Democratic Sentinel, Volume 18, Number 45, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 23 November 1894 — Silence [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

Silence

By Miss Mulock

CHAPTER lll—Continued, The young man sat for fully half an Hour, forlorn as a sparrow on a housetop, and very near the house-top, too, before any sign reached him that his possible mother-in-law the sweet Swiss lady whom he felt he loved already, she was so like her daughter in some things—had recognized his existence or his eagerly claimed cousin6hip. At last the door opened. Roderick sprang forward, then drew back painfully embarrassed. But Silence advanced with that gentle composure which nothing ever teemed to listurb, and with only the faintest added color to her cheek, as, English fashion, she extended her little, soft, thoroughly English-looking hand. “Monsieur my cousin, mamma bids me welcome you to our country, and to say that she will receive you at t> this svening, if you will do her the honor to come." “Mademoiselle —Miss Jardine." She lifted up her eyas, smiling. “Yes, I am that by right, and I like to be called so. ‘Miss’ reminds me that I belong a little to father’s country. ” “Then you are satisfied—your mother, too, is quite satisfied that I am really your cousin':"’ cried Roderick, eagerly. “Not my cousin-german, of course, ” she answered, again drawing back a little, “but my cousfn much removed — how do you say it in English?—treseloigne. That is, they had the same great-grandparents—these three who were educated together—Mr. Henry Jardine, who was the father of monsieur, my father, and the lady I was named after, Cousin Silence.”

“Then you, too, have heard of Cousin Silence?” cried Roderick, feeling every minute the mysterious chains more tightly round him. “Certainly; my father loved her very much once —always, I think—though it was years since he had written to her. Did you know her? Is she living yet?” Then M. Reynier's note, which he had not yet seen, had explained nothing of the money afiairs. Roderick felt glad. His welcome here was simply as “Monsieur mon cousin,” nothing more. “She is not living, but it is scarcely two months since she died. ” “Ah, then I shall never see her, and [ should have liked it so! Sometimes papa promised when I was older to take me to see his land, and Blackhall, and Miss Silence Jardine. Did you ever see her, sir:-’” “Once—only once; the day my father died. I will tell you about it another t'me.” By a sudden instinot she seemed- to catch his change of look, of tone. “Monsieur is very good,” she said, gently, and questioned no more. There was indeed no more to say, no possible excuse for him to remain: yet he lingered. Shy as a school-boy, he felt as if he could not get out of the room. “This evening at 6, then,” said Mile. Jardine, with gentle dismissal, not again offering her hand, but merely bowing, as Roderick walked—he feit very much like crawling—out of the salon. And yet it was a glorious humility, a noble shame, a sensation more delicious than anything he had ever believed the world could offer —the world, so empty to him of sympathy or love, that is, the uplooking love, since his dear father died. He almost felt as if his father knew it all; the reflex of what, perhaps, he too had known in his youth, the “love’s young dream,” which never comes twice. Happy those to whom it comes truly as love,and neither as passion nor folly; who can say to them-eives, as Roderick did during the weary hours between 12 and 0, “Now, what shall 1 do for her? What would she like me to do? Something, lam sure, that would be good and liaht.” And with this intent, and perhaps another behind it, he sat down and did what he had forgotten to do day after day, eve • since he'-had reached Neuchatel, he wrote a long letter home to his mother. A very ali'ectionate, amusing, clever letter, just what he knew would please her, and which, as he also knew, she would show to every near and dear friend she had. Consequently. it was not exactly confidential; indeed, Roderick was not in the habit of writing confidential letters to anybody; but it was quite honest, so fa.- as it went; gave a glowing description of the Alps at Berne, and an amusing one of the soiree at Professor Reynier's; painted graphically the quaint little town of Neuohiatel, where he said he intended to stay a few days longer, and ended by stating briefly how he had found, among M. Reynier’s guests, the object of his search: at least, all that were left to find, Archibald Jardine's widow and only surviving child. Whether the “child” was old or young, boy or girl, he omitted to particularize—a degree of reserve which surpassed even the ordinary reticence of Mr. Roderick Jardine.

When Roderick went out to post his letter, he seemed to walk on air. Every corner of the quaint old town looked picturesque; every passer-by in tares ting. For he had a vague hope—half fear, too —that under some umbrella he might find the gray gown, black felt hat, and blue eye 3. Just on the faintest chance of this, he went round by the shore of the lake, where a sudden wild wind had caused the waves to rise and roll in, almost like a sea tide, greatly to the distress of the poor Neuchatellerois. Various movables had been carried away, and a large market barrow was now tossing up and down upon actual breakers —while its luckless owner stood wringing her hands, and two or three men were wading in. trying to catch it with ropes. Roderick went to help them; he never could forbear rushing to the rescue, in any case where his youthful strength was available. Presently he succeeded in saving the cart, and in wetting himself to the skin; which he hardly felt, for in wading ashore, the first sight he saw, fixed upon him, was those two earnest blue eyes! She stood among the little crowd, her umbrella in one hand, a roll of music in the other; behind her tho little white capped bonne stood, full of sympathy—as, indeed, everybody was — first, wi:h the owner of the cart, and then with its salvors. She recognized him at once. “Oh, how good is monsieur!” she exclaimed, warmly, in French. “See, uadame” (turning to the poor market-

woman', “your cart is safe, absolutely uninjured. How kind, how brave it was of these men, and of this English monsieur!” And then monsieur, half deafened by the storm of thanks and applause from these warm Swiss hearts, was glad to beat a retreat, and find himself, he knew not how, walking along by the side of Mile. Jardine, and talking, &till in French, about how it all happened. “I have never seen the lake rise so, ” she said. “All the town has been down here watching the waves, which are higher, they say, than has been seen {or twenty years—never since the year was born.” She was twenty, then; he had thought her younger. “Mamma happened to be at Neuchatel, and remembers it well—that day—she had me in her arm-i, a little baby, and if papa had not held her fast the waves and the wind would have swept us away, both of us. How strange it seems!” “Very strange; but life is very strange!” said the y„ung man, as he drank in. full of dreamy delight, the soft tones, the sudden sweet uplifting of those lovely eyes. They rested on his soaked clothes. “Monsieur ought to go at once to his hotel,” she said, with a pretty decision. “Pardon, but I am so accustomed to look after people—to take care of them. I always take care of mamma, you know. She has been an invalid so long with her chest. I think it is that which has given me a morbid terror of damp and wet. Au re voir till six:” And with a brief, sweet remor-eless-ness she bowed and passed on, picking her way through the water channels and the mud, and never once looking behind. This evening with an involutary and quite inexplicable feeling, he did not seek for his diamond studs or any other resplendency of his always-careful toilet, but dressed himself as plainly as possible. Again he climbed, but impetuously, joyously, as if it were the high-road to heaven, the long stair which led to Mme. Jardine’s door, and found that what he had hoped would be a party a trois was added to by the pleasant faces of M. Reynier and'his daughter, and one or two other guests—not pleasant, however, to his eyes atalL Nevertheless, he made the best of it. Most young men would have delightedly acted cavalier seul to such a charming cluster of girls; but Roderick would a thousand times rather have sat beside this one girl and watched her pour out the tea and distribute the various condiments which seemed to compose this innocent evening meal, after the custom of the Neuchatel folk. All the talk was in French, of course, but now and then “Miss” Jardine addressed him in English, to which he eagerly responded, as to a sweet secret of felicity in which the re it did not share. And how he thanked the I benign fate which dragged away the I masculine element in the party to I some lecture—haif Neuchatel seemed ! composed of professeurs or ecoliers—j and compelled an early breaking up. “But Monsieur Jardine. who is not !at college, need not denart.” said Madame, courteously. “Will he not stay and tell us a little of his beautiful Scotland, which my husband loved so and sometimes thought to see once more, but he died without seeing it? Come and sit by me, cherie, and listen. She loves her father’s land almost as if she had seen it, does my daughter Silence.” And then Mme. Jardine questioned him rather, closely about himself and his college life, watching him with great intentness and with a gentle shrewdness which showed that amidst all her simplicity she was a far-seeing woman, not altogether ignorant of tne world and its ways. Finally she drew from him the story of his journey and its object. Nothing could exceed the astonishment of both mother and daughter when they learned that they “inherited”—Roderick carefully put it in that light, trusting to his good luck to be able to explain it away afterward—inherited a sum of money from Miss Silence Jardine. “How good of her! how generous!” cried Mme. Jardine, clasping her hands with one of those impulsive gestures which we English think so strange, but which in her seemed perfectly natura’. But they had not descended to her daughter, who in mien and manner was not at all what we term “foreign,” but as quiet as any English girL “I should explain to you, monsieur.” continued Mme. Jardine, “that in his youth my husband did his cousin a great unkindness —nay, wrong. ..He could not help it; she made him so unhappy. But all that is past now, and I —l made him happy. And she has made us rich —this good Cousin Silence.” “Not rich exactly, ” Roderick confusedly explained. “It is only an old house, with perhaps two or three hundred a year. ” “Two or three hundred a year! Why that is a fortune, an absolute fortune! Let us bless the good Cod for it! Silence, my child, I shall not leave you in poverty!” She burst into tears, and then, wholly oblivious of the stranger’s presence, mother and daughter fell into one another’s arms and sobbed together.

CHAPTER IV. From that auspicious morning, when he had discovered himself to his Swiss “cousins,” as he persisted in calling them, there was scarcely a day in which Roderick did not, see them—at their own home or elsewhere. For the dear little town opened its arms at opce to the handsome and courteous young Englishman, the friend of M. Reynier, the new-found kinsman of Mme. Jardine. He was invited everywhere—to pleasant family dinners, homely as elegant, and never later than 1 o’clock; to social evenings, beginning at H and ending at 9:30, after which—oh, felicity! —he often used the right of courtship to walk with Mme. Jardine and her daughter through the silent streets and by the placid lakeside home. He had not explained very much of business affairs, being, indeed, waiting anxiously till he could get an answer from his lawyer as to the possibility of transferring Miss Jardine's property to her Swiss relations, without the latter’s suspecting that they had not inherited it direct. Until then, he persuaded himself, and wrote to persuade his mother, though in the wariest and briefest terms, that it was his "duty” to remain at Neuchatel. He likewise argued that it was far too late in the year for traveling or sight-seeing, and it was only when Mile. Jardine cne day represented to him, with a spice of humor, real Scotch humor, which sometimes fla-hed out in her, how ignominious it would be to go back home without ever having seen Mont Blanc, that he planne 1 a day at Lausanne—a whole day—if his kind cousins would accompany him and take care of him.

“And I will take care of madame, your mother,” he said, tenderly. “She shall travel with every possible luxury that she will let me provide. Indeed, he added, smiling, “I assure you that I can afford it. I am. at least, as rich as —mademoiselle ma cousine will be presently if she choose to take possession of Blackhall. “ So it was arranged for the first fine day, which turned out to be one of those heavenly days which come even in November—transmuting the whole wor d into a beauty sweeter even than that of summer. As they sat in the railway carriage, they three alone together (Roderick had provided for that and every other possible luxury and comfort with a carefulness deliciously sw.et and newi, he and the mother lalked together aud Silence looked out of the window, absorbed in the delight of her rare holiday. It was not a very pretty country, the level region, half pasture, half vineyards, round the head of the lake, but she watched it with eyes which seemed to enjoy everything so intensely that she never noticed the eyes of the two who were watching her. Suddenly these met—the mother's and the lover's. Roderick started and blushed painfully. “lam glad it is such a fine day,” said he hurriedly. “We not have had another, and as soon as my sister's marriage day is fixed I shall have to think of returning home.” Mme. Jardine regarded him with sudden sharp inquiry. “Home? Yes, certainly; yes, monsieur ought to be going home. He will probably not revisit Switzerland for some time?” All the blood left the young man’s face; he could keep up the sham of conversation no longer, “Do you wish me not to return, madame? Do you dislike me? Does she dislike me?* The words were said in the lowest whisper, and the hand he laid on Mme. Jardine's trembled violently, till it was conscious of a feeble pressure, while a faint smile brightened the kind, worn face. “Madame,” he said, still in a whisper, “if lam alive I will return, and speedily. You must surely have understood that by this time. ” She looked him full in the eyes—an eager, que tioning, almost pathetio look. “Yes; you are good and true —I feel sure of it. lam satisfied.” This was all, for immediately afterward Silence turned round, making some innocent, unconscious remark about their journey. But fixed in Roderick's mind, with a thankfulness that afterward became almost awe. were those few words—what he had said to the mother, and what the mother had answered. “Is it Lausanne already?” said Silence, and then blushed, a vivid scarlet blush, the first Roderick had ever seen on her color e3s face. It made him start—nay, even tremble, as a young king might on suddenly hearing at the door the feet ot the messengers who bring him a longed-for crown, which, when it comes, he is almost afraid to wear. But it was Lausanne railway station —he must rouse himself. The dreamworld was come to an end; the practical world began. |TO BE CONTINUED. ]