Mrs. Oakly met this reverse of fortune humbly and uncomplainingly. Happily, she was ignorant of the sin of her husband, in having, like a second Cain, destroyed his brother. Yet she felt that for another crime—the disowning of his own offspring—the punishment was just. Her own conscience, too, reproached her for the unjust feelings in which she had indulged toward the innocent Louisa; and now, almost for the first time in her life, she treated her as a daughter.
Kind, gentle, affectionate Louisa! only that she saw her parents deprived of many comforts which would have soothed their declining years, she would have rejoiced in a change of fortune which had brought with it their love. In her heart there was a secret sorrow which she might breathe to none—it was her love for Walter Evertson. Never, since that fatal day, had she seen or heard again from him; but that he was faithful, and would be faithful unto death, her trusting heart assured her. When ease and affluence surrounded her, this sudden separation from her lover, and under such afflicting and inexplicable circumstances, had seemed to paralyze her energies. Books, music, travel, all failed to excite more than mere mechanical attention; but now, in the sorrows of her parents, she lost the selfishness of her own, and strove in every way to comfort them.
What now had become of the once proud merchant? His name was no longer heard on ’change, unless coupled with a creditor’s anathema; and summer friends, like the sun on a rainy day, were behind the cloud.
It was a cold, cheerless day in December; one of those days when one hugs close to the fire-side, and when even a glance at the dull, sombrous out-of-door atmosphere makes, or ought to make, one thankful for the blessings of a pleasant fire, to say nothing of the society of a friend, or the solace of a book. With all these comforts combined, the family of Mr. Sullivan had assembled in the breakfast parlor. There was the grate, heaped to the topmost bar of the polished steel, with glowing anthracite; the soft carpet of warm and gorgeous hues; luxuriant plants of foreign climes, half hiding the cages of various little songsters, whose merry notes breathed of spring-time and shady groves; and the face of grim winter shut out by rich, silken folds of crimson drapery.
The pleasant morning meal was already passed, and the breakfast things removed, with the exception of the beautiful coffee-set of Sevre’s china, which Mrs. Sullivan was so old-fashioned as to take charge of herself; in preference to trusting it with servants. Seated at the head of the table, a snowy napkin in her hand, she was now engaged in this domestic office. Mr. Sullivan and Mr. Danvers (the husband of Ruth) had just gone into the study, to talk over some business affairs. Ruth had taken the morning paper, and upon a low ottoman by the side of her mother, was reading the news of the day—now to herself, or, as she found a paragraph of peculiar interest, aloud for the general entertainment. Agatha was reclining upon the sofa, and nestling by her side was a beautiful boy of two years old, playing bo-peep through the long, sunny curls of “Aunt Gatty,” his merry little shouts, and infantile prattle, quite overpowering ma’ma’s news.
“Why what can this mean?” suddenly exclaimed Ruth; “do hear this, ma’ma. ‘If the former widow of Mr. John Oakly (the name of her present husband unknown) be still living, or the children of said John Oakly, they are requested to call at No. 18 —— street, and inquire for A. O., or to forward a note to the same address, stating where they may be found.’ What can it mean, ma’ma?”
Without answering, Mrs. Sullivan rose from her chair; she trembled in every limb, and her countenance was deadly pale.
“Ruth, dearest,” said she, “ring the bell, and order the carriage immediately to the door.”
“Ma’ma, you surely will not go out alone,” said Ruth.