University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.

Three weeks after Mr. Middleton's departure for New Orleans,
Mr. Miller's school closed. Uncle Joshua was present at the
examination, and congratulated himself much because he did
not feel at all “stuck up” at seeing both Julia and Fanny
acquit themselves so creditably. After the exercises were
concluded, he returned with Mr. Miller to Mrs. Crane's.
Just before he started for home, he drew from his sheepskin
pocket-book five hundred dollars, which he divided equally
between his daughters, saying, “Here, gals, I reckon this 'll
be enough to pay for all the furbelows you've bought, or will
want to buy. I'll leave you here the rest of the week to see
to fixin' up your rig, but Saturday, I shall send for you.”

Fanny was surprised at her father's unlooked-for generosity,
and thanked him again and again. Julia was silent,
but her face told how vexed and disappointed she was. As
soon as her father was gone, her rage burst forth. “Stingy
old thing,” said she, “and yet he thinks he's done something
wonderful. Why, my bill at C.'s already amounts to two
hundred, and I want as much more. What I am to do, I
don't know.”

She would have said more, but Fanny quieted her, by
saying, “Don't talk so about father, Julia. It was very
liberal, and really I do not know what to do with all mine.”

“I could find ways enough to dispose of it, I imagine,”
said Julia.

But we will not continue the conversation. Suffice it to
say that when Julia retired that night, her own money was
safe in her purse, and by the side of it lay the hundred dollars
which she had coaxed from Fanny. As they were preparing
to return home, on Saturday, Julia said to her sister,
“Fan, don't let father know that you gave me a hundred
dollars, for I fear all your powers of persuasion would be of
no avail to stay the storm he would consider it his bounden
duty to raise.”

There was no need of this caution, for Fanny was not
one to do a generous act, and then boast of it, neither did
her father ask her how she had disposed of her money. He
was satisfied to know that the “four silk gowns” were purchased,
as, in his estimation, they constituted the essential
part of a young lady's wardrobe.

Since Fanny had disclosed the heartless desertion of Dr.
Lacey, she seemed to be doubly dear to her father; for pity
now mingled with the intense love he had always borne for
his youngest and best loved daughter. Often, during the
three days which she passed at home, prior to her departure
for New-York, he would sit and gaze fondly upon her until
the tears would blind his vision, then springing up, he would
pace the floor, impetuously muttering, “The scamp!—the
vagabond!—but he'll get his pay fast enough,—and I'd pay
him too, if I hadn't done promised not to. But 'tain't worth
a while, for I reckon 'twould only make her face grow whiter
and thinner, if I did any thing.”

At length the morning came on which Julia and Fanny
were to leave for the first time their native State. Side by
side near the landing at Frankfort, lay the two boats, Blue
Wing and Diana. The one was to bear Fanny on her
Northern tour, and the other would convey Julia as far as

Louisville on her way South. Mr. Woodburn, who had
business in New Orleans, was to take Julia under his protection.

And now but a short time remained ere the Diana would
loose her moorings and be under way. These few moments
were moments of sorrow to Mr. and Mrs. Middleton,
who had accompanied their daughters to Frankfort. Uncle
Joshua particularly was much depressed, and scarce took his
eyes from his treasure, who might be leaving him for ever.
In his estimation the far-off North was a barren, chilly region,
and although he did not quite believe his Fanny would be
frozen to death, he could not rid himself of the fear that
something would befall her.

“You'll take good keer of her, won't you, Miller?” said
he, “and bring her safely back to us?”

Mr. Miller gave the promise, and then observing that
there was something else on Mr. Middleton's mind, he said,
“What is it, Mr. Middleton? What more do you wish to
say?”

Mr. Middleton struggled hard with his feelings, and his
voice sank to a whisper as he answered, “I wanted to tell
you that if,—if, she should die, bring her home,—bring
her back, don't leave her there all alone.”

The old man could say no more, for the bell rang out its
last warning. The parting between Fanny and her parents
was a sad one, and even Julia wept as she kissed her sister,
and thought it might be for the last time.

Soon after the Diana, with its precious freight, disappeared
from view, Mr. Middleton was called upon to bid another
farewell to his eldest daughter. “Reckon the old fellow likes
one girl better than the other,” said a bystander, who had
witnessed both partings. And yet Mr. Middleton did well,
and his look and manner was very affectionate as he bade
Julia good-bye, and charged her “not to be giddy and act

like a fool, nor try to come it over Dr. Lacey.” “Though,”
thought he, “it'll be sarvin' the rascal right if he should have
to live with Tempest all his life.”

It is not our intention at present to follow Julia in her
passage to New Orleans. In another chapter we will take
up that subject and narrate her adventures. Now we prefer
going North with the other party, which consisted of Mr. and
Mrs. Miller, Fanny and Raymond. The latter had, in a fit
of desperation, determined to quit Frankfort, and go no one
knew whither. He accompanied his friends as far as Cincinnati,
and there bade them adieu, saying, that they would
hear of him again in a way they little dreamed of.

Mr. Miller was sorry to part with one who had proved so
valuable an assistant in his school, but all his arguments had
failed and he was obliged to give him up, saying, “I hope,
Raymond, that all your laudable enterprises may be successful.”

“I shall succeed,” were Raymond's emphatic words;
“and she, the haughty woman, who tried to smile so scornfully
when I bade her farewell, will yet be proud to say that
she has had a smile from me, the poor schoolmaster.”

“Well, Raymond,” said Mr. Miller, “you have my good
wishes, and if you ever run for President, I'll vote for you.
So now good-bye.”

Raymond wrung his friend's hand, and then stepped from
the cars, which soon rolled heavily from the dépot. Faster
and faster sped the train on its pathway over streamlet and
valley, meadow and woodland, until at last the Queen City
with its numerous spires was left far behind. From the car
windows Fanny watched the long blue line of hills, which
marks the Kentucky shore, until they too disappeared from
view.

For a time now we will leave her to the tender mercies
of the Ohio railroad, and a Lake Erie steamer, and hurrying

on in advance, we will introduce the reader to the home
where once had sported Richard Wilmot and his sister Kate.
It stood about a half a mile from the pleasant, rural village
of C— in the Eastern part of New-York. The house
was large and handsome, and had about it an air of thrift
and neatness, which showed its owner to be a farmer, who
not only understood his business, but also attended to it himself.
Between the house and road was a large, grassy lawn,
in which was growing many a tall, stately maple and elm,
under whose wide-spreading branches Kate and her brother
had often played during the gladsome days of their childhood.
A long piazza ran around two sides of the building.
Upon this piazza the family sitting-room opened.

Could we have entered that sitting-room the day on
which our travellers arrived, we should have seen a fine-looking,
middle-aged lady, whose form and features would instantly
have convinced us that we looked upon the mother
of Kate. Yes, what Kate Miller is now, her mother was
once; but time and sorrow have made inroads upon her dazzling
beauty, and here and there the once bright locks of
auburn are now silvered over, and across the high, white
brow, are drawn many deep-cut lines. Since Kate last saw
her mother, these lines have increased, for the bursting heart
has swelled with anguish, and the dark eye has wept bitter
tears for the son, who died far away from his childhood's
home. Even now the remembrance of the noble youth,
who, scarce two years ago, left her full of life and health,
makes the tear drop start as she says aloud, “How can I
welcome back my darling Kate, and know that he will never
come again!”

The sound of her voice aroused old Hector, the watch-dog,
who had been lying in the sun upon the piazza.
Stretching his huge limbs and shaking his shaggy sides, he
stalked into the sitting-room, and going up to his mistress

laid his head caressingly in her lap. The sight of Hector
made Mrs. Wilmot's tears flow afresh, for during many years
he had been the faithful companion of Richard, whose long
absence he seemed seriously to mourn. For days and weeks
he had watched by the gate, through which he had seen his
young master pass, and when at last the darkness of night
forbade a longer watch, he would lay his head on the ground
and give vent to his evident disappointment in a low, mournful
howl.

Mrs. Wilmot was not superstitious; but when, day after
day, the same sad cry was repeated, it became to her an
omen of coming evil; and thus the shock of her son's death,
though none the less painful, was not quite as great as it
would otherwise have been. For Kate too, old Hector had
wept, but not so long or so mournfully; still he remembered
her, and always evinced his joy whenever her name was
spoken.

On the morning of the day on which she was expected
home, a boy who had lived in the family when she went
away, called Hector to him, and endeavored by showing him
some garment which Kate had worn, and by repeating her
name, to make him understand that she was coming home.
We will not say that Hector understood him, but we know
that during the day he never for a moment left the house or
yard, but lay upon the piazza, looking eagerly towards the
road which led from the village. Whenever he saw a carriage
coming, he would start up and gaze wistfully at it until
it had passed, then he would again lie down and resume his
watch. Mrs. Wilmot noticed this, and when Hector, as we
have seen, walked up to her and looked so sympathizingly
in her face, she patted his head, saying, “Poor Hector; good
fellow; you will see Kate at least to-day.”

Nor was she mistaken, for about three that afternoon, an
omnibus drew up before the gate. Kate immediately sprang

out, and was followed by Mr. Miller and Fanny. Their
arrival was first made known to Mrs. Wilmot, by the cry of
joy which Hector sent forth at sight of Kate. With lightning
speed he bounded over the lawn to meet the travellers.
Fanny, who was accustomed to the savage watch-dogs of
Kentucky, sprang back in terror and clung to Mr. Miller for
protection; but Kate cried out, “Do not fear; it is only Hector,
and he wouldn't harm you for the world.” Then she
ran forward to meet him, and embraced him as fondly as
though he had really been a human being, and understood
and appreciated it all. And he did seem to, for after caressing
Kate, he looked about as if in quest of the missing one.
Gradually he seemed to become convinced that Richard was
not there, and again was heard the old wailing howl, but
this time it was more prolonged, more despairing. Faithful
creature! Know you not that summer's gentle gale and
winter's howling storm have swept over the grave of him
whom you so piteously bemoan.

Fanny stopped her ears to shut out the bitter cry, but if
Kate heard it, she heeded it not, and bounded on over the
gravelled walk towards her mother, who was eagerly waiting
for her. In an instant parent and child were weeping in each
other's arms.

“My Kate, my darling Kate, are you indeed here?”
said Mrs. Wilmot.

Kate's only answer was a still more passionate embrace.
Then recollecting herself, she took her husband's hand and
presented him to her mother, saying, “Mother, I could not
bring you Richard, but I have brought you another son.
Will you not give him room in your heart?”

Mrs. Wilmot had never seen Mr. Miller before, but she
was prepared to like him, not only because he was her daughter's
choice, but because he had been the devoted friend of
her son; consequently she greeted him with a most kind and
affectionate welcome.

During all this time Fanny was leaning against one of
the pillars of the piazza, but her thoughts were far away.
She was thinking of her distant Kentucky home, and a half
feeling of home-sickness crept over her, as she thought how
joyfully she would be greeted there, should she ever return.
Her reverie was of short duration, for Kate approached, and
leading her to her mother, simply said, “Mother, this is
Fanny.”

'Twas enough. The word Fanny had a power to open
the fountains of that mother's heart. She had heard the
story of the young girl, who had watched so unweariedly by
the bedside of Richard—she had heard too of the generous
old man, whose noble heart had cared for and tenderly
cherished the stranger, and she knew that she, who advanced
towards her so timidly, was the same young girl, the
same old man's daughter; and could Mr. Middleton have
witnessed her reception of his Sunshine, he would have been
satisfied.

A messenger was dispatched for Mr. Wilmot, who was
superintending some workmen in a field not far from the
house. Mr. Wilmot was a tall, noble-looking man, whose
fine figure was slightly bowed by the frosts of sixty winters.
As he advanced with breathless haste towards the house,
Kate ran to meet him, and the tears which the strong man
wept, told how dear to him was this, his beautiful daughter,
and how forcibly her presence reminded him of his first-born,
only son, who went away to die among strangers.

When he was presented to Mr. Miller and Fanny, a scene
similar to the one we have already described took place.
As he blessed Fanny for Richard's sake, she felt that though
in a strange land, she was not alone or unloved. Her home-sickness
soon vanished; for how could she be lonely and sad,
where all were so kind, and where each seemed to vie with
the other in trying to make every thing agreeable to

her. It was strange how soon even Hector learned to love
the fair Kentuckian. He would follow her footsteps wherever
she went, and affectionately kiss her hands. But then, as
Kate said, “Hector had more common sense than half the
people in the world,” and he seemed to know by instinct that
she, whom he so fondly caressed, had once watched over and
wept for his young master, who was now sleeping in his
silent grave, unmindful that in his home he was still sincerely
mourned even by old Hector.

Not many days after Fanny's arrival at Mr. Wilmot's
she was told that a gentleman wished to see her in the parlor.
On entering the room how was she surprised at beholding
Frank Cameron. He had learned by a letter from Kate
that Fanny was in C—, and he immediately started for
his uncle's. Since his return from Kentucky he had thoughts
of little else save Fanny Middleton. Waking or sleeping,
she was constantly in his mind, and still with happy thought
of her, there ever came a sadder feeling, a fear that his love
for her would be in vain. But since the morning when he
bade her adieu, her name had never once passed his lips.

When his sister Gertrude questioned him concerning the
Kentucky girls, he had described to her in glowing terms
the extreme beauty of Julia, and the handsome eyes of “the
widder,” as he called Mrs. Carrington, but of Fanny he had
never spoken. He could not bear that even his own sister
should mention Fanny in connection with any one else.
However, when Kate's letter arrived, he passed it over to
Gertrude, whose curiosity was instantly roused, and she
poured forth a torrent of questions as to who that Fanny
Middleton was.

“I suppose she must be old Mr. Middleton's daughter,”
was Frank's teasing reply.

“Of course I know that,” said Gertrude, “but what of
her? Who is she?”

“Why, I've told you once, she is Fanny Middleton,” said
Frank.

These and similar answers were all Gertrude could draw
from him, and she fell into a fit of pouting; but Frank was
accustomed to that and consequently did not mind it. Next
day he announced his intention to visit his Uncle Wilmot.
Gertrude instantly exclaimed, “Now, Frank, you are too
bad. Just as soon as you hear Fanny Middleton is in New-York,
you start off to see her, without even telling me who
she is, or what she is. In my opinion you are in love with
her, and do not wish us to know it.”

This started up Mrs. Cameron's ideas, and she said,
“Frank, I am inclined to believe Gertrude is right; but you
surely will be respectful enough to me to answer my questions
civilly.”

“Certainly,” said Frank. “Ask any thing you please,
only be quick, for it is almost car time.”

“Well then, do you intend to make this Miss Middleton
your wife?”

“I do, if she will have me,” said Frank.

The distressed lady groaned audibly, but continued,
“One more question, Frank. Is she rich, and well connected?”

Frank passed his hand through the thick curls of his
brown hair, and seemed to be trying hard to think of something.
Finally he answered, “Why, really, mother, I never
once thought to ask that question.”

“But,” persisted Mrs. Cameron, “you can judge by her
appearance, and that of her parents. Did you not see
them?”

Frank laughed loudly as the image of Uncle Joshua, as
he first saw him in the door, buttoning his suspender, presented
itself to his remembrance; but he answered, “Yes,
mother, I did see her father, and 'twas the richest sight I ever
saw.”

He then proceeded to give a description of Mr. Middleton
to his astonished sister and mother, the latter of whom
exhibited such distress, that Frank very compassionately
asked, “if she had the tooth-ache.”

Before she had time to answer Frank was gone, leaving
his mother to lament over the strange infatuation which always
led Frank in pursuit of somebody beneath him.

“I know,” said she to Gertrude, “that this Fanny Middleton
is from a horrid low family, and is as poor as a church
mouse.”

So, while Frank was hurrying on towards the village of
C—, his mother and sister were brooding over the disgrace
which they feared threatened them. They could have
spared all their painful feelings, for she of the “low family”
was destined to be another's.

During Frank's ride to C— he determined, ere his return,
to know the worst. “She can but refuse me,” thought
he, “and even if she does, I shall feel better than I do now.”
When he met Fanny his manner was so calm and collected,
that she never dreamed how deep was the affection she had
kindled in his heart. She received him with real pleasure,
for he seemed like a friend from Kentucky. He staid with
her but three days, and when he left, he bore a sadder heart
than he had ever felt before. Fanny had refused him; not
exultingly, as if a fresh laurel had been won only to be boasted
of, but so kindly, so delicately, that Frank felt almost
willing to act it all over again for the sake of once more hearing
Fanny's voice, as she told him how utterly impossible it
was for her ever again to love as a husband should be
loved.

“Then,” said Frank, somewhat bitterly, “you acknowledge
that you have loved another.”

“Yes,” answered Fanny, “but no other circumstances
could have wrung the confession from me. I have loved and

been deceived. I will not say my faith in man's honor is
wholly gone, for I believe you, Mr. Cameron, to be perfectly
sincere and honorable in your professions of regard. Had
we met earlier all might have been different, but now it is
too late. If my friendship is worth having, it is yours. I
have never had a brother, but will look upon and love you
as one;—with that, you must be satisfied.”

And he did try to be satisfied, but only because there
was no other alternative. Still he felt a pleasure in being
near her, in breathing the same atmosphere and gazing on
the same scenes. Before he returned home he had decided
upon accompanying her, together with Mr. and Mrs. Miller,
on their contemplated trip to Saratoga; thence they would
go on to New-York city, and visit at his father's.

“I am sorry,” said he, “that it is not the season for parties,
as I should love dearly to show off Fanny in opposition
to our practised city belles, and now I think of it,” continued
he, “isn't Mr. Stanton coming North this summer after a
certain Miss Ashton?”

“I believe he is,” answered Kate.

“Now then,” said Frank, “I have it exactly. Judge Fulton,
who is Miss Ashton's guardian, has recently removed to
the city. I know him well, and have been introduced to
Miss Helen. Stanton has already invited us all to his wedding,
and as Miss Ashton will of course repeat the invitation,
Fanny will thus have an opportunity of seeing a little of the
gay world in New-York.”

“You seem to think any praise bestowed upon Fanny as
so much credit for yourself,” said Kate, mischievously.

Frank made no reply, and soon bidding good bye to his
friends, he was on his way to the city. On reaching home
he found his mother and sister in a state of great anxiety
concerning “the odious old scarecrow's corn-cake daughter,”
as Gertrude styled Fanny. Her first question after asking

about Kate was, “Well, Frank, tell me, did you propose to
Miss Middleton?”

“Most certainly I did. That was one object in going,”
was Frank's quiet reply.

The horrified Mrs. Cameron, throwing up both hands in
a most theatrical manner, exclaimed, “Mon Dieu!” It was
the only French phrase she knew, and she used it upon all
occasions. This time, however, it was accompanied by a
loud call for her vineagrette and for air, at the same time
declaring it was of no use trying to restore her, for her heart
was broken, and she was going to faint.

“Let me wash these red spots off from your cheek.
You can't faint gracefully with so much color,” said Frank
gravely, at the same time literally deluging his mother's face
with cologne, much against the blooming lady's inclination.
This little scene determined Frank not to tell that he was rejected.
At first he had intended to disclose all, but now he
decided otherwise. “They may as well fret about that as
any thing else,” thought he, “and when they see Fanny, I
shall have a glorious triumph.” So he kept his own secret,
and commenced teasing Gertrude about going to Saratoga
with himself, their cousin Kate and Fanny.

“I shall do no such thing, Master Frank,” said Gertrude.
“I am willing enough to see Kate, and invite her here too,
for she is fine looking and appears well, even if she is a music
teacher; but this Fanny Middleton—Ugh! I'll never associate
with her on terms of equality, or own her as my sister
either.”

“I do not think you will,” said Frank;” but Gertrude
knew not what cause he had for so saying.

After he had quitted the apartment, Mrs. Cameron and
Gertrude tried to think of some way to let Fanny know that
she was not wanted in their family. “Dear me,” said Gertrude,
“I will not go to Saratoga, and be obliged to see

Frank make a dolt of himself with this plebeian Kentuckian.
If she were only rich and accomplished, why, it would be
different, and the fact of her being from Kentucky would increase
her attractions. But now it is too bad!” and Gertrude
actually cried with vexation and mortified pride. Poor
creature! How mistaken she was with regard to Fanny
Middleton, and so she one day learned.

But as the reader is doubtless anxious to hear of Fanny's
introduction to Mrs. Cameron and Gertrude, we will give a
description of it in the next chapter.