Mary J. Holmes - Tempest and Sunshine

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The letter was accordingly put in his pocket, and in a few moments he
rejoined his master and Mr. Middleton. The next day they returned home.
Rondeau's first act was to draw Leffie aside, and after winning from her
various strong promises of secrecy, he imparted to her the astounding fact
that, "He had found one of marster's letters in his trousers--no, his coat
pocket. It had been there two weeks, and he didn't know what in cain to do
with it. If he gave it to marster now, 'twould make him lose faith in him,
and so forth."

Leffie heard him through, and then fully agreed with him that 'twas best
not to tell marster at this late hour. "But," said she, "I'd put it out of
the way, so 'twouldn't be poppin' out in sight some time."

"Shall I burn it?" asked Rondeau.

"Oh, no," said Leffie; "keep it so marster can have it, if he ever hears
of it. There's your cigar box, take it and bury the letter in it."

"Whew-ew," said Rondeau, with a prolonged whistle, "it takes you women to
calculate anything cute!"

The cigar box was brought out, and in a few moments the poor letter was
lying quietly under a foot and a half of earth.

"There," said Leffie, as Rondeau laid over the spot a piece of fresh green
turf, "nobody'll ever have any idee whose grave this is."

Rondeau rolled up his eyes, and assuming a most doleful expression, said,
"Couldn't you manage to bust a tear or two, just to make it seem like a
real buryin'?"

Leffie answered him by a sound box on his ear, at the same time
threatening to expose his wickedness at the next class meeting. Aunt
Dilsey's voice was now heard calling out, "Leffie, Leffie, is you stun
deaf and blind now that fetched Rondeau's done gone home? Come here this
minute!"

Rondeau and Leffie returned to the house, leaving buried a letter, the
reading of which would have changed the tenor of their master's feelings.

For a knowledge of its contents as well of its author, we must go back for
a time to Frankfort whence it came, promising that Mr. Middleton will
follow us in a few days.

CHAPTER XIII

LETTERS WRITTEN BUT NEVER RECEIVED

In order to keep the threads of our narrative connected, it is necessary
that we go back for a time, and again open the scene in Frankfort, on the
24th of March, several days after the party, at which Florence Woodburn
met Fanny Middleton. Seated at her work table, in one of the upper rooms
of Mrs. Crane's boarding house, is our old friend, Kate Miller. Her
dazzling beauty seems enhanced by the striking contrast between the
clearness of her complexion and the sable of her robe.

On a low stool, at her feet, sits Fanny. Her head is resting on Mrs.
Miller's lap, and she seems to be sleeping. She has been excused from
school this afternoon, on account of a sick, nervous headache, to which
she has recently been frequently subject. Finding the solitude of her own
chamber rather irksome, she had sought Mrs. Miller's room, where she was
ever a welcome visitor. To Kate she had imparted a knowledge of the letter
which she supposed Dr. Lacey had written.

Mrs. Miller's sympathy for her young friend was as deep and sincere as was
her resentment against the supposed author of this letter. As yet, she had
kept Fanny's secret inviolate, and not even her husband had ever suspected
the cause of Fanny's failing strength. But, this afternoon, as she looked
on the fair girl's sad, white face, which seemed to grow whiter and
thinner each day, she felt her heart swell with indignation toward one who
had wrought this fearful change. "Surely," thought she, "if Dr. Lacey
could know the almost fatal consequence of his faithlessness he would
relent; and he must, he shall know it. I will tell Mr. Miller and he I
know will write immediately." Then came the thought that she had promised
not to betray Fanny's confidence; but she did not despair of gaining her
consent, that Mr. Miller should also know the secret.

For a time Fanny slept on sweetly and quietly; then she moved uneasily in
her slumber, and finally awoke.

"How is your head now?" asked Mrs. Miller, at the same time smoothing the
disordered ringlets which lay in such profusion over her lap.

"Oh, much better," said Fanny. "I had a nice sleep, and so pleasant
dreams, too."

"Did you dream of him?" asked Mrs. Miller, in a low tone.

Quick as thought the crimson tide stained Fanny's cheek and forehead, but
she answered, somewhat bitterly, "Oh, no, no! I never dream of him now,
and I am trying hard to forget him. I do not think I love him half as well
now as I once thought I did."

Poor little Fanny! How deceived she was! After a time Mrs. Miller said,
"Fanny, Mr. Miller seems very anxious about your altered and languid
appearance. May I not tell him the truth? He will sympathize with you as
truly as I do; for he feels for you almost the affection of a brother."

At first Fanny objected. "I know," said she, "that Mr. Miller would only
think me a weak, silly girl." Mrs. Miller, however, finally gained
permission to tell everything to her husband. "I know, though," persisted
Fanny, "that he will laugh at me. You say he likes me; I know he did once;
but since the time when he visited my father's, more than a year ago, he
has not treated me with the same confidence he did before. I never knew
the reason, unless it was that foolish, romping mistake which I made one
afternoon by riding into the schoolhouse!"

With many tears and some laughing--for the remembrance of the exploit
always excited her mirth--Fanny told a part of what we already know
concerning Mr. Miller's visit at her father's the winter previous. She
related the adventure of the sled ride, and said that the morning after
she noticed a change in Mr. Miller's manner toward her. The unsuspecting
girl little thought what was the true reason of that change.

While she was yet speaking, Mr. Miller entered the room. On seeing Fanny
there, and weeping, he said: "What, Sunshine in tears? That is hardly the
remedy I would prescribe for headache. But come, Fanny, tell me what is
the matter."

"Oh, I cannot, I cannot!" said Fanny, and again she buried her face in
Kate's lap.

Mr. Miller looked inquiringly at his wife, who had not yet ceased laughing
at Fanny's ludicrous description of her sled ride; but overcoming her
merriment, she at length found voice to say, "Fanny is crying because she
thinks you do not like her as well as you used to."

Kate had never dreamed that her husband had once felt more than a
brother's love for the weeping girl before her, and she did not know what
pain her words inflicted on his noble heart. Neither did she think there
was the least ground for Fanny's supposition, and she desired her husband
to say so.

"I cannot say so and tell the truth," said Mr. Miller, "but I can assure
you that Bill Jeffrey's sled had nothing to do with it."

"What was it then?" asked Kate and Fanny, both in the same breath.

Mr. Miller drew Fanny toward him with the freedom of an elder brother,
and, in a low, earnest tone, said: "Did nothing else occur during my
visit, which could have changed my opinion of you?"

Fanny lifted her large blue eyes to Mr. Miller's face with so truthful,
wondering a gaze that he was puzzled. "Can it be," thought he, "that I did
not hear aright, that I was deceived? I will, at least, ask her how she
spent that evening," so he said: "Fanny, do you remember where you were,
or how you were occupied during the last evening of my stay at your
father's?"

At first Fanny seemed trying to recall the events of that night; then she
said: "Oh, yes, I remember now perfectly well. You and Mr. Wilmot had
letters to write, and went to your room early, while father and mother
went to one of the neighbors, leaving Julia and me alone in the sitting
room."

"Did you both remain in the sitting room during the evening?" continued
Mr. Miller.

"Yes," said Fanny, "or, that is, I stayed there all the time; but Julia
was gone a long time, and when she returned she would not tell me where
she had been."

"But were not you and Luce in your room at all that evening?" continued
Mr. Miller.

"Luce!" said Fanny; "I do not remember having seen her once that night;
neither was I in my room until bedtime."

There was so much frankness and apparent truth in Fanny's face and manner
that Mr. Miller never for a moment doubted her. His first feeling was one
of intense happiness at finding that Fanny was, indeed, all he had once
fancied her to be. Back through the channels of his heart rolled, for an
instant, the full tide of his once secretly nurtured affection for her. It
was for an instant, however; for one look at the beautiful Kate convinced
him that the love he once bore the gentle, timid girl at his side was
nought, when compared with the deep, ardent affection which he now felt
for his own cherished wife. "Fanny," said he, "I have wronged you in
thought, but never in word or deed, to my knowledge. I was, however,
grossly deceived, although I can see no object for the deception."

"What can you mean?" asked Kate, rather anxiously. "Do explain yourself,
and not deal in mysteries any longer. What dreadful thing did you imagine
Fanny had done--set the stables on fire, or abused the blacks--which?"

Mr. Miller did not immediately answer; and Fanny said: "Come, Mr. Miller,
it is not fair to suspect me of evil and not tell what it is. You should
be more frank."

"I will tell you," said Mr. Miller; and, in as few words as possible he
repeated to Fanny the conversation which he had overheard, between Luce
and herself, as he supposed.

When he finished speaking, both Kate and Fanny were silent for a moment;
then Kate said: "It was Julia, I know it was. Did you ever notice how much
alike their voices are? And, besides, I once heard Julia lay a wager with
Mr. Raymond that she could imitate her sister's voice so exactly that one,
not seeing her, would be thoroughly deceived."

"Oh, Mrs. Miller," said Fanny, "it cannot be! Why should Julia wish to do
so wicked a thing? And yet I now remember that when I was sick, Luce came
to me one night and asked me to forgive her for everything bad she had
ever done to me. I assured her I knew of nothing to forgive; and then she
cried, and said I did not know all she did about her wickedness. She must
have referred to that night. I can forgive her; for she is a poor ignorant
girl, and much afraid of Julia. But how could my own sister do me so great
a wrong, and what could have been her object?"

Here Fanny burst into tears, while Kate gave vent to her indignation by
expressing her opinion pretty freely of Miss Julia.

"I can see," said she, "what Julia's object was. I fancy she was always
fearful lest my brother should like Fanny the best; and she probably took
this method to make you both think meanly of Fanny."

"Your idea is, probably, the correct one," said Mr. Miller, who would have
added more, but Kate interrupted him by saying, "Yes, I think I understand
it all now. Julia is, probably, at the foundation of Dr. Lacey's neglect.
Most likely she's been writing him some base falsehood."

"Dr. Lacey's neglect!" repeated Mr. Miller. "What do you mean?"

Kate commenced an explanation, but Fanny started up, saying: "Please, Mrs.
Miller, wait until I am gone."

She then quitted the apartment, and sought her own room, of which Julia
had been sole occupant for more than an hour. On her return from school
this hopeful young lady was pleased to find her sister absent. Seating
herself near the window, with paper and pencil, she began the composition
of that letter, which, as we have said, widened the breach between Dr.
Lacey and Fanny. This unhallowed work cost her a world of pains. Many
times were the lines crossed out and rewritten, before they quite suited
her. The letter was but half completed, when Fanny was heard coming slowly
through the upper hall. Springing up, Julia darted through the window out
upon the balcony, and by the time Fanny reached the room she was seated at
the furthest end of the veranda, busily engaged with her forgery.

When she at last returned to the room, and tried to converse with her
sister, she observed that Fanny shrank from her approach and that she had
been weeping. In a very ironical tone Julia said, "What now is the matter?
I declare, Fan, I believe you are a perfect little simpleton. I wouldn't
be such a cry baby, anyway; and make so much fuss about one
good-for-nothing doctor."

Fanny replied very calmly, and without once taking her eyes from her
sister's face, "If you think I have been crying about Dr. Lacey, you are
mistaken."

"Pray what did you cry for?" said Julia, laughingly. "Did somebody look
sideways at you, or omit to call you by some pet baby name?"

"I cried," said Fanny, "because I feared you had been acting very wickedly
toward me."

In an instant Julia's assurance left her. The bright color forsook her
cheek, which became perfectly white. Fanny noticed the change, and it
confirmed her fears. She did not know that the circumstances to which she
alluded had long since faded from Julia's memory, and that her present
agitation arose from the fear that she might have been detected in her
work of deception, and that, after all, she might be foiled and entangled
in her own meshes. A glance of intense anger flashed from her large black
eye, as she muttered between her closed teeth: "Has the wretch dared to
betray me?"

Fanny supposed she referred to Luce; and her first feeling was to save the
helpless servant girl from Julia's displeasure; so she said, "Do not
condemn Luce; she did not tell me. I received my information from our
teacher, Mr. Miller."

"Luce! Mr. Miller! What do you mean?" asked Julia, her eyes lessening to
their usual size, and the color again coming to her cheeks and lips. This
sudden change in her sister's appearance puzzled Fanny; but she proceeded
to relate what she had just heard from Mr. Miller. Julia was so much
relieved to find her fears unfounded, and her darling secret safe, that
she burst into a loud laugh, which she continued for some time. During
this fit of laughter, she was determining whether it were best to confess
the whole and seem sorry for it, or to strenuously deny it. Finally, she
decided on the former, but resolved not to give the right reason for her
conduct; so she said, with an air of great penitence: "Yes, Fanny, I am
guilty, and I am glad you know it, too. I have been on the point of
acknowledging it to you many times, but shame kept me silent."

"How could you do it, and what did you do it for?" asked Fanny.

Julia replied, "Truth compels me to say that I feared your influence over
Mr. Wilmot. I knew how much he admired amiability in females, and I wished
to make him think you were no more amiable than other people."

"And yet you say you never cared for his love," continued Fanny.

Miss Julia was getting cornered; but her evil genius did not forsake her,
and she answered, "True, I did not care much for him; but I felt flattered
with his attentions and I ardently desired to have one person prefer me to
you. I know it was wicked in me to do what I did, but you will forgive me,
will you not? And I will promise never again to act so deceitfully toward
you."

Always sincere in what she said herself, Fanny could not think her sister
otherwise; so her hand was extended in token of forgiveness. Julia took
it, and raising it to her lips, kept it there for an instant, in order to
conceal the treacherous smile of exultation which played round her mouth.
"I shall yet triumph," thought she, and, in the exuberance of her joy, she
kissed again the soft hand which she held in her grasp. Could Fanny have
looked into the heart of her sister, and beheld all its dark designs, she
would have fled from her presence as from a poisonous serpent. But, though
she was deceived, there was one, the All-seeing One, whose eye was ever
upon the sinful girl; and though for a while she seemed to prosper, the
same mighty Power so ordered it, that after a time, she who had sown the
tempest reaped the whirlwind; and the clouds which hung so heavy and dark
around the pathway of her innocent victim, afterward burst with terrific
violence upon her own head.

We will now return to Mrs. Miller, whom we left relating to her husband
the supposed neglect of Dr. Lacey. She finished her narrative by saying,
"I cannot help thinking that by some means, Julia is at the foundation of
all this mischief. You and Dr. Lacey were good friends; suppose you write
to him, and then we shall at least know the truth of the matter."

"Yes, I will," said Mr. Miller; "tomorrow."

"But why not write tonight?" asked Kate, who was in a hurry.

"Because," answered Mr. Miller, "I shall be engaged tonight and tomorrow
will do as well."

Kate could not help feeling that, possibly, "tomorrow" might not do as
well; but she said no more on the subject, and waited patiently for the
morrow, when, true to his promise, her husband commenced the important
letter. We have said that Mr. Miller had never liked Julia. In this
letter, however, he spoke as favorably of her as he could; but he told how
basely she had once deceived himself and Mr. Wilmot, with regard to Fanny,
and also hinted his own and his wife's suspicion, that, in some way or
other, Julia was connected with Dr. Lacey's long silence, as well as with
the heartless letter which Fanny had received from New Orleans.

"Yes, this will do," said Kate, as she read what her husband had written.
"But," she added, "I cannot help feeling sorry that it was not sent
yesterday."

"Oh, Kate," said Mr. Miller, gayly, "your anxiety for Fanny has made you
nervous, and now you are almost superstitious. One day can make no
possible difference in the result of this letter."

Afterward, when it was too late, he learned how much difference the delay
of one day caused. By its means, that letter which would have set all
right, was sent in the same package with Julia's amiable production, and,
as we have seen, was not received by its owner, but was safely stowed away
in a cigar box under ground.

Soon after Mr. Miller deposited his letter in the post office, a young
girl, closely veiled, entered the same building, and looked anxiously
round until her eye fell upon her accomplice, Mr. Dunn. That worthy young
man instantly came forward, grinning and bowing, and almost upsetting
another clerk, who was also hastening to wait upon the beautiful Miss
Middleton.

"Good morning, Miss Julia!" said Mr. Dunn; "glad to see you. Fine
morning."

Julia did not deign to reply, for Mr. Dunn's familiarity was exceedingly
disgusting to her. She, however, handed him her letter, which he looked at
in some surprise, and said in a low tone, "Is this letter from Fanny, or
you?"

"From me; send it," answered Julia, at the same time managing to slip an
eagle into the hands of the honest clerk.

Leaving the office, the young lady proceeded homeward, thinking to
herself, "There, that will settle him, I hope. I am getting on
swimmingly."

When Mr. Miller entered his room, on his return from the office, Kate
said, "In the course of two weeks, you or Fanny or both, will hear from
Dr. Lacey."

"Do not be too sanguine, Katy," answered Mr. Miller: "you may be
disappointed."

"Well," continued Kate, "if he pays no attention to your letter, I shall
be satisfied that he really is undeserving of Fanny's esteem. I'll not
tell her that you have written, for fear of the consequence."

So days came and went, week followed week, in rapid succession, until five
weeks were numbered with the past since Mr. Miller's letter had been
dispatched. Kate had waited and watched until even her sanguine nature had
ceased to hope; for there had come no tidings from the far off Crescent
City, and both she and her husband had unwillingly come to the conclusion
that Dr. Lacey was really false. Kate manifested her disappointment by an
increased tenderness of manner toward Fanny, whom she sincerely loved, and
by a more gracious deportment toward Julia, whom she began to fear she had
wronged by suspecting her of being accessory to Dr. Lacey's conduct.

CHAPTER XIV

FANNY AND JULIA'S UNCLE ARRIVES FROM INDIA

It was now the first day of May, and as it was also Fanny's seventeenth
birthday, her school companions determined to celebrate it by a May party,
of which Fanny was unanimously chosen queen. The fete took place in a
handsome grove on a hillside which overlooked the city of Frankfort. All
of Mr. Miller's pupils were present, together with most of their parents
and many of their friends. Mrs. Miller had taken great pains that Fanny
should be arrayed becomingly for the occasion, and many and flattering
were the compliments paid to the youthful queen, who indeed looked
bewitchingly beautiful.

Her dress was a white muslin, festooned with wild flowers, some of which
were fastened here and there by a pearl or brilliant. The gayety of the
little party was at its height, and when Fanny, gracefully kneeling,
received upon her head the crown, and was proclaimed "Queen of the May," a
strange voice called out in loud, musical tones, "Viva la Reine." The
whole company instantly caught up the words, and "Long live the Queen" was
echoed and re-echoed on all sides.

When the tumult had somewhat subsided the eyes of those present were
turned toward the spot whence the words "Viva la Reine" had proceeded.
Leaning against one of the tall shade trees were two gentlemen, who had
joined them unobserved. The elder of the strangers was a middle-aged man,
in whose piercing black eyes and dark complexion we recognize the Mr.
Middleton whom we left with Dr. Lacey in New Orleans. His companion was
many years younger, and there was something in his appearance which
instantly interested and attracted the notice of strangers. There was a
nobleness in the intellectual cast of his high, white forehead, round
which his rich brown hair lay in thick masses, as if unwilling to part
with the curl which must have been natural to it in childhood.

No sooner did Kate's eyes fall on the young man than she darted forward
with a cry of recognition and exclaimed, "Why, Frank Cameron, how came you
here?"

But before he answers Kate's question, we will introduce him to our
readers. Frank Cameron was a cousin of Kate Wilmot. His father, who was a
lawyer by profession, had amassed a large fortune, on the interest of
which he was now living in elegant style in the city of New York. Frank,
who was the eldest child, had chosen the profession of his father,
contrary to the wishes of his proud lady mother, who looked upon all
professions as too plebeian to suit her ideas of gentility. This
aristocratic lady had forgotten the time when, with blue cotton umbrella
and thick India rubbers, she had plodded through the mud and water of the
streets in Albany, giving music lessons for her own and widowed mother's
maintenance. One of her pupils was Kate Wilmot's mother, Lucy Cameron.
While giving lessons to her she first met Lucy's brother, Arthur Cameron,
who afterward became her husband. He was attracted by her extreme beauty
and his admiration was increased on learning her praiseworthy efforts to
maintain herself and mother. They were married, and with increasing years
came increasing wealth, until at length Mr. Cameron was a millionaire and
retired from business.

As riches increased, so did Mrs. Cameron's proud spirit, until she came to
look upon herself as somewhat above the common order of her fellow-beings.
She endeavored to instil her ideas of exclusiveness into the minds of her
children. With her daughter Gertrude, she succeeded admirably, and by the
time that young lady had reached her eighteenth year, she fancied herself
a kind of queen to whom all must pay homage. But Frank the poor mother
found perfectly incorrigible. He was too much like his father to think
himself better than his neighbor on account of his wealth. Poor Mrs.
Cameron had long given him up, only asking as a favor that he would not
disgrace his family by marrying the washerwoman's daughter. Frank promised
he would not, unless perchance he should fall in love with her, "And
then," said he, with a wicked twinkle of his handsome hazel eyes, "then,
my dear Mrs. Cameron, I cannot be answerable for consequences."

He had always greatly admired his cousin Kate, and often horrified his
mother by declaring that if Kate were not his cousin, he would surely
marry her. "Thank the Lord, then, that she is so near a relative! For now
you will not stoop to marry a music teacher," said Mrs. Cameron.

The old roguish expression danced in Frank's eye, as he said, "Most noble
mother Adelaide, will you tell me whether it wrenched father's back much
when he stooped to a music teacher?"

The highly indignant lady was silent, for Frank had a way of reminding her
of the past, which she did not quite relish; so she let him alone,
secretly praying that he would not make a fool of himself in his choice of
a wife. He bade her be easy on that point, for 'twasn't likely he would
ever marry, for he probably would never find a wife who would suit him.

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