Stella Hope

Chapter 1

Stella Hope was a peculiar child, a fact scarcely to be wondered at by those who knew her father. She loved enthusiastically everything that was beautiful, though all unhandsome creatures had her tender pity.

She loved nature in all her moods. If the glories of the setting sun inspired admiration, no less did the calm majesty of the rising moon, the blue of the midday sky, the deeper blue of the midnight. She watched the varied green of the waving trees and the many-colored flowers, but what especially filled her with delight was the sighing of the wind-swept pines, the babbling and gurgling of rock-fretted brooks, the matin songs of early awakened birds — and her father’s violin.

Her pets were many and various, from the year-old colt Corydon and the white heifer, to the wee, blind mouse, and the cooing dove.

She even loved the brown little pickaninny of Aunt Patsy, the cook, upon whom the said Aunt Patsy had proudly bestowed the uncommon appellation of Polly-Cotty, a name she had treasured in memory since by chance she had caught the term poly cotyledon from a botany lesson recited by one of Mr. Hope’s nephews.

Now these two cousins, George and Tom Haskins, orphan sons of Mr. Hope^s sister, were, except her father, the sole white companions of Stella. They were provided for and taught by Mr. Hope, and though older than his daughter, were her boon companions. Being a naturally quick child, she was put in a class with her cousins, and soon was able to conjugate her Latin verbs with much more facility than they ; but their superior understanding of algebra was to her an unfailing source of surprise and admiration.

The boys were good-natured and never jealous; but to her chagrin they would occasionally slip away from her for a ‘^hunt’’ or a ‘‘fish,’’ though generally they allowed her to accompany them; and she became quite expert with the rod and the gun.

Whenever they left her in the lurch she would seek her father in his study, and chat with him as long as he was at leisure; for he was a scholar and passed much of his time among his books. But when he became preoccupied she would slip away noiselessly, and, calling Galatea (diminutive “Gal”), the two would run down to the clay bank in the rear of the stable, and there fashion images of clay, fearfully and wonderfully made, until the shrill voice of Aunt Patsy summoned the reluctant “Gal” to the squalling Polly-Cotty.

Thus deserted, Stella would wander around, watching the antics of her pets, or playing with them. On this particular afternoon she was attracted by the splendid varieties of butterflies hovering over the vari-colored larkspurs growing in the newly harvested wheat-field. Never before had she seen so many gorgeous ones together; and, desirous of showing them to her father, she, all unconscious of the harm she was doing to the beautifully painted wings, caught many of them in her capacious apron, and ran breathlessly to show them to her father.

Mr. Hope was naturally dismayed when she released them in his study. The struggling, fluttering creatures, despoiled of their brilliant colors, flitted brokenly everywhere among his books and papers, depositing upon them the loosened dust of their wings. He reproved his thoughtless daughter for the real cruelty of such a capture, and in conclusion he said for the ear of ‘^Gal,’^ who was washing dish towels at the kitchen door,

‘‘Don’t let me hear again of any of you catching butterflies. If you do. I’ll — I’ll reckon with you!” which was about the worst threat that Mr. Hope usually uttered.

“Humph!” remarked Gal as Stella reached her; “humph! I ain’t cotch me no butterflies dis year. I bet I goes out ter-night atter dark when de butterflies goes ter roost, an’ ketches me some butterflies, too!^^ a defiance prompted not so much by a real desire for the gorgeous insects as by a spirit of insubordination swelling in her sable bosom — a spirit fostered by the extreme leniency of Mr. Hope.

Aunt Patsy suddenly thrust her head threateningly out of the kitchen window.

dat yo’ sayT’ she inquired, ain’ say nawthin’,” replied Gal, shamelessly mendacious.

‘‘Elf I hears any mo’ uv yo’ mouf, I’ll spank yo ’ black an ’ blue ! ”

“Shucks!” giggled Gal to Stella as soon as they were beyond the maternal ears. “I’se black alriddy, an’ I loves ter be blew when I’se up in de tall trees a-wavin’ in de win’. Come on, Stella, while Polly-Cotty’s sleepin’, an’ le’ ’s go ride our saplin’ bosses.”

Away they ran, rode their wooden horses to their hearts ’ content, and afterward went wading in the creek ; all of which goes to show the free and untrammeled life that Stella led until she was twelve, when her father, recognizing that she was growing to be a large girl, began to restrict her running at will ; and, to keep her about the house, assigned her extra lessons in her Virgil, — a task by no means distasteful to her, for she was an enthusiastic lover of the Latin poet, whose beauties her father pointed out with great taste and discrimination.

About this time he gave her a young squirrel, which she named Dido, in honor of the hapless Carthaginian queen — a name prophetic of the sequel, and to which the modifying adjective infelix might just as appropriately have been applied.

A year passed. Stella grew taller and prettier; and as she was thrown more and more upon her father’s society there sprang up a greater intimacy than she had known before, and she began to comprehend more fully his many accomplishments.

About this time one of the boys gave her a battered old banjo, which she learned to play with considerable spirit, and which filled up many a gap between lessons. To her lively jigtunes she would frequently have Polly-Cotty dance, at which times it would have been difficult to say which was the more pleased — Stella, the pickaninny, or the proud mother.

‘‘Boys,’’ said Mr. Hope on the summer morning that his daughter was thirteen, “you may take holiday to-day if you like.”

That they did ‘ ‘ like ’ ’ was shown by the alacrity with which they made for their fishing tackle.

‘ ‘ Oh, father, mayn’t I go too I ’ ’ begged Stella.

Mr. Hope regarded his daughter a moment with a glance in which tenderness, commiseration, and determination were curiously blended, then he answered gravely,

“No, my dear, not to-day. I have something to tell you this morning which must be deferred no longer. Come sit with me here ^Patulae suh tegmine fagi/ smiling sadly as he quoted from her Virgil, “and I will tell my brave little girl what I should have told her some while ago. ’ ’

Something in her father’s manner brought an indefinable chill, a foreboding, that passed momentarily across the girl’s consciousness, but with the gay insouciance of youth she shook off the premonition and, laughing, said.

‘‘Ah! father, you think I am too nearly a young lady to be tagging after George and Tommie. Is n ’t that iiV^

But to his daughter's consternation and distress, Mr. Hope bowed his head upon her shoulder and wept — a sight which was entirely new to her.

“Oh, father; oh, dearest father! what has happened? What have I done?’’ and in an agony of premature repentance she threw herself upon his bosom and begged for pardon with protestations and promises of amendment.

Her terror and grief were so excessive that it had the effect of steadying Mr. Hope. He pressed her tenderly in his arms, and gathering firmness he said,

“My dear child, the comfort and joy of my lonely life, you have done nothing either to offend or distress me. It is only my solicitude for your future that makes me sorrow. ’ ’

Stella quickly raised her head, as a rainfreighted flower lifts its face to greet the returning sunshine.

“Oh, how you frightened me!” she exclaimed, laughing. “But why are you so disturbed about my future? Shall we not always be together, and do all we can for each other’s happiness ? ’ ’

Mr. Hope placed his hand tenderly on her head, answering slowly and reluctantly,

“No; I must leave my little girl very soon. I have to take a journey to a far country, and I must go alone.”

father! why cannot I go with yon!’’ she said pleadingly.

Would that it might be so, my child, but it cannot be.”

‘ ‘ Why, father ; would it be much more expensive!”

Mr. Hope paused a moment, regarding the upturned face earnestly and lovingly. Then he replied gravely and significantly,

‘‘No, child, for this is a journey that we are all required to travel alone. No one, not even our dearest, can accompany us along this way. ’ ’

Stella’s eyes, which were gazing anxiously upon his face, were now growing larger and larger with comprehending terror, and an agony of distress. They took in what until this moment they had not discerned — the sunken eyes, the wasted and pallid cheek of disease. Having been accustomed to dwell only on the love-light of those eyes, she had, as would most children, failed to see the creeping shadow of death.

Her passion of grief when she fully understood was pitiable to behold. It required all of her father’s philosophy, of which he had much, to calm her sufficiently to induce her to listen to him intelligently.

“My child,” he resumed gently, when she at last lay passive against his arm, “you must not take it so hard. Remember it is the common lot, the inevitable end of all that which we call life. My father and mother went that way when I was a mere youth. Your sweet mother left us eight years ago, and went alone, though I would have gone with her so gladly. Your time will come, and so on to the extinction of all life on this globe. Your youthful spirits will rally from this affliction, and you will walk the highway of life until you, too, shall reach the gates of death, after which, the reunion. It is of this journey through life that I wish to talk with you. I have long known that I could not live a great while. I shall go suddenly; and I must speak now. I have instructed you as best I could, though a man cannot do all for a child that its mother can. You will go to your Aunt Haughton — do not shrink, my child, she is a good enough woman at heart, even if she seems proud and cold. She agrees to take you when I am gone, and will do the best she can for you till you are old enough to make your own living, as I am afraid you will have to do, for I shall leave very little.

^‘The companionship of your accomplished cousins will give the proper rounding to your education, even if you do not go to a finishingschool. Keep up your studies, and do not forget what I have taught you. I know how fond you are of your Latin, — ^you will not negJect that, — and review the mathematics and the little Greek you have learned ; you may be able to continue it some day. There, there; donT cry so, my dear; I would not say all this if it were not necessary. As to your future conduct — I know you will never do anything to shame your father’s memory, or precepts.

When you shall be grown, take heed lest yon rush into some nnconsidered attachment. I know your impulsiveness, so I charge you to he on your guard. Wait till your judgment is formed and prove that which is good. Observe always in your actions the golden rule. I know you are as innocent as a dove; try also to be wise as a serpent. And if any misfortune ever overtake you, or foul-mouthed calumny besmirch you, which Almighty God forbid! trust Him to set you aright.

^^Now, my child, there comes Dr. Bannerman; I must speak to him. ’ ’ He disengaged the hand that was clinging to his own, kissed the griefconvulsed face, and rose to meet his physician.

Stella, blinded with tears, rushed out in the garden under the lilac-trees, and flinging herself passionately upon the ground with face to the earth, wept and sobbed with heart-breaking sorrow. For hours she lay there, until the whoops of the successful fishers recalled her to the passing time, when she arose and slipped into her room to wash away all traces of her tears before again meeting her father.

Day by day after this, with ever-increasing dread, she watched the growing pallor and feebler step of her father; silently — so far as words — ^watched; though he knew from the expression of fear in her eyes and the tender, clinging touch of her hand what dread thought was ever in her mind. But he forbore to speak on the subject because of her violent grief when he had spoken to her of his death.

So it came to pass that he was at the brink of the dark river ere he or she could realize it. The boys had become strangely subdued, for Dr. Bannerman had informed them of their uncle’s condition, cautioning them against loud talking or boyish romping.

They grew wonderfully kind to Stella, bringing her young birds, mice, and butterflies ; now and then awkwardly venturing upon a word intended for comfort, but which generally had the effect of sending her weeping to her room. Poor child ! those \^ere sad days, and during the long nights her pillow was wet with unrestrained tears.

Then came a morning when her beloved father did not wake to the voice of love, and when the passing to and fro in the house was awed and hushed.

Chapter II

A pleasant afternoon in the month of May was drawing to a close in one of the Piedmont counties of the Old Dominion. Through the open windows of a large, stately and old-fashioned mansion floated in the cool breezes, laden with the fragrance of jessamine and honeysuckle which clustered in profusion upon the lattice-work of a long, colonnaded portico that looked toward the avenue of magnificent oaks, extending to a bridge nearly a quarter of a mile beyond. Away toward the southwest stretched the long, undulating chain of the Blue Ridge ; while to the rear an oak forest of sturdy giants gave to the once magnificent, hut now much diminished, estate the name of Oaklands.

Here for generations the aristocratic family of the Haughtons had lived, ever growing more tenacious of caste as the family exchequer became more exhausted and the influence of the surviving members waned.

This afternoon the whole family, the widowed mother and three daughters together, were engaged in characteristic occupations. The mother, a handsome and dignified woman of fortysix or thereabout, was crocheting a doily. The clear complexion, gray eyes, and brown hair, as yet unsilvered, were pleasant to look upon ; and the well-formed mouth, with the strong white teeth, would be so except for certain hard lines detracting from that softness which is one of the chief charms of middle age.

Marie, the eldest-born, with twenty-two years struck otf from her mother’s age, was her mother over again — ^handsome, graceful, and haughty, but charming when she wished to please; with the same sub-stratum of cold calculation and veiled policy. She was examining some antique jewelry, ever and anon holding up a chain, a bracelet, or a brooch, and laying it apart or putting it back in the casket for future consideration. *

Helen, the second daughter, was reclining in an armchair, reading. She most probably resembled her father, for there was no trace of the mother in the frank, laughing blue eyes, the rather short, honest nose, the slightly freckled complexion, and the light, waving brown hair. She was of less stately height than the other two sisters, and had occasionally been dubbed ‘‘dumpy” by them, being themselves elegantly tall. But the hand with which Helen held the book, and the arm from which the loose sleeve had fallen away, might well serve as a sculptor’s model.

Ethel, the youngest daughter, the acknowledged beauty of the family, was really beautiful; being exceedingly fair, golden-haired, just entering her nineteenth year, and but a few days emancipated from a fashionable boarding-school. She was occupied in trying over a new lot of popular songs.

‘^Your face is your fortune^’ had been so frequently said to her that she well knew she was beautiful. Her head was already filled with ideas of belledom and conquest, and she regarded physical perfection as the basis of woman’s influence. She had another rich endowment — a voice of exquisite sweetness and power, and now she was softly singing over the different airs before her with no especial pleasure in the music, but simply as a means toward a much desired end ; for it was expected of her to make a brilliant marriage and to restore the prestige of the family. She now turned toward the group, raised her arms wearily over her head, and exclaimed,

‘ ^ Mercy on me ! how stupid you all are ! Beg your pardon, mother, I mean Marie and Nellie. I declare it is almost as dull as school. Let’s talk about the summer campaign. ’ ’

Marie took no notice of the reflection upon her powers of entertainment; Mrs. Haughton shifted her position uneasily, but remained silent. It was Nellie who laid down her book good-naturedly.

Plans for the summer campaign! This, my dear Sis, can be disposed of in short order — canning fruits for the winter campaign, with probably a few diversions in the way of country picnics and informal dances. ’ ’

Ethel’s only response to Nellie was a glance of mingled anger and contempt. Then she turned to her mother ; but as the latter still continued silent she said to her second sister,

^‘You may enjoy such diversions if you like, but you will not have me as a companion. Mama faithfully promised me that if I would practice my music and graduate she would give me the season at The White. DidnT you, mama?

Thus directly appealed to, Mrs. Haughton, though accustomed to authoritative rule in her family, hesitated a moment uncertainly.

did promise, my dear, and you have performed your part of the contract entirely to my satisfaction; but I have unwillingly been compelled to relinquish all idea of giving any of you a trip this summer. The failure of the wheat crop, the burning of a tobacco barn, and the distemper among the horses have crippled my resources to a great degree, and I cannot keep my promise to you. I trust you will bear the disappointment gracefully, my daughter, for you are so young you can afford to wait another year. ^ ’

Mrs. Haughton stopped speaking, astonished at the effect of her words ; for Ethel ’s face had been undergoing such rapid and marked transitions as to be almost alarming. First a flush, then paleness, and lastly a deep crimson of indignant anger, with a sudden flood of tears and lamentations.

think it is too hard for anything! After being cooped up for a whole session in school I am to pass another year without seeing a living soul!’’ she sobbed.

‘^Why, little Sis, you surely will not deny souls to your mother and sisters, to say nothing of our good neighbors, the Joneses, the Smiths, and the Browns, ^ ’ laughed Nellie.

‘‘Helen, be silent!’’ commanded her mother sternly. ‘ ‘ Of course, we can all understand her disappointment, and she cannot regret it more than I do. There, there, my dear, I hope you may yet have abundant opportunities to exercise your gifts and accomplishments. ’ ’

Up to this moment Marie had not spoken. Now she broke in with impetuosity.

“I am sure it is not nearly so bad for Ethel as it is for me. She has all her belledom before her, while I have been on the tapis for several seasons.”

“Let’s be accurate and say six,” interpolated Nellie.

“For several seasons,” continued Marie, bestowing no notice upon her sister, “and should be thinking of establishing myself. ’ ’

“A little thought upon so momentous a question would have been in order several seasons ago,” again ventured Nellie laughingly.

“Helen, leave the room instantly!” said her mother sharply.

“I will not say another word, mama.”

“No; go at once!” And Nellie, always glad to avoid unpleasant scenes when she could not avert them, went out, leaving them to discuss and arrange the social and domestic affairs as best they could.

Ethel, only half reconciled to the maternal arrangements, soon stepped out upon the portico to meet the servant with the post-bag ; but Nellie was ahead of her and seized the budget.

Kerens a letter for you, Ethel — two of them,^’ she said, in a conciliatory tone, but Ethel snatched them ungraciously. Nellie continued. ^‘One for mama — none for me. As usual, a bridge is made of my nose ; no wonder you all call it flat,’’ and she went in, singing lugubriously, ^^No One to Love.”

^‘Here’s a letter for you, mama, with the St. Louis postmark,” she said.

‘ ‘ Dear me ! from whom can it be I ” and Mrs. Haughton hastily broke the seal and read. When she had finished it she said with some repressed excitement,

‘‘Come here, girls, and listen. Do you remember your cousin William Willoughby from the West, who made us a visit one summer, eleven or twelve years ago, with his son, young Will? I remember into how many escapades he led you, and I suppose you have a vivid remembrance of it also. Well, his father died some years ago, and I heard he left the boy an immense property. This son has been terribly injured in a runaway accident and his physicians declare his spine incurably affected. Will has, it seems, been bedridden most of the time since his accident, but is now able with the aid of crutches and a helping hand to hobble along a little. He remembers what he is pleased to term my charming home and Virginia hospitality, and wants to come, with his servant, and companion — ^hired, I suppose — and stay as long as he finds it agreeable. ’ ’

‘‘A very modest request for one self-invited,’’ observed Marie laconically, and making no remark upon the accident of her cousin and old-time play-fellow.

^^Poor, dear Will! bow very sorry I am to hear of his misfortune. I remember him perfectly and how he used to say that when grown he intended to come hack and marry Marie. Poor fellow ! I sincerely hope his injuries may not be permanent,” said Nellie quickly.

‘‘He has learned by some means,” Mrs. Haughton continued, “of my reverses, and declares he will not come unless I allow him to pay handsomely for board and all the trouble that he expects to give me. Of course, I must demur at remuneration — for form’s sake — ^but it will come in most opportunely” —

“Oh, mama!” interrupted Ethel, her face aglow with expectation.

Her mother nodded smilingly and continued, “He wishes to be on the first floor and his companion to have a room adjoining; but I scarcely see how I can give up more than one room to them downstairs. His servant will stay in the room with him, hut I have no room below stairs for the hired companion. ’ ’

“Why not roll the office close to the house, and cut a communicating door as they did at the Jones’s last summer,” suggested Nellie.

“A most excellent idea! It shall be done at once. And, as a reward for the bright suggestion, you shall have the pleasure of arranging the room, my daughter, ’ ^ said her mother, smiling approvingly.

^‘And what shall be my reward?’^ asked Marie, with some acrimony. Ethel is to have a season at The White; you have just named Nellie’s’’ — ^with an approach to a smile — ‘‘and I am the only one left out, it seems. ’ ’

“You shall have the reward of looking after the comfort and entertainment of Will while Nellie and myself are canning the fruits and attending to other household affairs,” answered her mother blandly.

A long and animated discussion of projects and plans followed. Ethel was in raptures of delighted anticipation, Nellie was interested in her room furnishing for the companion of her cousin, and only Marie was the disgruntled appointee.

Mrs. Haughton, well pleased at the prospect of a handsome remuneration, seated herself to answer the letter, and to insist on the immediate coming of her young kinsman, his servant and companion, the last to be least considered in her estimation.

“What a pity,” she remarked to Marie significantly, as she sealed the letter, “that Will did not come before he was injured.”

For the ensuing ten days everything was in a state of commotion and anticipation. Marie hurried off to Baltimore to make selections for Ethel’s outfit, a dressmaker was summoned from the city, and Ethel was in a delirium of delight when, on Marie’s return, the various articles were unfolded for inspection; but Nellie was her mother ’s faithful and efficient coadjutor in all that pertained to the coming of the expected guests.

The young heir’s apartment was made the most attractive and luxurious in the house; but that of the companion-friend was painfully bare, with its white-washed walls and its rickety furniture.

must make it look very different from this,” Nellie had said, on entering upon her task; and now, as she was putting the finishing touches, she surveyed the room with much more pleasure.

know he cannot help noticing the difference and contrast, even yet,” she mused. ‘Ht must be a trying position if he he a gentleman. I ani afraid, through sheer sympathy, I shall like him the best, simply because Cousin Will wrote mama not to put herself to any particular trouble on his companion’s account. I do so dislike selfishness ; but I suppose all sick people are selfish for the time. It certainly was very kind of Cousin Will, and considerate, to send mama such a generous cheque in advance. Now these scrim curtains look cool and sweet, and this is a dear little table with my cover and the vase of flowers. I am almost sorry to part with it. The bureau and washstand are rather the worse for use, and several knobs are missing, but I daresay he will not mind that. This rocker is very comfortable if it does not fall to pieces. I tried my best to make it secure. Perhaps I had best put a nail or two more in it. I wish the walls were not quite so bare, but I have taken nearly all of my pictures and robbed mama of one. I must beg her for just one rug. ’ ^

Thus she soliloquized, all unconscious of the attractive picture she herself made and how much her gentle consideration for the comfort of others was enhancing the beauty of her own countenance, made lovely with a far higher attractiveness than that of faultless features.

^ ^ There ! ’ ’ she exclaimed suddenly, ‘ ‘ can they have arrived already?’’ and she ran out just in time to see a carriage drive up to the front door.

Chapter III

‘‘How painfully thin Will looks! There is scarcely a vestige remaining of the handsome boy of twelve years ago. Only his eyes, which I remember were a beautiful brown, retain anything whatever of a familiar expression to me, ’ ’ remarked Mrs. Haughton after her unfortunate kinsman, exhausted to the point of collapse, had been conveyed to his room.

“He certainly has no pretensions to good looks now, ’ ’ said Marie carelessly.

‘ ‘ Oh, Marie ! how can you even think of looks in connection with an almost dying manP^ exclaimed Nellie reproachfully. “We should rather be considering how best we may contribute to his comfort and recovery. Poor fellow! I fear he will never recover entirely. ’ ’

“Mr. Weston has the appearance and manners of a gentleman, although, as mama said, he is no doubt hired/ ^ remarked Ethel, twirling the rings upon her fingers.

“Is the circumstance of his being hired entirely incompatible with his being a gentleman P’ inquired Nellie; then added, “People have to do many things for a living nowadays that would not have been thought of before the war. ’ ’

“Just listen to Nellie’s democratic ideas!” said Marie scornfully. “I believe she would as lief be seen walking with Miss Lovell, our dressmaker, as with the first lady of the land. I think Cousin WilPs companion has manners entirely too easy for one in his position, don’t you, mama I ’ ’

Marie thinks he ought to feel overwhelmed in her august presence ; but it is plain to me that whatever his present position, whether paid companion or not, he has the bearing of one accustomed to cultured society; and his personal appearance is decidedly prepossessing,” retorted Nellie, always on the side of the attacked.

‘‘Say no more on the subject, any of you,” commanded Mrs. Haughton. “I cannot atford to have Will offended through any discourtesy to his companion. Be always scrupulously polite to him without being familiar. You are not obliged to marry him, Marie, so it does not matter one way or the other. I think, myself, his whole manner is a trifle independent ; but there is always a way to check advances. I repeat, be polite, but not familiar. ’ ’