# Frank Leslie's Illustrated Newspaper/Volume 18/Number 450/The Gulf Between Them

The Gulf Between Them.
By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens.
Chapter XXXII.
The day was passing that long, terrible day in which the moments seemed to lengthen themselves into hours, while with every one the gloom about the old house deepened and pressed more heavily down.
Grantley Mellen was in his library still; it had been a busy day with him; it appeared as if every creature within reach who could invent a plea of business had chosen that time to trouble him with it.
He was alone at last, and it was well; he was literally incapable of enduring any farther self-restraint.
He rang the bell and gave strict orders to 'Dolph:
"Let no one else in to-day; I have letters to write; I will not see another human being."
'Dolph bowed himself out, and took his way to the lower regions, to communicate to Clo and Victoria the commands his master had given. Those three servants kept themselves aloof from the few others employed for tasks which they considered too menial for the dignity of their position, and these gaping youths and girls were strictly forbidden to enter the apartment in which Clo had installed herself.
They were perfectly well aware, those three sable dignitaries, that something was wrong in the house; servants always do know when anything out of the common routine happens, and no pretence can blind their watchful eyes.
"Marster says he won't see nobody more," observed 'Dolph, as he entered the room where Clo was rolling out her pie-crust, and Victoria busily occupied in watching her.
"I wonder what's come over 'em all," said Vic. "Der's missus was a walkin' up an' down like a crazy woman—"
"An' she didn't eat no breakfast," interrupted 'Dolph, "an' she never teched a thing yesterday."
"An' Miss Elsie stretched out on de sofa, lookin' as if she'd cried her pretty eyes out," went on Victoria. "Says she's got a headache—go 'long; tell dat to blind folks! It's my 'pinion der's more heart-ache under dem looks dan anythin' else."
"Dat's jis' what I tink," assented 'Dolph.
Clorinda, from her station at the pastryboard, gave a sniff of doubtful meaning to attract their attention, tossed her head till her frizzed locks shook as if in a high wind, brought her rolling-pin down on the board with great energy, and remained silent for the express purpose of being questioned.
"What does yer tink 'bout it, Miss Clorindy?" asked 'Dolph. "Yer sentiments is allers so conspicerous dat I be glad to have der 'lumination on dis pint."
Vic looked a little spiteful at hearing such eloquence wasted on Clo, but she was so anxious for anybody's opinion that for once she forgot to quarrel.
"I tinks what I tink," said Clo, with another toss of her head and an extra flourish of the rolling-pin.
"Oh!" said 'Dolph, quite discomfited.
"Jis' so," said Clorinda.
"Any pusson could have guessed dat ar," put in Victoria, in an irritated way; "yer needn't make sich a mysteriousness jis' saying that."
"I shall make a mysteriousness or shall luff it alone, jis' as I tink best," retorted Clo, "so yer needn't go a meddlin' wid my dumplin', Miss Vic, 'cause yer'll git yer fingers burnt if yer does."
"Don't wanter meddle wid nothin' that recerns ⟨you,⟩" cried Vic, jumping at the prospect of a quarrel, since there was nothing to be gained by amicable words. "(illegible text) colored tings is ginerally too high scented for my taste."
"Jis' give me any of yer sarse," said Clo, "and I'll mark yer face smash wid dis ere dough, now I tells ye!"
"Don't lay a finger on me, cause I won't stand it," shrieked Vic; "yer a cross old catamount, dat's what's de matter."
"Go 'long 'bout yer business," shouted Clo, shaking her rollingpin in a threatening rage. "Dis 'ere's de housekeeper's room, an' yer hain't no business here."
"Much business as you has, I guess; yer ain't housekeeper as I knows on; yer only potwasher anyhow."
"Missus telled me to use dis room for makin' pies and cakes in till she got anoder housekeeper, an' I'se gwine ter."
"I don't keer if she did, dat don't make yer housekeeper any more'n stolen feathers makes a jackdaw an eagle."
"Now, ladies, ladies!" pleaded 'Dolph, fearful of the extent to which the tempest might reach if not checked in time. "Don't let us conflusticate dese little seasons of union by savagerousnesses; don't, I beg."
"Den let dat old catamount leave me alone," sniffled Vic.
"Larn dat gal ter keep a civil tongue in her yaller head if yer want peace an' composion," said Clo.
"Dat ar's religion wid a vengeance," cried Vic; "a callin' names is pretty piety, ain't it! I'll jis' see what Elder Brown says ter dat ar de bery next time I sees him."
"Oh, yes!" said Clo, contemptuously; "yer allers glad ob a 'casion ter gabble! How's a pusson gwine ter hab religion when dey's persecuted by sich a born debil; wurs 'en dem in de scripture as was worrying de swine."
"Laws!" said Vic, with a vicious sneer, "was yer roun wid dat drove 'bout dat time."
"I'll drove yer," cried Clo; "I'll fix yer."
But 'Dolph interposed again, and luckily Clo's nostrils detected the odor of burning piecrust, and she rushed into the kitchen to see if the girl had allowed her pastry to burn.
'Dolph took that opportunity to soothe the angry Victoria, and succeeded so well that by the time Clorinda returned she looked quite amiable, only there was a broad wet spot on her cheek, and a corresponding rumple in her curls, which might have excited Clorinda's suspicions had she observed it.
"Now, Miss Clorindy," said 'Dolph, when she had relieved her feelings by abusing Sally for her carelessness about the pies, and was once more tranquilly occupied with her work; "now, Miss Clorindy, jis' glorify us wid yer 'pinion 'bout de 'fairs ob dis dwellin' which we has all noticed is more mysteriouser dan is pleasant."
"I ain't gwine ter talk, jis' ter be snapped up like a beetle by a Shanghai rooster," said Clo; "shan't do it, nohow."
'Dolph winked at Victoria, and the artful maiden condescended to mollify her for a little.
"Now don't be cross, Clo," said she, "it's bad enough ter hab conflictions above stairs widout us a mussin'."
"Dem's my sentiments," cried 'Dolph, "and I knows fair Miss Clorinda 'grees wid dem—she coincidates, if yer'll 'scuse the leetle bit ob dictionary."
Victoria made a grimace behind Clo's back, but said, graciously:
"I'se gwine ter gib yer dat ar blue handkercher Miss Elsie guv me, Clo," she said, "so now let's make up and be comfoble."
"I don't want ter fight," replied Clo, "'taint my way—only I knows my persition and I 'spects ter be treated 'cording."
The handkerchief was something Clo had coveted for a long time, and the gift quite restored her good-humor.
"Dat's as it orter be," said 'Dolph. "Peace and harmony once more prewails, and we's here like—like de Happy Family as used ter be at Barnum's Museum," he added, finding a comparison at length, and quite unconscious of its singular appropriateness.
"I'se gwine to mend dis tablecloth," said Vic, "and I'll set here to do it when I go upstairs I'll git yer the hankercher, Clo."
"Oh! laws," said Clo, "yer want it yerself—don't be a givin' away yer truck."
"I'd ruther yer had it," observed Vic, "blue's allers becoming to yer, ain't it, Mr. 'Dolph?"
She made another grimace, unseen by Clorinda, which nearly sent 'Dolph into fits, but he restrained his merriment, and answered with the gravity of a judge:
"Miss Clorindy overcomes whatever she puts on, but since yer wishes my honest 'pinion, I must say I tink blue's about de proper touch fur her."
Clo grew radiant with delight, but she worked away resolutely, only observing:
"Victy, dar's a leetle cranberry tart I jis' tuk out ob de oben—it's on de kitchen table—I 'spect we might as well eat it, cause 'taint big enough to go on de table."
"I'll fotch it," cried 'Dolph; "to sarve de fair is my priv'lege."
He darted into the kitchen, bore off the tart from before Sally's envious eyes, and closed the door so that she could not be regaled even with a scent of the delicacy.
"I've jis' done gone now," said Clo, "so I'll rest a leetle afore I 'gins dinner. I'll jis' taste de tart to see ef it's good—it kinder eases my mind like."
"In course it does," said 'Dolph, and he cut the tart into four pieces, having an idea that the last slice would revert to him in the end.
They ate the pie and talked amicably over it, while in the end 'Dolph received the extra piece by earnestly pressing it on his companions, who in turn insisted upon his eating it himself.
"Mebby Sally'd like a taste," he said, virtuously.
"Sally, 'deed!" cried Clo. "It's nuff fur her ter see such tings widout eatin' 'em—a lazy, good-fur-notin' piece."
"Den ter 'blige yer I'll dispose of it," said 'Dolph, and he did so in just three mouthfuls.
"If yer wants my 'pinion 'bout what's gwine on," said Clo, suddenly, as she rose to pile up the dishes she had been using preparatory to making poor Sally wash them in the kitchen; "it's jis' dis yer! Dis trouble's all missus!"
"Missus!" repeated Vic.
"Now what does yer mean?" cried 'Dolph.
Clo nodded her head several times with gravity and precision.
"Yes, missis," she repeated, with the firmness of a person who meant what she said, and was fully prepared to defend her opinion.
"What's come over her?" asked Vic.
"Dat's jis' it," returned Clo; "now you've hit it prezact—yer might talk a week, Victy, and not come inter de pint agin."
Victoria looked at 'Dolph, and he looked at her, but, however convincing her own words might have seemed to Clorinda, there was nothing to throw any light upon their minds.
"Yer's repeatin' wid yer usual knowledge," said 'Dolph, softly, "but can't yer sperficate a leetle more clear."
"Mr. 'Dolph," said Clorinda, rolling up her eyes 'till only the whites were visible, "when I lives in a house de secrets ob dat house is locked in my bussom—"
"But ter feller domestics," put in artful 'Dolph.
"Jis' 'mong us," said Vic.
"I know, I feels dat, and so I speak," replied Clo. "I ain't gwine ter say Miss Mellen is a favoright uv mine, 'cause she ain't—but she's my missus. Her ways isn't my ways, dat's all I says, and I hain't recustomed to bein' brung up so sharp roun' de corners as is her way ter do."
"Tain't ter be 'spected," said 'Dolph.
"Mebby 'tis and mebby 'tisn't," returned Clorinda; "I only says I ain't recustomed to it, dat's all."
"But what do yer tinks happened ter her ter put 'em all in sich a to-do?" questioned Victoria.
"I ain't prepared ter say ezzactly," replied Clo, "but I tink she's gwine crossways wid marster and dat lubly angel, Miss Elsie. Dar's a syrup fur ye! She nebber gubs a pusson orders widout eben lookin' at 'em—she ain't so high and mighty dat de ground ain't good 'nuff for her ter walk on! Not but what missus a mighty fine woman—she steps off like a queen, and I tell yer when she's dressed der ain't many kin hold a candle ter her, and as fur takin' de shine off, wal, I'd jis' like ter see anybody do dat."
"It's all true," said 'Dolph, "as true as preachin'!"
"Mr. 'Dolph," said Clo, gravely, "don't take dem seriousnesses so lightsome on yer lips."
"I won't," said 'Dolph, humbly, "I begs ter 'polegise—yer see in gazing 'bout de world a gemman 'quires some parts ob speech as seems keerless, but dey don't come from de heart."
"I'se glad dey don't," observed Clorinda, "bery glad, Mr. 'Dolph."
"But what do yer tink missus has done?" demanded Victoria.
Such a straightforward question was rather a puzzler to Clorinda, so she answered with a stately air:
"Der's questions I couldn't answer even ter my most intemancies—don't press it, Victy."
Victoria's big eyes began to roll wildly in their sockets; she was astonished to find that Clo had for some time seen that things were going wrong, when the fact had escaped her own observation, and, for the first time in the course of their acquaintance, she felt a sort of respect for her usual foe but temporary ally.
"Does yer tink dey's quarr'ling?" she asked.
"When I hears thunder," said Clo, sententiously, "I allers takes it there's a storm brewin'."
Vic looked more puzzled than ever, and 'Dolph was not much better off, though he tried to appear full to the brim with wisdom and sagacity.
"Yer 'members the night missus lost her bracelet, Mr. 'Dolph?" asked Clo.
"I does bery well indeed."
"When missus bemeaned herself to shout out at me as if I'd been a sarpint," cried Clo, viciously. "Wal, if ever I see thunder I seed it in marster's face dat ar night!"
"Oh!" exclaimed Victoria, bundling up her work, "if you and Mr. 'Dolph has got secrets to talk ober, I'd better go 'way."
"Who's a destryin' the harmony now?" shouted Clo. "It's raal sinful, Victory, to give way to temper like you does."
"Oh, dat's all fine 'nuff! But I don't wish to stand in nobody's way. I'd better take my work upstairs."
"Set still, set still, Miss Victory," urged 'Dolph. "Der's no secret. We shall have de uttermost pleasure in making you 'quainted wid de pint in question."
Clorinda did not look altogether pleased with his eagerness to explain; she rather liked Victoria to suppose there was a secret between 'Dolph and herself; it seemed like paying off old scores, and though in a friendly mood, Clorinda was a woman still.
"'Splain or not, jis' as yer please," said Vic, tossing her head, viciously, "it's quite 'material to me."
But 'Dolph gave a voluble account of what his master and mistress had said and done the night the bracelet was lost, and ornamented the conversation beautifully, calling on Clorinda to set him right if he erred, and the points where Clo most loudly expressed her approval as being the exact words spoken were those 'Dolph embroidered most highly.
"Why, dar goes marster now," exclaimed Victoria, suddenly. "He's gwine out to walk."
They all rushed to the window to look, as if there had been something wonderful in the sight, and just then Sally rushed in with a cry:
"The soup's bilin' over, Clo; come—quick!"
The séance broke up in disorder, and Clo was soon engaged in pulling Sally's wool, too common an occurrence to create any surprise in the house.
Chapter XXXIII.
The confinement of the house became so irksome to Grantley Mellen that he could support it no longer. He could not have talked even to Elsie just then, so he put on his hat and hurried out into the grounds.
Upon one point his mind was fully made up. The clue to the mystery appeared to be in his hands; he would follow it out to the end now—he would know the worst. He had strength enough left to bear another great trouble. He felt that if this woman had wronged him he could sweep her out of his life, even as he had done that false one in years gone by.
That thought drove him nearly mad, it recalled that writing. Should it prove the same! If this man had a second time thrust himself into his life to blacken it with his treachery and hate! Terrible words died, half uttered on Mellen's lips, his face was fairly convulsed with passion, a loathing and a hatred which only blood could wipe out.
Below the house the lawn and gardens led away into a grove, and towards its gloom Mellen mechanically directed his steps under the cold, gray sky. A chill wind was blowing up from the water, but he did not observe it; in the fever which consumed him the air seemed absolutely stifling, and he hurried on, increasing its excess by rapid movements.
He was in the grove, walking up and down, with no settled purpose in view, striving only to escape those maddening thoughts which still clung to him still.
The wind was shaking the few remaining leaves from the trees and blowing them about in rustling dreariness, the frosts had already touched the grass and ferns, and though the place on a bright day would still have been lovely, it looked bare and melancholy enough under that frowning sky.
"It is like my life," muttered Mellen; "like my life, with an added blackness coming up beyond."
Then his mood changed; again that fierce passion swept over his face, leaving it dangerous and terrible.
"If that woman has deceived me," he cried aloud, "this time I will have no mercy! She shall taste her degradation to the very dregs; there is no depth of shame through which I will not drag her, though I ruin my own name in doing it! But it can't be! it can't be! It were death to believe it! Oh, Elizabeth, Elizabeth!"
Every tender feeling of his nature went out in that last agonizing cry. For the first time he realised all that this woman had been to him, how completely she had woven herself with his life, and what a terrible blank it would become if he were forced to tear her from it.
He made an effort to check those black thoughts, to invent excuses; he was almost inclined to rush into the house, beg for the truth and promise pardon in advance. Then he called himself a weak fool for the idea, as if any excuse were possible.
"More lies, only more lies!" he said. "I will wait—I have the clue—it will all be made clear soon."
He clenched his hands with a groan that was half anguish, half rage, and hurried more swiftly into the depths of the woods.
He came out upon a little eminence, from whence he could look down on the paths and avenues leading towards the house, though the dwelling itself was hidden by the thick growth of trees.
He saw some object creeping through the bushes, moving carefully, as if to elude the possibility of observation. He was always keen-sighted enough, but just then the thoughts in his mind made his vision still quicker and more clear.
He looked again—it was a man, running very fast and crouching among the bushes at each sound.
Without pausing for an instant's reflection he darted down the hill—as he approached the figure it disappeared. On into the thicket Mellen rushed—grasped the intruder in a clutch so firm that there was no shaking it off, and dragged him into the light.
"Rascal!" he cried, "what are you doing here? Answer me, or I'll shake you to pieces!"
The man struggled violently, but Mellen was like a giant in his passion, and swung him to and fro as if he had been a child.
"Let me alone!" cried the man. "I ain't a doing no harm!"
"What are you prowling about my house for, then? Do you know that I am master here? I shall take you indoors, and keep you till I can send for a constable. Take care—no resistance, or I'll brain you on the spot."
"I wasn't prowling round, pleaded the man, gasping for breath in Mellen's hard grasp; "I thought these woods was public property."
"Then you shall be taught. But it's a lie! You had some errand here—speak out, or by the Lord I'll kill you!"
"Don't—don't! You're choking me!" groaned the wretch.
"Then speak! What are you doing here—who do you want to see?"
"Just let me go and I'll tell you," pleaded his prisoner. "I can't speak while you're throttling me."
Mellen loosened his grasp on the man's throat, but still held him fast. His hold had been a fearful one—the man was actually breathless—Mellen had almost murdered him in his passion.
"Will you speak now?" he demanded, with a terrible menace in his voice.
THe man began to breate more freely; but, though shaking with fear, he answered sullenly:
"I hain't got nothin' to tell; I was going to the village and took a short cut through here."
Mellen caught him again by the throat.
"Tell me another lie," he hissed, "and I'll choke the breath out of your body."
The man could both see and feel that he was in horrible earnest; he might easily have supposed himself in the power of an insane man—and for the moment Mellen was little better.
"Let me go, I say—let me go!" cried the man, struggling more vigorously; but Mellen only clung to him more tightly, and down upon the ground they fell in that struggle.
Mellen had his knee on the fellow's breast and called out:
"Now, will you speak?"
"Yes, faltered the man, as well as he was able. "Just let me up—I'll tell you."
​ Mellen rose, and pulled him violently on his feet; as he did so he perceived a note lying on the ground which had fallen from the man's pocket during their struggle. He loosed his hold of the fellow, and stooped for the letter; the man took advantage of his freedom, darted away like an arrow, and was out of sight before Mellen could recover himself.
"No matter," he muttered, "he'll think twice before he comes again—I have the letter."
The envelope bore no address—it was sealed, but he tore it open without a moment's hesitation. Even as he unfolded the sheet his hand faltered—in the very height of his rage he could not think of the woe its contents might bring to his heart without a sharp pang.
He opened the epistle and glanced at the writing—it was the same peculiar hand he had seen at the pawnbroker's.
"It is his," he exclaimed. "Oh, this time I shall have revenge."
He read the letter—read it slowly through, though every word seemed to burn and sear his very eyeballs—standing there motionless, unable, at first, to take in the full extent of his crushing anguish.
These were the contents of the letter:
"I expected you to-day—you were wrong not to come. I know it is difficult for you to elude the vigilance of your Cerberus, but this matter will admit of no delay. I have information that the stocks are disposed of—look sharp that the broker is not playing a double game.
"The letters are ready—bring the money, and I pass out of your life for ever—since you will have it so. Let it rest there. If I am hated by those I love, be it so; hate does not kill, and love cannot be expected to last for ever, with men or women. I must have the money. I can submit to no further delay. If I do not hear from you to-morrow I shall come to the house in the night—so be prepared."
There was no signature—it needed none. Mellen knew only too well who the writer was, knew it as thoroughly as he did the name of the woman for whom it was intended.
For a full half hour Grantley Mellen was a madman; it was a mercy that, during his paroxysm, he did not rush into the house and murder the woman who had so wronged him. The fever and the insanity passed at length; he lay upon the ground, staring up at the cold sky, the letter still clutched in one hand, the other dug deeply into the earth, in a wild conflict of passion that shook him to the soul. He raised himself and looked about; it seemed as if he had been suffering in a mad dream—he glanced down at the letter—that brought conviction back.
He sat there for a long time revolving vague plans in his mind, and deciding upon the course he would pursue.
"Meet craft with craft," he muttered; "so I will."
He read the letter again.
"If he does not hear from her he will come tomorrow night—he will get no message—let him come!"
There was a horrible emphasis in his voice which none could have mistaken. He rose from the ground, arranged his dress, and walked towards the house.
"Not a sign, not a word which can betray," he said aloud. "I will meet her with a duplicity equal to her own—wait—a little longer—only a little longer."
He walked towards the house, and again Victoria called out to her companions:
"Here comes marster as fast as fast can be."
But Clorinda's thoughts were now centred upon her dinner, and she had no time even for gossip.
"Get away from dat window and go 'bout yer work," cried the dark spinster, austerely; "what hev yer got to do wid de marster's outgoin's or incomin's? Beat dese eggs into a foam rite off, for I'se in a hurry. Mr. 'Dolph puts one back so."
Victoria cast one more glance through the window, for the wild agony on her master's face rather alarmed her. But Clorinda called out in a voice so shrill that it was not to be disregarded, and she was constrained to undertake the task assigned her without more delay.