Rensselaer Republican, Volume 14, Number 11, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 1 December 1881 — “ADOPTED.” [ARTICLE]

“ADOPTED.”

“It»g very strange,” muttered Blanche Penroy, slowly weaving toE tker the wreath of scarlet autumn tvea with which she was decorating her broad-brimmed straw hat. She made a beautiful picture there all alone in the mellow glow and color of the October woods, a crimson shawl drooping from her shoulders, and the stlnshtqe lighting Up her bright auburn curls with glittering threads of gold, while upon the fallen ttee trunk that formed her impromptu seat lay a tiny branch of ferns and autnmnal flowers. She was transparently fair, with purple veins in each wfiea temple and a faint pink bloom on her cheeks, while her eyes, large and brown, seemed to look at you with the grave, tender expression es an infant. “Yes, it la very strange,” went on Mias Penroy, musing within herself, “I know so little about him; I have only known him ten days, yet when he spoke about leaving Elm Point last night it seemed as if all the sunshine Was leaving tbe world for me. Oh, Blanche, naughty, naughty. little Blanche!” she added, leaning forward, and apostrophizing the fair face mirrored in the stream at her feet, “is it fiossible that you’ve allowed yourself o fall in love with that tall, blackeyed young man? Ten days ago I had never seen him —and now!” The roses mounted up in her cheeks as she wondered within herself whether Mr. Evering cared for her. “I wish I knew!” she muttered aloud. * “Knew what?” demanded a calm voice, and Mr. Gilbert Evering took up the bunch of flewers ana coolly seated himself beside her—a tall, handsome man, with brilliant dark ayes, rather irregular features, a deep color glowing through his olive skin. Blanche demurely looked up at him; she was .not to be taken by storm thus easily, and asked! “Do you think it will rain to-mor-row. For our picnic I want to wear my white India shawl.” “Oh, the plcniC! I had forgotten that when I spoke of leaving to-mor-row. Of course, though my presence or absenoe will make no great differ-* •nee. Blanche was silent. Somehow that scarlet afid brown spotted leaf required a good deal adjustment in that ribbon of her hat. “Blanche, shall I go or stay?” “As you please, Mr. Evering, of course.” “No, as somebody else pleases. Yes or no! Aud I forewarn you that yes means a great deal.” “How much does it mean?” questioned Blanche, half archly, half timoursly. i “Everything!” “Then you may stay.” “My Blanche—my little daisy!” lie whispered, bending his stately head over the slender hand that lay on the autumn leaves. And Blanche felt that in the golden stillness of that October evening she had turned a new leaf in the book of her life! She was very, very happy, and al that day she seemed to be walking through the of a dream But withlffie morning came other feelings. Alavthat shadow should always follow sunshnre'in this world of ours.

“I am not disposed to be unreasonable Blanche,” said Gilbert, in a whisper, as he arranged her white lace shawl for her amid the meri;y tumult of the picnic ground, “but I do think you’ve waltzed quite enough with Mr. Birmingham. “Jealous already, Gilbert!” taunted the girl, flushed and rosy with the trumphs of her beauty and the irresistible instincts of coquetry. She colored deeply. “Of course you’ll do as you please, Blanche; only I warn you, it’s a choice between Walter Birmingham and me. You dance with him again atyourown risk.” n • At the same instant he came up. “May I have the pleasure of the polka with you, Miss Penroy?” And Blanche, defiant, willful, and a little piqued, said “yes.” * She glided away with her hand on Walter Birmlngnam’s shoulder. Gilbert had no business to be so very unreasonable. His grave, stern face rather her as she came once more to the rustic seat of twisted boughs, when the band was silent, and Mr. Birmingham had gone to bring her a-glass of iced lemonade. “Gilbert, why do you look so cross?” “Because I have reason. lam sorry you pay so little attention to my wishes. Miss Penroy. She drew herself up haughtily. “You are beginning to dictate e ariy sir!” •

“Have I not the right?” “No, Mr. Evering.” “Be it so, Blanche,” he said, in a voice that betrayed how deep the arrow rankledsiq ni bosom. “I give up the right now and henceforward.” Blanche was startled. She would have said more, but Walter Birmingham was advancing toward her, and when she had lesiure to look round, Gilbert was gone from her side. “What have I done!’, she thought in dismay. “I’ll see him this evening and coax him into good humor jonce more. He surely can’t be vexed with me for an idle word like that.” “Such a charming day we have had, Mrs. rraine,” said Blanche, as she came in, smiling and radiant as if the worm, remorse, was not gnawing at her heart. “Yes,” said the blooming matron, who was reading in an easy chair under the shadow of the vines. “But what sent Mr. Evering away in such a hurry?” “Sent him away?” “Yes, by the evening train. He came home, packed his trunk, and drove away as if there was not a moment to lose. lam very sorry: we shall miss him so much.” Blanche Jwent slowly up-stairs and sat down by her window, looking out at the purple glow of the evening landscape as if it were a featureless blank. So he was really gone away; and by her own folly she had lost tne priceless treasure of Gilbert Everings love. “And I cannot even write to him, for I do not know his address,” she thought, with clasped hands and tearles eyes / -“Well, it is my own lault, and I must abide the consequenoee as beet I may.” So Blanche Penroy went home from the gay, fashionable place a sadder and wiser woman, and the November mists drooping e’er the- brick and mortar wilderness of her city home had never seamed half so dreary to her as they did now. “I suppose I shall be an old maid,” thought Blanohe, walking up and down in the fire-lit darkness of her room, her dimpled hands clasped behind her waist. “I never care for any one now as I oared for—for Gilbert; and I dare say I will keep a oat and

gi«w Aud of green pee*. Ah, well-*-day! life cannot last forever.” A dreary oomfort that for a girl of nineteen stun men. She rang the bell with an impatient jerk. “Are there any letters, Sanderson V* “One, ma’am; it came by the evening poet, about five minutes ago.” “Light the gas; then, and give it to me.* Blanche sat down by the lire and opened the letter, suppressing a yawn. “Black-edged—and black sealed i So poor Mrs. Maichmont has gone at fast!” j It was from the executors of Miss Penroy*s distant cousin, formally and briefly announcing her death, which bad taken place In one of the West India islands some months since; but of which the “melancholy news,” as the letter ran, bad only jtu£ been reoeived. It was not entirely unexpected, as Mrs. March me nt had been for some years slowly fading out of the world, a victim to hereditary consumption. i

“Leaving one child, a son,” - slowlv repeated Blanche, leaning her cheek on her hand and looking down Into the fiery quiver of the white-hot coals. “Poor little fellow ! be must feel nearly as desolate as I do! Only I have one advantage—l have at least a Snfflciency of this world’s goods and this orphan child must be thrown penniless and alope on his own resources, for. if I remember aright, Mrs. Marchmont forfeited all the wealth of her first marriage by her second allianoe with tbe poverty-stricken lawyer, whose death plunged her into such bitter mourning. That was a genuine love-match, yet how much grief and trouble It brought! ‘leaving one child—an omy son * Why should I not adopt the stray waif, and make It the business of toy life to cherish and comfort him? I have no object in existence; here is one that Providence itself seems to point out to me.” Once more she rang the bell, with a fresh color growing in her cheeks and a new light in her eyes. “Bring in my writing-desk immediately, Sanderson, and get ready to take a letter to the post for me as boob as possible.” * The old servant obeyed, wondering at his mistress’ unwonted energy and yet well pleased to see some of hei old an'mation retnrning. “She do look more like herself tonight, do Miss Blanche, than she has for a long time,” he said to the housekeeper, as he aame down-stairs after obeying the summons. “I only wish Miss Blahcbe Would take a fancy to some nice, properly-behaved ‘‘young man; it don’t seem right that she should live all by herself in this big house, so forlofn-like.” The househeeper nodded sagaciously to old Mr. Sanderson’s proposition. She fully agreed with him. “Only Miss Blanche was too willful ever to'listen to a word of advice.” It was a very simple letter that Blanche Penroy wrote to her “faraway” cousin’s executors, dictated by the fullness of her heart.

“I shall- never marry now,” she wrote, “and it seems to become my Mainly indicated duty to undertake he dare of this orphan child of Mrs. Marchmont. With your approval, therefore, I propose to adopt him, and endeavor, as far as is in my power, to supply the place of his lost mother. You may at first deem me rather too yoiing to undertake so great aud serious a responsibility} but lam Ifi last month, and I ani very, V6r£ mach older in thought than in vears. Of course at my death the chila will inherit the property which was left me by my parents.” “I hope my cousin’s ekecutors are like tbe nice, white headed old lawyers one reads about,” said Blanche to herself as she folded the sheet of paper, “aud not cross old fudges, talking of ‘expediency’ and ‘appropriateness’: for I do so much want somebody to love aud care for: for I have a sort of premonition that this little fellow will be nice, rosy, and lovable. 1 think I’ll teach him to call me ‘Annty.’ ” Exactly a week subsequently a prim legal note was rec eived from Messrs. Alias & Corpus, the deceased lady’s Executors, saying “they saw no valid objection to Miss Penroy’s very laudable projects, and that in accordance thereto, the ohild of the late Mrs. Marchmont would arrive at Miss Penroy’s residence on the following Saturday.” “Saturday, and this is Friday, ejaculated Blanche, with the new brightness dancing in her hazel jeyes. “Oh how idadlshall be! Sanderscn, tell Mrs. ; Irown to have the blue-room fitted up immediately for Master Marchmont, and you had better go yo.urself to the station with the carriage at 6 to-mor-row afternoon to meet him.” “Yes, ma’am„” said Sandeison, stolidly.

The apparition of a gieat unruly boy tramping with muddy boots on the velvet carpets, and disturbing the house with Dalis, marbles and halloos, did not possess the charm jn Sanderson’s eyes that it seemed to have for his mistress. And even patient MrsBrown remarked with a species of exasperation that “she didn’t see what put this freak into Miss Blanche’s head. ’ Saturday was a day of hail and tempest, and softly falling snow, and by five o’clock the drawing rooms were ighted, and the crimson silk Curtain closely drawn, to exclude the stormy darkness without. / Six times within the last fifteen minutes had Blauche Penroy looked at her watch, as she stood by' the fire waiting to hear the returning carriage wheels. She was dressed in a rich chjna-bltnr Silk dress with pearl pin andear drops and a little point lace at her throat and wrists, and the color in her cheeks,and the golden tinge in her bright hair made her, unconsciously, vi|ry fair to look upon.

“Oh, I hope—l hope he will like me,” thought Blanche, with that distinctive yearning for love that enters every woman’s heart, as the door opened. “Here’s theycunggentleman, miss,” said Sanderson, with a half-suppressed sound between a laugh and a snort. But instea'd of a child 7 or 8 years old, a tall apparition stalked hi, something over six feet high, witn a black mustache, aDd merry hazel eyes brimming over with mirth. For an instant Blanche stared at him as if she could scarcely credit the evidence of her own senses. “Gilbert!” “Exactly. You wanted to adopt me and here lam.” “No, but Gilbert—” “Yes, but Blanche!*’ “You are not Mrs. Marchmont’s son!” “lam, by her first marriage. And although lam not the penniless Infant you seemed to suppose, as all my father’s wealth comes to me.l am qpite willing to be adopted, panloularlyas Sou are not married to Walter Biftiighami”

Blanche struggled with tears and laughte;; uncertain which would best expiess her feelings, but Gilbert Evering drew her tenderly towardjhim. “If youadopf me, dearest, it must be for lire. do not hesitate—our happiness haeahieady been too muoh at tne mercy of trifles. You will not retract your offer?” “Well, aft er all,” said Blanche demurely, “all I wanted was somebody to love and care for, and—” “And J shall did very well in that capacity, eh?” And Sanderson, who had been listening earnestly at the door, crept down stairs to inform Mrs. Brown that “they were going to have a new maste r.”