CHAPTER XXV

EM.’S NEW HOME

Oh, brightly is bedeck’d your bower, and gorgeously your halls; Here treads the foot on springing buds, and there on velvet falls: The massive curtains’ graceful flow, the vase, the painting warm; Those household echoes, mirrors bright, revealing the fair form; Exotics that perfume the air with odors sweet and strange, And shells that far in foreign climes mid ocean wonders range, With countless gifts of taste and art, in classic beauty rife, Are laid upon your household shrine, and grace your daily life. GILMAN.

Tired as she was with her unusual exertions, before she slept that night Susan Palmer ran up the attic stairs to her daughter’s chamber to communicate the good news that was to make Em. so happy.

The door was closed, but not locked, so she opened it and walked in.

She found that Em. had gone to bed but not to sleep. She immediately sat down beside the bed, and in answer to the girl’s eager, questioning eyes, she said:

“Yes, my dear, your father has given his consent for you to go.”

Em. started and threw her arms around her mother’s neck, exclaiming:

“Oh, how glad I am! It was you, dear, I know it was, who got him to consent at last. But oh, dear mother, you will not think I love you any the less because I want to go to that desolate Lady of Edengarden, _will_ you, mother dear?”

“Nonsense, girl, of course not! You’ll love us as much, and even more, when you get away from us than you do now. Why, law! when I was younger than you are now I was crazy to go out to service; and when I did, I found that I loved my home and my mother better than I had ever done before. I sha’n’t be jealous, Em.,” laughed Susan.

“I don’t know why I should want to go, either; but that dear lady is so lonely, so desolate, my heart goes out to her, mother. Think of it, she has no family circle, no visitors, no society, no one but her colored servants!”

“It is her own choice, Em.; yet I do wonder at the shyness that makes her keep herself unknown even to old Commodore Bruce, who used to know her when she was a child, and who was just as fond of her as if she had been his own. I do wonder at that!”

“Mother dear,” exclaimed Em. suddenly, “don’t you remember she said Dr. Willet had been to see her?”

“Oh, yes. Dr. Willet was one of her oldest and best friends, and stood by her manfully in her worst troubles. But for a long time after she disappeared not even _he_ knew what had become of her; however, I dare say she notified him afterward, although he never said anything about it, being bound over to secrecy, most likely.”

“Well, but, mother dear, Dr. Willet is staying at Commodore Bruce’s, and don’t you think he will tell the old commodore, who has so long mourned Emolyn as dead, that she is really alive and within his reach?”

“Oh, no, no, Dr. Willet will never do so without the lady’s consent—never!”

“Oh, what a pity it is that she so secludes herself from all who would love her!”

“Yes, it is, Em., a crying pity. If you should get any influence over her, Em., you must try to coax her out of all that.”

“Oh, I will, I will, dear mother. I will do all in my little power for that lady. It is so strange, but she feels inexpressibly near and dear to me,” said the girl tenderly.

“I am glad to hear you say so, Em. And now, my dear, as you sat up all last night with Mrs. Whitlock, you must really go to sleep. Good-night, and God bless you, my dear,” said Susan Palmer, as she kissed her daughter and left the room.

The next morning, true to his promise, John Palmer authorized Em. to write a note of acceptance to the Lady of Edengarden, and to send it by the old gatekeeper in his boat.

Em. joyfully obeyed, and penned the grateful missive, inquiring at its close when the lady would like that she should come.

Old ’Sias took charge of the note and started to deliver it.

But the old man was feeble and slow at the oars, so that he took nearly the whole day to do his errand, and the family had finished supper, cleared up the kitchen and gathered around the blazing wood fire, occupied with their evening work—the women and girls knitting and sewing, the men and boys mending harness and carving out wooden bolts—when ’Sias walked in, bringing a letter, which he handed to Em.

“Did you see the lady?” she eagerly inquired as she opened the note.

“No, honey, I didn’t see nobody but a mons’ous handsome, bright ’latto ’oman. Handsome as a queen, honey—de Queen o’ Sheba in all her glory—which she tell me, honey, as her name was Mellow Ponies. ’Deed, if I had cotch my eye on _her_ ’fore I ebber seed Sereny——But ’tain’t no use talking ’bout dat now. On’y if the ’Vine Marster _was_ to ’flict me wid de loss ob Sereny——But all dat’s wanity and wexation of de sperrits,” concluded the old man with a sigh.

Meanwhile Em. read her note, which she presently passed to her mother, saying:

“She wants me to come on Thursday, mother, and this is Tuesday evening, you know.”

“Well, my girl, that will give you a day to get ready, and I will help you,” answered Susan. Then quickly turning to the old gatekeeper, said:

“’Sias, stop! I want to send a message by you. Tell your wife Sereny that if she will come and sit up with our sick woman to-night she shall be paid well for it.”

“Berry well, ma’am, sartin. And dat will be a great deliverance for me of one night, anyhow!” exclaimed the old man as he retreated.

The following day was spent by the mother and all her daughters in looking over, doing up and packing Em.’s simple wardrobe, ready for use in her new home.

That night, being the last one previous to her departure, Em. sat up with Ann Whitlock until near day, when she was relieved by Monica.

It was a glorious autumn day, near the last of October, when Em. took leave of her mother and sisters to set out for her new home.

“Now you know, dear mother, the lady said in her note that she hoped you would come and spend a day with us just as often as you could, the oftener the better,” said the girl, lovingly lingering over her leavetaking.

“Yes, Em.,” replied Susan.

“Also she said that whenever I should feel the least homesick, I should come to you for a few days.”

“Yes, Em.”

“And whenever you might feel like wanting me at home you were to send for me and I should come.”

“Yes, Em.”

“Then you won’t feel lonesome for me, mother dear?”

“No, you goose! There, don’t worry about me! You didn’t make half so much fuss about leaving home when you went to The Breezes, though that was the very first time you ever left us! There! God bless you, my good child, good-by. I shall come to hear the blind preacher of the island Sunday, and then I shall see you and your sweet lady, too,” said Susan, pressing her daughter to her heart in a final embrace.

Em. turned away, and, escorted by her father, walked quickly down the leaf-strewn road leading through the park.

It was true! Em. felt more disturbed at leaving home now on this second time than she had done on the first—even though now she was going to live with one to whom her affections were strangely and strongly attracted. It may have been that in the depths of her spirit she had unacknowledged previsions that this was a final departure from her home, that never again would she re-enter her father’s house except as a visitor.

John walked on silently for a while, but just before they got to the park gate, where old ’Sias stood in attendance, he said:

“Em., my child, don’t forget us in your fine new home.”

“Oh, dear, dear, good, best father, never, never, never! How could you think I would? No, I will write to you twice a week, at least, and send the letter by a special messenger, for I feel that my lady will indulge me in that!”

“No, Em., don’t you do it! Don’t give so much extra trouble in a strange house. I am satisfied with what you say, my girl. I know you will not forget us!”

By this time they had reached the gate, which ’Sias had set wide open for their egress.

“Good-by, Uncle ’Sias. You must sometimes get in your boat and come to see me in my new home,” said Em., holding out her hand.

“Good-by, Miss Em. Surely I’ll come to see you. Give my despectful compliments to Miss Mellow Ponies! If ever de ’Vine Marster was to ’flict me wid de ’reavement ob Sereny—but dere! I won’t say nuffin more ’bout dat. It’s permature!” added the old man, as he flourished his hat in a final adieu.

The father and daughter walked down to the shore, where they found the two boys mounting guard over Em.’s trunk, which they had carefully brought down from the house and deposited in the boat ready for transportation.

Em. took leave of her brothers and seated herself in the boat.

“Get in, dad, and make yourself comfortable; we’ll unchain her,” exclaimed Tom.

Mr. Palmer followed this advice and took up the oars, and as soon as the boat was free he pushed off.

Em. steered.

There was a strong current down the river, and they made very rapid progress, and soon touched the island strand.

“The lady will send two of her men servants down for my trunk, father. We can safely leave it here in the meantime,” said Em., as she stepped upon the land.

John nodded and joined her, and they walked together through the silver girdle, as the belt of maple trees was called, and thence through the acacia groves and up the beautiful terraces to the summit of the island, crowned with its white palace.

The Lady of Edengarden stood at the portal to receive her new inmate. She came down the steps, greeted John Palmer courteously, and then took Em. in her arms in a warm embrace and kissed her on the forehead and lips.

“Don’t spoil my girl by petting and indulgence, ma’am,” said John Palmer, smiling.

“She cannot be spoiled. Nothing can spoil her,” said the lady earnestly. “But now come in and rest and refresh yourself before returning, Mr. Palmer.”

“Thank you, ma’am, but I haven’t time,” replied John, with a how; and resisting all the lady’s entreaties, he took leave of her and of his daughter, and retraced his steps to the boat, followed by two boys whom Emolyn had sent to bring up her young companion’s trunk.

“Come on, my lads, you will have to step into the boat. There, each of you take hold of the handles at each end and lift it out. There! All right. Now go on!” said John Palmer cheerfully.

And having seen the boys start with the trunk, he re-entered his boat and rowed rapidly for home, feeling content because Em. was happy.