CHAPTER XXI

THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE

Heaven has to all allotted, soon or late, Some happy revolution of their fate; Whose motions, if we watch and guide with skill, (For human good depends on human will,) Our fortune rolls as from a smooth descent, And from the first direction takes its bent. DRYDEN.

“Do you think they are all in bed and asleep?” whispered Em. as, having covered up the kitchen fire, the mother and daughter stood for a moment on the hearth, each with a short candle in a brass candlestick in her hand.

“They are all abed, I’ll warrant you. I can’t say about their being asleep, though. Why do you ask?” inquired Susan.

“Because one or another of the boys, or father, is sometimes going around after some door or window they have forgotten to look to, or something else, long after we have supposed them to be abed and asleep, mother.”

“Well, what of it, Em.?”

“Why, mother, I have something to tell you that I do not wish to have overheard by anybody.”

“Is it the reason why you have stayed out so long?”

“Yes, mother.”

“Well, now, Em., that can keep till to-morrow morning. I know it’s about some poor family you have been visiting and want me to help, without your telling me, and I can attend to it to-morrow. I am too tired to-night for anything but my bed. There!”

“But, dear mother, it is not about any family that needs help, or anything of the sort! Oh, mother, it is something I cannot speak to you of in the morning, when there is so much going to and fro, and we have no privacy.”

“Well, then, I do suppose it is about Ronald Bruce you want to talk to me. But it is of no use, Em.! I agree with your father. You must give that young man up and forget him. And after to-morrow he _must not_ be allowed to come here again! He got his walking papers this morning, and he ought to have been guided by them and not returned. Though, of course, as he did so, and brought that rare old brandy for the sick woman, I had to attend to him and treat him with politeness. And, besides, to tell the truth, he has a way with him that nobody can resist. That’s the reason I say he must _never_ come here again! I told your father that he must put him _on his honor_ not to come again unless he came with Commodore Bruce’s authority to marry you. As that’s impossible, he’s sure not to return.”

“It was not of Mr. Bruce I wished to speak, mother,” said Em. in a low tone.

“Well, then, what in the name o’ sense was it?” demanded Susan Palmer somewhat impatiently, for she was tired and sleepy, and wearying for bed.

Em. drew nearer, put her lips to her mother’s ear, and whispered:

“Of Emolyn Wyndeworth! I have heard something of her fate!”

“EH!” cried Susan Palmer, starting and dropping her candlestick. She was wide awake now, with every vestige of weariness departed, and the longing for bed turned into the longing for news.

“Come up with me to my attic room, dear mother; there is a good fire burning there, and we shall be safe from interruption; and, oh, I have so much to tell you!” said Em. as she stooped and picked up the fallen candlestick and replaced the candle in it.

“Em.! are you sure of what you are saying?” exclaimed Susan Palmer as soon as she could speak.

“Quite sure, mother. Come,” said the girl, leading the way from the kitchen.

“But how on the face of the earth could _you_ have heard anything about it?” breathlessly inquired the mother as she followed her daughter upstairs.

“Dear mother, just wait till we get out of hearing of any of these rooms, and then I will tell you everything,” replied Em. in a whisper.

“Where did she die? How long has she been dead? What was the matter with her besides a broken heart? Tell me that if you can,” persisted Susan Palmer as she tugged breathlessly up the attic stairs after her daughter.

“Mother, she is not dead!” whispered Em.

“EH!” cried the woman.

“Hush-sh-sh—here we are at my room. Come in, mother, and when I have shut the door I will tell you all about it,” said Em. as she entered, followed by her eager listener.

Em. secured the door, rolled the easy-chair up before the cheerful fire, made her mother sit down comfortably in it, drew a low stool to her side, seated herself, and prepared to commence her narration; but was vehemently interrupted by Susan’s breathless inquiries:

“You say she’s not dead? Are you sure? How do you know? If she is not dead, where has she been all this time that no one has ever heard of her?”

“Mother, dear, I do not quite know, except that she has been at Edengarden, and traveling. But, though living, she has been dead to the world, she says.”

“‘_She says!_’ Why, for Heaven’s sake, girl, have you _seen_ her and heard her talk, _yourself_?” exclaimed Susan in a transport of wonder almost as great as if she had heard Em. tell of seeing and hearing a spirit from Paradise.

“Yes, mother, dear, how else could I have known anything about the lady?” said Em., who would then have delivered a “plain unvarnished tale” of her day’s adventures had not Susan’s impetuous cross-examination precluded all possibility of a consecutive narrative.

Em. was put upon the witness-stand and compelled to answer as she was questioned.

“When did you see her? Where was she? How came you to meet her? How did she look? What did she say?”

“I met her by accident this afternoon on the island, while I was looking at one of the pictures in the house. She looked thin and white, but young and beautiful as any angel for all that. She asked me my name, and when I told her she seemed to know all about me, and was very kind to me, and sent her love to you and wishes you and old Aunt Monica and father to come with me to see her to-morrow, if possible, or, if not, as soon as you can,” answered Em., pouring out her news as rapidly as she could to satisfy the ravenous demands of the inquirer.

“Well—well—well! Wonders will never cease in this world. Why, this beats Mr. Ronald’s sea yarns, Em. Emolyn Wyndeworth alive! Emolyn Wyndeworth the Lady of Edengarden! So near us, and not to let me know—_me_, who loved her so dearly, and had good cause, for the child sold her very clothes to buy my children bread!”

And here Susan Palmer began to cry, though she could not for her life have told whether it was for present joy or remembered sorrow. It was probably from both causes.

“Not to let _me_ know she was living, and so near—me, who named my prettiest child after her!” sobbed Susan.

“But, mother, she _has_ let you know. She has sent you word by me. Remember, she has only been here for a few days—since the first of October.”

“Oh! You didn’t tell me _that_, Em. I thought she had been here all the summer, as the people say she generally is. I wish you would tell _a straight story_, Em., and then I could understand things better,” said Susan Palmer as she wiped her eyes on her clean apron.

“That is just what I have been trying to do, mother; so, if you will let me, I will begin at the beginning and tell you every particular so plainly that it will be as good as if you had gone there with me yourself and seen and heard everything.”

“Well, then, so do, Em., and I’ll not interrupt you,” said Susan, settling herself comfortably back in the old easy-chair and stretching out her feet to the fire.

And, having had her first ravenous and devouring cravings of curiosity satisfied, the good woman kept her word, and sat and listened with patient attention while Em. gave her a careful and detailed account of her visit to the island and interview with the Lady of Edengarden.

Even when Em. had finished her narrative her mother showed no disposition to retire. All sense of weariness and drowsiness seemed to have vanished. Susan Palmer appeared to be disposed to sit up all night before the fire in her daughter’s chamber, talking of Emolyn Wyndeworth.

“I wonder what she has been doing all these years when she has not been at Edengarden? Traveling all over the world, I do suppose, scattering blessings wherever she passed, I _know_; for the good of others was her only object, thought of self was never in her heart. I hardly think she ever felt she had any self until that sharp trouble of hers pierced her through and through, and drove her out into the desert places of the world.”

“What trouble was that of hers, dear mother, can you tell me?” inquired Em.

“No, I can’t tell you. I think _she_ will some day, as she has taken such a wonderful fancy to you. You say she wants you, Em.?”

“Yes, mother, dear, she wants me to live with her as companion, I suppose. She must be very lonely, you know.”

“Would you like to go, Em.?”

“Oh, dear mother, yes, indeed, if you and father are willing to part with me.”

“It would hardly be like parting with you to lend you to her, so near us, too! And it would help you to forget that young man, whom you _must_ forget, Em. Well, child, if she wants you and you want to go to her _you shall go_; so that is settled. Your father would never dream of making any objection when anything as much for your good as that is in _every_ respect turns up.”

“I was sure you would like me to go, mother.”

“Why, of course. Now I tell you what we will do. To-morrow morning, if no change for the worse takes place in poor Ann Whitlock, we will borrow old ’Sias’s boat, and me and your father, just us three and no more, will start for Edengarden. And when we get safe in the middle of the river, out of hearing of every one but the water-fowl, we will tell father all about it! And, oh, won’t he be astonished? But we won’t drop a word of it to him, or any one else, until _then_. As to old Monica, although we have the lady’s leave to do it, we will not say anything to her yet awhile either. It would only distract her mind from the sick woman, who needs all her attention. What do you think, Em.?”

“Dear mother, I think you are quite right. Oh, let us be very cautious; for though I cannot imagine why that lovely Lady of Edengarden should wish to keep her identity as Emolyn Wyndeworth concealed beyond that it is from the memory of some great sorrow suffered in her youth—still, I know she made such a strong point of our keeping her secret when she gave me her confidence that I would not for all this world could offer me even seem to betray the trust!”

“Don’t be afraid o’ me, Em.! I can be as secret as the grave,” said Susan Palmer.

The clock in the hall clanged out twelve.

“I declare, it is midnight! Good-night, Em.! I must go to bed, though I don’t believe I shall sleep a wink this night with thinking of Emolyn Wyndeworth!” said the good woman as she lighted her candle and left the room.

Em. did not go to bed, however. She drew the brands together to make them safe, laid a log upon them to keep the fire, and then blew out her candle and tripped downstairs to Ann Whitlock’s room, which she entered.

She found the sick woman either sleeping or unconscious, and old Monica sitting in the arm-chair before the fire, wakeful and watchful.

“I have come to tell you that you must lie down and sleep. I will take your place until daylight,” said Em., leaning over the chair.

Old Monica resisted this mandate; but Em. insisted, and finally the nurse compromised matters by simply lying down on the outside of the bed behind Ann Whitlock, where she soon fell fast asleep.

Em. herself felt very drowsy, so, for fear of following old Monica’s example if she should sit in the old rocker over the fire, she drew a very _un_easy, hard, and high-backed chair to the side of the bed and sat down to watch her patient.

When feeling herself almost overcome by sleep she would rise and walk noiselessly up and down the room.

If her patient stirred she would give her a teaspoonful or more of beef tea and brandy, which the sick woman would swallow mechanically.

If the fire burned low she mended it by putting on fresh logs.

And so she passed the night in the sick-room.

When morning dawned she did not wake old Monica; but the aged are never long or heavy sleepers; so, as the first rays of the rising sun streamed through the open slats of the window shutters, the old nurse opened her eyes, sat bolt upright on the bed, took an instant to collect her faculties, and then got down and said:

“Lord bless you, honey, for dis ’freshing nap as I have had! Now, tell me how you bofe got along ’dout me.”

“You bofe” being supposed to signify the young nurse and her patient, Em. gave Monica a full and satisfactory report of the night’s watch.

Then the girl went up to her own room, took a refreshing wash in ice-cold water, and after brushing her hair and changing her dress she felt as wide awake as if she had slept instead of watching all night long.

She went down into the parlor, expecting to find some part of the family there in honor of their guest.

She found no one but Ronald Bruce, standing with his back to the wood fire.

He sprang to meet her.

“Dear Em., I have been here since daybreak, hoping some good spirit favorable to poor, unfortunate lovers might whisper in your ear and send you down to see me,” he exclaimed as he took both her hands and drew her towards him.

But she slipped away and evaded the kiss he meant, as she said to him:

“Ronald, I _am_ glad to speak to you alone for a moment, and for the last time, dear Ronald, until our meeting shall be sanctioned by my parents and your uncle.”

“Little prude! Little prig!” muttered the young man, half sulkily, half lovingly.

“I wanted to tell you, Ronald, that my mother and father both love you very dearly. Indeed, you ought to know that.”

“Perhaps I do know it and presume on it a little.”

“But for all that, Ronald, for reasons that you know of my father intends this morning to put you upon your honor never to come to this house or seek my presence again until you can come with your uncle’s sanction.”

“As if my uncle had a parent’s authority over a man twenty-three years old!” impatiently burst forth the youth.

“However that may be, my father insists that you seek my hand _only_ with your uncle’s sanction. And now, Ronald, I must be brief in what I have to say to you, for some one may come in at any moment. It is this, dear Ronald: Submit to my father’s terms patiently. He loves you as well as me, and he would not do anything that he did not believe would be for your good as well as for mine.”

“I wish to the Lord in heaven that people would mind their own business and leave us and our good alone!” vehemently exclaimed the vexed lover.

“Ronald! Ronald! How can you say such things in reference to father? He has a right to be obeyed by his own daughter and in his own house! But listen, dear Ronald, for this is what I wished to say to you: _Be patient_. I am convinced that all will soon be well.”

“Em., my dearest, what do you mean by that? Have you——”

But before the young man could utter another word John Palmer entered the room, bid his guest a cordial good-morning, and invited him to walk in to breakfast, which was waiting for them.

Ronald returned the greeting, and then openly gave Em. his arm and took her in to breakfast.

They no longer treated the young lieutenant as a stranger, so all the family were assembled around the table, only waiting for his entrance to take their seats.

After greetings had been exchanged they sat down.

Susan dispensed the tea and coffee; John the broiled venison steaks; and Em. the buckwheat cakes.

Love had not taken away the young man’s appetite, for he did full justice to the food set before him.

When breakfast was over he took leave of his kind hostess and her family, gave Em.’s hand a prolonged squeeze, and, attended to the yard by John Palmer, went out and mounted his horse and started for The Breezes, wondering as he rode slowly away what Em. could have meant by her cheerful prophecy that all would soon be well.