CHAPTER XXIV

A GOOD FAIRY

A smile of hers is like an act of grace; For when she smiles, a light is on her face, A clear, cool kindliness, a lunar beam Of peaceful radiance, silvering o’er the stream Of human thought with an abiding glory, Not quite a waking truth, nor quite a dream— A visitation bright and transitory. H. COLERIDGE.

The conversation between the Lady of Edengarden and her visitor continued until the return of Em., conducting her father.

“This is my husband, madam. John, this is our Lady of the Manor,” said Susan Palmer, presenting the new arrival to her hostess.

“I am very glad to see you, Mr. Palmer. I remember you quite well. You are not at all changed, except for the better. You are stouter and—taller, I almost think,” said Emolyn, holding out her hand.

“I am stronger, madam, and more erect, thanks to the mountain air and your bounty,” said John, as he respectfully received and bowed over the little hand held out to him.

Em. placed a chair for her father, and as he sat down upon it she took his hat from his hands and carried it out to the tree in the hall.

At the same moment Emolyn touched a bell that brought her page to her presence.

“Order luncheon to be served at once,” she said.

The young Mercury flew on his errand.

Emolyn filled up the short interval by talking to her visitor about the old Wilderness manor-house and its historical associations.

And then the boy returned and announced the repast in readiness.

“Come, friends,” said Emolyn, drawing the arm of her young namesake within her own and leading the way, followed by John and Susan.

The lady conducted her guests through a suite of sumptuous rooms, each succeeding one seeming more splendid than the other, until at length they reached a small but elegant dining-room, in the midst of which stood the lunch-table, laid for four, covered with the finest white damask, furnished with Sèvres china, Bohemian glass and silver, and provided with substantial fare, as well as with delicate viands.

The lady of the house made Em. sit on her right hand, on one side of the oval table, while John and Susan sat opposite on the other side.

The young page waited on the party.

The unaffected kindness and simplicity of Emolyn’s manner put her visitors quite at their ease, so that perhaps never was a repast more enjoyed than was this lunch by John and Susan.

As for Em., girl-like, she keenly appreciated dainty items in the feast—the potted meats and fish, the West India preserves and fruits and the French confections and chocolate.

When the collation was over Emolyn led her friends back to the parlor, and calling her little page to her, said:

“I want you to tell Pony to come here and see an old acquaintance.”

The boy left the room, and the party in the parlor had scarcely settled into their seats when the door opened and a tall, stout, handsome mulatto woman, becomingly dressed in a scarlet French calico, with a black silk apron, white collar and cuffs, white turban and large gold hoop earrings, entered.

“Why, Pony! Oh, Pony, I am _so_ delighted to see you!” gushed Susan, starting up and holding out her hand to the newcomer.

“So is I, you, Mrs. Palmer! ’Pon my word, how well you does look, to be sure!” exclaimed the woman, heartily shaking the offered hand.

“Is that young gal your darter?” she then inquired, turning her bright black eyes on the girl.

“Yes—that’s Em.! named after your mistress, Pony. Come here, Em. and get acquainted with the best friend I ever had in the world except Miss Wyndeworth,” continued Susan, beckoning to her daughter.

Em. came up and offered her hand, saying:

“I have heard about you all my life, Aunt Melpomene, and you look just as I supposed you would. I never did hope to have the pleasure of seeing you face to face; but, oh, I am so glad to meet you now!”

“So am I you, miss. But, law—did anybody _ever_ see such a likeness in this world?” exclaimed, the woman, almost staring the girl out of countenance.

“As between this lady and myself?” she replied, with a blush and smile of embarrassment. “Oh, yes, I have heard it commented upon by so many people—all, I think, whoever chanced to see us both.”

“Yes,” added Susan, laughing, “and I have expounded and explained how it was until I am tired. Why, Pony, woman, why shouldn’t my child be the very image of your young mistress when I had her face in my mind for months before this child arrived.”

“Well, it’s made her mighty pretty, and that’s the solemn truth,” said the woman gravely. “But I’ll tell you what, Miss Em., beauty is a great snare to the young, and unless it is supported by Christian grace, my honey, it is likely to fetch more misery than happiness.”

“‘Sich is life,’” said John sententiously.

“Oh, I declare I forgot—Pony, you remember my husband, don’t you?”

“Who—Mr. Palmer? Why, to be sure I do! I hope I find you well, sir! But my, how stout and portable you have got to be, sir!” exclaimed Pony, turning her attention now to the overseer.

“I am sure I can return the compliment,” said John, laughing.

“Well, you see, sir, we colored female women folks, when we keeps in good health, and is in peace with the Lord and the neighbor, is most in general ’clined to wax fat as we grow old,” replied Pony, showing all her teeth.

“‘Sich is life,’” said John solemnly.

“Indeed, and that is very true, sir, if we could only live up to it,” remarked Pony.

“_You_ have seen a great deal of the world since _I_ saw _you_, Pony,” put in Susan.

“I b’lieve you, ma’am! Me and my mist’ess ’mind me more of ole Satan in Job than anything else in de world—a ‘walking up and down in the earth and going to and fro in it.’ Yes, ma’am, me and mist’ess has been all over the universe, from Dansheba to de Debbil’s Icy Peek!”

“She means that I have been the tormenting Satan and she has been the patient Job,” explained Mrs. Lynn with a smile, adding: “Now, Pony, we will detain you no longer from your lunch.”

The woman took a laughing leave of her old friends and left the room.

Then Emolyn turned to Mr. and Mrs. Palmer, and addressing both, said:

“Now, my dear old friends, I wish to make a proposal to you that I earnestly hope may meet your views. I have a pleasant home here—very pleasant and healthy at all seasons of the year—but I am very lonely. I want a young and agreeable companion to share my solitude, and for such a one I should try to provide a happy home and instructive and profitable occupation and amusement. Your sweet girl here suits me precisely. If only I can make myself and home as attractive to her as she is to me, and if I can gain your approval, I wish to receive my young namesake in my house, on the footing of a daughter, a younger sister, pupil, companion—anything you wish, and on any terms you may please to suggest.”

“You know, my dear Miss Emolyn, as far as I am concerned, you are heartily welcome to Em.’s company on your own terms. It is not for us to dictate to you,” said Susan Palmer cordially.

Emolyn, smiling, replied:

“You shall never have cause to regret the confidence you repose in me, Mrs. Palmer.”

“Oh, I know that, Miss Emolyn. I know that.”

John Palmer as yet had said nothing.

Em., watching her father, felt a growing uneasiness.

Emolyn came to the rescue by turning and inquiring of the silent man:

“What do _you_ think, Mr. Palmer?”

“I think, my dear lady, that we are all of us under very deep obligations to you; more, indeed, than we can ever hope to repay. As to our girl, I feel that you wish to take her quite as much for her own sake as for yours. But, madam, this is sudden, and under your favor, I think we all of us—your honored self as well as the rest—had better take a day or two to reflect before deciding,” replied John.

“Very well. How long will you want to reflect on this, Mr. Palmer?” inquired Emolyn.

(“Oh, the old aggravating, cud-chewing cow! He’ll diddle Em. out of her good fortune yet with his reflection,” thought Susan Palmer to herself, feeling more impatience at her patient husband than she had ever felt before.)

John thought a moment before answering the lady’s question, and then lifting his head, he inquired:

“Will to-morrow evening suit you, madam, to receive our decision?”

“Thanks, yes, quite well, and I trust it will be a favorable one.”

“I hope, my dear lady, that you know we are all very sensible of your great kindness to us,” said John, rising from his seat.

“Oh, say no more about that, my good friend,” replied Emolyn.

“I thank you, madam. We will think the more then if we speak the less. And now, my dear lady, we must say good-by, and be getting back to the manor-house,” said John respectfully.

“Must you, indeed? I had hoped to detain you all day. I do not like to part with this dear child, who, I feel sure, reciprocates my affection,” said Emolyn warmly.

Em., who was sitting by her side, impulsively raised the lady’s hand and pressed it warmly to her lips as in confirmation of the words.

“Oh, why can you not stay till evening? There is no moon, to be sure, but then the clear starlight nights are very brilliant, and the river is as smooth as a mirror,” pleaded Emolyn, with more earnestness than the occasion seemed to warrant, as she clasped and held Em.’s hand.

“Well, you see, ma’am, we left a very sick woman in our house, Ann Whitlock, who has been with us so long that she seems like a relation,” Susan explained.

“Ann Whitlock?” inquired Emolyn musingly.

“Why, my dear young lady, she was the sick-nurse that was with your uncle in his latter days, you know.”

“Yes, to be sure!” said Emolyn thoughtfully.

“And after that she was nurse in the same hospital where I was a patient. And she saved little Em.’s life, as I explained to you once, ma’am.”

“Oh, yes, I remember,” sighed Emolyn.

“And since then me and John have felt she had a claim on us, and we have taken care of her in her old days.”

“That was very sweet of you, Susan Palmer! And she is sick now, you say?”

“Yes, ma’am, very much so. She had a paralytic stroke yesterday while Em. was here. To be sure, she has rallied a little, and the doctor thinks there’s no present danger of death. Still, nobody can tell. So you see, ma’am, we must not leave her all day.”

“I see,” said the lady thoughtfully. And she touched the bell that brought her young page to her presence.

She gave him an order in a low voice, and he left the room.

“Em., get our things,” said Susan Palmer.

The girl went and brought them.

While Em. and her mother were putting on their shawls and hats the page returned, bringing a hamper of wine, which he set down on the carpet before his mistress.

“Susan Palmer,” said the lady, “when my uncle was paralyzed the doctor ordered him to drink champagne as freely as water. You know it kept him alive for many months, if it could not cure him. Take this to your invalid and give it to her freely. When it is nearly gone let me know and I will send another hamper.”

“Oh, Miss Emolyn, how thankful I am! And how grateful poor Ann Whitlock will be! Heaven bless you, my dear! How like you this is!” exclaimed Susan fervently.

“The boy will take it down to the boat for you.”

“Much obliged, my dear lady, but I am a deal better able to carry it than the boy, and with your good leave I will do it,” said John.

“As you please, Mr. Palmer.”

“Good-by, my dear Miss Emolyn. May you be very happy for all the rest of your life! Oh, for years and years after we lost sight of you my prayers went up day and night that I might see you once more before I died until at last we all gave you up for dead; then I stopped praying for you. But now, Miss Emolyn, that I have the joy of seeing you again, I shall pray day and night to the Lord to bless you and to make you happy!”

“Yes. Pray for me, dear good woman. Oh, how I need your prayers!”

“Good-by, dear lady. I feel that you will be happy some of these days. Unhappiness cannot last forever in any one experience. There must be change. ‘Sich is life,’” said John, as he shook hands with his gracious hostess.

Em. approached also to take leave; but the lady drew the girl to her bosom and kissed her fondly, saying:

“You must persuade your parents to let you come to me, my darling. Strange how near you feel to me; but perhaps that is my own egotism because you bear my name and some striking resemblance to me.”

“I shall be sure to come back to you, dear lady. I never broke a promise in my life, and I promise to come back to you,” whispered Em.

“I shall rest on that promise. Now go; your parents are waiting for you,” said Emolyn, as she pressed a kiss upon the girl’s brow and so dismissed her.

Em. followed her father and mother as they left the house, John carrying the hamper of wine.

“I don’t see why you could not have given Miss Emolyn her answer about Em. at once. You needn’t have put on airs with that lady, John, talking about taking time for reflection and all that—when you know very well that you intend to let her go,” said Susan, as the three walked rapidly toward the boat.

“Indeed, then, Susan, I am not sure that I shall let her go at all!” said John very gravely.

“_Oh, father!_” exclaimed Em. in a voice of despair.

“I think is most likely I shall do so, though, my dear. So don’t be troubled. I think I shall let you go; but there is nothing certain in this world; and I must have some conversation with your mother first.”

They walked so rapidly that they soon reached the landing.

John Palmer hastened to place his wife and daughter in their seats and then to unmoor the boat and push it from the shore.

Em. took the tiller and steered for the Wilderness landing.

John laid himself vigorously to both oars, and they sped swiftly on their way home.

Susan talked incessantly on the way up the river, and the burden of her conversation was “Miss Emolyn Wyndeworth” and her strange and tragic story.

“The people about here call her Mrs. Lynn! That’s _their_ mistake, not Miss Emolyn’s doings. But I always _did_ call her Miss Emolyn, and I suppose I shall to the end of my days,” she said, among countless other observations.

John said but little in response and Em. nothing. She was absorbed in her own reflections.

The sun was low when they reached the Wilderness landing.

“It has taken us the whole day, after all; but Lord knows, we needn’t regret it, after what we have seen,” said John Palmer, as he drew in his oars, laid one down in the bottom of the boat, and using the other as a pole, pushed it up on the sands.

“No, indeed, we needn’t regret our visit if only we find our poor, old, sick woman hasn’t suffered through our going,” added Susan, as she climbed upon the shore, followed by Em.

Leaving the father to secure the boat, the mother and daughter walked rapidly up the weed-grown, leaf-strewn path that led through the autumn woods to the park gate.

Here they were met by old ’Sias, whom they found standing, leaning over the bars, talking to his sister Sally.

“Dr. Willy waitin’ for you up to de house, honey, and I jes’ run down here to de gate to see if you was coming,” said Sally, while ’Sias opened the gate to admit them.

“Dr. Willet here again! Is Ann Whitlock worse?” inquired Susan in alarm, as she entered the park.

“Laws, no, honey; it is only his goodness to come ag’in. He’s a nice, quiet ge’man, honey, as ever I see in my life. I warrant you now he never does nuffin to nobody,” said Sally.

“And jes’ as ’tentive to ole Miss Whitlock’s if she was a p’incess in her own palace, ’stead o’ being of a poor ’pendent hanging on to you. I ’clare I never see nuffin like it in all de days of my life, and dat’s a hundred and fifty years, more or less, honey, more or less,” solemnly exclaimed the old gatekeeper.

“Now go away from here, Jose_phi_as Elphine! Hundred and fifty years, indeed! We is twin sisters, you and me; and I know I ain’t no hundred and fifty year old, neither more _nor_ less, I tell you all good,” indignantly protested Sally.

“Come, mother, let us go on to the house,” said Em., anxious to see her patient.

“Don’t run away, honey,” exclaimed Sally, mistaking the young girl’s motives. “Don’t be feared of me. I don’t mean no harm. I never does nuffin to nobody, honey, only I _must_ chas_tise_ ’Sias for his braggin’ lies.”

“Come along with us, Aunt Sally, I want you,” said Susan, as she followed Em., who was walking rapidly up the grass-grown drive toward the house.

The three were soon overtaken by the long strides of John Palmer, who came up with the hamper of champagne on his shoulder.

At the house-door they were met by Dr. Willet, who cordially shook hands with John and Susan and patted Em. on the head in a fatherly fashion.

“I think the old woman is doing very well under the circumstances,” he said in answer to Susan’s inquiry.

Then Mrs. Palmer spoke of the timely present of wine, made by the Lady of Edengarden, and asked the doctor if it might be freely given to the patient.

“Indeed, yes, it is what I should have ordered if I had dreamed of its being attainable here,” he replied.

And then, resisting all kind invitations to re-enter the house, he mounted his horse, that stood waiting, bowed adieux and rode away.

John carried his hamper of wine into the kitchen, followed by Susan and Em.

He put it down on the floor, opened it and drew out a bottle.

“Here, Susan,” he said, “take this right up to the old woman and give her a drink at once.”

“Come, Em.,” said the good mother, hurrying from the room.

They found Mrs. Whitlock conscious, though unable to speak.

They gave her a large goblet full of the sparkling wine, Em. holding her up while Susan placed the glass at her lips.

Then they proceeded to arrange her bed and room and to mend the fire, and make all comfortable.

It was not until all the family had retired to bed, with the exception of the parents, that John and Susan discussed the subject of Em.’s removal to Edengarden.

“Now you have a chance, John, I want you to tell me why you stood shilly-shallying and hem-hawing about letting Em. go to that lady?” said Susan, as they drew their chairs in to the fire.

“Well, you see, Susan, I like that lady, and pity her, and thank her, all in one; and I would do a great deal for her—anything for her, but send our daughter to live with her unless—unless—Susan—well, unless you can insure me that she was as innocent as our girl herself of all the wrong-doing——”

Poor John had meant to put his question as delicately, as mildly and as gently as he could possibly do; yet Susan flew at him before he could complete his sentence.

“John Palmer, what _do_ you mean? Have you clean taken leave of your senses? But men are _such_ fools! Innocent? Miss Emolyn innocent? Oh, there is not a single speck on her soul’s white garments, man!”

“Now don’t get excited, Susan, my dear. If you feel sure she was innocent, then we will let her have our girl. That was all I wanted to know,” said John deprecatingly.

“I know that she is as pure as an angel! I would stake my salvation on her purity! And besides, John Palmer, didn’t you hear me yourself say, over and over again, how anxious I was to have Em. go? _Yes, you did._ And now do you dare to suppose that I, her mother, would be less careful of my daughter than you, who are nothing but just her father? I _am_ astonished at you, John Palmer! But, as I said before, men _are_ such fools we can hardly hold ’em to ’count for what they say and do, so women must be patient with ’em,” said Susan, rising to cover up the fire.

“Nobody but my wife never called me a fool; but ‘sich is life,’” sighed John Palmer, as he relieved Susan of the shovel and covered up the fire himself.