CHAPTER XXXI

A STARTLING VISITOR

Much in the stranger’s mien appears To justify suspicious fears. On his dark face a scorching clime, And toil, hath done the work of time— Roughened his brow, his temples bared. And sable hairs with silver shared; Yet left—what age alone could tame— The lip of pride, the eye of flame. The lip that terror never blenched, The eye where teardrop never quenched The flash severe of swarthy glow That scorned pain and mocked at woe. WALTER SCOTT.

The interruption proceeded from the voice of the hall footman, saying in a rather insolent tone:

“Well, then, you can step in here, my man! There is no one in here, and you can go in here and wait till I go and tell my master that you want to see him,” adding in a lower tone: “There’s nothing in there he can steal, I reckon, ’cept ’tis some moldy old books.”

The door was thrown open, and while the steps of the footman were heard retreating a most disreputable-looking tramp entered the study and stood boldly up before the party therein.

Now while the commodore and the lady are gazing in stupefied astonishment at this impudent intruder, I will endeavor to describe him.

He was a tall, dark, gaunt man, whose long, thin, swarthy face was hedged in by a wild, neglected thicket of grizzled black hair and beard, and whose fierce, burning black eyes were overhung by thick, shaggy black brows. He wore an old suit of clothes that might have once been of any color, but was now of none; around his neck a dingy woolen scarf; on his feet a pair of broken shoes; in his hand a torn hat. He was altogether a wayworn, travel-strained, dilapidated and dangerous-looking customer, such as one would not like to meet on a dark night or on a deserted road.

The commodore regarded him wrathfully, frowningly—the lady, curiously, wistfully.

“Who in the demon are you? What jail have you broken out of? And what in the fiend’s name do you want here?” sternly demanded the veteran; while the lady leaned forward, gazing on the man with a strange, intense and breathless interest.

“Good heavens! Do you not know me, then?” demanded the poor tramp in a voice full of anguish.

“No! Never saw you in all the days of my life before, and never wish to see you again! Begone!” exclaimed the veteran; while the lady half arose from her seat, stared at the stranger with eyes that widened and widened in amazement, with lips breathlessly apart and color coming and going rapidly.

“Did you not get my letter, written from Marseilles, then?” inquired the stranger.

“What in the demon’s name are you talking about? You are drunk, man, or mad! Leave the house instantly!” exclaimed the irate old gentleman, starting up as if he would have ejected the intruder by main force, had he been strong enough.

“Oh, my soul! my soul! Do _you_ not know me—Lynny?” pleaded the wanderer, turning his wild, sad, prayerful eyes on the intense, listening, breathless, eager face of the lady.

The question broke the spell that bound her.

“SAVED!” she cried, and her piercing shriek rang through and through the house as she started up, threw herself into the arms of the tramp and fainted dead away.

The sight and sound, but not the meaning, of this action met the dulled senses of the aged veteran.

Starting to his feet in a fury, he thundered forth:

“What in the demon do you mean, you cursed villain, by breaking into this room and frightening a lady into fits? Lay her down on that sofa this instant, and don’t presume to touch her again! Leave the house! Begone! If you stop another second, Satan burn you! I’ll send you to the county jail for six months! I’m in the commission of the peace, and I’ll do it!”

“Yes. I had best go for the present. She has fainted. Call her women to her,” said the tramp in a gentle tone, as he laid his burden down with tender care upon the sofa.

“If you don’t take yourself out of this room in double-quick time, you tramping thief, you’ll find yourself in a pair of handcuffs on the road to prison before you know it!” roared the commodore, as he seized and jerked the bell rope violently.

But the sad wanderer had already left the study.

The commodore continued to ring the bell furiously, peal upon peal, until the hall footman rushed in with alarm.

“Go after that tramping vagabond and kick him out of the house! Then call all the dogs and set them on him and hunt him off the premises! Do you hear?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the man as he went out, dismayed, to give place to Wren, the little page, whom the violent ringing of the bell had also brought to the scene.

“WATER!” cried the commodore, who was now engaged in trying to recover the fainting woman.

The boy vanished and soon reappeared with a silver pitcher and goblet.

The commodore poured some on his hand and threw it in the face of the lady and waited for the effect, but she showed no sign of consciousness.

“Brandy! From the beaufet! In the library!” he cried in growing alarm.

The page ran away and soon re-entered with a decanter and glass.

The commodore poured out a little of the brandy, and, holding up the head of the helpless woman, tried to force a few drops between her lips, but the liquid only tippled over the surface.

“I don’t know what on earth to do for her! She forbid me to call the ladies to see her before she fainted, and it seems hardly fair to do so now that she cannot defend herself! And I don’t know how to recover her, not I!” cried the commodore in despair. Then turning furiously on the footman, who had re-entered the study, he demanded:

“Did you do as I ordered? Did you kick that vagrant out and set the dogs on him?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the man, unhesitatingly telling a fib, for he had not sought for the poor tramp with any such cruel intention, as was afterward proved.

“Served him right! Glad to hear it!” grunted the old man, as he recommenced his efforts to recover his patient, but in vain. Suddenly he remembered the presence of the physician in the house, and wondered he had not thought of him before.

“Go and ask Dr. Willet to be kind enough to step here immediately,” he said.

“If you please, sir, Dr. Willet has gone out,” said the footman.

“Gone out! the deuce! How unlucky! Where has he gone?”

“If you please, sir, to the Wilderness Manor-house. Mr. John Palmer he came all in a hurry for de doctor, sir, to go to the ageable old woman what is dying dere and wants to see the doctor afore she goes, which dey don’t think she can last another day, sir.”

“How very unfortunate!” exclaimed the old man, who never ceased from his ineffectual efforts to recover his patient. “I do not know where to turn! She will die, and all on account of that cursed tramp!” Then bursting forth like a storm upon the head of the footman, he violently demanded:

“And what did _you_ mean, you rascal, by sending that ruffian in here to frighten this poor lady to death? Yes, to _death_, you villain! And when she dies I’ll have you hanged for murder! I will, by my life! Why don’t you answer me, you scoundrel? What did you mean by showing that burglar, that robber, that cut-throat, into this room to kill this lady?”

“’Deed, ’deed, I ’elare to my Judge, marster, I never knowed nobody was in here, which dere almost never is nobody in here; and I didn’t know nothing about the lady wisiter, as she must a-come on along of Dr. Willet or Lieutenant Bruce, ’cause I didn’t let her in myself and didn’t know nothing about it, sir; and likewise thought as you was in the libery. And as for the tramp, sir, he did say as he wanted to speak to you werry particular, to bring you news of a long-absent friend——”

“An excuse to beg! An excuse to beg! Or to swindle! Or to extort money! What did the ruffian call himself?”

“He ’clined to give no name, sir, but said how you’d know him when you seed him.”

“An impudent liar! I never set eyes on him before. I wish I had committed him!” exclaimed the old man, who was all this time diligently chafing the temples of the unconscious woman with hartshorn.

“So I just put him in here to wait, sir, where I thought there wa’n’t nobody sitting, nor likewise nothing to steal, ’cept ’twas them old, worm-eaten books in the old screwter.”

“Worm-eaten books, you villain! My precious blackletter copies of the early Christian fathers? If the thief had gone off with any of them, your hide should have paid for it! Oh, Heaven! No change in her yet! I _must_ have woman’s help here,” said the commodore, breaking off in his abuse of the servant and attentively regarding the marble face below him. “See here, sir! Go and ask my sister to come here immediately! Don’t alarm her, you rascal! Don’t say a word about the fainting lady! Just deliver my message.”

The footman, glad to escape, hurried out of the room to obey this order.

While he was gone the old man continued to chafe the temples or beat the hands of his patient and groan over her and curse the tramp.

In a few minutes the widowed sister came in, saying pleasantly:

“Did you want me, brother?” Then seeing the motionless form of a woman extended on the sofa, she started and exclaimed: “Who is that?”

“Come here, Margaret. Don’t scream nor cry, nor above all, don’t faint. One fainting woman is as much as I can get along with at one time,” said the commodore, taking his sister by the arm and leading her to the sofa.

“But who is this lady? What ails her? How came she here?” inquired the puzzled woman, bending over the unconscious form.

“Don’t you recognize her? Look again,” said the old man uneasily.

“No, I do not,” replied the lady, after a careful scrutiny.

“I believe you are right; for now I come to think of it, you never met her.”

“But who is she?”

The old man hesitated for one weak moment, and then loyally answered:

“This lady is Emolyn Bruce, the widow of my poor, dear Lonny.”

The widow’s brown eyes opened wide in amazement as she answered in a low, frightened voice:

“I never knew that Leonidas had been married!”

“_I_ did! I knew it long ago; but I had good reason to suppose that his poor young wife had not long survived his loss. She has reappeared, however, I thank Heaven! And here she lies, fainting, dying, for aught I know. Margaret, dear woman, don’t stop to ask another question, but help me to save her!” anxiously exclaimed the old man.

Controlling the extreme curiosity awakened by the situation, the lady knelt by the side of the sofa and began to loosen the sufferer’s clothes to facilitate breathing.

“She must be got to bed at once. The parlor chamber happens to be in order. We will convey her there. Ring for two women to come and help to lift her,” were the first words with which the widow broke the silence.

The commodore complied with this direction, and then came back to the side of his sister, saying:

“For Heaven’s sake, Margaret, let all be done tenderly and very quietly. There must not be a nine days’ wonder created in the house.”

“Of course not. I should deprecate such a state of things as much as you could.”

“And, Margaret, you have a heart. I need not, therefore, beg you to be very gentle with this suffering girl when she recovers her consciousness.”

“Be sure that I will treat her as I would treat my own child,” said the widow, and her sympathetic face confirmed the truth of her words.

“Go and send Dorcas and Lydia here,” said the commodore to the little page who appeared in answer to the bell.

The child ran on his errand, and two strong colored women made their appearance.

Under the lady’s instructions Emolyn Bruce was tenderly lifted and conveyed to the parlor chamber, where she was undressed, clothed in a white wrapper and put to bed.

The old commodore, who had followed the party to the chamber door without daring to enter, hovered on the outside, waiting for news.

In a few minutes, however, his sister opened the door and beckoned him to come in.

She led him to the side of the bed, where Emolyn lay as white and motionless as a marble effigy on a marble tomb.

“I wish to consult you, brother,” whispered the widow, as they stood together looking down on the beautiful pale face before them.

“Do you think there is any danger, Margaret?” anxiously inquired the veteran.

“No, for I have known women to lay in fainting fits much longer than this and recover without injury; but her breath scarcely dims the glass held to her lips, and her pulse is scarcely perceptible; and I think you had better call Dr. Willet.”

“The deuce of it all is that Willet has gone to the Wilderness Manor-house to see that old paralytic. He could not be brought back before night, when he will come back of his own accord. Meanwhile what _shall_ we do, Margaret?”

“Use the means within our reach and wait the issue. It must have been some terrible shock that threw her into this state. May I _now_ inquire what it was, brother? You need not tell me if you do not wish to,” said the widow.

“It was a cursed tramp!—a black-visaged, red-eyed, elflocked cut-throat, who looked like a fiend from the Inferno, with all the sulphurous smoke and fire hanging around him! I wish I had a hand on him now! I’d break his diabolical neck and send him back to Tartarus, where he belongs!” wrathfully exclaimed the commodore.

“Hush! She moves, I think,” said the lady; and both watchers bent eagerly over the entranced form.

But they were mistaken. She did not move, nor, though her attendants continued their efforts to recover her, did she show any sign of consciousness until nearly an hour had passed away.

When at length she sighed and stirred, Dorcas raised her head while the lady placed a glass of wine to her lips so that she mechanically swallowed the stimulant.

Revived by the wine, she opened her eyes, sat up in bed and gazed around in confusion for a moment.

Then a paroxysm of sadness seemed to sweep over her. She pressed her hands upon her eyes, upon her brows, upon her temples, pushed back her hair and stared around with starting orbs and open mouth, and then suddenly shrieked forth:

“Where is he? Oh, where is he? Where? Where?”

“He is gone, my dear. Don’t be afraid. Calm yourself. It is all right,” answered the commodore soothingly; for he thought her excitement was caused by revived terror of the tramp.

At the words of the old man she turned her wildly roving eyes on him with an intense stare of astonishment.

“Gone! Gone! Did you say gone? Oh, _where_, has he gone? _Why_ did you let him go?” she cried with frantic eagerness.

“I wish I hadn’t. I wish I had committed him to prison, only there wasn’t sufficient grounds. But don’t be frightened. Compose yourself, my dear. You are just as safe from him as if he was in prison. He will never come back to bother us, after being kicked out the house by the servant and hunted off the land by the dogs!” said the commodore, laying his hand tenderly on the head of the excited woman, who had not for one instant ceased to rave.

But she dashed it off, fiercely exclaiming:

“Oh, you cruel, ruthless, remorseless man! I feared you would do so! I feared you would! _That’s why I never told you!_ Why he could never persuade me to tell you, you wicked, vindictive man——”

“She is hysterical, she does not know what she says,” said the widow, while Emolyn continued to rave in growing excitement.

“She is delirious, quite so! I wish Willet would return,” sighed the commodore.

“I am _not_ delirious! It is _you_ who are mad with hatred and revenge—unnatural, monstrous hatred and revenge, after all these years! Go bring him back! If he had been the prodigal son, you should have received him! But he was no prodigal! Not even a prodigal! And you turned him out! You hunted him off! Go bring him back! Go bring him back if you wish to escape perdition!” she continued to cry in what seemed to her attendants a frenzy of insanity.

“You see she had been talking about her husband when this cut-throat ruffian came in and frightened her into fits, and now she has got all mixed up in her impressions,” whispered the commodore, while the excited woman continued to rave in the same strain without a moment’s cessation.

“This _must_ be stopped. I shall give her a dose of morphia,” whispered his sister; and she rose and left the room for the expressed purpose.

And Emolyn raved on, bitterly reproaching the commodore.

“Mad people always fly in the faces of their best friends,” said the old man, as he continued his efforts to calm the frantic woman.

The widow returned, bringing a small glass of port wine, with which she had mixed a dose of morphia.

“Here, my poor girl, drink this and compose yourself,” she said in her gentlest and most persuasive tones, as she held the glass to Emolyn’s lips.

“If I do, will you send at once and bring him back?” demanded Emolyn, fixing her wild, excited, pleading eyes on the face of the lady.

“_Indeed I will_,” she answered.

“Because he can go with me to the island, where we will live like Adam and Eve in Eden—_without the serpent_.”

“So you shall, my dear, _if you wish_,” said the lady.

Emolyn took the glass, drank the contents and threw herself back on the pillow.

In a few moments she was quiet, in a few more she was asleep.

“Now,” said the lady, “you must send and seek that tramp and have him brought back to the house.”

“In the name of Heaven, _why_?” demanded the commodore.

“First, because I promised, and I will not break a promise, even when it is given to humor a delirious patient; and, secondly, because I do think _there is more in this than appears_,” replied the lady.

“What should there be in it?”

“I don’t know. But find the man and bring him here.”

The commodore expostulated and swore.

The lady persisted and gained her point.

The order was given and the servants started on their quest.

Emolyn slept on, hour after hour watched by the widow.

The servants returned from their long and careful search with the news that the tramp could not be found.

“Why are you so anxious to have that ruffian brought back?” demanded the provoked commodore of his sister, as they stood together beside the sleeper.

“I have told you the reason,” said the lady—“that Emolyn shall be satisfied.”