University of Virginia Library

25. XXV.
L'INCONNUE.

Do you see that humble-looking little cottage? It is
the home of one to whose genius the world has already
begun to do homage. The simply furnished room is
bathed in the sober glory of the September moonlight.
A lady of, it may be, twenty-five, is sitting by the vine-wreathed
window. She is very simply clad, in her
deep-mourning costume, the dress made high at the
neck, and the sleeve falling in heavy folds to the slight
wrist. Her face, though gentle, is very sad, her large
blue eyes wear a look of patient grief, lightened by
trust in heaven, and her golden curls alone relieve the
grave plainness of her attire. At her feet kneels a
child so sweet and fair you might have deemed her an
infant cherub strayed away from Heaven. And yet
at one time her mother must have resembled her very
much. The child has the same curling, sunny hair,
the same large blue eyes, but smiles curve in and out
at the rosebud mouth, and the eyes are full of childish

merriment, albeit half hidden now by the veiling
lashes. The tiny hands, white as ocean spray-wreaths,
are meekly folded, and the baby voice is lisping a simple
evening prayer.

When it was over, the mother raised her in her
arms and laid her gently in her low bed. “Kiss
Rosie,” said the sweet voice—“Rosie dood all day.”
The kiss was given, and then the mother sat down
beside her, and gently sung her to sleep. When at
length the little busy hands were quite at rest, and the
blue eyes were tightly closed, she rose from her seat,
and, bending over her, pressed her lips to that polished
brow. All the mother's love was in her eyes, as she
raised her head, and there was a deep and touching
tenderness in the voice which whispered, “For thy sake,
little one, surely God will give me His blessing.”

Then she lit a tiny lamp, and drew forth from her
desk a closely written manuscript. Seizing a pen she
wrote rapidly. After a time there came to the sad
face a look of inspiration—tears trembled on the
lashes, the colorless cheeks grew flushed and red as
hearts of June-time roses. Then that too passed, and
once more she lived in the present; a lonely, sorrowful
woman, with a grave beneath her feet.

At this moment there was a gentle tap on the outer
door. She opened it noiselessly. “Oh, it is you,
Sara? This is indeed kind. Come in softly so as not
to wake Rose, for I want to talk to you.”

The visitor entered, laid aside her bonnet, and
threw her shawl upon a chair. As Mrs. Joseph Seaton,
the rector's wife, she was little changed from that
Sara Hargrave whom we knew long ago.

“Well, Grace,” she said, “talk fast. What have
you determined?” Now, indeed, hearing her called
by the old name, with her face kindled by that smile
of welcome, you could recognize some traces of the
light-hearted Grace Atherton of other days. Her
voice, when she replied, had some of the old tones
blended with its dreamy sadness.

“I am getting on pretty well,” she said. “I came
here because you were here, and you were my last
friend. I couldn't stay in Glenthorne with all those
graves. It has proved the best thing after all. Ever
since you introduced me to Dr. Baldwin, I get along
nicely. I write a sketch for the Standard, every
week, and he pays my five dollars so punctually that
I do very well indeed.”

“And you call that very well? Five dollars a
week for you and this child?”

“Oh yes, for the present, but I know Rose will
need more soon. I have a plan in my head, and you
must advise me about it. You know one of my great
trials was parting with Irish Mary. She has been
with me ever since that visit to Boston. She would
have staid with me freely, but I could not even give
her bread to eat. She followed me to Alexandria,

though I had not found it out when I saw you last.
She is chambermaid and nurse in a family here. Poor
thing, she didn't know how to find me, and it was by
the merest accident I met her as I was taking Rose
out for a walk. Now my ambition is to be able to get
her back again. I need her very much. No child
could be better than Rose, but it takes more than half
my time to amuse her. With no one to take care of
her, I cannot send her away from me for a moment,
and I can't resist the temptation to pet her and make
her happy, when I see her little face get so lonely with
watching me at my task. The truth is I do not write
much except when she is sleeping.”

“That is it. I have often wondered you did
not try to write for something beside the Standard.
You are famous already, Gracie. You would hardly
believe it if I were to tell you how many inquiries I
hear about L'Inconnue, how much of praise is
lavished at her shrine.”

“Then may-be you won't think my plan so very
wild.” Grace drew nearer to her, and rested her head
caressingly against her shoulder. “I am trying,” she
said in a timid, half-frightened whisper, “trying to
write a book.”

“You are, you pet wild-bird, you little darling.
It's the very thing I wanted you to do, but I thought
you couldn't have time. Have you begun it? What
do you call it?”

“I have christened it “Cousin Elsie,” and only
look, I have all this written.” She laid the manuscript
on Lady Sara's lap.

For a half-hour her visitor sat silently reading it;
then laying it down, she said, earnestly—“Grace, you
will succeed, you cannot fail. You are writing a book
that will live.”

There was rapture in those delicious tears, dimming
the blue eyes lifted to her face. “You have
done me so much good,” she said, in her pretty, graceful
way. “Now I can sit up nights, and work at it
so much more hopefully. But look out, there is
Joseph at the gate, and you must go. Sara, pray for
me. I am lonely, and sometimes I am weak.”

“I do, I will, and Our Father will strengthen you to
do this work. Good-by, Grace, my friend, my sister.”

Then she went away in the moonlight, leaning on
her husband's arm, and Grace came back into the
humble cottage. There was no broad breast where
her head might rest, no strong heart to shelter her; and
yet she lifted her thankful eyes to heaven for the girlhood
friend, whose love was with her still; for the
sleeping child, whose lips had learned to call her
mother; and for the gift of that genius which could
evoke from Chaos a magic world of her own, and people
it with the creations of her fancy. Then, trimming
the little lamp once more, she sat down and wrote
late into the night.