Overland Tales

by Josephine Clifford

  _THE GOLDEN LAMB._

  "Oh, dear! this is one of her tantrums again!"

  "Well, she _is_ the funniest girl I ever _did_ see."

  "And it is only because I laughed at the way the forlorn old maid, whomshe calls her dressmaker, had hunched that lovely lavender till it lookslike a fright."

  "See how she's jerking it, to make it fit."

  "Hush, girls," broke in the mother; "that is not the way to improve herdisposition. Don't be watching her; look out here at the window; see thenumber of sails coming in through the Golden Gate this morning."

  The view from the bay-window in the second story front, which was usedas a sitting-room for the ladies of the family, was certainly very grandthis bright December morning, when the sun, shining from an uncloudedsky, kissed the waters of the bay till they looked as clear as theheavens above, with millions of little golden stars rippling andflashing on the blue surface. But far more attractive to the two youngladies, who pretended to be counting the vessels in sight, was the viewin the back-ground of the room, where a slender, _petite_ figure, withhead half-defiantly thrown back, was noting in the tall pier-glass theeffects of the changes her quick fingers made in the lavender robe,whose silken folds were sweeping the carpet. The head was crowned with aglory of the brightest, lightest golden hair, while the eyes, flashingproudly from under the long silken lashes, were darker than midnight.Yet the sparkle and the laughter of the noonday sun were in them, whenthe cloud, just now resting on the child-like brow, was dispelled by akind word or a sympathetic touch.

  "There, Lola--it is perfect now," said Mrs. Wheaton, turning to heryoungest daughter, and thus breaking the seal laid on the lips of hertwo older ones.

  Matilda, good-hearted, and really loving her sister, in spite of hergreater beauty and her "strange ways," meant to improve the opportunity.

  "Yes, indeed, Lola; and I've a good mind to let Miss Myrick make up myolive-green after New-Year's. I really think that if I take as muchpains as you do, and go there twice a day to show her, she will be ableto fit me splendidly. Don't you think so?"

  Lola gave her sister a curious look while she spoke, her face flushed,and after a disturbed expression had flitted over it the hardly banishedfrown seemed ready to come back. "I don't know what Miss Myrick wouldwant with you twice a day; I don't go there twice a day, I'm sure."

  "Oh, I was only thinking--well, you _are_ the strangest girl." MissMatilda would have been offended, probably, had her sister given hertime; but Lola's hands were already gliding over her hair, removinghair-pins, switches, and other appendages from the elder young lady'shead.

  "Let me show you how I mean to dress your hair on New-Year's eve," saidLola, and peace was made. To have her hair done up by Lola was always anobject worth attaining--no one else could make Miss Matilda's angularhead appear so well-shaped as she.

  Miss Fanny meanwhile had picked up a book and thrown herself on thelounge to read, but combs and combing material having been brought infrom an adjoining room she soon became interested in the braids andtwists with which her sister's head was being adorned. During theprogress of the work, she, as well as the mother, threw in suggestions,or made criticisms with a freedom which sometimes caused the short upperlip of the fair hair-dresser to be drawn up until the milk-white teethshone out from under it, though she responded with the utmost amiabilityto the hints thrown out and the advice so lavishly given. The mother hadnever allowed an opportunity like this to pass without "improving herdaughters' disposition," as she termed it--striving honestly so to do bytrying the somewhat quick temper of the impulsive, affectionate child.Because the girl's eyes flashed fire and her lips curled haughtily whenany fancied slight was put upon her, as she thought her shy but lovingadvances were repulsed, the family had come to look upon the youngestborn as having a bad disposition, when really a more amiable child thanlittle Lola had never grown into womanhood.

  "She's an odd one, and always has been ever since they gave her thatoutlandish name," the father would say, stroking his slender stock ofreddish-white hair from his forehead till it stood straight up like asentinel guarding the bald pate just back of it; "she don't look likethe rest, and don't act like 'em, either, though I spent more money onher education than both her sisters put together ever cost me."

  What he said about Lola's looks was true; the other two daughters hadinherited from him their water-blue eyes and florid complexions, whileLola had the eyes of her mother--so far as the color went. But could thepale, quiet woman ever have known the deep, intense feeling, or theheartfelt, open joyousness that spoke from her daughter's eyes? Whocould tell? She had come to California in early days a sad-eyed, lonelywoman, and--she had not married her first love.

  Her name Lola owed to the only romantic notion her mother ever had, asher father said. When the child had grown to be two or three years old,and Mrs. Wheaton had noted but too often the dreary look that wouldcreep into her eyes, even at this tender age, she kissed the little onetenderly one day and murmured, her sad eyes raised to heaven, "Dolores,he called me, and if he be dead, it will seem like an atonement to givethe name to my pet child." Her husband, blustering and pompous in hisways--meaning to be commanding and dignified--seldom opposed a wish hiswife decidedly expressed, never stopping to ask reason or motive; andthe Spanish children with whom Lola's nurse came in contact calling herby this diminutive, the child had grown up rejoicing in her outlandishname, and an unusually large allowance of good looks.

  In the meantime Matilda's hair has been "done up" and duly admired, andMiss Fanny, loath to abandon her comfortable position on the lounge, hasjust requested Lola to bring for her inspection the list of invitationsmade out for the New-Year ball to be given by Mr. and Mrs. Wheaton.

  "Wonder what Angelina Stubbs will wear?" soliloquized Miss Fanny. "Andhow she'll make that diamond glitter! Wonder if papa will ever give methe solitaire he promised me?"--turning to her mother.

  "No doubt of it, if he has promised it," was the quiet reply.

  "Swampoodle was up to three hundred this morning. I should think hecould afford it." Then glancing at the list again, she continued:"Here's young Somervale's name. I suppose Angelina will be hanging onhis arm all the evening."

  "Charles Somervale?" asked Matilda. "Papa said we ought not to have himcome; he says his salary will no more than pay for the kid gloves andcravats he's got to buy when he attends gatherings like these, and papathinks it is wrong to encourage a poor young man in acquiring a tastefor fashionable society."

  "Poor or not," persisted Miss Fanny, "he's got to come, because he's asplendid figure in a ball-room, and such a dancer! Poor, indeed! Why,Angelina Stubbs would take him this moment, and her father would jump atthe chance."

  "I should think he would--to get rid of her domineering," laughed MissMatilda. "But our papa isn't a widower, and I doubt that he would giveany man a fortune to have him marry one of his daughters."

  Miss Fanny's face grew crimson with vexation. "You are very disagreeablesometimes, Matilda. But I don't wonder at your fearing my gettingmarried before you, seeing that you are the oldest of the family."

  It was now Matilda's turn to get angry, but the mother's quiet, evenvoice broke in and calmed the rising storm before the oldest of thefamily could frame an answer. The leading question--the dresses to beworn the night of the ball--was brought up; and when the mother turnedto consult her youngest daughter on some point, she found her no longerin the room.

  "Where is Lola?" she wondered.

  "Gone to the matinee, probably," yawned Fanny, composing herself for thefurther perusal of her novel, "and I should have gone too, if it was nottoo much trouble to dress so early in the day. Dear me, don't I pityTilly, though!"

  "Why?" asked Mrs. Wheaton, regarding her eldest daughter.

  "She will have to sit up straight all day long with that bunch of hairon her head. She thinks old Toots is coming to-night, and she wouldn'tfor the world lose her elegant _coiffure_ and the chance of lookingpretty in his eyes."

 
; Before she had finished speaking her eyes were fastened on the bookagain, and whatever Tilly replied about not wishing to receive asolitaire as gift from her father fell unheeded, apparently, on the fairFanny's ears.

  It was a mistake about Lola's having gone to the matinee. If we followher we shall see her ascending one of the streets in the same quarter ofthe city in which the paternal mansion--as the novel-writers haveit--stood, though in a far less fashionable part. Indeed, there was nofashion about; for a corner-grocery, or a retail fruit-shop occasionallymade its appearance among the ranks of the generally neat houses, eachof which was provided with a flower-covered veranda, or a trim frontyard. One of them boasted of a garden and veranda both--the former setout with well-tended flowers, the latter almost hidden under creepingroses and trailing fuchsias. Everything about the place looked prim andneat; even the China boy, who opened the door for Lola, seemed to havebeen infected by the spirit prevailing, and his snowy apron fairlyblinked in the rays of the sun falling through the curtain of thefoliage, thinned by the cold nights of the winter season.

  Miss Myrick was in, sewing by the window, seated in her own chair, solow that she could not see out into the garden, for fear of beingtempted to waste her time. The parlor was comfortably furnished,homelike and tidy, though Miss Myrick occupied it most of the time withher work. She did not often sit in the little room at the back of thehouse, which really had a better light--the windows opening to theground--because there was another garden there, and Miss Myrick was sopassionately fond of her bright-hued pets that it once happened that thesewing which had been entrusted to her by a cloaking establishment inthe city was found unfinished and she in the garden when the porter cameto take the garments home. Since that time she had been a great dealstricter with herself--she never had been strict with anybody else, noteven with Charlie Somervale, when he had been left to her a romping,frolicking boy of thirteen by his dying mother.

  She was an old maid even then, dreadfully set in her ways, as peoplesaid, and the twelve years which had passed since then had made her noyounger. Her ways, however set, must have been gentle and good, for theyhad won the boy back from the almost hopeless despondency into which hismother's death had thrown him, and she had made of him a man such asfew are met with in our time. His mother had left him nothing, hisfather having died in the mines years before, poor and away from hisfriends.

  Dying his mother had said to her friend, "Find my brother; he willprovide for the boy for my sake." This, however, Miss Myrick had failedto do for two reasons: she knew of the whereabouts of the brother onlythat he was in the Indies; and had she known more she would not haveprosecuted the search, because--well, Charlie "didn't know exactly, buthe guessed that her mother had intended Miss Myrick for her brother'swife, but the brother had declined taking stock in that mine." Charliewas clerk in the bank, and we must forgive him some of his peculiarexpressions on the ground that "he heard nothing but stocks talked frommorning till night."

  As we are aware that the banks close at twelve o'clock on Saturdays, weneed not be surprised to see Charlie coming down the street, on the wayto Aunt Myrick's house, his home. Lola seemed very much surprised, somuch so that her face flushed when he came in at the door, just as shewas about to leave the house. After a few moments' conversation about"the delightful weather--and this time of the year, too--nearlyChristmas--" Charlie asked permission to escort Miss Wheaton down thestreet, which permission was graciously given.

  Though we should like much to remain with Miss Myrick in her cozy littlehome, where nothing indicated that the mistress was compelled to earnher bread with her needle, we have more interest in going with thehandsome young couple, moving along in front of us as if they weretreading on air. Though there is no lack of deference or respect in themanner with which the young man leans over to whisper something into theear of the younger Miss Wheaton, he has yet dropped the formal addressand speech of which he made use at Miss Myrick's gate.

  "Lola," and the little hand on his coat sleeve is surreptitiouslypressed as they turn the corner of a quiet street _not_ leading to thepaternal mansion, "how can I thank my angel for the unspeakablehappiness of this meeting? The bright sun would have been shrouded indarkness to me if you had broken my heart by disappointing me. Athousand, thousand thanks for your visit to--my Aunt Myrick's."

  She caught the roguish twinkle in his merry blue eye, and the joyouslaugh that rang out on the air could not have offended Miss Myrickherself, had she heard the conversation.

  "What pretty speeches," Lola tossed her head mockingly; "did you learnthem from Miss Angelina Stubbs?" and another laugh spoke of thelightness of heart which finds food for laughter and gladness in allharmless things.

  "I told her the other day when she joked me about my advancingbachelorhood" (they were slowly ascending one of the hills overlookingthe bay, and it is impossible to talk fast at such a time, even for ayoung man six feet tall, with black moustache and corresponding hair,and a beautiful young lady leaning on his arm) "that I should have towait--till my uncle from the Indies came home; and what do you think shesaid?"

  They had come to a little nook high up, where the great bustling citywas almost hidden from sight, and the bay seemed stretching out at theirvery feet; the houses below them concealed by the brow of the hill. Tothe right, afar off, were peaceful homesteads and gardens filled withshrubs and trees; and whatever might have been harsh or unromantic inthe view, was toned down by the distance and the softening lights of themild winter's sun.

  "Well," asked Lola, seating herself on a little ledge of rock whereCharlie had spread his handkerchief.

  "She intimated, with becomingly downcast eyes, that I might find afortune within my grasp any time I chose it. 'Oh, yes,' said I, 'MissAngelina, but then, you know, it's always a venture. And besides, I havemade a vow never to dabble in stocks.' She gave me rather a blank lookat first, but thought she wouldn't stop to explain."

  Lola could only reach him with her parasol, and the blow she struck himcould not have been very severe, for they both laughed heartily the nextmoment.

  "But I have really heard from my uncle in India--it was a letter sent tomy poor mother--only I did not want to tell Aunt Myrick; she never likesto hear the name mentioned."

  "Tell me about that story," said Lola, her woman's interest in a woman'sheart-story aroused; "you once said that she had been disappointed."

  "Not she so much as this uncle whom my mother wanted to marry MissMyrick. It seems that he was engaged to some other young lady--somelovely maid--but a hard-hearted wretch of a brother, or cruel, unfeelingparent interfered--"

  "Don't speak so lightly, Charlie," pleaded Lola, her eyes filling withtears; "it _is_ bad to have brother or parent come between yourself andthe one you love, is it not?"

  "Why, Lola darling, what has happened? Does your heart fail? Do youalready doubt your love for me, or the strength to assert it?"

  "No, no, Charlie--never fear. It is you or death; you know what I havesaid," and her tiny fingers clasped his strong hand. "But you know aswell as I that papa will interfere when he discovers--"

  "That you intend to become a poor man's wife. Lola, you know the law Ihave made for you--the only command I would ever lay on you," and hisvoice, though tender, was firm, "when you marry me you will be a poorman's wife, not a rich man's daughter. Not a cent of your father'smoney, good and kind man though he be, will ever be brought across mythreshold, even should he be willing to give you the fortune he holds instore for some wealthy son-in-law. There, my angel, let us have donewith tragedy and care." It was easy to make an excuse for stooping, soas to touch her fingers with his lips. "Who knows but I shall be a richman yet before I claim you? I have been sorely tempted to try my luck insomething new they have just struck."

  "What? After you told Miss Angelina about your vow?"

  "But it is something truly wonderful; I have it from old Binghamhimself. He cannot go into it--at least not under his own name--andthere are only two or three others to be initiated." H
e was gazingmeditatively at the roof of a house that peeped out from among a clumpof trees below and far to the right of him. "There's the money I laid byfor paying on the house, and Aunt Myrick, I know, has five hundred inthe bank; if I knew I could only double it within the year--"

  "Don't touch anything belonging to Aunt Myrick, or she will instantlyconceive it to be her duty to work still harder, because you might beunfortunate--and then what would become of the old blind woman and theparalyzed man, and the sick family back of the grocery, and her oldgouty cat, and the boy with fits--"

  "Hush, hush--I'll not touch a cent belonging to her," vowed Charlie,with his hands to his ears.

  The sun was sinking low, and after it had been agreed between them justhow many dances Lola was to give to strange gentlemen at the comingball, and how many Charlie was to claim, and how often Charlie in turnwas to dance with Miss Angelina, and how often with Fanny and Tilly, thelovers descended the hill more slowly, if possible, than they hadclimbed it, and finally parted within sight of Lola's home.

  There was to be no New Year's party at the Wheaton mansion this year."No!" sneered Miss Angelina, "for they disposed of the oldest old maidat the last, and probably expect to get rid of the second at somebodyelse's ball this year."

  I am sure Miss Angelina need not have sneered so, because she tried hardenough to get old Toots herself. But that is neither here nor there;Miss Tilly had received a proposal at that New Year's ball, and MissFanny her solitaire--from her father, to be sure; but then that wasbetter than not to receive any. Old Toots, proud husband of the peerlessTilly now for many months, was not old at all, and his name wasn't Tootseither. His name was Jacob Udderstrome; and in early days he had beenthe proprietor of a milk ranch, and having used a tin trumpet for thepurpose of making known his coming to the more tardy of his customers,he had been honored with the unromantic appellation without hisparticular wish or consent. When the country had become more settledJacob sold out, and being possessed of a great deal of naturalshrewdness and a native talent for keeping his mouth shut, he haddoubled and trebled his money by simply buying up real estate andselling at the right time.

  Fanny was still languishing for the right one; she could never think ofentertaining less than a hundred thousand, when Tilly had gotten atleast three times that amount. Father and mother seldom interfered withany of their daughters' plans or pleasures, and only once in the courseof the past year had Papa Wheaton been seriously displeased. On thisoccasion he had Lola called into the room, and demanded sternly of herwhy she had refused the hand and fortune of Hiram Watson? He lookedquite fierce and kept brushing up the ridge of hair on his head stifferand stiffer, till at last it stood alone. Then Lola ventured to ask,"Are you speaking of Mr. Watson the tobacconist?"

  "Tobacconist? To be sure I am; a tobacconist isn't to be sneezed atwhen he's got a cool half million to back him."

  "It was not that I spoke of; I have only to say that I could feelnothing more than respect for him; and I will never marry where I cannotgive my heart with my hand."

  "That's your notion of what's right, is it? What, do you tell me, whenI've spent more money on your education than both your sisters togetherever cost me, that you can't marry a worthy, solid man because he won'twrite sentimental love-letters? I tell you--"

  He was talking himself into a rage and turning purple in the face, whenhis wife entered, and, like the good, quiet angel she always was, put anend to the interview and the father's anger with her favorite child.

  Lola told Charlie of the interview, and he thanked her for her devotion,and strengthened her resolution by such words as only Charlie couldutter--so full of the heart's deep love and the warmth of a richchivalrous nature. "On Christmas day, my love," he said, "I shall beable to step boldly before your father and claim you for my wife. I amall but a rich man now, thanks to old Bingham's prompting and thesecrecy observed, which has left this thing entirely in our own hands. Ihave the field almost to myself, and shall realize within the next threemonths such a fortune as I had never dreamed of possessing."

  "Not even if that mythical uncle in the Indies had come home?"

  "Hang the uncle--no--I mean, I believe he is dead, poor fellow. Ianswered his letter last year, but never heard from him again, though heexpressed the greatest longing to hear from or see some one who had everbelonged to him. It was hard to tell him that even mother, his onlysister, was dead."

  "Poor fellow!"

  "Yes, mother used to say that he was heart-broken. Having come into theworld myself after he left it, for the Indies, I can't well rememberhim; but I can feel for him now, because I know what I should do if youcould not be mine. I should break into your room at night, steal you,and take you to the bottom of the sea with me."

  Like a romantic young lady, Lola expressed her entire willingness tovisit such a place with him; and she said it so quietly that Charlie, atleast, believed what she said.

  "Let us talk of life now, not of death," Charles went on. "If I obtainyour father's consent to our union at Christmas, will you become mine onNew-Year's day? I have a queer notion of wanting to celebrate mymarriage--to make it a feast or hold it on a feast day. I believe thatpeople who have determined to pass their days together should begintheir new married life with the beginning of the year. Will you assistme in carrying out this romantic idea?"

  She called him an enthusiast, a philosopher, and a thousand othercontradictory names, but the pressure of her hand gave him assurance ofher consent to his wish.

  Christmas brought with it skies as blue and days as radiant as those forwhich we sing songs of glory to Italy. The rains of the season so farhad fallen mostly at night, leaving the sun day by day to kiss the brownhills into fresher green, after he had freed himself from the heavy fogsof early morning.

  The Wheatons were not a church-going people, though the costliest pew atone of the largest churches was theirs; and while Mr. Wheaton was neverknown to refuse heading a subscription list for any undertaking, thebenevolence of which had been duly proclaimed in the newspapers, Mrs.Wheaton had taught her daughters to delight in unostentatious charity.Presuming on her father's fondness for a late dressing-gown andslippers, on days when the observance of a religious feast or popularholiday required that he should not be seen on California street, Lolahad intimated to Charlie her opinion as to the time the old gentlemanwould probably be in the most "malleable" humor. It was with sometrepidation, nevertheless, that Charlie ascended the steps leading up tothe wide hall-door of the Wheaton mansion, after having spent themorning in his own room, shutting out Aunt Myrick, Orlando, the cat, themorning papers, in fact the whole world from his sight.

  It was probably owing to the unusually good humor in which Mr. Wheatonfound himself this morning, that Charlie was requested to walk into thebreakfast-room, where the flying robes adorning Miss Fanny's person wereseen whisking out at the other door, as the young man entered thepleasant, sun-lighted room. The last glowing coals were falling toashes, in a grate, which at this hour of the day seemed an unnecessaryornament for a California house.

  "Come in, come in, young man. But where are the girls? Tom, go call MissFanny and Miss Lola."

  There was no necessity for calling Miss Lola--she was close at hand,though becoming suddenly invisible; and as for Miss Fanny, she remainedinvisible. She had no notion of taking her hair out of crimps just forCharlie Somervale, when she expected to meet a far more interestingperson--Crown Point, Gould & Curry, Eureka Con., report said fivehundred thousand dollars--at the Wadsworth reception that night. Had Mr.Wheaton not taken off his glasses when Charlie came in he might havenoticed an unusual flush on the young man's face; as it was he shookhands with him so cordially that Charlie's color subsided somewhat, andhis heart beat less loud for a minute.

  I doubt that either the old gentleman or the young one remember just howthe conversation was opened; but in less than fifteen minutes Mr.Wheaton, with motions something like those of an enraged turkey-gobbler,and a color darkening face and neck fully equal to the
intensest shadethat bird can boast of on its gills, flew to the door, and called onLola to make her appearance, in no pleasant tones. Together with Lola,as though divining the trouble drawing near, came Mrs. Wheaton, thoughso noiselessly, through a side-door, that no one observed her at first.

  "Lola," sputtered Mr. Wheaton, "I have spent more money on youreducation than both your other sisters together ever cost me; and nowhere comes this young fellow and tells me, as coolly as you please, thatyou are engaged to him, and the like nonsense. Engaged, indeed; you arenot eighteen yet, and he hasn't got a cent to his name. I thought I hadbrought up my children to love me at least, if I cannot compel them toobedience; and if you, Lola, go off and leave me in my old age--go awayfrom my house with a beggar--you who have been petted and spoiled; youon whom I had built the hopes of my declining years, you will neverdarken my doors again, but live a beggar and an outcast forever awayfrom your parents' home."

  Mrs. Wheaton had approached the group, and Charlie turned to her.

  "It is not as a poor man that I claim your daughter for my bride; see, Iam rich--worth a hundred thousand this moment," he drew a package ofpapers from his pocket; "and I have the ambition and the power to amassa fortune, and place your daughter where she will never miss thecomforts and luxuries of her childhood's home."

  He stepped over to where Mr. Wheaton stood listening in increduloussilence to what the young man said.

  "And may I ask from where this fabulous wealth springs so suddenly?" heasked, breaking the silence.

  "I own to having tried my luck, against the strict advice and wish of myemployers, in mining speculations. The venture has proved successful. Isay nothing in extenuation of the fault--if fault I havecommitted--save that I wanted to offer to Lola a home which should notbe too great a contrast to her father's house. Old Bingham--"

  "Old Bingham," interrupted Mr. Wheaton, purple in the face; "and thename of the mine?"

  "The Golden Lamp," answered Charlie, proudly, holding up for Mr.Wheaton's inspection the papers he had drawn from his pocket.

  "Lola!" shouted Mr. Wheaton in his shrillest tones, seizing the girl bythe arm and dragging her away from Charlie's side, as if the young manhad been afflicted with a sudden leprosy, "come to me, my child. He's abeggar, I tell you--a beggar and worse; for all his friends will turnfrom him for his indiscretion. The whole thing is a gull; there isn'tgold enough in the mine to show the color. Here's the paper. Where didyou have your eyes this morning?"

  Charlie stood like one paralyzed; his fingers clutched tighter the rollof papers in his hand, and he gazed with a strange, bewildered stareinto Lola's eyes, as though trying hard to understand what the dreadfulthings he heard meant. Lola seemed to comprehend quicker, and the lookshe bent on Charlie was full of tender pity, as she watched the linesthat black, hopeless despair was writing on his face. Mrs. Wheaton hadsnatched the paper from her husband's hand and was reading:

  "The chosen few who thought that for once they could fleece the goldenlamb driven quietly into a little corner for their own benefit, havecome out leaving their own wool behind. We are speaking of the GoldenLamb Mine, which was to have been paraded in the market about the firstof January, to lead astray with its deceptive glitter all who werefoolish enough to believe without seeing. The few shares that hadalready been disposed of 'to strictly confidential friends,' by theshrewd managers of the concern, have gone down from five hundred dollarsto five dollars, at which figure they went begging late in the afternoonyesterday, no one having confidence in a swindle so promptly andcompletely exposed."

  "Lola," it was Charles's voice, but so changed and broken that Mrs.Wheaton dropped the paper to look into his face.

  Lola sprang to his side, and he groped for her hand as though itsslender strength could uphold the man who but an hour before looked ableto move mountains from their place. Blindness seemed to have fallen onhis eyes, for he repeated the call when the girl stood close beside him.

  "My darling," she murmured, seizing the hand that was still seekinghers, and, heedless of her mother's presence or her father's wildgestures, she pressed the icy fingers to her lips, breathing brokenwords of love and comfort into Charlie's ear.

  "Lola!" the name again rang through the room; it was her mother's cry,and the sharp terror in it struck like a knife to the girl's heart,"your father--quick! Would you kill him? Do you not see--he is dying!Oh, my child, my child, cast off everything, but do not load your soulwith his death! God help me to guide you." There was something in thewoman's eye that spoke of more than alarm at the symptoms of anapproaching attack, such as she had always feared for the father of herchildren.

  She had never loved this man with the absorbing passion of which herheart was capable; but as she knelt by his side, giving him every aid inher power in a frenzied, hurried manner, so different from her usualplacid ways, her wide-opened eyes seemed to look back through theshadows and mists of long, dreary years, and she spoke wildly andrapidly to her child.

  "Oh, Lola! don't blacken your soul with this crime--I too loaded thecurse on me; I have borne it for years--and all the useless remorse,the vain, bitter regrets. Give up all you hold dear in life, but do not,do not try to find your way to happiness over the stricken form of yourfather!"

  Lola shook like a reed in the storm, and breaking away from Charlie sheknelt by her mother's side.

  "Father!" she pleaded, "father, speak to me--call me your petagain--your dearest child; see me--I will never, never leave you,father, only speak to me once again."

  No one heeded Charlie, and he staggered from the house, mutteringbetween his clinched teeth:

  "So they will all turn from me--and she was the first."

  Hours passed ere the old man found speech and consciousness again; andthe physician who had been summoned shook his head warningly. "It was anarrow escape," he said; "careful, old man, careful. What is it theBible, or some other good book says--'let not your angry passions rise?'Who's been vexing you?"

  Lola, his special favorite, whose eyes he had seen opening on the lightof this world, was not present, or her ghastly face might have preventedhim from asking the question.

  Mrs. Wheaton was again the quiet, sad-faced woman, solicitous only forthe comfort and well-doing of the man who had been to her the mostindulgent of husbands. It was hard to say what was passing in her heart;perhaps the crater had long since burned out, and the silver threadsrunning through her raven hair was the snow that had gathered on thecold ashes. For Lola there was neither rest nor sleep, and she insistedon watching through the night by her father's bedside, though assuredthat there was no necessity for keeping watch.

  Early the next morning she went out, not clandestinely, but with adetermined step and an expression in her eye than which nothing could bemore sad and hopeless. She returned after many hours, and though hereyes had lost none of their dreary expression, there seemed to be somepurpose written in them that could also be traced in the lines drawnsince yesterday about the firmly closed mouth. Her mother, concealed bythe heavy curtains drawn back from the window, watched her gloomily asshe passed through the room gathering up some music that lay scatteredon the piano, as though she meant never to touch its ivory keys again.

  "Ah, me!" she sighed, "she is young to learn the bitter lesson: thatthose who have a heart must crush out its love before they can gothrough life in peace! Dolores--it seemed like an atonement to call herso; but would I had not given her the fatal name. God will help her toforget--as He has given me peace."

  The darkening eyes, straying far out over the waters, seemed for amoment ready to belie the boast of her lips, so restless and uneasy wastheir light; but the discipline of half a lifetime asserted its power,and she went from the room, calm and self-possessed as ever.

  Little did she dream of the cause of what she deemed Lola'suncomplaining resignation. The girl had seen her lover, and, unspeakablywretched as he was, she could say no word to comfort him, but held hishand in hers, with all the love her heart contained beaming from herglorious e
yes. Only once did he clasp her to his heart in a passionateembrace: she had sealed the promise to be his, with a kiss. They wouldenter on their new life together at the beginning of the year. Theywould be wedded to each other on New-Year day--but the priest whoreceived their vows should be Death, and their marriage-bed the bottomof the bay.

  Charlie's name was never mentioned in the Wheaton mansion; the events ofChristmas morning seemed banished from the memory of the three peoplewho had participated in them. There was nothing to indicate that achange of any kind had taken place or was likely to take place. Onceonly in the course of the week Miss Fanny remarked laughingly, that shethought Lola was preparing to elope, because all her books, dresses, andtrinkets were so neatly packed together. But as no one seemed to join inMiss Fanny's pleasantry, the young lady betook herself to her usualpastime--the novel and the lounge.

  During the week the weather changed, and heavy storms swept over landand sea, stirring to the depths the waters on which Lola gazed for manya half hour with a kind of stony satisfaction. She had not seen Charliesince the first day of the week, and she often muttered to herself, "Farbetter death than a life without my love."

  At last New-Year's morning dawned clear and bright, like a morning inearly spring. At an early hour the Wheaton mansion became the scene ofgreat rejoicing. There was a vigorous pull at the bell, and when thedoor was opened a robust young fellow made his way very unceremoniouslyinto the breakfast-room, and a fresh Irish voice with its rich brogueburst out:

  "Plaize, mam, and it's a splendid b'y; and nurse says I'm not to stay aminit, but you're to come right aff."

  Mr. Wheaton threatened to go off with joy this time, his face turned sored.

  "A boy, mother--think of that!" he shouted, forgetting for once in hislife what he deemed his dignity, and for the first time calling his wifeanything but Mrs. Wheaton in the presence of strangers or servants."Pat, my boy, here's something to drink his health [Thank'ee, sur;--andit's a half aigle, shure], but not now; mind you, go right back and staythere till I come, or I'll skin you alive."

  After this unprecedentedly familiar and jocular speech, he turned Patout of doors, kissed his wife frantically and rushed up-stairs to dress,as though the boy's life and safety depended on his taking immediatecharge of him. In the meantime the door-bell had been rung again, andMr. Wheaton stopped when halfway up the stairs, there was something sofrightened and excited in the manner of the lady who entered thehall-door.

  "Miss Lola is at home, I think," said the servant in answer to herquestion; and Mrs. Wheaton, crossing the hall at this moment, turned tolook at the strange woman.

  A little scream, and Miss Myrick--for it was she--asked of Lola, whostood white and ghostly in the doorway, "Is that your mother, Lola? Oh,then I understand it all. Poor Charlie? The woman who could--"

  Mrs. Wheaton stepped quickly forward. "Stop, Augusta Myrick; not oneword more before my child."

  Mr. Wheaton had descended the stairs, and sprung to his wife, who seemedready to sink, but Lola, unheeding both, clutched Miss Myrick's arm.

  "Charlie?" she gasped.

  "Oh, Lola! he's gone; his room is empty and all his papers have beenstolen or destroyed. My poor, poor boy."

  "Gone--to his death without me! How cruel--but I am coming, Charlie; Iwill follow you."

  Her eyes were wandering, and she broke from Miss Myrick's grasp.

  "Hold her," cried Miss Myrick, "hold her. Charlie is dead and she iscrazed. Help!"

  Mr. Wheaton was beside himself, and Mrs. Wheaton flung her arms aboutLola, who was struggling to free herself. At last her father's stronghands bore her to a sofa in the nearest room, and as he laid her downthe weary eyes closed and the fainting head drooped back.

  "Not dead," he groaned. "Oh, God, not dead!" and as the mother and thestrange woman bent low over the prostrate girl, a tall, manly form brokeinto the room, as though led there by an unerring instinct.

  "Oh, my darling," and he knelt beside the sofa, chafing her hands andkissing her cold brow; "wake up; you are mine, and we will not die, butlive together. Open your eyes, darling; nothing more will part us now.See, I am rich once more, and no one shall come between us. Look up,darling. Come back to me."

  Slowly his kisses brought a faint color to her brow and cheek; and whenshe opened her eyes and he pressed warm kisses on her lips, there wasnone to say him nay. Papa Wheaton was occupied with his handkerchief--heseemed suffering from a fresh-caught cold, and Mrs. Wheaton stood withclasped hands watching her daughter's motionless form.

  Miss Myrick alone had noticed the graybearded, sun-burned man who hadcome into the house with Charlie. The stranger had gazed silently onMrs. Wheaton till a mist gathered in his eyes, and he said softly tohimself, "_Dolorosa!_" Then the name has been a prophecy, and my poorAnnie went through life--Dolores.

  Lola moved at last, and as Charlie lifted her tenderly in his arms, noone stepped forward to separate them.

  "She is mine now!" he cried exultingly, and he held up to Mr. Wheaton'sview a morning paper. "It was false about the Golden Lamb, and I amworth a hundred thousand to-day."

  "And besides," the stranger introduced himself with a courteous bow toMr. Wheaton, "Charles Somervale is my nephew and will be my heir. I am atotal stranger to you, so I beg to refer you to the house of DanielMeyer & Co."

  At the sound of the voice Mrs. Wheaton had hastily scanned his features;then she staggered against the wall with a look on her face that spokeso plainly of a life-long sorrow, of a pain for which there is no remedyon earth, that Miss Myrick, forgetting all the hard feelings she hadshown at first, sprang forward and passed her arm around the fallingwoman.

  "The excitement has been too much for her," she said; "leave the room,all of you, and I will bring her to herself."

  But Mrs. Wheaton's was a strong nature.

  "It is nothing," she said, and she turned slowly to the stranger. "Letyour coming to this house on a New-Year's morning--though you knew notwho its inmates were--be an earnest of your kind feeling for them, andlet us be united in the wish for the happiness of my child and the childof your dead sister."

  The stranger had advanced and raised Mrs. Wheaton's hand for a moment tohis lips.

  "To-morrow I take ship to return to the far Indies; but my wishes andprayers shall always be for the happiness of these children, and--thepeace of mind of Annie--my Dolores loved and lost."

  The last words were spoken in a husky whisper, and none saw the tearthat fell on Mrs. Wheaton's ice-cold hand. Her own eyes were dry; andthough she had not lowered them, she _felt_ the tear burning its wayinto her very soul.

  Mr. Wheaton's cheery voice roused her.

  "The boy, children--have you all forgotten about the boy? Matilda's son,sir," shaking Charlie by the hand, "a fine, healthy boy. One of thefamily now, Charlie--come and see."

  But who can blame Charlie for declining to go? His uncle had left thehouse, and Aunt Myrick had gone with Mrs. Wheaton up-stairs, there torenew the friendship broken off years ago, because of the lonely man whowas standing at this moment, gazing far out on the restless,ever-changing sea.

  We could not be indiscreet enough to play eavesdropper after everybodybut Lola and Charlie had left the parlor, but we have it on goodauthority that Uncle Barton is to be present at the wedding ceremonybefore taking ship again for the far Indies.