Chapter XXV

by Mary Jane Holmes

　　THE WANDERER

　　In Uncle Joshua's home there were sad, troubled faces and anxious hearts,as the husband and daughter watched by the wife and mother, whose life onearth was well-nigh ended. From her mother's family Mrs. Middleton hadinherited the seeds of consumption, which had fastened upon her.

　　Day by day, they watched her, and when at last she left them it seemed somuch like falling away to sleep that Mr. Middleton, who sat by her, knewnot the exact moment which made him a lonely widower. The next afternoonsympathizing friends and neighbors assembled to pay the last tribute ofrespect to Mrs. Middleton, and many an eye overflowed, and more than oneheart ached as the gray-haired old man bent sadly above the coffin, whichcontained the wife of his early love. But he mourned not as one withouthope, for her end had been peace, and when upon her face his tears fell hefelt assured that again beyond the dark river of death he should meet her.

　　The night succeeding the burial Mr. Middleton's family, overcome withfatigue and grief, retired early to their rooms, but Fanny could notsleep, and between ten and eleven she arose and throwing on her dressinggown nervously walked up and down her sleeping room. It was a little overa year after her marriage. Through the closed shutters the rays of abright September moon were stealing, and attracted by the beauty of thenight, Fanny opened the blinds and the room was filled with a flood ofsoft, pale light. From the window where she stood she could distinguishthe little graveyard, with its cypress and willow trees, and its whitemonument gleaming through the silvery moonlight, and near that monumentwas a dark spot, the grave of her beloved mother. "If all nights were aslovely as this," thought she, "it would not seem half so dreary to sleepin the cold dark grave," and then Fanny fell into a fit of musing of thenight that would surely come when she would first be left alone in theshadowy graveyard.

　　In the midst of her reverie her attention was attracted by a slight femalefigure, which from some quarters had approached unperceived, and now uponthe newly-made grave was bowing itself in apparent weeping. The size andform of the girl were so much like Luce that Fanny concluded it must beshe, at the same time wondering how, with her superstitious ideas, sheventured alone near a grave in the night time. In a moment, however, shesaw that Tiger, the watch dog, was with her, and at the same instant thesound of a suppressed sob fell on her ear. "Poor Luce," said she, "I didnot think she loved my mother so well. I will go to her and mingle mytears with hers."

　　In a short time Fanny was in the open air, and on her way to thegraveyard. As she approached her mother's grave, she said gently, "Luce,Luce, why are you out so late?"

　　The person addressed partially raised her head and answered hurriedly,"Oh, Fanny, Fanny, do not be frightened and leave me; I am not dead, andnever was buried in that grave, as you suppose, but I am here tonight aliving, repentant woman," and throwing back her bonnet, the thin, whiteface of Julia Middleton was in the bright moonlight perfectlydistinguishable to Fanny, who at first recoiled in fear and leaned forsupport against the marble pillar near which she was standing.

　　She, however, soon recovered her self-command and glancing at the objecton the grave, saw that she was caressing Tiger, who seemed trying variousways to evince his joy at finding one whom he had long missed, for he hadever been Julia's favorite. Their fiery natures accorded well! Again Juliaspoke, "Fanny, dear Fanny. In an adjoining state I heard of mother'sillness and hastened to see her, but I am too late. Now, do not think me aphantom, for see, Tiger recognizes me and welcomes me home, and will notyou?"

　　An instant Fanny wavered, then with a half-fearful, half-joyful cry shewent forward, and by the grave of the mother that day lowered to the dust,the sisters met in a long, fervent embrace.

　　Into the best chamber of their father's house Fanny led the weeping,repentant girl, and gently removing her bonnet and shawl, bade her liedown on the nicely-cushioned lounge, while she went for her father. As shewas leaving the room Julia arose and laid her small, bony hand on Fanny'sshoulder. It had rested there before, for in the graveyard, with theirburied mother between them, Julia's arms had encircled her sister's neck;but the first excitement was over, and now involuntarily Fanny shrank fromthat touch, for in spite of all her courage, she could not helpassociating Julia with the grass-grown grave, and the large whitemonument.

　　"What is it, Julia?" she said calmly. "Do you wish to see father?"

　　"Oh, yes, yes," answered Julia, "but not him, the other one--at least nottonight. You understand."

　　"I do," said Fanny, and she glided down the stairs toward her father'sroom. He was awake, for ere her hand touched the doorknob, his sonorous"Who's thar?" fell on her ear. This somewhat disconcerted her, for she hadintended stopping near his door, to devise the best means by which tobreak the intelligence. But "Who's thar?" was again repeated, and enteringthe room she said softly, "It's I, father."

　　"Why, sure enough," said he, and then as the light from her lamp fell onher features, he exclaimed, "why, how white you be! What's the matter?Who's upstairs? Is George sick?"

　　"No, George is not sick," said Fanny, "but--," and then as well as shecould she told him all she knew.

　　Uncle Joshua's nervous system was unstrung, and his physical healthimpaired by long nights of watching with his wife, and now when this freshshock came upon him, he fell back half-fainting upon his pillow. Thenrousing himself, he said, "Alive and come back! I don't desarve this. Butwhere is she? I will go to her."

　　Fanny directed him where to find her, and then returned to Julia, whitherher father soon followed. Uncle Joshua was not prepared for the change inhis daughter. He did not even think of her as he saw her last, wasted bysickness, but in imagination he beheld her as she was in her days ofhealth and dazzling beauty, when with diabolical cunning she had broughtDr. Lacey to her feet. Now, however, her face was thin, white and haggard,for such a life as she had lived had never conduced to the beauty andhealth of any one. Her eyes, sunken in their sockets, and swollen withrecent weeping, looked frightfully large and wild, and to complete themetamorphosis, her beautiful, glossy hair was now cut short on her neck,and pushed far back from a brow, across which lay more than one prematurewrinkle.

　　The sight of her for a time unsettled the old man's reason. Taking her inhis arms he alternately cried and laughed over her, saying, "I knew you'dcome. I expected it. I've waited for you."

　　Julia's altered appearance troubled him, and drawing her head down uponhis bosom, and laying his hand on her thin, white face, he said, "Poorchild, what has changed you so, and whar have you been; and who did I buythat big stun for if 'twasn't for you?"

　　"Not tonight, dear father," answered Julia. "Let me rest tonight andtomorrow I will tell you all."