Mary closed the door and went to bed, but she could not sleep; for the first time, the sweet voice of her sister, as it sounded through the thin partition, brought disquiet to her affectionate heart. She heard Edward Clark leave the house about ten o’clock, but it was more than an hour before Jane came to bed. When, at length, she felt the familiar touch of her cheek, it was heated with feverish thought. The deformed lay within her sister’s arms, apparently asleep, but deliberating on the most effectual method of opening the subject which lay so heavily on her heart, when that whistle which had haunted her footsteps continually since the night before again sounded from the cove with a shrillness that cut to her heart like a dagger.
Jane caught her breath, rose suddenly to her elbow, and listened, while her frame trembled till it shook the bed. After a few minutes, during which the whistle sounded sharply again, she crept softly from the bed, put on her clothes, and stole from the house. Mary was so shocked and confounded that it was several minutes before she could collect her thoughts sufficiently to decide what course to pursue. At last she arose, and hastily dressing herself, ran down to the cove.
The trees hung in leafy quiet over the green sward, and the moonbeams shed their radiance on the waters as they rippled against the bank; no human being was in sight, but a strange canoe lay rocking at its mooring by the side of her own, and the murmur of distant voices came faintly from the direction of a spring which supplied the household with water.
The moonlight lay full on the overhanging trees as Mary approached, and, in the stillness, the voices she had heard became each moment more distinct. She paused in the shadow which fell across the footpath where it curved down into the little hollow. Her sister. Jane, was sitting on a rock just within the moonlight, which flickered through the boughs above, and by her side, with her hand in his, was Walter Butler.
He was speaking, and Mary’s heart swelled with indignation as she listened to his words.
“Take your choice,” he said, “remain here and become the wife, the drudge, of Edward Clark—condemn these beautiful hands to perpetual toil; milk his cows, cook for his workmen, be content with the reward of a homespun dress, now and then, to set off this form, which a king might look upon with admiration; accept this miserable life if you choose. But do not pass by the offer I make, without thought; for it is wealth, ease, luxury, in fact everything that beauty craves, against neglect and drudgery. I offer the heart of a man who knows how to estimate your beauty—who will deck it in gold and robe it in silks—who will provide servants to do your bidding, and surround you with such elegance as you never dreamed of. It is no idle promise, Jane, for I have become rich, very rich, independent of my father. What are you crying for? can I offer more than this?”
“Oh, no,” replied the infatuated girl; “I was thinking of poor old grandma—dear, dear Mary; what will they do when I am gone—what will Edward Clark think of me?”
“Edward Clark again! and that old woman and selfish girl who have made you a slave. Will you never stop whimpering about them?—have I not promised that you shall send them money?”
“They would not take it; I am sure they would not touch a cent of your money. Indeed, I cannot help feeling bad when I think of leaving them in this manner. When we are married you will bring me back sometimes, won’t you?”
“Yes, when we are married I will certainly bring you to see them; have no fear of that. It is now past twelve, and we must be many miles hence before daybreak. Come, dry these tears and go with me to the canoe—we are losing time—what good is there in all these tears? they only spoil your beauty; come, come.”