Mr. Grey had heard from his sister that Magdalen came from Millbank, where she had lived in the Irving family until the finding of the will, and for a few moments he had felt as if he could not have her there at Beechwood, recalling by her presence what he would so gladly have forgotten. Why was it that the Irvings, or some one connected with them, were always crossing his path. Surely he had been sufficiently punished for poor Jessie’s death. His most implacable enemy could have asked no greater sorrow for him than he had experienced for years, save at times when in foreign scenes he forgot in part the horror and the burden which since his return to America had pressed heavier than before.
“The girl is a lady and very handsome too, though of a far different style from Alice. I hope you will try to like her, Arthur,” his sister had said to him, as she saw a shadow on his face and felt that in some way he was displeased.
“Of course I can have nothing against the girl,” Mr. Grey replied, “though there are reasons why any thing connected with the Irvings should be distasteful to me, and I would rather Miss Lennox had come from some other family.”
He left his sister then, and went to his own room, where on the wall was still hanging that little pencil sketch of the graveyard in Belvidere, and the barefoot girl standing in the grass with the basket of flowers on her arm. That Miss Lennox was the original of that picture, Mr. Grey did not doubt. She had told him that her name was Magdalen, and that she had always lived at Millbank, so there could be no mistake. He had scarcely thought of that incident for years, but it came back to him now and struck him as very strange that this same barefoot girl should have come there as companion to his daughter.
“Should she ever enter this room, and there’s no knowing where Alice may take her, she will see this picture and recognize it at once, and wonder where I found it and possibly recognize me as the stranger who talked with her in the graveyard. It is better out of sight,” he said, as he took the drawing from the wall and laid it away in the drawer where the lock of golden hair was, and the faded bouquet which the “wretch of a Jim Bartlett” once had the credit of stealing. And all this time the man trod softly, as if fearful of being heard and called for, and he looked often toward the door which opened into the adjoining room. But everything was still; the Burden was sleeping at last, lulled into quiet by the sweet music of “Allie’s” voice and the touch of “Allie’s” hands.
Having put the picture away, Mr. Grey made himself ready for dinner, and then going down to the parlor, he stood before the grate, waiting for his daughter and Miss Lennox. The door was open into the hall, and he saw them as they came, with their arms interlaced, and Magdalen’s head bent towards Alice, who was smiling up at her.
“Strong friendship at once,” he thought, feeling for a moment vexed that his high-bred daughter, should so soon have fallen in love with her hired companion.
But this emotion of pride passed away forever with Mr. Grey’s first full inspection of Magdalen Lennox, whose brilliant beauty startled and surprised him, and whose bright, restless eyes confounded and bewildered him, carrying him back to the Schodick hills, and the orchard where the apple blossoms were growing. But not there could he find the solution of the strange feeling which swept over him and kept him silent, even after Alice had introduced her friend.
“Miss Lennox, father,” Alice said, a second time, and then he came to himself, and said, “Excuse me, Miss Lennox, something about you, as you came in, sent me off into the fields of memory, in quest of some one who must have been like you. You are very welcome to Beechwood, and I am glad to see you here.”
With a courtly grace he offered her his arm, and led her to the dining-room, followed by Alice and his sister, both of whom were delighted to see him take so kindly to a stranger.