University of Virginia Library

36. CHAPTER XXXVI.
MR. GREY AND MAGDALEN.

MR. GREY had heard from his sister that Magdalen came
from Millbank, where she had lived in the Irving family
until the finding of the will, and for a few moments he
had felt as if he could not have her there at Beechwood, recalling
by her presence what he would so gladly have forgotten.
Why was it that the Irvings, or some one connected with them,
were always crossing his path. Surely he had been sufficiently
punished for poor Jessie's death. His most implacable enemy
could have asked no greater sorrow for him than he had experienced
for years, save at times when in foreign scenes he forgot
in part the horror and the burden which since his return to
America had pressed heavier than before.

“The girl is a lady and very handsome too, though of a far
different style from Alice. I hope you will try to like her,

Arthur,” his sister had said to him, as she saw a shadow on his
face and felt that in some way he was displeased.

“Of course I can have nothing against the girl,” Mr. Grey
replied, “though there are reasons why any thing connected
with the Irvings should be distasteful to me, and I would
rather Miss Lennox had come from some other family.”

He left his sister then, and went to his own room, where on
the wall was still hanging that little pencil sketch of the grave-yard
in Belvidere, and the barefoot girl standing in the grass
with the basket of flowers on her arm. That Miss Lennox was
the original of that picture, Mr. Grey did not doubt. She had
told him that her name was Magdalen, and that she had always
lived at Millbank, so there could be no mistake. He had
scarcely thought of that incident for years, but it came back to
him now and struck him as very strange that this same barefoot
girl should have come there as companion to his daughter.

“Should she ever enter this room, and there's no knowing
where Alice may take her, she will see this picture and recognize
it at once, and wonder where I found it and possibly recognize
me as the stranger who talked with her in the graveyard.
It is better out of sight,” he said, as he took the drawing from
the wall and laid it away in the drawer where the lock of golden
hair was, and the faded bouquet which the “wretch of a Jim
Barlett” once had the credit of stealing. And all this time the
man trod softly, as if fearful of being heard and called for, and
he looked often toward the door which opened into the adjoining
room. But everything was still; the Burden was sleeping
at last, lulled into quiet by the sweet music of “Allie's” voice
and the touch of “Allie's” hands.

Having put the picture away, Mr. Grey made himself ready
for dinner, and then going down to the parlor, he stood before the
grate, waiting for his daughter and Miss Lennox. The door
was open into the hall, and he saw them as they came, with
their arms interlaced, and Magdalen's head bent towards Alice,
who was smiling up at her.

“Strong friendship at once,” he thought, feeling for a moment

vexed that his high-bred daughter, should so soon have
fallen in love with her hired companion.

But this emotion of pride passed away forever with Mr.
Grey's first full inspection of Magdalen Lennox, whose brilliant
beauty startled and surprised him, and whose bright, restless
eyes confounded and bewildered him, carrying him back to the
Schodick hills, and the orchard where the apple blossoms were
growing. But not there could be find the solution of the
strange feeling which swept over him and kept him silent, even
after Alice had introduced her friend.

“Miss Lennox, father,” Alice said, a second time, and then
he came to himself, and said, “Excuseme, MissLennox, something
about you, as you came in, sent me off into the fields of
memory, in quest of some one who must have been like you.
You are very welcome to Beechwood, and I am glad to see you
here.”

With a courtly grace he offered her his arm, and led her to
the dining room, followed by Alice and his sister, both of whom
were delighted to see him take so kindly to a stranger.

To Mrs. Seymour it showed an acknowledgment on his
part of her good taste and judgment in selecting so fitting a
person for Alice's companion, and a willingness to follow her
advice, and make the best of it, even if Miss Lennox was connected
with the Irvings. She knew something of Jessie's story.
She saw her once in Schodick, and she had done what she
could to separate her brother from her, but she did not know
of the tragic ending, and she gave no thought to the poor,
drowned woman, who, all through the formal dinner, was so
constantly in Magdalen's mind. She had at once identified
Mr. Grey with the stranger in Belvidere, though he seemed
older than she had thought him then. Still, there was
no mistaking him, and when his sister casually addressed
him as “Arthur,” it came over her, with a great shock,
that this man was none other than the “Arthur Grey”
who had been poor Jessie's ruin, and whom Roger hated
so cordially. There could be no mistake; she was positive

that she was right in her conclusions, and felt for a moment as
if she were smothering. What strange fatality was it which had
brought her into the very household of the man she had hated,
for Roger's sake, and longed to see that she might tell him so.
She had seen him, at last! he was there, at her side, speaking
to her so kindly, and making her feel so much at home, that she
could not hate him, and before dinner was over she had
ceased to wonder at Jessie's infatuation, or to blame her for listening
to him. He was very polite to her, but seemed to be
studying her face as intently as Alice had done at first, and
once, when she poised her head upon one side, while her eyes
flashed suddenly upon him, and then were quickly withdrawn,
the blood came rushing to his face and crept up under his hair,
for he knew now of whom that motion reminded him. He had
thought it so charming once, and the eyes which shone upon
him as Magdalen's did had been so beautiful, and soft, and
liquid, and given no sign of the fierce wildness with which they
had many a time glared on him since.

“It is only a resemblance, but I would rather it did not exist,”
he thought, as he met that look again, and shivered as if
he was cold.

Dinner being over they returned to the parlor, where, at
Alice's request, Magdalen seated herself at the piano. Her
home-sickness was passing away, and she no longer felt that a
nightmare was oppressing her, but rather that she should find at
Beechwood peace and quiet and a home, and she sang with
her whole soul, and did not hear the sound outside, which
caught Alice's attention so quickly, and took her from the
room. She knew, however, when Alice went out, and a moment
after was conscious of some confusion by the door, and
heard Alice's voice, first in expostulation and entreaty, then
calling hurriedly for her father to come. Then Mr. Grey went
out, and Mrs. Seymour was left alone with Magdalen, who finished
her song and left the piano, wondering what it was which
had taken both Mr. Grey and Alice so suddenly from the room,
and kept them away for half an hour or more. Indeed, Mr.

Grey did not return at all, and when, at last, Alice came back,
she was very white, and said something to her aunt, which
sounded like, “It was the music, which affected her, I think.”

Was there a mystery at Beechwood, Magdalen thought; a
something hidden from view, and was it this which made Alice
look so sad even while she tried to smile, and appear gay and
cheerful, by way of entertaining her new friend?

They had the parlor to themselves ere long, for Mrs. Seymour
went out, and then Alice took her seat on the couch,
where Magdalen was sitting, and nestled close to her, as a child
nestles to its mother when it is tired and wants to be soothed.

Passing her arm around the slender waist, Magdalen drew
the curly head down on her bosom, and gently smoothed the
chestnut hair, and passed her hand caressingly across the forehead,
where the blue veins showed so plainly.

Magdalen was not given to sudden friendships, and she could
not account for the love and tenderness she felt growing so
fast within her for this young girl, who lay encircled in her arms,
and who she knew at last was crying, for she felt the hot tears
dropping on her hand. She could not offer sympathy in words,
for she did not know what to say, but she stooped and kissed
the flushed cheek wet with tears. Alice understood her, and
the silent crying became a low, piteous sobbing, which told
how keenly her heart was wrung.

“Pray excuse me, for giving way so foolishly,” Alice said
at last, as she lifted up her head. “I was ill so long in
Europe, and the voyage home was rough and stormy, and I
kept my berth the entire two weeks we were out at sea, so that
by the time New York was reached I could not stand alone.
I am better now; home scenes and mountain air have done me
good, but — but — oh, Miss Lennox, I cannot tell you now of
the shadow which has cast a gloom over my whole life. Why,
I have seen the time when my beautiful home had scarcely a
charm for me, and in my wickedness I accused God of dealing
too harshly with me. But He has been so good to me, who do
not deserve kindness from Him. When I knew you were

coming I went away among the hills and prayed that I might
like you, — that your presence would do me good, — and I am
certain the prayer was answered. I do like you. I feel a firm
conviction that in some way you are destined to do us all an
untold good. You do not seem like a stranger, but rather like
a familiar friend, or I should not be talking to you as I am.
Have you sisters, Miss Lennox?”

The moment which Magdalen dreaded had come, when she
was to be questioned by Alice with regard to her family, and
she resolved to be perfectly frank, and keep nothing back which
it was proper for her to tell.

“I have no sisters that I am aware of,” she said. “I was
adopted, when a little baby, by Mr. Roger Irving, who lived at
Millbank, and was himself a boy then. The circumstances of
my adoption were very peculiar, and such as precluded the
possibility of my knowing anything of my family friends, if I had
any. I have never known a sister's love or a brother's, or a
father's or mother's, though I have been as kindly and tenderly
cared for as if I had been the petted child of fond parents, and
only an adverse turn in the wheel of fortune sent me from the
home I loved so much.”

She paused here, and Alice rejoined, “Mr. Irving? Millbank?
Why, both are familiar names to me, and have been
since I was a little girl at school in New Haven and knew Mr.
Franklin Irving. And you, — why, yes, —” and Alice's manner
grew more and more excited, “you are the very Magdalen
Frank used to tell me about and of whom I was sometimes
jealous. You know Frank,” she continued, misconstruing the
expression of Magdalen's face.

“Yes, I know Frank,” Magdalen replied, “and I, too, have
heard a great deal of you, and was jealous of you at one time,
I believe.”

“You had no cause,” Alice replied, thinking of the “Piccola
Sentinella,” rather than of New Haven; “I liked Mr. Irving
very much as a boy, and when we met him abroad I was very
glad to see him and rather encouraged his visits than otherwise,

but father disliked him thoroughly, or seemed to, and treated him
so cavalierly that I wondered he could come to us at all. But
he did, and then father took me away, and I saw Mr. Irving no
more till he called upon me in New York. I was sick then
and did not go out, but I heard of a Miss Lennox who was
with the Irvings and said to be very beautiful, and that was
you.”

“I was with the Irvings,” Magdalen replied, and Alice continued:
“I fancied, then, that Mr. Irving would eventually marry
you and speculated a good deal upon the matter. It seems so
funny that you are here! I do not understand it at all, or why
you should leave Millbank. Mr. Frank Irving is the heir now,
is he not?”

Magdalen hesitated a moment, and then thinking it better to
do so, told briefly of her life at Millbank until that luckless day
when she discovered the will.

“After that Roger went to Schodick,” she said, “and I — I
might have stayed there, but I did not like Mrs. Irving's manner
towards me when she became the mistress, and I could not be
dependent upon Frank, and so I came away.”

Alice knew that Magdalen was withholding something from
her, and with a woman's wit guessed that it concerned Frank;
but she would not question her, and turned the conversation
into another channel, and talked of the books she had read and
the authors she liked best.

It was comparatively early when Magdalen went up to her
room, a door of which communicated with Alice's. This the
latter desired should stand open.

“I like to feel that some one is near me when I wake in the
night, as I often do,” Alice said, and then she added, “I shall
be obliged to leave you for a time, but do you go straight to
bed. I know you must be tired. I shall come in so softly
that you will not hear me. Good night.”

She kissed Magdalen and then went from the room and down
the hall toward the door, which Magdalen had heard open and
shut so many times. Magdalen was very tired, and was soon

sleeping so soundly that she did not hear Alice when she came
back, but she dreamed there were angels with her clad in white,
and with a start she woke to find the moonlight streaming into
her chamber, and making it so light that she could see distinctly
the young girl in the adjoining room was kneeling
by the bed, her hands clasped together and her upturned
face bathed in the silvery light, which made it like the face of
an angel. She was praying softly, and in the deep stillness of
the night every whisper was audible to Magdalen, who heard
her asking Heaven for strength to bear the burden patiently,
and never to get tired and weary and wish it somewhere else.
Then the nature of the prayer changed, and Magdalen knew
that Alice was thanking Heaven for sending her to Beechwood.
“And if anywhere in the world there are still living the friends
she has never known, oh, Father, let her find them, especially
her mother, — it is so terrible to have no mother.”

That was what Alice said, and Magdalen's tears fell like rain
to hear this young girl pleading for her as she had never
pleaded for herself. She had prayed, it is true. She always
prayed both morning and at night, but they were mere formal
prayers, and not at all like Alice's. Hers were earnest, hers
were heartfelt, and Magdalen knew that she was speaking to a
real, living presence; that the Saviour to whom she talked was
there with her in the moonlit room as really as if she saw him
bodily. Alice's was a living faith, which brought Heaven down
to her side, and Magdalen felt that there were indeed angels
abiding round about her, and that Alice was one of them.