To Mrs. Seymour it showed an acknowledgment on his part of her good taste and judgment in selecting so fitting a person for Alice’s companion, and a willingness to follow her advice, and make the best of it, even if Miss Lennox was connected with the Irvings. She knew something of Jessie’s story. She saw her once in Schodick, and she had done what she could to separate her brother from her, but she did not know of the tragic ending, and she gave no thought to the poor, drowned woman, who, all through the formal dinner, was so constantly in Magdalen’s mind. She had at once identified Mr. Grey with the stranger in Belvidere, though he seemed older than she had thought him then. Still, there was no mistaking him, and when his sister casually addressed him as “Arthur,” it came over her, with a great shock, that this man was none other than the “Arthur Grey” who had been poor Jessie’s ruin, and whom Roger hated so cordially. There could be no mistake; she was positive that she was right in her conclusions, and felt for a moment as if she were smothering. What strange fatality was it which had brought her into the very household of the man she had hated, for Roger’s sake, and longed to see that she might tell him so. She had seen him, at last! he was there, at her side, speaking to her so kindly, and making her feel so much at home, that she could not hate him, and before dinner was over she had ceased to wonder at Jessie’s infatuation, or to blame her for listening to him. He was very polite to her, but seemed to be studying her face as intently as Alice had done at first, and once, when she poised her head upon one side, while her eyes flashed suddenly upon him, and then were quickly withdrawn, the blood came rushing to his face and crept up under his hair, for he knew now of whom that motion reminded him. He had thought it so charming once, and the eyes which shone upon him as Magdalen’s did had been so beautiful, and soft, and liquid, and given no sign of the fierce wildness with which they had many a time glared on him since.
“It is only a resemblance, but I would rather it did not exist,” he thought, as he met that look again, and shivered as if he was cold.
Dinner being over they returned to the parlor, where, at Alice’s request, Magdalen seated herself at the piano. Her homesickness was passing away, and she no longer felt that a nightmare was oppressing her, but rather that she should find at Beechwood peace and quiet and a home, and she sang with her whole soul, and did not hear the sound outside, which caught Alice’s attention so quickly, and took her from the room. She knew, however, when Alice went out, and a moment after was conscious of some confusion by the door, and heard Alice’s voice, first in expostulation and entreaty, then calling hurriedly for her father to come. Then Mr. Grey went out, and Mrs. Seymour was left alone with Magdalen, who finished her song and left the piano, wondering what it was which had taken both Mr. Grey and Alice so suddenly from the room, and kept them away for half an hour or more. Indeed, Mr. Grey did not return at all, and when, at last, Alice came back, she was very white, and said something to her aunt, which sounded like, “It was the music, which affected her, I think.”
Was there a mystery at Beechwood, Magdalen thought; a something hidden from view, and was it this which made Alice look so sad even while she tried to smile, and appear gay and cheerful, by way of entertaining her new friend?
They had the parlor to themselves ere long, for Mrs. Seymour went out, and then Alice took her seat on the couch, where Magdalen was sitting, and nestled close to her, as a child nestles to its mother when it is tired and wants to be soothed.
Passing her arm around the slender waist, Magdalen drew the curly head down on her bosom, and gently smoothed the chestnut hair, and passed her hand caressingly across the forehead, where the blue veins showed so plainly.
Magdalen was not given to sudden friendships, and she could not account for the love and tenderness she felt growing so fast within her for this young girl, who lay encircled in her arms, and who she knew at last was crying, for she felt the hot tears dropping on her hand. She could not offer sympathy in words, for she did not know what to say, but she stooped and kissed the flushed cheek wet with tears. Alice understood her, and the silent crying became a low, piteous sobbing, which told how keenly her heart was wrung.
“Pray excuse me, for giving way so foolishly,” Alice said at last, as she lifted up her head. “I was ill so long in Europe, and the voyage home was rough and stormy, and I kept my berth the entire two weeks we were out at sea, so that by the time New York was reached I could not stand alone. I am better now; home scenes and mountain air have done me good, but—but—oh, Miss Lennox, I cannot tell you now of the shadow which has cast a gloom over my whole life. Why, I have seen the time when my beautiful home had scarcely a charm for me, and in my wickedness I accused God of dealing too harshly with me. But He has been so good to me, who do not deserve kindness from Him. When I knew you were coming I went away among the hills and prayed that I might like you,—that your presence would do me good,—and I am certain the prayer was answered. I do like you. I feel a firm conviction that in some way you are destined to do us all an untold good. You do not seem like a stranger, but rather like a familiar friend, or I should not be talking to you as I am. Have you sisters, Miss Lennox?”
The moment which Magdalen dreaded had come, when she was to be questioned by Alice with regard to her family, and she resolved to be perfectly frank, and keep nothing back which it was proper for her to tell.
“I have no sisters that I am aware of,” she said. “I was adopted, when a little baby, by Mr. Roger Irving, who lived at Millbank, and was himself a boy then. The circumstances of my adoption were very peculiar, and such as precluded the possibility of my knowing anything of my family friends, if I had any. I have never known a sister’s love or a brother’s, or a father’s or mother’s, though I have been as kindly and tenderly cared for as if I had been the petted child of fond parents, and only an adverse turn in the wheel of fortune sent me from the home I loved so much.”