didn't you give them to me before?"
"Well, your grave face when I first came in put everything else out of
my head; and then came on all this talk: but it's just as well, you'll
have them to read while I'm gone."
"Don't stay late, Harry."
"No; you may be sure I've no temptation. I'd much rather be here with
you watching our own back-log. But then I shall see several fellows
about articles for the magazine, and get all the late news, and, in
short, take an observation of our latitude and longitude; so, _au
revoir_!"
_CHAPTER VII._
LETTERS AND AIR-CASTLES.
After Harry went out, Eva arranged the fire, dropped the curtains
over the window, drew up an easy chair into a warm corner under
the gas-light, and began looking over the outside of her Parisian
letters with that sort of luxurious enjoyment of delay with which one
examines the post-marks and direction of letters that are valued as
a great acquisition. There was one from her sister Ida and one from
Harry's cousin Caroline. Ida's was opened first. It was dated from
a boarding-house in the Rue de Clichy, giving a sort of journalised
view of their studies, their medical instructors, their walks and
duties in the hospital, all told with an evident and vigorous sense of
enjoyment. Eva felt throughout what a strong, cheerful, self-sustained
being her sister was, and how fit it was that a person so sufficient
to herself, so equable, so healthfully balanced and poised in all her
mental and physical conformation, should have undertaken the pioneer
work of opening a new profession for women. "I never could do as she
does, in the world," was her mental comment, "but I am thankful that
she can." And then she cut the envelope of Caroline's letter.
To a certain extent there were the same details in it--Caroline was
evidently associated in the same studies, the same plans, but there
was missing in the letter the professional enthusiasm, the firmness,
the self-poise, and calm clearness. There were more bursts of feeling
on the pictures in the Louvre than on scientific discoveries; more
sensibility to the various æsthetic wonders which Paris opens to
an uninitiated guest than to the treasures of anatomy and surgery.
With the letter were sent two or three poems, contributions to the
Magazine--poems full of color and life, of a subdued fire, but with
that undertone of sadness which is so common in all female poets. A
portion of the letter may explain this:
"You were right, my dear Eva, in saying, in our last interview, that
it did not seem to you that I had the kind of character that was
adapted to the profession I have chosen. I don't think I have. I am
more certain of it from comparing myself from day to day with Ida,
who certainly is born and made for it, if ever a woman was. My choice
of it has been simply and only for the reason that I must choose
something as a means of self-support, and more than that, as a refuge
from morbid distresses of mind which made the still monotony of my New
England country life intolerable to me. This course presented itself
to me as something feasible. I thought it, too, a good and worthy
career--one in which one might do one's share of good for the world.
But, Eva, I can feel that there is one essential difference between
Ida and myself: she is peculiarly self-sustained and sufficient to
herself, and I am just the reverse. I am full of vague unrest; I
am chased by seasons of high excitement, alternating with deadly
languor. Ida has hard work to know what to do with me. You were right
in supposing, as you intimate in your letter, that a certain common
friend has something to do with this unrest, but you cannot, unless
you know my whole history, know how much. There was a time when he
and I were all the world to each other--when shall I ever forget that
time! I was but seventeen; a young girl, so ignorant of life! I never
had seen one like him; he was a whole new revelation to me; he woke
up everything there was in me, never to go to sleep again; and then to
think of having all this tide and current of feeling checked--frozen.
My father overwhelmed him with accusations; every baseness was laid
to his charge. I was woman enough to have stood for him against the
world if he had come to me. I would have left all and gone to the ends
of the earth with him if he had asked me, but he did not. There was
only one farewell, self-accusing letter, and even that fell into my
father's hands and never came to me till after his death. For years I
thought myself wantonly trifled with by a man of whose attentions I
ought to be ashamed. I was indignant at myself for the love that might
have been my glory, for it is my solemn belief that if we had been let
alone he would have been saved all those wretched falls, those blind
struggles that have marred a life whose purpose is yet so noble.
"When the fates brought us together again in New York, I saw at a
glance that whatever may have been the proud, morbid conscientiousness
that dictated his long silence, he loved me still;--a woman knows that
by an unmistakable instinct. She can _feel_ the reality through all
disguises. I _know_ that man loves me, and yet he does not now in word
or deed make the least profession beyond the boundaries of friendship.
He is my friend; with entire devotion he is willing to spend and be
spent for me--but he will accept nothing from me. I, who would give my
life to him willingly--I must do nothing for him!
"Well, it's no use writing. You see now that I am a very unworthy
disciple of your sister. She is so calm and philosophical that I
cannot tell her all this; but you, dear little Eva, you know the
heart of woman, and you have a magic key which unlocks everybody's
heart in confidence to you. I seem to see you, in fancy, with good
Cousin Harry, sitting cosily in your chimney-corner; your ivies and
nasturtiums growing round your sunny windows, and an everlasting
summer in your pretty parlors, while the December winds whistle
without. Such a life as you two lead, such a home as your home, is
worth a thousand 'careers' that dazzle ambition. Send us more letters,
journals, of all your pretty, lovely home life, and let me warm myself
in the glow of your fireside.
Your Cousin,
CARRY."
* * * * *
Eva finished this letter, and then folding it up sat with it in her
lap, gazing into the fire, and pondering its contents. If the truth
must be told, she was revolving in her young, busy brain a scheme for
restoring Caroline to her lover, and setting them up comfortably at
housekeeping on a contiguous street, where she had seen a house to
let. In five minutes she had gone through the whole programme--seen
the bride at the altar, engaged the house, bought the furniture, and
had before her a vision of parlors, of snuggeries and cosy nooks,
where Caroline was to preside, and where Bolton was to lounge at his
ease, while she and Caroline compared housekeeping accounts. Happy
young wives develop an aptitude for match-making as naturally as
flowers spring in a meadow, and Eva was losing herself in this vision
of Alnaschar, when a loud, imperative, sharp bark of a dog at the
front door of the house called her back to life and the world.
Now there are as many varieties to dog-barks as to man-talks. There
is the common bow-wow, which means nothing, only that it is a dog
speaking; there is the tumultuous angry bark, which means attack; the
conversational bark, which, of a moonlight night, means gossip; and
the imperative staccato bark which means immediate business. The bark
at the front door was of this kind: it was loud and sharp, and with a
sort of indignant imperativeness about it, as of one accustomed to be
attended to immediately.
Eva flew to the front door and opened it, and there sat Jack, the
spoiled darling of Miss Dorcas Vanderheyden and her sister, over the
way.
"Why, Jacky! where did you come from?" said Eva. Jacky sat up on his
haunches and waved his forepaws in a vigorous manner, as was his way
when he desired to be specially ingratiating.
Eva seized him in her arms and carried him into the parlor, thinking
that as he had accidentally been shut out for the night she would
domesticate him for a while, and return him to his owners on the
morrow. So she placed him on the ottoman in the corner and attempted
to caress him, but evidently that was not the purpose he had in view.
He sprang down, ran to the door and snuffed, and to the front windows
and barked imperiously.
"Why, Jack, what do you want?"
He sprang into a chair and barked out at the Vanderheyden house.
Eva looked at the mantel clock--it wanted a few minutes of
ten--without, it was a bright moonlight night.
"I'll run across with him, and see what it is," she said. She was
young enough to enjoy something like an adventure. She opened the
front door and Jack rushed out, and then stopped to see if she would
follow; as she stood a moment he laid hold on the skirt of her dress,
as if to pull her along.
"Well, Jacky, I'll go," said Eva. Thereat the creature bounded across
the street and up the steps of the opposite house, where he stood
waiting. She went up and rang the door-bell, which appeared to be what
he wanted, as he sat down quite contented on the doorstep.
Nobody came. Eva looked up and down the street. "Jacky, we shall
have to go back, they are all asleep," she said. But Jacky barked
contradiction, sprang nearer to the door, and insisted on being let in.
"Well, if you say so, Jacky, I must ring again," she said, and with
that she pulled the door-bell louder, and Jack barked with all
his might, and the two succeeded after a few moments in causing a
perceptible stir within.
Slowly the door unclosed, and a vision of Miss Dorcas in an
old-fashioned broad-frilled night-cap peeped out. She was attired in a
black water-proof cloak, donned hastily over her night gear.
"Oh, Jack, you naughty boy!" she exclaimed, stooping eagerly to the
prodigal, who sprung tumultuously into her arms and began licking her
face.
"I'm so much obliged to you, Mrs. Henderson," she said to Eva. "We
went down in the omnibus this afternoon, and we suddenly missed him,
the naughty fellow," she said, endeavoring to throw severity into her
tones.
Eva related Jack's ruse.
"Did you ever!" said Miss Dorcas; "the creature knew that we slept in
the back of the house, and he got you to ring our door-bell. Jacky,
what a naughty fellow you are!"
Mrs. Betsey now appeared on the staircase in an equal state of
dishabille:
"Oh dear, Mrs. Henderson, we are so shocked!"
"Dear me, never speak of it. I think it was a cunning trick of Jack.
He knew you were gone to bed, and saw I was up and so got me to ring
his door-bell for him. I don't doubt he rode up town in the omnibus.
Well, good-night!"
And Eva closed the door and flew back to her own little nest just in
time to let in Harry.
The first few moments after they were fairly by the fireside were
devoted to a recital of the adventure, with dramatic representations
of Jack and his mistresses.
"It's a capital move on Jack's part. It got me into the very interior
of the fortress. Only think of seeing them in their night-caps! That
is carrying all the out-works of ceremony at a move."
"To say nothing of their eternal gratitude," said Harry.
"Oh, that of course. They were ready to weep on my neck with joy that
I had brought the dear little plague back to them, and I don't doubt
are rejoicing over him at this moment. But, oh, Harry, you must hear
the girls' Paris letters."
"Are they very long?" said Harry.
"Fie now, Harry; you ought to be interested in the girls."
"Why, of course I am," said Harry, pulling out his watch, "only--what
time is it?"
"Only half-past ten--not a bit late," said Eva. As she began to read
Ida's letter, Harry settled back in the embrace of a luxurious chair,
with his feet stretched out towards the fire, and gradually the
details of Paris life mingled pleasingly with a dream--a fact of which
Eva was made aware as she asked him suddenly what he thought of Ida's
views on a certain point.
"Now, Harry--you haven't been asleep?"
"Just a moment. The very least in the world," said Harry, looking
anxiously alert and sitting up very straight.
Then Eva read Caroline's letter.
"Now, isn't it too bad?" she said, with eagerness, as she finished.
"Yes, it's one of those things that you and I can do nothing to
help--it is [Greek: anagkê]."
"What's ananke?"
"The name the old Greeks gave to that perverse Something that brought
ruin and misery in spite of and out of the best human efforts."
"But I want to bring these two together."
"Be careful how you try, darling. Who knows what the results may be?
It's a subject Bolton never speaks of, where he has his own purposes
and conclusions; and it's the best thing for Caroline to be where she
has as many allurements and distractions as she has in Paris, and such
a wise, calm, strong friend as your sister.
"And now, dear, mayn't I go to bed?" he added, with pathos, "You've no
idea, dear, how sleepy I am."
"Oh, certainly, you poor boy," said Eva, bustling about and putting up
the chairs and books preparatory to leaving the parlor.
"You see," she said, going up stairs, "he was so imperious that I
really had to go with him."
"He! Who?"
"Why, Jack, to be sure, he did all but speak," said Eva, brush in
hand, and letting down her curls before the glass. "You see I was in a
reverie over those letters when the barking roused me--I don't think
you ever heard such a barking; and when I got him in, he wouldn't
be contented--kept insisting on my going over with him--wasn't it
strange?"
Harry, by this time composed for the night and half asleep, said it
was.
In a few moments he was aroused by Eva's saying, suddenly,
"Harry, I really think I ought to bring them together. Now, couldn't I
do something?"
"With Jack?" said Harry, drowsily.
"Jack!--oh, you sleepy-head! Well, never mind. Good night."
_CHAPTER VIII._
THE VANDERHEYDEN FORTRESS TAKEN.
"Now, Harry, I'll tell you what I'm going to do this morning," said
Eva, with the air of a little general, as she poured his morning
coffee.
"And what are you going to do?" replied he, in the proper tone of
inquiry.
"Well, I'm going to take the old fortress over the way by storm,
this very morning. I'm going to rush through the breach that Jack
has opened into the very interior and see what there is there. I'm
perfectly dying to get the run of that funny old house; why, Harry,
it's just like a novel, and I shouldn't wonder if I could get enough
out of it for you to make an article of."
"Thank you, dear; you enter into the spirit of article-hunting like
one to the manner born."
"That I do; I'm always keeping my eyes open when I go about New York
for bits and hints that you can work up, and I'm sure you ought to
do something with this old Vanderheyden house. I know there must be
ghosts in it; I'm perfectly certain."
"But you wouldn't meet them in a morning call," said Harry, "that's
contrary to all ghostly etiquette."
"Never mind, I'll get track of them. I'll become intimate with old
Miss Dorcas and get her to relate her history, and if there is a
ghost-chamber I'll be into it."
"Well, success to you," said Harry; "but to me it looks like a
formidable undertaking. Those old ladies are so padded and wadded in
buckram."
"Oh, pshaw! there's just what Jack has done for me, he has made a
breach in the padding and buckram. Only think of my seeing them at
midnight in their night-caps! And such funny night-caps! Why, it's
an occasion long to be remembered, and I would be willing to wager
anything they are talking it over at this minute; and, of course, you
see, it's extremely proper and quite a part of the play that I should
come in this morning to inquire after the wanderer, and to hope they
didn't catch cold, and to talk over the matter generally. Now, I
_like_ that old Miss Dorcas; there seems to me to be an immense amount
of character behind all her starch and stiffness, and I think she's
quite worth knowing. She'll be an acquisition if one can only get at
her."
"Well, as I said, success and prosperity go with you!" said Harry, as
he rose and gathered his papers to go to his morning work.
"I'll go right out with you," said Eva, and she snatched from the
hat-tree a shawl and a little morsel of white, fleecy worsted, which
the initiated surname "a cloud," and tied it over her head. "I'm going
right in upon them now," she said.
It was a brisk, frosty morning, and she went out with Harry and darted
across from the door. He saw her in the distance, as he went down the
street, laughing and kissing her hand to him on the door-step of the
Vanderheyden house.
Just then the sound of the door-bell--unheard of in that hour in the
morning--caused an excitement in the back breakfast-parlor, where
Miss Dorcas and Mrs. Betsey were at a late breakfast, with old Dinah
standing behind Miss Dorcas' chair to get her morning orders, giggling
and disputing them inch by inch, as was her ordinary wont.
The old door-bell had a rustling, harsh, rusty sound, as if cross with
a chronic rheumatism of disuse.
"Who under the sun!" said Miss Dorcas. "Jack, be still!"
But Jack wouldn't be still, but ran and snuffed at the door, and
barked as if he smelt a legion of burglars.
Eva heard, within the house, the dining-room door open, and then
Jack's barking came like a fire of artillery at the crack of the front
door, where she was standing. It was slowly opened, and old Dinah's
giggling countenance appeared. "Laws bless your soul, Mis' Henderson,"
she said, flinging the door wide open, "is that you? Jack, be still,
sir!"
But Eva had caught Jack up in her arms, and walked with him to the
door of the breakfast room.
"Do pray excuse me," she said, "but I thought I'd just run over and
see that you hadn't taken any cold."
The scene within was not uninviting. There was a cheerful wood fire
burning on the hearth behind a pair of gigantic old-fashioned brass
fire-irons. The little breakfast-table, with its bright old silver
and India china, was drawn comfortably up in front. Miss Dorcas had
her chair on one side, and Miss Betsey on the other, and between them
there was a chair drawn up for Jack, where he had been sitting at the
time the door-bell rang.
"We are ashamed of our late hours," said Miss Dorcas, when she had
made Eva sit down in an old-fashioned claw-footed arm-chair in the
warmest corner; "we don't usually breakfast so late, but, the fact is,
Betsey was quite done up by the adventure last night."
"Perhaps," said Eva, "I had better have tried keeping Jack till
morning."
"Oh no, indeed, Mrs. Henderson," said Mrs. Betsey, with energy; "I
know it's silly, but I shouldn't have slept a wink all night if Jack
hadn't come home. You know he sleeps with me," she added.
Eva did not know it before, but she said "Yes" all the same, and the
good lady rushed on:
"Yes; Dorcas thinks it's rather silly, but I do let Jack sleep on the
foot of my bed. I spread his blanket for him every night, and I always
wash his feet and wipe them clean before he goes to bed, and when
you brought him back you really ought to have seen him run right up
stairs to where I keep his bowl and towel; and he stood there, just as
sensible, waiting for me to come and wash him. I wish you could have
seen how dirty he was! I can't think where ever that dog gets his paws
so greasy."
"'Cause he will eat out o' swill-pails!" interposed Dinah, with a
chuckle. "Greatest dog after swill-pails I ever see. That's what he's
off after."
"Well, I don't know why. It's very bad of him when we always feed
him and take such pains with him," said Mrs. Betsey, in accents of
lamentation.
"Dogs is allers jest so," said Dinah; "they's arter nastiness and
carron. You can't make a Christian out o' a dog, no matter what you
do."
Old Dinah was the very impersonation of that coarse, hard literalness
which forces actual unpalatable facts upon unwilling ears. There was
no disputing that she spoke most melancholy truths, that even the most
infatuated dog-lovers could not always shut their eyes to. But Mrs.
Betsey chose wholly to ignore her facts and treat her communication as
if it had no existence, so she turned her back to Dinah and went on.
"I don't know what makes Jack have these turns of running away.
Sometimes I think it's our system of dieting him. Perhaps it may be
because we don't allow him all the meat he wants; but then they say if
you do give these pet dogs meat they become so gross that it is quite
shocking."
Miss Dorcas rapped her snuff-box, sat back in her chair, and took
snuff with an air of antique dignity that seemed to call heaven and
earth to witness that she only tolerated such fooleries on account of
her sister, and not at all in the way of personal approbation.
The nurture and admonition of Jack was the point where the two sisters
had a chronic controversy, Miss Dorcas inclining to the side of strict
discipline and vigorous repression.
In fact, Miss Dorcas soothed her violated notions of dignity and
propriety by always speaking of Jack as "Betsey's dog"--he was one of
the permitted toys and amusements of Betsey's more juvenile years;
but she felt called upon to keep some limits of discipline to prevent
Jack's paw from ruling too absolutely in the family councils.
"You see," said Mrs. Betsey, going on with her reminiscences of
yesterday, "we had taken Jack down town with us because we wanted to
get his photographs; we'd had him taken last week, and they were not
ready till yesterday."
"Dear me, do show them to me," said Eva, entering cheerfully into the
humor of the thing; and Mrs. Betsey trotted up stairs to get them.
"You see how very absurd we are," said Miss Dorcas; "but the fact is,
Mrs. Henderson, Betsey has had her troubles, poor child, and I'm glad
to have her have anything that can be any sort of a comfort to her."
Betsey came back with her photographs, which she exhibited with the
most artless innocence.
"You see," said Miss Dorcas, "just how it is. If people set out to
treat a dog as a child, they have to take the consequences. That
dog rules this whole family, and of course he behaves like spoiled
children generally. Here, now, this morning; Betsey and I both have
bad colds because we were got out of bed last night with that
creature."
Here Jack, seeming to understand that he was the subject-matter of
some criticism, rose up suddenly on his haunches before Miss Dorcas
and waved his paws in a supplicatory manner at her. Jack understood
this to be his only strong point, and brought it out as a trump card
on all occasions when he felt himself to be out of favor. Miss Dorcas
laughed, as she generally did, and Jack seemed delighted, and sprang
into her lap and offered to kiss her with the most brazen assurance.
"Oh, well, Mrs. Henderson, I suppose you see that we are two old fools
about that dog," she said. "I don't know but I am almost as silly as
Betsey is, but the fact is one must have _something_, and a dog is not
so much risk as a boy, after all. Yes, Jack," she said, tapping his
shaggy head patronizingly, "after all you're no more impudent than
puppies in general."
"I never quarrel with anyone for loving dogs," said Eva. "For my part
I think no family is complete without one. I tell Harry we must 'set
up' our dog as soon as we get a little more settled. When _we_ get
one, we'll compare notes."
"Well," said Miss Dorcas, "I always comfort myself with thinking that
dear Sir Walter, with all his genius, went as far in dog-petting as
any of us. You remember Washington Irving's visit to Abbotsford?"
Eva did not remember it, and Miss Dorcas said she must get it for her
at once; she ought to read it. And away she went to look it up in the
book-case in the next room.
"The fact is," said Mrs. Betsey, mysteriously, "though Dorcas has so
much strength of mind, she is to the full as silly about Jack as I am.
When I was gone to Newburg, if you'll believe me, _she_ let Jack sleep
on her bed. Dinah knows it, doesn't she?"
Dinah confirmed this fact by a loud explosing, in which there was a
singular mixture of snort and giggle; and to cover her paroxysm she
seized violently on the remains of the breakfast and bore them out
into the kitchen, and was heard giggling and gurgling in a rill of
laughter all along the way.
Mrs. Betsey began gathering up and arranging the cups, and filling a
lacquered bowl of Japanese fabric with hot water, she proceeded to
wash the china and silver.
"What _lovely_ china," said Eva, with the air of a connoisseur.