Mary J. Holmes - Tempest and Sunshine

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"Yes, yes," answered Joseph, whose almost only virtue was the love he bore
his mother.

"Fear not, then," said Dr. Lacey, "I will care for her; for though you did
me a great wrong, you saved me from being today the most wretched of men."

That night as the October sun went down there was heard beneath that
lonely roof the piteous cry of a widowed mother, for Joseph, her
first-born, her only child, was dead. Next day they buried him, as is
frequently the custom in Kentucky, beneath a large shade tree in the
garden. Many words of sympathy were spoken to the bereaved mother, but
none fell so soothingly on her ear as did those of Dr. Lacey, who was
present at the funeral, and led the weeping mother to the grave.

After the burial was over he whispered to her, "I will surely remember
you, for, erring though your son may have been, I owe him a debt of
gratitude." So saying, he walked hastily away toward Mr. Middleton's,
where he was met by alarmed faces, soft footsteps, and subdued whispers.
In reply to his inquiries, he was told by Aunt Judy, that "somehow or
'nother, Miss Julia had got wind of Mr. Dunn's death, and it had gone to
her head, makin' her ravin' mad, and the doctor said she wouldn't get
well."

Aunt Judy was right; Julia had accidently heard of Mr. Dunn's death, and
it added greatly to the nervous excitement which she was already
suffering, and when Dr. Gordon came he was surprised to find the dangerous
symptoms of his patient increased to an alarming extent. The fever had
settled upon her brain, and for many days she lay at the very gates of
death.

Incessantly she talked of Dr. Lacey, Fanny and Mr. Wilmot, the latter of
whom, in her disordered imagination, was constantly pursuing her. "Go
back--go back to your grave," she would say; "there are tears enough shed
for you, but none will fall for me when I am dead. He will laugh and be
glad, and the first moon that shines on my grave will light the marriage
train to the altar." Then, as if the phantom still were near her, she
would cry out, "Take him away, I tell you! What have I to do with coffins,
and white faces, and broken hearts? I killed him, I know, and he loved me,
too, as no one else ever has, but I madly loved another, and now he hates
me, spurns me!" Then turning to Fanny she would say, "I broke your heart
too, and still pressed on when I saw it was killing you, but you forgave
me, and now you must plead with him, who loves the air you breathe, to
think compassionately of me. I do not ask him to love me, for I know that
is impossible; but he can, at least, forgive and forget the past."

Sometimes she would speak of her father, saying, "He will be glad when the
tempest is still and ceases to trouble him, for he never loved me, never
spoke to me as he did to Fanny. I know I did not deserve his love, but I
should have been better if he had given me a little, yes, just a little."

"God knows she speaks the truth," said Uncle Joshua, wiping away the tears
he was not ashamed to weep. "I have been mighty hard on her, but I never
s'posed she cared."

Such were the scenes which daily occurred in Julia's sick room until at
last, from utter exhaustion, she became still, and for many days she lay
in a dreamy kind of sleep.

"Will she live?" asked Mr. Middleton of Dr. Gordon, as he one day left the
sick room.

"With proper care, I think she may," was the answer; and then Dr. Lacey
again urged the request he had once before made of Mr. Middleton.

But Uncle Joshua answered, "No, George, wait a little longer. Nuthin' 'll
come betwixt you again, I reckon, and I wouldn't have you marry her while
t'other one is so low."

So Dr. Lacey was obliged to wait, but though he would much rather have
remained near Fanny he deemed it expedient to change his abode and remove
to Mrs. Crane's. He was partly induced to do this on Rondeau's account,
who, being Ike's sworn enemy, was the cause of no little annoyance to Mr.
Middleton, who, with his negroes, was much nettled by the air of
superiority which that young gentleman thought proper to assume.

Greatly was Rondeau delighted to exchange the crazy old stone house, with
its corn-bread and fried bacon, for Mrs. Crane's elegant place, with its
oyster soups and ice creams, a part of which the head cook always reserved
for the "colored gentleman from New Orleans," who assured her, that though
when at home he didn't exactly eat at the same table with his master, he
still lived on the top shelf! Not long, however, did Rondeau enjoy his new
quarters, for about that time Mr. William Middleton returned to New
Orleans, and Dr. Lacey sent with him his servant Rondeau, nothing loath to
return home, for Leffie's face of late had haunted him not a little.

Dr. Lacey's return to Mrs. Crane's gave great satisfaction to Mrs.
Carrington, who, though she had no hopes of winning him, still, to use her
own words, "took great delight in reminding him of the snare into which he
had fallen, notwithstanding his profound wisdom and boasted foresight." It
required all the good breeding he was master of to answer politely when,
after returning from a visit to Mr. Middleton's, she would jeeringly ask
him concerning "his bride's health!"

But Mrs. Carrington's levity was brought to an end by an unforeseen
circumstance. It was now six weeks since the evening of the denouement,
and Julia's health was so much improved that Dr. Lacey began to speak
confidently of the day when Fanny would be his own. Uncle Joshua had given
his consent, and preparations for the marriage had actually commenced,
when Julia, in whose room Mrs. Middleton had been in the habit of
sleeping, insisted upon being left alone. "I am well now," she said, "and
do not need you."

Mrs. Middleton was finally persuaded, but charged her daughter to be sure
and call her if she wished for her during the night.

Over Julia's face a meaning smile flitted as she answered, "I hope to
trouble no one much longer," but it was unnoticed by Mrs. Middleton, and
Julia was left alone. Early next morning Luce went as usual to make a fire
for her young mistress, after which she softly drew back the bed curtains
to see if Julia slept. She was surprised to find no Julia there, neither
were there signs of her having been there during the night. With a loud
cry Luce summoned to the room both Mr. and Mrs. Middleton, the former of
whom on seeing how matters stood, exclaimed, "So ho! Up to her tricks
again. I thought she couldn't hold good long."

"'The de'il when sick, a saint would be,
But when he got well, the de'il a saint was he.'"

"Don't, husband," said Mrs. Middleton; "perhaps she will never come back
alive, and then you will be sorry."

Uncle Joshua readily guessed his wife's meaning, and turning to Luce,
said, "Rout out the whole gang and set 'em to huntin'."

In less than two hours scores of men on horseback were seen hunting in all
directions, looking, as Bob expressed it, "for all the world like they was
huntin' a runaway."

Ere long the news reached Frankfort, causing Mrs. Carrington to sneeringly
advise Dr. Lacey "by all means to join in the hunt." He deigned her no
reply, but mounting his horse took the road to Mr. Middleton's, where he
was welcomed with tears by Mrs. Middleton and Fanny, whose fears he strove
to allay.

Meanwhile the search went on, headed by Uncle Joshua, who, late in the
afternoon, unconsciously led a part of the company to the banks of the
river, not far from a point called Woodford Landing. Dismounting, he
strolled along the shore for several rods, when suddenly a loud cry turned
toward him the attention of the party. Near the water's edge he had
discovered a shawl, which he knew belonged to Julia, and near by lay a
pair of slippers, on the inside of which her name was marked. Instantly
the conviction flashed upon all--Julia was drowned!

Upon a large flat rock Uncle Joshua sat down, while his long gray locks
were tossed by the November wind which swept mournfully by, bearing on its
wing the bitter tones with which the stricken father bewailed his loss.
"Everything goes ag'in me," said he, "everything--she's dead and, worse
than all, died by her own hand." Then, as if void of reason, he arose, and
over the craggy hillside and down the dark, rolling river echoed the loud,
shrill cry of, "Julia, Julia, oh, my child! Come back, come back! Why was
you left to break your old father's heart?" And to that wail of sorrow
only the moaning wind replied, and faster the waters of the Kentucky
rolled on.

They took the old man home, and long weary days went by, during which the
river near the landing was dragged again and again, and still no trace of
the missing girl was found. Then, as hope began to whisper that possibly
she was not dead, the papers far and near contained advertisements for
her, and by the side of that appeared another for a lunatic girl, who had
escaped from the asylum at Lexington.

Four weeks went by, and the waters of the Kentucky frowned angrily "in the
gray December light," making Uncle Joshua shudder whenever he chanced to
pass by, and thought perhaps his daughter lay sleeping in their cold
embrace. A gloomy drizzly day was settling into a dark rainy night, when
two young men, who, either for business or pleasure, had rowed across the
river some miles from Woodford Landing, started to return home. They had
stepped into their boat and were about pushing off when among some
driftwood which lay not far from the shore, they thought they descried a
female's garment floating on the water. The spot was soon reached, and to
their horror they discovered the body of a young girl, which, from its
appearance, must have been in the water some time. They had heard the
story of Julia, and readily concluded that the bloated, disfigured form
before them must have been she. Taking her to the nearest dwelling, they
dispatched a messenger for Mr. Middleton, who, now that his worst fears
were confirmed, seemed paralyzed with the shock.

"Oh, I cannot go!" said he, "I cannot. Is there no one to do it for me?"

Dr. Lacey, who chanced to be present, said, "For your sake, sir, and for
Fanny's, I will go."

"God bless you, George!" answered Mr. Middleton, and in a few moments Dr.
Lacey departed.

With a thrill of horror he looked upon the swollen, discolored face, round
which the long black hair clung, matted and slimy from being so long
saturated with water, and thought that this was once the beautiful Julia,
though now so fearfully changed that no one could possibly have recognized
her. Owing to the state which the body was in, Dr. Lacey thought proper to
produce a coffin before removing her home; consequently it was nearly ten
o'clock the following morning ere the little procession slowly entered the
yard, from which, with wonderful forethought, Mr. Middleton had ordered to
be removed some half dozen carts, corn cribs, etc. Fanny was pressing
forward to look at her unfortunate sister, when Dr. Lacey, gently but
firmly, led her away, saying, "No, Fanny, you must not see her. The sight
would haunt you for months and years." Then, as her tears fell fast, he
strove in various way to divert her mind from Julia's untimely end.

About noon a middle-aged man came to the house and asked permission to see
the body. His request was granted, but he almost immediately turned away
from the coffin, saying, by way of explanation, "I am the father of the
maniac girl who some time since escaped from Lexington, and I thought
perhaps this might be my daughter; but it is not, and even if it were I
could not recognize her."

On Mr. Middleton's farm, and not far from the house, was a small yard
which had been enclosed as a burial place for the family. On this spot
Fanny had expended much time and labor. Roses and honeysuckles ever
bloomed there for a season, while the dark evergreen and weeping willow
waved their branches and beckoned the passer-by to rest beneath their
shadow. In one corner was a tall forest maple, where Julia and Fanny often
had played, and where Fanny once, when dangerously ill in childhood, had
asked to be laid. As yet no mound had rendered that spot dearer for the
sake of the lost one who slept there, but now in the scarcely frozen
ground the ringing of the spade was heard; shovelful after shovelful of
earth was thrown up, and into that cold, damp grave, as the sun was
setting, they lowered the remains of Julia, who once little thought that
she first of all would break the turf of the family graveyard.

That night was fast merging into the hours of morning ere the sound of
Uncle Joshua's footsteps ceased, as again and again he traversed the
length and breadth of his sleeping room, occasionally stopping before the
window and peering out in the darkness toward the spot where he knew lay
that newly-made grave. Memory was busily at work, and in the events which
marked Julia's short life, oh, how much he saw for which to blame himself.
Remorse mingled in the old man's cup of affliction, and while the hot
tears rolled down his cheeks he exclaimed, "If she could only come back
and I could do it over, I'd love her more, and maybe she'd be better. But
I treated her mean. I gin her only harsh words and cross looks." Then as
his wife's tears mingled with his, he took her hand, saying, "Don't take
on so, Nancy, you've nothin' to cry for. You's always good to her and kind
o' took up for her when I got sot ag'in her."

Mrs. Middleton could only answer by her tears to this touching attempt at
sympathy, but she finally succeeded in quieting her husband, and before
daybreak, he had forgotten in sleep the injustice done to Julia. All
thoughts of Fanny's marriage for the present were of course given up,
although Mr. Middleton promised that when the autumn came round again he
would surely give his treasure to the care of another.

Two weeks after Julia's burial, all of which time was passed at Mr.
Middleton's, Dr. Lacey went back to New Orleans, having first placed in
Mr. Middleton's care a sum of money for the benefit of Mrs. Dunn,
promising Fanny that with the spring he would come again. He bade her
adieu, praying that nothing might come between them again. Heavily now
dragged the days at Mr. Middleton's, until Uncle Joshua hit upon a plan
which would not only give pleasure to Fanny, but would also relieve the
tedium of his own life. It was nothing more nor less than the erection of
a new house on a grassy lawn, which Fanny had frequently pointed out as
being a good location. Long he revolved in his mind the for and against,
but the remembrance of Julia's wish to have the "old shell fixed up,"
finally decided him. "If 'twasn't good enough for her to be married in, it
surely wasn't good enough for Sunshine."

At the breakfast table he first announced his intention, causing Fanny in
her surprise and joy not only to drop her knife, but also to upset her
coffee. "All right," said he, "I'll do it, if it breaks me. We'll have a
buster," said he, "marble mantletrys, windows that come to the floor,
Brussels carpets, and if you're a mind to, you may have them four-legged
split things, though, Lord knows I'll never eat with them."

In a short time the necessary arrangements were completed. A large number
of men were hired and matters progressed so rapidly that there was every
probability of the house being completed early in June, should the winter
season prove favorable.

Here we may as well relate a little circumstance which occurred to Fanny
during the winter. Bill Jeffrey, who, it will be remembered, had always
felt a predilection for her, emboldened by the kindness of her manner, now
determined to make his wishes known. Accordingly, he sent her numerous
little cakes of maple sugar, besides giving her many knowing winks, his
usual method of showing his preference.

As she was one day strolling in the woods she suddenly encountered Bill,
who thought this was as favorable an opportunity as he would probably
have. He was rather awkward and unaccustomed to love-making, but he
resolved to do his best. Planting his foot upon a log, he with one hand
drew from his head his old wool cap and thrust it under his arm, while
with the other he twirled a huge brass watchkey, which hung suspended from
his pocket. (He had the day before traded off an old jack knife, two
puppies, and a cracked fiddle, for a brass watch which would only go by
shaking.)

Tiger, who had accompanied Fanny, eyed Bill's movements uneasily. He was,
however, unnoticed by the young man, who had got his mouth open, and at
last found courage to say, "I always liked you, Fanny, 'cause you never
laughed at me, nor called me a fool, and now if you'll have me, you may
carry my watch, and I'll work for your father two seasons in the hemp
field." This last was wonderful, for Bill was notoriously lazy.

Involuntarily Fanny laughed, but Bill construed it into approval, and was
about to sit down by her, when Tiger, with an angry growl, sprang forward
and precipitated the wooing swain over the log into the dirt. Fanny called
off the dog, and Bill gathered himself up, carefully brushing the dirt
from his Sunday suit. Fearing he would repeat his offer, Fanny said, "I
appreciate your kindness, Billy, but you see Tiger doesn't seem to approve
of your proposal, and as I have great confidence in his judgment, I think
I, too, must follow his example, and though I shan't knock you down, I
shall have to tell you 'No.'"

She might as well have knocked him down, for he instantly sat down, and
covering his face with his hands, burst into such a fit of crying that
Fanny, half-laughing at and half-pitying him, said, "Poor Billy, I am
sorry for you, and though I cannot marry you, I will like you just as well
as you fancy I always have."

This failed to quiet Bill, who kept on crying until Tiger made so many
threatening demonstrations of anger, that Bill thought it was wise to
leave before he got another tumble.

He had hardly disappeared when a loud voice called out, "Bravo, Tiger! You
know how to fix 'em." Looking around, Fanny saw her father, who had been a
silent spectator of the scene, and now came forward laughing heartily at
his would-be son-in-law. "Pretty well done, Sunshine," said he. "Let's
see, how many offers does this make? Thar's Joe's one, the doctor's two;
Yankee Carmeron's three; and lubberin' Bill Jeffrey's four, and you not
quite eighteen. That'll do; that'll do!" Afterward, when Mr. Middleton
wished to entertain his visitors with anything extra, he would rehearse to
them, with some exaggerations, Bill Jeffrey's proposal to Fanny.

Glancing backward a few pages, we find we have omitted to repeat what
happened among Dr. Lacey's blacks during the days when they were anxiously
but vainly watching for the coming of their young master and his bride.
For a week Aunt Dilsey was unusually crusty, and all her attempts at
cookery invariably failed, plainly showing her mind to be in a disturbed
state.

"I don't keer," she would say, "if the cakes is all dough and the 'sarves
all froth. They's good enough for her, any day." Then she would call out,
"Get along you, Jack, pokin' your fingers into the 'lasses cup; make
yourself scarce in this kitchen, or I'll crack your head mighty nigh as
hard as the new Miss will." Then she would scold Leffie, who, she said,
"was of no more account than a burnt stick, now she was spectin' Rondeau.
Pity but the boat he come on wouldn't blow up and let 'em all into
perdition together."

Leffie knew her mother didn't mean more than half what she said, but she
chose to keep silent, hoping each morning that the close of the day would
bring the long absent Rondeau. Thus, between scolding and fretting,
cooking and sweating, Aunt Dilsey passed the time until the day arrived on
which, as she said, "they'd come if they ever did."

Mrs. Lacey, whose husband had not yet received his son's letter announcing
the catastrophe, came out to superintend affairs and receive her new
daughter. In the large, handsome dining room, the supper table was neatly
spread, while Aunt Dilsey bustled about with the air of one who felt her
time was short, but was determined to contest every inch of ground ere
yielding it to another. She had condescended to put on her new calico gown
(the one she proposed taking with her in a "handkerchief") and had even
washed the grease and molasses from Jack's and the baby's face, telling
the former that "he needn't mind about making up faces at the lady that
night."

Claib had gone to the landing, and now Mrs. Lacey and the servants were
gathered upon the upper piazza, waiting his return. Suddenly Dilsey, whose
eyesight seemed wonderfully sharpened, exclaimed, "Thar, that's Claib. I
could tell my old man if I should meet him at a camp meeting!"

Mrs. Lacey looked in the direction of the city and saw the carriage which
Dilsey had pointed out. It proved to be Claib; and Leffie, who was rather
near-sighted, strained her eyes to see if Rondeau, too, was on the box.

"Thar's nobody in that ar," said Dilsey. "Reckon the boat has run into the
ground, or bust her riggin'; so, Leffie, you've put on your pink dress for
nothin'."

The elder Mr. Lacey, was, however, in the carriage, and alighting, he
advanced toward his wife and gave her the letter he had just received from
his son. Mrs. Lacey read it, while the blacks crowded around Claib asking
him scores of foolish questions, such as, "Was Marster George in the boat?
And why wasn't he thar? And when would he be thar?"

When Mrs. Lacey finished reading the letter she said to Leffie, who was
still standing near, "Rondeau is well, and will be home in a few days."

"When's the new miss a comin'?" asked Aunt Dilsey.

"Not at all," was Mrs. Lacey's reply.

"Glad on't," said Dilsey, "for now Jack can spit as fur and as big spits
as he wants to."

Nothing more was known by the blacks until many days after, when Rondeau
returned home, and related the whole story with many embellishments. He
omitted to tell of the whipping which Ike had given him, but spoke with
unqualified contempt of the old house and everything belonging to it,
except Miss Fanny, who, he said, "Looked just like an angel, only a heap
better."

"You ought to have seen her," said he, "that night when every thing was
t'other side up; folks a yellin' like they was crazy, and one man was
stark mad. Miss Julia lay on the floor, the blood pourin' out of her eyes
and mouth by pails full; Miss Florence, she fainted, and they had to throw
her out the window, glass and all, because there was so many low,
ill-mannered niggers crowded in the hall."

"I s'pose you's one of the niggers?" said Aunt Dilsey.

"Why, yes," returned Rondeau; "but then I was helpin' and was tryin' to
push them all back so I could get to marster, who was feelin' so bad that
they sent for me, because nobody else could comfort him."

Here Rondeau began to fumble in his pocket, as if in search of something.
Having found it, he continued, "Marster got hold of her hand and grabbed
off her wedding ring so quick that it broke her finger. Then he threw it
from him and I picked it up. Here 'tis," said he, holding up a ring.

"That's a likely story," interrupted Aunt Dilsey "If they wasn't married,
how came the ring on her finger?"

Rondeau saw he had stretched a trifle too much, but he answered, "Well,
anyhow, he throwed it away, and I'm goin' to keep it till--till, you know
when, Dilsey."

"Keep it till you're gray," said Aunt Dilsey. "Leffie ain't goin' to be
married with no such flummery."

Here Leffie, anxious to change the conversation, asked, "What of Miss
Fanny?"

"Why, yes," answered Rondeau, "that's what I'm going to tell. Right in the
middle of the fuss I heard something moving softly down the stairs, and I
saw a thing all as white as snow. Her hair, which was about the color of
Leffie's neck--real handsome--was hanging in long curls down her back. I
thought it was an angel, and kinder touched her as she passed, to see if
she had wings. But the niggers said, 'It's Miss Fanny,' and next I heard
'twas all as still in the room, and marster was huggin' and kissin' her
and cryin' over her. Then, when I tried to get nearer and see more, they
crowded me into such a little spot that I didn't breathe again for a
week."

"Why didn't you get out of the crowd then?" asked Dilsey.

"How could I?" answered Rondeau. "Lord, Dilsey, I'd like to have seen you
there; but then there wouldn't have been room for anybody else, for the
hall wouldn't more than hold you."

Here the conversation ended, but for a long time Rondeau carried on his
arm the marks of Aunt Dilsey's finger and thumb.

CHAPTER XXIII

FANNY'S ILLNESS LEADS TO HER FATHER'S REPENTANCE

From the grassy hillside and bright green plains of Kentucky the frosts of
winter were gone. By the dancing brook and in the shady nooks of the quiet
valleys, the warm spring sun had sought out and brought to life thousands
of sweet wild blossoms, which in turn had faded away, giving place to
other flowers of a brighter and gayer hue.

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