University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER TWENTY-THIRD.
THE STUDY OF THE PREACHER.

Tread lightly, reader, and compose your
features into a look of reverence and awe —
for we are about to enter the “Study of the
Preacher.” In the third story of his mansion,
Brother Caleb has set this chamber apart,
as the especial haunt of Edmund Jervis. Here,
when sick of the world, and eager to escape its
crowds of flatterers, the good man may withdraw
within himself, and devote an hour to
uninterrupted meditation.

It is a small chamber, with one door, leading
into the entry on the third floor, and two
windows, looking into the wide street. Now
the windows are closed; the very panes are
covered with silken hangings. The walls
are covered with a light drapery of faint crimson,
spotted with gold and silver flowers. A
lamp, shaded by a clouded glass, sheds a rich
and softened light through the apartment.
That lamp stands upon a desk, which is
covered with volumes of sermons, with loosely
scattered letters, and with pen, inkstand, and
letter-paper. Beside the desk, an opened trunk,
packed with fashionable attire, and with disguises,
suitable for any adventure which may
chance to engage the mind of our Popular
Preacher. Amid the heap of fine apparel, a
manuscript volume peeps into light, bearing on
its first broad page, in the delicate hand-writing
of Jervis himself, this significant title—“Memoirs
of a Preacher. To be published after
my death.”

Near the trunk, is a marble dressing-stand,
well furnished with all the details of an exquisite's
toilette: phials of perfumes, patchoulli,
orange, cologne; cakes of scented soap; oil for
the Preacher's hair, and cosmetics for the
Preacher's skin. A half-dozen of the finest
cambric handkerchiefs, carefully laid one upon
the other, complete the picture.

Look at it as you will, the room with crim
son hangings, spotted with gold and silver
flowers, is a very comfortable place, in every
way adapted, for the more retired devotions
of the Popular Preacher.

He is sitting in a velvet cushioned chair,
near the desk. He has thrown his frock coat
aside. A gaily flowered dressing gown floats
in loose folds from his shoulders to his slippered
feet. A spotless vest, with a rolling
collar, clothes his chest, and entwines his slender
waist. Resting his elbow on the back of
the chair, crossing one leg over the other, in an
attitude of careless ease, he gazes intently, yet
with a smile, upon the face of the Poor Girl.

Opposite, also seated on a velvet cushioned
chair, with her hands placed on her knees,
and her eyes glassy with the magnetic slumber,
behold the unconscious maiden.

Does she not look very beautiful, as the
mild radiance falls over her warm cheek, and
bathes the tresses of her raven hair? Still clad
in the velvet boddice, which reaching from the
waist to the neck, discloses the outline, while
it leaves the entire loveliness of her shape to
the imagination: still enveloped in the blue
skirt, which flows in loose folds from her waist
to her feet, behold the Daughter of Alice
Bayne, as her soul is entirely subject to the
will of the Popular Preacher.

A half an hour may have elapsed, since the
good man entered this room.

In that time, he has gathered from her lips
all the mysteries of her life, which in her
waking state, she herself could not know.

No longer opposed by the antagonist Will
of Charles Lester, he has commanded her soul
to traverse every scene of her life, from the
hour when Alice her mother sank into death,
until the present moment, when she is face to
face with Edmund Jervis.

He gazes at her, with one of those smiles
which make his face look young and even
handsome. Listen to his half-spoken soliloquy:

“And soh, my pretty one, you are not altogether
the child of poverty and shame! A
rich man's child — is it so? And your father
did not drown himself in the Schuylkill,
seventeen years ago? Arthur Bayne lived —
fled to the west — took the name of Arthur
Baldwin, and became eminent as a Physician.
And Arthur Baldwin lived in that town of

Prairie-Home, which was also the native place
of Ellen Lester. He attended Ellen in her
last hours — and to Ellen's Brother confided
the secret of his life — of your life, and of your
brother's — for it seems you have a brother.
Soh, soh, this explains Lester's presence in
Philadelphia. He has money — money for
you — well, well. I am wearing away, and
need the comforts of a home. We will be
married Fanny, my child: married my dear.
Lester may oppose the match, but there is one
way, by which his consent may be forced.
Let me place all the strength of circumstances
on my side.”

Making one or two passes, with both hands,
the Preacher soon aroused the girl from her
magnetic slumber. Her eyes began to assume
their natural lustre. Rosy flushes of warmth
gave a new light to her cheek. Her bosom
heaved with an even and natural pulsation.
After a few moments she started in her chair
and looked around with a vague stare, like one
who has been suddenly aroused in the depth
of a dreamless slumber.

“Where am I?” cried Fanny, looking at the
hangings, the desk, the lamp, and then surveying
her own form, clad in such unusual attire.
“Where am I? It is a dream. I am not
awake.”

“You are awake, my child,” was the kind
response of the Preacher: “Awake, and in
the care of your friends.”

“My mother” — faltered Fanny, raising her
hand to her brow, in an effort to recover the
control of her memory.

“Your mother is well, that is the person
who has passed for your mother is well. But
my child, you must listen to me. I have a
singular revelation to make. A few hours ago,
while I was preparing to accompany you to
the home of your supposed mother —

“My supposed mother!” echoed Fanny.

“You fainted, yes, my child, you fainted,
whether from anxiety, or from too long exposure
to the cold, I cannot tell. I then discovered
— it matters not how — that you are
the child of a dear and valued friend of mine,
who lives out west, in the State of Illinois. I
am lately from the west, my dear. I am
charged to seek you out, and bring you back
to the arms of your father. Instead of being
the daughter of the poor woman with whom
you have resided, you are the child of the
wealthy Dr. Arthur Baldwin, of Prairie-Home,
Illinois.”

Fanny opened her beautiful dark eyes, in a
vague and dreamy stare.

“It cannot be so,” she exclaimed — “You
are making sport of me —”

“It can, and it is, my child,” said the
Preacher emphatically, as he drew his chair
nearer to the girl: “Seventeen years ago, your
father resided in this city. Your mother died,
my dear, in the act of giving you life. But
mark you, the person whom you call by the
name of mother —”

“She is my mother, Ann Jones, and my
name is Fanny Jones,” exclaimed Fanny,
clenching her small hand, as she spoke in a
tone of decided emphasis.

“This Ann Jones, having an old grudge
against your father, stole both you and your
brother —”

“Ralph,” ejaculated Fanny.

“— From the paternal roof. Your father
sought for his children for two years, and
sought in vain. At last broken-hearted, he
went to the west, to die. But he mastered
his sorrows, became successful as a Physician,
and is at the present time, the wealthiest man
in his county. Six months ago, he was informed
by a Philadelphian, that Ann Jones
was still in existence, and that she lived in an
obscure court, with two children, whom she
called her own, but whom it was strongly surmised,
did not belong to her. I need not tell
you that this made the deepest impression on
your father. Aware that I was about coming
to Philadelphia, he entrusted the management
of this matter to me. And to-night, my child,
I left you insensible in the care of my good
friend Caleb. I hastened to your residence.
I listened to the confession of this Ann Jones
— she believed it to be her last confession, but
she will recover — and from that confession,
I derived a knowledge of the truth. You are
the child of Arthur Baldwin! To-morrow
you leave Philadelphia, on your way to the
house of your father! You and your brother,
will together journey to the west, under my
care. Now, do you understand me, my good
child!”

Smooth and persuasive were the accents of
the Preacher. Fanny heard every word, looking

all the time into that face, where honor and
sincerity seemed to have made their immoveable
stamp.

“No! No! I cannot believe it!” she cried,
clasping her hands, while her form was agitated
in every pulse: “It is a dream — only a
dream —”

Again the Preacher spoke. Taking her
hand he told the story over again, and confirmed
its every point, by new and overwhelming
evidence. Fanny was forced to believe in
spite of herself. She did not swoon with the
surprise; but her cheek grew death-like; she
swayed to and fro upon her chair, and would
have fallen to the floor, had not the Preacher
caught her in his arms.

“Yes, yes, you shall see your father,” he
said, gazing upon her face, which pale and
flushed by turns, was bathed in tears. “In
less than a month, you shall see him, my
child.” He kissed her kindly — perchance
warmly — on the lips: “Ralph, your brother,
shall go with you —” again he pressed his
mouth to her lips — “and this poor Ann Jones
shall be forgiven, and cared for.”

The Preacher placed her on her chair again,
twining his fingers in the waves of her loosened
hair — in an absent way of course — as he
exclaimed: “To-night you will rest in this
house, my dear — to-morrow we begin our
journey.”

Poor Fanny utterly bewildered, shaded her
eyes from the light, and remained for some
moments absorbed in thought.

Had a thought ever crossed her brain before,
that instead of being the child of poverty and
want, she was indeed the daughter of respectability
and wealth?

It is needless to tell you, reader, that the
truth of her life, had, in the mouth of the
Preacher, been interwoven with a web of
intricate falsehood.

Arthur Bayne had in reality fled to the west,
and risen into eminence as a Physician, under
the name of Arthur Baldwin. He had been
long convinced of the death of his children,
when he received intelligence from an unknown
person that Annie and Harry were
still living, under the care of Ann Clarke.
Before his decease (which took place at Prairie-Home
soon after the death of Ellen,) he en
trusted Charles Lester with his last Testament,
which bequeathed all his real estate, together
with fifteen thousand dollars in money, to his
lost children, Annie and Harry Bayne.

In his dying moments, he besought Charles
to hasten to Philadelphia and make search for
these children. In case the search proved unsuccessful,
Charles Lester would become his
heir.

The other details connected with this trust,
the reader will doubtless gather from the current
of our history.

From the young girl, while in the magnetic
state, the Preacher derived a full knowledge
of these facts, which he distorted in order to
suit his own purposes.

“I will see my father!” whispered Fanny,
with an accent of inexpressible rapture as she
lifted her eyes to the light, while her face
kindled into a warm loveliness, that was hallowed
by her tears: “I shall see my father! And
Ralph will be removed from the city, from want,
from cold, from misery and temptation! O,
the news is too good to be true!”

Very beautiful was Fanny, as she bent forward
in her chair, clasping her hands and raising
her streaming eyes to Heaven.

“You can't imagine what a beautiful valley
of the prairie spreads around your father's
home!” The Preacher spoke in his blandest
whisper, and with persuasion — eloquence
— in his sparkling eyes: “There it stands — I
see it now — a white mansion, amid a grove of
oaks, with a garden on one side and a wide
sweep of lawn on the other. Through the trees
you catch a glimpse of the river, and as you wander
upon the lawn, the deer, browsing quietly,
as though impressed with the peaceful atmosphere
of the place, raise their large eyes but
do not start and tremble at your tread. And
then the flowers, my child, O, you should see
the flowers! They clothe the prospect on
every side, grouping at the feet of the old trees,
starting up from the grass, trembling over the
river, until you might imagine yourself in
Eden.”

Fanny uttered an ejaculation of delight.
Beneath the dark boddice her bosom heaved
and fell, as with the very fullness of youth
and hope. The Preacher surveyed her ardently
and continued:

“A road passes near your father's house.

In a week or so, my child, we will stand at
the entrance of your father's place. With
you on one arm and Ralph on the other, I will
lift the latch of the gate, and enter the walk
which winds among the trees, up to your
father's door.”

“Yes — yes” — gasped Fanny.

“He will come forth to meet us! I see him
stand upon the porch — his venerable hairs
bathed in the morning sun. He beholds you
as you draw near. He pauses for a moment
in doubt, and then you hear his voice, as he
comes trembling to you with outspread arms
—`My Daughter! My Son!' And then, ah!
then the lost children will find a father and a
home!”

“Father! Father!” cried Fanny, starting
from the chair, as the picture drawn by the
Preacher took bodily shape before her eyes.
She spread forth her arms as if to clasp her
father's neck. Blushing, trembling, panting,
she fixed her eyes upon vacancy, as though
there, in the twilight of the room, she beheld
the mild face of her father smiling welcome to
his long lost daughter.

“But this is not all —” exclaimed the
Preacher, starting to his feet and taking her
hand within his own. “This is not all,
for —”

A slight sound, heard audibly through the
profound stillness, interrupted his words. It
was very much like the creak of a suddenly
opened door. The Preacher turned his head
over his shoulder, and as his glance pierced
the shadows, a deep ejaculation escaped his
lips:

“Curse me, why didn't I lock the door.”

Frightened at the changed expression of the
Preacher's face, Fanny turned as if to gaze
upon the cause of his alarm, and in the action
fell forward upon his breast.

“I've heer'd you talk considerable. Thought
I'd drop in and take a look for mesself. How
air you?”