A SURPRISE.
She ran down-stairs briskly enough now, and ran out of the front door.
"Any letters to-day, Jerome?" she inquired.
"No, miss," answered Jerome, shaking his head.
"Oh, dear, how depressing!" sighed Emma, as she turned to go into the house.
But a sound arrested her steps—the opening of the carriage-door. She turned and saw Jerome standing before it and in the act of helping some one to alight from the carriage.
Another moment and a tall, thin, dark-eyed woman, with very white hair, and clad in the deepest widow's weeds, stood before Miss Cavendish.
By instinct Emma recognized her aunt. And she felt very much relieved, and very much rejoiced to see her, even while wondering that she should have come unannounced either by letter or telegram.
As for Jerome, he stood wickedly enjoying his young lady's astonishment, and looking as if he himself had performed a very meritorious action.
"Miss Emma Cavendish, I presume?" said the stranger, a little hesitatingly.
"Yes, madam. And you are my Aunt Fanning, I am sure. And I am very glad to see you," answered Emma Cavendish.
And she put her arms around the stranger's neck and kissed her.
"Dat's better'n letters, a'n't it, Miss Emmer?" inquired Jerome, grinning from ear to ear, and showing a double row of the strongest and whitest ivories, as he proceeded to take from the carriage various packages, boxes and traveling-bags and so forth.
"Yes, better than letters, Jerome. Follow us into the house with that luggage. Come, dear aunt, let us go in. Lean on my arm. Don't be afraid to lean heavily. I am very strong," said Emma; and drawing the poor lady's emaciated hand through her own arm she led her into the house.
She took her first into the family sitting-room, where there was a cheerful fire burning, which the chilly mountain air, in this spring weather, made very acceptable.
She placed her in a comfortable cushioned rocking-chair and proceeded to take off the traveling-bonnet and shawl with her own hands, saying:
"You must get well rested and refreshed here before you go up to your room. You look very tired."
"I am very weak, my dear," answered the lady, in a faint voice.
"I see that you are. I am very sorry to see you so feeble; but we will make you stronger here in our exhilarating mountain air. If I had known that you would come by this train I should have gone to the railway station in person to meet you," said Emma, kindly.
Mrs. Fanning turned her great black eyes upon the young lady and stared at her in surprise.
"Why, did you not get my letter?" she inquired.
"No," said Emma. "I anxiously expected to hear from you from day to day, but heard nothing either by letter or telegram."
"That is strange! I wrote to you three days ago that I should be at Wendover this morning, and so, when I found your carriage there, I thought that you had sent for me."
"It was very fortunate that the carriage was there, and I am very glad of it; but it was not in fact sent to meet you, for, not having received your letter, I did not know that you would arrive to-day. The carriage was sent to take some visitors who had been staying with us, and were going away, to the railway station. It is a wonder Jerome had not explained this to you. He is so talkative," said Emma, smiling.
"I never talk to strange servants," gravely replied the lady. "But I will tell you how it happened. I really arrived by the earliest train, that got in at Wendover at five o'clock in the morning. There was no carriage from Blue Cliffs waiting for me at the railway station, and, in fact, no carriage from any place, except the hack from the Reindeer Hotel. So I got into that, and, having previously left word with the station-master to send the Blue Cliffs carriage after me to the Reindeer when it should come, I went on to the hotel to get breakfast and to lie down and rest. But when half the forenoon had passed away without any arrival for me, I began to grow anxious, fearing that some mistake had been made."
"I am very sorry you had to suffer this annoyance, immediately upon your arrival here too," said Emma, regretfully.
"Oh, it did not last long! About noon the landlord, Greenfield, rapped at my door and told me that the Blue Cliffs carriage had come, and that the ostler was watering the horses while the coachman was taking a glass of beer at the bar."
"Jerome had doubtless taken our visitors to the station, and called at the Reindeer to refresh himself and his horses."
"Yes, I suppose so. Almost at the same moment that the landlord came to my door to announce the carriage, I heard some one else, under my window, saying to the coachman that there was a lady here waiting to be taken to Blue Cliffs; and I went down and got into the carriage with bag and baggage. Jerome, if that's his name, very gravely, with a silent bow, put up the steps and closed the door and mounted his box and drove [off."]
"But you must have left some baggage behind."
"Yes, three trunks; one very large. Mr. Greenfield, of the Reindeer, promised to send them right after me in his wagon."
While they had been speaking, Emma Cavendish had touched the bell and given a whispered order to the servant who answered it.
So now the second footman, Peter, appeared with a waiter in his hands, on which was served tea, toast, a broiled squab and glass of currant jelly.
This was set upon a stand beside Mrs. Fanning's easy-chair.
"I think that you had better take something before you go upstairs," said the young hostess, kindly, as she poured out a cup of tea.
Consumptives are almost always hungry and thirsty, as if nature purposely created an unusual appetite for nourishment in order to supply the excessive waste of tissue caused by the malady.
And so Mrs. Fanning really enjoyed the delicate luncheon set before her so much that she finished the squab, the jelly, the toast and the tea.
When she had been offered and had refused a second supply, Emma proposed that she should go up to her room, and she took her at once to the beautiful corner chamber, with its southern and eastern aspect, that had been fitted up for her.
Here she found that her traveling-trunks, which had already arrived from Wendover, were placed.
And here, when she had changed her traveling-dress for a loose wrapper, she laid down on a lounge to rest, while Emma darkened the room and left her to repose.
Miss Cavendish went straight to the old lady's apartment.
Mrs. Cavendish was sitting in her great easy-chair by the fire, with her gold-rimmed spectacles on her nose and her Bible lying open on her lap.
As Emma entered the room the old lady closed the book and looked up with a welcoming smile.
"I have come to tell you, my dear grandma, that Aunt Fanning has arrived," said Emma, drawing a chair and seating herself by the old lady's side.
"Yes, my dear child; but I'll trouble you not to call her Aunt Fanning," said Madam Cavendish, haughtily.
"But she is my aunt, dear grandma," returned Emma, with a deprecating smile.
"Then call her Aunt Katherine. I detest the name of that tavern-keeper whom she married."
"Grandma—grandma, the man has gone where at least there can be no distinctions of mere family rank," said Emma.
"That's got nothing to do with it. We are here now. Well, and when did Katherine arrive, and where have you put her? Tell me all about it."
Emma told her all about it.
"Well," said the old lady, "as she is here, though sorely against my approbation—still, as she is here we must give her a becoming welcome, I suppose. You may bring her to my room to-morrow morning."
"Thank you, grandma, dear; that is just what I would like to do," replied the young lady.
Accordingly, the next morning Mrs. Fanning was conducted by Emma to the "Throne Room," as Electra had saucily designated the old lady's apartment.
Madam Cavendish was dressed with great care, in a fine black cashmere wrapper, lined and trimmed with black silk, and a fine white lace cap, trimmed with white piping.
And old Moll, also in her best clothes, stood behind her mistress's chair.
The old lady meant to impress "the tavern-keeper's widow" with a due sense of reverence.
But the gentlewoman's heart was a great deal better than her head. And so, when she saw the girl whom she had once known a brilliant, rich-complexioned brunette, with raven hair and sparkling eyes and queenly form changed into a woman, old before her time, pale, thin, gray and sorrow-stricken, her heart melted with pity, and she held out her hand, saying, kindly:
"How do you do, Katie, my dear? I am very sorry to see you looking in such ill-health. You have changed very much from the child I knew you, twenty-five years ago."
"Yes," said Mrs. Fanning, as she took and pressed the venerable hand that was held out to her. "I have changed. But there is only one more change that awaits me—the last great one."
"Moll, wheel forward that other easy-chair. Sit down at once, my poor Katie. You look ready to drop from weakness. Emma, my child, pour out a glass of that old port wine and bring it to your aunt. You will find it in that little cabinet," said Madam Cavendish, speaking to one and another in her hurry to be hospitable and to atone for the hard thoughts she had cherished and expressed toward this poor suffering and desolate woman.
And Mrs. Fanning was soon seated in the deep, soft "sleepy hollow," and sipping with comfort the rich old port wine.
"Yes, Katie," said the old lady, resuming the thread of the conversation, "that last great change awaits us all—a glorious change, Katie, that I for one look forward to with satisfaction and desire always—with rapture and longing sometimes. What will the next life be like, I wonder? We don't know. 'Eye hath not seen—ear heard,'" mused the old lady.
The interview was not a long one. Soon Emma Cavendish took her aunt from the room.
"You must come in and see me every day, Katie, my dear," said the old lady, as the two visitors left.
And from that time the desolate widow, the homeless wanderer, found loving and tender friends, and a comfortable and quiet home.