"It is a pleasant thing to roam abroad,
And gaze on scenes and objects strange and grand;
To sail in mighty ships o'er distant seas,
And roam the mountains of a foreign land."
In Mrs. Stanhope's pretty cottage, close by the vine-shaded window, sat
Jenny Andrews, and she said Florence Howard had started on a tour of
travel.
"Who is her companion?" asked Mrs. Stanhope.
"Why, Rufus Malcome, of course," said Miss Pinkerton, quickly.
"No," said Jenny, "her father."
"Her father!" exclaimed Miss Martha, in a tone of surprise. "How in the
world could he leave his sick wife, I should like to know?"
"Mrs. Howard is getting better, I believe," remarked Jenny.
"Well, that's strange enough," continued Miss Pinkerton; "with that
impudent Hannah Doliver for a nurse, I wonder she has not died before
now."
Hannah Doliver was Miss Martha's utter detestation, though why, we
cannot tell, as the little dark woman had never injured her, nor had
Miss Pinkerton ever exchanged above a dozen syllables with her in her
life. But it was one of those unaccountable dislikes which often arise
in people of certain temperaments, on first sight of a particular
individual.
Mrs. Stanhope said she was glad Florence had gone a journey, for the
dear girl had looked pale and sickly of late, and she thought change of
scene might be beneficial to her health.
Miss Martha inquired if Jenny knew how Edith Malcome was getting along.
"I have just come from her," said Jenny; "she is very much changed. All
her beautiful hair has been cut away, and she is, O, so thin and wasted!
But they call her slowly improving."
"Who takes care of her?" asked Miss P.
"Her waiting-woman, Sylva, I believe," returned Jenny.
"Well, it must be very hard for her to do it all the time," said Martha;
"if they would just ask me, I would go any time and assist them."
"Mrs. Edson is there considerable," remarked Jenny.
"I know she is; most too much for her credit," returned Miss Pinkerton;
"if a man has a wife, he wants her at home sometimes."
"Why, Martha!" observed Mrs. Stanhope, mildly; "I never heard a
reproachful word of Mrs. Edson breathed by any person."
"Neither did I," said Jenny, rising; "and if I do, I shan't believe it,
for I think she is the dearest, sweetest creature in the world."
"With the exception of one Mr. Richard Giblet," remarked Miss Pinkerton,
in a tone she conceived to be vastly witty and piquant.
Jenny's blush, as she bade good-morning, crowned the malicious maiden's
triumph.
On this same morning, Mrs. Edson sat at her elegant rosewood piano,
carelessly striking the ivory keys, when she heard a light footstep, and
turning, beheld Col. Malcome advancing to her side. She was a little
angry that he had entered unannounced, and her cheeks flushed, as she
rather briefly bade him welcome.
"I beg your pardon for entering so informally," said he, at once
interpreting the expression of her face. "Your doors were all ajar, and
I saw no one to announce me."
"Had you rung, some one would have appeared," said Louise, with a slight
curl of her red lip.
"Well, I beg your pardon for not doing so," returned he. "Will you grant
it?"
There was something in the rueful appearance he assumed, which forced
her to laugh in spite of her efforts at dignity and restraint, and thus
he was reinstated in her good graces.
"Are you playing?" he asked, touching his own fingers upon the keys, but
at a respectful distance from hers.
"No," she returned. "I have practised so little of late I have lost all
my ear. Won't you favor me with that thrilling piece from Beethoven, you
performed on the first evening of our acquaintance?" She looked eagerly
in his face as she spoke.
"What will you do for me if I will?" he asked.
"O, anything in my power!" she replied, rising, and motioning him to
assume the music-stool, which he did very readily. Skilfully running
over the keys, by way of prelude, while she stood leaning gracefully
against the instrument, intently regarding his movements, he commenced
the symphony. The swelling notes rose on the air in brilliant variety,
and when, at the end of the second chorus, the rich, mellow tones of his
voice were added, Louise dropped on her knees beside the performer,
while tears gathered in her eyes and rolled over her beautiful face. He
did not seem to heed her position, so intently was his soul occupied
with the music his lips were breathing. At length the last magic strain
died mournfully away. Then he rested his deep blue eyes calmly on her
glowing features.
"What shall I do for you?" she asked, smiling.
"You promised," answered he, "to do anything I wished, if I would sing
the piece."
"So I will," returned she, earnestly.
"Then," said he, in a low, thrilling tone, "as Steerforth said to David,
think of me at my best."
She looked at him eagerly. "Is that all?" she asked.
"That is enough," he answered; "will you promise _always_ to do that?"
She paused a few moments, and then answered, in a tone which indicated
her whole soul spoke in the words, "Yes, I promise."
"Thank you," said he, extending his hand.
She gave him hers. He held it a moment in his own. Then, pressing it
respectfully to his lips, bade her good-morning, and retired.