Virgie"s Inheritance.
by Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
Chapter I.
Virgie and the Benighted Traveler.
"Virgie, I shall have to give up the race."
"Papa!"
"My strength is failing rapidly. It was all that I could do to creep home to-night. My trembling limbs, my labored breathing, and this dreadful cough, all warn me that I must set my house in order, and make provision for your future."
It was an apparently old man who spoke thus, and yet the years of his life numbered but a little over fifty.
His hair was silvery white; his face was colorless and haggard, his eyes dim and sunken, and his form was much attenuated and bowed by the disease which was fast consuming him.
He was sitting by a blazing fire, in an ordinary easy-chair over which a heavy coverlid had been thrown to make it more comfortable; but he shivered, and hovered over the blaze, as if he were chilled to the very marrow, while the hands which he held extended to catch the warmth were livid, and trembling from weakness.
The room was small, but cozy and home-like. A cheap, coa.r.s.e carpet, though of a bright and tasteful pattern, lay upon the floor. An oval table, covered with a daintily embroidered cloth, stood in the center. There was a pretty lamp, with a bright j.a.panese shade upon it. There were also a few books in choice bindings, and a dainty work-basket filled with implements for sewing. A few pictures--some done with pen and ink, others in crayon, but all showing great talent and nicety of execution--hung, in simple frames, upon the walls. The two windows of the apartment were screened by pretty curtains of spotless muslin over heavier hangings of crimson, while a lounge and two or three chairs completed the furnishing of the room.
Beside the table, in a low rocker, several paces from the invalid by the fire, yet where she could catch every expression of his pale, sad face, there sat a young girl, with a piece of fancy work in her hands, upon which she had been busily engaged before her father spoke.
She was perhaps twenty years of age, with a straight, perfect form, and a face that would have better graced a a palace than the humble mountain home where she now abode. It was a pure, oval, with delicate, beautiful brows; soft, round cheeks, in which a lovely pink came and went with every emotion. Her eyes were of a deep violet color, shaded by dark silken lashes, though their expression was saddened somewhat just now by a look of care and anxiety. Her white forehead was surmounted by rich chestnut-brown hair, which was gathered into a graceful knot at the back of her finely shaped head. A straight, patrician nose; a small, but rather resolute mouth, and a rounded chin, in which there was a bewitching dimple; small, lady-like hands and feet, completed the tout ensemble of Virginia Abbot, the daughter and only child of a whilom honored and wealthy bank president of San Francisco.
When addressed, as recorded above, the beautiful girl had started and grown suddenly pale, and a look of keenest pain shot into her violet eyes.
Then her sweet mouth straightened itself into a stern, resolute line.
There was a moment of solemn silence, which she broke, by saying, in a repressed but gentle tone:
"I am sorry that you are feeling worse than usual to-night, papa. I know you must be weary. You are always that after being all day in the mine, and the storm, of course, aggravates your cough; but if you will rest a few days you will surely be better."
"No, Virgie, it is useless to build upon false hopes. I shall never be any better. My work is done. I shall go no more to my claim, and I have decided to dispose of it to the first one who will offer me a fair price for it. But, dear child, if it were not for you I believe I should be glad to know that my saddened life is almost at an end. I----"
The weary voice quivered and failed here, and the man sank back in his chair with a bitter sigh.
The young girl, her own face now blanched to the hue of death, laid down her work, arose, and moved swiftly to her father"s side, where she knelt by his chair.
"Papa, do not talk so. You must not leave me," she cried, in a voice of agony. "I cannot spare you. There must be something to help you--to build up your strength. Let us go back home, where you can have the best medical advice."
The man sat up in his chair, stopping her with a gesture almost of despair.
"Home!" he cried, hoa.r.s.ely. "Virgie, we have no home but this. You know that I am already the same as dead to every one but you; that even our real name is sunk in oblivion."
"But, papa, you must try to live for my sake," Virgie cried, clasping her trembling hands about his emaciated arm, and shuddering as she felt how frail it was. "If you will not go back, let me at least send for Dr.
Truel. He is skillful. He was always our friend. He will cheer you and give you something to build you up, and he will keep our secret, too. Oh, you ought to have had advice long ago. What shall I do in this dreary place if you leave me alone?"
The sick man unclasped her clinging hands from his arm, and drew her slight form to him in a tender embrace.
"My darling," he said, fondly, "that is just what I wish to talk with you about; so calm yourself and listen to me. Neither Dr. Truel, nor any other doctor, can help me now; if I had called him a year ago he might have prolonged my life; but my pride would not let me face any one whom I had ever known. But I will not speak of the past; it is too familiar and painful to both of us. It is useless, however, for me to think for a moment of going back, even to die, in the home where we were once so happy, for only disgrace is connected with our name--disgrace and wrong, all the more keenly felt because unmerited."
"Hush, Virgie!" he continued, as a shuddering sob burst from the breast pressed so closely to his, "you must not give way so. I did not mean to alarm you unnecessarily by what I have said; I may not leave you for some time yet. I may be spared for a few months, perhaps until autumn, but I feel that the time has come to arrange some definite plan for your future.
I must, however, give up my work, for I have no longer strength to carry it on; but if there was only some one whom I could trust to take charge of my claim. I might even yet reap something of benefit from it to add to the h.o.a.rd that I have been saving for you against this emergency."
"But, papa, I would much rather that you should spend every dollar that you have, if it would prolong your life; if I lose you, I have not a friend in the world."
The man heaved a heavy sigh, for too well he realized the truth of her words.
"My dear," he returned, with tender pathos, "if it were possible for me to regain my health, at any sacrifice, I would gladly make it for your sake.
But I know that it cannot be, and my care now must be to make the best provision that I can for you."
"I have been very successful since coming here," he went on, speaking more cheerfully, "more so than I ever dared to hope, and the claim promises much for the future and ought to bring a good price if sold; so you will have quite a snug little fortune, my Virgie, and I trust that your lot in life will yet be happy, in spite of the dark cloud that has so shadowed it in the beginning. What say you to writing to my old friend, Laurence Bancroft, of New York, confiding you to his care after----"
"Oh, my father, you make me utterly wretched," cried the young girl, reaching up her arms and clasping them convulsively about his neck, while she lifted her tear-stained face appealingly to him.
He bent forward and kissed her white forehead softly with his trembling lips.
"Bear with me a little longer, my daughter, and then we will never mention this again while I live," he returned, huskily. "Laurence Bancroft, as you know, was a dear friend of my early life. He has a cultivated wife, and two daughters about your own age; he will believe me when I tell him the truth regarding our misfortunes, and will, no doubt, give you a home in his own family, and care for your interests until--woman"s best gift--the love of some true man comes to you, and you have a home of your own. New York is almost on the other side of the world, and no evil breath of the past will be likely to touch you there. What do you say, Virgie?--may I write to my friend, giving you to his care?"
"Yes, papa," Virgie said, wearily a.s.senting to his project, more to put an end to the painful conversation than because she had any choice in the matter, "you may do whatever your judgment tells you is best, and I will be guided entirely by your wishes."
Mr. Abbot looked intensely relieved.
This question had troubled him for many months, and he had always shrunk from speaking of it, because of the pain which he knew it would inflict.
With this vital matter settled, he felt that he could give up all care, and spend the few remaining days of his life in peace with his idolized child, and calmly await the end, which he knew was so near.
"That is right, dear," he said, with a contented smile. "I am greatly comforted. I will write a full account of everything, together with my wishes for your future, and it will be ready to be sent to Mr. Bancroft at a moment"s warning. I do not care to have him know anything about us just yet; hark! what was that?" he broke off abruptly, and started into a listening att.i.tude.
"Only the wind and the storm beating against the house, I think," answered Virgie, lifting her head, and calmed for the moment as she, too, listened to what had seemed an unusual noise.
"It is a wild night, my child. I hope no one is homeless in this storm,"
said Mr. Abbot. "I am thankful for this peaceful, though humble refuge, after the turmoil and wrong of a few years ago, only it is hard for you to be so shut away and isolated from those of your own age. But surely that was a knock, Virgie."
The young girl started to her feet as a loud and imperative rap echoed through the small entry outside the parlor.
It was seldom that they were disturbed at that hour of the evening, for among the hard working people of the mining district in which they lived, there were few who were not early wrapped in slumber after the labors of the day.
Virgie pa.s.sed quickly out of the cheerful parlor into the tiny hall, and opened the outer door, though the heavy burglar chain was fastened and would admit of its being opened but a little ways.
"Who is there?" she asked, in her clear, sweet tones.
"A stranger who has lost his way and seeks direction to the nearest public inn," answered a rich, mellow voice from without.
Mr. Abbot now came out, a heavy shawl wrapped about his shoulders to shield him from the dampness.
"It is more than a mile from here, and a very poor place at that," he said.