Merry Christmas had come and gone with its ordinary festivities and
gifts. Ours had been unusually bright, and we were all well and happy.
Only one thing troubled papa and that was the boys.
Louis had spent nearly two months traveling around and then going
straight to Wilburton. He was pleasantly situated he wrote, quite well,
and had taken up his studies. Papa answered, giving him some friendly
counsel, but we had heard nothing since. Stuart had sent two chatty
epistles. Stephen was expected home every week.
“I feel as if I ought to have gone to Wilburton and looked after him;”
papa would say anxiously.
“You have been so very busy all the time with your duties here;”
mamma would reply reassuringly. “And Louis is one of those quietly
persistent young men who take their own way and learn, if they ever do,
from experience.”
I doubt if it would have made any difference in what occurred. Fan used
to say that we had gentle showers of misfortune and rains of adversity,
and this must have been both combined. The letter came from Stuart with
the bad news, which shocked us beyond description.
I will tell it more briefly than in his rambling, commenting fashion.
He had little of the brotherly love that desires to cover up faults, or
hide the worst of any untoward incident.
Louis’ boarding place might have proved a judicious home, but a month
after his being settled with Mrs. Fuller, a young clerk came to
share his comforts, one of those selfish, astute persons as Stephen
afterwards learned, who with his pleasing address and flattering
deference soon won Louis’ regard and confidence, and introduced him to
some dangerous companions. This was followed by late hours and gaming.
To a nervous, excitable nature these games of chance with an occasional
victory, became a dangerous fascination. Louis was no match for his
adversaries. They looked upon him as a rich, hot-headed, ignorant
young fellow and drew him on until he found himself heavily in debt.
The money sent for his current expenses was swallowed up, and proved
but a drop in the whirlpool.
One evening he had begun with the luck in his favor and felt
wonderfully elated. At midnight he would fain have left them, but they
bantered him to stay, rather hinting that a defection would be from
basely selfish motives. He was not to be dared and took his seat again,
losing heavily on the first play. The others had been drinking and
grown a trifle careless. He was watching with eager, restless eyes and
detected to his surprise, a play so unusual that it brought an instant
conviction to his mind that even his trusted friend might be in league
against him.
He mastered his indignation and went steadily on, every sense alert
with suspicion. Presently the trick was repeated, his opponent winning
triumphantly. But his endurance came to an end with this, and he burst
forth in angry vehemence, accusing everybody, and hurling passionate
epithets that roused the wrath of the small circle, which they resented
as warmly. A bitter taunt cost Louis the last remnant of self-control,
and he flew at his adversary with a tiger’s strength and quickness. One
tremendous blow ended the contest.
“Good Heavens! Duncan, you have killed him!” cried one of the party.
“You’ll rue this night’s work!”
His youth and his impulsiveness led him astray again. Like a flash he
beheld the disgrace, the awful crime, the consternation of all who knew
him. Obeying his first unreasoning impulse he fled from the place.
Whither should he go? Death would be preferable to arrest and scandal.
He had a small amount of money with him and it was but a few steps to
the station. The train made a moment’s halt and he stepped on board
in the darkness. If he had waited until morning it would have proved
only a disgraceful gambling brawl. The injured youth was brought
to consciousness and through the physician’s efforts saved from
congestion. A few day’s illness would be the result to him, but the
story spread like wild-fire, exaggerated in every respect. This was the
account that came from Stuart.
Papa was horror stricken at the first moment. He buried his face in
his hands and gave the letter to mother.
“Poor boy!” she said tenderly. “His unfortunate temper, his distrust
of those who would have proved his best friends, and his credulity in
other respects, have made him an easy victim. But what has become of
him?”
“I must go immediately,” papa exclaimed. “I am in some sense his
keeper. I ought to have looked after him before. Poor lad. How we
prayed for him to be spared last summer! Perhaps—”
“Dear papa,” said Fan, “if God had not thought best to save his life,
he would have been taken. Please do not blame yourself. It was our duty
to try, and to pray. The end is with God.”
“You are right, my darling, and I must act instead of doubting. Let me
think—I can reach Wilburton at eight this evening. I will do all I can.
If Stephen were only here!”
Half an hour afterward we received a telegram from him. He was in New
York. After a flying visit to the boys he would be with us.
“I had better meet him there;” said papa. “We can consult about the
best steps to be taken. And indeed, Louis may have returned to
Wilburton.
“Everything always does happen to us at once,” said Fan. “But this
is such a sorry happening! We have to take our share of other’s
misfortunes, but joys do not always go round so far.”
“I am sure we have had a great many joys;” returned mamma in her sweet
tone. “And no—”
“Bad boys of our own;” put in Fan. “Or good ones either for that
matter. But there _is_ one thing to be very thankful for, and that is,
that Louis Duncan has not the sin of murder on his soul.”
“True, true, Fanny;” returned papa.
An hour later he put a few articles in a hand satchel and bade us
good-bye. That was Wednesday and he did not return until Friday eve,
when Mr. Duncan came with him.
Six months of foreign life had changed him considerably. He was
stouter, looked older, and wore a full beard. I _did_ feel afraid of
him. I wondered how Fan could talk so freely. He was grave to the verge
of sadness; yet very sweet to mamma with that kind of reverential
sweetness so touching.
The victim of the affray was out of danger. Stephen had been
investigating his brother’s affairs, but found no extravagances
beside the gambling debts. Otherwise his course of conduct had not
been blamable. But there were no tidings of him. Stephen had inserted
advertisements in one or two papers, begging him to return, which was
all that could be done for the present.
The pleasure of the meeting was a good deal dampened by this
unfortunate affair. Mr. Duncan had counted so much upon his visit
to us, it would seem. He brought mamma a lovely black silk dress
from Paris, Edith a necklace and armlets that would make her pretty
bracelets by and by. For Fan a choice set of engravings in a beautiful
port-folio. Nelly some beautiful handkerchiefs, and the children each a
ring.
“And this is for you;” he said, handing me a little box. “I have heard
how good you were to my poor brother, and though it is only a trifle, I
hope you will accept it and my grateful thanks as well.”
It was a beautiful pearl cross in the most delicate setting. So white
and pure that I felt half afraid of it.
“O,” I exclaimed confusedly, “I did not do very much! I—mamma—thank
you!” and I turned away from his peculiar look.
“I feel as if I had brought a great deal of trouble upon you all,
but I will have no blame attached to any one, least of all you, Mr.
Endicott. I know you have done your duty like a Christian gentleman,
like a father, indeed. It is the poor boy’s misfortune that he is so
self-willed and ungovernable, and I must try, if God spares me, to
reclaim him. I was wrong not to begin earlier.”
“If I can be of any assistance command me to the utmost;” and papa
wrung Stephen’s hand. “It is my duty to search for the lost souls and
point out the way of repentance. I do feel that I have been sadly
remiss.”
That evening at twilight I was standing at the study window glancing
dreamily over the snowy road, when I heard a step beside me. I _felt_
immediately who it was.
“I believe I owe you an apology,” he began in a low tone. “You were
disappointed in your gift, and I do not wonder. I ought not to have
bought you a cross. I had already laid one upon you unwittingly.
Forgive me.”
“It was too elegant,” I returned. “That was its only fault, if it had
one. I was—obliged for the kind remembrance.”
“But you will not like to wear it?”
I was silent, I could not tell why, but I should _not_ want to wear it.
“I never have had such a costly article;” I faltered.
“Well, put it away, out of sight. I seem to be unlucky—with you!”
His tone was almost impatient. He did not go away and I remained
awkwardly by his side.
Did some evil genius tempt me to say—
“I think you feel too hard and severe towards Louis. You don’t know
what it is to have such a temper—”
“Thank God, no!” he interrupted.
“And he has never had one good true friend in whom he could trust. He
is peculiar and sensitive.”
“I have made several attempts to win his confidence and failed. I
fancied perhaps, that coming here might have some effect upon him. It
is terrible to think of his being hardened in deceit and given over to
violence.”
“Oh, he is not;” I cried impulsively.
“Are you quite sure?”
Something in the tone offended me. I could not say what I wished.
“At least you will forgive him—if he comes back?”
“I can assure you he will not find me unbrotherly. But he must learn
that he is not quite his own master.”
Nelly ran in. I was glad to go away and leave him. And yet as we were
all singing together that evening, something in his voice touched me,
moved me to tears. How tender he could be, and yet how stern.
I told mamma afterward of the talks Louis and I had had. So far I had
held them in peculiar confidence. She was a little encouraged, and we
tried to hope for the best.
Stephen spent nearly a week with us. He and Fan and Nelly agreed
capitally. We went over to the Churchill’s, and the ladies were charmed
with him. But he seemed so much older to me than Dick Fairlie, and
several of the young villagers.
He took great pleasure in planning with mamma.
The estate owned a rather old-fashioned house in the upper part of the
city, which he meant to repair and furnish, and set up house-keeping.
If he could find some nice, cheerful, refined woman to take charge—did
we know of anybody?
“Oh!” exclaimed Fan, “Mrs. Whitcomb! It will be just magnificent! Only
she shall not come unless you promise her—let me see—three vacations a
year, to visit us.”
“A month at a time?”
“About that. We have the first claim. She can do everything and is a
lovely lady beside. And she is pretty too.”
“That is certainly in her favor,” and he laughed mischievously. “Could
we find this paragon?”
“She is at Oxford. If you were to invite me to go sleigh-riding, we
might;” said Fan demurely.
“Fanny!” in mamma’s gentle tone.
“Miss Fanny, will you be kind enough to accompany me to Oxford
to-morrow?”
“Thank you, Mr. Duncan, I shall be happy to;” and Fan made a sweeping
curtsey.
They went off merrily in Mr. Fairlie’s dainty cutter, saw Mrs.
Whitcomb, with whom Mr. Duncan was charmed. She promised to consider
the matter.
We missed him ever so much when he was gone. Fan seemed odd and
restless. Papa was much engrossed with parish work, there being a
number of sick people, and at this season of the year the wants of the
poor became much more numerous. Employment was duller in the winter and
after the poorer class had used up their own subsistence, they became
necessarily somewhat dependent upon their neighbors. So papa used to
try and interest the richer ones in their behalf. The season had been
a pretty severe one. Miss Churchill came over one morning and he asked
her assistance.
“I should be glad to do anything in my power, Mr. Endicott,” she said.
“Tell me how to begin. For though I have given money, I am learning to
understand that something else is needed.”
“Yes,” he answered. “Most of these people are honest and industrious
and would work if they could get it to do. Charity in its broad, bold
sense does mortify them.”
“I heard Kenton speaking of some woodland he wanted cleared. One of our
men went away in the fall and we have been rather short-handed. Now if
some one would undertake it—”
“Just the thing,” interposed papa. “And—I wanted to send the Widow
Maxwell a barrel of flour. She has nothing but potatoes in the house, I
know.”
“Make out a list and I will see what I can do. We borrow Miss Fanny so
often that I wish to make all the return in my power. Lucy enjoys her
society so much.”
“And she gives me so much in return,” said Fanny, warmly. “Why, I
am getting to be quite an artist. I may be tempted to accept Miss
Maynard’s offer after all.”
“What was that?”
Fanny and I explained.
“I suppose it _is_ a temptation for a young girl to wish to distinguish
herself. And yet—you are all so happy here that I should be sorry to
see a break.”
“There will be none yet awhile,” replied mamma. “I want my girls to
learn some useful home lessons first. I do not know but there is as
high and worthy an art in managing and saving and in making happiness
as in earning money.”
“I think you are right, Mrs. Endicott. While I admit the necessity
of every woman knowing something whereby she can support herself, I
sometimes wonder if the reformers are not carrying the matter too far.
Girls are painters and poets and shop-keepers and teachers. When they
marry, housework is distasteful to them. They do not know how to cook a
dinner or make a dress, they cannot carry on a household in a pleasant,
agreeable manner. They must board or depend upon servants. There is
nothing but complaint and discouragement. They may be valuable members
of society, but their time is too precious to be wasted upon real
living. Every year homes become more rare.”
“It is too sadly true,” said papa. “There is a wide difference between
a fashionable house and a pleasant home. And home used to mean
something besides a place in which one slept and took his meals.”
“But some women never marry and never have a home,” interposed Fanny.
“There are exceptions. Yet many prefer the other course. I know
families of girls who might have assisted and comforted their mothers,
but who went to neighboring towns or cities, earning barely enough to
keep themselves, sleeping in miserable close attics when they could
have clean airy rooms at home, and exposed to flippant injurious
companionship that destroys all the finer graces of a woman’s soul.
Their mother has to depend upon Irish help whose waste and wages would
doubtless dress two daughters. She has no society at home and is
worried out of her life. What is it all for? Why can they not make each
other happy?”
“An imaginary liberty,” answered mamma. “I want to make my home so
pleasant that my girls will be sorry to leave it. I hope to instruct
them in such a manner that they will be able to make other happy homes,
and then I shall have no fear for them.”
“And when seven daughters rise up and call you blessed, you will be
overwhelmed, little mother,” returned Fan clasping her arms around
mamma’s neck. “It is what we expect to do by and by, when Edith is old
enough to fill out the row gracefully. Yet I do sometimes feel appalled
at the host to take care of. Clergymen may abound in grace but they
seldom do in this world’s goods. We are not ravens, nor lilies of the
field.”
“I think you will find it coming out rightly in the end,” said Miss
Churchill with a smile. “Your mother’s theories may not be like the
modern ones, but very good women were reared under them, and they
are not quite out of date. I would like to see them put in practise
oftener.”
Fan blushed vividly at the beginning of Miss Churchill’s sentence. I
wondered a little why?
“And now I must go,” declared Miss Churchill rising. “I always get
fascinated when I come here, and stay beyond reasonable limits. When
your charming nest becomes over-crowded, Mrs. Endicott, I will be glad
to take one birdie. You won’t forget the list, Mr. Endicott?”
“No, indeed. I shall be thankful for so good a helper.”
“And now good-bye till I come again,” said she.
We awaited the first letter from Stephen Duncan anxiously. There were
no tidings of Louis, and he was feeling very much alarmed. He had
inspected the house and was to begin repairs immediately. It was his
intention to have a home for himself and his brothers, and to do his
duty by them, with God’s help, in-so-far as he could. “And wherein I do
succeed,” he wrote, “the work will be in a great measure due to your
Christian counsel and solicitude. I shall always esteem it one of the
fortunate steps of my life that I came to you, my dear friend, when I
needed fatherly advice.”
February was dull and dreary, though we had little time to think of it.
Not one busy bee could have been spared from the hive. Miss Churchill
called ours a co-operative home, and I think it was. News came to Mr.
Fairlie that his mother and sister had decided to go to Europe with a
pleasant party. They would return to New York in April and sail in May.
“So I can look out for myself,” said Dick.
“Why do you not go with them?” asked Fan.
“I shouldn’t enjoy it if I did—to travel round with a parcel of women.
Now if one could go with a man like Mr. Duncan!”
“That would be just perfection,” she returned eagerly.
He glanced at her in a peculiar manner. Something flashed across my
mind at that instant. They liked each other very much. He was hurrying
to get his house in order—Mrs. Whitcomb would be there—yes, it would
all come around right.
It came faster than any one expected. The first week in March we were
surprised by a visit from him. He had commenced furnishing and was in a
quandary.
“And so I have come to consult, and to ask a tremendous favor of you,
Mrs. Endicott,” he said. “I have gained Mrs. Whitcomb’s consent to
come in company with you and see how she would like it. I want you and
Miss Fanny and my little god-daughter to go back with me next week,
and we will have a kind of family party. I have my dining-room and two
guest-chambers furnished, though they want a woman’s graceful fingers
to add some final touches. And now like Benedick ‘I will hear of
nothing to the contrary.’”
Mamma said at first it was quite impossible. Fan I could see was
strongly in favor of the idea. I knew that I could keep house very
well, and it would be delightful to have them go. So we talked and
talked. Mrs. Whitcomb came over and the matter was actually settled.
Stephen had found some trace of Louis and lost it again, but he was
confident that he could follow up the clue. He had grown exceedingly
anxious. He and papa had long talks on the subject.
“I heard of his keeping books for a few weeks at a factory,” he
explained. “I think he must have gone away nearly destitute, but this
effort at independence gives me much hope. Perhaps it will be a good
lesson for him—if he does not fall among evil associates.”
It was nothing but Stephen and Mr. Duncan. I began to grow almost
jealous. Did he suspect it, I wonder? He used to watch me so curiously,
though somehow we never talked. He and Fan were absolutely jolly. I
wondered how she dared be so saucy with that great grave-eyed man.
“You won’t mind being left alone for a little while?” he said to me. “I
will promise to take excellent care of your mother. I only wish it were
a pleasanter season of the year, but Miss Fanny will keep us bright
anywhere.”
That was true enough.
“And if I can induce Mrs. Whitcomb to stay I shall be quite satisfied
with my lot.”
Indeed, I think any one might have been satisfied with the prospect
before him.
We said good-bye to them on Monday morning, as mamma decided that she
must be at home by Saturday. I could not realize that they had gone
for more than the day until evening set in. Then it seemed so strange
and quiet. There was a little drizzle of hail and rain, and for a
wonder no one dropped in. The children went to bed, Nelly was busy
with her studies, papa read, and I sewed some trifle. I believe I felt
nervous and almost low-spirited.
“Come,” I said to myself, “this will never do.”
But I did have a little quiet cry when I went to bed. The house would
never be the same without Fan. I should miss her so much.
I felt better the next day and went at my work cheerfully. About noon
it cleared away bright and crisp.
“Rose,” said papa, “could you go down to old Mrs. Aitkens’ this
afternoon? She is very poorly and may want something done.”
“Yes,” I answered quickly. I would give moping no place to settle
itself to-day.
Mrs. Elsden came in after dinner and staid quite awhile, to cheer me
up, she said. If I was lonesome Addie should come over and spend the
day with me.
“I would be glad to see Addie,” I said, “but I should be too busy to
get lonesome.”
Then as I was going right by Jennie Ryder’s I remembered a book she
wanted, so I decided to call. She and her mother sat in their cheerful
parlor, as cosy as you please. I took the chair beside hers and there
right in the edge of her pretty willow work-stand lay a gentleman’s
glove with her needle in it. Our eyes fell on it at the same moment.
She blushed and tucked it out of sight, and then the next instant drew
it forth with an odd deliberateness and went on mending the rips.
I laughed a little, so did she.
“Richard left his gloves here last evening;” she said. “He has no one
to look after such matters now.”
“He will have quite a trial of loneliness,” I answered. “Mrs. Fairlie
and Kate expect to be in Europe two years or more. Kate will have her
darling wish.”
“Yes. I don’t know what he would do if you were not so good to him at
the Rectory.”
“But we do not mend his gloves,” I said teasingly.
“Oh, that is—nothing;” but she blushed again.
There was a vase of choice flowers on one window-sill, and I went to
inspect it.
“Why, I did not know you had an azalea,” I exclaimed in surprise.
“I have not. They—”
“Mr. Fairlie brought them over,” said Mrs. Ryder gravely. “He comforts
himself with flowers and birds and kittens. Harmless dissipation for a
young man.”
I felt mischievous enough to add,—“And Jennie,” but delicacy forbade
me. But I _was_ pleased. If ever anybody deserved a good husband it was
Jennie Ryder.
Then I went on to Mrs. Aitkens’. She kept me until dusk. I was hurrying
home in the cold March twilight and had just passed the Church when
some one from across the street paused and eyed me sharply. It was not
a familiar face I thought, and went on. The person came over which made
me quicken my steps.
“Miss Rose,” a voice said huskily, “Miss Endicott!”
I turned and stood an instant, speechless with surprise. When I could
get my breath I held out both hands and said—“Oh, Louis Duncan!”
“Then you don’t quite—hate the sight of me?”
[Illustration: MEETING OF ROSE AND LOUIS DUNCAN. Page 272.]
“If you only knew,” I answered eagerly.—“If you _could_ know how
anxious every one has felt, and how thankful we all are that you are
alive! O, come home with me!”
“Thankful! I had better be dead! But I am not.”
He was very thin and pale, and had a worn, tired look. My heart ached
for him.
“No,” I said, “it is better that you are alive. Stephen has been
searching for you. He was here last week.”
Louis turned deadly pale at that.
“Come,” I urged.
“I have been haunting your house all the afternoon. I thought I should
have to go without seeing you. You have heard—of course.”
“Everything, I believe.”
“I know how Stephen feels. His life has been so perfect! His temper is
angelic! And yet Rose—I _did_ mean to do better. I resolved—”
“In your own strength;” I said softly. “God let you see how weak that
was. And yet you must not be cast down. Even Christians have to try
many times. But there _is_ the promise. And God saves to the uttermost,
to the fartherest weakness, the blackest sin.”
“I was _so_ angry. I just understood how they had been cheating me
all along, and what a fool I had been. They added taunts and insults.
I struck out blindly and madly, not caring. _Was_ it God who saved
me from the commission of an awful crime? I fled thinking myself a
murderer. I hid in lanes and byways for three miserable days, knowing
how Cain felt when he said his punishment was greater than he could
bear. If Kelsey had died I think I should have thrown myself into the
river. Then I saw in a paper that he had been only temporarily injured.
The affair was headed—‘A gambling brawl,’ and even though I felt
relieved, the disgrace stung me so keenly.”
“But it has been forgotten by this time. And Stephen means that you
shall stay with him for some months at least. You can redeem all the
past. Oh, try.” I pleaded earnestly.
“Tell me about Stephen?” he said tremulously.
I went briefly over the incidents of his return, but I did lay great
stress upon Stephen’s anxiety, his willingness to forgive the past, for
I knew he would be less severe now than a month ago. I pictured the
home, and the pleasure there might be for both in it.
“And your sister is there,” he replied in an odd tone of voice that was
more comment than inquiry.
“Yes.” Did he guess? “Oh,” I said, “it may be—perhaps it is wrong for
me to hint it—but he likes her very much.”
“Yes,” this time almost harshly. “I understand. She is pretty and
bright, and good—but I wish it were you instead. I thought you liked
him. You used to take his part. Oh, Rose, if you were to be there I
believe I should go. If you were my sister you might save me. You are
so sweet, so patient; you know so many tender ways.”
“Why, I should be your sister then,” I said, trembling in shame and
confusion, for what, I hardly knew.
“You are so different from most people. I think Stephen would be
gentler with you—”
“Hush, he knows best. Come home with me and talk to papa. What have you
been doing all this while?”
“Earning my living for a change,” and he laughed bitterly. “I _can_
go West. Not that I mean to relinquish my fortune, but since I have
disgraced them all—”
“No, no;” I rejoined firmly. “You must not go.”
“What then?”
“Return to Stephen directly. Redeem the past with a brave, true,
upright manhood. You _can_ do it. I do not believe you will ever be
tempted in that way again.”
“You are right there. If you could know how I _have_ governed myself
during the past two months. I feel as if half my temper was gone,—since
that awful night. But to go back—to humble myself to him—”
“Have you not hurt his pride cruelly?” I said.
Louis was silent.
“Oh, please _do_ go for my sake,” I entreated. “Let papa—”
“No,” hoarsely. “I couldn’t talk to any one but you. I was wild to see
you. I wanted to know what you thought—if I was past redemption—”
“No, you are not. You do not understand how some of these very faults
may be transformed into virtues. Is it not braver to struggle than to
give up like a coward in despair.”
“I never _was_ cowardly.”
“Prove your bravery by going to Stephen. Start anew. God will give you
strength and grace. I know you can succeed.”
He glanced at me long and earnestly. There was a strange wistfulness in
his face that touched me.
“Promise!” I took his cold hand in mine.
“No, I cannot—quite. I must think of it. And I must go, also, I have
kept you too long in the cold.”
“But where are you going?”
“I shall take the train at seven;” evasively.
I pleaded again, warmly, earnestly. I fancied that I saw tears in his
eyes, but he would not promise me positively.
We said a lingering good-bye in the starlight. I felt assured that he
must come to a better sense of the matter.
Then I hurried home. They were through supper. Papa was putting on his
overcoat.
“I was just coming for you. Why how—excited you look! Is Mrs. Aitken
worse?”
“No, I have been walking rapidly.”
“Let me pour your tea;” began Nelly. “I was head of the table, and felt
quite grand.”
I tried to be composed. I had promised not to say a word about the
meeting, but it seemed strange to have such an important secret in my
keeping.
Before I went to bed that night I wrote to Stephen. I never could
remember what I said, for I sealed the letter without reading it over,
and sent it when Nelly went to school. But I begged him to be patient
and merciful to Louis.
Nothing else of importance happened in my week of house-keeping.
Thursday evening we received a letter from Fan that was sketchy and
funny and incoherent. I felt that she must really be in love. How
strangely the links of life join, I said to myself.
We were glad enough to get them home on Saturday afternoon. Edith
had a slight cold, but Fan was bright and rosy and glowing in her
descriptions. She had never had such fun in her life. They had bought
carpets, furniture, pictures, ornaments; the Duncan family silver was
wonderful to behold, and the house delightful, just old fashioned
enough not to be grand. Mrs. Whitcomb was installed house-keeper and
was as much in love with Stephen as everybody else. We were all to make
visits as often as we could, and during vacation he meant to have the
whole family.
He sent papa a set of new books which were just what he had been
wishing for.
“Oh,” exclaimed Nelly, “it will be splendid to go to New York like
everybody else. Children, we must begin to save our money.”
“Are there any tidings of Louis?” I asked with my heart in my throat.
“No. Mr. Duncan intends to begin a search himself next week. He is
resolved to find him.”
After supper papa came round to Fanny and played with her golden hair
and watched her as she talked. How much he loved her! Did he feel that
there might be a rival ere long, a break in the chain of girls? Yet she
seemed so gladly, so unconsciously happy.
It was the children’s bed time at last. They kissed round and round as
if they were never to see anybody again. I had to hurry them finally,
their good night was so lingering.
“Fanny,” papa said, “will you come in my study a few moments.”
She put her hand over his shoulder, and his arm was around her waist.
I saw them cross the hall, making such a pretty picture that I smiled.
Then the door shut.
This was what happened.
They walked together to the library table. Papa took up a letter,
fingered it idly and studied Fan’s sweet young face.
“I did not mean to speak of this until Monday,” he began, “but I have a
feeling that it may be best finished at once. I received a letter a few
days ago,—in which there was an enclosure for you—this.”
He took out a folded paper and handed it to her. She opened it
wonderingly. Out fell a faded rose with two or three buds.
She gave a low cry and hid her face on papa’s shoulder. He smoothed the
golden hair and presently said in a tremulous tone—
“Will you read my letter? I should like to have you.”
She raised her scarlet face, still keeping her eyes averted. It was
some seconds before she could begin to distinguish the words.
A manly straight-forward appeal to papa from Winthrop Ogden. He
confessed to having spoken hastily in the summer, and promising to wait
long enough to convince Miss Endicott that he was in earnest. His mind
had not wavered from that hour, and now he asked papa’s permission to
visit her and try his fate, convinced that his love was loyal and
earnest. His family admired Miss Endicott, and such an engagement would
meet with their approval, he knew. Might he hope for an answer soon?
“My darling!”
“Oh papa!” and the fair head went down again.
“Shall I send this young interloper about his business?”
There was no answer except as the soft arms crept up round his neck.
“My dear child, what is it?” finding a little place in the forehead to
kiss.
“Can I—do—” and the faltering voice paused.
“Just as you like, my darling. While I should be sorry to give you—to
another,” and there was a pathetic little break in the voice; “still
the young man _is_ unexceptionable. I believe the Churchills would
welcome you warmly. And marrying and being given in marriage is the way
of the world.”
“Then—papa—” and the remainder of the answer was a long, tender kiss.
“I thought perhaps—Stephen Duncan—”
“Oh, papa, he doesn’t love me—in that way.
“But I know his secret, that is I once saw it gleam out like a tiny
snow-drop in the sun. I am not to be the only happy girl in the world.”
Papa looked a little puzzled, then he sighed.
“Why,” said he dolorously—“there will be only five left!”