University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.
MRS. HAMILTON.

For many years the broad, rich acres, and old fashioned,
massive building known as “The Homestead on
the Hillside,” had passed successively from father to son,
until at last it belonged by right of inheritance to Ernest
Hamilton. Neither time nor expense had been spared in
beautifying and embellishing both house and grounds, and
at the time of which we are speaking, there was not, for
miles around, so lovely a spot as was the shady old
homestead.

It stood at some distance from the road, and on the
bright green lawn in front, were many majestic forest
trees, on which had fallen the lights and shadows of more
than a century; and under whose wide-spreading branches
oft, in the olden time, the Indian warrior had paused from
the chase until the noonday heat was passed. Leading
from the street to the house, was a wide, graveled walk
bordered with box, and peeping out from the wilderness
of vines and climbing roses, were the white walls of the
huge building, which was surrounded on all sides by a
double piazza.

Many and hallowed were the associations connected
with that old homestead. On the curiously carved seats
beneath the tall shade trees, were cut the names of some,

who there had lived, and loved, and passed away.
Through the little gate at the foot of the garden, and just
across the brooklet, whose clear waters leaped and laughed
in the glad sunshine, and then went dancing away in the
woodland below, was a quiet spot, where gracefully the
willow tree was bending, where the wild sweet brier was
blooming, and where, too, lay sleeping those who once
gathered round the hearth-stone and basked in the sunlight
which ever seemed resting upon the Homestead on
the Hillside.

But a darker day was coming; a night was approaching
when a deep gloom would overshadow the homestead
and the loved ones within its borders. The servants, ever
superstitious, now whispered mysteriously that the spirits
of the departed returned nightly to their old accustomed
places, and that dusky hands from the graves of the slumbering
dead were uplifted, as if to warn the master of the
domain of the desolation which was to come. For more
than a year the wife of Ernest Hamilton had been dying
— slowly, surely dying — and though when the skies
were brightest and the sunshine warmest she ever seemed
better, each morning's light still revealed some fresh ravage
the disease had made, until at last there was no hope,
and the anxious group which watched her knew full well
that ere long among them would be a vacant chair, and
in the family burying ground an added grave.

One evening Mrs. Hamilton seemed more than usually
restless, and requested her daughters to leave her, that
she might compose herself to sleep. Scarcely was she
alone, when with cat-like tread there glided through the
doorway the dark figure of a woman, who advanced toward
the bedside, noiselessly as a serpent would steal to
his ambush. She was apparently forty-five years of age,
and dressed in deep mourning, which seemed to increase

the marble whiteness of her face. Her eyes, large, black,
and glittering, fastened themselves upon the invalid with
a gaze so intense that Mrs. Hamilton's hand involuntarily
sought the bell-rope, to summon some one else to her
room.

But ere the bell was rung, a strangely sweet, musical
voice fell on her ear, and arrested her movements. “Pardon
me for intruding,” said the stranger, “and suffer me
to introduce myself. I am Mrs. Carter, who not long
since removed to the village. I have heard of your illness,
and wishing to render you any assistance in my
power, I have ventured, unannounced, into your presence,
hoping that I at least am not unwelcome.

Mrs. Hamilton had heard of a widow lady, who with
an only daughter had recently removed to the village,
which lay at the foot of the long hill on which stood the
old homestead. She had heard, too, that Mrs. Carter,
though rather singular in some respects, was unusually
benevolent, spending much time in visiting the sick and
needy, and, as far as possible, ministering to their comfort.

Extending her hand, she said, “I know you by reputation,
Mrs. Carter, and feel greatly pleased that you have
thought to visit me. Pray be seated.”

This last invitation was superfluous, for with the air of
a person entirely at home, the lady had seated herself,
and as the room was rather warm, she threw back her
bonnet, disclosing to view a mass of rich brown hair,
which made her look several years younger than she really
was. Nothing could be more apparently kind and sincere
than were her words of sympathy, nothing more
soothing than the sound of her voice; and when she for
a moment raised Mrs. Hamilton, while she adjusted her
pillows, the sick woman declared that never before had
any one done it so gently or so well.

Mrs. Carter was just resuming her seat, when, in the
adjoining hall, there was the sound of a heavy tread, and
had Mrs. Hamilton been at all suspicious of her visitor,
she would have wondered at the flush which deepened on
her cheek when the door opened, and Mr. Hamilton stood
in their midst. On seeing a stranger, he turned to leave,
but his wife immediately introduced him, and seating
himself upon the sofa, he remarked, “I have seen you
frequently in church, Mrs. Carter, but I believe I have
never spoken with you before.”

A peculiar expression flitted over her features at these
words, an expression which Mr. Hamilton noticed, and
which awoke remembrances of something unpleasant,
though he could not tell what.

“Where have I seen her before?” thought he, as she
bade them good night, promising to come again and stay
a longer time. “Where have I seen her before?” and
then involuntarily his thoughts went back to the time,
years and years ago, when a wild young man in college,
he had thoughtlessly trifled with the handsome daughter
of his landlady. Even now he seemed to hear her last
words, as he bade her farewell: “You may go, Ernest
Hamilton, and forget me if you can, but Luella does not
so easily forget; and remember, when least you expect
it, we shall meet again.”

Could this strange being, with honeyed words and winning
ways, be that fiery, vindictive girl? Impossible!
and satisfied with this conclusion, Mr. Hamilton resumed
his evening paper.