Two persons sat in the parlor of a handsome house situated in a
pleasant street of the capital of our Old Dominion. The afternoon
of a summer's day was deepening into twilight, but the waning light
sufficed to show the features of the occupants. There was no hazard
in pronouncing them father and daughter. The square forehead,
indicative rather of keenness of perception and shrewd sense, than
high intellectual faculties; the full, grey eye; flexible lips, and
heavily moulded chin were the same in both, although softened in
the younger, until her face might have been deemed pretty, had the
observer omitted to remark an occasional steel-like spark, struck from
the clear eyes, and a compression of the mouth, betokening a sleeping
demon whom it would be dangerous to arouse from his lair. A turbulent
light flashed there now. She had thrown herself into the corner of a
sofa, after many restless wanderings through the apartment, and the
shapely foot, oscillating rapidly, beat with its toe, a tattoo agitato
upon the floor. Her father was immersed in thought or apathy. She
repeated a question in a voice which savored of peevishness, before he
withdrew his eyes from the watch-key, the twirling of which had been
his occupation for a quarter of an hour. "At what hour will your ward
arrive, sir?"
"She must be here in a short time. They have travelled slowly. The
journey might have been accomplished as well in one day, as two."
"You said her escort was a clergyman, I think. Gentlemen of the cloth
are not famous for inconveniencing themselves to gratify others,"
responded the young lady. "They inveigh against the emptiness and
vanity of sublunary things; yet I know no class of men who enjoy
'creature comforts' more."
"Confounded humbugs!" was the rejoinder, and a muttered something about
"priest-craft" and "blind leaders of the blind" finished the sentence
so charitably begun.
Another pause was ended by the daughter. "Miss Ross' father was an
early friend of yours,--a college chum,--was he not?"
"He was,--and a clever fellow into the bargain;" said her father,
with a touch of feeling in his tone. "At his death, he left to me the
management of his child's property,--(a snug operation I have made
of it, too!) In the event of the mother's decease, I was appointed
sole guardian, an office for which, it must be said, I have little
partiality. If Mrs. Ross had given her up to me ten years ago, I might
have made something of her; but she said a mother was the proper guide
for her daughter. Women are wonderfully self-sufficient,--always
undertaking what it would puzzle sensible men to do, and perfectly
satisfied with the style in which it is done." If there was any meaning
in the severity of this remark, the face and voice of the listener
betrayed no consciousness.
"How old is Miss Ross?"
"What is your age?" and seeing her hesitate--"What does the Family
Bible say? I want no school-girl airs."
"I am fifteen sir," raising her eyes coolly to his.
"And she is two months younger. A pretty time I shall have for six
years; unless she takes it into her head to marry before she is of
age. Very probably she will; for her fortune, although small, is large
enough to attract some fool, too lazy to work, and too ambitious to
remain poor."
"Is she pretty?"
"How should I know? I only saw her at her mother's funeral, where she
got up quite a scene--fainting and such like. I came away the next day,
and she was still too unwell to leave her room, they said."
"Romantically inclined! Pity she should be doomed to uncongenial
associations!"
"You would indeed have profited little by my instructions if your
mind were infected by these whimsies," said her parent, with a
self-gratulatory air. "I pride myself upon your superiority to the
generality of your sex, at least, in this respect"--
"There is a carriage at the door," interrupted the other, in an
unvarying tone, and without changing her posture. The host met, in the
entry, an elderly gentleman and a young girl, whom he saluted as "Mr.
Hall" and "Miss Ross," introducing them to "Miss Read, my daughter."
Ida glanced timidly into the face of her guardian, and then hastily
scanned that of his daughter. That the scrutiny was unsatisfactory,
was to be read in the deeper sadness that fell over her countenance,
while the sinking lashes, and trembling lip showed how sharp was the
disappointment. Youthful and inexperienced as she was, her heart told
her that the bruised tendrils which had been torn from their original
support could never learn to twine around these gelid statues.
"You will remain to tea, Mr. Hall," said Mr. Read, as the good
clergyman arose.
"I thank you, sir; but our journey has been fatiguing owing to the
extreme heat. I find myself in need of rest,--and my charge here
requires it more than I do."
"You will call before you leave the city. May we not hope for the
pleasure of your company to dinner to-morrow?"
The invitation was accepted; and after a silent pressure of the hand
from Ida, and a courtly bow from father and daughter, Mr. Hall took his
leave.
"Miss Ross would perhaps like to make some alteration in her dress,
Josephine," Mr. Read said; his manner testifying how necessary he
esteemed the proposed measure. Miss Read rang for a light, and
signified to Ida that she was ready to show her up stairs. Any change
from the bleak formality of their presence was a relief; and she longed
to be alone, if but for half an hour, that she might give way to the
emotions which had been rising and beating, through the livelong day,
choking and blinding her. But Miss Read summoned a servant, whom she
ordered to wait upon Miss Ross, now and in future; and seated herself
in a rocking-chair to watch the progress of the toilette. Mechanically
Ida went through the torture of dressing. There are times when it is
such;--when the manifold details, heretofore so engaging, are to the
preoccupied and suffering mind, like the thorn of the prickly-pear,
too small to be observed, but pricking burningly in every fibre and
pore. It was a woman--a sister--a girl as young as herself--perhaps
as tender-hearted, who sat there. Why not, with the unrepressed
sorrowfulness of a child, bury her face in her lap, and sob, "I have
lost my mother!" to be fondled and comforted into composure? It would
be sacrilege to ruffle the elegant propriety of her figure; and the
glassy eyes said, by their tearless stare,--"Between you and me there
is a great gulf _fixed_!" One weakness Ida could not overcome; the
repugnance to beholding herself in her mourning garments. They as yet
reminded her too vividly of the bier and the pall. She averted her
eyes, as she stood before the mirror, to put the finishing stroke to
her apparel. "I beg your pardon," said the calm voice of Josephine.
"Your collar is all awry. Permit me"--Ida submitted in silence, while
her volunteer assistant unpinned, and re-arranged the crape folds,
but as she gathered them under the mourning brooch, a tear, large and
pellucid, dropped upon her hand. It was but a drop of salt water to
Miss Read, and she wiped it off, as she asked her guest "to walk down
to tea." To the new-comer, the palatable food was as the apples of
Sodom--bitter ashes. She could not swallow or speak. Her companions
ate and chatted with great gusto. The ill-humour of an hour since
had passed away. This exemplary daughter was her father's idol, when
contrasted with other, and less favored girls. She was formed in his
image, and when the plastic mind was wax to receive, and adamant to
retain impressions, he moulded it after a pattern of his own. He taught
her deceit, under the name of self-control; heartlessness, he called
prudence; veiled distrust and misanthropy under clear-sightedness and
knowledge of human nature. All those holy and beautiful feelings which
evidence to man his kindred to his Divine model and Creator, he tossed
aside, with the sweeping condemnation--"romance and nonsense!" The
crying sin was to be "womanish;"--"woman" and "fool" were synonymes,
used indiscriminately to express the superlative of ire-exciting folly.
He delighted in showing things as they were. Men were machines, moved
by secret springs of policy and knavery; the world a stage, viewed
by others in the deceptive glare of artificial lights, and so made
attractive. He had penetrated into the mysteries behind the curtain,
and examined, in the unflattering day, the clumsy contrivances,
gaudy daubing and disgustful hollowness of the whole. Fancy and the
pleasures of imagination were empty, bombastic names; he would have
seen in Niagara only a sizeable fall, and "calculated," amidst the
rushing shout of its mighty waters, as to the number of cotton-mills
it would turn, and the thousands it would net him, could he transport
it, patent right secured, to Virginia. He tore the cloud-covering from
the storm-god's brow, and beheld a roaring, vaporing giant, whose
insane attacks might be warded off by philosophical precautions, and
discretion in the disposition of lightning rods.
The party returned to the parlor. "You play, I presume, Miss
Ross?" said her guardian. Inexpressibly hurt by this new proof of
insensibility to her situation, Ida faltered an excuse of fatigue and
want of practice; and with a very perceptible shrug, he addressed his
daughter. "What apology have _you_, Josephine?" She replied by going
to the instrument, but had just taken her seat, when the door opened
to admit three visitors--two school-fellows of Miss Read's, and their
brother. "The Misses and Mr. Talbot" were presented in due form to the
stranger, who had risen to leave the room. Josephine saw the movement,
and arrested it by the introduction. No attention was paid to her; and
in the midst of the lively conversation, she seized an opportunity to
speak aside to Josephine. "I wish to retire, if you please." Josephine
started. If not so measured, the tone was as haughty as hers, at its
proudest pitch. With a word of apology to her guests, she led the way
into the hall, and lighted a lamp. Ida took it from her. "I will go up
without you. Good night." She walked up the staircase with a steady
step, for she was followed by a gaze of wonderment and anger; but when
her chamber was gained, she sprang through the door--locked and double
locked it, and dashed herself upon the floor. A hurricane raged within
her--grief, outraged feeling and desperation. The grave had gorged her
past, black walls of ice bounded the future. Meanwhile the sound of
jocund voices came up through the flooring; bursts of laughter; and
then music; brilliant waltzes and triumphant marches, to where the
orphan lay sobbing, not weeping, with hysterical violence; her hands
clenched upon her temples, through which each convulsion sent a pang
that forced from her a moan of anguish.
"She is a weak, foolish baby! it will take an immensity of schooling to
make her endurable;" said Mr. Read, when the guests had gone.
"She has temper enough, in all conscience!" rejoined Josephine, and she
related the scene preceding her withdrawal.
"Bad! bad!" ejaculated the senior, with a solemn shake of the head. "I
admire spirit in a girl; but a woman should have no temper!"