University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

In order to keep the threads of our narrative connected, it
is necessary that we go back for a time, and again open the
scene in Frankfort, on the 24th of March, several days after
the party, at which Florence Woodburn met Fanny Middleton.
Seated at her work-table, in one of the upper rooms
of Mrs. Crane's boarding-house, is our old friend, Kate Miller.
Her dazzling beauty seems enhanced by the striking
contrast between the clearness of her complexion and the
sable hue of her robe.

On a low stool, at her feet, sits Fanny. Her head is
resting on Mrs. Miller's lap, and she seems to be sleeping.
She has been excused from school this afternoon, on account
of a sick, nervous headache, to which she has recently been
frequently subject. Finding the solitude of her own chamber
rather irksome, she had sought Mrs. Miller's room, where
she was ever a welcome visitor. To Kate she had imparted
a knowledge of the letter which she supposed Dr. Lacey had
written.

Mrs. Miller's sympathy for her young friend was as deep
and sincere as was her resentment against the supposed
author of this letter. As yet, she had kept Fanny's secret
inviolate, and not even her husband had ever suspected the

cause of Fanny's failing strength. But, this afternoon, as
she looked on the fair girl's sad, white face, which seemed
to grow whiter and thinner each day, she felt her heart swell
with indignation towards one who had wrought this fearful
change. “Surely,” thought she, “if Dr. Lacey could know
the almost fatal consequence of his faithlessness, he would
relent; and he must, he shall know it. I will tell Mr. Miller,
and he I know will write immediately.” Then came
the thought that she had promised not to betray Fanny's
confidence; but she did not despair of gaining her consent,
that Mr. Miller should also know the secret.

For a time, Fanny slept on sweetly and quietly; then
she moved uneasily in her slumber, and finally awoke.

“How is your head, now?” asked Mrs. Miller, at the
same time smoothing the disordered ringlets which lay in
such profusion over her lap.

“Oh, much better,” said Fanny. “I had a nice sleep,
and so pleasant dreams, too.”

“Did you dream of him?” said Mrs. Miller, in a low
tone.

Quick as thought, the crimson tide stained Fanny's cheek
and forehead, but she answered, somewhat bitterly, “Oh, no,
no! I never dream of him now, and I am trying hard to
forget him. I do not think I love him half as well now, as
I once thought I did.”

Poor little Fanny! How deceived she was! After a
time, Mrs. Miller said, “Fanny, Mr. Miller seems very anxious
about your altered and languid appearance. May I not
tell him the truth? He will sympathize with you as truly as
I do; for he feels for you almost the affection of a brother.”

At first, Fanny objected. “I know,” said she, “that Mr.
Miller would only think me a weak, silly girl.” Mrs. Miller,
however, finally gained permission to tell every thing to her
husband. “I know, though,” persisted Fanny, “that he will

laugh at me. You say he likes me: I know he did once;
but, since the time when he visited my father's, more than
a year ago, he has not treated me with the same confidence
he did before. I never knew the reason, unless it was that
foolish, romping mistake which I made, by riding into the
school-house!”

With many tears and some laughing—for the remembrance
of the exploit always excited her mirth—Fanny told
a part of what we already know, concerning Mr. Miller's
visit at her father's, the winter previous. She related the
adventure of the sled-ride, and said that the morning after
she noticed a change in Mr. Miller's manner towards her.
The unsuspecting girl little thought what was the true reason
of that change.

While she was yet speaking, Mr. Miller entered the room.
On seeing Fanny there, and weeping, he said: “What, Sunshine,
in tears? That is hardly the remedy I would prescribe
for headache. But come, Fanny, tell me what is the
matter.”

“Oh, I cannot, I cannot!” said Fanny, and again she
buried her face in Kate's lap.

Mr. Miller looked inquiringly at his wife, who had not
yet ceased laughing at Fanny's ludicrous description of her
sled-ride; but overcoming her merriment, she at length
found voice to say, “Fanny is crying because she thinks you
do not like her as well as you used to.”

Kate had never dreamed that her husband had once felt
more than a brother's love for the weeping girl before her,
and she did not know what pain her words inflicted on his
noble heart. Neither did she think there was the least
ground for Fanny's supposition, and she desired her husband
to say so.

“I cannot say so, and tell the truth,” said Mr. Miller;

“but I can assure you that Bill Jeffrey's sled had nothing
to do with it.”

“What was it, then?” asked Kate and Fanny both, in
the same breath.

Mr. Miller drew Fanny towards him with the freedom of
an elder brother, and, in a low, earnest tone, said: “Did nothing
else occur during my visit, which could have changed
my opinion of you?”

Fanny lifted her large blue eyes to Mr. Miller's face with
so truthful, wondering a gaze, that he was puzzled. “Can
it be,” thought he, “that I did not hear aright, that I was
deceived? I will, at least, ask her how she spent that evening,”
so he said: “Fanny, do you remember where you were,
or how you were occupied during the last evening of my
stay at your father's?”

At first, Fanny seemed trying to recall the events of that
night; then she said: “Oh, yes, I remember now perfectly
well. You and Mr. Wilmot had letters to write, and went
to your room early, while father and mother went to one of
the neighbor's, leaving Julia and me alone in the sitting-room.”

“Did you both remain in the sitting-room, during the
evening?” continued Mr. Miller.

“Yes,” said Fanny; “or, that is, I staid there all the time;
but Julia was gone a long time, and when she returned she
would not tell me where she had been.”

“But were not you and Luce in your own room, at all,
that evening?” continued Mr. Miller.

“Luce!” said Fanny; “I do not remember having seen
her once that night; neither was I in my own room until
bed-time.”

There was so much frankness and apparent truth in
Fanny's face and manner, that Mr. Miller never for a moment
doubted her. His first feeling was one of intense happiness,

at finding that Fanny was, indeed, all he had once
fancied her to be. Back through the channels of his heart
rolled, for an instant, the full tide of his once secretly nurtured
affection for her. It was for an instant, however; for,
one look at the beautiful Kate convinced him that the love
he once bore the gentle, timid girl at his side, was nought,
when compared with the deep, ardent affection which he
now felt for his own cherished wife. “Fanny,” said he, “I
have wronged you in thought, but never in word or deed,
to my knowledge. I was, however, grossly deceived, although
I can see no object for the deception.”

“What can you mean?” asked Kate, rather anxiously.
“Do explain yourself, and not deal in mysteries any longer.
What dreadful thing did you imagine Fanny had done?—
set the stables on fire, or abused the blacks—which?”

Mr. Miller did not immediately answer; and Fanny
said: “Come, Mr. Miller, it is not fair to suspect me of something
evil and not tell what it is.”

“I will tell you,” said Mr. Miller; and, in as few words as
possible, he repeated to Fanny he conversation which he
had overheard, between Luce and herself, as he supposed.

When he finished speaking, both Kate and Fanny were
silent for a moment; then Kate said: “It was Julia, I know
it was. Did you never notice how much alike their voices
are? And, besides, I once heard Julia lay a wager with
Mr. Raymond that she could imitate her sister's voice so exactly,
that one, not seeing her, would be thoroughly deceived.”

“Oh, Mrs. Miller,” said Fanny, “it cannot be! Why
should Julia wish to do so wicked a thing? And yet I
now remember that when I was sick, Luce came to me one
night and asked me to forgive give her for every thing bad she
had ever done to me. I assured her I knew of nothing to
forgive; and then she cried, and said I did not know all she

did about her wickedness. She must have referred to that
night. I can forgive her; for she is a poor ignorant girl,
and much afraid of Julia. But how could my own sister
do me so great a wrong, and what could have been her object?”

Here Fanny burst into tears, while Kate gave vent to her
indignation by expressing her opinion pretty freely of Miss
Julia.

“I can see,” said she, “what Julia's object was. I fancy
she was always fearful lest my brother should like Fanny
the best; and she probably took this method to make you
both think meanly of Fanny.”

“Your idea is, probably, the correct one,” said Mr. Miller,
who would have added more; but Kate interrupted him
by saying, “Yes, I think I understand it all now. Julia is,
probably, at the foundation of Dr. Lacey's neglect. Most
likely she's been writing him some base falsehood.”

“Dr. Lacey's neglect!” repeated Mr. Miller. “What do
you mean?”

Kate commenced an explanation, but Fanny started up,
saying: “Please, Mrs. Miller, wait until I am gone.”

She then quitted the apartment, and sought her own
room, of which Julia had been sole occupant for more than
an hour. On her return from school, this hopeful young
lady was pleased to find her sister absent. Seating herself
near the window, with paper and pencil, she began the composition
of that letter, which, as we have seen, widened the
breach between Dr. Lacey and Fanny. This unhallowed
work cost her a world of pains. Many times were the lines
crossed out and rewritten, before they quite suited her.
The letter was but half completed, when Fanny was heard
coming slowly through the upper hall. Springing up, Julia
darted through the window out upon the balcony, and by
the time Fanny reached the room, she was seated at the

furthest end of the verandah, busily engaged with her forgery.

When she at last returned to her room, and tried to
converse with her sister, she observed that Fanny shrank
from her approach and that she had been weeping. In a
very ironical tone Julia said, “What now is the matter? I
declare, Fan, I believe you are a perfect little simpleton. I
wouldn't be such a cry-baby, any way; and make so much
fuss about one good-for-nothing Doctor.”

Fanny replied very calmly, and without once taking her
eyes from her sister's face, “If you think I have been crying
about Dr. Lacey, you are mistaken.”

“Pray what did you cry for?” said Julia, laughingly.
“Did somebody look sideways at you, or omit to call you
by some pet baby name?”

“I cried,” said Fanny, “because I feared you had been
acting very wickedly towards me.”

In an instant Julia's assurance left her. The bright
color forsook her cheek, which became perfectly white. Fanny
noticed the change, and it confirmed her fears. She did not
know that the circumstances to which she alluded had long
since faded from Julia's memory, and that her present agitation
arose from the fear that she might have been detected
in her work of deception, and that, after all, she might be
foiled and entangled in her own meshes. A glance of intense
anger flashed from her large black eye, as she muttered between
her closed teeth: “Has the wretch dared to betray
me!”

Fanny supposed she referred to Luce; and her first feeling
was to save the helpless servant girl from Julia's displeasure;
so she said, “Do not condemn Luce; she did not tell
me. I received my information from our teacher, Mr. Miller.”

“Luce! Mr. Miller! What do you mean?” asked Julia,

her eyes lessening to their usual size, and the color again
coming to her cheeks and lips. This sudden change in her
sister's appearance puzzled Fanny; but she proceeded to
relate what she had just heard from Mr. Miller. Julia was
so much relieved to find her fears unfounded, and her darling
secret safe, that she burst into a loud laugh, which was
continued for some time. During this fit of laughter, she
was determining whether it were best to confess the whole,
and seem sorry for it, or to strenuously deny it. Finally,
she decided on the former, but resolved not to give the right
reason for her conduct; so she said, with an air of great
penitence: “Yes, Fanny, I am guilty, and I am glad you
know it, too. I have been on the point of acknowledging
it to you many times, but shame kept me silent.”

“How could you do it, and what did you do it for?”
asked Fanny.

Julia replied, “Truth compels me to say that I feared
your influence over Mr. Wilmot. I knew how much he admired
amiability in females, and I wished to make him think
you were no more amiable than other people.”

“And yet you say you never cared for his love,” continued
Fanny.

Miss Julia was getting cornered; but her evil genius did
not forsake her, and she answered, “True, I did not care
much for him; but I felt flattered with his attention, and I
ardently desired to have one person prefer me to you. I
know it was wicked in me to do what I did; but you will
forgive me, will you not? and I will promise never again to
act so deceitfully towards you.”

Always sincere in what she said herself, Fanny could not
think her sister otherwise; so her hand was extended in
token of forgiveness. Julia took it, and raising it to her
lips, kept it there for an instant, in order to conceal the
treacherous smile of exultation which played round her

mouth. “I shall yet triumph,” thought she, and, in the
exuberance of her joy, she kissed again the soft hand which
she held in her grasp. Could Fanny have looked into the
heart of her sister, and beheld all its dark designs, she would
have fled from her presence as from a poisonous serpent.
But, though she was deceived, there was one, the All-seeing
One, whose eye was ever upon the sinful girl; and though
for a while she seemed to prosper, the same mighty Power
so ordered it, that after a time, she who had sown the tempest
reaped the whirlwind; and the clouds which hung so
heavy and dark around the pathway of her innocent victim,
afterwards burst with terrific violence upon her own
head.

We will now return to Mrs. Miller, whom we left relating
to her husband the supposed neglect of Dr. Lacey. She
finished her narrative by saying, “I cannot help thinking
that, by some means, Julia is at the foundation of all this
mischief. You and Dr. Lacey were good friends; suppose
you write to him, and then we shall at least know the truth
of the matter.”

“Yes, I will,” said Mr. Miller; “I will write to-morrow.”

“But why not write to-night?” asked Kate, who was in
a hurry.

“Because,” answered Mr. Miller, “I shall be engaged
to-night, and to-morrow will do just as well.”

Kate could not help feeling that, possibly, “to-morrow”
might not do as well; but she said no more on the subject,
and waited patiently for the morrow, when, true to his promise,
her husband commenced the important letter. We
have said that Mr. Miller had never liked Julia. In his letter,
however, he spoke as favorably of her as he could; but he
told how basely she had once deceived himself and Mr. Wilmot,
with regard to Fanny, and also hinted his own and his
wife's suspicion, that, in some way or other, Julia was connected

with Dr. Lacey's long silence, as well as with the
heartless letter which Fanny had received from New Orleans.

“Yes, this will do,” said Kate, as she read what her husband
had written. “But,” she added, “I cannot help feeling
sorry that it was not sent yesterday.”

“Oh, Kate,” said Mr. Miller, gayly, “your anxiety for
Fanny has made you nervous, and now you are almost superstitious.
One day can make no possible difference in the
result of this letter.”

Afterwards, when it was too late, he learned how much
difference the delay of one day caused. By its means, that
letter which would have set all aright, was sent in the same
package with Julia's amiable production, and, as we have
seen, was not received by its owner, but was safely stowed
away in a cigar box, under ground.

Soon after Mr. Miller deposited his letter in the post-office,
a young girl, closely veiled, entered the same building, and
looked anxiously round until her eye fell upon her accomplice,
Mr. Dunn. That worthy young man instantly came
forward, grinning and bowing, and almost upsetting another
clerk, who was also hastening to wait upon the beautiful
Miss Middleton.

“Good morning, Miss Julia!” said Mr. Dunn; “glad to
see you. Fine morning.”

Julia did not deign to reply, for Mr. Dunn's familiarity
was exceedingly disgusting to her. She however handed
him her letter, which he looked at in some surprise, and
said, in a low tone, “From Fanny, or you?”

“From me; send it,” answered Julia, at the same time
managing to slip an eagle into the hands of the honest
clerk.

Leaving the office the young lady proceeded homeward,
thinking to herself, “There, that will settle him, I hope. I
am getting on swimmingly.”

When Mr. Miller entered his room, on his return from the
office, Kate said, “In the course of two weeks, you or Fanny,
or both, will hear from Dr. Lacey.”

“Do not be too sanguine, Katy,” answered Mr. Miller;
“you may be disappointed.”

“Well,” continued Kate, “if he pays no attention to
your letter, I shall be satisfied that he really is undeserving
of Fanny's esteem. I'll not tell her that you have written,
for fear of the consequence.”

So days came and went, week followed week, in rapid
succession, until five weeks were numbered with the past
since Mr. Miller's letter had been dispatched. Kate had
waited and watched until even her sanguine nature had
ceased to hope; for there had come no tidings from the far
off Crescent City, and both she and her husband had unwillingly
come to the conclusion that Dr. Lacey was really false.
Kate manifested her disappointment by an increased tenderness
of manner towards Fanny, whom she sincerely loved,
and by a more gracious deportment towards Julia, whom
she began to fear she had wronged by suspecting her of being
accessory to Dr. Lacey's conduct.