Mary J. Holmes - Tempest and Sunshine

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"Will you please, Julia, say no more on that subject," said Fanny. "I do
not suppose Frank Cameron has any particular regard for me; if he has it
will do no good."

Thus the conversation ended for that night. The next day Mr. William
Middleton was informed that Julia would spend the summer in New Orleans,
but that Fanny preferred going North. He was rather disappointed. His
preference, if any he had, was for Fanny. She was so quiet, so gentle, he
could not help loving her; but Julia puzzled him. There was a certain bold
assurance in her manner which he disliked. Besides, he could not help
fearing there was some good reason why her father censured her so much. "I
will watch her closely," thought he, "and if possible, discover her faults
and help her correct them."

It would seem that Julia suspected her uncle's intentions, for she
intended to be very correct and amiable in her deportment, whenever he was
present. Thought she, "I will thus retain his good opinion; and by so
doing I shall more easily win Dr. Lacey's regard."

In the course of a few days Fanny and Julia returned to school; the one,
elated with the prospect of going to New Orleans, and the other, quietly
anticipating a pleasant but rather sad journey to New York. Two weeks
after their return to Frankfort their uncle called upon them on his way
South. He again repeated his invitation that Stanton and Ashton would
spend a part of the summer with him. Ashton consented, but Stanton still
pleaded his important business North, and his excuse was considered a
sufficient one.

Mrs. Carrington, who had become rather weary of Raymond's attentions and
was longing for a change of place and scene, now tried by every possible
maneuver to induce Mr. Middleton to invite her also. Julia readily
understood her; and as she feared Mrs. Carrington's presence would
frustrate her plans, she resolutely determined that she should not be
invited. Consequently, when that lady talked to Mr. Middleton of New
Orleans, and the desire she had of again visiting that city, Julia would
adroitly change the conversation to some other subject; and once when Mr.
Middleton had actually opened his mouth and commenced giving the desired
invitation, Julia, as if suddenly recollecting herself, started up,
saying, "Excuse me, uncle, but I have a painting in my room which I wish
you to see. Pray, come with me now, for I cannot bring it down, and as it
is getting dark, there is no time to be lost."

Mr. Middleton arose and followed his niece, who congratulated herself on
the success of her stratagem. After reaching her room, and exhibiting her
painting, she said to her uncle, "I do hope you will not ask Mrs.
Carrington to go to New Orleans this summer."

"Why not?" said Mr. Middleton. "She seems anxious that I should do so."

"I know it," answered Julia; "but I am afraid she is not a good woman. At
least she had a bad influence over me, and I always feel wicked after
being with her awhile."

As Julia had supposed, this had the desired effect. Mr. Middleton would
not ask one to visit him whose influence over his niece was bad.
Consequently, all Mrs. Carrington's hints were unnoticed or misunderstood.
She, however, knew tolerably well to whom she was indebted for the slight;
and when, after Mr. Middleton's departure, Julia said to her, "I wonder
uncle did not invite you, too; I thought he was going to do so," she
replied, rather sharply, "I fancy I should have been under no obligations
to you, Miss Julia, if I had received an invitation." Then turning, she
hastily entered her room, and throwing herself upon the sofa, she tried to
devise some scheme by which she could undermine Julia, provided Dr. Lacey
should show her any marked attention.

Mrs. Carrington was not in a very enviable mood. The night before Raymond
had offered her his heart and hand, and of course had been rejected. He
was in the parlor when Julia so abruptly took her uncle away. As there was
no one present besides Mrs. Carrington, he seized upon that moment to
declare his love. It is impossible to describe the loathing and contempt
which she pretended to feel for him who sued so earnestly for her hand,
even if her heart did not accompany it. Nothing daunted by her haughty
refusal, Raymond arose, and standing proudly before the indignant lady
said, "Ida Carrington, however much dislike you may pretend to feel for me
I do not believe it. I know I am not wholly disagreeable to you, and were
I possessed of thousands, you would gladly seize the golden bait. I do not
ask you to love me, for it is not in your nature to love anything. You are
ambitious, and even now are dreaming of one whom you will never win; for
just as sure as yon sun shall set again, so sure you, proud lady, shall
one day be my wife."

When Mrs. Carrington had recovered a little from the surprise into which
Raymond's fiery speech had thrown her, he was gone and she was alone.
"Impudent puppy!" said she; "and yet he was right in saying he was not
disagreeable to me. But I'll never be his wife. I'd die first!" Still, do
what she would, a feeling haunted her that Raymond's prediction would
prove true. Perhaps it was this which made her so determined to supplant
Julia in Dr. Lacey's good opinion, should he ever presume to think
favorably of her. How she succeeded we shall see hereafter.

CHAPTER XVII

FANNY MIDDLETON ARRIVES IN NEW YORK

Three weeks after Mr. Middleton's departure for New Orleans, Mr. Miller's
school closed. Uncle Joshua was present at the examination, and
congratulated himself much because he did not feel at all "stuck up" at
seeing both Julia and Fanny acquit themselves so creditably. After the
exercises were concluded, he returned with Mr. Miller to Mrs. Crane's.
Just before he started for home he drew from his sheepskin pocketbook five
hundred dollars, which he divided equally between his daughters, saying,
"Here, gals, I reckon this will be enough to pay for all the furbelows
you've bought or will want to buy. I'll leave you here the rest of the
week to see to fixin' up your rig, but Saturday I shall send for you."

Fanny was surprised at her father's unlooked-for generosity, and thanked
him again and again. Julia was silent, but her face told how vexed and
disappointed she was. As soon as her father was gone, her rage burst
forth. "Stingy old thing," said she, "and yet he thinks he's done
something wonderful. Why, my bill at C----'s already amounts to two hundred,
and I want as much more. What I am to do, I don't know."

She would have said more, but Fanny quieted her by saying, "Don't talk so
about father, Julia. It was very liberal, and really I do not know what to
do with all mine."

But we will not continue this conversation. Suffice it to say that when
Julia retired that night, her own money was safe in her purse, and by the
side of it lay the hundred dollars she had coaxed from Fanny. As they were
preparing to return home on Saturday, Julia said to her sister, "Fan,
don't let father know that you gave me a hundred dollars, for I fear all
your powers of persuasion would be of no avail to stay the storm he would
consider it his bounden duty to raise."

There was no need of this caution, for Fanny was not one to do a generous
act, and then boast of it, neither did her father ask her how she had
disposed of her money. He was satisfied to know that the "four silk gowns"
were purchased, as, in his estimation they constituted the essential part
of a young lady's wardrobe.

Since Fanny had disclosed the heartless desertion of Dr. Lacey, she seemed
to be doubly dear to her father; for pity now mingled with the intense
love he always had for his youngest and best-loved daughter. Often during
the last three days she passed at home prior to her departure for New
York, he would sit and gaze fondly upon her until the tears would blind
his vision, then springing up, he would pace the floor, impetuously
muttering, "The scamp--the vagabond--but he'll get his pay fast enough--and
I'd pay him, too, if I hadn't promised not to. But 'tain't worth a while,
for I reckon 'twould only make her face grow whiter and thinner if I did
anything."

At length the morning came on which Julia and Fanny were to leave for the
first time their native state. Side by side near the landing at Frankfort
lay the two boats, Blue Wing and Diana. The one was to bear Fanny on her
Northern tour, and the other would convey Julia as far as Louisville on
her way South. Mr. Woodburn, who had business in New Orleans, was to take
Julia under his protection.

And now but a short time remained ere the Diana would loose her moorings
and be under way. These few moments were moments of sorrow to Mr. and Mrs.
Middleton, who had accompanied their daughters to Frankfort. Uncle Joshua
particularly was much depressed, and scarce took his eyes from his
treasure, who might be leaving him forever. In his estimation the far-off
North was a barren, chilly region, and although he did not quite believe
his Fanny would be frozen to death, he could not rid himself of the fear
that something would befall her.

"You'll take good keer of her, won't you, Miller?" said he, "and bring her
safely back to us?"

Mr. Miller gave the promise, and then observing that there was something
else on Mr. Middleton's mind, he said, "What is it, Mr. Middleton? What
more do you wish to say?"

Mr. Middleton struggled hard with his feelings, and his voice sank to a
whisper as he answered, "I wanted to tell you that if--if she should die,
bring her home--bring her back; don't leave her there all alone."

The old man could say no more, for the bell rang out its last warning. The
parting between Fanny and her parents was a sad one, and even Julia wept
as she kissed her sister, and thought it might be for the last time.

Soon after the Diana, with its precious freight disappeared from view, Mr.
Middleton was called upon to bid another farewell to his eldest daughter.
"Reckon the old fellow likes one girl better than the other," said a
bystander, who had witnessed both partings. And yet Mr. Middleton did
well, and his look and manner was very affectionate as he bade Julia
good-bye, and charged her "not to be giddy and act like a fool, nor try to
come it over Dr. Lacey." "Though," thought he, "it'll be sarvin the rascal
right if he should have to live with Tempest all his life."

It is not our intention at present to follow Julia in her passage to New
Orleans. In another chapter we will take up the subject, and narrate her
adventures. Now we prefer going North with the other party, which
consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Miller, Fanny and Raymond. The latter had, in a
fit of desperation, determined to quit Frankfort, and go no one knew
whither. He accompanied his friends as far as Cincinnati, and there bade
them adieu, saying that they would hear of him again in a way they little
dreamed of.

Mr. Miller was sorry to part with one who had proved so valuable an
assistant in his school, but all his arguments had failed and he was
obliged to give him up, saying, "I hope, Raymond, that all your laudable
enterprises may be successful."

"I shall succeed," were Raymond's emphatic words; "and she, the haughty
woman, who tried to smile so scornfully when I bade her farewell, will yet
be proud to say she has had a smile from me, a poor school master."

"Well, Raymond," said Mr. Miller, "you have my good wishes, and if you
ever run for President, I'll vote for you. So now good-by."

Raymond rung his friend's hand, and then stepped from the cars, which soon
rolled heavily from the depot. Faster and faster sped the train on its
pathway over streamlet and valley, meadow and woodland, until at last the
Queen City, with its numerous spires, was left far behind. From the car
windows Fanny watched the long blue line of hills, which marks the
Kentucky shore, until they, too, disappeared from view.

For a time now we will leave her to the tender mercies of the Ohio
railroad, and a Lake Erie steamer, and hurrying on in advance, we will
introduce the reader to the home where once had sported Richard Wilmot and
his sister Kate. It stood about a half a mile from the pleasant rural
village of C----, in the eastern part of New York. The house was large and
handsome, and had about it an air of thrift and neatness, which showed its
owner to be a farmer, who not only understood his business, but also
attended to it himself. Between the house and the road was a large grassy
lawn, on which was growing many a tall, stately maple and elm, under whose
wide-spreading branches Kate and her brother had often played during the
gladsome days of their childhood. A long piazza ran around two sides of
the building. Upon this piazza the family sitting room opened.

Could we have entered that sitting room the day on which our travelers
arrived, we should have seen a fine-looking, middle-aged lady, whose form
and features would instantly have convinced us that we looked upon the
mother of Kate. Yes, what Kate Miller is now, her mother was once; but
time and sorrow have made inroads upon her dazzling beauty, and here and
there the once bright locks of auburn are now silvered over, and across
the high white brow are drawn many deep-cut lines. Since Kate last saw her
mother, these lines have increased, for the bursting heart has swelled
with anguish, and the dark eye has wept bitter tears for the son who died
far away from his childhood's home. Even now the remembrance of the noble
youth, who scarce two years ago, left her full of life and health, makes
the tear drop start as she says aloud, "How can I welcome back my darling
Kate, and know that he will never come again!"

The sound of her voice aroused old Hector, the watchdog, who had been
lying in the sun upon the piazza. Stretching his huge limbs and shaking
his shaggy sides, he stalked into the sitting room, and going up to his
mistress laid his head caressingly in her lap. The sight of Hector made
Mrs. Wilmot's tears flow afresh, for during many years he had been the
faithful companion of Richard, whose long absence he seemed seriously to
mourn. For days and weeks he had watched by the gate, through which he had
seen his young master pass, and when at last the darkness of night forbade
a longer watch, he would lay his head on the ground and give vent to his
evident disappointment in a low, mournful howl.

Mrs. Wilmot was not superstitious; but when, day after day, the same sad
cry was repeated, it became to her an omen of coming evil; and thus the
shock of her son's death, though none the less painful, was not quite as
great as it would otherwise have been. For Kate, too, old Hector had wept,
but not so long or so mournfully; still he remembered her, and always
evinced his joy whenever her name was spoken.

On the morning of the day on which she was expected home, a boy who had
lived in the family when she went away, called Hector to him, and
endeavored, by showing him some garment which Kate had worn and by
repeating her name, to make him understand that she was coming home. We
will not say that Hector understood him, but we know that during the day
he never for a moment left the house or yard, but lay upon the piazza,
looking eagerly toward the road which led from the village. Whenever he
saw a carriage coming, he would start up and gaze wistfully at it until it
had passed, then he would again lie down and resume his watch. Mrs. Wilmot
noticed this, and when Hector, as we have seen, walked up to her and
looked so sympathizingly in her face, she patted his head, saying, "Poor
Hector; you will see Kate at least today."

Nor was she mistaken, for about three that afternoon, an omnibus drew up
before the gate. Kate immediately sprang out, and was followed by Mr.
Miller and Fanny. Their arrival was first made known to Mrs. Wilmot by the
cry of joy which Hector sent forth at sight of Kate. With lightning speed
he bounded over the lawn to meet the travelers. Fanny, who was accustomed
to the savage watchdogs of Kentucky, sprang back in terror and clung to
Mr. Miller for protection; but Kate cried out, "Do not fear; it is only
Hector, and he wouldn't harm you for the world." Then she ran forward to
meet him, and embraced him as fondly as though he had really been a human
being, and understood and appreciated it all. And he did seem to, for
after caressing Kate, he looked about as if in quest of the missing one.
Gradually he seemed to become convinced that Richard was not there; again
was heard the old wailing howl; but this time it was more prolonged, more
despairing. Faithful creature! Know you not that summer's gentle gale and
winter's howling storm have swept over the grave of him whom you so
piteously bemoan.

Fanny stopped her ears to shut out the bitter cry, but if Kate heard it,
she heeded it not, and bounded on over the graveled walk toward her
mother, who was eagerly waiting for her. In an instant parent and child
were weeping in each other's arms.

"My Kate, my darling Kate, are you indeed here?" said Mrs. Wilmot.

Kate's only answer was a still more passionate embrace. Then recollecting
herself, she took her husband's hand and presented him to her mother,
saying, "Mother, I could not bring you Richard, but I have brought you
another son. Will you not give him room in your heart?"

Mrs. Wilmot had never seen Mr. Miller before, but she was prepared to like
him, not only because he was her daughter's choice, but because he had
been the devoted friend of her son; consequently she greeted him with a
most kind and affectionate welcome.

During all this time Fanny was leaning against one of the pillars of the
piazza, but her thoughts were far away. She was thinking of her distant
Kentucky home, and a half feeling of homesickness crept over her, as she
thought how joyfully she would be greeted there, should she ever return.
Her reverie was of short duration, for Kate approached, and leading her to
her mother, simply said, "Mother, this is Fanny."

'Twas enough. The word Fanny had a power to open the fountains of that
mother's heart. She had heard the story of the young girl, who had watched
so unweariedly by the bedside of Richard--she had heard, too, of the
generous old man, whose noble heart had cared for and cherished the
stranger, and she knew that she, who advanced toward her so timidly, was
the same young girl, the same old man's daughter; and could Mr. Middleton
have witnessed her reception of his Sunshine, he would have been
satisfied.

A messenger was dispatched for Mr. Wilmot, who was superintending some
workmen in a field not far from the house. Mr. Wilmot was a tall,
noble-looking man, whose fine figure was slightly bowed by the frosts of
sixty winters. As he advanced with breathless haste toward the house, Kate
ran to meet him, and the tears which the strong man wept, told how dear to
him was this, his beautiful daughter, and how forcibly her presence
reminded him of his first-born, only son, who went away to die among
strangers.

When he was presented to Mr. Miller and Fanny, a scene similar to the one
we have already described took place. As he blessed Fanny for Richard's
sake, she felt that though in a strange land, she was not alone or
unloved. Her homesickness soon vanished; for how could she be lonely and
sad, where all were so kind, and where each seemed to vie with the other
in trying to make everything agreeable to her. It was strange how soon
even Hector learned to love the fair Kentuckian. He would follow her
footsteps wherever she went, and affectionately kiss her hands. But then,
as Kate said, "Hector had more common sense than half the people in the
world," and he seemed to know by instinct that she whom he so fondly
caressed had once watched over his young master, who was now sleeping in
his silent grave, unmindful that in his home he was still sincerely
mourned even by old Hector.

Not many days after Fanny's arrival at Mr. Wilmot's she was told that a
gentleman wished to see her in the parlor. On entering the room how
surprised she was at beholding Frank Cameron. He had learned by letter
from Kate that Fanny was in C----, and he immediately started for his
uncle's.

Since his return from Kentucky he had thoughts of little else save Fanny
Middleton. Waking or sleeping, she was constantly in his mind, and still
with a happy thought of her there ever came a sadder feeling, a fear that
his love for her would be in vain. But since the morning when he bade her
adieu, her name had never once passed his lips.

When his sister Gertrude questioned him concerning the Kentucky girls, he
had described to her in glowing terms the extreme beauty of Julia, and the
handsome eyes of "the widder," as he called Mrs. Carrington, but of Fanny
he had never spoken. He could not bear that even his own sister should
mention Fanny in connection with any one else. How ever, when Kate's
letter arrived, he passed it over to Gertrude, whose curiosity was
instantly roused, and she poured forth a torrent of questions as to who
that Fanny Middleton was.

"I suppose she must be old Mr. Middleton's daughter," was Frank's teasing
reply.

"Of course I know that," said Gertrude, "but what of her? who is she?"

"Why, I've told you once, she is Fanny Middleton," said Frank.

These and similar answers were all Gertrude could draw from him, and she
fell into a fit of pouting; but Frank was accustomed to that, and
consequently did not mind it. Next he announced his intention to visit his
Uncle Wilmot. Gertrude instantly exclaimed, "Now, Frank, you are too bad.
Just as soon as you hear Fanny Middleton is in New York, you start off to
see her, without even telling me who she is, or what she is. In my opinion
you are in love with her, and do not wish us to know it."

This started up Mrs. Cameron's ideas, and she said, "Frank, I am inclined
to believe Gertrude is right; but you surely will be respectful enough to
me to answer my questions civilly."

"Certainly," said Frank. "Ask anything you please; only be quick, for it
is almost car time."

"Well then, do you intend to make this Miss Middleton your wife?"

"I do, if she will have me," said Frank.

The distressed lady groaned audibly, but continued, "One more question,
Frank. Is she rich and well connected?"

Frank passed his hand through the thick curls of his brown hair, and
seemed to be trying hard to think of something. Finally he answered, "Why,
really, mother, I never once thought to ask that question."

"But," persisted Mrs. Cameron, "you can judge by her appearance, and that
of her parents. Did you not see them?"

Frank laughed loudly as the image of Uncle Joshua as he first saw him in
the door, buttoning his suspender, presented itself to his remembrance;
but he answered, "Yes, mother, I did see her father, and 'twas the richest
sight I ever saw."

He then proceeded to give a description of Mr. Middleton to his astonished
sister and mother, the latter of whom exhibited such distress that Frank
very compassionately asked, "if she had the toothache."

Before she had time to answer, Frank was gone, leaving his mother to
lament over the strange infatuation which always led Frank in pursuit of
somebody beneath him.

"I know," said she to Gertrude, "that this Fanny Middleton is from a
horrid low family, and is as poor as a church mouse."

So while Frank was hurrying toward the village of C----, his mother and
sister were brooding over the disgrace which they feared threatened them.
They could have spared all their painful feelings, for she of the "low
family" was destined to be another's.

During Frank's ride to C---- he determined, ere his return, to know the
worst. "She can but refuse me," thought he, "and even if she does, I shall
feel better than I do now." When he met Fanny his manner was so calm and
collected that she never dreamed how deep was the affection she had
kindled in his heart. She received him with real pleasure, for he seemed
like a friend from Kentucky. He staid with her but three days, and when he
left he bore a sadder heart than he had ever felt before. Fanny had
refused him; not exultingly, as if a fresh laurel had been won only to be
boasted of, but so kindly, so delicately, that Frank felt almost willing
to act it all over again for the sake of once more hearing Fanny's voice,
as she told him how utterly impossible it was for her ever again to love
as a husband should be loved.

"Then," said Frank, somewhat bitterly, "you acknowledge that you have
loved another."

"Yes," answered Fanny, "but no other circumstances could have wrung the
confession from me. I have loved and been deceived. I will not say my
faith in man's honor is wholly gone, for I believe you, Mr. Cameron, to be
perfectly sincere and honorable in your professions of regard. Had we met
earlier all might have been different, but now it is too late. If my
friendship is worth having, it is yours. I have never had a brother, but
will look upon and love you as one; with that, you must be satisfied."

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