The Kenosha telegraph. [volume] (Kenosha, Wis.) 1860-1888, 1863-04-02
NUMBER 43.

than in welcome. The park was entirely I'M
cultivated the trunks of the trees were chok-
ed with the tangled underwood the fern grew
deep in the long vistas, broken here and there
by solitary pools of black water, on whose
quiet borders we heard the flap Of the heron's
wing and the dull croaking of an army of
frogs.
Lady Adela was right. Fernwood wos a
dull place. l could scarcely repress a shud-
der as we drove under the dark avenue; while
as for my poor aunt, her teeth chartered aud
iblv. Accustomed to spend three parts OF the
wear in Onslow Square, and the Autumn
months at Brighton or Hyde, this dreary York
shire mansion was a terrible trial to her rather
over-sensitive nerves.
Laurence seemed to divine the reason Of our
silence.
ssThe place is frightfully neglected, Mrs.
Trevor he said alphabetically; but do
not mean this sort of thing TO last, | assure
YOU. Before ever l bring my delicate little
Bella to Fernwood,I will have landscape-gard-
ners and upholsterers down by the score, and
try to convert this dreary wilderness into a
terrestrial paradise. | cannot tell you why
the place has been suffered to fail into decay
certainly not for want of money, still less for
want of opportunity, for my father is an idle
man, to whom one would imagine restoring
and rebuilding would afford a delightful hob
by. No, there is no reason why the place
should have been so neglected"
He said this more to himself than to us, as
if the words were spoken i'll answer to some
long train of thought Of his OWN, and then,
growing silent, he seemed to relapse into his
old reverie. watched his face earnestly, for
[ had seldom seen him look 50 thoughtful
Presently he said, with more his old manner {:
''As you are close upon the threshold OF
Fernwood now, ladies, | ought perhaps to tell
| YOU that you will find ours Il most low-splrlt-
ed family. With every thing i'll life to make
us happy, we seem forever under q cloud
Ever since | can remember my poor father, he
has been slowly dropping into decay, almost
in the same way as this neglected place, till
now he is a confirmed invalid, without my
positive illness. My mother reads novels all
dav, and half lives upon sal volatile and spir-
its of Lavender. Ny sister, the only active
person in the house, is always thoughtful, and
very often melancholy. Mind, l merely tell
you this to prepare you for any thing you
may see not to depress you, for you may de-
pend upon my exertions towards reforming
this dreary household, which has sunk into
lhabitual dependency from sheer easy fortune
and want of vexation."
The phaeton drew up before a broad flight
of stone steps as Laurence ceased speaking,
and in five minutes more he had assisted my
aunt and myself to alight, and had ushered
us into the presence of Lady Adela and Miss
Lucy Wendale.
We found Lady Adela,a as her sons descrlp-
ton had given us reason to expect, absorbed
in a novel. She threw down her book as we
entered. and advanced to meet us with con-
siderable coraiality rather, indeed, as If she
really were grateful to us for breaking in up
on her solitary life.
at is SO good of you to come" she SAID,
folding me in her slender arms With an al
most motherly embrace, ''and 50 kind Of you,
too. my dear Mrs. Trevor, to abandon all your
town pleasures for the sake u bringing this
dear girl to me. Believe lie, W. will do all
in our power to make you comfortable, II you
can put up with very limited society for we
have received no company whatever since my
sons childhood, and | doubt if my visiting
list could muster half a dozen names
Lady Adela was an elegant-loOking woman,
i'll the very prime Of life but her handsome
face was thin and careworn, and premature
wrinkles gathered about her melancholy blue
ewes and thoughtful mouth. While she was
talking to my aunt, Lucy Wendale aud | drew
~C
nearer to each other.
Laurence's halfsister was by no means hand
some; pale and sallow, with lark hair and
rather dull grey eyes, she looked as II some
hidden sorrow had quenched out the light OF
her life long ago, in her earliest youth some
sorrow that had neither been forgotten nor
deceased by time, but that had grown with
her growth, andstrengthcncd with her strength
until it had become a part OF her Tery self
some disappointed attachment, though t,s some
cruel blow that had shattered a girls hrst
dream, and left a broken-heartcd woman TO
mourn the fatal delusion. In ny utter lgno-
rance of life. | thought these We're the only
griefs which ever left . wonan's life dcsolate.
'"You will try and be happy 1t fernwood,
Isabel" Lucy Wendale said gently, as she
drew me into a seat by her side, while Lau-
renee bent fondly over us both. do not be
lieve, dear as we were to each other, that my
Laurence ever loved me as he loved this pale
faced half-sister.
s|You will try and be happy, Viii You not,
dear Isabel Laurence has becn breaking-in
the ~prettiest chestnut mare in all Yorkshire, !
think, that you may explore the country with
us. | have heard what a daring horsc-woman
you are. The pianos have been put IN tune
for you, and the billiard-table recovered that
YOU may have exercise on rainy days and il
we cannot give you much society, we will do
all else to prevent your feeling dull"
Il shall be very happy here with you, dear
Lucy" | said but you tell me so much OF
the dulIness of Fernwood. while, ! dare say,
You yourself have a hundred associations that
make the old place very dear to you"
She looked down as ! spoke, and a very faint
flush broke through the sallow paleness OF her
complexion. 49,,
II am not very fond Of F%ernwood, she said,
gravely.
It was at Fernwood, then, that the great sor
row of her life had come upon her, thought
sNo. Lucy" said Laurence, almost impa
: tientIy, Everybody knows this dull place Is
killing you by inches, and yet nothing OF
earth can induce you to quit it. When we al
go to Scarboroug or Burlington, when nam
ma goes to Harrowgate, when run up Il
town to rub off my provincial rust, and sec
) what the world is made of outside these drea
r nv gates-you obstinately presist i'll staying
l at home and the only reason you can urge
for doing so is, that you must remain here tt
take care of that unfortunate invalid OF yours
r Mr.. Thomas
l | was holding Lucy's hand i'll mine, and
felt fine moor wasted little fingers tremblc as
! her brother spoke.
| sNr. Thomas !" I exclaimed, half iunvoIun
tarily.
"4h, to be sure, Bella, l for got to tell you
: of that member of our household, but, as
have never seen him. may be forgiven tht
= omission. This Mr.. Thomas is a poor rela-
2 tive of my fathers a hopeless invalid-bed-
ridden, ! believe is he not, Lucy who re
) %ouires a strong man and an experienced nurse
to look after him, and who occupies the entire
upper story of one wing of the house. Pool
/ Mr.. Thomas, invalid as he is, must certainly
be a most fascinating person. My mother goes
to see him every day, but as stealthily as l
f she were paving a secret visit to some con.
5 demned criminal. have often met my faith.
er coming away from his rooms, pale and mel
ancholy and as for my sister Lucy, she is 81
attached to this sick dependant Of ours, that
- d. Ill ;,I,1na her +S