Originally published: 1891
Genres: Romance
Gutenberg link: https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/70837
Chapters: 39
Warning: This may include outdated and derogatory language and attitudes.
CHAPTER I
“GO! AND MY WORST CURSES GO WITH YOU!”
In a retired street in one of the inland cities of Massachusetts stood a neat and attractive little cottage of purest white, the dark green of its blinds making it seem still whiter beneath the dazzling sunshine of a lovely June morning.
Its little gem of a yard was surrounded by the daintiest of white fences, and filled with the brightest and choicest of flowers, showing that the owner was a person of taste and refinement.
The neatly graveled walk, from which every intruding blade of grass was carefully plucked, led to a smooth, wide stepping stone as clean and spotless as a daily application of soap and water could make it.
The door stands invitingly open this bright morning, but we will not enter just yet. An introduction first is necessary for its inmates.
The sound of wheels is heard, and down the street comes a light, elegant buggy, drawn by a noble, spirited, yet gentle horse of coal black. On and on it comes, until, at a word from the driver, it stops directly in front of the gate before the little cottage.
A boy of perhaps fourteen or fifteen years of age sprang lightly to the ground, tied his horse, and then, with a look of eager expectation upon his face, walked quickly toward the open door.
He was a bright and active-appearing youth, with a full, round face, whose frank, open expression won you at once. His eyes were a fine hazel, large and full. His forehead, as he lifted his hat and ran his fingers through the clustering rings of chestnut hair that crowned his head, shone white and fair as polished marble, and was broad and high. His nose was straight and rather thin for the rest of his face, while his mouth was small but very pleasant in its expression, though there were certain lines about it that indicated firmness and a will of his own.
He was manly in form and bearing, and there was a look of conscious pride upon his beaming face as he glanced complacently back at the handsome equipage at the gate, while the silver tinkle of a bell gave back an answering echo to his touch.
“Oh, Mamma, Robbie has come at last.”
And a bright little elf sprang dancing into the hall, and instantly a pair of chubby arms were around Robbie’s neck, and a hearty smack testified to the warmth of his reception.
She was just the sweetest little bit of sunshine ever caught and imprisoned in human form. A little round rosy face, all smiles and dimples; a pair of laughing blue eyes that danced and sparkled every minute of the day with fun and mischief. A pug nose and a rosebud mouth, always ready to give and take the sweetest kisses, as she had already proved. Her hair hung in curls around her plump cheeks and was a sort of yellowish brown—not at all red, reader, but the brightest and richest auburn you ever saw.
Her figure was short and plump, while her little skipping fairy feet seemed almost too tiny to hold up so much precious flesh and blood.
“Oh, Robbie!” she said, almost breathless with delight and anticipation. “I thought you never, never, never would come; and Mamma has coaxed and scolded to get me from the window, watching for you. She says it’s so unbecoming and unladylike to be so impatient, but I couldn’t help it, it’s so long since I had a ride. How nice the old pony looks, doesn’t he? and o-oh! you’ve had the buggy newly painted, too. What a grand time we will have! Come, I can’t wait any longer.”
The little witch was about to spring down the step when a voice from within arrested her.
“Dora, Dora, wait, my child, you have no collar or gloves. Your hat is on the wrong side front, and your cape is not fastened; come here, my dear, and let me fix you.”
A quiet, lady-like-looking woman followed the pleasant voice and approached her lovely little daughter with the missing collar and gloves.
“Good morning, Robert,” she said, smiling. “Did you ever see such a little Miss Wildfire before?”
“Good morning, Auntie! I can’t blame Dora a mite, for I can hardly keep still myself this bright day. I wish you could go with us.”
“Thank you, Robert, I fear Dora would hardly consent, for she thinks it is a great thing for you to take her out alone. How is your father today?”
“He is about as usual, only he does not seem to be in very good spirits. I told him the other day he would be happier if he was a poor man and had to work for a living. He would then have something besides himself to think about.”
“What did he say to that?” asked Mrs. Dupont.
“Oh, he only laughed and said I was a queer boy, and that I might work for my living if I wanted to.”
“Now, Dora,” said her mother, “you must hold still or I shall never be able to dress you. Put on your gloves while I pin the collar. I fear Robert will not wish to take you riding often if you don’t make a better appearance. Ladies never go to ride without their gloves.”
“But, Mamma, I ain’t a lady; I’m only a little girl, and I hate gloves and starched things.”
The bright little face was very red just now from the effort of putting on the troublesome gloves, and there was something very like a pout upon the red lips.
“Well, never mind, dear,” returned her mother, kindly, “you will forget all about them after you have started. Have a happy time, and come home and tell me all about it. I hope you are a careful driver,” she added, turning to Robert. “You won’t forget that Dora is my all now.”
“You may trust me, Auntie, and then old Prince is so gentle there is no fear. Come, Brightie, you are ready now, and we will start.”
He took Dora by the hand, and leading her to the buggy, put her carefully in; then unfastening the horse he sprang lightly after her, and with smiles and waving of hands they started and were soon out of sight.
Mrs. Dupont stood looking after them for a few minutes, a happy smile upon her fine face. She was a widow, and this one pet lamb—this bright and winsome Dora was her all in the world.
Her husband had been a physician, and had settled in S— soon after marriage, building up a good practice, which increased every year; until he had earned this snug little home, which with a few thousand at interest, made him feel quite easy as to the future. Besides this he had his life insured for five thousand more, and so when he was suddenly stricken with a malignant fever, and knew he could not live, he felt that he should leave his dear ones in comfortable circumstances if not in affluence. It was a heavy blow to Mrs. Dupont, for it left her almost alone in the world. She was an orphan, with no relatives except a maiden aunt, who, disapproving of her union with the poor physician, had cast her off forever, and threatened to leave her large fortune to some charitable institution.
Maggie Alroyd, scorning the fortune, married her own true love and was happy with the penniless doctor. He had been dead now four years; having died when Dora was eight years of age. But he was not forgotten. His memory was still fondly cherished in their hearts, and not a day passed that loving words did not testify to the strength and depth of their affection for him.
Robert Ellerton Jr. was the son of one of Dr. Dupont’s patients. A rich and influential man, who was proud as Lucifer of his wealth, and also his name, which he claimed was spotless. His wife had died when Robert, their only child, was born, and he had never married again, his household affairs being governed by a maiden sister. He had conceived a sudden attachment for Dr. Dupont, who had saved Robert’s life—for Mr. Ellerton declared that he did—when he had a severe attack of the croup.
There was nothing he would not do for the doctor after that; the families immediately became intimate, while Robert and Dora grew to love each other like brother and sister. Better, in fact, for Robert used to tell her that sometimes she should be “his little bright-eyed wife.” And he always called Mrs. Dupont “Auntie.”
After the doctor died the intimacy continued, until within the last year or two Mr. Ellerton had suddenly become cold and distant, though he still allowed Robert and Dora to visit each other. Whenever questioned why he did not visit them, his reply invariably was that his health was failing and he did not go out much. Indeed, it seemed to be, for he grew thin, pale, sullen, and cross to everybody about him.
Even Robert began to fear him and keep out of his way. But in his secret heart, he worshiped his bright and handsome boy, and planned his future course, building wondrous castles in the air for him.
He was beginning to think that it was about time to put a stop to “Robert’s foolish fancy for that girl Dora,” for they could not always expect to keep it up. His son would be rich and would move in very different circles from the doctor’s daughter, who was comparatively poor.
How well he succeeded the future alone will show!
The youthful pair, all unconscious of these plots against their peace, and also of the very queer act in life’s drama which they were to play that bright June day, were riding briskly along the smooth, wide road that led into the country, enjoying to the uttermost the green fields, sparkling brooks, and gay flowers, with faces as bright and smiling as their own happy, joyous hearts could make them.
“Where are we going, Robbie?” asked Dora, suddenly remembering that she did not know.
“I thought we’d ride out to N— and look at Squire Moulton’s new statuary. I heard he had just received some, and that it’s the finest collection in the country. I have a nice little lunch in a basket here, and after we’ve seen all we want to, we’ll go down by the lake and eat it.”
“Oh, how nice!” said Dora, clapping her hands. “Is it that great, big house with the beautiful grounds, where we went to the picnic last summer?”
“Yes; only you remember I didn’t go. Father doesn’t like the squire very much,” his face clouding for an instant.
“What is the reason he does not like him?” asked Dora, inquisitively.
“I don’t know, I’m sure, only he was very cross last year when I asked if I might go to the squire’s picnic, and I thought he swore about him.”
“I don’t care,” said Dora hotly. “I think he’s a real nice man to give all the children a picnic, and we had a splendid time. I shouldn’t think he’d let you go today if he wouldn’t then.”
“He didn’t know where I was going today. I asked if I might take old Prince, and he said yes, but I don’t think there would be any harm in going to see the statuary,” replied Robert, though the hot blood rushed to his face as if he felt half guilty.
“I don’t think there is any harm, either; but, oh, Robbie, look at that squirrel there!—there he goes, right through the wall.”
“Yes, and there goes its mate. Now they’ve both gone into that hole in that tree.”
“Yes; how cunning they were! I wish you and I were squirrels, with nothing else to do but run around in the sunshine all day, and eat nuts; it must be real fun,” glancing back wistfully toward the place where the squirrels had disappeared.
“Oh, no, Dora, you don’t, either; you forget that if we were squirrels we could not be married, and, you know that someday you are to be my little wife,” replied Robert, looking roguishly at her.
“Yes, I could be your wife just the same; for don’t you suppose one of those squirrels was the other’s wife? And then we shouldn’t have to work. I hate to wash dishes and dust, and—”
“Well, Dora,” interrupted Robert, “you won’t have to work when you marry me, for I shall have plenty of money, and you can have servants to do the work, and all you’ll have to do will be to dress up in pretty clothes and trinkets, and play all the time if you want to.”
“Oh, that will be so nice, Robbie!” exclaimed Dora, heaving a sigh of relief at the pleasing prospect of not having to work. “I wish I were your little wife now.”
“Do you?” he asked, a bright look coming into his face. “Well, I’ll tell you what we will do. We will go and be married before we go home, then I can take you to Mother, for she will be my mother too, then. Will you, Brightie?”
“Yes, indeed, we will,” replied Dora. “Then my name will be Dora Ellerton, won’t it? I think it’s a really pretty name, too. But who will marry us, Robbie?”
“I don’t know. I guess Squire Moulton will; he’s justice or something. Anyway, I’ll ask him. Come, get up, old Prince, for we are going to be married.”
He touched the horse lightly with the whip, and these two children, so full of their fun and mischief, laughed, chatted, and planned for the future, little dreaming of the sorrow and misery they were about to entail upon themselves.
At length, they rode up the broad driveway and stopped before the squire’s elegant country seat.
He was not in, the man said, who opened the door for them, but guessed they would find him somewhere about the grounds.
“Well, no matter,” said Robert, who was beginning to feel a little embarrassed with his strange errand. “We will go and find him.”
And taking Dora by the hand, they strolled down one of the beautiful walks until they came to a rustic arbor.
On looking within they discovered a little bent man of about fifty, with sharp black eyes and grizzly hair.
He looked up crossly as they entered, and demanded what they wanted, in a tone that made Dora shrink closer to Robert’s side.
“Are you Squire Moulton, sir?” asked Robert, respectfully.
“Yes, I’m Squire Moulton. What is it?” he replied sarcastically mimicking the boy’s manner.
“We’ve come to be married; that’s what we want,” said Dora, smartly, at the same time snapping her large eyes angrily at him.
“Come to be married, indeed! Ha! ha! ha!”
The little gray-headed old man went off into a paroxysm of laughter that made the echoes ring all over the grounds, while his evil black eyes glowed with the intensity of his merriment.
“And pray,” he continued, when he could find breath to speak, and looking amusedly at the youthful pair before him, “who are you, and what may be the names of the parties who wish to assume the hymeneal yoke?”
And he laughed again.
“My name is Dora Dupont, and Robbie’s is Robert Ellerton, and you needn’t laugh, either, for we’ve been engaged this long time.”
There was a sudden change in the man’s manner, and he repeated, with a dark scowl, looking first at one, then the other.
“Been engaged this long time, have you?”
“Yes, we have, and if you won’t marry us, we can go to someone else. Robbie is rich, and I guess he can pay for it, so you needn’t be afraid about that.”
The indignant little lady’s face was of a crimson hue, and her blue eyes snapped fire, while she enforced her speech with a stamp of her tiny foot, as she stood erect and defiant before him.
They made a strange picture and one that each remembered in the long, dreary years that followed. That gray old man, with his evil face, and wicked eyes, sitting there, looking so intently at the two children before him. Robert, with his fine, manly face, glowing with excitement and exercise, a smile wreathing his full lips at Dora’s anger, while at the same time, there was a half-perplexed look in his eyes at the old man’s words and manner. He was holding Dora’s hand in a protecting sort of way, while she stood all flushed and indignant, and half ready to cry at the bare idea of being made fun of, her hair tossed and flying with every motion of her quivering little form.
Yes, it was an interesting and striking picture beneath that rustic arbor, with the waving trees, the bright sunshine, and beautiful flowers, for a background, interspersed here and there with the gleaming white figures of statuary, and an occasional glimpse of the silvery waters of a miniature lake, as the waving branches of the trees were parted by a gentle breeze.
As Dora mentioned the name of Robert Ellerton, a sudden change came over the squire’s wrinkled face.
He became ashy pale, his lips were clenched beneath his teeth until they sank deep into the flesh, and his coal-black eyes became almost red with the fierce blaze of passion that seemed to stir him.
His frame quivered, and he glanced at the youthful lovers in a way that frightened Dora, who pulled Robert by the sleeve, and whispered that she was afraid, and wanted to go home.
Robert stood silent and spellbound, at the sudden and almost terrifying change in the squire’s manner, staring at him with wonder-wide eyes, and gaping mouth.
“Robert Ellerton!” at length almost gasped the man. “And is your father’s name Robert Ellerton, too, young man?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the boy, still regarding him with surprise.
“And your mother—tell me quick,” he continued, hastily, and almost sternly.
“My mother is dead, sir. She died when I was born, and Aunt Nannie has always taken care of me.”
“Dead! Oh, Heaven, dead! Jessie dead!” muttered the old man, pressing his hand to his side, and staggering back upon the seat from which he had just arisen.
Great beads of perspiration stood upon his brow, and his hands shook as if with palsy, as he took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped them off.
“Oh, Jessie,” he wailed, “thou wert lost to me before, but I did not think that thou hadst gone so long to the regions of the unknown.
“Say, boy,” he added, and he clutched Robert almost fiercely by the arm, “was your father kind to her? Did she love him?”
“Of course he was kind to her—of course she loved him,” replied Robert, indignantly, but wondering still more at the man’s strange behavior.
“Come, Dora,” he added, “we will go home; we won’t stay here any longer.”
He again took Dora’s hand, which he had dropped in his astonishment, and started to leave the place.
“Stay,” said Squire Moulton, quickly, and a wicked expression swept away the agony that had been on his white face a moment before, while the devilish look came back to his evil eyes, though he tried to control it and render his manner pleasant and affable.
“Stay, my young friends, you shall have your wish. I will marry you. I used to know your mother, young man, and hearing that she was dead took me by surprise. Yes, I will marry you, certainly,” he continued, gleefully rubbing his hands together; “only tell me first who this young lady is. Is her papa rich like your father?”
“No, sir,” replied Dora, promptly, her anger vanishing at the squire’s pleasant manner. “Poor papa is dead; he was a doctor; and my name is Dora, and mamma lives in a little cottage; but that is no matter, for Robbie will be rich, so it doesn’t make any difference.”
“No, no, certainly not, my little miss,” and he laughed disagreeably again.
“You stay here a few minutes while I go and make out a certificate—for, luckily, I happen to be clerk as well as justice—and then I’ll come back and perform the ceremony, and you shall be truly Mrs. Robert Ellerton before you go home.”
So saying the squire strode with hasty steps toward his elegant mansion, where, once within his library, he gave free vent to his pent-up feelings.
With clenched hands and wrinkled brow, he paced back and forth the spacious length of that great room, cursing, bitterly cursing, and muttering to himself:
“Oh, Robert Ellerton,” he said, “I have you now; I can now pay you twice told for all my weary years of woe and anguish. You shall moan and weep, and gnash your teeth, even as I have done. Your false pride shall have a blow from which it will never recover. I remember you too well to know how it would gall you to have your son marry a poor girl, and under such circumstances, too. And he—he too, will chafe in the future at the chain that binds him. I know how you have built proud castles in the air for him, even as you used to for yourself, but they shall all tumble about your ears in confusion. It is in my power to crush you now, and, curse you, I will do it! Oh, Jessie, my poor blossom, had you but give yourself to me, how bright would I have made your life! I would have held you close—close to this beating heart, and it should have given you life. My life has been, and is, like the dregs of the wine cup, sour and bitter, but you could have made it sweet and fragrant as burning incense. But now there is nothing left but revenge, and—I will take it! Oh, how I hate you, blighter of my happiness! I curse you! and I will crush you and yours if I can.”
It was a fearful passion that moved him. One moment of intense hatred and anger toward one whom he imagined had wrecked his life. The next was full of tenderness and sorrow for the one who loved and lost the sweetness of his existence. It was a long pent-up agony flowing afresh over his soul, a wound long since healed and scarred over now torn rudely open and pouring forth his inmost heart’s blood. He tore his hair, he beat his breast, as he strode wildly back and forth, until at last, utterly overcome, he sank back exhausted upon a chair.
Several moments passed, when with a mighty effort he conquered his emotion in a measure, and rising, he went to his secretary, took out some papers, and sitting down, commenced writing. He soon finished, folded the paper, and then went back to the arbor, where the children, having forgotten all unpleasantness, were chatting merrily.
They became silent as he approached, and looked uneasy; but he entered with a pleasant smile, told them to rise and take hold of each other’s right hand, and going hastily through the marriage service, he soon pronounced them man and wife.
His own face paled as he looked into those so earnestly raised to his, and his heart half sank within him as the thought of what he had done rushed over him. But he quickly cast it from him, and giving the folded paper to Dora, he told her, with a sinister smile, that she must never part with it, but treasure it sacredly, or she could not prove that she was Robert’s wife.
She took it, with a feeling half of awe, half of shame, and thrust it quickly within the depths of her pocket.
How could that bold, bad man stand up so calmly and perform such a mockery in the sight of Heaven? How could he so deliberately plan to blight and crush two innocent hearts and lives—two babes, as it were, who had never had a thought or wish of evil for any of God’s creatures? He little knew or realized to what extent his threat would be carried. Perhaps, could he have looked into the future, even he would have shrunk from the depth of woe to which his curses consigned them?
After he had performed this diabolical act, he instantly became the most agreeable of hosts, taking them all over his grounds, showing them the statuary, and explaining the different subjects to them; afterward giving them a sail upon the miniature lake in the daintiest of dainty boats. He then invited them into the grand old house, where, after looking a half-hour or so at some magnificent paintings, he ushered them into a pleasant little room, where they found a tempting little treat of strawberries and cream and cake.
They made merry here for a while, and then, as their buggy was ordered to the door, they bade their host a pleasant goodbye, thanking him for his kindness to them; took their seats, and drove merrily away.
Squire Moulton watched them until they disappeared from view; then, raising one clenched hand, he shook it threateningly, and hissed through his shut teeth:
“Go, you young fools! and my worst curses go with you!”
He then went within, slamming the door violently after him. As he did so, two men arose from behind some bushes and shrubs which grew beside the arbor where the strange marriage had taken place, and stealthily made their way out of the grounds, whispering as they went.
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