I just think I’ll march myself up to the grand house and ask them what is the meaning of it all!”

“Come here, my good woman. I’ll tell you all about it, and then we must drop the subject forever and a day and try to employ and amuse Em. and make her forget it,” said John, as he beckoned Susan to follow him into the parlor, where they would be more secure from interruption.

There John shut the door, put his wife into the big arm-chair, and taking another for himself, sat down before her and told her the whole story of Ronald Bruce and Emolyn Palmer’s love.

Susan listened in breathless astonishment.

“To think of such a thing! It never once entered my head!” she exclaimed. “And Em. nothing but a child, hardly out of her short frocks and pantalettes! And he, you might say, almost a middle-aged man by comparison! And quite belonging to another world! But, oh, my poor girl!”

“Well, my dear, I considered the best thing to do in such a case was to put my foot right down on it, and that I did. Though if I had thought as he’d a-made her happy in the long run I’d a-given my consent; but I knew he’d soon repent sich an unequal marriage, and that would break my girl’s heart, and so down I put my foot upon the whole thing! And now, Susan, we must never allude to what’s past, but try to comfort and cheer the child up.”

Mrs. Palmer agreed to that, and then they left the parlor and set about their several duties.

As for Em., she went hard to work—her panacea for all mental troubles. They all heard her singing as she shook up beds and swept floors.

But when all the work was done, then came the reaction of artificial excitement—the life weariness, the heavy-heartedness, that she could not shake off.

So many industrious hands about that house left so little to do!

_Her_ hands could now find nothing.

She thought she would walk down to the pier and take the little boat and make a visit to the island. She had not been to Edengarden for some weeks past; and this golden October day tempted her to the excursion.

She went to find Susan and said:

“Mother, I am going out for an hour or two, if you would not mind.”

“No, of course not, child. But where are you going, Em.?”

“To Edengarden, mother. I have not been there for so long a time.”

“Very well, Em.; but, oh, my dear, don’t attempt to row the boat yourself! I know you _can_ do it; but still for this once take old ’Sias with you! Will you?”

“Yes, mother, if you wish me to do so; but you know, dear, there is no danger. I can use an oar as well as I can a broom. And for the rest, you know what the country people about here say—that it requires a great deal of perseverance and presence of mind to drown one’s self in the ‘Placide.’”

“Oh, I know, Em.! But still, for this once, take old ’Sias with you.”

“I will do so, mother,” replied the girl as she turned away.

Em. quickly wrapped herself in her black and white-checkered shawl, and put on her gray felt hat and left the house.

She walked briskly down the leaf-strewn road that led through the thicket to the gate-house.

Here she found old ’Sias sitting on the step before the closed front door, smoking a stumpy clay pipe and basking in the golden sunshine of the autumn morning.

“Oh, Uncle ’Sias, I am so glad to see you at leisure. Will you row me to Edengarden this morning?” she inquired, pausing before the old man.

“Miss Em.! Well, I ’clare to my goodness! De sight ob you down here axing me to go wid you a-rowing is good for to cure blindness!” exclaimed old ’Sias, taking the pipe from his mouth and rising to his feet. “Why, you hasn’t been here—less see—not since las’ Augus’, I do believe. Yes, honey, to be sure I’ll take you a-rowing, and glad to do it, too,” he continued, as he emptied his pipe and put it into his pocket, and walked on beside Em. out of the gate and through the forest road leading to the river.

“You are quite at leisure to go with me, Uncle ’Sias, I hope?” said the girl considerately.

“Oh, la! yes, honey! I hadn’t nuffin ’t all to do, and what’s more, I hadn’t no place to go to. You see dat dere shet-up door, didn’t you, honey?”

“Yes, of course,” said Em., wondering to what that led.

“Well, chile, dat shet-up door was bolted on the inside,” said ’Sias mysteriously.

“Why, how was that?” inquired Em.

“Sereny been performing, honey! Sereny been performing, chile! Thanks be to goodness, Miss Em., dere ain’t much ha’r left on my head for her to twist her fingers in now! Lord, if Miss Abishey performed on King David like Sereny do on me, no wonder he wrote so many sollum sams! She’s been performing, honey, and arter she’d done performing she kicked me out and clapped the door to and bolted it! Dere, dat’s what Sereny did, and I feel as if I could write a sollum sam myself!”

“It is really too bad!” cried Em.

“Now ain’t it, dough, honey? And de most aggravokingest part if it is to think as I’m her lawful lord and marster, as she swore beore de holy altar to lub, honor and obey! But law! what’s de use o’ talking? De wimmen don’t ’member dem wows no longer’n dey get out’n de church! Leastways, I know Sereny didn’t! Purty way she lub me to pull all de ha’r out’n my head! Purty way she honor me to kick me out’n de house and slam de door and bolt it on me. And I her lord and marster! But you see, chile, dough I is her s’preme ruler, she’s de strongest ob de two, and dat’s de way she gets de better ob me! Now, I tell you what, Miss Em., if it should please de Lord to take Sereny, I think as I should be ’signed to His holy will, and I never would get another young wife to keep me warm in my ole age, ’cording to King David nor no other king! So dere, now! ’Cause de way dey hab o’ keepin’ you warm is by pummeling and scalpin’ of you, and I don’t like it! So no young cullered gal needn’t be coming arter me if ebber I’m a widderer ag’n! ’Deed and ’deed needn’t dey!”

They had by this time reached the water’s edge, where the little boat lay moored and rocking.

“Shall I put up de sail, Miss Em.? But dere ain’t a breaf ob breeze, neider!” said ’Sias as he began to unmoor.

“Oh, no! We will row. You take the oars, I the tiller, and we shall skim the water like a bird,” said Em.

“So we will, Miss Em., and won’t that be sociable?” cried old ’Sias gleefully as he threw the chain ashore and took up the oars and placed them in their rests.

Em. nodded, entered the boat, seated herself, took the tiller and steered for the island.

Old ’Sias laid himself sturdily to the oars, and the little boat sped on its way down the river.

“Oh, how glorious this is in autumn!” exclaimed the girl, as, forgetting all her troubles in the moment, she gazed with enthusiastic delight on the magnificent scene before her.

The mighty river, rolling on in calm strength to the sea; the lofty precipices on the left, with their gray rocks dappled with clumps of evergreen trees and parterres of variegated moss, and brightened by springs and fountains of sparkling water dancing down their sides and losing themselves in the river; the undulating, wooded hills on the right, now changing into all the most brilliant colors of the autumn foliage—crimson, orange, purple, golden, scarlet—all blended and contrasted on the shore, and reflected in the shining river; the distant island, midway between the banks, resting on the bosom of the river and looking in the autumn dress of its groves like an immense bouquet of gorgeous exotics.

Em. sat and absorbed the beauty and glory of the scene into her soul, and never spoke again until they had reached the landing at Edengarden.

“Now, Miss Em., my honey, if you don’t mind walking up to de house by yourself, I think I’ll jes’ set here in de boat and smoke my pipe and think o’ King David and Abishey till you come back,” said old ’Sias as he steadied the boat to let his passenger step out.

“Very well, Uncle ’Sias, I will not keep you long.”

“Never mind ’bout de ‘long,’ honey. I could stay here all day, willin’! It’s so quiet like here, and clean out’n de reach o’ Sereny,” replied the old man as he settled himself in his seat and took out his pipe and began to fill it.

Em. walked on through the belt of silver maples that had now turned in their autumn tints so that they formed a golden girdle around the shores of the beautiful island.

Passing through and out of them she walked up the ornate terraces where the clumps of trees in their fall dress of crimson, orange, and purple, looked like gigantic posies, and the parterres of flowers were rich in late roses, dahlias, chrysanthemums, and other autumn blooms.

Up, past arbors, statues, and fountains, to the white, colonnaded piazza that surrounded the white palace.

“This might be the ‘Island of Calm Delights,’ and the fairy palace of the Princess Blandina, for its beauty and its solitude,” said Em. to herself as she went up the marble steps that led to the main entrance.

She had intended to walk around the piazza to the rear of the house to get the key from the solitary housekeeper; but as soon as she stepped upon the porch she saw that the front door was open.

It was not an unusual circumstance—Em. had twice, on former visits, found the door open when other sightseers happened to be present.

Therefore, without the least surprise or hesitation, she entered the beautiful hall and passed directly to the saloon, where that wondrous portrait of the “White Spirit” hung, which had, for her, so powerful a fascination.

To her slight surprise now she saw no one present. The room was vacant. She went and opened one of the windows to throw a better light upon the lovely portrait, and then she turned and stood before it.

How perfectly proportioned was the slender, elegant form! How stately and graceful the attitude! How soft and flowing the drapery! How fair and delicate, how refined and spirituelle the lovely face, seen through the misty tissue of the falling veil, which seemed so real that Em. felt tempted to lift her hand and draw it aside that she might get a clearer view of the beautiful vision.

As she gazed a new light broke upon her.

“Why, this is a bridal dress!” she said to herself. “Strange it never struck me so before, but I suppose it was because I had heard the lady always appeared veiled. But here she must have been painted in her bridal dress, for that is certainly a bridal veil.”

“Yes, she was painted in her bridal dress,” murmured a voice, soft, sweet and low as the notes of an eolian harp.

Em. started and turned around, to be transfixed by a pair of soft, deep, dark-blue eyes, whose gaze held hers spellbound.

The “White Spirit” stood before her.