"Isn't it perfectly splendid?" cried Kate, who, in spite of a general
precision of speech, was not above using an occasional superlative. Miss
Theodora had been less than human had she contradicted her young cousin,
whose words referred to Ernest's thesis. For, although it bristled with
scientific terms which they understood hardly as well as the majority of
his auditors, Miss Theodora and Kate listened eagerly to every word. "Of
course, you're proud of him; now you can't say you're not;"--and the
young girl gave her cousin's hand a squeeze which the elder woman
returned with interest. That his relatives were not partial was proved
by the newspapers the next morning, for they made especial mention of
Ernest, and said that he seemed likely to add new honors to the
distinguished name he bore. Though Miss Theodora would have preferred to
see Ernest in flowing gown on the Sanders Theatre platform, with the
Governor and his staff and distinguished professors and noted alumni in
the background, she did not express her regrets to Kate. A Harvard
Commencement is unlike any other, and Kate, who realized this as
strongly almost as Miss Theodora did, whispered, "Please don't think
you're sorry that it isn't a Harvard A. B."
How could any one who loved him be otherwise than happy to see Ernest in
so cheerful a mood, smiling at his aunt and Kate, bowing to Miss
Chatterwits, who had a good seat near the front? If only he had not
rushed up in one of the intermissions to speak to that piquant-looking
girl in the large white hat, whom Kate from a distance regarded with an
air of interest mixed with disdain.
After the excitement of this last day, Ernest, contrary to his usual
habit, was moody and restless. Miss Theodora watched him narrowly. She
had hoped when the pressure of work was removed that he would settle
down into calm ways, and put off as long as possible the inevitable
decision about his future career. Must he, she wondered, must he really
go to that great indefinite West, which years before had seemed the
grave of a large share of her happiness?
Ernest himself soon put an end to her wondering.
"Come, Aunt Teddy," he said one morning, drawing her beside him on the
massive sofa that faced the bookcase, with its rows of neglected law
books; "let us talk over my future. How soon can I go? I am lounging
about here too long."
"Go?" she queried. "Go where?"--though in her heart she knew very well.
"Now don't equivocate; it isn't natural for you, Aunt Theodora; you are
generally so straightforward. Don't you remember that I told you that I
might have a good offer to go to Colorado? Well, it has come."
Whereupon Ernest proceeded to read a letter offering him a definite
position and a stated salary with a certain mining company, and the
letter was signed "William Easton."
"Isn't it fine to have such a chance?" said the young man, looking up,
and noting a surprising change in his aunt's face. She had grown
extremely pale, and he saw that she was trembling.
"William Easton," she said, without answering his question; "how
strange!"
Then there flashed across Ernest's mind his cousin Richard's warning
against mentioning Mr. Easton to his aunt. Of course, the time for
silence on this point had now passed,--and he continued:
"Yes; perhaps I may not have mentioned Mr. Easton's name before; but I
didn't know that you would recall it. You've heard me speak of him, of
course, the president of the Wampum and Etna, whom I met on the
Altruria. He's as good as his word, and though I haven't heard from him
for two years, here's this letter offering me the very chance he said he
would give me--all on account of my father, I suppose. They must have
been greater friends than I thought,"--looking questioningly toward
Miss Theodora.
"Yes, they were great friends," answered she, "and I knew him very well
too, but I would almost rather not have you accept his offer."
"Just because I shall have to go so far away, I suppose. Now, what else
would you have me do?"
"Surely there are other chances in Boston. You can find something to do
here."
"If I could, I wouldn't," replied the young man. "Now, what would be the
sense in staying here? Of course, I could get something to do, there's
no doubt of that; but it would be wicked to refuse an offer like this."
"Why not begin here and gradually work up? We don't need so very much
money, Ernest--"
"Oh, Aunt Teddy, I do. What would you say if I told you I thought of
getting married?"
"You--you--get married!" and Miss Theodora actually blushed. Then
recollecting herself, "I am delighted," she said. "Kate is a dear girl.
Not a bit like her mother."
"Kate! It isn't Kate," stammered the young man; and Miss Theodora, with
a sudden revulsion of feeling, recalled many things that she had almost
forgotten. Much that she had not understood was now explained. There was
somebody, after all, whom Ernest cared for--and it wasn't Kate.
"Who is the young lady?" she asked with some dignity.
"Why, Eugenie. Haven't you heard me speak of Eugenie Kurtz?"
Miss Theodora shook her head.
"Of course," he said, "it isn't an engagement, or I would have told you
all about it or asked your advice, but it's all so uncertain. Her
father--"
"Who is her father?" asked Miss Theodora. "The name sounds familiar."
"Of course--you've seen it on his wagons, and I daresay you've been in
his shop, too. He's really the chief man in the firm, for, although his
partner's name stands first, Mr. Kurtz has really bought Brown out, all
but a small share."
Then Miss Theodora remembered one of the best known retail shops in the
city, whose growth from small beginnings was often quoted as a striking
example of American energy. She remembered, too, that one
partner--perhaps both--had been referred to as of humble origin. This
remembrance came to her in a flash, and she took up Ernest's last words:
"Her father--"
"Yes, her father," repeated the young man, "won't consent to an
engagement at present. I've got to show what I can do in the world, and
so I must go West, where I can have room enough to move around." And
then Ernest digressed into praise of Eugenie, her charms of person and
manner, her taste in dress, her ability in housekeeping, in which she
had had much experience since her mother's death. "You will call on her,
won't you?" he pleaded.
But Miss Theodora would say neither yes nor no, as he named the street
where Eugenie lived. She knew this street very well. She had passed
through it several times in the evenings with Ernest. She had never
liked it, this long, new street, with its blocks of handsome
bay-windowed houses. How seldom were the curtains in these bay-windows
drawn close! She could not think well of people who left their rooms
thus immodestly exposed to the gaze of passers-by. Brought up as she had
been to regard lamp-light as a signal for the closing of blinds and
curtains, she always turned her head away from the windows revealing
beyond the daintily shaded lamp a glimpse of rooms furnished much more
gorgeously than any to which she was accustomed. These unshaded windows
had always seemed to her typical of the lives, of the minds, of the
dwellers in the bay-windowed houses--no retirement, no privacy, all
show.
To think that Ernest's interests should have begun to mingle with those
of people whom she could never, never care to know! Miss Theodora
sighed. Perhaps it was the best thing after all for Ernest to go West.
Absence might make him forget Eugenie. "At his age," thought Miss
Theodora, "it is ridiculous for him to imagine himself in love."
Yet Ernest, though Miss Theodora knew it not, had been deeply in love
more than once before. There was that beautiful creature with the
reddish-brown hair--several years older than he, to be sure--whom he had
met on his passage back from Europe. What a joy it had been to walk the
deck with her, while she confided all her past and present sorrows to
him! He did not tell her his feelings then--she might have laughed at
him. Later, how his heart had palpitated as he crossed the little
square, past the diminutive statues of Columbus and Aristides, to call
on her at the home of the sisterhood where she thought of taking vows!
How well she looked in the severe garb of the order! so saintly, indeed,
did she appear as she swept into the bare room, that he made only a
short call, recrossing the square more in love than ever, though in a
sombre mood.
A few months after, when he heard of the would-be devotee's marriage to
old Abram Tinker, that crabbed millionaire, he was surprised to find
himself so little disturbed. His happy disposition gave cynicism no
place even for a foothold, and soon he barely remembered this little
episode in his life. Eugenie, indeed, seemed to him the only woman he
had ever cared for. He longed to talk about her to Kate, but something
prevented his opening his heart to the latter. Nor was his aunt ready to
listen to him. He was amazed to find her so unsympathetic. Her
opposition to his going to the West had, however, disappeared. She even
hastened his preparations, and bade him good-bye at the last with
unexpected cheerfulness.
[Illustration]