| | 1 | Author: | Holmes
Mary Jane
1825-1907 | Add | | | Title: | Millbank, or, Roger Irving's ward  | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | EVERY window and shutter at Millbank was closed.
Knots of crape were streaming from the bell-knobs,
and all around the house there was that deep hush which
only the presence of death can inspire. Indoors there was a
kind of twilight gloom pervading the rooms, and the servants
spoke in whispers whenever they came near the chamber where
the old squire lay in his handsome coffin, waiting the arrival of
Roger, who had been in St. Louis when his father died, and
who was expected home on the night when our story opens.
Squire Irving had died suddenly in the act of writing to his
boy Roger, and when found by old Aleck, his hand was grasping
the pen, and his head was resting on the letter he would
never finish. “Heart disease” was the verdict of the inquest,
and then the electric wires carried the news of his decease to
Roger, and to the widow of the squire's eldest son, who lived
on Lexington avenue, New York, and who always called herself
Mrs. Walter Scott Irving, fancying that in some way the
united names of two so illustrious authors as Irving and Scott
shed a kind of literary halo upon one who bore them. “My Dear Boy — For many days I have had a presentiment
that I had not much longer to live, and, as death begins
to stare me in the face, my thoughts turn toward you, my dear
Roger —.” “My Dear Boy, — For many days I have been haunted
with a presentiment that I have not much longer to live. My
heart is badly diseased, and I may drop away any minute, and
as death begins to stare me in the face, my thoughts turn toward
you, the boy whom I have been so proud of and loved so much.
You don't remember your mother, Roger, and you don't know
how I loved her, she was so beautiful and artless, and seemed
so innocent, with her blue eyes and golden hair. Her home
was among the New Hampshire hills, a quarter of a mile or so
from the little rural town of Schodick, whose delightful scenery
and pure mountain air years ago attracted visitors there during
the summer months. Her father was poor and old and infirm,
and his farm was mortgaged for more than it was worth, and
the mortgage was about to be foreclosed, when, by chance, I
became an inmate for a few weeks of the farmhouse. I was
stopping in Schodick, the hotel was full, and I boarded with
Jessie's father. He had taken boarders before, — one a young
man, Arthur Grey, a fast, fashionable, fascinating man, who
made love to Jessie, a mere child of sixteen. Her letter,
which I inclose, will tell you the particulars of her acquaintance
with him, so it is not needful that I go over with them.
I knew nothing of Arthur Grey at the time I was at the farm-house,
except that I sometimes heard him mentioned as a
reckless, dashing young man. I was there during the months
of August and September. I had an attack of heart disease,
and Jessie nursed me through it, her soft hands and gentle
ways and deep blue eyes weaving around me a spell I could
not break. She was poor, but a lady every whit, and I loved
her better than I had ever loved a human being before, and I
wanted her for my wife. As I have said, her father was old
and poor, and the farm was mortgaged to a remorseless creditor.
They would be homeless when it was sold, and so I
bought Jessie, and her father kept his home. I know now
that it was a great mistake; know why Jessie fainted when the
plan was first proposed to her, but I did not suspect it then.
Her father said she was in the habit of fainting, and tried to
make light of it. He was anxious for the match, and shut his
eyes to his daughter's aversion to it. “My husband: — It would be mockery for me to put the
word dear before your honored name. You would not believe
I meant it when I have sinned against you so deeply and
wounded your pride so sorely. But oh, if you knew all which
led me to what I am, you would pity me even if you condemned,
for you were always kind, too kind by far to a wicked girl
like me. But I am not so bad as you imagine. I have left
you, I know, and left my darling baby, and he is here with me,
but by no consent of mine. I am not going to Europe. I am
going to Charleston, where Lucy is, and shall mail this letter
from there. Every word I write will be true, and you must believe
it and teach Roger to believe it, too, for I have not sinned
as you suppose, and Roger need not blush for his mother
except that she deserted him. I am writing this quite as much
for him as for you, for I want him to know something of his
mother as she was years ago, when she lived among the Schodick
hills, in the dear old house which I have dreamed about so
often, and which even here on the sea comes up so vividly
before me, with the orchard where the mountain shadows fell so
early in the afternoon, and the meadows where the buttercups
and clover-blossoms grew. Oh, I grow sick, and faint, and
dizzy when I think of those happy days and contrast myself as
I was then with myself as I am now. I was so happy, though
I knew what poverty meant; but that did not matter. Children,
if surrounded by loving friends, do not mind being poor, and I
did not mind it either until I grew old enough to see how it
troubled my father. My mother, as you know, died before I
could remember her, and my aunt Mary, my father's only
sister, and cousin Lucy's mother, took her place and cared for
me. “Squire Irving — Dear Sir — It becomes my painful duty
to inform you that not long after the inclosed letter from your
wife was finished, a fire broke out and spread so fast that all
hope of escape except by the life-boats was cut off. Your
wife felt from the first a presentiment that she should be
drowned, and brought the letter to me, asking that if I escaped,
and she did not, I would forward it at once to Millbank. I
took the letter and I tried to save her, when the sea ingulfed us
both, but a tremendous wave carried her beyond my reach, and
I saw her golden hair rise once above the water and then go
down forever. I, with a few others, was saved as by a miracle,
— picked up by a vessel bound for New York, which place I
reached yesterday. I have read Jessie's letter. She told me
to do so, and to add my testimony to the truth of what she had
written. Even if it were not true, it would be wrong to refuse
the request of one so lovely and dear to me as Jessie was, and
I accordingly do as she bade me, and say to you that she has
written you the truth. “Mrs. Irving tells me you were very kind to me,” she wrote,
“and though I have no recollection that you or any one but
Celine came near me, I am grateful all the same, and shall
always remember your kindness to me both then and when I
was a child, and such a care to you; I am deeply grateful to
all who have done so much for me, and I wish them to know
it, and remember me kindly as I do them. I am going away
soon, and I want to take with me all I brought to Millbank.
I have the locket, but the little dress I cannot find. Mrs.
Irving thinks you took it in the chest. Did you, and if so, will
you please send it to me at once by express, and oblige, “Mr. Irving: Can you forgive me when you hear who I
am, and will you try to think of me as you did in the days
which now seem so very far in the past. I have been your
ruin, Roger. I have brought to you almost every trouble you
ever knew, and now to all the rest I must add this, that I am
the child of your worst enemy, Arthur Grey. Don't hate me
for it, will you? Alice, who is much better than I, would say
it was God's way of letting you return good for evil. I wish
you would think so, too, and I wish I could tell you all I feel,
and how grateful I am to you for what you have done for me.
If I could I would repay it, but I am only a girl, and the debt
is too great ever to be cancelled by me. May Heaven reward
you as you deserve. ROGER had written to Frank, congratulating him upon
his approaching marriage, but declining to be present
at the wedding. He wished to know as little as possible
of the affairs at Millbank, and tried to dissuade Hester
from her visit to Mrs. Slocum. But Hester would go, and
three days before the great event came off she was installed in
Mrs. Slocum's best chamber, and had presented that worthy
woman with six bottles of canned fruit, ten yards of calico, and
an old coat of Aleck's, which, she said, would cut over nicely
for Johnny, Mrs. Slocum's youngest boy. After these presents,
Hester felt that she was not “spunging,” as she called it, and
settled herself quietly to visit, and to reconnoitre, and watch
the proceedings at Millbank. And there was enough to occupy
her time and keep her in a state of great excitement. “Magdalen has been very anxious for you to come to
Beechwood, and I should now extend an invitation for you to
do so, were it not that we have decided to leave at once for
Europe. We sail in the `Persia' next week, immediately after
my daughter's marriage, which will be a very quiet affair.
Hoping to see and know you at some future time, I am | | | Similar Items: | Find |
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