HUGH.
One bright morning towards the last of June, Bessie and Hugh were
together in the studio; Bessie was working at her picture, and her
cousin, seated in an old arm-chair, was gazing dreamily out through
the open window over the pasture, and grove, and the blue lake beyond.
"I think life is very beautiful," he said, after a long pause. "I have
no patience with people who are always sighing and complaining, always
talking of the cold world, the hard lot of man, and the sufferings of
humanity. I always felt sure that they themselves have no taste for
beauty, no affection for their friends, or enthusiasm for great deeds,
and, judging others by themselves, of course they are always looking
for double motives in the kindest actions, and hypocrisy in the most
unselfish impulses."
"What has brought these thoughts to the surface, Hugh?"
"The beauty of the sky and the lake. How can any one look at them and
not be happy?"
"If you were very poor, Hugh, you might not have time to look at
them," said Bessie, taking up the other side.
"Why not? One can work and not be blind! I expect to work all my life,
but I am going to be happy too."
"But suppose you should lose all those you love,--suppose they should
all die," said Bessie, pursuing the argument.
"Even then I should be happy on such a day and with such a sky. I
cannot understand how people who believe God's word can brood over
their sorrows in such a gloomy way. Are not the dead with their great
Creator? Can we not trust them to Him? Why, when I look up into this
blue sky, I can almost see them there. My mother,--how often I think
of her; not with sadness, always with pleasure, and a bright
anticipation of meeting her again. Bessie, if I should die, you must
not mourn for me. Think of me as gone into another world where sooner
or later you will come too."
"Why do you say such things, Hugh?" said Bessie, laying down her brush
with her eyes full of tears.
"Because they happened to come into my mind, I suppose. Why, you are
not crying! Nonsense, Brownie! look at me. Do I look like dying? Am I
not a young giant, with every prospect of outliving all my family? I
fully expect to live to a hale old age, and you have no idea how full
and busy my life is going to be. Go to work again, and I will tell you
all my plans; I have never told them to any one before. In the first
place, I shall go, of course, to New York, and enter Cousin John's
establishment. I shall work with all my might, and, with the aid of my
relationship, I shall no doubt be able to obtain a good position there
in the course of a few years. Gradually I shall mount higher and
higher, I shall make myself indispensable to the firm, and at the end
of ten years you will see me a partner; at the end of twenty, a rich
man. I shall then retire from active business, and spend part of my
time in travelling, although I intend to be very domestic, also. I
shall buy beautiful pictures, choice books, and fine statues; I shall
give private concerts, and, if possible, have a small orchestra of my
own; I shall entertain my friends in the easiest and most charming
manner. In addition to my city home, I shall have a yacht for summer
cruises, and a pretty cottage on the seashore, and I shall invite
pleasant people to visit me; not the rich and the fashionable merely,
but others who are shut out from all such luxuries, young authors,
poor artists, musicians, and many others who are obliged to work night
and day while their intellectual inferiors live in ease. Oh! I shall
have a beautiful, happy life, Bessie. Do you not think so?"
"Yes, Hugh. But will it be so easy to get rich?"
"Twenty years of hard labor and earnest application will do it, with
the opening I have. I suppose it sounds conceited, but I have
unbounded confidence in myself. What man has done man can do, you
know; and why am not I the man?"
"I think you can do anything, Hugh."
"Thank you, Miss Flattery. But, really Bessie, there is something
stirring within me that makes me feel sure I can take my place in the
world, and make my mark among men. I do not, mean that I am wiser or
stronger than my fellows, but only, that my courage is indomitable,
and that I am determined to succeed. I _will succeed_!"
"Of course you will," said Bessie, laying down her brush again, and
looking at her cousin's kindling eyes and flushed cheeks with
sympathetic excitement.
"And then," pursued Hugh, "when I have got my money, I shall not hoard
it; I shall make others as well as myself happy with it. I shall use
it worthily; I shall not be ashamed to render my account at last. Oh,
Bessie, it is a glorious future! Life is so beautiful,--so full of
happiness!" Hugh paused, and his eyes wandered over the blue horizon;
Bessie went on with her painting, and there was silence in the studio
for many minutes. At length Aunt Faith's voice was heard at the foot
of the stairs; "Hugh! Hugh!" she called.
"Coming, aunt," said Hugh, opening the door and going down to the
second story; "do you want me?"
"Yes, will you come into my room, dear."
The two went in and the door was closed. Aunt Faith's room was like
herself, old-fashioned and pleasant; the sunshine streamed in through
the broad windows across the floor, and the perfume of the garden
filled the air. Hugh took a seat on the chintz lounge, and Aunt Faith
having taken a letter from her desk, sat down in her arm-chair by the
table. "I wish to consult you, my dear boy, on a matter of business,"
she said. "You know the condition of my property and the amount of my
income, I am anxious to make some necessary repairs in that little
house of mine in Albion, where poor Mrs. Crofts lives, a second cousin
of mine, you remember, a widow with very limited means of support. The
repairs ought to be made at once, and, just at present, I have not the
money on hand; I could borrow it, of course, elsewhere, but I prefer
to borrow it of you, the amount that came to you a week or two ago.
Sibyl will need hers for her summer wardrobe, but you will have no use
for yours at present, and on the first of August, I shall repay you;
with interest," added Aunt Faith, smiling; "I am not sure but that I
shall _pay_ twenty-five per cent."
A flush rose in Hugh's face; he did not raise his eyes, but trifled
with a piece of string.
"Well, my dear?" said Aunt Faith in some surprise at his silence.
"I am very sorry, Aunt," said Hugh in a low tone; "I have not got the
money, I have spent it all."
"Spent it?" echoed Aunt Faith in astonishment. "My dear boy, is it
possible!"
"Yes, it is all gone," said Hugh, with downcast eyes.
A shade of trouble clouded Mrs. Sheldon's gentle face, and she sighed;
the old heart-ache came back, the same pain which had assailed her on
the first of June, her birthday, when doubts came thronging into her
mind, doubts as to her own fitness for her position with its heavy
responsibility of training five young souls in the path of duty and
righteousness. "Hugh must have got into some trouble," she thought,
"and something, too, which he has not confided to me. I fear it is a
debt; perhaps a debt of which he is ashamed. Oh, my poor, poor boy!"
Hugh did not speak, and at length his aunt said gently, "I fear you
have had some debts, dear; if you had told me, I could have helped you
before this."
"I know you are always ready to help me, Aunt Faith."
"Then it was a debt, Hugh?"
"Yes; it was a debt, Aunt Faith," said Hugh gravely.
"Is it all paid now?"
"Yes; every cent. I have the receipt."
"I am glad of that; but have you any other debts?"
"No, not one," said Hugh, raising his eyes at last with a brighter
expression. "I cannot tell you about that debt, Aunt Faith, but I
_can_ tell you that it was no disgrace to me."
The shadow melted away from Mrs. Sheldon's face, she laid her hand
upon her nephew's golden hair, and looked lovingly into his dark blue
eyes. "Hugh," she said earnestly, "you are like your father, and he
was my favorite brother. I love you very much, more than you know, and
I believe you would not willingly grieve me. You are still under
twenty-one, and you are soon to leave me to enter the busy life of a
great city. I am so anxious for you, Hugh! If I could only know that
you had that firm faith which is man's only safeguard in temptation!"
Tears stood in her eyes as she spoke, and Hugh felt that she loved him
indeed.
"What is faith?" he said thoughtfully.
"A firm belief in the mercy of God through His son, our Lord Jesus
Christ, and a realization of the necessity of a Saviour to atone for
our sins," said Aunt Faith reverently.
"I believe in God, Aunt Faith. I believe in Him implicitly. I cannot
understand how a reasonable being can deny His personal and omnipotent
majesty. The sky alone would be enough to convince me, without
counting the wonders of the earth and our every-day life. How can any
one look out of the window, at night, and see those myriad lights on
high, without bowing in adoration before the incomprehensible
greatness of the Creator? What do we know of the stars, after all? How
much has the most profound science discovered? Next to nothing! Not
but that I read all that has been written by the late astronomers, for
the subject is very fascinating; it is the fairy tale of science. But
still, the nursery rhyme expresses it best:--
'Twinkle, twinkle, little star!
How I wonder what you are!'"
"What we know not now, we shall know here-after," said Aunt Faith;
"but in addition to your belief in the Creator, do you not also
recognize the necessity for a Saviour?"
"There it is, Aunt Faith! Are we all really such miserable sinners? Is
there none good? Must we always answer, 'no, not one?' Even in my
short life, I have known so many who are good and generous! I never
could endure whining, you know. I never could endure a gloomy, tearful
religion. If we were put into the world, it surely was intended that
we should enjoy its beautiful life, and be happy with our fellow
mortals. I believe men should try to be good sons, good husbands, and
good citizens, and should try to be happy themselves, as well as to
make others happy. I can never believe in the virtue of morbid
self-analysis, gloomy depression, and harsh judgment. 'Worms of the
dust!' they say. Well, if the worms are created, and put into the
dust, that is the state of life to which they are called, and they
will be better worms if they fulfil the duties of a worm, no matter
how humble, than they would be if they crawled up on a solitary stone,
and wilfully starved themselves to death."
"Surely, Hugh, there is nothing in the idea of a merciful Saviour to
forbid a reasonable enjoyment of life."
"There ought not to be, Aunt Faith; and if I was not so weary of
hypocrisy, I think I could almost throw myself at His feet and give my
life into His hands. I want to believe in Him; indeed, I may say I do
believe in Him. But I have been kept from coming forward as an 'avowed
disciple,' by the contempt I cannot help feeling for some whom I know
as 'avowed disciples.' If there is a contemptible fault in the world
it is hypocrisy. I will not believe that God loves the rich
church-member, who makes long prayers, and puts five cents in the
plate, better than the poor outcast who goes half-starved for days in
order to help a sick companion."
"But, Hugh, no one asks you to believe anything of the kind. Do you
not remember our Saviour's parable of the Good Samaritan who saved the
wounded man, while the priest and the Levite, men supposed to be
particularly religious, passed by on the other side! The world was the
same in our Saviour's day that it is now, and there is no class
against which He utters more severe reproaches than these very
religious hypocrites."
"But, Aunt Faith, these hypocrites are so often prominent in the
churches. That is what offends me."
"It was so then, Hugh. Our Saviour saw it, and repeatedly tore off the
masks."
"But if the hypocrites are in the church, is it not better to stay
out?"
"By no means, my dear boy. God has commanded us to make an open
profession before men, and we must obey with reverent humility. It is
not enough to believe; we must also openly avow our belief. Because
there are tares in the field we must not, therefore, stay out in the
desert. Because there are hypocrites in the church, we must not,
therefore, give ourselves up to evil."
"Oh, I don't mean that, aunt! We could be just as good Christians all
the time."
"No, Hugh. That is a fatal error. Men are weak, and God mercifully
helps them to conquer themselves by sending them the safeguards of
religious vows and duties. It is His appointed way, and we must not
question His wisdom. The dangers are ten times greater outside the
church than within it, and a blessing is given to obedience. God
requires obedience. He distinctly says, 'he that is not with me, is
against me, and he that gathereth not with me, scattereth abroad.' And
as regards hypocrisy, Hugh, it is indeed a wretched fault; but, are
there not other faults equally bad?"
"No, aunt; not to me. I can never go to church in the winter without
a bitter feeling towards old Mr. Braine, who always leaves his poor
horse tied outside through the long service, during the severest
weather. Then there is Gideon Fish, too. How very, very good he is!
When he was a little boy he always took the highest place in school
for good conduct, and yet, there was not a meaner boy in town. He
copied the other scholars' exercises, peeped into the books, and had
a key to his Arithmetic. He never got into trouble at recess, and why?
Because he was too cowardly to take his share of the sport. As he grew
older, he grew to be more and more of a pattern. He was always talking
about his feelings. He always 'felt it to be his duty' to do just what
he most wished to do, and he always had some wonderfully
self-sacrificing motive for the greatest self-indulgence. He 'felt it
to be his duty' to stay at home from church to warn truant boys not to
steal the peaches on the Sabbath-day, and how many do you suppose he
himself ate that morning?"
"It seems to me, Hugh, that you and Bessie _are_ unreasonably severe
upon Gideon's love of eating," said Aunt Faith smiling. "Perhaps some
time there will come a revelation to Gideon Fish; perhaps some great
affliction or disappointment will open his eyes and cause him to see
his selfish propensities as they are. In the meantime, let us not
forget the beam in our own eyes while we are talking of the mote in
our brother's eye. To go back to our subject; you have acknowledged
your belief in God and also, I hope, in His Son our Saviour Jesus
Christ?"
"Yes, Aunt Faith; but I cannot acknowledge that the world is a
miserable place and life a failure."
"I do not ask you to acknowledge that, Hugh; you are young and it may
be that you have not yet been assailed by the terrible temptations
which come, sooner or later, to most of us. Perhaps you have not yet
learned from sad experience how hard is the struggle against evil
inclinations, and how many are the relapses into which the best of men
are apt to fall. It was only when worn with the contest and depressed
by repeated failures that the good men of all ages have sent up those
cries of abasement and gloom which you so much dislike. This time has
not yet come to you; you know nothing of its power. I do not ask you
to be wise beyond your years; I only wish you to become as a little
child and reverently say, 'Lord I believe; help Thou mine unbelief.'
The rest will come in due time. There is a blessing given to prompt
obedience, and this blessing I want you to gain."
For several minutes there was silence in the pleasant room, and then
Hugh rose. "Dear Aunt Faith," he said, "you and I will have many more
talks on this subject. Who knows but I shall be a pillar of the church
in my old age?"
"I hope so, Hugh. But do not put off till old age a plain duty of the
present. Give the best of your life to your Maker; after all, the
present is all you can call your own."
"Oh, no, Aunt Faith, the future is mine too. How glorious, how bright
it looks! You will be proud of your nephew some day."
"I am proud of him now," said Aunt Faith, with an affectionate smile;
"but I want to feel secure as to his safety. Oh, Hugh! if you could
only say in perfect sincerity these two sentences: 'Lord I believe;
help Thou mine unbelief,' and 'Lord be merciful to me a sinner,' I
should rest content."
"Well, Aunt Faith, when I can say them with all my heart, I will tell
you first of all."
"God grant that it may be soon," and then Hugh left her.
Bessie was still busy with her painting when she heard a tap at the
door. "Is it you, Hugh?" she said; "I am so glad you have come back. I
cannot get the exact color of your eyes. Sit down, please, and let me
try again." Hugh sat down in the old arm-chair, and for some minutes
he said nothing; at last, however, he burst forth, "Bessie, shall we
not tell Aunt Faith about the horseback-riding."
"Oh, Hugh! and give up all our fun?"
"I do so hate hypocrisy, Bessie; and here I have been rating away
against Gideon Fish without even a thought that all the time I myself
was deceiving Aunt Faith."
"I don't call that hypocrisy, Hugh."
"What is hypocrisy, then?"
"A hypocrite is a person who pretends to be very good, and I am sure
you never pretended to be good at all."
Hugh laughed; "That is true," he said "but I hate all underhand
dealings."
"But you won't tell, Hugh? Please don't."
"_Et tu Brute_?"
"And don't quote Latin either."
"I only meant that you should help my good intentions instead of
thwarting them," said Hugh.
"I am not good myself, Hugh, and never was."
"Oh, yes, you are, Brownie."
"No, I am not. I have been expelled twice."
"I believe it is your nature to be naughty, Bessie."
"I don't know about that, Hugh; but, at any rate, I ought to have some
allowances made because I am so homely. It is easy to be good if one
happens to be good-looking too. Everybody loves beautiful children,
everybody admires beautiful girls; people are predisposed to like
them, and make the best of everything they do. Beauty is of little
consequence to a boy, but it makes or mars many a girl. I presume,
now, if my nose had been Grecian, and my complexion lily fair, I
should have been far more amiable."
Hugh laughed merrily at this tirade. "But, Brownie," he said, "_I_
have always thought you pretty."
A shade of color rose in Bessie's dark cheek "Thank you, cousin," she
said quickly, "you are kind to say so. But your real taste is for a
very different style; a dove-eyed blonde, fair as a lily, and gentle
as Griselda."
"Like Edith Chase, I suppose," said Hugh, with a merry twinkle in his
eye. "Well, a man might do worse. I venture to say the fair Edith
never took a horseback-ride after dark in her life."
"Certainly not; is she not a pattern?" said Bessie sharply. "And, by
the way, Hugh, of course you will give me my ride to-night."
"Oh, Bessie, Bessie, you are incorrigible! Well, if I must, I must!
The musicale is to-night, you know."
"I had forgotten it; but we can go afterwards."
"That is, if you will mend my gloves."
"Do get a new pair, Hugh."
"No; I have only ten dollars left; I shall not have any more until
August, and my heart is set upon a little picture at Gurner's. You
have no idea how much I want it; I stop to look at it every time I
pass the window, and the liking has, grown into a positive longing.
I really must have it."
"What is the subject?"
"It is, I suppose, an allegorical design, but what attracted me was
the beauty of the coloring and its fidelity to nature. It represents
a youth standing in a little shaded valley, looking forward and upward
through a vista which gradually rises into a bold mountain peak. The
atmosphere is all morning, early morning, with purple hues on the
hill-side, mists rising from the river, and a vague remoteness even in
the nearest forest; deep shadows lie over the valley, but the rising
sun shines on the mountain-peak, lighting it up with a golden
radiance, while behind it, there seemed to spread away into distance
the atmosphere of another country, a beautiful unseen Paradise.
Towards this mountain-peak the youth is looking with ardent eyes; one
feels sure that his hopes are there, and that sooner or later he will
reach the golden country beyond."
"I remember the picture. Is there not a crown shining in the sunlight
over the mountain-top, and the outline of a great cross in the dark
shadow over the steep path which leads up to the summit?"
"I believe so; but it was the figure of the youth that attracted me.
His face expressed aspiration, that bright confidence in the future
which Aunt Faith and I have been discussing this morning."
"So you were in her room all that time, were you?"
"Yes; and that reminds me that I must do a little reading. I am
growing shamefully lazy. Good-bye, Queen Bessie. Be sure and make my
picture as handsome as you can."
"I shall do my best;"--"but I cannot hope to make it as handsome as
the original," she added, after the door closed.
Twilight came and the two cousins were riding in a country lane
several miles from the old stone house; they had left the turnpike
where they usually rode, and, instead of going at headlong speed, the
horses were walking slowly over the grassy path as if the summer
evening had influenced their riders with its peaceful quiet.
"I have never been here before," said Bessie; "where does that path
lead?"
"To Rocky brook where we used to go a fishing."
"Let us go that way, please. I have not been to Rocky brook for years
and years." So the horses were turned, and, after a pleasant ride
through the woods, they reached the edge of the ravine; the path, an
Indian trail, came to an end, and down below they could hear the
rushing sound of the water.
"Oh I must get down, Hugh!" said Bessie eagerly; "I want to go down to
the brook."
"It will be hard climbing in that long skirt, Bessie. I will bring you
out some other time."
"No, Hugh; I want to go now, this very minute."
"I suppose you must have your way, then," said her cousin, as he
lifted her to the ground; "wait until I fasten the horses so that I
can help you."
But Bessie had already disappeared, swinging herself from rock to rock
by aid of the bushes, as actively as a squirrel; she had reached the
bottom of the ravine as Hugh appeared at the top. "Don't go too near
the bridge," he shouted; "wait till I come down."
Bessie looked down the ravine, and seeing the plank which served for
a bridge high in the air over the foaming water, she was seized with a
sudden desire to cross it; Hugh's warning, as usual, only stimulated
this desire. If there was any danger, she wanted to be in it
immediately. So she clambered over the rocks towards the forbidden
locality with a pleasant excitement, not really believing in the
danger, but lured on by the spirit of adventure strong within her from
childhood.
"Don't go near the bridge!" shouted Hugh again, by this time half way
down the bank.
"Hugh is too despotic," thought his cousin, as she climbed up on the
wet stones. "I shall certainly do as I please. If he wants implicit
obedience, he must go to Edith Chase." In another instant she was on
the plank, and balancing herself, walked forward over the torrent,
holding her long skirt over her arm; her head was steady, she did not
know what fear was; many a time she had crossed deeper chasms in
safety, and she laughed to herself as she heard Hugh crashing through
the bushes down the bank behind her. "He will like me all the better
for my courage," she thought, somewhat surprised at his silence, for
she had expected to hear further remonstrance. Suddenly, when she had
reached the middle of the bridge, the plank cracked, gave way
entirely, and in an instant she was in the foaming torrent below. She
sank, and for one moment, one dreadful moment, she was under water,
suffocating and terror-stricken, while all the events of her life
seemed to rush before her like an instantaneous panorama. Then she
felt the air again, and opening her eyes, found herself in Hugh's
arms, as he strode out of the water and laid her down on the bank.
"Oh, Hugh!" she gasped, "it was dreadful!"
"Are you hurt, dear? Did your head strike the rocks?" asked her cousin
anxiously.
"No, I think not; but I feel rather dizzy," said Bessie, closing her
eyes.
"Can you stay here for a moment alone, while I run back to the
farm-house? Fortunately the weather is so warm there is not much
danger of your taking cold."
"Oh, yes," said Bessie, smiling, as her cousin chafed her hands with
anxiety that belied his words. He sprang up the bank, and after some
delay reappeared carrying shawls and wrappings. "Do you feel better?
Are you faint?" he asked, as he enveloped her in the shawls.
"I feel quite well now," said Bessie, trying to rise.
"Stop; I am going to carry you," said Hugh.
"You shall do nothing of the kind, Hugh. I am able to walk, and the
bank is steep."
"I shall take you round by the path, so don't make any objection, for
it will be useless. The farmer will have his carriage waiting for us,
and we shall drive home as rapidly as possible."
"Oh, Hugh, I am so heavy! You will never be able to do it," said
Bessie, as Hugh lifted her slight form muffled in shawls.
"Very heavy! Really, quite elephantine! A matter of ninety pounds, I
should say!"
"Nonsense, sir! I weigh one hundred and ten."
"And what is that to a man of muscle? Don't you know that I pride
myself upon my strength! The old proverb _says_ that cleanliness is
next to godliness; if that is so, I give the third place to strength.
What a pity we cannot say 'muscleness,' to keep up the rhythm! Do you
know, Bessie, if ministers had more muscle, I should like them
better."
"Mr. Leslie has muscle, Hugh."
"Yes; he has got a good strong fist of his own. I like him, too, in
every way. He is so manly in his goodness, and so frank in his
religion! He is one of those fine, large-hearted men who give their
very best to the cause. He did not take to the ministry because he was
not fitted for anything else; he has the capabilities and
qualifications for a first-rate business man, civil engineer, or
soldier. But it is evident that the whole world was as nothing to him
compared to the great work of salvation. I honor him. He is a man to
be envied, for he is living up to his ideal."
"Why, Hugh! I had no idea you admired him so much! Are you thinking of
following his example?"
"Don't joke, Bessie. The subject is too serious."
"I am not joking," said Bessie, in a low voice.
"I am no hero," said Hugh, with a half sigh, as they reached the lane;
"I could never do as Mr. Leslie has done. I can only hope to make
others happy in my small way by--"
"By helping ill-behaved cousins out of their troubles," interrupted
Bessie, "paying their debts, saving their lives, and so forth and so
forth."
The ride home was pleasant, in spite of wet clothes. Hugh drove the
farmer's horse in an old carryall, and the farmer himself rode Hugh's
horse, leading the other alongside. When they reached the back-pasture
it was quite dark. Hugh lifted Bessie out, threw the shawls back into
the carryall, and farmer Brown, after fastening the saddle-horses
behind, drove away towards the town, where he was to leave them at the
livery-stable according to agreement.
"Now, Bessie, take up that skirt, and let us have a run across the
garden," said Hugh. "I am so afraid you will take cold."
But Bessie's long, wet skirt proved such an obstacle, that in spite of
her objection, Hugh lifted her up again, and carried her across the
pasture, through the garden, and up the terrace into the house.
"Shall you go to the musicale?" he whispered, as he put her down in
the dark hall.
"No," said Bessie; "I wish you would make it all right with Aunt
Faith. I have a headache; the fright, I suppose."
Hugh went off to his room, and in an incredibly short time he was
down-stairs again, in evening dress. Aunt Faith came in a few moments
afterwards, dressed in gray silk with delicate white lace around her
throat and wrists; "Is it not time to go?" she said. "Where is Sibyl?"
"Here, Aunt," said Sibyl from the parlor; "I have been ready some
time."
"Come in, child, and let us see you"
Sibyl crossed the hall and stood in the door-way. Her dress of soft
blue harmonized with her fair beauty, and brought out the tints of her
hair and complexion; she wore no ornaments, and the flowing drapery
floated around her devoid of any kind of trimming. "Her dress was
nothing; just a plain, blue tarleton," said one of her companions the
next day to a mutual friend. "But Sibyl herself looked lovely." This
was Sibyl's art; her dress was always subordinate to herself.
"You look like the evening star, sister," said Hugh.
"Thank you, brother. A compliment from you is precious, because rare,"
said Sibyl, smiling; "and as for you, you look like the Apollo in
Guido's _Aurora_."
"Bravo! That's a compliment worth having," said Hugh, tossing back his
golden locks. "And now that we are both gorged with compliments, let
us start for the halls of Euterpe."
"Where is Bessie?" said Aunt Faith, as Hugh rose.
"She is not going. She has a headache," answered Hugh.
"Poor child! I will run up and see her before I go."
"That is not necessary, Aunt. I think she would rather not be
disturbed," said Hugh. "Let us start; it is late."
The musicale was held at the residence of Mrs. Arlington, on the
opposite side of the avenue, but a short distance from the old stone
house, and Bessie, after taking off her wet clothes, dressed herself
in a wrapper, and took her seat at the open hall-window in the second
story, where she could see the lights through the trees, and even hear
an occasional strain of the music on the night breeze. She felt
depressed; her head ached, and her conscience likewise. "I am always
doing something wrong," she thought ruefully; "I let Hugh pay that
debt; then I teased him out of his idea of telling Aunt Faith, and
made him take me riding again, and when he was kind enough to give in
to my wish, I deliberately went out on that plank when he told me not
to go, and the result was I came near being drowned, and poor Hugh
must have had a struggle to get me out in that current. I suppose he
is over there now talking with Edith Chase! she is an affected, silly
girl, but I suppose Hugh does not understand her as well as I do.
However, perhaps she is better than I am! I am dreadful, I know; and
so homely, too! I look just like an Indian. Edith is considered
pretty. To be sure _I_ think she looks just like a white cat; but
then, some people think white cats are pretty. Well, her looks are
nothing to me. _I_ don't care anything about it!" And in truth of this
assertion, Bessie crouched down among the cushions of the lounge, and
had what girls call "a good cry."
About an hour afterwards she heard a step on the gravel walk in front
of the house, and the sound of a latch-key in the front-door; in
another minute Hugh came up the stairs on the way to his room. "Hugh!
Hugh!" called out a voice in the darkness.
"Is that you, Bessie? What are you doing here?" said her cousin,
lighting a burner in the chandelier. "Why, you have been crying! Does
your head ache? Do you feel faint?"
"My head is better, Hugh; but I _am_ wicked," murmured Bessie from the
heap of cushions.
"Wicked! What do you mean, Brownie?"
"Just what I say. I am always in trouble myself and drawing you in
too. You would be a great deal better without me, Hugh. I shall be
glad when you go to New York."
"Glad, Bessie!"
"I mean it will be better for you," murmured Bessie.
"And how about yourself?"
"Oh, I shall never be good at all; I shall stay at home and be wicked,
I suppose," said Bessie, with the sound of tears in her voice. Hugh
did not reply, but he put out his hand and stroked the dark curls
gently. After a moment or two Bessie suddenly recovered her spirits.
"How was Miss Chase?" she asked gayly.
"Lovely as a lily," said Hugh, laughing; "I told her so, too."
"Was Graham Marr there?"
"Yes; I left him with Sibyl."
"Did he quote poetry?"
"I presume so, in the intervals of the music, Gid was there, too."
"At the door of the supper-room, I suppose?"
"Yes, he was looking at the salad when I came away."
"That reminds me; why did you leave so early, Hugh?"
"I believe, after all, I am a little tired; I strained my wrist
slightly in the brook."
"Let me get some arnica for you; do, Hugh."
"Oh, no! the strain is very slight. It will be all over in a day or
two."
"Was there really any danger, Hugh?"
"Yes; I think it right that you should know it, because you may be
tempted to do the same thing again. The water was deep there, and the
brook swollen by the last rains; the current was very strong, and
there is a fall just below. But your greatest danger was from the
sharp jagged rocks; when I plunged after you I cannot express how
alarmed I was!"
Bessie covered her face with her hands. "It was all owing to my
obstinate wilfulness," she said in a low tone, "Oh, Hugh! can you
forgive me?"
"Do not think of it any more." said her cousin, "but come down and
give me some music."
"What! In this old wrapper, Hugh?"
"There speaks feminine vanity. As though I knew a wrapper from a
dress?"
So Bessie went down to the sitting-room, and, taking the cover off her
harp, sat down in her old wrapper to play for Hugh. When she was in
the mood she brought very spirited music out of the silver strings,
but to-night she played soft airs, and minor chords, weaving in among
them Hugh's favorite plaintive melodies, with her now wild
improvisations between. At last she rose and replaced the harp-cover.
"It is late; I must go," she said. "They will be coming home before
long, Of course _you_ won't say anything about our ride, Hugh. It
would only frighten Aunt Faith. But I have decided not to go again;
what happened to-night seems like a warning."
"Superstitious, Bessie?"
"No; I am only trying to stop before I drag you into any more danger.
Think how much trouble I have given you, too! And, oh, Hugh! you had
to pay that farmer," added Bessie, as the idea came to her for the
first time.
"Run upstairs, Brownie; it is late."
"I shall not run, Hugh. I know very well you had to pay him that ten
dollars, and I have robbed you of your last cent," said Bessie
tragically.
"Oh, what a dismal face! Run, before Aunt Faith comes."
"And the picture you were going to buy," said Bessie, with tearful
eyes.
"Foolish child! as if I cared for the picture; when I am rich I shall
buy a whole gallery. Now run; I positively hear their voices at the
gate."
As Bessie went away with a full heart, Aunt Faith, Sibyl, and Graham
Marr came up the garden-walk and entered the house. "You came away
early, Hugh," said Aunt Faith; "do you feel well?"
"I am tired, aunt; that is all."
"It was a pleasant party," continued Aunt Faith; "did you not think
so, Sibyl?"
"I enjoyed it!" said Sibyl quietly.
"It was a rare feast," said Graham; "one seldom meets such a
combination of aesthetic talent in Westerton."
"Mr. Leslie was not there, however," said Hugh.
"Ah,--no. But ministers are not generally cultivated musicians,"
said Graham, in his slow way. "They have not the time to,--ah,--to
muse upon the mystery of harmony."
"Mr. Leslie is a fine musician," said Hugh bluntly; "I have seldom
heard so fine a baritone,--so rich and manly."
Now Graham sang tenor,--a very delicate tenor, and naturally he could
not sympathize with Hugh's fancy for a rich baritone. As he rose to
take leave, Sibyl said, "I wish you would bring over your music, Mr.
Marr, and sing for us. We were all charmed with that little German
song you sung this evening; it was so full of pathos."
"Pathos!" whispered Hugh to Aunt Faith, as Sibyl accompanied the poet
into the hall. "How can Sibyl endure that calf!"
"As Pete Trone said, '_de gustibus_' and so forth, Hugh," said Sibyl's
voice from the hall as she closed the door behind Graham.
"Well, Sibyl; I did not intend you to hear the epithet, but I cannot
with sincerity take it back," said Hugh.
"I like calves," said Sibyl, "they have beautiful eyes! Good-night!"
"I never can make Sibyl out!" said Hugh, as his sister disappeared.
"She never loses her temper, and truth always comes out with the
temper, you know. Well, Aunt Faith, I have been a very bad boy all
day. Will you pardon all my misdeeds?"
"If you are penitent," said Aunt Faith, smiling. Then, more seriously,
"You will not forget what I said to you this morning, Hugh?"
"No, aunt; I shall not forget. Your words sank deeper than you knew,"
said Hugh gravely.