one of the right Smiths, or he wouldn't have been there; there were
plenty of them, and this one, it seemed, had lived much abroad. She
would ask Mrs. Underwood when they next met; but this did not happen
soon, and Cousin Susan never took any pains to expedite events--she was
not able. The world did not make allowance for this habit of hers, but
went on its determined course, and the very next day but one, as
Margaret was lightly skimming with her quick country walk across the
Public Garden on her way to the Art School, Mr. Smith, overtaking her
with some difficulty, asked if he might not carry her portfolio? he was
going that way. She did not know how she could, nor why she should,
refuse and they walked happily on together. People turned to look after
them rather curiously, and Margaret thought it must be because she was
so much taller than Mr. Smith and wondered if he minded it. She should
be very sorry if he did--she was sure she did not if he did not; and she
longed to tell him so, but of course that would never do; and then the
little worry faded from her mind, her companion had so much to say that
was pleasant to hear.
After that he joined her on her way more and more frequently. She did
not think it could be improper. The Public Garden was free to everybody,
and after all he didn't come every day, and somehow the meetings always
had an accidental air, which seemed to put them out of her control. He
could hardly call on her in the little sitting-room, where Cousin Susan
was almost always lying on her sofa by the fire in a wrapper, secure
from the intrusion of any man but the reigning physician. Sometimes Mrs.
Swain, below, asked Margaret to sit with her, but the Swain sitting-room
was full of their own affairs, the children and servants running in and
out by day, and Dr. Swain, when at home, resting there in the evening.
Margaret felt herself in the way in both places, and preferred her own
chilly little bedroom. A man calling would be a sad infliction, and
have a most tiresome time of it himself. The winter was a warm and
bright one, and it was far pleasanter to stroll along the walks when it
was too early for the school.
Their acquaintance during this time progressed rapidly in some respects,
more slowly in others. They knew each others' opinions and views on a
vast variety of subjects. On many of these they were in accordance, and
when they differed, Mr. Smith usually brought her round to his point of
view in a way which she enjoyed more than if she had seen it at first.
Sometimes she brought him round to hers, and then she was proud and
pleased indeed. He told her all about his book, what he had done on it,
what he did day by day, and what he projected. On her side, Margaret
told him a world about her own family,--their names, ages, characters,
and occupations,--but on this head he was by no means so communicative.
She supposed the subject might be a painful one, after she had found out
that he was the only survivor of a large family. He spoke of his
parents, when he did speak, respectfully and affectionately, casually
mentioning that his father had been very kind to let him take up
literature instead of going into business. Margaret conjectured that
they were not very well-to-do, and probably uneducated, and that without
any false shame, of which, indeed, she judged him incapable, he might
not enjoy being questioned about them; and she was rapidly learning an
insight into his feelings, and a tender care for them. But one day a
sudden impulse put it into her head to ask his Christian name, as yet
unknown to her, and he quietly answered that it was Alcibiades.
Margaret did not quite appreciate the ghastly irony of the appellation,
but it hit upon her ear unpleasantly, and yet not as entirely
unfamiliar. She was silent while her mind made one of those plunges
among old memories, which, as when one reaches one's arm into a still
pool after something glimmering at the bottom, only ruffles the water
until the wished-for treasure is entirely lost to view; then she frankly
said. "I was trying to think where I had heard your name before, but I
can't."
Mr. Smith actually colored, a rare thing for him, and Margaret longed to
start some fresh topic, but could think of none. He did it for her in a
moment, by asking her whether she meant to go to the German next
Thursday.
"I don't think I shall. I don't know anyone there, and it doesn't seem
worth while."
"I was going to ask you," said Mr. Smith, still with a slight confusion
which she had never noticed in him before, "if you would mind going, and
sitting it out with me as we did the other night?"
"No, but--oh, yes, I should enjoy that ever so much, but--would you like
it? You wouldn't go if it were not for me, would you?"
"I certainly should not go if it were not for you; and I shall like it
better than I ever liked anything in my life."
It was now Margaret's turn to blush, and far more deeply. They had
reached the corner of West Cedar Street, and parted with but few words
more, for he never went further with her, and she went home in a happy
dream, only broken by a few slight perplexities. What should she wear?
She could not be marked out by that old pink silk again; she must wear
the white, and make the best of it. And how was she to get there? She
knew that it would not have been the thing for Mr. Smith to ask her to
go with him. She was so urgent about the matter that she brought herself
to do what she fairly hated, and wrote a timid little note to Mrs.
Underwood, asking if she might not go with her. Mrs. Underwood wrote
back that she was sorry, but her carriage was full; she would meet Miss
Parke in the cloak-room. Even Cousin Susan was a little moved at this,
and said it was too bad of Mrs. Underwood, though she had no suggestion
to make herself but her former one of a cab. Margaret was apprehensive;
but she knew that when she once got there, Mr. Smith would make it all
right and easy for her, and her little troubles faded away in the light
of a great pleasure beyond. The old white muslin looked better than
might have been expected, and Cousin Susan gave her a lovely pair of
long gloves; and she came down into the sitting-room to show off their
effect, well pleased. On the table stood a big blue box with a card
bearing her name attached to it. Mrs. Swain, who had come in to see her
dress, was regarding it curiously, and Jenny, who had brought it up, was
lingering and peering through the half-open door.
"Your partner has sent you some flowers, Margaret," said Cousin Susan
with unusual animation. "Do open that immense box, and let us see them!"
Margaret had never thought of Mr. Smith sending her any flowers. She
wished that Jenny had had the sense to take them into her own room; she
would have liked to open them by herself; but it was of no use to
object, and slowly and unwillingly she untied the cords, and lifted the
lid. Silver paper, sheet upon sheet, cotton wool, layer upon layer; and
then more silver paper came forth. An ineffable perfume was filling her
senses and bringing up dim early memories. It grew stronger, and they
grew weaker, as at last she took out a great bunch of white lilacs, the
large sprays tied loosely and carelessly together with a wide, soft,
thick white ribbon.
"Ah!" said Mrs. Swain, in a slightly disappointed tone; "yes, very
pretty; I suppose that is the style now; and they are raised in a
hothouse, and must be a rarity at this season."
"Where's his card?" asked Cousin Susan. But the card was tightly crushed
up in Margaret's hand; she was not going to have "Alcibiades" exclaimed
over. She need not have been afraid, for it only bore the words, "Mr. A.
Smith, Jr." A pencil line was struck through "14,000 Michigan Avenue,
Chicago," and "Garden Street, Cambridge," scribbled over it.
Margaret wondered how she should ever get her precious flowers safely
upstairs and into the hall--the box was so big; but the moment the
carriage stopped an obsequiously bowing servant helped her out, seized
her load, ushered her up and into the cloak-room, and set down his
burden with an impressiveness that seemed to strike even the chattering
groups of girls. Mrs. Underwood was nowhere to be seen, and Margaret was
glad to have time to adjust her dress carefully. She took out her
flowers at last; but on turning to the glass for a last look, saw that
one of the knots of ribbon on her bodice was half-unpinned, and stopped
to lay her nosegay down, while she secured it more firmly.
"Oh, don't!" cried a voice beside her; "don't, pray don't put them
down"; and Margaret turned to meet the pretty girl, very pretty now,
whose passing word at the last dance had been the only sign of notice
she had received from one of her own sex. "You'll spoil them," she went
on; "do let me take them while you pin on your bow."
Margaret, surprised and grateful, yielded up her flowers, which the
other took gingerly with the tips of her fingers, tossing her own large
lace-edged bouquet of red rosebuds on to a chair.
"You will spoil your own beautiful flowers," said Margaret.
"Oh, mine are tough! And then--why, they are very nice, of course, but
not anything to compare to yours"--handling them as if they were made of
glass.
Margaret, astonished, took them back with thanks, and wished a moment
later, that she had asked this good-natured young person to let her go
into the ballroom with her party. But she had already been swept off by
a crowd of friends, throwing back a parting smile and nod, and Margaret,
left alone, and rather nervous at finding how late it was getting,
walked across the room to the little side door that led into the dancing
hall, and peeped through. There sat Mrs. Underwood at the further end,
having evidently forgotten her very existence; and she drew back with a
renewed sensation of awkward uncertainty.
"They must have cost fifty dollars at least," said the clear, crisp
tones of Miss Kitty Chester, so near her that she started, and then
perceived, by a heap of pink flounces on the floor, that the sofa
against the wall of the ballroom, close by the door, was occupied,
though by whom she could not see without putting her head completely
out, and being seen in her turn.
"One might really almost dance with little Smith for that," went on the
speaker.
"Ralph Underwood says he isn't anything so bad as he looks," said the
gentler voice of Margaret's new acquaintance.
"Good heavens! I should hope not; that would be a little too much,"
laughed Kitty.
"He is very clever, I hear, and has very good manners, considering--and
she seems such a thoroughly nice girl."
"Why, Gladys, you are quite in earnest about it. But now, do you think
that you could ever make up your mind to be Mrs. Alcibiades?"
"Why, of course not! but things are so different. A girl may be just as
nice a girl, and,"--she stopped as suddenly as if she were shot.
Margaret could discern the cause perfectly well; it was that Mr. Smith
was approaching the door, looking out, she had no doubt, for her, and
unconsciously returning the bows of the invisible pair. She had the
consideration to wait a few moments before she appeared, and then she
passed the sofa without a look, taking in through the back of her head,
as it were, Miss Kitty's raised eyebrows and round mouth of comic
despair, and poor Gladys's scarlet cheeks. Her own affairs were becoming
so engrossing, that it mattered little to her what other people thought
or said of them; and she crossed the floor on her partner's arm as
unconsciously as if they were alone together, and spoke to the matrons
with the ease which comes of absolute indifference. She did not mind
Mrs. Underwood's short answers, or Mrs. Thorndike Freeman's little
ungracious nod, but the long stare with which the latter lady regarded
her flowers troubled her a little. What was the matter with them?
Somehow, Mr. Smith had given her the impression of a man who counts his
sixpences, and if he had really been sending her anything very
expensive, it was flattering, though imprudent. Margaret was now
beginning to feel a personal interest in his affairs, and its growth had
been so gradual and so fostered by circumstances, that she was less shy
with him than young girls usually are in such a position. She felt quite
equal to administering a gentle scolding when she had the chance; and
when they were seated, and the music made it safe to talk
confidentially, she began with conciliation.
"Thank you so much for these beautiful flowers."
"Do you like the way they are put up?"
"Oh, yes, they are perfect; but they are too handsome for me to carry.
You ought not to have sent me such splendid ones, nor spent so much upon
them. I did not have any idea what they were till I came here and
everybody--"
"I am very sorry," said Mr. Smith, apologetically, "to have made you so
conspicuous; but really I never thought of their costing so much, or
making such a show. I wanted to send you white lilacs, because somehow
you always make me think of them; don't you remember telling me about
the lilac bushes at Royalston? And when I saw the wretched little bits
at the florist's I told them to cut some large sprays, and never thought
of asking how much they would be." Then, as Margaret's eyes grew larger
with anxiety, he went on, with an air of amusement she had seldom seen
in him, "Never mind! I guess I can stand it for once, and I won't do so
again. I'll tell you, Miss Parke, you shall choose the next flowers I
give you, if you will. Will you be my partner at the next German, and
give me a chance?"
"I wish I could," said Margaret, "but I shall not be here then. I am
going home."
"What--so soon?"
"Yes, my term at the Art School will be over, and I know Cousin Susan
won't want to have me stay after that. She hates to have anyone round.
Mother thought that if I came down, Mrs. Underwood would ask me to visit
her before I went home, but she hasn't, and," with a little sigh, "I
must go. Never mind! I have had a very nice time."
Mr. Smith seemed about to say something, but checked himself; perhaps he
might have taken it up again, but just then Ralph Underwood approached
to ask Margaret for a turn. Something in her partner's manner had set
her heart beating, and she was glad to rise and work off her excitement.
As she spun round with young Underwood, she felt that his former frigid
indifference was replaced by a sort of patronising interest, a mood that
pleased her better, for she could cope with it; and when he said, "I'm
so glad you like Al Smith, Miss Parke; he is a thorough good fellow,"
she looked him full in the face, with an emphatic, "Yes, that he is,"
which silenced him completely.
The men Margaret had danced with the last time asked her again; and she
was introduced to so many more, that she was on the floor a very fair
share of the time. Her reputation as a wall-flower seemed threatened;
but it was too late, for she went home that night from her last girlish
gayety. The attentions which would have been so delightful at her first
ball were rather a bore now. They kept breaking up her talks with Mr.
Smith, making them desultory and fitful; and then she had such a hurried
parting from him at last! It was too bad! and she might not have such
another chance to see him before she left. Their talks were becoming too
absorbing to be carried on with any comfort in the street,--it would be
hateful to say good-by there. Perhaps he felt that himself, and would
not try to meet her there again. She almost hoped he would not; and yet,
as she entered the Public Garden a little later than usual the next
morning, what a bound her heart gave as she saw him, evidently waiting
for her! As he advanced to meet her, he said at once,--
"Miss Parke, will you walk a little way on the Common with me? There are
not so many people there, and I have something I wish very much to say
to you."
Simple as Margaret was, it was impossible for her not to see that Mr.
Smith "meant something"; only he did not have at all the air that she
had supposed natural to the occasion. He looked neither confident nor
doubtful, but calm, and a little sad. Perhaps it was not the great
"something," after all, but an inferior "something else." She walked
along with him in silence, her own face perplexed and doubtful enough.
But when they reached the long walk across the loneliest corner of the
Common, almost deserted at this season, he said, without further
preface,--
"I don't think I ought to let you go home without telling you how great
a happiness your stay here has been to me. I never thought I should
enjoy anything--I mean anything of that kind--so much. It would not be
fair not to tell you so, and it would not be fair to myself either. I
must let you know how much I love you. I don't suppose there is much
chance of your returning it, but you ought to know it."
Margaret's downcast eyes and blushes, according to the wont of girls,
might mean anything or nothing; but her eyes were brimming over with
great tears, that, in spite of all her efforts to check them, rolled
slowly over her crimson cheeks.
"Don't, pray, feel so sorry about it," said her lover more cheerfully;
"there is no need of that. I have been very happy since I first saw
you,--happier than I ever was before. I knew it could not last long;
but I shall have the memory of it always. You have given me more
pleasure than pain, a great deal."
For the first and last time in her life, Margaret felt a little provoked
with Mr. Smith. Was the man blind? Then, as she looked down at his face,
pale with suppressed emotion, a great wave of mingled pity and reverence
at their utmost height swept over her, and made her feel for a moment
how near human nature can come to the divine. Had he, indeed, been
blind, light must have dawned for him; though, as it was never his way
to leave things at loose ends, he had probably intended all along to say
just what he did. He stopped short, and said in tones that were now
tremulous with a rising hope,--
"Margaret, tell me if you can love me ever so little?"
"How can I help it, when you have been so good to me?" Margaret
contrived to stammer out, vexed with herself that she had nothing better
to say. Her words sounded so inadequate--so foolish.
"Oh, but you mustn't take me merely out of gratitude," said he, rather
sadly.
"Merely out of gratitude!" cried Margaret, her tongue loosened as if by
magic, and exulting in her freedom as her words hurried over each other.
"Why, what is there better than gratitude, or what more would you want
to be loved for? If I had seen you behave to another girl as you have to
me, I might have admired and respected you more than any man I ever saw;
but I shouldn't have had the right to love you for it, as I do now. Oh!"
she went on, all radiant now with beauty and happiness, "how I wish I
could do something for you that would make you feel for one single
moment to me as I feel to you, and then you would never, never talk of
mere gratitude again!
"Darling, forgive me--only give yourself to me, and I'll feel it all my
life."
* * * * *
There was no Art School for Margaret that day, nor any thought of it, as
she and Mr. Smith walked up and down the long walk again and again,
until she was frightened to find how late it was, and hurried home; but
now he proudly walked with her to the very door. They had so much to say
about the past and the future both, and it was hard to tell which was
most delightful; whether they laughingly recalled their first meeting,
or more soberly discussed their future plans. How fortunate it was,
after all, that she was going back so soon, as now Mr. Smith could
follow her in a few days to Royalston. Margaret said she must write to
mamma that night--she could not wait; and Mr. Smith said he hoped that
her parents would not want to have their engagement a very long one. Of
course he had some means besides his books on which to marry. It was
asking a great deal of her father and mother, but perhaps he need not
take her so very much away from them. Would it not be pleasant to have
their home at Royalston, where he could do a great deal of his work, and
run down to Boston when necessary? Margaret was charmed with the idea,
and said that living was so cheap there, and house rent--oh, almost
nothing.
Margaret found Cousin Susan up and halfway through her lunch. She
apologised in much confusion, but her cousin did not seem to mind. She,
as well as Margaret, was occupied with some weighty affair of her own,
and both were silent till Jenny had carried off the lunch tray, when
both wanted to speak, but Margaret, always the quicker of the two, began
first. Might not Mr. Smith call that evening? He had been saying--of
course it could not be considered anything till her father and mother
had heard--but she thought Cousin Susan ought to know it before he
called at her house--only no one else must know a word till she had
written home.
This rather incoherent confession was helped out by the prettiest
smiles and blushes; but Mrs. Manton showed none of an older woman's
usual prompt comprehension and pleasure in helping out a faltering
love-tale. She listened in stolid silence, the most repellent of
confidantes, and when it ended in an almost appealing cadence, she broke
out with, "Margaret Parke, I am astonished at you!"
Margaret first started, then stared amazedly.
"I would not have believed it if anyone had told me!" went on Mrs.
Manton. "I would never have thought that your mother's daughter could
sell herself in that barefaced way."
"What do you mean?"
"As if you did not know perfectly well that you were taking that--that
Smith--" she paused in vain for an epithet; but the mere name sounded
more opprobrious than any she could have selected--"for his money!"
"What do you mean? Mr. Smith hasn't much money; he may have enough to
live on; but I can't help that."
"Margaret, don't quibble with the truth. You know well enough that he
will have it all. Who else is there for the old man to leave it to?"
"What old man?"
"Why, old Smith, of course! You can't pretend you don't know who he is,
and you have been artful enough to keep it all from me! You knew if I
heard his Christian name it would all come out! I don't know what your
father and mother will say! Mrs. Champion Pryor has been calling here
to-day, and told me the whole story, and how you have been seen walking
the streets with him for hours. I would scarcely credit it."
"His Christian name! what's that got to do with it? He can't help it!"
Margaret's first words rang out defiantly enough; but her voice faltered
on the last, as her mind made another painful plunge after vanished
memories. Cousin Susan rose, and rang the bell herself; more wonderful
still, she went out into the entry, closing the door after her while she
spoke to Jenny, and when the girl had run rapidly upstairs and down
again, returned with something in her hand.
"I knew Jenny had some of the vile stuff," she said triumphantly; "she
was taking it last Friday, when I tried to persuade her to send for the
doctor, and be properly treated for her cough." And she thrust a large
green glass bottle under Margaret's eyes with these words on the paper
label:
"ERIGERON ELIXIR.
"An Unfailing cure for
"Ague. Asthma. Bright's Disease. Bronchitis.
Catarrh. Consumption. Colds. Coughs.
Diphtheria. Dropsy.
"(We spare our readers the remainder of the alphabet.)
"All genuine have the name of the inventor and proprietor
blown on the bottle, thus:
"ALCIBIADES SMITH."
A sudden light flashed upon poor Margaret, showing her forgotten piles
of bottles on the counters of village stores, and long columns of
unheeded advertisements in the country newspapers. She stood silent and
shamefaced.
"What will your father say?" reiterated Cousin Susan. Dr. Parke's
reputation with the general public was largely founded on a series of
letters he had contributed to a scientific journal exposing and
denouncing quack medicines.
"I didn't know," said Margaret, helplessly, wondering that the truth
could sound so like a lie, but unable to fortify it by any asseveration.