THREE IMPORTANT LETTERS.
One evening when I returned from a long walk, Esmerelda gave me a letter
directed in the most fashionable style of ladies' handwriting. I was a
good deal surprised at receiving a letter through such a source,
especially as Esmerelda whispered me to secrecy. I had no time to break
the seal, for callers were waiting; and when they left, Mr. Winthrop
summoned me to the study for a review of the week's reading. This was
a custom he had some time before instituted, and I was finding it
increasingly interesting. He selected my course of reading, and a very
strong bill of fare I was finding it, some of the passages straining my
utmost power of brain to comprehend. He had, as yet, confined me chiefly
to German literature, mainly Kant and Lessing, with a dip into Schiller
now and then, he said, by way of relaxation. He seemed gratified at the
interest I took in his efforts to develop my intellectual powers, and
sometimes he sat chatting with me, after the lesson was ended, by the
firelight, until we were summoned to dinner. His mind appeared like some
rich storehouse where every article has its appointed place; and while it
held many a treasure from foreign sources, its own equipment was equal to
the best. I could not always follow him. He gave me credit, I believe,
for much greater brain power than I possessed; but what I could not
comprehend made me the more eager to overcome the impediment of ignorance
and stupidity. In these hours in his own study, where very few, save
myself, were permitted to enter, he laid aside all badinage and severe
criticism. I blundered sadly, at times, over the meaning of some
specially difficult passages; but he helped me through with a quiet
patience that amazed me. I mentioned it one day to Mrs. Flaxman,
expressing my surprise that he should so patiently endure my ignorance,
and stupidity.
"It is just like him. He has a world of patience with any one really
trying to do good work. I think he begins to understand you better. He is
prejudiced against our sex in the mass. He thinks we are more fond of
pleasure than of anything else in the world; but if he once finds his
mistake, his atonement is complete."
"Why is he so prejudiced?" I asked, hoping Mrs. Flaxman would continue
the story Thomas had begun.
"He has had good reason. He is not one to rashly condemn one."
"But is it not rash to misjudge the many for the wrong doing of the
single individual? It does not prove all are alike."
"Have you ever heard anything, Medoline?" She asked anxiously.
"Merely a hint, but I have built many a story on that."
"You must not trust servants or ignorant folks' gossip. I hope your Mill
Road friends do not talk about your guardian."
"They scarcely mention his name. Mrs. Blake certainly expressed surprise,
a long time ago, when we gave those vegetables away, that such a thing
should take place at Oaklands. I would not permit any one to speak
unkindly of Mr. Winthrop in my hearing," I said, proudly.
"That is right; he is not easy to understand, but one day you will find
he is true as steel."
She left the room abruptly. I fancied she was afraid I might ask
troublesome questions. Now as I sat in the study, I began to listen and
dream together, wondering what sort of woman it was he could love and
caress, and how she could lightly trample on his love. The tears came to
my eyes as I looked and listened, picturing him the central sun of a
perfect home, with wife and children enriching his heart with their love.
When those deep gray eyes looked into mine, my drooping lashes tried to
conceal from their searching gaze, my mutinous thoughts. Strange that
this particular evening, while I sat with the half forgotten letter in my
pocket, imagination was busier than ever, while I found it more than
usually difficult to comprehend Lessing's ponderous thoughts; and the
desire seized me to leave these high thinkers, on their lonely mountain
heights, and, with my guardian, come down to the summer places of
everyday life.
He noticed my abstraction at last, for he said abruptly:
"Are you not interested in to-day's lesson, Medoline?"
I faltered as I met his searching eye.
"I am always interested in what you say, Mr. Winthrop; but to-day my
thoughts have been wandering a good deal."
"Where have they been wandering to?"
My face crimsoned, but I kept silent.
"I would like to know what you were thinking about?" he said, gently.
"A young girl's foolish fancies would seem very childish to you, after
what you have been talking about."
"Nevertheless, we like sometimes the childish and innocent. I have a
fancy for it just now, Medoline."
"Please, Mr. Winthrop, I cannot tell you all my thoughts. They are surely
my own, and cannot be torn from me ruthlessly."
"What sort of persons are you meeting now at your Mill Road Mission?"
He suddenly changed the conversation, to my intense relief.
"The very same that I have met all along, with the exception of the Sykes
family--they are a new experience."
"Were you thinking of any one you know there just now, that caused your
inattention?"
"Why, certainly not, Mr. Winthrop. I do not care so very much for them as
that."
He was silent for a good while, in one of his abstracted moods; and,
thinking the lesson was over for that day, I was about to leave the room.
He arose, and, going to the window, stood looking out into the night--I
quietly watching him, and wondering of what he was so busily thinking.
Presently he turned, and, coming to the table where I was sitting, stood
looking down intently at me.
"Medoline, has it ever occurred to you that you are an unusually
attractive bit of womanhood?"
I drew back almost as if he had struck me a blow. He smiled.
"You are as odd as you are fascinating," he said.
He went to his writing-desk. I watched him unlock one of the drawers and
take out two envelopes. He came back and stood opposite me at the table.
"I received, a few days ago, a letter from my friend Bovyer, in which he
enclosed one for you, which I was at liberty to read. Probably I should
have submitted it to you earlier, but----"
He did not finish the sentence, and stood quietly while I read the
letter. The hot blood was crimsoning my neck and brow, and, without
raising my eyes, I pushed the letter across the table, without speaking.
He handed me another. A strong impulse seized me to fly from the room,
but I had not courage to execute my desire. The second letter was fully
as surprising as the first. It was from another of Mr. Winthrop's
friends, who had frequented our hotel in New York. I recalled his face
readily, and the impression his manners and conversation had made on my
mind. He had fewer years to boast than Mr. Bovyer, but more good looks. I
finished his letter, and, still holding it in my hand, unconsciously fell
to recalling more distinctly my half-forgotten impressions of his
personality. I remembered he could say brilliant things in an off-hand
way, as if he were not particularly proud of the fact. I remembered, too,
that he had genuine humor, and had often convulsed me with a merriment I
was ashamed to betray; but, strange to say, of all those who had haunted
Mr. Winthrop's parlors in those two weeks, not one had paid me so little
attention as this Maurice Graem; and now both he and Mr. Bovyer had
written, asking my guardian's permission to have me as life-long
companion and friend.
"What shall it be, Medoline? You cannot say yes to both of them."
The question startled me.
"Are you very anxious for me to leave Oaklands?" My lips quivered as I
spoke.
"Why, child, that is my trouble just now. I am not willing ever to lose
you--certainly not so soon as these impetuous youths desire."
"Mr. Bovyer is not young," I said, with a lightened heart.
"What shall I say to them, then?"
"That I do not want to leave Oaklands. I am so happy here."
He made me no reply, but turned again to his writing-desk, and was
locking the letters safely away when I left the room. Then I bethought me
of the letter still unopened in my pocket, and was hastening to my room,
when Mrs. Flaxman intercepted me.
"Won't you come into my room, Medoline, just for a few minutes?"
I followed her with some reluctance; for Mrs. Flaxman's few minutes, I
imagined, might extend into a good many, if she got to talking.
"I want to show the presents Mr. Bovver has sent us from New York--one
for each of us."
She lifted the cover from a box on her stand, and handed me the most
superbly-bound book I had ever seen.
"Yours is the prettiest," she said, admiringly, as I turned over the
leaves, looking at the engravings.
"Don't you like it, dear?" she asked, surprised that I was so silent over
my prize.
"Yes--if it had not come from Mr. Bovyer."
"Why, Medoline! not like a gift coming from one so kind and true as he
is?"
"I wish I had never seen him." I threw down the book and burst into
tears.
"Surely, Medoline, you have not fallen in love with him? I should be so
sorry, for he is not a marrying man."
"No, indeed," I cried, indignantly; "but----" And then I stopped; for
what right had I to tell his secret?
"Oh, Mrs. Flaxman, is it not dreadful to be young? Men are such a
trouble."
"Why, my child, what is the matter? You act so strangely I do not
understand you."
"No? Well, I cannot explain. But won't you ask Mr. Winthrop, please, if I
must keep this book?"
"Why, certainly you must keep it. It would be rude to return Mr. Bovyer's
gift."
"But you will ask?"
"Oh, yes, if you insist; but he will only smile, and say it is one of
Medoline's oddities."
I went to my room. But the traces of my tears must be removed, and the
dinner-bell was already ringing. However, at the risk of being late, I
broke the seal of my letter. I was getting terrified lest it might be
another proposal of marriage from some unexpected quarter; for, I
reflected, when misfortunes begin to come they generally travel in
crowds; but this was not a love-letter. It read:
"Dear Miss Selwyn:--I have been informed of your kindness of
heart and sympathy for all who are in distress, and therefore am
emboldened to come to you for help. If you would call on me to-morrow,
at 3 P. M., at Rose Cottage, Linden Lane, you would confer a lasting
favor on a sorrowing sister. I am yours, very respectfully,
"Hermione Le Grande."
P. S.--I must ask for perfect secrecy on your part, and that no mention
whatever of my name, or letter, be made at Oaklands. I trust to your
honor in the matter.
H. L.
I locked the letter up in my drawer and hastened to the dinner that
certainly would not be kept waiting for me. I was hoping that the
question about Mr. Bovyer's book would be asked and answered in my
absence; but was disappointed; for just as Mr. Winthrop arose from the
table, at the close of dinner, Mrs. Flaxman mentioned the arrival of the
books, and whence they came.
"It is quite profitable, chaperoning young ladies, you will find;" he
said, dryly.
"But, Medoline does not wish to keep hers. She acted quite strangely
about it; and insists that I must ask you, if she shall keep it."
"Mr. Bovyer would feel aggrieved if we returned his present. I think you
must keep it," he said, turning to me.
"Most young ladies I have known are proud to get keepsakes from your
sex."
"I hope Medoline is not going to be a regulation young lady."
"Why, Mr. Winthrop, what has caused you to change your mind? You used to
condemn me for being so very unconventional."
"I have made the discovery that you have something better in its stead,"
he said, quietly. I looked up quickly to speak my thanks, but kept
silent.
"Yes, Medoline is the only one of us that tries to do her duty by others.
She has helped the poor more in the few months she has been here, than I
have done in nearly twenty years."
"But she confines her benefits to the poor and bereaved solely. She seems
to forget the prosperous may be heavy-hearted," Mr. Winthrop suggested
with a smile.
"I do not intermeddle with that which lies beyond my skill to relieve.
Any person can relieve poverty if they have money."
"Possibly you are wise to confine your helpfulness to the simpler cases
of sorrow."
"I think the griefs of the rich are mostly imaginary and selfish. In this
beautiful world, if we have our freedom, and health, and plenty of money,
we are simply foolish to be down-hearted; only when death takes away our
dear ones; and after a time the pain he gives ceases to smart."
"You are very practical, Medoline, and look through spectacles dipped in
sunshine."
"Well, I believe she is right," Mrs. Flaxman said, with an air of sudden
conviction. "We are not half thankful enough for our blessings and
persist in wearing the peas in our shoes for penance, when we might as
well soften them like that wise-hearted Irishman. It would be a blessing
if Medoline had medicine for other griefs than those poverty causes."
I saw her cast a meaning look at Mr. Winthrop, which brought the color
to my cheek, and set me to soberly thinking if I might not bring him
surcease from bitter thoughts, and then it occurred to me, with all this
commendation was there not grave danger of my getting uplifted unduly?
"It seems to me that you and Mr. Winthrop go to extremes in your estimate
of me. First, you keep me so low in the valley of humiliation that I well
nigh lose heart, and then you hoist me on a pedestal, making me grow
dizzy with conceit. I suggest that we pass a law not to talk about each
other at all."
"But you cannot hope to be perfect unless wise friends point out your
foibles," Mr. Winthrop assured me.
"I have never expected to reach such a height. It would be so lonely for
me, you know--no society of my own kind, save here and there a poor and
humble soul," I said, wickedly.
"Nevertheless, one should make the effort to stand on the top round of
the ladder of human excellence."
"It is a long ladder, and the climb is wearisome, and death soon
interposes and ends our ambition," I said, wearily.
"But you have such perfect assurance respecting the to-morrow of death,
you must believe that excellence gained here will be so much capital to
carry with you into that life; but you implicit believers very often
voice your faith rather than live it," Mr. Winthrop remarked, with a
touch of his accustomed sarcasm.
"Mr. Bowen lives his quite as well as he talks it, but he is the nearest
perfection of any human being I ever expect to meet."
"That is hard on our set, Mrs. Flaxman. Medoline, it seems, has fished
out of the slums a veritable saint, and handsome as he is good. If I
remember right he is a widower."
"Yes, certainly, he is the one she got the suit of clothes for when she
was in New York."
He turned to me abruptly and asked,
"How old is he?"
"I have never asked him," I said mischievously, "but he looks older than
you."
"Medoline, what are you saying? He was a grandfather years ago."
"And I am afraid that is an honor which Mr. Winthrop will never attain,"
I tried to say sympathetically.
Mrs. Flaxman cast him a startled look; but he smiled very calmly as if
the words had merely amused him.