Overland Tales

by Josephine Clifford

  _LONE LINDEN._

  "It is just the place for you; Clara will find it sufficiently romantic,Miss Barbara can have Snowball and Kickup both with her, and you, dearfriend, will be pleased because the rest of us are."

  The letter was signed "Christine Ernst;" and Mrs. Wardor, when she hadfinished reading, continued in her quiet, even tones:

  "What an unaccountable being she is; I thought her cold and unfeeling,because she dismissed that fine young fellow so unceremoniously, when weall thought her heart was bound up in him."

  "Ah, me!" sighed Clara, fair of face, blue-eyed, and with feathery curlsof the palest yellow. "How little we know of the sorrow that sits silentin our neighbor's breast. The sentiment--"

  "Oh, bother sentiment!" broke in Miss Barbara, impetuously, flingingback the heavy braids of unquestionably red hair that had strayed overher shoulder. "Daisy, my snowball, imagine, if you can, a large lot, ameadow, or paddock, or something with grass, for Kickup, you and me! Oh,won't it be jolly, though?" And seizing the sweet Daisy, a squat,broad-faced Indian girl, whom Barbara's father, an army contractor, hadpicked up somewhere around Fort Yuma, they executed a species ofwar-dance that sent chairs, crickets, and bouquet-stands flying, andcaused Mrs. Wardor and her other companion to exchange significanthead-shakings.

  Having suddenly loosed her hold of Daisy in the wildest of the dance,and sent her spinning into the corner where her head struck the whatnot,Miss Barbara approached the elder lady, panting, and with deepcontrition.

  "Forgive me, Aunt Wardor; I shan't forget my young-lady manners againfor a whole week. But it did seem such a relief, just the thought ofgetting away from this cramped little house, and into the open airagain, that I could not help being rude to Lady Clara." She seized theslender fingers of the young lady, in spite of the little spasmodicmotion with which they seemed to shrink from the hearty grasp.

  "But, Barbara," urged Mrs. Wardor, somewhat mollified by theaffectionate "Aunt," "when a girl of your age avers that she is a younglady, how can she constantly forget herself, and act the child and theromp again."

  A flush passed over the girl's face, a handsome face, full of life andanimation, which a few little freckles seemed really to finish off, asshe turned sharply from both, and seated herself in the most statelymanner at the grand piano, the recent birthday gift of her father.

  Barbara was his only daughter, "and he a widower," who was surprised oneday to find that she was receiving the marked attentions of a younggentleman matrimonially inclined, at the springs where she was spendingher vacations, with all the assurance and matter-of-course air of a"grown-up lady," when he had never dreamed but that she was only achild. He thought to cut the matter short by returning her instantly tothe seminary; but soon learned from the conscientious lady at the headof the establishment that the young gentleman was persistent in hisdevotions, and Miss Barbara as persistent in breaking the rules of theinstitution. Then he bethought him of a lady whose calm dignity andquiet self-possession had always somewhat oppressed him when he hadoccasionally met her in his wife's parlors, during that estimablewoman's life time. And recollecting how his wife had honestly lamentedthat her daughter could not live under the influences of a cultivatedmind, and the refined manners which she, herself, did not possess, hewent boldly to Mrs. Wardor one day, and proposed that she should takecharge of the self-willed girl, who insisted on being treated with theconsideration due a young lady owning a declared, though forbiddenlover. To Mrs. Wardor the proposition was acceptable; some years before,true to the "gambling instincts" of an old Californian, her husband hadstaked his all on some favorite mining stock, and, after losing, hadtaken his chances of striking something better in the next world, byblowing his brains out when he found himself "on bedrock" in this. Likea sensible woman, she had given up her elegant establishment withoutgrieving very much, had secured a smaller house, and thought herselffortunate in finding a class of boarders who shocked neither hersensitive nerves nor her fastidious taste.

  Among the very limited number was a young girl who had left theFatherland when quite young, and had been educated by an older brother,since dead. Her love and talent for music, together with what she calledher Deutsche Geduld, had stood her in good stead, and Miss Ernst was nowconsidered one of the best music teachers on the Coast.

  When Barbara Farnsworth was placed in her charge, Mrs. Wardor feltjustified in restricting the number of her boarders to two, outside ofthis young lady--so liberal were the terms Mr. Farnsworth urged uponher. The one other boarder besides Miss Ernst, was the fair lady withthe golden curls, who had lost mother and husband within the year, butfound an ample fortune at her disposal on the death of the latter. Themother had been Mrs. Wardor's most cherished friend, and the fittestplace for Lady Clare, as Miss Barbara called her, seemed Mrs. Wardor'shouse. Here she had found already domiciled Miss Ernst, who, a fewmonths later, to the astonishment of everybody, left her home and thecity, in consequence of a quarrel with her betrothed, as he wassupposed to be by people who knew other people's business better thantheir own. A close friendship had sprung up between the two young women,and Clara, it was surmised, was the only one who knew of Miss Ernst'sreasons for the unlooked for departure, just as Miss Ernst was the onlyone who knew much, or anything, of Clara Hildreth's "heart-sorrows."

  That she had had such sorrows, no one could doubt who looked into thelarge blue eyes, with their melancholy expression, or noticed the droopof the small, gracefully-poised head. It was not surprising that thistender, clinging creature should miss the prop and staff afforded by theresolute yet sympathetic nature of her friend; and when the letter camesuggesting that Mrs. Wardor spend the summer in San Jose, whereChristine could be one of her family again, the idea was seized uponwith avidity by all, and in three days' time, Miss Barbara had convincedher father, Clara, and Mrs. Wardor, that the place Christine Ernst haddescribed was just the place for them.

  "Let's go at once," said Miss Barbara, late in the evening, with herusual precipitation; but Mrs. Wardor quieted her by enumerating thethousand and one things to be done before the removal could beeffected--first and foremost among which was the task of securing thehouse before it could be moved into.

  It was decided that Mrs. Wardor and Clara should go to San Jose on thenext morning's train and return at night, leaving Miss Barbara to thecare of her "Indian maid" and the servants in the house.

  Arrived at the depot in San Jose, they found Christine, whose dark hair,olive skin, and Roman features utterly belied her purely German descent.She embraced Clara with the protecting air of an older sister; andpressing Mrs. Wardor's hand, led them to the carriage awaiting them.

  "You have worked too hard, I fear, Christine," said Mrs. Wardor. "Youlook tired and thin."

  "Not tired," was the answer, "but I am among strangers, and have somissed my home. You know how we Germans cling to people we love."

  "Yes?" Perhaps Mrs. Wardor was thinking of the lover, discarded, amongstrangers in a strange land. Clara held her friend's hand, and asked howfar they would have to go--she felt that Christine was pained.

  "Only a short way; but the owner of the place is a queer genius, aGerman, like myself, with whom no one can live in peace, they say. But Iknow we can, though he insists on occupying a little hut in one cornerof the grounds. Fifty people have wanted the place, but he has neverbeen in a humor to let it since the last occupant moved out. I mean tobring the charms of his mother-tongue to bear upon him, though I know itwill make me hoarse for a week, more especially as he is slightly deaf."

  The carriage had stopped at the gate, and the three women made their waythrough a well-kept garden to a little shanty they espied at thefarthest end of it. The dwelling-house itself consisted of a one-story_adobe_, to which had been added, much later, a frame building of twostories. The _adobe_ part of the building contained kitchen, breakfastand sitting-room, from which a low bay-window reached out into thegarden, where flowers stole up almost to within the room, and the ivy,mingling with the bright green of th
e climbing rose, reached upward tosoften the abrupt joining of the gray _adobe_ with the glaring white ofthe frame portion. This, though the more stately part of the building,had not the home-look of the _adobe_, around the flat roof of which rana low railing, making a balcony of it for the service of the new wing.

  "How happy we shall be here," exclaimed Clara, with genuine delight. Atthis moment a strange figure, clad in loose garments, and with flowinggray beard, deep-set eyes, and holding a long pipe in his mouth, cameinto sight. Depositing the pipe carefully behind a garden vase, the manadvanced with dignified yet courteous bearing. He looked with thequestioning scrutiny peculiar to people hard of hearing, from one to theother; but when Christine's words reached his dull ears at last, it wasto fair-faced Clara he turned inquiringly.

  "Wie sagten Sie, Fraeulein? Sprechen Sie Deutsch?"

  Christine repeated her question, and he turned slowly toward her. "Ithought it was she who spoke the German," motioning toward Clara; "but Ilike your looks, too," he continued, taking Christine's hand into hiswith a sudden, fatherly impulse. "And you would come and live in myhouse, lady," he said, addressing Mrs. Wardor in his German-English."Take care--I say it to you--take care. It is a lonely place, and makesto be alone in the world every one who lives in it. See me, an old man,alone--alone. It is a bad spell on the place; it will make you alone,too."

  The three women exchanged glances. Alone? Whom had they belonging tothem? It was only their friendship for each other that made their"alone" different from that of the old man before them.

  "And these flowers, so beautiful," he continued, "will you love them,too? I will nurse them for you; but don't be afraid--the old man willnot be troublesome to you." He had misunderstood the movement amongthem; they were only congratulating each other on having accomplished soeasily what Christine had been taught to look upon as a difficult task.They hastened to assure him how glad they would always be to have himwith them; and he looked wistfully at Clara again, muttering, "Ah, Ithought she was the German."

  "There it is again," said Christine, turning to her; "I never try for abeau but you coax him away from me with your blue eyes and yellow curls.I shall act out my character of a dark Spanish beauty some day, andleave you with a jewel-hilted dagger in your heart for luring my owntrue love from his faith to me."

  They followed their guide to the other side of the house, where, nearhis own cabin, arose a little knoll or mound, evidently artificial,though not smoothly finished. A sparse growth of grass covered it, andon one side there was a ragged depression, as though a tree might havebeen torn from the soil at some past time. Just above this stood alinden tree, lonely enough. There were no other trees on this side ofthe house, though pepper, poplar, and cypress trees were distributedwith a good deal of taste through the rest of the grounds.

  "Lone linden," mused Clara; and though the words were spoken low, theold man seemed to have read it from her lips.

  "The other people have called it so, and it seems right. The only oneleft," he said, softly passing his hand over the bark of the tree. "Youwould not think how many they were at one time; but they are all deadand gone. My dear ones all lie buried here."

  "Here?" echoed Clara, touching the mound.

  "No, not the bodies, you know; es ist nur die Erinnerung," he turned toChristine. She bowed her head silently, and with the deep"verstandnissvolle" look of her honest eyes she had won the old man'sconfidence forever.

  They turned back to the more cheerful part of the garden, trying toshake off the gloom the linden with its deep shadow had thrown on them,and Clara railed at her friend for looking solemn as an owl. "Not a lineof poetry have you quoted to-day--not a note have you sung."

  At the same time the old man was saying to Mrs. Wardor, "See, lady, allthese lilies, white as snow. At home, in Germany, they were my mother'spet flowers, and I am keeping these to be planted on my grave." AndChristine stooping to break three of them, chanted dolefully--

  "'Drei Lilien, drei Lilien-- Die pflanzt mir auf mein Grab.'"

  "There"--she turned to Clara--"that's music for you."

  Right here, let me confide to the reader Christine's great failing--theweak point in this strong nature. She had a queer habit of keeping up asort of running comment on any conversation that took place in herpresence--any occurrence that came under her observation; comment in theshape of bits of poetry or song, that she sang softly to herself. Butshe _could_ not sing--and that was the great failing. Think of amusic-teacher who could not, if life depended on it, sing a dozen notesin the same key, but would drop lower and lower, "till her voice fellclear into the cellar"--according to the girl's own statement.

  Mr. Muldweber seemed loath to part with his prospective tenants, but wasassured that the close of the week would find them at Lone Linden. Whenthey reached the depot, the train that was to take Mrs. Wardor and Claraback to the city was ready, and Christine had only just time toapostrophize Clara's eyes--

  "Lebt wohl ihr Augen, ihr schoenen blauen,"

  before it started.

  On reaching home, Miss Barbara met them at the threshold, with flamingcheeks and sparkling eyes. "Such a romp as I have had with Snowball,"she explained; and the Indian girl laughed like an imp of the devil.Mrs. Wardor chided the young lady for romping, but Clara drew back fromthe girl with an uncomfortable feeling. Clara's cheeks boasted but adelicate pink tinge at best, and to-night, in the glare of the gas,after the day's fatigue, she looked almost haggard beside the robust,health-glowing girl.

  "How old are you, Lady Clare?" she asked in the course of the evening.

  "Twenty-two. Why?"

  "Oh, nothing; only when I get to be as old as you are I shall wear blackconstantly, just as you do, particularly if I have lost all my color,too."

  "A wise resolution. I never had your color, though. Neither my face normy hair was ever red--nor my mother's, before me. Perhaps she did notstand over the hot fire as much as your mother did."

  "Yes--I know they say mother 'lived out' as cook when she first came toCalifornia; but then--_she_ didn't have to marry to get a home."

  It was all out now; though the girl sent the shaft almost at random, ithad struck the sore spot. Clara had married for a home. Her mother hadexpended her meagre fortune on Clara's education, never doubting thatthe girl's loveliness would attract a goodly number of suitors, fromwhom the most suitable, that is, the wealthiest, could be chosen.Whether Clara was less worldly or more romantic--at any rate she losther heart to a young man in society, who was considered an ornament ofthat society--though it would have puzzled a common mortal to discoverwhy. His upper lip boasted a full, silken moustache, and he could turnover the music sheets, standing beside the young lady performing on thepiano, with unequalled grace; he sang a languid tenor, and could fastenhis eyes on a lady with a melting, melancholy look, as if sighing in hisheart, "could I but die for thee."

  It was what he spoke out aloud to Clara, when, after months of intimateacquaintance, he understood that Clara's mother wanted to see herdaughter "settled." But he didn't die; he only bewailed his fate, hisinability to make her his cherished wife, and lay all the treasures ofthe Golden State at her feet. To quote Christine's hard, unsympatheticopinion, he was "a graceless monkey, a fortune hunter, without ambitionenough to try for a living for himself, let alone for the woman heprofessed to adore." Amid tears and protestations of breaking hearts anddarkened lives they parted: Clara to give her hand, at her mother'sentreaties, to a man of great wealth and corresponding age andrespectability--her lover to continue his search for a wife who couldboast of money besides beauty and amiability.

  Miss Barbara's heart was good in the main, and she would not have hurtClara as she did had she not been wild with an excitement for whichthere seemed no cause. She was heedless, to be sure; and hertemper--well, she had red hair.

  Only three days later, early in the morning, we see them all at thedepot, and comfortably seated in the cars--Mrs. Wardor, Clara, Barbara,and Daisy--with Kickup aboard the train, but
in a different car--Kickupbeing only an Indian pony, and the shaggiest kind of one at that. MissBarbara and "her maid," as she grandly styled the moon-faced Indiansometimes, sat behind Mrs. Wardor and Clara--Clara and Barbara eachsitting nearest the window. Clara in deepest black, with the delicateflush on her face, looked, the most interesting of young widows, andwhenever she raised her dove-like eyes, was sure to encounter the gazeof the many who stood outside. Just as the sharp click of thestarting-bell rang through the cars, Clara, looking up, caught sight ofa figure that caused her heart to beat full and fast. Yet her face grewpale as she noted the form of which the words "an elegantly attiredgentleman" would, perhaps, give the best idea.

  He leaned against one of the wooden pillars supporting the depot roof,with a dejected, melancholy air. Almost involuntarily Clara leanedforward, but sank back the next moment, her face ablaze, her lipstrembling. The impish laugh of the Indian girl that had struck her sounpleasantly on the night of her return from San Jose, again fell on herear, and Miss Barbara's irrepressible "te-he" mingled with it. Had shethen betrayed her heart's secret to these two foolish, giggling things?Her cheeks burned with mortification, but in her heart there was astrange gleam of happiness. He knew, then, that she was free; he hadheard of her leaving the city, and chose this delicate way of intimatingto her that.--Ah! well; she was still in deepest mourning, and must notthink--anything--for a while yet, at least.

  Mrs. Wardor, her mind filled with doubts and misgivings as to whethershe had brought just the things she wanted for the summer in San Jose,had noticed nothing of the little episode, but catching sight of Clara'sface as they left the cars, she exclaimed, with genuine gladness in hertone, "Why, Clara, I know this summer in the country will do you good;your eyes are bright with anticipation!"

  Christine met them at the depot, and as the carriage rolled smoothlytoward their new home, she told them of what other arrangements she hadmade with old Mr. Muldweber. He owned a horse of venerable age, whichcould be driven by the most timid lady, and the old gentleman waswilling that they should use the horse, but, as of the garden, so hewanted to take care of the animal, too. This was cheerfully agreed to,and when she went on to say that she had hired a phaeton--really quite astylish affair--Miss Barbara almost smothered her with kisses, whichwould not have happened, by the by, if there had been any place forChristine to hide in.

  At the gate stood Mr. Muldweber. "What a funny old man," laughed MissBarbara. "A patriarch," said Clara; but Christine declared, with morethan her usual energy, that no one should say anything disrespectful ofor to Mr. Muldweber in her presence.

  With chivalrous bearing he welcomed Mrs. Wardor to her new home, andhis address, delivered with true German earnestness, would have checkedMiss Barbara's mirth, even without Christine's warning; and Christineherself could only repeat, as she kissed Clara's fair head, "Der Herrsegne Deinen Einzug."

  Then she led her up-stairs, where she had two rooms, opening into eachother, fitted up for Clara and herself, with windows reaching to thefloor leading to the balcony. The other window in Christine's roomlooked toward the Coyote Hills, the corresponding window in Clara's roomdisclosing a view of the Santa Cruz Mountains.

  "Now tell me what you have on your mind, little one," she said, drawingClara down by the window, and looking off toward the cool, deep shadowsof the redwoods on the mountain, she listened to blushing Clara'srecital of the morning's occurrence, while she hummed softly (endingfull three notes lower than she had commenced):

  "I have gazed into the darkness-- Seeking in the busy crowd For a form once--"

  "Perhaps I have done him wrong after all," she interrupted herself; andaloud she said, cheerfully: "The name of this place will be changedbefore we leave it, I know. But down there is Mr. Muldweber; I mean toask him about Lone Linden, and his singular fancy for that tree." Sheknew Clara would be happier left alone to dream over the vision of themorning, and her heart really went out in sympathy to this lonely oldman, who had such a longing, hungry look in his eyes as he stood withhis arm thrown around the lone linden, his other hand shading his eyeswhile he peered down the road toward the town.

  "No one hastens home at twilight, Waiting for my hand to wave."

  Christine's dreary singing would hardly have enlivened Mr. Muldweber'sspirits if he had heard it; but it ceased ere she came close up to him.With his usual gallantry the old man spread his handkerchief on thegrass covering the broken mound for Christine to rest on, and beforedarkness had spread over the plain and crept up to the mountain-tops,she knew more of the old man's history--which was the history of thelinden tree--than she had ever expected to learn. He had learned to lovethe girl during the few days that the fitting-up of the house had thrownthem together; and he could speak his mother tongue to her--he neverwould have said so much in English.

  When he had left the mining-school at Freiberg in the Fatherland to cometo the great America, he had brought with him from the old _Edelhof_,where he was born and raised, a handful of seed from the linden treesthat formed his favorite avenue. He meant to build up just such a placein America, and he carried the linden seed with him through the UnitedStates and then into Mexico, where his knowledge of scientific miningwas of more use at that time. Into Mexico he carried his bride, a youngGerman girl, whose parents had died on their way out from theFatherland, and who died herself of _Heimweh_, in the strange, wild landto which her husband brought her. But she left him a son, to whom hegave a new mother, a dark-eyed senorita from Durango. Then he drifted ontoward California, before it was California to us, and settled finallyin the Pueblo of San Jose, near the mission of Santa Clara, after it hadceased to be a mission. Here he built the old _adobe_--a house quitepretentious for those times, and he threw up the mound, smooth andround, and discernible at some distance, and planted the linden seed hehad so carefully hoarded. But he did not sow the seed broadcast; it wasa tree for every member of the family--no more. As the senorita fromDurango had presented him with quite a little herd of Muldwebers,however, he had begun to entertain hopes of growing something of aforest in the valley, when the dark eyes of the senorita were closed onedread night, and never opened again to the light of this world.

  The wealth she had brought him had weighed but little in her husband'sestimation; he had learned to admire her goodness of heart and nobilityof character. It was a heavy blow; but, strange to say, his heart almostturned from her children at that time and clung again to the child ofhis first love, the German girl who had died of being homesick. He grewintolerant of Spanish, would not even speak English, but shut himself upwith his oldest son to teach him the language he had neglected for solong. Then died the two sons of his Spanish wife, and, though he mournedtheir loss, he drew still closer to his first-born.

  But he had conceived the singular fancy that the spirit of his deadcould not rest while their trees lived; and he cut them down, one byone, with his own trembling hands, and, weeping, made a fire of theirstraight trunks and graceful branches, and buried the ashes deep in theearth. It was about this time that his German friends, of whom therewere now quite a number in San Jose, began to whisper among themselvesthat Mr. Muldweber was getting very queer--eccentric, in fact--if notworse than eccentric. His son, among the first pupils of Santa ClaraCollege, was brought home, and pursued his studies as mining engineerunder the guidance of his father, whose intellect and mental equilibriumseemed perfectly restored, if they had ever been wavering.

  Then death ruthlessly deprived him of the last remaining child of theSpanish woman--a daughter with eyes as dark as her mother's, and cherrylips and dimpled cheeks; and he turned from his first-born and onlychild now, shunning and avoiding him, as he had neglected all his otherchildren at one time. The boy, or rather young man--for he had passedthe age of twenty-one--bore his father's whim like the sensible fellowhe was, understanding well the grief, perhaps self-reproach, that waspreying on his parent's heart; and they lived on, apart, though underthe same roof. When he could no longer bear his father's coldness
,amounting almost to aversion, he left home, hoping that absence wouldwork a change. No letter was ever returned for the kindly-meant missivessent by him, and when the thought of his father's growing age andloneliness overcame his pride, and he returned, he found the homesteadlet to strangers, and his father established in his little hut, moreunreasonable than ever.

  He tried by kindness to conquer the old man's injustice; but one day hespoke such hard, cruel words to his son, that pride and manhood rebelledagainst the indignity, and he left the old homestead forever, he said,vowing to live, under a strange name, "where his father should neverhear of him again, living or dead."

  A shiver ran through the old man's frame; the day had gone to rest, andthe wind blew coldly through the branches of the lone tree above them;but he would not listen to the girl's suggestion, of coming into thehouse with her.

  "No!" he said, "I must speak of the wrong I did to the boy right here,under his tree; he is not dead, I know--the spirit of his mother comeshere sometimes and tells me so. She had such blue eyes--like her that iswith you; but her heart was not strong like yours, either. You see," hecontinued, "I was crazy then with grief and loneliness, andself-reproaches, and I said to him, when he spoke kindly and cheerfully,that he was the 'laughing heir,' waiting only for me to follow hisbrothers, in order to lay claim to the riches that I hoped would be acurse to him. Ah! I see his white face before me every night, and hearhis last words ringing through my head: 'So shall they be a curse to meif ever thou seest me again. Leave thy wealth to strangers, old man,thou hast no longer a son.'"

  He had arisen and stood erect, unconsciously giving a dramaticrepresentation. The hand he extended had grown firm, but his facegleamed white and ghastly, through the falling gloom. Then the hand sankpowerless as he complained, "And he will keep his word--though he was sogood--my Rudolph."

  He looked up in sudden astonishment; Christine had laid her hand on hisshoulder and gazed eagerly into his face. "Rudolph," she repeated, andher hands wrung wildly a moment, dropped by her side in a kind of quietdespair. But the old man hardly noticed her. He stood on the moundagain, his form bent forward, as if to catch the first glimpse of anywho might be coming up the road, and he shook his head slowly as hemuttered to himself, "Er kommt nicht, er kommt noch immer nicht."Christine held out her hand to him. "Come, let me lead you," she said;but the old man did not understand all the words meant.

  Late at night, sitting by the open window, from where she could see hisdomicile, she caught herself humming,

  "'T is said that absence conquers love, But, oh! believe it not."

  And she stopped. She _was_ thinking of Rudolph. Yes, but she had fanciedat first that she was "singing out of his father's heart," not her own.Poor Rudolph! Now she knew what had exiled him from his father's home,and she, alas! had driven him from the new home he had meant to buildfor himself. And she had thought herself right. A bankrupt suicide'sdaughter, how could she, a German, with all the deep religiousprejudices of that people burnt into her soul, dream of becominganything more than a friend to the man she honored above all others?

  People said she had led him on, had jilted him, and he had left thecountry. Could she recall him? And how? Yet she could not leave thislonely old man to die, as he was surely dying, of the remorse in hisheart and the bitter regrets for his injustice to his son.

  No one, coming upon the family at the Lone Linden the very day aftertheir advent to the place, would have suspected them of being strangersthere. It was home to them at once. The garden, with its "two ornamentalpalms," as Christine called them, its wealth of flowers and sparklingfountain, lay all day in the laughing sunshine, and the beams that creptin through the bay-window of the sitting-room played hide-and-seek amidthe ivy trailing its glossy leaves across the opposite wall. It was herethat Christine's piano stood, and as Miss Barbara always sought the moregayly-furnished parlor as soon as her music-lesson was ended, so Claralearned to despise that apartment, and spend much of her time in thisroom.

  Toward sunset, when shadows grew heavier, and the evening breeze shookthe foliage, the broken mound with its single tree had always a drearylook about it, and even Clara was moved into saying, "If Mr. Muldwebershould die, I would not dare come to this tree in the evening sun--itwould be haunted, I know. I should see the old gentleman or his wraithstanding there with his arm around the tree, and his other hand shadinghis eye. How lonely he looks; is he waiting for any one, I wonder?"

  "Poor old man," said Christine, evasively, and she repeated,

  "No one hastens home at twilight, Waiting for my hand to wave."

  "Stop, or I shall get the blues, too." Clara raised her hands to herears in comical despair, and Christine laughed good-naturedly at theeffect of her singing.

  So the pleasant, sunshiny days passed on, with no event more stirringthan an occasional letter from Miss Barbara's father to break themonotony of life.

  It was Mr. Farnsworth's desire that Miss Barbara should be treated andlooked upon as a child, and it would have gladdened his heart could hehave seen her, in the cool of the morning or late in the afternoon, withSnowball and Kickup in the enclosed lot called the Meadow, behind thehouse. Whether it had ever been the intention of Mr. Farnsworth to haveMiss Barbara use the four-footed thing called Kickup as a saddle-horseis not known; it is a matter of doubt, however, whether any one had everbeen on its back long enough to discover what was its best gait. To besure, Miss Barbara made it a point to require her "maid" to "ride aroundthe ring;" and she would urge the pony close up to the fence for thispurpose, assist Daisy to mount, and then give a jump to get out of reachof Kickup's heels, for he had never been known to have more than twofeet on the ground when any one was on his back; indeed, as a generalthing, he never touched the ground again till his burden lay there too.There was no more danger of injuring Snowball's limbs than the pony's,and as they were taken both from the same tribe, back in Arizonasomewhere, it is to be presumed that they knew each other. But MissBarbara was neither cruel nor a coward. She never failed to reachKickup's back, and from there the ground again, sometime during theday's performance, to Snowball's unbounded delight; and at night shealways complained to Mrs. Wardor that "her pony wasn't fairly brokenyet," "Which is not so surprising as that your bones are unbroken yet,"Christine would say sometimes; for which Miss Barbara would give her asupercilious look out of her wide-open eyes, as though to say: "What doyou know about it? Your father was never an army contractor."

  About this time Mr. Farnsworth, in his letter to Mrs. Wardor, commencedto promise a visit he intended making them before the summer was over;and Mrs. Wardor commenced saying to Barbara, when she provedparticularly unmanageable, "Do try to behave like a lady, so that yourfather may see you are no longer a child." And the suggestion always hadthe desired effect for the time being; but the sight of Snowball drivingKickup into the meadow would as regularly upset all her good intentions.

  One day Christine came into Clara's room, with a troubled look on herface. "What is it?" asked Clara; "is your aged _protege_ more depressedthan usual this morning? Has he refused to enjoy his long pipe, or hashe regaled you with a longer account than usual of his son--Hans, Ithink, you said his name was?"

  Christine laughed in spite of herself. Clara had heard something of Mr.Muldweber's trouble with his son, and took it for granted that Christineknew all about it, though she had not the remotest idea of how deeplyshe was interested; and one of Clara's fancies was that Mr. Muldweber'sson was a tow-headed youth, and his name was Hans.

  "Mrs. Wardor has had another letter from Mr. Farnsworth," saidChristine.

  "Again threatening a visit? But why should that make you look soserious? Are you thinking of his displeasure at not finding his Barbaraan Arabella Goddard?"

  "Thank God, I never held out that prospect to him. No--" she continued,absently; "I don't like his letters, and I fear Mrs. Wardormisunderstands him--misunderstands him entirely. He inquires veryparticularly for Lady Clare in his letters, too."

  "
And not for you? Ah! then the cat's out of the bag," she laughed; "youare jealous of me again."

  "The vanity of some people--" Christine joined in the laugh; but thetroubled look returned to her face as she went on. "That poor old mantroubles me too; he is failing fast, and his son must come soon, or Ifear he will never see him again."

  "Then why not send for him?" asked Clara, innocently; "or does he notknow where to find him?"

  "No," answered Christine, savagely, after a moment's hesitation.

  "Poor old man," sighed Clara; and she was careful after this to meet theforlorn figure wandering restlessly through the grounds with all thesweet consideration it was her nature to show those who were in pain ortrouble.

  Still the old man never spoke to her of his Rudolph as he did toChristine; it was to the brave-hearted German girl he poured out hislong pent-up complaints and lamentations; it was only to her he revealedhow the yearning for his first-born was eating his heart away. Often shewas on the point of telling him all; he would say then, she thought,that she had acted quite correctly; would commend her for not havingfastened herself with her accursed name upon a blameless man, with fameand fortune before him. But he would still demand at her hands hisson--his son whom she, more than himself, had made an exile and awanderer.

  So the day passed on, and the cloud on the horizon of Lone Linden grewdarker and heavier; but no one saw it gathering save Christine.Instinctively she felt that their fair Paradise would be destroyed whenthe storm should burst, but she knew not how to divert the threateneddeluge.

  When Clara rushed into her arms one day, flushed and breathless, crying,"Oh, I knew he loved me--I felt that he had never forgotten me," herheart misgave her--the first harbinger of threatened desolation hadcome. With difficulty she prevailed on Clara to tell her calmly what hadoccurred, and, triumphant and happy, she explained that Mrs. Wardor hadreceived a letter from Mr. Farnsworth, to say that at the end of theweek he should visit Lone Linden, bringing with him young Mr. HeraclitGupton, nephew of General Gupton, commanding the Department of thePacific.

  "Poor, blind Mrs. Wardor," Clara went on to say, "saw nothing in thisbut Mr. Farnsworth's desire to entertain a young gentleman whose unclehad it in his power to award heavy army contracts; indeed, how could sheknow that Heraclit Gupton was--was--"

  "I have lived and loved--but that was to-day; Go bring me my grave clothes to-morrow."

  Christine filled up the pause, her voice more dreary and inclined to"drop into the cellar" than ever.

  Clara looked sobered and disappointed at this unexpected comment, butattributed it to a sudden recollection of Christine's own "what mighthave been."

  "What makes you so sad, Christine? Is Mr. Muldweber really sinking asfast as Mrs. Wardor thinks?"

  "Sinking fast, child; only the promise that his son shall be broughthere, if among the living, before the moon fades, has kept the old manalive."

  "Oh! Christine, stay and be glad with me now," pleaded Clara, "the timefor mourning will come soon enough."

  But Christine could not be made to rejoice, and all the comment she madeon the other's enthusiasm was,

  "Oh! Lady Clara Vere de Vere, You put strange memories in my head."

  And Clara flew up-stairs to dream over this broadening flood of sunshineas she had dreamed over the first faint glinting.

  Had not Miss Barbara been strangely absent-minded about this time, shemust have observed how the color in Clara's cheek grew brighter, and hereyes held a deeper, richer light. And if any expression so soft as a"dreamy look" could ever have stolen into this positive young lady'sface, one would certainly have said it was there now, though it vanishedlike a dream, too, whenever the Indian girl's impish laugh fell on herears. The Indian girl herself seemed to be the only member of the familythat was not more or less _distrait_ after the arrival of Mr.Farnsworth's last letter, for even Kickup showed resentment at MissBarbara's sudden neglect of her "saddle horse." It was only natural thatMrs. Wardor's mind should be on hospitable cares intent, which accountedfor her being oblivious to a good many things going on around her.

  Saturday had been named by Mr. Farnsworth as the day on which he was tobe expected, and as the members of the family arose from thebreakfast-table that morning, Miss Barbara astonished Mrs. Wardor by ademand for her mother's diamonds, to wear in honor of her father'scoming.

  "Nonsense, child," said Mrs. Wardor; "what would the young gentlemancoming with your father think, to see a school-girl loaded down withdiamonds? Leave them in my trunk; they are better there. You might takea notion to have a romp with Kickup before taking them off, and theywould be scattered in the meadow."

  But Miss Barbara was determined to carry her point, and broke out atlast, the rebellious blood rising to her head, "I think I should beallowed to have them, at any rate; they are _my_ diamonds, and fatherpromised mother that they should never go to the second wife if he didmarry again."

  Mrs. Wardor's face flushed as red as Barbara's, but Christine's remainedunmoved, calmly marking the notes on a sheet of music, while Clara gaveone startled look, as though she had just made a discovery.

  Early in the afternoon Miss Barbara appeared in the garden, where thehot sun blazed down on the fiery hair, the burning cheeks, and theflashing jewels. Her eyes were hardly less sparkling than her diamonds,and as she threw a searching look down the road and across the plain,toward the town, they seemed to glitter and glint in all the colors ofthe rainbow, just like the stones in her ears and at her throat. Later,Clara came to the hall-door, but drew back when Barbara came to joinher; the girl's appearance gave her a "scorched" sensation, she said toChristine, who seemed blind to the shadows that coming events werecasting before them. At least there was neither glad anticipation nornervous haste noticeable in her as in the rest, but her heart was veryheavy within her. Nevertheless she chided Clara for having dressed inblack after all, when she had firmly decided to wear white; and sheurged her back into the garden, for she knew her soul was flying acrossthe road to the city, to meet the form she had dreamed of day and nightsince Mr. Farnsworth's announcement.

  The afternoon breeze was gently stirring the fragrant flower heads whenshe entered the garden again and approached Miss Barbara, who had takenup her station by the low picket fence where the ground rose above thelevel of the road. Clara, too, sent out a wistful look across the plain.Perhaps she had sighed, for she felt the girl's eyes on her, and as shelooked up, it came back to her painfully what Barbara had once saidabout her lack of color. Could her heart be growing envious of the girl?She did not ask herself the question, but she felt the impulse to turnand leave her, and would have done so had not a start and flutter on thegirl's part told her that a vehicle was in sight.

  She did not look down the road; she would not betray her feelings to themerciless eyes of this red-headed girl; but her own heart beat so thatBarbara's agitation entirely escaped her. She turned toward the house.She _must_ press her hand to her heart to still the tumultuous beating.On the balcony stood Christine, an affectionate smile lighting up thedark features as she threw kisses to her and pointed to the lightcarriage now quite near the gate. Then the color came back into Clara'sface, and, with a sudden joyous impulse, she fluttered her handkerchiefin the breeze, and laughed like a glad child reaching out its hand fora long-coveted toy. Mrs. Wardor came to the door; the carriage stoppedat the gate that minute, and two gentlemen sprang to the ground.

  Just how it all took place, perhaps none of them ever knew--not evenChristine, who had remained on the balcony, a deeply-interested, thoughnot indelicate, spectator. They lingered in the garden a little while,and before they entered the house Mr. Farnsworth had pompously announcedto Mrs. Wardor that this was the young gentleman who had so faithfullyand persistently paid court and attention to his daughter Barbara; thathe had at last been touched by his unwavering devotion, and had decidedto make his only child happy--as happy as he himself hoped to be someday in the not distant future.

  "Bless your soul," he added
, in an undertone, to Mrs. Wardor, who hadjust had an unaccountable attack of heart-beating, "if I had known thatBarbara's 'young man' was General Gupton's nephew, she should have hadhim six months ago, and welcome." He was interrupted by Barbara's askingpermission to go driving with her "young man," and, the fatherconsenting, they were soon speeding over the road in the light carriagethat had brought the gentlemen.

  At her window up-stairs sat Christine, her hands folded idly in her lap,her eyes absently following the couple in the carriage. But on the bed,in her own room, lay Clara, her head buried deep in the pillows, herslender hands covering the white face, sobbing as if her heart wouldbreak. And through the half-open door came the saddening chant ofChristine:

  "I have just been learning the lesson of life, The sad, sad lesson of loving."

  Could the words but have penetrated to the room below, they might havebeen echoed there by another. Mr. Farnsworth was again making anannouncement to Mrs. Wardor--though in a manner not quite sopompous--indeed, almost hesitating.

  "Yes," he was saying, "my daughter cannot blame me, since I have madeher happy, that I too should look for a suitable companion. When I saysuitable, I mean one better fitted than the first Mrs. Farnsworth tomy--ahem!--to my--more advanced mental attainments. I have for some timepast observed the--ahem!--sweet disposition and--ahem!--amiablecharacter of your friend and _protege_--Clara. Good gracious, madam, areyou sick? Can I do anything for you?"

  "No, thanks; only a sudden dizziness that sometimes seizes me in warmweather;" and, thanks to Mrs. Wardor's self-possession, it was overdirectly. As Mr. Farnsworth took it for granted that it was quiteessential for a fine lady to have nerves, and even fainting-fits, he sawnothing remarkable in Mrs. Wardor's sudden dizziness and pallor. Thenshe said Clara was one of the sweetest-tempered women she had ever metwith, but she knew nothing of the state of her heart or affections; hemust lay the case before the lady herself. And here she suddenlyremembered not to have given full directions for supper to the Chinamanin the kitchen, and left Mr. Farnsworth to his own meditations in theparlor. Then the sun went down, and Christine, paying no heed to thesound of carriage-wheels approaching--thinking the happy lovers hadreturned--was startled by the sharp ring of the door-bell. She sprang toher feet; she felt that the bell called to her, and she was at the doorbefore the servant could reach it. A tall, bearded man stood before her,who, taking advantage of the girl's being utterly disconcerted, drew herquickly to his breast. She rested there only a moment.

  "Oh, Rudolph! your father," she said, with a tone of reproach in hervoice.

  "Take me to him, Christine," and Mrs. Wardor, who had drawn her headback discreetly a moment before, now came fully out of her sitting-roomto welcome Rudolph to his home.

  "All the afternoon you left me by myself," said Mr. Muldweber,querulously, as Christine softly entered his room. "Ah! if my boy wouldonly come, he would never let his old father lie here alone," and heturned his head to the wall so as not to look at Christine.

  "Forgive me," she said; "but poor Clara so needed me. And I have broughtnews from your son--from Rudolph. He is coming soon--he will be here--"

  "He is here now!" cried the old man, opening his arms, but turning hiseyes to the ceiling, as though he expected his Rudolph to flutter downfrom there in the shape of a seraph or an angel.

  A few hours later Mr. Muldweber's room, which had seemed so lonesome inthe afternoon, was filled to its full capacity. The old man sat in hiseasy-chair, holding one hand each of Rudolph and Christine in his own,and near them were Mrs. Wardor and Clara. Her friend's happiness was aconsolation to her, so much so that she could think, without breakinginto tears, of the trio in the parlor of the other house, talking overtheir plans for the future, just as our friends were doing here.

  Mr. Farnsworth intended going back to the city on the morrow, heavilyladen with "The Basket" (the German term for the mitten or the sack),which Clara had given him.

  In Mr. Muldweber's shanty reigned a soft, subdued happiness, like thehalf-sad light of the moon flooding in through the window.

  "It will be Lone Linden no longer," the old man said, "since I have solarge a family. See, I will not crowd you in the big house; I will stopin my dear little hut. There will be only room enough in the other housefor Rudolph and his wife and her two sisters" (the old man was naturallygallant), "whose knight I will be till some one worthier and bettershall fill my place. And the red-headed one will go next month?" heasked, turning to Mrs. Wardor. With a sigh of relief he continued, "Andthe black Kobold will go with her I hope, and the four-footed one too.How they used to break my beautiful white lilies and throw them to thatanimal. Ah! you cannot make me believe anything--if that horse were notpossessed by the evil one he never could have eaten those flowers--stemand all." They could not help laughing, and parted almost merrily.

  But out in the garden, in the tender white moonlight, Rudolph drewChristine close to his heart and looked searchingly into her eyes.

  "Are you at peace with yourself now, Christine, and satisfied to bemine--satisfied and happy? Then why are those tears in your eyes?"

  She struggled out of his arms, and passing her hand over her eyes, shefell irresistibly into her old habit, and sang, soft and low,

  "Mag auch im Aug' die Thraene stehn-- Das macht das frohe Wiedersehn."