University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.
On an Important Subject.

SORROW, anxiety and continued excitement,
proved too much for the delicate
constitution of Mrs. Acton. Shortly after
her husband's death, she was taken suddenly
ill, and her life was at one time despaired
of. Edith was her constant nurse. Frederick
Farley was her medical attendant, and
he did all in his power to conquer the fever
by which she was consumed.

Thus were Frederick and Edith thrown
together. Seeing each other every day, they
had a better opportunity than ever before of
studying each other's minds and dispositions.

Frederick avoided Edith frequently, for
loving her as he did and feeling that his
love was vain, he could not bear her presence.
His appearance towards her was
studied, yet sometimes strange, and incomprehensible
to any save Edith herself. She
felt that he loved her still!

The more she saw of him, the more she
felt herself drawn, towards him by the ties
of sympathy, and the more she wondered
that she could ever have preferred the Rev.
Mr. Everett to him.

She felt that he loved her still. Yet he
was so cold, so distant that he pained her.
Already her heart beat with love for him,
and his very address served to fan the flame.
How much would she then have given had
he never proposed and never been refused,
for she knew he was too proud to sue a second
time, and she could not make known to
him the change in her affections.

Meanwhile, Edith devoted all her cares to
her sister, who was slowly recovering.

Kate still remained with the Actons, having
become so attached to Edith, who had
taught her to love virtue and loathe the
course of life she had before pursued, that
she could not think of returning to the
city, in the midst of her vicious acquaintances.

There was but one of her old associates
she could remember without a shudder, and
that was Light Joe. He had always been
kind to her; his faults were the result of necessity
or habit, rather than of a naturally
vicious nature; he was not brutal like the
most of his class, but generous, and alive
to the best feelings of the human heart. It
was for this Kate loved him, and prayed
Heaven that he might abjure his evil inclinations
to give his good ones growth.

The young burglar had not visited her in
some time, and as she heard nothing from
any of her old friends, she began to fear
they had found the inside of certain thick
and gloomy walls.

It might be, however,—she thought—
through the fear of such an unpleasant
termination to his schemes that Mr. Joseph
Jenks avoided approaching the residence of
the Actons.

One morning, however, while Maria was
still dangerously ill, Joe came boldly around
to the back entrance, and knocked at the
kitchen door.

It happened that Kate came herself to admit
him. She knew not who it was until

the door was opened, and the young man
caught her by the hand.

`Oh, Joseph!' she exclaimed, warmly;
`how glad I am you have come! I have
so wanted to see you! Do come in—there
is nobody here but myself.'

`Glad to see me, eh?' said Joe, kissing
her with a hearty good will. `I was afraid
you had forgotten me.'

`You know that's what I couldn't do,'
replied Kate. `But what is the news, Joseph?'

`The news—ah! yes! I forgot to tell
you—though perhaps you have heard of it
already.'

`Of what?'

`Of Gordon's death.'

`Gordon dead?'

`Yes. He was drowned several nights
ago. A man who saw him fall off the
wharf into the water—it was one Barnum,
or Burnham, or Burnam, or some such
name—he saw him fall into the water, and
called for assistance; but before the poor
devil could be got out, he had drank salt
water enough to finish him. So there 's
an end of him—his accounts are all settled.

Kate was shocked by this intelligence,
for little as she had ever liked Gordon, the
suddenness of his death affected her in no
slight degree.

`I've more news,' said Joe. `Last week
I had the honor of a visit from the Reverend
Mr. Everett—your old friend, Marvin.
He talked of shooting me because somebody
else had exposed his villainy; and of strangling
you, because you told how he had
wronged you; and all such nonsense as that.
I laughed at him and sent him to the devil
as politely as I knew how, reminding him
by the way that he would make nothing by
attempting to injure you.'

`How is Aunt Margaret?' asked Kate.

`As bad as ever. She wants you to come
home immediately.'

`I have no home,' said Kate, sadly.

`Where she lives—'

`I would not return there for all the
world!' I would not, indeed!' she replied,
earnestly.

Joe looked at her inquiringly.

`To be plain,' pursued Kate, `I am happier
here than I have ever been before since
my acquaintance with Marvin began. I'll
die—starve before I will become as bad
again as I have been since you have known
me.'

`You like work, then, better than idleness
and crime,' said Joe, and he added in
a tone of deep earnestness, `I am glad of
it!'

`I love peace,' said Kate, `and a clear
conscience. Oh! how I should like a neat
little house in the country, away from the
confusion, misery and filth we meet with in
the city! How delightful it would be to
get up at sunrise every morning, and go
skipping over the dewy hills in the fresh
and bracing air!'

`I believe it would be pleasant,' added
Joe, `provided we were with those we
loved.'

`To be sure—with those we loved,' repeated
Kate. `But I would n't ask for
many friends. Indeed, I think that with nobody
but you, I could be happy. We could
work, Joe, during the day—and that would
be pleasant, I think, in the country—and in
the evening we could sit down together and
enjoy ourselves a great deal better than we
ever did where there was drinking, fighting
and swearing.'

`I believe you,' said Joe, pressing her
hand and looking very thoughtful.

Then Kate went on to paint the pleasures
of the little home she had imagined, in such
vivid colors, that Joe was completely carried
away, and burned with impatience to leave
the city and fly to the country with the girl
he loved. He was checked by a thought of
the difficulties to be overcome.

`It will be easily done,' said Kate. `We

have already two hundred dollars in the
bank—'

`So we have!' exclaimed Joe; `and I've
got a little besides.'

`It will take but a small sum to carry us
to the West.'

`To the West?'

`To the great prairies of Illinois, or to the
beautiful woodlands of Wisconsin! There,
it is easy to get a living; and a poor man, if
he is only industrious, can soon buy a
farm. Land, you know, is cheap, and you
have a long time allowed you to pay for it
in.'

`Well thought of, Kate, I must confess!'
exclaimed Light Joe, enraptured. `We
will be married to-morrow, if you will just
say so.'

`Don't hurry matters too fast,' interrupted
Kate, smiling. `Only be careful not to
change your mind, and wait patiently until
we can get fairly ready, and then we will
soon lay the foundation of lasting happiness.'

`And I will have a wife, a home, and
children of my own!' exclaimed Joe, pressing
Kate tenderly to his bosom.

It was a dark day, late in the month of
November; not cold, although there was a
fitful, biting wind; but damp, unpleasant
and gloomy. The sky was hung with black
clouds, and the day was farther obscured by
the particles of snow that filled the air and
melted as they fell.

Mrs. Acton, just recovering from her illness,
was sitting by the window of her room,
gazing out upon the dreary scenery presented
to her view, when Frederick Farley called
in to enquire concerning the state of her
health.

`You must not indulge in low spirits,'
said he. `You look altogether too melancholy
to day,' he added, endeavoring to
arouse him—`indeed the dismal image of
the weather is mirrored in your face.'

`I was meditating,' she said, `on the
change which has taken place during the
past few weeks. I cannot but be sad when
I think of it.'

`There have been many changes,' replied
Frederick, anxious to divert her mind from
gloomy meditations, `some of which I cannot
understand.'

`What do you allude to?'

`One thing—I never see Mr. Everett here
of late; and I believe he was once a frequent
visitor of yours.'

`That change I cannot understand myself,'
replied Maria. `Edith knows why he
avoids us, I think, but she has never told
me the cause of her own accord, and I have
never questioned her.'

At that moment Edith entered. She was
pale and appeared worn out by long watching,
but Frederick thought her more beautiful
than ever.

Mrs. Acton mentioned the subject of conversation
to her sister, and asked her if she
had seen Mr. Everett of late, or if he had
called since she was taken ill. Edith answered
in the negative, and added—

`I have reason to think he will never call
on us again.'

This was spoken in a tone of peculiar
meaning which made Frederick start.

Having long regarded Mr. Everett as his
more successful rival, it was with joyful surprise
that he learned his error. As he bent
an earnest look at Edith's sad countenance,
she raised her eyes to his, but dropped
them immediately, fer they were filled with
tears.

She hurried from the room, and entered
the parlor, where she brushed away her
tears, chiding herself for her weakness.—
She sat down by the window, where she remained
for some minutes, gazing with
moist eyes upon the dreary scene without.

Suddenly there was a light step upon the

carpet, and a well known voice, that made
her start, pronounced her name.

Turning, she beheld Frederick Farley
standing by her side. She arose immediately
in some confusion, but the young man
bade her keep her seat, and drew a chair to
her side.

`You will excuse me, I trust,' he said in
tones that quivered with deep feeling, for
approaching a subject which should have
been dropped forever, did I not flatter myself
with the hope that you have changed your
mind.'

He paused, earnestly watching the expression
of her features. She knew what was
coming, and trembled with a sort of nervous
hope and joy which suddenly possessed
her.

`—That you have changed your mind,'
he resumed, `in relation to myself. It may
be vanity in me to think such a thing possible;
and I cannot explain even to myself
why I hope; but something tells me that
should I offer you my hand again—'

He paused once more; her eyes were
downcast, and glistening drops trembled on
her long dark lashes; her features were
alternately pale and glowing red; and as
he drew her hand in his, he felt that it
quivered.

He resumed:

`—That should I offer you my hand again
you would hesitate before you refused.—
Speak frankly—may I hope?'

She did not speak, however; yet she cast
on him a look full of confidence, and love,
and happiness, that sent a thrill of joy to his
heart; and the lovely hand he pressed so ardently
to his lips, she yielded to his possession
without a struggle.