CHAPTER XXIII.
ONCE MORE AT WEST PHILADELPHIA--SEPTEMBER AND CHANGE--LAST GLIMPSES OF KITTY HOOD AND DICK COMPTON--ROBERT BRAND AND HIS INVITED GUEST--THE NEWS OF DEATH--OLD ESPETH GRAEME AS A SEERESS--THE DESPATCH FROM ALEXANDRIA--THE QUEST OF BRAND AND MARGARET HAYLEY.
Hurrying rapidly towards its close, this narration must become yet moredesultory and at times even more fragmentary, than it has been in the past.The seven-league boots of story must be pulled on, however unwillingly, andmany a spot that would have been lingered lovingly over at the commencementof the journey, cleared now with a glance and a bound. The few pages thatremain, in fact, may justify a change in the figure, appearing more likelightning glimpses from railroad-car windows than connected and leisurelyviews of the whole landscape of story.
September on West Philadelphia, where it seems but yesterday, though reallythree months ago, that we saw the fair June morning and inhaled the perfumeof the sweet June roses. Those roses, the companions in life and death ofthat with which Margaret Hayley was toying on the morning when she met thecrushing blow of her life,--had long since sighed out their last breath offragrance and faded away, to be followed now by the bright green leavesamid which they had clustered and peeped and hidden. The waving grainfields which had formed so pleasant a portion of the June landscape, werechanged as much, though less sadly. Bright golden wheat that had formedpart of it, lay heaped in the farmer's granaries; and puffed loaves withcrisp brown crust, made from that which had still further progressed in itsround of usefulness to man, lay on the baker's counter. There was shortstubble where the grain had waved, and over it the second growth of cloverwas weaving its green mantle of concealment. In the peach orchards thefruit hung ripe to tempt the fingers; the apples were growing more goldenamid the masses of leaves where they coyly sheltered themselves from thesun; and on the garden trellises there already began to be dots of purpleamong the amber green of the grape clusters. There was less of bright,glossy green in the foliage--nature's summer coat had been some time wornand began to give tokens of the rain and wind and sun it had encountered.The birds sang in the branches, but their song seemed more staid and lesssprightly, as if they too had felt the passage of the months, grown older,and could be playful children no more. Occasionally the long clarionetchirp of a locust would break out and trill and die away upon the air,telling of fading summer and the decline of life so sweetly and yet sosadly that decay became almost a glory. The mellow, golden early afternoonof the year, as June had been its late morning--not less beautiful,perhaps, but oh how immeasurably less sprightly and bewitching--how muchmore calm, sober and subduing!
Nature moves onward, and humanity seldom stands still, if it does notoutstrip the footsteps of the mother. Something of the changes that hadfallen during the preceding three months upon that widely varied group ofresidents beyond the Schuylkill who have supplied characters to thisnarration, is already known: what remains may be briefly told at this stageand in the closing events soon to follow. Of those changes to Eleanor Hill,Nathan Bladesden and Dr. Pomeroy, directly; of those to the members of theBrand household, yet sooner; of those to two minor characters who will makeno further appearance upon the stage during this life-drama, at once. Letthat two be Dick Compton, farmer, and Kitty Hood, school-mistress. Thelatter yet managed her brood of troublesome children, who still sailedtheir vessels that had succeeded to the evanescent three-master "Snorter,of Philadelphia," at playtime, in the little pond before the ruralschool-house, and performed other juvenile operations by sea and shore; buta great change had fallen upon the merry, self-willed little girl with thebrown eyes and the wavy brown hair. The school had a mistress, but thatmistress had a _master_--a sort of "power behind the throne" not seldommanaged by one sex or the other, towards all persons "in authority." Nobickerings at the school-house door, to be afterwards forgotten inexplanations and kisses, now. Richard Compton found his way there,occasionally and perhaps oftener, but he always came in at once instead ofthe school-mistress going out to meet him with a bashful down-casting ofthe eyes and a pretty flush of modesty upon the cheek; and he made solittle concealment about the visits that he often managed them so as towait until school was dismissed and then walked all the way home with her!If the young lovers yet had secrets, they found some other place than theneighborhood of the school-house door, for their utterance. And the biggirls and the bigger boys, who used to enjoy such multitudes of sly gibesat the school-mistress and her "beau," had lost all their material ofamusement. The very last attempt at jocularity in that direction had beensome time before effectually "squelched" by the dictum of the biggest boyin school: "You boys, jest stop peeking at 'em! He ain't her beau nomore--he's her husband; and you jest let 'em do what they're a mind to!"
That is the fact, precisely--no less assured because approached with alittle necessary circumlocution. Dick Compton had come back fromGettysburgh with the Reserves, unwounded and a hero. Carlton Brand wasgone, and the only object of jealousy removed. And before Kitty had quiteemerged from her "valley of humiliation" at the unfortunate slap andunpatriotic upbraiding, she found it too late to emerge at all. Thewedding-day had been set and the marriage taken place, almost before shehad any idea that such things were in immediate contemplation! Kitty Hoodwas "Mrs. Richard Compton," and that was the secret of the visits no longerstolen and the unabashed walking home together. Not that the visits of theyoung farmer to the school excited no commotion, now-a-days, but that thecommotion was of a different character. All the big boys and some of thebig girls hated him, as he strode up the aisle with his broad, hearty:"'Most ready to go home, Kitty?" and his proprietary taking possession ofher with his eyes: hated him because he had to some extent come between herand them, and because there was a rumor that "after November he was notgoing to allow her to keep school any more." Perhaps there were goodreasons for this resolution, into which we shall certainly make no moreattempt to pry than was made by the big boys themselves! God's blessing onthe young couple, with as much content in the farm-house as can well fallto the lot of a small indefinite number,--and with as fewmisunderstandings, coldnesses and jealousies as may be deemed necessary bythe powers that preside over married life, to fit them for that life inwhich "they neither marry nor are given in marriage!" And so exit Mr. andMrs. Richard Compton, for whom we have done all that the friend and theminister could do, leaving Providence and the doctor to take care of theremainder.
* * * * *
That matter properly disposed of, it becomes necessary to visit the houseof Robert Brand once more, on the morning of Friday the eighteenth day ofSeptember, after an absence from it of nearly the three months beforedesignated. Change here, too. Besides whatever might have been wrought inthe master of the house during that period, of which we shall be soonadvised, there had been a marked difference wrought in the relationssustained by good, warm-hearted, sisterly, darling little Elsie. There hadbeen no return to the house, of the old family physician, firstexpatriated, so to speak, by word of mouth, and then bull-dogged andthreatened with the protrusion of loaded muskets from convenient windowsand the application of the strong arms of old Elspeth Graeme who couldhandle the bull-dog. The doctor's-bill had long before been settled, and(let us put the whole truth upon record) spent! Then Robert Brand had beenagain seized with terrible illness and suffering, rendering a physiciannecessary; and what resource was left except the before-despisedprofessional services of Dr. James Holton? None whatever. So the old manthought and so Elsie Brand _knew_. Result, Dr. James Holton had suddenlyfound himself, in July, the medical adviser of the Brands, and the adviser,mental, moral and medical, of Elsie. He had since so remained, seeming todo marvels at re-establishing the shattered constitution of the invalid andsetting him once more on his natural feet, and with a pleasant prospectthat all the difficulties were smoothed out of the way of his eventualunion with Elsie, when a little more time and a little enlarged practiceshould make their marriage advisable. And Elsie had grown alm
ost happy oncemore--quite happy in the regard of a good man whom she loved with all thewarmth of the big heart in her plump little body, and yet restless, nervousand tearful when she thought of the brother cherished so dearly, of hisbroken love, his alienated father, his absence in a strange land, and theprobability that she could never again lay her golden head upon his breastand look up into his eyes as to the noblest and most godlike of them all.
At a little before noon on that September morning, a single figure wasmoving slowly backward and forward, up and down, the length of the gardenwalk in the rear of the house of Robert Brand, the trellises of the graperyabove and on either side, for nearly the whole distance, flecking theautumn sunshine that fell on the walk and on the moving figure, while fromthe vines themselves peeped the thick clusters of amber fruit upon whichthe purple bloom was just beginning to throw a hint of October and lusciousripeness. Late flowers bloomed in the walks and borders on either side;occasionally a bird sent up its quiet and contented twitter from the top ofthe vine where it was tasting a premature grape; a cicala's chirp rangfeebly out, swelled up to a volume that filled the whole garden, then diedaway again, an indefinable feeling of stillness seeming to lie in the verysound. The sunlight was golden, the sky perfectly cloudless, the air balmyand indolent; beneath the trellis and beside the walk two long rusticsettees combined with the wooing air and beckoned to closed eyes,day-dreams and repose; and yet the very opposite of repose was expressed inthe appearance and movement of that single figure.
It was that of Robert Brand, three months older than we saw him in theearly summer, far less an invalid than he had been at that time, asevidenced by the absence of his swathed limb and supporting cane, yet morebroken within that period than most men break in ten twelvemonths--morethan he had himself broken before in the same period of his severest yearsof bodily suffering. Something of the iron expression of the mouth wasgone, and in its place were furrowed lines of suffering that the torture ofthe body could scarcely have imprinted there without the correspondingagony of the mind; he was more stooped in the shoulders than he had beenwhen before observed; and down the side-hair that showed from beneath hisbroad hat--hair that had been fast but evenly changing from gray to white,there now lay great streaks of finger thickness, white as the driven snowand in painful contrast with the other,--such streaks as are not often madein hair or beard except by the pressure of terrible want, a great sorrow,or a month of California fever. This was not all--he walked with headdejectedly bent, and hands beneath the skirts of his coat; and when heglanced up for a moment it could be seen that his lip trembled and the eyehad a sad, troubled expression that might have told of tears past, tearsto come, or a feeling far too absorbing for either. Alas!--the old man wasindeed suffering. The shame of a life had been followed by its sorrow. Hehad erred terribly in meeting the one, and paid the after penalty: howcould he muster fortitude enough to meet the other?
To him old Elspeth Graeme, large-faced, massive-framed, and powerfullooking as of old, with a countenance no more changed during the precedingthree months than a granite boulder in the mountains might have beenaffected by a little wind and storm during the same lapse of time. Behindher Carlo, who since the disappearance of his young master seemed to havefound no one else except the old Scottish woman who could pretend toexercise any control over him, and who consequently had attached himself toher almost exclusively. The master, who was making one of his turns up thewalk, saw her as she emerged from the house, and met her as she approached,with inquiry in face and voice.
"Well?"
"Stephen has just come ben with the carriage, and the leddy is in thehouse, though the Laird kens what ye'r wantin' of her here, ava!"
"Hold your tongue, woman! When I need your opinion I will ask you for it!"This in a tone very much like that of the Robert Brand of old, in littlesquabbles of the same character. Then with the voice much softened: "IsMargaret Hayley in the house, do you say?"
"'Deed she is, then, and she'll just be tired of waiting for ye, as thelassie's gone, gin ye dinna haste a bit!"
"I will come--no, ask her to step into the garden; I will see her here."
"He's gettin' dafter than ever, I'm thinkin', to invite a born leddy outinto the garden to see _him_, instead of ganging in till her as he should!"muttered the old serving-woman as she turned away to obey the injunction,and in that way satisfying, for the time, her part of the inevitablequarrel. The moment after the back door of the house opened again, andMargaret Hayley came out alone. Stately as ever in step, though perhaps alittle slower; the charm of youth and budding womanhood in face and figure,with the broad sun flashing on her dark hair and seeming to crown her witha dusky glory; but something calmer, softer, sadder, ay, even older,visible in her whole appearance and manner, than could have been read therein that first morning of June, upon the piazza of her own house. She, too,had been living much within a brief period: it may be that the course ofthis narration has furnished the reader with better data for judging _how_much, than any that lay in the possession of Robert Brand.
She approached the end of the arbor from which he was emerging, and he mether before she had reached it. Her face, as they met, wore an unmistakableexpression of wonder--his an equally unmistakable one of pain. Neitherspoke for one moment, then the old lawyer held out his hand and said:
"You wonder, Margaret, why I sent for you?"
"Did _you_ send, really, Mr. Brand? I thought that perhaps Stephen had madea mistake and that Elsie wished to see me for some reason."
"No, Elsie has been absent all the morning, and may not return for an houror two yet," was the reply. "_I_ sent for you. I had a reason. Old men donot trifle with young women, perhaps you are aware." There was that in hisvoice which displayed strong suffering and even an effort to speak. Theyoung girl saw and heard, and the wonder in her eyes deepened into anxietyas she said:
"You surprise me by something in your manner, Mr. Brand. You almost alarmme. Pray do not keep me in suspense. I think I am not so well able to bearanxiety and mystery as I used to be. Why did you send for me?"
"Poor girl!" the lips of Robert Brand muttered, so low that she did notcatch the words. Much less did she hear the two words that followed, inlittle more than a whispered groan: "Poor girl!--poor father!" Then hetook one of the white hands in his, the eyes of the young girl deepening inwonder and anxiety all the while,--led her a little down the path to one ofthe rustic seats under the trellis, dropped down upon it and drew her downbeside him, uttering a sigh, as he took his seat, like that of a personover-fatigued.
"You loved my son." He did not look at her as he spoke the words.
"Mr. Brand--I beg of you--" and then Margaret Hayley paused, her throatabsolutely choked with that to which she could not give utterance. He didnot seem to heed her, but went on.
"You loved my son. So did I. God knows how _I_ loved him, and I believethat your love was as true as heaven."
"Mr. Brand--for that heaven's sake, why do you say this, to kill us both? Icannot listen--" she rose from the seat with a start and stood before himas if ready to fly; but he yet retained her hand and drew her down again.
"We both loved him, and yet we killed him! You drove him from you. I casthim off and cursed him. We killed him. He is dead!"
"Dead?" The word was not a question--it was not an exclamation--it was nota cry of mortal agony--it was all three blended. Then she uttered no otherword but sat as one stupefied, while he went on, his lip quivering withthat most painful expression which has before been noticed, and his handfumbling at his pocket for something that he seemed to wish to extract fromit.
"Yes, he is dead. I have known it for two hours--for two long hours I haveknown that I had _no son_." Type cannot indicate the melancholy fall of thelast two words, and the heart-broken feeling they conveyed. "My son lovedyou, Margaret Hayley, better than he loved his old father. You loved him.You should have been his wife. When I knew that he was dead, I tried toconceal it from all until I could send for you, for I felt that it was
onlyhere and from my lips that you should learn the truth. Some other mighthave told you with less thought for your feelings, perhaps, than Iwho--who--who was so proud of him. I have not been rough, have I? I did notmean to be--I meant to be very gentle, to _you_, Margaret! See how broken Iam!"
So he was, poor old man!--broken in heart and voice, for then he gave wayand dropped his head upon one of his failing hands, overpowered, helpless,little more than a child.
Who shall describe the feelings of Margaret Hayley as she heard the wordswhich told her of that one bereavement beyond hope--as she heard them inthose piteous tones and from that agonized father--a father no more?Absence, silence, shame, separation of heart from heart upon earth, hopeagainst hope and fear without a name--all were closed and finished at onceand forever, in that one great earthquake of fact, opening and swallowingher world of thought--dead! Tears had not yet come--the blind agony thatprecedes them if it does not render them impossible, was just then herterrible portion.
"How did he--when--where--you have not told me--" A child just learning tospeak might have been making that feeble attempt at asking a connectedquestion. But Robert Brand understood her, too well. His hand, againfumbling at his pocket, brought out that of which it had been in search,and his trembling fingers half opened a newspaper and put it into hers, toblast her sense with that greater certainty which seems to dwell in writtenor printed intelligence than in the mere utterance of the lips--to destroythe last lingering hope that might have remained and put the very dyingscene before the eyes so little fitted to look upon it. A line of ink wasdrawn around part of one of the columns uppermost, and the reader had noteven the painful respite of looking to find what she dreaded. And of coursethat paper was a copy of the _Dublin Evening Mail_, sent to Robert Brand byone of his distant relatives in England who had chanced to see what itcontained--the graphic account of the drowning of Carlton Brand from thedeck of the despatch-steamer, of the finding of the body and the burial inthe little graveyard back of the Hill of Howth, written by that attachedfriend of a night, Henry Fitzmaurice.
Margaret Hayley read through that account, every word of which seemed toexhaust one more drop from the life-blood at her heart,--in stony silenceand without a motion that could have been perceived. Then the paper slidfrom her hands to the ground, she turned her head towards Robert Brand withthat slow and undecided motion so sad to see because it indicates apalsying of the quick natural energies; and the instant after, that tookplace which told, better than any other action could have done, how mucheach had built upon that foundation of an expected near and dearrelationship. Robert Brand met that hopeless gaze, reading her whole secreteven as his own was being read. Then he opened his arms with a cry that wasalmost a scream: "My daughter!" and the poor girl fell into them and flungher own around his neck with the answering cry: "Father!" Both were sobbingthen; both had found the relief of tears. And a sadder spectacle was neverpresented; for while Margaret Hayley, in the father of the man she had soloved, was striving to embrace something of the dead form that never couldbe embraced in reality, Robert Brand was still more truly clasping ashadow--trying to find his lost son who could never come to his arms again,in the thing which had been dearest to that son while in life!
"My son is dead! Come to me; live with me; be a sister to Elsie and adaughter to me, or I shall never be able to bear my punishment!" sobbed thebroken old man, his arms still around the pliant form bowed upon hisshoulder; but there came no answer, as there needed none. Another voiceblended with those that had before spoken, at that moment, and again oldElspeth Graeme stood under the trellis. But was it said a little whilesince that no change had come upon her since the fading of the roses ofJune?--certainly there had been a change startling and fearful tocontemplate, even in the few moments elapsing since her former speech withher master. The rough, coarse face had assumed an expression in whichbitter sorrow was contending with terrible anger; the bluish gray eyesliterally blazed with such light as might have filled those of a tigressrobbed of her young; and it would have needed no violent stretch of fancyto believe that she had revived one of the old traditions of her Gaelicrace and become a mad prophetess of wrath and denunciation. Strangelyenough, too, Carlo was again behind her, his eyes glaring upon the twofigures that occupied the bench, and his heavy tail moving with that slowthreatening motion which precedes the spring of the beast of prey! Was oldElspeth Graeme indeed a wierd woman, and had the brute changed to be herfamiliar and avenging spirit?
The serving-woman held something white in her hand, but neither RobertBrand nor his visitor saw it. They but saw the tall form and the faceconvulsed with wild feeling; and both seemed to shrink before a presencemightier than themselves. The strange servitor spoke:
"Robert Brand, tell me gin I heard aright! Did ye say that Carlton Brandwas dead?"
"Who called you here, woman? Yes, he is dead! He was drowned on the Irishcoast three weeks ago," answered the bereaved father, oddly blending theharsh authority of the master with the feeling which really compelled himto make response.
"Then ye had better baith be dead wi' him--the father who banned his ainflesh and bluid and wished that he would dee before his very eyne, and thefause woman who had nae mair heart than to drive him frae her like a dog!"
"Woman!" broke out the master, but the interruption did not check her foran instant. She went on, broadening yet more in her native dialect as shegrew yet more earnest:
"Nae, ye must e'en bide my wull and tak' it, Robert Brand! It has beenwaiting here for mony a day, and I can haud it nae longer! He was my braw,bonnie lad, and puir auld Elsie loed him better than ye a'! I harkit tillye, Robert Brand, when yer curse went blawin' through the biggin like aneast win', and I ken'd ye was sawin a fuff to reap a swirl! Ye must ban anddom yer ain bluid because it wad na fecht, drivin' the bairn awa frae kinand kintra, and noo ye hae _my_ curse to stay wi ye, sleepin' andwakin'--ye an' the fause beauty there that helpit ye work his dool!"
"Elspeth Graeme, if you say another word to insult Miss Hayley and outrageme, I will forget that you are a woman and choke you where you stand!"cried Robert Brand, no longer able to restrain himself, starting to hisfeet and drawing Margaret to the same position, with his arm around herwaist. But the old woman did not flinch, or pause long in her denunciation.
"Nae, ye'll do naething of the kind, Robert Brand!--ye'll tak what mustcome till ye!" And indeed it looked as if the great dog behind her wouldhave sprung at the throat of even the master if he had dared to lay handson his strange servitor. "Ye'll tak the curse, baith o' ye, and ye'll groanunder it until the day ye dee! Gin Carlton Brand is dead, ye murdered him,and his eldritch ghaist shall come back and haunt ye, by night and by day,in the mist o' the mountain and the crowd o' the street, till yer blastitunder it and think auld Hornie has grippet ye by the hearts! Ye'll singdool belyve, baith of ye! Auld Elsie tells ye so, and slight her if yedaur!"
Before these last words were spoken, Margaret Hayley had slipped from thegrasp of the old man and was on her knees upon the ground, her proud spiritfairly broken, her hands raised in piteous entreaty, and her lips utteringfeebly:
"Oh, we have both wronged him--I know it now. But spare me, good Elspeth,now when my heart is broken; and spare _him_!"
But Robert Brand, as was only natural--Robert Brand, feeble as he was,viewed the matter in a somewhat different light. Sorrow might havesoftened him, but it had by no means entirely cured his temper; and theserving-woman had certainly gone to such lengths in her freedom as mighthave provoked a saint to something very much like anger. He graspedMargaret from her kneeling position, apparently forgetting pain andweakness,--set her upon the seat and poured out a volley of sound, strongplain-English curses upon the old woman, that had no difficulty whatever inbeing understood. Dog or no dog, it seemed probable that he might even havegiven vent to his rage in a more forcible manner, when another interruptionoccurred which somewhat changed the posture of affairs.
Elsie Brand came out from the house, hat upon head, and dres
sed as for aride. She had been taking one, in fact, with Dr. James Holton, who haddriven her over for a call upon one of her friends; and she looked radiantenough to proclaim the truth that she had just left very pleasant company.Her plump little form as tempting and Hebe-ish as ever; her bright yellowhair a little "touzled" (it could not be possible that those people hadbeen laying their heads too near together in the carriage as they cameacross the wood road!); and her blue eyes one flash of pleasure that hadforgotten all the pain and sorrow in the world,--she was a strange element,just then, to infuse into the blending of griefs within that garden. Shecame out with hasty step, calling to Elspeth.
"Elspeth! Elspeth! What keeps you so long? The boy is waiting to know iffather has any answer." Then seeing the others: "What, Margaret here withfather? How do you do, Margaret?" It was notable how the voice fell slowedand softened, in speaking the last five words, and how the light went outfrom her young eyes as she spoke. Though friends always, Margaret Hayleyand Elsie Brand had never been the same as before to each other, since thatpainful June morning on the piazza. How could they be? But Margaret wassoftened now, and she said, "Dear Elsie!" took the little girl in her armsand kissed her, so that something of the past seemed to have returned.
But meanwhile another incident of importance was occurring. It may havebeen noticed that Elspeth Graeme had something white in her hand when shecame out into the garden the second time. So she had, indeed--a folded noteaddressed to Robert Brand, and with a wilderness of printing scattered overthe edges and half the face of the envelope; but she had quite forgottenthe fact in the sudden knowledge of the death of her young master and thenecessity of becoming an avenging Pythoness for the occasion. Now, Elsie'swords called the attention of the old lawyer to that something in her hand,and he took it from her with a motion very much like a jerk, and the words:
"If you have a letter for me, why did you not give it to me instead ofstanding here raving like a bedlamite--you old fool?"
"It is na a letter; it's what they ca' a telegraph, I'm thinkin'!" mutteredthe old woman, a good deal taken down from her "high horse" by thisreminder of her delinquency, and with some sort of impression that thismust be a sufficient apology for not being in a hurry. "Somebody else dead,belike!--we're a' goin' to the deevil as fast as auld Clootie can drag us,I ken!"
It _was_ a telegraphic despatch which the old woman had delivered with suchsignal celerity, and which Robert Brand tore open with celerity of a verydifferent character. He read, then read again, then his face paled, and astrange, startled look came into his eyes, and he put one hand to hisforehead with the exclamation:
"What _is_ all this? Am I going mad?"
"What _is_ it, father?" and little Elsie pressed up to his side and tookthe despatch from his unresisting fingers. And it was she who read it aloudto the other wonderers, herself the most startled wonderer of all:
ALEXANDRIA, _Sept. 17th, 1863_.
_Robert Brand, West Philadelphia_,
_Care Messrs. ----, No. -- Market St. Philadelphia_.
Your son, Carlton Brand, dangerously wounded at Culpeper. Lying in hospital here. If well enough, wish you would come down and see him. He does not know of this.
E. H.
"Well, I'll be----!"
It was a plump, round oath that Robert Brand uttered--very improper underany circumstances, and especially so in the presence of ladies,--but aboutas natural, when all things are considered, as the air he breathed. Inorder to realize the exact position and the blind astonishment that musthave lain in that telegraphic despatch, it is necessary to remember thatonce before he had heard of the death of the young man, from one who hadjust seen his lifeless body (Kitty Hood), and that only two hoursafterwards his house had been visited by the enraged Dr. Pomeroy to reclaima girl that the man just before dead was alleged to have stolen! Now, onlyan hour or two before, he had a second time been informed of his son'sdeath at sea, and burial in Ireland, under such circumstances that mistakeseemed to be impossible; and yet here was a telegraphic despatch quite aslikely to be authentic if not originating in some unfeeling hoax--informinghim that he had been nearly killed in battle, and was lying in one of theVirginia hospitals! At short intervals the young man seemed to die, indifferent places, and then immediately after to be alive again in otherplaces, under aspects scarcely less painful and yet more embarrassing.There was certainly enough in all this to make the old man's brain whirl,and to overspread the faces of the others with such blank astonishment thatthey seemed to be little else than demented. There was one, however, notpuzzled one whit. That was old Elspeth, who muttered, loudly enough forthem all to hear, as she abandoned them to their fate, resigned hertemporary position as seeress, and went back to the mundane duties ofhouse-keeping:
"It's not the bairn's ainsel at all that's lying down amang the naygurswhere they're fechting. It is his double that's come bock frae the auldland to haunt ye! Come awa, Carlo, lad, and let them mak much of it!"
There is no need to recapitulate all that followed between the threeremaining people, surprised in such different degrees--the words in whichlittle Elsie was made to understand the first intelligence, followed by herreading of the whole account in the Irish paper--the hopes, fears, fanciesand wild surmises which swept through the brains and hearts of each--thethoughts of Robert Brand over the initials appended to the telegraphicdespatch, which for some reason made him much more confident of itsauthenticity than he would otherwise have been, while they embarrassed himterribly in another direction which may or may not be guessed--the weavingtogether of three minds that had been more or less separated by conflictingfeelings with reference to that very person, into one grand total andaggregate of anxiety which dwarfed all other considerations and made thewhole outside world a blank and a nothing in comparison. All this may beimagined: until the perfecting of that invention by which the kaleidoscopeis to be photographed in the moment of its revolution, it cannot be set inwords. But the result may and must be given.
"I shall go to Washington by the train, to-night," said Robert Brand, whenthe discussion had reached a certain point, with the mystery thicker thanever and the anxiety proportionately increasing.
"You, father? Are you well enough to go?" and little Elsie looked at himwith gratified and yet fearful surprise.
"No matter, I am going!" That was enough, and Elsie knew it. Within thelast half hour much of his old self seemed to have returned; and when heassumed that tone, life granted, he would go as inevitably as thelocomotive.
"I am glad to hear you say so, Mr. Brand--father!" said Margaret Hayley,very calmly. "It will make it much better, no doubt, for _I_ am going."
"You!" This time there were two voices that uttered the word of surprise.
"Yes, _I_! If Carlton Brand is lying wounded in a Virginia hospital, I knowmy duty; and if I must miss _that_, to _him_, or Heaven, henceforward, Ishall be among the lost!" Strange, wild, mad words; but how much theyconveyed!
"God bless you, _my daughter_!" "My dear, dear _sister_!" And somehow threepeople managed to be included in one embrace immediately after. This wasall, worth recording, that the grape trellis saw.
That evening when the Philadelphia, Wilmington and Baltimore train leftBroad and Prime, it bore Robert Brand and Margaret Hayley, going southwardon that singular quest which might end in so sad and final adisappointment.
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