Sister Anna; or, Could aught atone?

Chapter I

A HOT Summer day. Not a breath -*■■*■ stirs the foliage of the trees; not a breeze gently murmurs sweet whispers amid the flowers, or ripples the calm surface of the river. The kine out amidst the clover fields of the meadow lot seek the shelter of the blossoming hedges, and outspreading branches of the trees, and the birds' song is hushed. For the day is very sultry ; there are no fleecy little clouds dotting the heavens, there is no occasional withdrawal of the sun shine ; it is a dark, lurid sky, and a hot, VOL. I. B fervid sun is pouring its burning rays upon the thirsty land. Around the house of Philip Rainsforth a stillness reigns ; the bees go humming about the gardens in a lazy, indolent fashion, lingering in a state of drowsy satisfaction upon the choicest flowers. The old watch dog basks in the hot rays, languidly forget ting to bark or snarl after his usual manner at any movement round or about the house.

Such a neat house it is, and of such a pure whiteness that the eyes ache with looking upon it, as it stands in the sunshine, an un broken whiteness, save for the green jalousies which throw a pleasant shade within the prim, orderly rooms of the dAvelling. So hot is the Summer day that a breath of coolness would be most grateful to the little group of people gathered in one of the front chambers of Clovernook — but not one comes. The windows are thrown Avide open, Venetian blinds exclude the glaring rays; but it is hot — intensely hot ; and the room is so still that the humming of the bees can be distinctly heard, joined with the lowing of the cattle from the distant meadows ; and the ticking of the time-piece on the mantel shelf and the watch on the stand upon the dressing-table sound very loud in their throbbing and beating.

A little heart throbs and beats with a new life, and the life which has given it life ebbs and flows. A little drop has just been added to the stream which keeps ever flow ing onward, swelling and increasing ; a little unit has been added to the millions of poor, frail humanity ; and the heart under which it has lain, and which cherished love for it ere ever eyes beheld it, beats Aveaker and weaker. There are three watchers around the bed, anxiously watching the still, white form b2 lying thereon — Philip Rainsforth's young wife. There is Philip Rainsforth himself; there is a grave, elderly man, with a pro fessional air ; and there is a lady — certainly in the Autumn of life — with a face which has been very handsome, and a manner stiff and uncompromising. A good woman was Miriam Rainsforth, a Avell-meaning Avoman ; but her manner of expressing her good intentions was unfortu nate to the last degree.

Rigid and stiff, reared in the strictest tenets of the Society of Friends, no love ever awakened in her breast, save a proper and conventional love for father, mother, and brother, she had lived in the same house from infancy, and, when her parents died, remained with her brother as his housekeeper, ruling him with an absolute rule, never dreaming that a time would come when he, only a feav years her junior, would bow meekly before the mischievous god, as younger and more thought less men had done. And he, Philip Rainsforth, had gone through life quiet and unemotional, never giving a thought that a younger and fairer companion might make life gladder and fuller — had gone through life without his heart leaping at the sound of a footstep, without his pulses bounding and thrilling at the touch of a hand.

But in the full golden prime of manhood he met his fate, and it came to him in the shape of Wynne Davenant. Many a bright eye had glanced at him ; many a red lip had smiled pleasantly upon him — for Philip Rainsforth was not only rich but handsome, in spite of his forty years and Quaker garb, and Clovernook Avas a de sirable home — but he escaped untouched and unscathed. In time there came to the little toAvn of Kinfare — on the outskirts of Avhich Clover nook stood — a ne\v schoolmistress — a fair, shy young girl, with sunny hair, and eyes of heaven's OAvn blue, in Avhich love sat playing continually. An orphan, but known to be well connected, she was much sought after, and at a grand festival of the schools Philip Rainsforth first met her, surrounded by a group of admirers, male and female.

He wondered then why it was that Avhen she raised her sweet eyes to his, when her hand rested in the light clasp of his own, his heart should thrill and burn. In after-da} .3 he kneAV that it was because he stood for the first time in the presence of her Avhom he would be Avilling to own as his queen. That was the first meeting, but many others followed ; and the time came when he knew that riches and a comfortable home were as nothing, if Wynne Davenant Avould not share them with him — Avhen he Avondered how he had borne the quiet monotony of his life at Clovernook so long, satisfied with all the variety his sister Miriam could afford when he began to dream of the glad radi ance a dainty form and lovely face and sunny temperament would cast around his dwelling, so prim and orderly. Visions — dim and remote, certainly — visited him of a time when little children would cluster around his knee in the sweet Summer gloaming, or enliven the length and dreari ness of the Winter evenings by their delight ful prattle — when innocent baby voices would call him " father."

Not all at once did this change and glamour come over him ; not all at once did he succumb to this new strange influence. He wondered what spirit possessed him, and strove earnestly to put such imaginings away from him as foolish, and unbecoming to his mature years and judgment. But all in vain. Out in the meadow lot, directing the labours of his workpeople, a sweet voice ever murmured in his ears, a dainty figure ever stood by his side. In the house, the labours of the day over, a lovely face danced before his eyes, sweet blue orbs looked into his, a little hand lay trustingly in the -clasp of his own. So one day he sought out Wynne Davenant and told her this — told her that he loved her better than life itself — Avooed her with a heart which throbbed wildly, and words which glowed and burned with his passionate emotion.

And she ? She listened graciously to his Avooing — listened attentively and inclined graciously. Why should she not? She who had never known a father's care or mother's love, who had pined for affection warmer and more enduring than that which kinsfolk are Avont to bestow upon compara tively dependent relatives, who had longed so ardently for a home which she might call her own, and ties closer and more endearing than any which she had yet known — why should she not listen, and incline graciously ? Heaven only knows what " castles in the air " the girl built, as in the quietness of her own chamber she thought over the declara tion of Philip Rainsford. What if he was older than herself? What if his dark, stern face was the very opposite to that which she had pictured to herself when dreaming of the one who would surely some day come to be the hero of her life ?

If Philip was older, then he would be the more indulgent to her ; she would sway her sceptre over her willing subject right royally by the power of her youth and beauty. If he Avas not as beautiful as Apollo, he was good and true, and could boast of a certain dignity of his own and a dark rugged handsomeness which were very grand and commanding. She was weary, unutterably weary, of teaching stupid children such commonplace acquirements as reading, writing, and arithmetic, or the vulgar mysteries of stitch ing and gathering, felling and hemming, marking samplers or knitting coarse stock ings. From all this Clovernook was a change to be desired, and, better than all, Philip loved her — oh, yes, she was sure that he loved her ! She never thought to ask herself if she loved him ; she was content with the know ledge that she Avas loved, and that pretty Clovernook was to be her home.

She never sought to inquire if, Avhen, some day, her Avoman's heart aAvakened to its full poAvers of passionate feeling, to its yearning after kindred sympathy, to its full capabilities of rejoicing or [suffering, he would be able to satisfy its craving. Philip loved her, and had told her that she .vould love him in time — he was Avise and good and thought ful, surely he should know — and she was content. After a short courtship Philip Rainsforth bore his young Avife to the home where his sister still reigned supreme. A great mis take was this, but Philip never thought of suggesting to his sister that it would be ad visable for her now to seek another home ; and it Avas questionable if, even had he done so, she would have heeded him. Miriam Rainsforth had felt deeply ag grieved by her brother's marriage.

" What want had he," she demanded, "that she could not have satisfied ? She had cared for him from childhood as none other had done, as none other could do ; and now to be coolly put aside from her pedestal be cause a vain, worldly young thing chanced to have hair which glistened in the sunshine like threads of gold, and eyes blue as a mountain bell! Dolls could be procured with glittering hair and azure eyes, and en dowed with as much sense as Wynne Dave nant !" So Wynne, Philip Rainsforth's young wife, received but a chilling welcome from good, grim Miss Miriam. Wynne was a tender plant — a delicate, sensitive blossom, that drooped and pined in the uncongenial surroundings of Clover nook. She Avearied of the stiff, neat rooms, in Avhich Miriam Rainsforth strictly pro hibited all attempts at improvements, or light graceful ornamentation.

She Avearied of Miss Rainsforth ; she recoiled and shrank before her stern Avords and forbidding man ner. She wearied of books ; it was dull work reading all day alone ; conscious too of Miriam's disapproving eyes. Philip, in the early glamour of his love, had purchased for her a fine piano, but she never opened it in his absence, nor in his presence unless re quested by him ; for Miriam regarded music, either vocal or instrumental, as frivolous in the extreme, and for Wynne to sing over a few bars, or strike a few notes, was the sig nal for Miriam to commence a lecture, lengthy and severe. And Philip Rainsforth the lover soon became lost in Philip Rainsforth the hus band. The habits of years were not to be readily laid aside ; indeed, he did not desire or endeavour to lay them aside. His love had been hot and strong ; it had come upon him suddenly, as an armed man before whom he had succumbed ; but, the prize for which he had longed won — Wynne Davenant transformed into Wynne Rains forth — he went back to the old occupations, the old habits.

The thought that his wife was not happy never occurred to him ; if anyone had suggested to him that her full, passionate nature craved fuller joys, a life a little less hum drum and monotonous, his surprise would have been equalled only by his displeasure. For, in some way, Avith the putting on of the magic circlet, Philip Rainsforth looked for some wonderful transfiguration, and felt disappointed when none was seen. What the lover considered charming and delight ful, the husband — viewing it by the light of Miriam Rainsforth's representations — es teemed light and unbecoming in the ex treme. His grave looks, his well-meant but unfortunate comments, chilled Wynne. The examples which he held up for her admira tion and imitation she grew to loathe ; and life, which should have been so gladsome and joyous a thing for her, became weary, Aveary, weary.

A great mistake Avas this marriage — and they both knew it Avhen too late. Philip Rainsforth was not intentionally unkind to the young creature he had taken to his heart and home ; he still loved her, deeply and truly ; he desired that she should be happy, but it must be in a way and after a fashion he himself should appoint. He had taken to himself a clinging, fragrant, Avild rose brier, and expected it to develop into a grand, stately oak.

Chapter II

.T.HE months have worn wearily away, -*- and the years number two since Philip brought his young bride to Clovernook ; and now she lies in her chamber, Avith pulses which beat very feebly, and a heart the throbbings of which can scarcely be per ceived. And the moments pass on into hours, and the day is very hot, and the bees go on humming drowsily, and sipping the sweets from the choicest flowers, and not a breath ripples the glassy river, or stirs amidst the foliage of the trees, and only now and then comes a faint twitter-twit-twit-twitter from the birds, and the kine seek the shelter of the hedges and trees ; and out in the meadows the labourers wipe their heated faces and burning foreheads ; and in the chamber of Clovernook the battle between life and death goes on, and the watchers keep their unwearied watch.

" I have done everything that it is possible for me to do," the one with the profes sional air says at length ; "I have other patients whose claim upon my care and attention is urgent. I must go away now for a short time." " But thee will first take some refresh ment," Miriam Rainsforth suggests ; " thee must stand sorely in need of it, Doctor Lurton." As she speaks she leads the way from the room, and the doctor follows. And then Philip Rainsforth is left alone c VOL. I. with his wife. How still and white she looks, even as though death has already claimed her ! What if already the spirit has left the clay which is so passing fair ? What if the blue eyes shall never more un close, the red lips never smile, the tender voice never speak ? His grief is very bitter, his sorrow deeper than any words can ex press.

Scarcely can he withdraw his eyes from the face which so charmed him in days gone by. He does not hear his sister re enter, accompanied by the nurse — he never looks round when she takes her place beside him. But at last the blue eyes slowly un close, and there comes an uneasy, restless movement of the head and hands. " Philip !" — the voice is very low, very feeble, the intense Avistfulness of the blue eyes very painful to witness — " Philip, come nearer to me !" The man, with eyes in the clear depths of which is no sign of tears, but whose face is set and rigid with sorrow, kneels beside her. " Philip," she whispers, " I am very ill — shall I die?" But there comes no reply to her question. The white lips move, but there comes from them no sound. The dim eyes perceive that grief and pain keep him silent, and they wander restlessly round the room, resting at last their fading light upon the nurse.

" Nurse, am I going to die ? Some light evasive words rise to the woman's lips — words which custom sanc tions, but truth condemns — but she cannot give them utterance under the gaze of those solemn eyes. " Miriam," Wynne says, still more faintly, " you will not deceive me. I am very ill?" "Thou art ill even unto death," Miriam c2 Rainsforth answers, bringing out her words in little hard abrupt jerks. Something in the words, something more still in the tones, jars upon the ears of her listeners, and the sick Avoman turns to her husband Avith a little cry of dismay. " Philip," she gasps, "lam going to die, and my little one will be left unloved and uncared for." " Not uncared for," he says, speaking very gruffly, his voice hoarse with sorrow. "Thee forgettest me, Wynne." " Not so, Philip ; but a father's love can not be watchful and tender as a mother's." There is silence again for a few moments ; the Avatch and the timepiece seem running a race.

" Tick, tick, tick ! Tick, tick, tick!" But presently the weak arms clasp them selves about the husband's neck. "Philip, shall you remember me when you can see me no longer ? Do you love me still ?" There come a few murmured words from Philip Rainsforth, which cannot be heard by the other two Avatchers. " Yes, yes, I believe it, Philip. I think I have always believed it, even at times Avhen you have seemed to care more for the cattle and grain and crops than you did for me." Oh, so weak the voice ! The words come in gasps. " Many a time I have felt so weary," she continues; "it was all so strange to me, you know, Philip. I used to long for you to come in and sit beside me, and talk to me, and read with me, as you did in the days when you first brought me to Clovernook, before you had discovered how very faulty and childish I was.

I have been very thought less. I must have tried Miriam sorely at times, but she will forgive me now. I was reared so differently, you know, dear." " We have not made thy life so happy as we might have done," he cries, in bitter regret, seeing dimly now that which he should have discerned months earlier, what a tender, sensitive nature was hers. "Hush, hush !" she replies. "The fault, if any there was, lay with me ; I should have conformed more readily to your ways. I should like to hold my baby, dear." He makes a gesture to the nurse, Avho lifts the child from the pillow on which it lies and places it in the young mother's weak, trembling arms. Her tears fall fast noAV ; a long, quivering sigh breaks from her lips as she presses the little velvety cheek against her o .vn. "Hoav dearly I love her already — my little girl !" she says, turning her sweet, sad eyes yearningly upon her husband.

" Hoav pleasant she would make life for me ! There would be no more listless hours of Aveary, unsatisfied longing, for my child Avould occupy every thought and moment." She pauses, but no other voice breaks the silence of the room. Presently the faint murmur begins again. " Look at her, Philip ! She is a true Rainsforth. I am glad of it, dear ; for perhaps Miriam will love her better than if she resembled me. She will grow into a beautiful woman." Even in the midst of his sorrow a faint shadoAV of a smile flits over the man's face. In the new-born child lying before his eyes he can trace no resemblance to any living thing, he can perceive no promise of future beauty ; he sees nothing but a little scarlet object swathed with flannel. " She will grow up into beautiful woman hood, and her mother's eyes will not behold her; she will be tender and affectionate, but to strangers will the treasure of her love be given.

Oh, my child, how I would have loved and tenderly cared for you ! How I should have rejoiced to watch each expand ing charm! Ah, Philip, if Heaven would only spare me for my baby's sake !" " It may yet spare thee, Wynne.' " I would request thee, Philip," Miriam Rainsforth interposes, " not to raise false hopes Avithin thy wife's breast. Thee hast heard the doctor's opinion." " But doctors are not always infallible, Miriam." Philip's voice is very sharp, and there is an expression of agonised entreaty in the glance Avhich meets his sister's ; the white haggard face looks very pitiful in the sunlit room. " Nay, Philip," she says, more softly, " I did but speak from a kindly motive." But he does not heed her. He has seen Wynne's white lips move, and he is bending over her, eager to catch every word.

" I should like to name my child, Philip ; Avill you let me ?" " If it will please thee, Wynne." " I should like her to be named Wynne, but I should also like another name added." " We belong to a plain sect," Miriam says ; "one name has always been considered sufficient." But Philip whispers to his wife that she is to name her. " It is a strange name," she tells him, " one but rarely used, but I like it. Let my baby be named Vashti Wynne." There comes from Miriam Rainsforth a dissatisfied sniff. " Thy selection of a name for Philip Rainsforth's daughter is not a happy one," she says. " We have always borne Scrip tural names in our family." " Vashti Wynne " comes in a faint murmur from the mother. " But surely, sister " Vashti Wynne." "It shall be as she desires," Philip inter poses. " Vashti is a Scripture name, Miriam."

" Yes, but of Avhom ? A heathen queen, in the midst of an ungodly, idolatrous people. Wynne might have chosen a prettier name." "The child is named, Miriam ; she is Vashti Wynne Rainsforth ." Philip turns again to the white face lying amid the pillows, scarce more white ; he kneels down and lays his head beside it without taking; further heed of his sister. She hears the low murmur between husband and Avife ; she can see the firm clasp in which he holds her, as though he Avould so hold and keep her to himself, though all the poAvers of death combined to snatch her from him ; she sees Iioav the poor, feeble arms strive to ent .vine themselves around his neck. The murmurs grow fainter and yet fainter, and then they quite die away ; but the light breath gently fans his cheek, and he knows she only sleeps ; he will not move for fear of disturbing her, and thus the moments pass by.

Bitter moments they are for Philip Rains forth. All the passionate love of the olden days has sprung into new life, in the presence of this great fear of losing Wynne for ever — passionate prayers, Avhich, in their intense, agonising earnestness, become al most a demand, spring from his heart that she may not yet be taken from him. The moments merge into hours, and there is no sound or motion of life in the room, and at length the doctor comes in again. " How long has she slept like this ?" he asks, Avalking straight up to the bed. Philip Rainsforth lifts his aching head and aching eyes to the doctor. "For more than an hour. The sleep seems good and refreshing, her breathing is stronger and more regular ; doctor, is there no hope ?" "The sleep is good, and her pulse is stronger; there is decidedly a change for the better.

I will call again before night. Mr. Rainsforth, I should advise a more com fortable position for yourself." Philip Rainsforth rises obediently at the doctor's words, gently putting aside the clinging arms ; cramped and dazed he feels, utterly prostrated by sorrow, but through his heart goes ringing in glad changes, " She will live — she will live !" And the moments pass on, and a slight breeze springs up, and goes murmuring and whispering sweet stories to the trees and to the flowers, which raise their heads to listen, and the kine come out into the rich clover, or wander away to slake their thirst at the river's brink, and the birds come out from their leafy covers and sing their vesper hymn, and the sun goes down to rest in a sea of crimsom, golden glory. For a moment a departing beam lights up grandly the sick-room, and then it with draws, but it bears upon it to the throne of heaven the grateful, outpoured thanksgiving of a heart relieved ofa load of sorrow which had seemed too heavy to be borne.

" Sweet, sweet, sweet ! Twitter, twitter, twitter !" Sing out little birds, sing a glad, triumphant song, for there is joy in Philip Rainsforth's heart and in his dwelling. The wife of his manhood is spared to him, and his child is not written " motherless " — the little morsel of humanity in whom only a SISTER ANNE. mother's partial eye could detect promise of future beauty — the child named Vashti Wynne.

Chapter III. Ttealth

and strength came sloAvly back J--L f*0 "Wynne, Philip Rainsforth's young wife. Life would have been a gladsome thing for her then but for Miriam. Her husband was kinder and more indulgent ; not at once could he forget how nearly he had lost her, and his bitter agony at the thought. Her baby was a never-failing source of delight ; but nothing could she do to please Miriam. That worthy lady passed her days in a per petual round of grumbling. She grumbled at the child's heathenish name, at the extra Avork she caused, at the extra expense in curred ; she grumbled at its being a girl. " If they must have a child to bother and upset the whole household, why was it not a boy ?" she demanded. Did Wynne nurse her baby, Miriam was sure she could not be aAvare that she was confirming the child in a bad habit ; by-and by she would have a fine handful with her.

Did she employ her time and fancy in em broidering and fashioning wonderful little robes, she was chidden for inculcating thus early the germs of vanity and worldliness in the little Vashti's mind. Did she press loving kisses upon the tiny rosebud face and dimpled limbs, and murmur tender endear ments, she was rebuked as being silly and childish. Once the burden seemed more than she could bear, and, more than usually goaded by some querulous complainings of Miss Rainsforth, Wynne determined to appeal to her husband. Some meeting for a charitable purpose called Miss Rainsforth from her home on that very day, and Wynne and her husband had the evening to themselves. She decided she would not alio av such an opportunity to escape. Her heart beat fast as she thought of how Phihp would look at her, and what he Avould say, but she never Avavered in her purpose.

Her own happiness, probably that of her child, in the future, depended upon her courage now. She dressed herself as though for a gala occasion ; she donned her prettiest dress — one which Philip had bought her — a rich, heavy material, of a soft dove colour, trimmed handsomely Avith crimson velvet and black lace. She decked her baby — now six months old — with her own hands, in all the bravery of innocent baby finery. She saw that the tea-table lacked no dainty, that the books and papers were in their accustomed place, ready to Philip's VOL. I. d hand, and then, with a beating heart, awaited her opportunity. It came, sooner than she expected. Philip Rainsworth drank his tea, as was his wont, in silence; he partly waded through his newspaper, and then, chancing to look up, his eyes fell upon the form of his wife.

It was a pretty picture for any man to look upon and claim for his own. Wynne was bending over the bassinet which held her baby, laughing and murmuring to her — as only a mother can — with a delicious sense of freedom. It was a pretty picture, and Philip Rainsforth's heart gloAved as he gazed upon it. He put the neAvspaper aside, and walked softly over to her, standing unnoticed by her, looking down upon the child. "The little one grows rarely," he said at length. " I can trace the Rainsforth like ness ; and yet, strange to say, she somewhat resembles thee, Wynne." She turned round, with a little start, at the sound of his voice ; she did not know that he was so near her. " I am proud of my daughter, Philip," she said, with a bright smile ; "I think her the loveliest baby that ever was born.

I do not think her a bit like me ; I could never have been one half so pretty." "Nay, Wynne," he returned, putting his arm around her fondly enough, "thee know est that is not truthful. I have ever thought thee the fairest among women." She nestled close to him ; she looked into his face with glad, happy eyes. "I knoAv you used to tell me that, Philip, when you first brought me to Clover nook ; but that is — oh, dear me ! — ever so long ago. I must look quite ancient and venerable now." " Thee art fishing for pretty speeches, little wife." d " I am not, Philip — you know I am not. But tell me, dear " (this very gravely), " do you really love me as well now as you did then ?" "Thee art longing for a pretty speech, I tell thee, Wynne, and I will give thee one," he Avhispered, laying his face down upon the pretty flushed one resting against his shoulder.