BOSTON.
The bridal party had returned from the Falls, and after spending a week
or more at Capt. Thompson’s the doctor took down his sign, boxed up his
books, pills, powders, and _skeleton_, which some called his _’natomy_,
while Dell packed up her six morning gowns with hosts of other finery,
and then one day in August they started for Boston; where the doctor
hoped for a wider field of labor, fully expecting to be aided by the
powerful influence of Mr. Marshall, his wife’s uncle, whose high station
in the city he never once doubted. For this opinion he had, as the world
goes, some well founded reasons; for not only did Dell often quote “my
Aunt Marshall of Boston,” but the lady herself also managed to impress
the people of Pine District with her superiority over them, and her
great importance at home. Notwithstanding that she frequently spent
several weeks at Capt. Thompson’s, she still could not endure the
country—“the people were so vulgar—’twas so dull there, and no concerts,
no operas, no theatres, no star actors, no parties, and more than all,
no dear, delightful old Common, with its shaded walks and velvet grass.”
Of course Dr. Clayton, in thinking of her city home, fancied to himself
a princely mansion on Beacon street, overlooking the “dear, delightful
old Common,” and it is scarcely more than natural that his heart
expanded with some little degree of pride, as he saw in contemplation
the dinner parties, evening parties, soirées, etc., which he confidently
expected to attend at said princely mansion. At first he had entertained
a faint hope that he might possibly board with his new uncle; but this
idea was instantly repelled by his wife, who did not seem so much
inclined to talk of her “city Aunt” as formerly. So it was decided that
they should for a time take rooms at the Tremont.
It was a dark, rainy night when they arrived, and as it was cold for the
season, their rooms seemed cheerless and dreary, while, to crown all,
the bride of six weeks was undeniably and decidedly out of temper;
finding fault with everything, even to her handsome husband, who
fidgeted and fussed, brought her the bottle of hair oil instead of
cologne, stepped on her linen travelling dress with his muddy boot, spit
in the grate instead of the spit-box, breathed in her face when he knew
how she disliked tobacco, thought of Rosa Lee, and wondered if she were
ever cross (“_nervous_” Dell called it), thought not, and _almost
wished_—no, didn’t wish anything, but as an offset thought of the
$10,000, asked Dell how _old_ her grandmother was, received for an
answer, “I don’t know and I don’t care;” after which he went down stairs
and regaled himself with a cigar until informed that supper was ready.
Ate all alone, Dell refusing to go down—found her in tears on returning
to his room, was told that she “was homesick, and wished she’d never
come.” _He_ began to wish so too, but said “she’d feel better by and
by.” Sat for an hour or more cross-legged listening to the rain, and
wondering if there _was_ a cure for _nervousness_; finally went to bed
and dreamed of Rosa Lee and the moonlight night, when they sat under the
old oak tree, and of the thunder-storm when he gave her the little gold
ring.
The next morning Mrs. Doctor Clayton was all smiles, and when, with her
handsome eyes, shining hair, and tasteful wrapper, she descended to the
breakfast-room, she attracted much attention, and more than one asked
who she was, as they turned for a second glance. Nothing of this escaped
the doctor, and with a glow of pride he forgot the vexations of the
night previous, and gave vent to a mental _pshaw!_ as he thought of his
dream; for well he knew that the little plain-faced Rosa could not
compare with the splendid woman at his side. Breakfast being over, he
ventured to suggest the possibility of their soon receiving a call from
her aunt; but Dell hastily replied, that such a thing was hardly
probable, as her Aunt had her own affairs to attend to, and would not
trouble herself about them. The doctor’s hands went into his pockets,
and his eyes went over inquiringly to his wife, who continued speaking
rapidly, as if it were a painful duty which she felt compelled to
perform.
“I don’t know where you got the idea that Uncle Marshall is such a great
man—not from me, certainly. But got it you have, and it’s time you knew
the truth. He is a good, honest man, I dare say, and respectable, too;
but he is not one of the _ton_, by any means. Why, he’s nothing more nor
less than a _tailor_, and earns his bread from day to day.”
“But his wife”—interrupted the doctor—“how happens it that she supports
so much style?”
“Oh, that’s easily accounted for,” returned Dell. “They have no
children—she is fond of dress, and spends all she can get for that
purpose. She was an apprentice girl and learned her trade in my uncle’s
shop, and it is said, sometimes helps him now when he is pressed hard.”
“Why did you never tell me this before?” asked the doctor, his brow
growing thoughtful.
“And why should I tell you?” answered Dell. “What did I suppose you
cared whether he were a _prince_ or a _tailor_. You married me, I hope,
for myself, and not for my relations.”
The doctor thought of the ten thousand dollars just in time to force
down the answer which sprang to his lips, and which was far better to be
unuttered; so, in its place, he asked, “Where do they live?”
“On a back street, some distance from here,” said Dell; adding, that
their house, though small, was pleasant and neatly furnished. “It is
well enough in the country to have a _city Aunt_ on which to plume one’s
self,” she continued, laughingly; “but here, where she is known, I do
not intend having much intercourse with her, for a _physician_ and
_tailor_ will, of course, occupy entirely different positions. However,
I must treat her, at first, with a show of politeness, and if you are so
disposed, we’ll go round there and call this morning.”
The doctor made no objections, and ere long they were walking over the
stony pavement towards R—— street, which, as Dell had said, was rather
out of the way. The house, however, at which they stopped, was a
pleasant little cottage, with a nicely-kept yard in front, while the
parlor, into which they were shown, was quite tastefully furnished. Mrs.
Marshall herself answered their ring, appearing greatly surprised when
she saw them, but not more so than Doctor Clayton, who would never have
recognized the dashing lady of Pine District in the plain-looking woman,
who, in a cheap calico wrapper, unbrushed hair, and checked apron, now
sat before him—his Aunt. And yet he could not help thinking her far more
agreeable than he had ever seen her before. The truth was, that Mrs.
Marshall was one of those weak-minded women who, being nothing at home,
strove to make amends by “making believe” abroad; assuming everything in
the latter and nothing in the former condition. Consequently, she, who
in the country was proud and overbearing, affecting ignorance of the
most trivial matters, was, at home, a comparatively quiet, domestic
woman; doing her own work, and, aside from being a little jealous and
envious of her more fortunate neighbors, generally minding her own
business.
After the first flutter of meeting the doctor was over, she became
herself again, and set about entertaining them to the best of her
ability, inviting them to stay with her to dinner, and urging as an
inducement, that she was going to have “peaches and cream for dessert.”
But Dell rather haughtily declined, whereupon her aunt asked “when she
would come round and spend the day?” saying, “she must do so before
long, or they might not be in that house.”
“Not be in this house! Why not?” asked Dell; and Mrs. Marshall replied,
“Why, you know, we have always rented it of _Mr. Lee_, and he talks of
selling it.”
Instantly the doctor thought of Rosa, and involuntarily repeated the
name—“Lee—Lee”——
“Yes,” said Mrs. Marshall. “He has a brother in Meadow Brook, whom you
may know.”
“Is he wealthy?” asked the doctor.
“Why, ye-es, I s’pose so,” said Mrs. Marshall, hesitatingly, as if
unwilling to admit what she could not deny. “He lives in a big house on
Beacon street—keeps his carriage—and they say the curtains in the front
parlor cost a thousand dollars, and there are only two windows either.”
Here she cast a deprecating glance towards her own very prettily
embroidered muslin curtains, which probably cost about a hundredth part
of that sum. Soon after, the newly married pair arose to go, the doctor
feeling, in spite of himself, a little uncomfortable, though at what he
hardly knew; for he would not acknowledge to himself that he was at all
disappointed because Dell’s uncle was a tailor instead of a millionaire,
or because Rose’s uncle lived on Beacon street, and sported curtains
which cost a thousand dollars. This did not in the least affect Dell.
_She_ was his wife, and as such he would love and cherish her,
ministering as far as possible to her wants, and overlooking the faults
which he knew she possessed. Thus reasoned his better nature as he rode
home, unconscious that the object of his thoughts was at that very
moment misconstruing his silence into disappointment, and writing
against him bitter things in her heart.
It was a peculiarity of Dell’s to get angry when people least expected
it, and then to _sulk_ until such time as she saw fit to be gracious; so
when they reached the Tremont, the doctor was astonished to find her
_past speaking_; neither could he by any amount of coaxing elicit a word
from her for more than an hour. At the end of that time, however, her
pent-up wrath exploded; and, in angry tones, she accused him of feeling
sorry that he had married her, because her uncle didn’t prove to be a
great man as he had supposed.
“I saw it all in your face when we were in the omnibus,” said she; “it
is of no use for you to deny it,” adding, as she burst into tears, “but
you cannot regret _your_ marriage more than I do mine, and you needn’t
feel so smart either, for your father was a poor shoemaker in Maine, and
when you went to college you rang the bell in part payment of your
tuition.”
This was a phase of married life for which the doctor was wholly
unprepared, and during the first part of his wife’s speech he stood
confounded, but by the time she had finished, his mind was pretty well
made up to _box her ears_! This, however, he did not do, though he bade
her “shut up her head,” repenting the harsh words the moment they were
uttered, and having manliness enough to tell her so. Winding his arm
around her, he talked to her calmly and rationally until she came out of
her pet, and agreed “to make up.” This process we leave to the
imagination of the reader, only suggesting that no one who saw the
handsome, loving pair, which half an hour after went down to dinner,
would have dreamed of the dark cloud which had so recently lowered on
their matrimonial horizon.
* * * * *
Here, wishing the doctor success in procuring patients, we leave them
for a time, while we go back to Meadow Brook, where our house was one
day thrown into a state of unusual excitement by the arrival of a letter
from Aunt Charlotte, which contained an invitation for Anna and myself
to spend the remainder of the autumn and the whole of the coming winter
with her in the city. “Rosa,” she wrote, “could go to school, while Anna
would be introduced into society.”
Of course we were greatly surprised, wondering what had come over our
haughty aunt, who, as the reader will recollect, once spent a
Thanksgiving with us. She must have changed, we thought, or else there
was some mistake about the invitation. But this could not be, for there
it was in black and white, written evidently in all sincerity, while
added to it was a postscript from Uncle Joseph, who also joined in the
request. That, if nothing more, proved that the invitation was genuine,
for there was no mistaking my uncle’s peculiar handwriting, and it only
remained for us to decide whether we would accept or not. Anna and
myself said “Yes,” at once, and after a grave deliberation in grandma’s
room, the same conclusion was also reached by my parents, who, after
giving us abundance of good advice, (not a word of which _I_ heard, as I
was wondering if I should ever meet the doctor and Dell), enjoined it
upon Anna, first, never to dance at the parties which she might
sometimes attend; second, never to wear her dresses indecently low, as
some of the city girls did; and third, not to flirt with Herbert
Langley. For this last injunction they probably fancied there was little
need, it being now five years since she had seen him, and as they knew
nothing of the perfumed, gilt-edged notes which lay hidden in her
work-box, they very naturally supposed she had forgotten him. I thought
so, too, for hers was the last letter, which had been unanswered for
many months, and Anna, I knew, was far too proud to care for one who had
forgotten her.
Occasionally we had heard of him through others, and it was always the
same story, viz., that he was going down to a drunkard’s grave, as fast
as daily drams and weekly sprees could carry him; but if these reports
produced any effect upon Anna, it was imperceptible. She was now twenty
years of age, and was a fair, delicate looking girl, whom some called
_proud_, others _cold_, and a few _selfish_; but this last I deny, for
though she might appear so to strangers, there was not in our whole
family, if I except brother Charlie, one who would sacrifice more of
their own comfort for that of another than would my sister Anna; neither
was there one whom I loved better, for though she was six years my
senior, she always treated me as one nearer her own age, while I looked
up to her as my oracle, thinking that whatever she did must necessarily
be right.
When it was decided that we were to go, the next important, and to me,
most delightful task, was the looking over and fixing up of our
wardrobes, which kept us busy for some time. As Anna was to go into
society, she of course had nearly all the new things, and much as I
loved her, I must confess to a feeling of envy when I saw the black
silk, blue merino, crimson and brown delaine, etc., which were purchased
for her, while I was put off with her old dresses, “made over as good as
new,” but when I too, was presented with a blue merino by Charlie, who
was now a clerk in one of the Meadow Brook stores, all my bad feelings
left me, and with great alacrity I assisted in the preparations.
It was a lovely day late in October, that old Sorrel stood at the door
ready to convey us to the dépôt. This was the first time I had really
left home, and when I saw the tears in my mother’s eyes, and the
trembling of grandma’s whole body; when Juliet held me so long to her
bosom; when Lizzie and Carrie stole from me a hasty kiss, and then ran
off to hide their grief; when Charlie and John, who were both clerks,
came down to the dépôt to bid us good-bye, affecting to be very manly,
notwithstanding that their chins quivered; and when, last of all, my
father’s fervent “God bless you, my children,” resounded in my ears, I
began to have a faint idea of the bitterness there is in parting, be it
but for a few months. As we expected, we found our uncle’s carriage at
the dépôt in Boston, and ere long we had reached his house in Beacon
street.
I remember the thrill of delight which I experienced, when first I
entered my Aunt Charlotte’s stylish house, and felt that it was to be my
home, at least for a time. Everything was in perfect order, and for an
instant I looked around me in silent wonder, almost forgetting to reply
to the greeting of my aunt, who, in heavy brocade and long blue
streamers depending from her head, met us kindly and hoped we were well.
She had changed since last I saw her, but it was more the work of care
than of time. She was much thinner, and the crow-tracks around her eyes
were now decidedly deep-cut wrinkles, while her hair was here and there
streaked with more than one silver thread.
My uncle was still the same good-humored, pleasant man, a little afraid
of his wife, it may be, but evidently master of his own house. I glanced
around for Herbert, but he was not there, and when, on Anna’s account
more than my own, I asked for him, I was told that he was down street,
but would soon be home. Ringing a bell, my aunt bade the girl who
appeared, “show the young ladies to their rooms,” which proved to be a
large airy chamber with a bedroom, dressing-room, and closet adjoining.
After a hasty toilet we again returned to the parlor, where we found a
tall, richly dressed young man, whom I should never have recognized as
Herbert Langley. He was much altered from when I last saw him: there was
a deep flush on his cheeks, which had reached even to his nose; while
the eyes I had once thought so handsome were watery and unsteady in
their movement. On the whole, however, he was still what some would call
good-looking. He was sitting with his back to the door, but at the sound
of our footsteps he turned around, and coming towards us, welcomed us
most cordially to Boston, calling us “cousins,” and claiming a cousin’s
privilege of kissing us—me _once_, and Anna _three_ times, if not four.
She was a little piqued at his neglect in answering her last letter, and
wishing to show proper resentment, she drew back rather haughtily, as if
wondering how he dare “take such liberties.” This he readily perceived,
and instantly assuming an air quite as indifferent as her own, he turned
towards me, hardly noticing her again, though it was easy to see that
the reserve of both was merely affectation. That evening he was gone
until nine o’clock, and when he entered the parlor, I noticed on the
face of my aunt the same anxious expression which I remembered having
seen there, when from our sitting-room window, she watched his return.
But he was perfectly sober, and with a sigh of relief, she resumed her
work; while he, coming round to my side, startled me by saying that “he
had just met with a friend of mine—Dr. Clayton.”
“Where did you see him?” asked Anna, while I bent lower over the book I
was reading; for that name had still a power to move me strongly.
“Why,” answered Herbert, “Tom Wilson, an old schoolmate of mine, boards
at the Tremont, where he is now lying very sick. All the old physicians
have given him up, and so he has employed this Dr. Clayton, who, it
seems, has been at the same hotel for six weeks or more. I called on Tom
this evening, and while I was there Dr. Clayton came in. In the course
of our conversation he spoke of Meadow Brook, and then, as a matter of
course, I said there were now in our family two young ladies from that
place. When I mentioned Rosa’s name, he turned almost as white as Tom
himself, and if she were not so young, I should be inclined to think
there was something between them. What do you say, coz?”
Here Anna came to my aid, saying, “Why, he’s a _married man_, and his
wife is with him at the Tremont.”
“The dickens he is!” said Herbert, looking a little puzzled. Then
turning to his mother, he added, “Mother, you ought to call on this Mrs.
Clayton, for if she is an acquaintance of Anna and Rosa, they will very
naturally wish to see her occasionally.”
“She needn’t call for me,” said I, quickly.
“Nor for me, for I don’t know her,” rejoined Anna, while with a haughty
toss of her head, Aunt Charlotte replied, that “her circle of
acquaintances was quite large enough now, and she’d no idea of extending
it by taking in people about whom she knew nothing.”
I know it was very wrong in me, but I could not help straightening up a
little in my chair as I wondered what the proud Dell Thompson would say
if she knew that the despised Rosa Lee was living as an equal in a
family which looked down upon her and her husband as _nobodies_. I was
roused from my reverie by my aunt’s asking Herbert in a low tone, “how
_Ada_ was to-night,” and glancing towards him, I fancied that said
_Ada_, whoever she might be, was to him not a very pleasant subject just
then, for his brow darkened visibly, while he replied, “I never once
thought to inquire, but I dare say she’s no worse, or she would have
sent for you post haste.”
There was a moment’s silence, and then my aunt again spoke, “Herbert, I
wish you’d do better. You know how lonely she is, and how much she must
necessarily feel your neglect.”
“Fudge!” was his answer, as he folded his hands over his head, and
leaning back in his chair, looked straight into the astral lamp.
That night, when Anna and I were alone in our room, the former sat for a
time in deep thought, saying, when I at last told her the clock was
striking eleven, “I wonder who _Ada_ is!”
_I_ wondered so, too, and my interest was not at all diminished when the
next morning, at the breakfast table, Aunt Charlotte said to her son,
“Herbert, I shall be busy this morning making arrangements about a
school for Rosa, and I wish you’d go in and see Ada, will you?”
“Yes, yes, I will,” said he, rather impatiently, adding, “and if I don’t
find her any better, I mean to assume the responsibility of discharging
that old superannuated _greeny_ who attends her, and install Dr. Clayton
in his place. I took quite a fancy to him, and I’m going to give him my
patronage!”
“Oh, I wish you would!” I exclaimed involuntarily; for in spite of the
wrong he had done me, I cherished no feeling of animosity towards him.
Then, again, I had heard that it was sometimes very difficult for a
young physician to obtain much practice in a strange place with no one
to help him, and I thought, perhaps, Herbert’s “patronage” might be of
some avail.
“I see,” said Herbert laughingly, “there _has_ been something, and
though he is a married man, you still feel an interest in him, and want
him to succeed; all right, and I’ll do what I can to help him; for I
verily believe he’ll get Tom on his legs again in spite of what the
temperance folks say about his blood’s being all turned into whisky!”
At these words a shadow passed over Aunt Charlotte’s face, but it was
soon chased away by the next remark of Herbert, which was, “Ain’t you
glad, mother, I reformed before I got to be as bad as Tom? Why, girls
(addressing Anna and me), I haven’t drank a drop since—since—how long is
it mother, since I left off”—_drinking_ he could not say, so he finally
added, “left off _imbibing_ occasionally?”
There was a look of happiness on that mother’s face, as she replied,
“Almost a year.”
Yes, ’twas almost a year since her son had tasted ardent spirits, and
had she not good reasons for thinking he would never fall again? Assured
of this fact, how proud she would have been of her only boy; for, aside
from this great error, he possessed many noble, generous qualities; and
during my stay in Boston, I found that, in spite of his well-known
habits, he was a pretty general favorite. Oh, how lovingly my aunt
looked after him when he went out, and how earnestly she watched him
when he came in, and all the while she was tempting him beyond what most
men could bear; for regularly on her dinner-table appeared either
porter, champagne, or madeira, one taste of which would set him all on
fire. But, unfortunately, she belonged to that class of fashionable
people who deem the wine-bottle a necessary appendage to the dinner
table, and if, in the sequel, her son should fill a drunkard’s grave,
would there be any just cause why, in her anguish, she should murmur at
Providence for having dealt with her thus harshly? Ought she not rather
to blame herself for having thus daily tempted him to sin by placing
before him what she well knew was sure to work his ruin?
But to our story. We were at dinner when Herbert came in from his
morning ramble, and taking his accustomed seat at the table, he said to
his mother, “I called on Ada as you desired, and found her sitting up in
a rose-colored dressing-gown, which she thinks very becoming to her, I
know, for she sat directly opposite the mirror, and I should not dare
tell how many times I caught her casting admiring glances at herself.”
Aunt Charlotte frowned, while Herbert, turning to me, continued—“Miss
Montrose is so much better that I don’t believe I can patronize your
doctor in that quarter, but I’ll do something for him—break my leg, may
be—or have the delirium tremens.”
This species of jesting seemed to be a kind of mania with Herbert, for
almost every day of his life he referred to his former habit of
drinking, greatly to the annoyance of his mother, who, on the occasion
just mentioned, turned slightly pale, while Anna looked down upon the
carpet and sighed. Thinking this as favorable an opportunity for making
inquiries concerning Ada Montrose as I should have, I asked Herbert who
she was. His mother’s lips moved as if she would answer the question,
but ere she could speak, Herbert replied, “She’s a Georgia lady, a great
coquette, who is spending the winter here with a fortieth cousin. Some
call her handsome, and I believe mother thinks her beautiful, but if
Anna paid as much attention to her toilet and dressed as elegantly as
Ada Montrose, she would, in my opinion, look far better.”
’Twas the first compliment he had paid Anna since our arrival, and it
brought a bright flush to her usually marble cheek; for Herbert Langley
possessed a strange power over my sister, which she did not try to
resist. I fancied that my aunt was not quite pleased with Herbert’s
comparing Miss Montrose to Anna, but ere she could frame any answer, he
asked us if we would like to attend the theatre that evening.
Notwithstanding my father’s hostility to _circuses_, I did not remember
having heard him say much against _theatres_, and so I answered quickly,
“Oh, yes, Anna, let’s go. I want to see what they do.”
And so, with my aunt’s permission, it was settled that we should go, and
at the usual hour I found myself in the National Theatre, which was
densely crowded, for a celebrated actress appeared that night for the
last time in Boston. Perfectly bewildered, I followed Herbert and Anna
to my uncle’s box, which commanded a fine view of the stage, and then,
when I became a little accustomed to the glare of lights and the hum of
voices, which in some degree reminded me of that never-to-be-forgotten
_circus_ of Cousin Will memory, I ventured to look over the sea of
faces, half starting from my seat as I recognized among the crowd Dr.
Clayton and his wife, the latter appearing to be looking at us through
what I thought resembled the dice boxes of a backgammon board tied
together, but which I soon learned was an opera-glass. The doctor was
paler and thinner than when I last saw him, and it was with more than
one pang that I watched him as, from time to time, he cast a glance of
pride at the splendid-looking woman at his side, who attracted
considerable attention, and at whom, in the course of the evening, more
than one glass was levelled.
Ere long my attention was diverted from them to a tall, dark, and rather
peculiar-looking gentleman, who entered the box at our right. Sinking
into a seat, he abandoned himself apparently, to his own thoughts, which
could not have been very pleasant; for his forehead, which was high and
white, seemed at times to be one mass of wrinkles, while his eyes,
large, black, and deepset in his head, alternately flashed with anger
and vexation. I am not much of a physiognomist, but there was in the
face of the stranger something which at once attracted and riveted my
attention. He was not handsome, like Dr. Clayton—nay, I am not sure but
many would call him ugly, but I did not; and, somehow, I felt certain
that no girl of _fourteen_ had ever wept over his fickleness, for he
looked the soul of honor and integrity. Gradually, too, as the play
proceeded, the expression which I had at first observed passed away; his
dark eyes lighted up; and when, at last, a bright smile broke over his
face, I pronounced him far better looking than the doctor, who was fast
losing ground in my good opinion.
The play was the “Lady of Lyons,” and though I was familiar with the
story, I seemed now to hear it for the first time; so fully did I enter
into the feelings of the heroine, Pauline, whose distress I could not
believe was feigned. All was real to me; and I can now scarcely repress
a smile, as I recall to mind how I must have looked, standing there with
flushed cheeks, clasped hands, staring eyes, and lips slightly apart,
drinking in every word of the actress. Once Anna pulled my dress,
whispering to me, “Do sit down, Rosa; they are all looking at you, and
Mrs. Clayton is laughing and pointing you out to her husband.”
“I didn’t care for Dell Thompson, or the doctor either,” and so I said,
while at the same time I glanced towards the stranger, whose eyes were
fixed upon me with an expression I could not fathom.
He was not making fun of me, I was sure of that; but as if there were a
magnetic influence in his look, which I could not resist, I dropped into
my seat, and remained motionless until the closing scene, where, with a
piercing shriek, Pauline rushed into the arms of her husband. Then there
came over me the same sensation which I had experienced years before in
the old schoolhouse at Meadow Brook. Everything grew dark around me, and
with a faint cry I fell across Anna’s lap. I was not entirely
unconscious, for I have a dim remembrance of being led from the heated
room, the close atmosphere of which had probably helped to bring on my
faintness. The cool air outside revived me in a measure, but it was the
mesmeric touch of two large, warm hands which fully restored to me my
faculties, and, looking up, I saw bending over me the gentleman in whom
I had been so much interested. Dr. Clayton, too, was there, looking
worried and anxious, but instinctively leaving me to the care of the
stranger, who seemed to know exactly what to do.
“You are better now, I think,” said he, gazing down upon me with his
deep black eyes, and adding, with the same peculiar smile I had before
observed, “Miss ——’s acting seldom receives so genuine a compliment as
this. I imagine she ought to feel flattered.”
At this moment a loud stamping and hallooing came to my ear, and,
pulling Anna’s shawl, Herbert exclaimed, “Come, let’s go in again; they
are calling back the dancing-girl, and I wouldn’t miss it for anything.
Come, Rose, you want to see it all, and we’ll stand right by the door.”
I felt perfectly well, and started to follow him, when something in the
stranger’s face arrested me, for it seemed to say, “I wouldn’t go.” But
he did not speak, and bowing to me very politely, he walked away, while
I went after Herbert and Anna, reaching them just in time to witness a
part of Mlle. Lisette’s dance, which seemed to me a good deal like the
performance of the _Circus girl_, only “a little more so;” and I felt
certain that Cousin Will, had he been there, would have pronounced her
superior even to the boasted _Albany girl_!
When at last it was over, and we were again leaving the room, Dr.
Clayton, as if seeing me for the first time, offered me his hand, and in
a low tone expressed to me his pleasure that I was to be in the city
during the winter; adding, as he cast a furtive glance towards his wife,
“You’ll come and see me often, won’t you; for I am very lonely?”
For an instant I felt a thrill of pride, to know that there was yet
aught in me which could interest _him_, but ’twas only for a moment, and
then there came up before me thoughts of the stranger, and owing to some
unknown influence, which I shall not attempt to explain, the doctor’s
power over me was from that moment at an end; and though I still liked
him, it was as I would like any friend who evinced a regard for me.
Of the stranger I often thought, wondering who he was and whence he
came; but no one knew, and all that I could learn was, that Herbert saw
him the next morning standing on the steps of the Revere House, and
chancing the same afternoon to be at the Worcester dépôt, he saw him
enter the cars bound for Albany, and heard from one of the bystanders
that he was a Georgian, and had probably come to Boston after “_a
runaway nigger_!” Being a true born daughter of freedom-loving
Massachusetts, this intelligence of course had the effect of cooling my
ardor somewhat, and wishing in my heart that every one of his negroes
would run away, I banished him for a time from my mind.
After many inquiries, and much consultation with her particular friend
Mrs. Ashley, my aunt at last decided to send me to Madam ——’s school;
while Anna, after a two weeks’ siege with dress-makers, was introduced
into society, where, if she was not a reigning belle, she was at least a
favorite; and more than once I heard the most flattering compliments
bestowed upon _her_, while it was thought to be “a pity that her sister
was so _plain_ and unpretending in her appearance!”