THE MESSENGER OF LOVE. 337
hours in the shrubbery and groves at Gresham; and she;took no pains to conceal that I was the only one of the whole household with whom she cared to exchange a word. To me she clung with a fondness which touched me to the heart, and I was always ready to defend her against the depreciating comments of my mother and father, which irritated me beyond measure, though I could not but acknowledge to myself that they were sometimes too well merited.
“Madge,” said Cecile, in her sad voice, has your lover gone?”
“Yes,” I answered very decidedly; ‘and I must return to the house immediately to say farewell to papa and mamma.”
Cecile gazed at me, and said,
“Yes, yes, you must, by all means, bid them adieu this evening.”
“Won’t you go with me, Cecile?”
She shook her head, and knowing her habits, I did not urge her, but returned slowly home.
My first act was to run up stairs to my own room, and place my carrier pigeon in a pretty canary cage, tenantless. since the death of Christy, a former favorite. My spirits had returned. I thought that Gerald would certainly relent, return in the morning as usual, and all would be well. I had no warning of the fearful ordeal which was to bring me to bitter repentance of my incessant trifling with Gerald’s devoted love. I laid my cheek caressingly against the bars of the cage and talked to my bird.
“What name shall I call you, pretty creature? What word will tell your pure whiteness and gentle loveliness! Shall I call you Cloud? Shall I call you Flight? I will give you the Norwegian name for snow-flake—Sneeflocken.”
Suddenly mindful of my mother’s approaching departure, I hurried down stairs.
“Madge,” said my mother, “I have been looking over the lawn for you. Come into the library for a few moments, I wish to speak to you alone.”
I followed her.
“My dear child,” she said, with an anxious face, ‘I do not like the idea of going off in this hurried manner, and leaving you alone so unprotected; your father thinks you had better put a few things together and come with us, Your grandmother’s sudden indisposition and desire for our presence will scarcely keep us more than two days.”
“Oh! not for the world, mamma! I am not in the least afraid; there is Cecile, you know, for company.”
“Cecilia, indeed,” muttered my father, who had come in after mamma. “A crazy French-woman—much good she will do you. I have given Thomas very particular directions; I dare say you will get along very well. But come, Eliza, my dear, the carriage waits. Good-by, Madge, God bless you, my daughter! take good care of yourself.”
My mother kissed me with her anxiety somewhat lightened by my cheerfulness and fearlessness, and the carriage drove off in the gathering dusk, I stood on the steps and nodded gayly to my mother, who, after the manner of mammas, looked through the back window of the carriage to see the last of her only child. As they disappeared behind the trees of the avenue, over which the veil of twilight was fast falling, a recolleetion of all the thousand tender and thoughtful deeds that my dear mother had done for me came swiftly to my mind. I seemed to see, as in a mirror, all her unfailing kindnesses, and the ungrateful, unthankful returns I had made. Tears filled my eyes; the dreary thought suggested itself that, perhaps, it was too late to make them up to her in the future by studied thoughtfulness for her comfort. Perhaps I never would see my mother again. Why had she looked so anxiously at me as we parted? I turned and entered the house, endeavoring to shake off the depression which hung over me.
“Thomas,” I said to our gray-haired domestic, “I wish you to shut up all the house carefully now before it gets late.”
“Mrs. Bassigny is in, Miss, I suppose?”
“Yes, I imagine she must be.”
He went on his errand, whilst I walked into the library, where a bright fire was burning, the evening having turned suddenly cool, as is too often the case in our northern climate. The banging and bolting of shutters and doors struck a chill to my spirit as old Thomas went through the lower rooms.
Scarcely had he finished the last bolt, and the echo of his footsteps died away, when I was startled by a violent knocking at the hall-door I sprang to my feet and listened. Bang, bang, bang—who on earth could it be?
Recovering my composure, I walked to the door and unbarred it. There stood Cecile, her thin, black dress clinging to her figure with the heavy dew, her black eyes shining in the dim light.
“Why, Cecile!” I exclaimed, almost angrily, “what are you doing out so late in the evening, and why didn’t you ring, instead of making that abominable noise?”
Without paying me the smallest attention �
