Part 1 (1/2)
Lily Pearl and The Mistress of Rosedale.
by Ida Glenwood.
PREFACE.
It matters but little to the average reader whether a book be wholly historical or purely imaginary if it be of sufficient interest to hold the attention in a pleasurable excitement to its close.
There are those however, who will be glad to know that the following work was wrought out of historical facts gleaned from a large parcel of letters written by a son while a soldier in the army of the rebellion, to his widowed mother, then in Springfield, Ma.s.s.
Graphic were his descriptions of scenes and incidents coming to his personal knowledge during that memorable march from ”Atlanta to the sea.”
These I have woven into a web of fiction mingling their lights and shadows, blending them as best I could amid denser shades, hoping that peradventure their coming to you, gentle reader, may prove as great a pleasure in the perusing as the author has enjoyed in the weaving.
IDA GLENWOOD.
Fenton, Mich.
CHAPTER I.
MIDNIGHT AT ”CLIFF HOUSE.”
It was a dismal night out upon the ocean where the huge billows tossed high their foaming crests, or dashed with maddening fury upon the rocky sh.o.r.e as if unwilling longer to submit to the powers that shut them in; while ever and anon the deep-mouthed thunder answered back through the darkness ”thus far shalt thou go, and no farther.”
Then ran the echoes along the sh.o.r.e and up the ragged cliff on whose summit one feeble ray of light struggled through the narrow crevice of a curtained window out into the midnight gloom. The howling winds made sad music through the long corridors and curious wrought lattice work that partially enclosed it; slamming the heavy iron gate that had broken loose from its fastenings and kept swaying to and fro upon its rusty hinges, wakening by its unusual noise the huge watch dog in his kennel, who growled menacingly at being disturbed at such a late hour. The rain beat furiously against the windows and ran in rapid cascades down the steep declivity into the sea, falling on the sandy sh.o.r.e that extended along the beach at the foot of the cliff.
It was October, and the cottage on the summit was usually deserted before this time, for the invalid who had resided there during five successive seasons could not well endure the autumn breezes when the frost-king had chilled them.
To-night, however, a tall, richly-dressed lady sat alone in the s.p.a.cious parlor, her black gown lying in heavy folds on the white matting that covered the floor, her head drooping wearily upon her hand as her elbow rested on the table where the wasting candle flickered low in the socket; but she heeded it not. Now and then she would raise her head with a sudden start and look intently at the door opposite and then sink back again into the same posture as before.
There was sadness upon her face, such as awakens the deepest sympathy of a human heart; but in the keen, glistening eye there was a deeper, sterner look that would send a sister's tenderest love back to its secret chamber, chilled and trembling!
There are hours made so big with actions and resolves that _years_ full of circ.u.mstances and results are made to hang their heavy weights upon them. Such an one was now pa.s.sing, bearing away on its dark wings the fearful impress made by a silent finger, yet in characters that in after years will reflect back upon the soul, filling it with horror and dismay! A loud peal of thunder echoed through the apartment and then rolled away in the distance, leaving behind the mingled voices of the winds and waves, with the fast falling rain on the roof above.
The door suddenly opened and a servant girl stealthily entered with a newly lighted candle, placed it on the table exchanging it for the one almost spent, and then as stealthily retired.
The lady did not seem to notice the intruder, as she did not enter the door where her expectant eyes had so often turned with a wild, weird look, and she remained as motionless as before.
Two o'clock. The little silvery bell on the mantel proclaimed the hour, and the tall bent figure at the table gave a sudden start, as though a new pang had penetrated her sensitive brain.
A few moments after, the door toward which her eyes had so often wandered slowly opened and a little girl scarcely ten years of age, timidly entered and approached the lady.
”Mother would like to come in,” she said, with a faltering voice, while her pale blue eyes were fixed on the matting at her feet.
”Tell her to come,” was the laconic reply, and the child hurried away with a much quicker step than that with which she had entered.
Immediately a small, nervous little woman appeared, with a cold, rigid, sallow face, small gray eyes and sandy hair, bearing in her arms a bundle of soft white flannel, which she pressed mechanically to her well-rounded bust, and without any salutation seated herself upon a wicker chair, and with the utmost _sang froid_ commenced unrolling the white flannel she had laid upon her lap.
”It's a wee darling,” she said, after a lengthy pause, during which time she had exposed a little red face and a pair of diminutive fists all ready to begin the fierce battles of life, and towards which the lady did not deign to look.