"Ernestine, darling, listen;" said Mrs. Dering, with the tears running down her pale face. "You shall know the truth. You have been my little girl ever since you were two months old, but your own mother gave you to me just before she went to heaven, and she was my—;" but it was needless to say more; Ernestine gave a little moan, and dropped her head, and Mrs. Dering was sobbing, as she laid her back on the pillow; while Bea ran for some water.
CHAPTER XII.
THE STORY.
Mrs. Dering and Ernestine were alone; Ernestine had asked for the story of her own, or rather her mother's life, and now lay with her face turned away, while Mrs. Dering held her hand in that loving clasp, and began telling it quietly:
"We were all living in Virginia at the time, dear. Papa Dering lived with his uncle Ridley. Uncle Walter Dering lived in Staunton, and your mama's home and mine, also in the city, were only a little way apart, and we saw a great deal of each other. Florence Granger was her name, and she was the most beautiful girl that I have ever seen, except the little daughter here, who is going to be her mother's very image. She was lovable in every way, but possessed a restless, impatient, dissatisfied spirit, that brought her much unhappiness. She constantly yearned for some kind of life that would give her eager, uncontrollable spirits free play; she hated the restraints of home, and frequently threw out dark hints to me of what she would do sometimes, when the right moment presented itself. I often begged her to give up such restless longings, and be happy at home; for she certainly had a lovely one, and might have been the happiest of girls; but she would kiss me and laugh, and call me 'dear little proper Bess,' and really be so happy and gay for a time that I would lose my fears, and think her threats all lively fun. About this time, papa and I became engaged, and I, confiding to him a secret that I had discovered, that his brother Walter loved Florence, he said that Walter had confessed it to him but that he despaired of ever gaining her heart, and that he dreaded the depressing effect of discouragement on his health, for Walter was very delicate. So I promised to do all I could towards helping him, and finding out the true state of Florence's heart towards him, and I did so quite successfully, though it has always been a source of bitterest regret to me. I found, with very little trouble that she had no thought or feeling of love for him, and one day, when she was thoughtlessly laughing at him for something, I told her, in a hasty moment, how he loved her, and how the disappointment might kill him. I never can forget how surprised and grieved she looked, nor how bitterly I regretted my hastiness, for a more tender-hearted girl never lived, and it was impossible to guess, how, in a generous, impulsive moment, she might sacrifice herself. That night she stayed with me, and both Walter and papa called; and I saw in an instant, that in her generous pity, she was going to do a work that could never be undone. Poor Walter was nearly beside himself with joy and encouragement. She sang for him, and oh, how many times have I gone back to that night, when you have been singing to me, with your mother's voice, dear. She promised to ride with him next day, and as papa watched them, he said to me in great relief: 'She loves him, and they will be happy;' and I could only say 'I hope so, truly,' and pray that I might be forgiven for what I had done; for I knew she did not love him.
"In a few days, she came rushing to me in a perfect passion of stormy, bitter tears, and frightened me greatly with her fierce vehemence. She declared that she hated him, that she could not endure the sight of him, and yet, not half an hour before, she had promised to marry him, and now, if I did not say something to comfort her, she would do something dreadful, sure. I was perfectly at a loss what to say or do, and trembled for the end of it all, but I knew the only way to quiet her would be to appeal to her pity and tenderness, so I talked and talked for a great while about him, how he loved her, how the disappointment now would surely kill him, how happy we would be as sisters when married, and how we would all go to Europe if papa inherited uncle Congreve's estate; and so finally won her over to a more pleasing view of the case. In the weeks that followed, I had the same thing to do many, many times, and found it more difficult to accomplish each time. She was wildly rebellious, and in an unguarded moment, let fall her passion for stage life, and then confided to me all her former plans, hopes, and aspirations. She had been in correspondence with members of the profession and had many secret plans laid for carrying out her ideas. She showed me several letters from Clarence Clare, then a famous actor, and I did not dream, could not even realize then, how far matters had gone. She was to have joined his troupe when he reached Staunton, left her home and gone out into the world under an assumed name, to taste and know its bitterness, when it was all too late. I was in an agony of fear, and besought her to give it up and think, before she lost herself to home and friends, but she told me I need not worry, she had written to him that morning that she was to be married, and could not fulfill her plans with him, and that I could rest in peace, for she was going to be a really good girl now, and settle down as properly as I could wish. I believed her, and was entirely deceived by the quiet, contented aspect that marked her from that day, and was overjoyed at the happiness that seemed to come to her as the day of our double marriage drew near. She spent much of her time with Walter, and the rest almost entirely with me, and we had hours of delightful chatter of when we would be sisters indeed, and always live together, for papa and Walter were devoted brothers.
"It all comes back to me now, so terribly clear, how the day before our wedding came, and Florence was in such a state of ecstatic happiness; she left me in the evening with the warmest, tenderest kisses and embraces, and said she would be on hand early in the morning, for we were to be married at ten o'clock. While we were at breakfast next morning, her maid came over in great haste, to know if she was with me, that she wasn't at home, and evidently had not been, as her room was untouched. It seemed for a moment that I could not move, so great was the terror that possessed me; then I jumped up, snatched a hat and ran all the way to her home, without once thinking of amazed observers. She was gone. There was a little note left for me, and no word for any one else; she had gone with Clarence Clare, who had arrived the day before, and, perhaps, even as I stood there reading her hurried words, she was being married, or was already his wife. I can never tell you of the tempest of grief that fell upon two homes, or how we ever got through that wretched day. Papa came to me for just a few minutes, then hurried off to stay with Walter who had not spoken, or betrayed any signs of consciousness since the word of Florence's desertion reached him. We knew from that day that he could not live, and though he was never ill, he died slowly, lingering with us only about six months, and his last words were to papa and me, spoken just before he died: 'If she ever comes back, tell her I forgave her, that I loved her to the last, and prayed God every hour that she might be happy.'
"A little while after, papa and I were married, and moved to Richmond. He received nothing from Uncle Congreve, you know, so we both had to go to work, and we were very happy, for papa was brave, strong and honorable, and he prospered; so that in a little while we had a cosy home of our own, and envied no one their riches.
"Mr. and Mrs. Granger, your grandparents, were very proud, and left Staunton, rather than stay where their daughter had disgraced them, and we never knew where they went to, or whether they are still living or not. Two years went by, and in that time I sent many a loving, anxious thought to Florence, where ever she was, and wondered if we were ever to meet again; and one night my answer came to me. It was a bitter night, snowing hard and blowing fiercely. Papa and I, were sitting in our cosy, warm room, and Bea was sleeping, rosy and sweet, in her little crib, when there came the feeblest kind of a ring at the door-bell, and papa went to the door. In just a second he called me, and I hurried there, to find him holding a basket, with a queer bundle in it, and looking amazed out into the night; then he set it down suddenly, and hurried out. I had not collected my thoughts, when he came in again with a fainting figure in his arms; a woman with a face uncovered, and we both recognized her in an instant. She was nearly dead with exposure, and it was a long time before she was able to speak a word, but we doctored her strongly, got her into a hot bed, and after a while she opened her eyes, and knew us. When she could talk, she told us how unhappy she had been; how, after submitting to her husband's neglect and the trials of stage life, for over a year, she had left him, and as soon as her baby was born, began looking for us. She was very feeble, and after leaving her burden on the steps, fainted in the snow before reaching the gate."