Miss Carleton acknowledged the appearance of her desk-mate on the
succeeding morning, by an inclination of the head and a smile; and
nothing more passed between them until the hour for Italian. She
paused, seeing that Ida retained her seat. "Are you not going in?" she
ventured to ask.
"No."
There was a moment of hesitation, and she spoke again. "I would not
appear to dictate, but do you not fear Mr. Purcell may construe your
non-attendance into disrespect to himself?"
"I fear nothing," was upon Ida's tongue, but her better nature would
not allow her to return rudeness for what, suspicion could torture
into nothing but disinterested kindness. With a gleam of her former
frankness she looked up at her interlocutor, "You do not know as much
as I do, or you would understand the inutility of my presence at the
trial which comes off this morning. I would avoid a repetition of
yesterday's scene. One will suffice for a life-time."
"You met then with insult and injustice. To-day, Mr. Purcell will
shield you from both. As a gentleman, and a conscientious judge, he
cannot but see that Alboni's attack was uncalled for, and decide
against him."
"No man is conscientious when his conscience militates against his
purse and popularity."
Miss Carleton seemed shocked, and Ida added, hastily, "Our views upon
this, as upon most subjects, are very different, I fancy; therefore,
discussion is worse than useless. In this instance, my determination is
taken;" and she opened her book.
"I will not attempt to shake it," replied her companion. "But suffer
me to hope for a longer conversation at some future time, upon these
topics, concerning which you think we differ. There may be some points
of agreement, and I, for one, am open to conviction."
Again was Ida thrown off her guard, and the smile that answered
irradiated her face like a sudden sunbeam. But when her class-mate
had gone, she thought,--"Weak fool! the reserve I have striven for
two years to establish, melted by a soft speech of a school-girl. She
is one of the would-be 'popular' sort, and would worm herself into
confidence by an affectation of sympathy and sweetness."
"Miss Ross," said Mr. Purcell, a while later, coming up to her desk,
"you will do me the favor to meet me in my study at two o'clock."
At the time designated, she walked with a stately tread through the
long school-room, unabashed by the hundred curious eyes bent upon her;
for a summons to "the study" was an event of rare occurrence, and had
been heretofore the harbinger of some important era in the annals of
school-dom. Ida was prepared for every thing partiality could dictate,
and tyranny execute; but Mr. Purcell was alone, and his demeanor
anything but menacing. "He thinks to cajole me," whispered the fell
demon Distrust, and her heart changed to steel.
"Miss Ida," began the principal, mildly, "this is your third session
in this institution, and I can sincerely declare that during that
time, your propriety of behaviour, and diligence in study have not
been surpassed. I have never had a young lady under my care, whose
improvement was more rapid--of whose attainments I was more proud; but
I regret to say, never one whose confidence I failed so signally to
gain. A teacher's task, my dear Miss Ross, is at best an arduous one,
but if he receive no recompense for his toil in the affection of those
for whom he labors, his life is indeed one of cheerless drudgery. You
appear to regard me as a mere machine. For a time I attributed your
reserve to diffidence, and trusted that time and my efforts would
dissipate it. On the contrary, the distance between us has increased.
You hold yourself aloof from your school-mates, repelling every offered
familiarity, yet I have seen you weep after such an act. Your cheek
glows with enthusiasm when your favorite studies engage your mind,
and you relapse into frigid hauteur when recalled to the actual world
around you. You have feeling as well as intellect--you are acting a
part assumed from some unaccountable fancy; or, I would rather believe,
put upon you by necessity. The evidence of your want of reliance in my
friendship which you have given me to-day, has determined me to speak
candidly with you. I would not wrest a confession from you which you
might afterwards repent, but I entreat you to look upon me as a friend
who has a paternal love for each member of his numerous family, who
desires to see you happy, and asks--not your confidence, but that you
will let him serve you."
Ida sat like a statue. He resumed in a tone of disappointment--
"As to the unjustifiable charge brought by Signor Alboni--I am aware
how galling is even the appearance of humiliation upon so proud a
spirit. I have investigated the matter carefully. The testimony of
your friend, Miss Carleton, would of itself have been sufficient to
exonerate you. It was confirmed by the voice of the class, and the
inevitable consequence is, that Signor Alboni no longer has a place in
my school. I can safely promise that the teacher I have selected in his
stead, will oppose no impediment to your progress."
Shame for her unjust accusations, and remorseful gratitude pierced
Ida's bosom. Greatly agitated, she approached her instructor, when
Mr. Read walked in;--a cynical iceberg! Every generous emotion--all
softness vanished on the instant. His inquiring glance encountered one
as freezing. "I will not detain you longer, Mr. Purcell," she said, as
if concluding a business arrangement. "As nearly as I can understand,
your object in sending for me was to secure me as a pupil of the new
language-master. Having undertaken the study of the Italian, I prefer
going through with the course. Mr. Read will settle the terms. Good
afternoon, gentlemen;" and with the mien of a duchess she left them.
Mr. Read "had been delayed by pressing business. Miss Ross requested
him to see Signor Alboni--was sorry he was late--presumed all was
right, etc.," and walked out again. Mr. Purcell was too much hurt, and
too indignant at his pupil's conduct, to care whether he stayed or not.
The misguided girl had alienated a true friend, and she knew it--felt
it in her heart's core. In the solitude of her chamber she wept bitter
tears: "I have cast away the gem for which I would sell my soul! While
I thirsted for the waters of affection, I struck down the hand that
held them to my lip. It is my fate--I was not born to be loved--I hate
myself--why should I inspire others with a different feeling?"
In vain she tried to reason herself into a belief of Mr. Purcell's
insincerity. Truth speaks with a convincing tongue, and she knew that
the imputation of interested motives she had hurled at him in the
unfortunate revulsion of feeling, was unfounded.
In intermission next day, a note was laid upon Ida's desk, inscribed in
towering capitals, to "Misses Ross and Carleton;" It ran thus:--
"At a large and enthusiastic meeting of the Italian class of Mr.
Purcell's Young Ladies' Female Seminary, convened on yesterday
afternoon, the succeeding resolutions were proposed, and carried
unanimously:
"_Resolved_, That whereas, Miss Ida Ross and Miss Caroline Carleton,
members of the aforesaid class, have, by their spirited independence
delivered us from an oppression as grinding as that under which our
Revolutionary forefathers groaned, a vote of thanks shall be tendered
them in the name of their compatriots. And--
"_Resolved_, Moreover, that we bind ourselves to assist them by our
united suffrages in the attainment of any honor for which they shall
hereafter be candidates, whether the dunce-block or the gold medal.
ANNA TALBOT, _Chairman_.
ELLEN MORRIS, _Secretary_.
The event which had elicited this public manifestation, was to Ida,
connected with too much that was unpleasant, to allow her to smile at
the pompous communication. She passed it gravely to her neighbor. She
laughed at the ludicrous repetition of feminist in the second line, and
at the conclusion, bounded upon the platform where stood Mr. Purcell's
desk, and commenced a flourishing harangue "for herself and colleague,"
expressing their gratitude at the flattering tribute from their
fellow-laborers, and pledging themselves to uphold forever their honor
and lawful privileges. "In the language of your eloquent resolution, my
sisters, we form a 'Young Ladies' Female Seminary'--womanfully will we
battle for woman's rights."
"Hush-h-h!" and Mr. Purcell was discovered standing behind the crowd.
He stood aside to let the blushing orator return to her seat, remarking
in an under-tone as she passed, "I must take care to enlist such
talents in my service--I shall be undone if they are directed against
me."
"Oh Carry! what _did_ he say?" whispered Fanny Porter.
"Nothing very dreadful," she returned, laughingly. Ida looked on in
surprise, Josephine with scorn; but to the majority, this little
episode in their monotonous life was a diverting entertainment.
"Give me a girl who is not too proud to relish a joke," said Ellen
Morris. "Ida Ross is above such buffoonery. She would not have demeaned
her dignity before the school."
"But Carry spoke for her too," said Emma Glenn, a meek, charitable
creature: "Perhaps modesty, not pride, kept her silent."
"Fiddlesticks!" was the school-girlish rejoinder.
Ida had missed a chance for making herself popular. The girls were
moved to admiration by her manner of resenting Alboni's rudeness, and
their joy at getting rid of him, assumed the shape of gratitude to
their champion. She was for the hour a heroine, and might have retained
her stand, but for her cool treatment of their advances. She saw,
without understanding the reason of the change, that there was now a
mingling of dislike in their neglect; and as she sank in their esteem,
Carry mounted. Mr. Purcell never noticed her out of the recitation
room--Mr. Read was more lofty--Josephine more contemptuous than ever.
Inmates of one house--occupying adjacent chambers--sitting at the same
board at home, and within speaking distance at school, the two girls
had not one feeling in common--a spark of affection one for the other.
Open ruptures were infrequent now, although they were innumerable
during the first months of their companionship. They appeared together
in public--this Mr. Read enjoined "It was due to his reputation, people
should not say that his daughter's privileges exceeded his ward's."
Further than this he did not interfere. He saw them only at meal-times,
and in the evening; then Josephine presided over the tea-tray with
skill and grace, and amused him, if he wished it, by reading, singing
or talking. Ida did as she pleased. There were no requirements, no
privations. In the eyes of the world her situation was unexceptionable.
They knew nothing of the covert sneers which smiled down any tendency
to what the torpid minds of the father and daughter considered undue
enthusiasm; their sarcastic notice of her "singularities," their
studied variance with her views;--but to her, bondage and cruelty would
have been more tolerable. Yet this mocking surveillance--this certainty
of ridicule, could not always check the earnest expression of a
grasping intellect and ardent temperament; and there were not a few who
frequented the house, who preferred the piquancy of her conversation,
when they could draw her out of the snow-caverns of her reserve, to the
trite common-places and artificial spirits of Miss Read.
Among these was Mr. Dermott, an Irish gentleman of considerable
scientific renown, and a traveller of some note; hard upon forty years
of age, but enjoying life with the zest of twenty. Ida's intelligent
countenance had pleased him at their introduction, and having letters
to Mr. Read, he embraced every opportunity to improve the acquaintance.
"I shall not go to school to-day," said Josephine, one morning,
"father expects Mr. Dermott and several other gentlemen to dine with
him, and I cannot be spared. He says you must come home in time for
dinner."
"As school breaks up at three, and you will not dine before five, there
was no need to issue the command;" said Ida, irritated at her arrogant
tone.
"Very well, I have delivered the message."
Mr. Read was dissatisfied that his ward did not enter the drawing-room
until dinner was announced. "It did not look well,"--and her nonchalant
air and slight recognition of the party, did not "speak well for his
bringing up." But the current veered before meal was over. The fowls
were under-done, and the potatoes soaked. His glance of displeasure at
his daughter was received with such imperturbability, that he chafed
at the impossibility of moving her, and his desire to render somebody
uncomfortable. The latter wish was not left ungratified. One after
another felt the influence of his lowering brow, and imitated his
silence, until Mr. Dermott and Ida were the only ones who maintained
a connected conversation. He talked fluently with the humor peculiar
to his countrymen, and had succeeded in interesting his listener. She
had naturally a happy laugh, which in earlier years rung out in merry
music; and as the unusual sound startled him from time to time, Mr.
Read took it as a personal affront. Could not she see that he was out
of temper? He had punished the rest for the cook's misdeeds, how dare
she, while they sat 'neath the thunder cloud of his magnificent wrath,
sport in the sunshine? It was audacious bravado. She should rue it
ere long. Josephine readily obeyed his signal to leave the table, so
soon as it could be done with a semblance of propriety. "I will hear
the rest, by and by," said Ida to Mr. Dermott, "_au revoir_." Neither
of the girls spoke after quitting the dining-room. Josephine lay upon
a lounge, with half-closed lids, apparently drowsy or fatigued, in
reality, wakeful and watching. Ida walked back and forth, humming an
Irish air--pleased and thoughtful. Then taking from the book-case a
volume of "Travels," she employed herself in looking it over.
"See!" said she, at Mr. Dermott's reappearance, "it is as I thought.
This author's account varies, in some respects, from yours; and at the
peril of my place in your good graces, I must declare my prejudices
to be with him. A spot so celebrated, so sacred in its associations,
cannot be as uninteresting as you would have me to think. Come,
confess, that the jolting camel and surly guide were accessories to
your discontent."
Josephine lost the answer, and much that followed. She was joined
by young Pemberton, a fop of the first water, with sense enough to
make him uneasy in the society of the gifted, and meanness to rejoice
in their discomfiture and misfortune. For the rest, he was weak and
hot-headed, a compound of conceit and malice. Time was when he admired
Ida. He had an indefinite notion that a clever wife would reflect
lustre upon him; and a very decided appreciation of her more shining
and substantial charms.
Her repulse was a mortal offence: small minds never forget, much less
pardon a rebuke to their vanity, and he inly swore revenge. But how to
get it? She rose superior to his witless sarcasms, and more pointed
slights; reversing the arrows towards himself, and his mortification
heated into hatred. Josephine was aware of this feeling, and its cause;
and while despising, in a man, a weakness to which she was herself a
prey, foreseeing that he might prove a convenient tool, she attached
him to her by suasives and flatteries.
"It is a positive relief to talk to you, Miss Josephine," he yawned, "I
am surfeited with literature and foreigners. These travelled follows
are outrageous bores, with their bushy moustachios and outlandish
lingo. How the ladies can fawn upon them as they do, I cannot
comprehend."
"Do not condemn us all for the failings of a part. There are those who
prefer pure gold to gilded trash."
"For your sake, I will make some exceptions," with a "killing" look.
"But what do you imagine to be the object of that flirtation? No young
lady of prudence or proper self-respect, would encourage so boldly the
attentions of a stranger. Supposing him to be what he represents, (a
thing by no means certain,) she cannot intend to marry him--a man old
enough to be her father!"
"But, 'unison of tastes,' 'concord of souls,' etc., will go far towards
reconciling her to the disparity of years," observed Josephine,
ironically; not sorry to strike upon this tender point. He tried to
laugh, but with indifferent success.
Ida's voice reached them, and they stopped to listen.
"I am afraid my conceptions of Eastern life and scenery are more
poetical than correct. I picture landscapes sleeping in warm, rich,
'Syrian sunshine,' 'sandal groves and bowers of spice,'
'Ruined shrines, and towers that seem
The relics of some splendid dream,'--
such a Fairy Land as ignorance and imagination create."
"The Utopia of one who studies Lalla Rookh more than 'Eastern
Statistics,' or 'Incidents of Travel,'" said Mr. Dermott, smiling. "Yet
Moore's descriptions are not so much overwrought as some suppose. His
words came continually to my tongue. He has imbibed the true spirit
of Oriental poetry; the melancholy, which, like the ghost of a dead
age, broods over that oldest of lands; the passion flushing under
their tropical sun; their wealth of imagery. Lalla Rookh reads like a
translation from the original Persian. The wonder is that he has never
been self-tempted to visit the 'Vale of Cashmere' in person."
"Campbell, too, having immortalized Wyoming, will not cross the ocean
to behold it," said Ida.
There was a consultation between the confederates, and Pemberton
crossed to Ida's chair, with a smirk that belied the fire in his eye.
"Excuse me, Mr. Dermott,--Miss Ida, I am commissioned to inquire of you
the authorship and meaning of this quotation--
'Deeply, darkly, _desperately_ blue!'"
It is impossible to convey a just impression of the offensive tone and
emphasis with which this impertinence was uttered. The quick-witted
Irishman saw through the design in an instant. "It is from a Scotch
author," said he, before Ida could reply, "and the rhyme runs after
this fashion--
'Feckless, fairlie, farcically fou!'"
and not deigning a second glance at the questioner, he continued his
account of a visit he had paid to Moore. The object of this merciless
retort stood for a second, in doubt as to its meaning, and then walked
off, still in incertitude. Ida's laugh, while it might have been in
response to Mr. Dermott's story assured Josephine that her end was
unaccomplished, before her messenger had delivered his lame return.
"She understood me, and it cut pretty deeply, but that puppy of a
paddy answered for her. He repeated the next line, too, 'from a Scotch
author,' he said, but I believe he made it up."
"What was it?" asked Josephine.
"'Fairly, farcically fou,' or something like that. If I were sure that
last word meant fool, I would knock him down. Do you understand Scotch?"
"No," replied Josephine, vexed, but afraid to excite him further. "He
is beneath the notice of a gentleman; we can let him alone."
But Ida's share in this was not to be overlooked. Josephine appeared as
usual at breakfast: talkative to her father, and taciturn to her female
companion. At length she inquired, meaningly, "by the way, Ida, when
does your travelled Hibernian 'lave this counthry?'"
"If you speak of Mr. Dermott, I do not know."
"Is it not remarkable," said Josephine to her parent, "that polish and
purify as you may, you cannot cure an Irishman of vulgarity? Irish he
is, and Irish he will remain to the end of the chapter."
"Dermott behaves very decently, does he not? His letters of
recommendation--introduction, I would say, describe him as a pattern
gentleman."
Josephine lifted her brows. "It is a misfortune to be fastidious;
my education has rendered me so. I cannot tolerate slang or abuse,
especially when directed at a superior in politeness, if not in
assurance."
"What now?" demanded Mr. Read, impatiently; and Ida, unable to hear
more in silence, started up from the table.
"Wait, if you please," said Josephine, with that metallic glitter
of her grey eyes. "I wish you to repeat your friend's reply to Mr.
Pemberton, when he was the bearer of a civil message from _me_."
"I heard no message of that description," retorted Ida, unmoved.
"He did not repeat a line of poetry, and ask the author's name, I
presume?"
"He did."
"And you furnished the required information?"
"I did not."
"Mr. Dermott did, then. What was his answer?"
"I do not choose to tell. _I_ am not in the habit of playing spy and
informer."
"Then I shall repeat it. _I_ am not in the habit of winking at
impudence or transgressions of the most common laws of society. What do
you say, sir, of a man who, in the presence of ladies, calls another a
'farcical fool?'"
"That he is a foreign jackanape. He never darkens my door again. You
heard this?" to Ida.
"I did not, sir, but Mr. Pemberton displays such penetration in
discovering, and taste in fitting on caps that could suit no one else
so well, I am not inclined to contest his title to this latest style."
"I do not wonder at your defence of your erudite suitor," said
Josephine, laying a disagreeable stress upon the adjective. "If he
were to single me out in every company, as the one being capable
of appreciating him, I, too, should be blinded by the distinction
attendant upon my notoriety. But as His Highness never gives token, by
word or deed, of his consciousness of the existence of so unpretending
a personage, I may be pardoned my impartial observation and judgment. I
do not expect you to forbid his visits, sir, but I wish it understood
that _I_ am not at home when he calls."
"And that you reject his attentions?" asked Ida, dryly.
Josephine did not like her smile, yet saw no danger in
replying--"assuredly!"
"It is a pity," was the rejoinder, "that your resolution was not
postponed until Tuesday."
"And why?" said Mr. Read.
"Mr. Dermott informed me last night that he had secured three tickets
for the concert of Monday evening, and requested permission to call
for Josephine and myself. I told him that she had expressed anxiety
to attend, and that I was disengaged. She was not in the parlor when
he left, and he entrusted the invitation to me. He will be here this
forenoon for her answer. As things now stand, his visit will be
extremely mal-apropos. I shall decline for myself; she can do the same."
Josephine prudently lowered her eye-lids, but her lips were white with
rage. She had especial reasons for desiring to go to this concert.
Every body was running mad after the principal performer:--absence from
necessity would be a pitiable infliction;--to stay away from choice,
irrefragable proof of want of taste. To be escorted thither by Mr.
Dermott, would give her an eclat the devotion of a score of Pembertons
could not produce. In seeking to mortify another, she had pulled down
this heavy chagrin upon her own head,--common fate of those who would
make the hearts and backs of their fellows the rounds of their ladder
to revenge or to fame.
Even Mr. Read was momentarily disconcerted. "I will procure you a
ticket," he said, consolingly.
That tongue was used to falsehood, yet it did not move as glibly as was
its wont, as she replied, "I do not care to go, sir."
"That is fortunate," said Ida, "as every seat was taken yesterday. You
do not object to my withdrawing _now_?"
The shot had gone home; her enmity was gratified; she had not been
anxious to attend from the first, and therefore was not disappointed;
she did not suffer from pained sensibility; the frequency of these
encounters had inured her to ambushed attack; she was fast becoming
a match for them in stoicism, and surpassed them in satire; in this
skirmish she had borne flying colours from the field; but had the
contrary of all these things been true, she could not have been
more wretched. She hated, as spirits like hers only can hate, her
cold-hearted persecutors, and exulted in their defeat; yet close upon
triumph came a twinge of remorse and a sense of debasement.
"I am sinking to their level! I could compete with them upon no other
ground. They are despicable in their worldliness and malice; shall I
grovel and hiss with them? It seems inevitable--debarred as I am from
all associations which can elevate and clear my mind. Oh! the low envy
in that girl's face as she named my 'suitor!' Destitute of mental wants
herself, she thinks of nothing but courtship and a settlement! But
this matter must be arranged."
She opened her writing-desk. Her chamber was her retreat and sanctum,
and she had lavished much taste and time in fitting it up. All its
appurtenances spoke of genius and refinement. With a poetic love for
warm colors and striking contrasts, crimson and black relieved, each
the other, in her carpet and curtains. The bedstead, seats and tables,
fashioned into elegant and uncommon forms by her orders, were draped
and cushioned with the same Tyrian hue. Books and portfolios were
heaped and strewed upon the shelves and stands; and in one corner, upon
a wrought bronze tripod, was an exquisite statuette--a girl kneeling
beside an empty cage, the lifeless songster stark and cold in her hand.
Several of Ida's schoolmates were with her when she purchased it from
an itinerant Italian. They saw in the expression of hopeless sadness,
only regret for her bird. Ida noted that her gaze was not upon its
ruffled plumes, but to its silent home; and that one hand lay upon her
heart. Looking more narrowly she discerned upon the pedestal the simple
exclamation, "_Et mon coeur!_"
Henceforward it had become her Lares. She had scattered flowers over
it, kissed it weepingly, and with lips rigid in stern despair, laid her
hot brow to the white forehead of the voiceless mourner. She must have
something to love, and the insensate image was dear, because it told of
a grief such as hers. Now, after she dipped her pen in the standish,
she paused to contemplate it,--the red light bathing it in a life-like
glow,--and the blood receded from her face, as she uttered aloud its
touching complaint, "Et _mon_ coeur!"
Writing a note to Mr. Dermott, in which; without stating her reasons,
she declined his offer, she dispatched it by one of her own servants,
lately promoted to the office of Abigail, and attired herself for a
walk. It was Saturday, and the weather faultless. A sigh of relief
escaped her when she was in the outer air--she was free for a while.
The streets were densely peopled--dashing ladies, and marble-playing
urchins, glorying in the holiday; bustling, pushing men, and lazy
nurses lugging fat babies; and through the incongruous crowd the pale
thinker threaded her way, jostling and jostled, wrapped in herself,
as they thought but of their individual personality, with this
difference--they seemed happy in their selfishness; she was miserable
in her isolation. She did not see that Pemberton passed her with a
stiff bow, which, in punishment for her non-recognition, he resolved
should be exchanged for a decided "cut" at their next meeting; did not
catch Mr. Purcell's eye, as forgetting her rebuff in his pleasure at
espying one, who could rightly value the prize he had discovered in an
antiquated volume, musty with age, he beckoned to her from the door of
the bookstore; did not hear Emma Glenn's modest "Good morning, Miss
Ida," although she liked the child, and would have loved her if she
had dared. She turned from the busy thoroughfare into an unfrequented
street, keeping the same rapid pace; the mind was working, the body
must be moving too--on, still on, with unflagging speed--'till she
found herself upon the summit of the hill overlooking the lower part
of the city, and near the old church-yard. She stopped, and looked in.
A flight of steps led up to the burying-ground, several feet above
the level of the walk. What tempted her to ascend? She had been there
before, and was not interested--yet the irresolution ended in her
entrance. It was very still in that Acropolis of the dead: the long
grass, yellow in the October sun, waved without rustling; the sere
leaves drifted silently to the ground; from the mass of buildings below
her arose only a measured beat rather than hum--as regular, and not
louder, than the "muffled drum" within her bosom. The warring elements
of discord sank into a troubled rest, but their conflict was easier to
be borne than the reaction that succeeded.
"Free among the dead;" forgotten as they, she sat upon a broken
tombstone, in the shadow of the venerable church, with sorrowful eyes
which looked beyond the city, the river, and the undulating low-grounds
skirting its banks.
She had said to herself an hundred times, "I cannot be happy; it is
folly to hope." But this morning she felt she had never until now
relinquished hope; that despair, for the first time, stalked through
the deserted halls of her heart, and the dreaded echo "alone" answered
his footsteps.
It is easy to give up the world, with its million sources of delight,
to share the adverse fortunes of one dearer than all its painted show;
it is sweet to bid adieu to its frivolities, for the hope of another
and a "better," but
"When the draught so fair to see
Turns to hot poison on the lip;"
when the duped soul cries out against the fair pretence that promised
so much and gave so little, when it will none of it, and puts it
by with loathing disgust;--yet resorts to nothing more real and
pure;--what art can balm a woe like this?
A click of the gate-latch, and voices warned her that her solitude was
about to be invaded. "I will wait here half an hour," said familiar
tones. "Thank you," was the reply; "you need not stay longer; if she
is at home I shall spend the day." "Very well; good bye," and Carry
Carleton ran up the steps. Retreat was impossible, for their eyes
met at once, and to the new visitor the meeting appeared to give
satisfaction.
"I am, indeed, fortunate," said she, saluting Ida, and taking a place
beside her, "I expected to pass a solitary half-hour. One of the girls
came with me to the gate. She has gone to see her aunt, and may not
return to-day. This is a favorite spot of mine. I am laughed at for
the choice, yet it seems I am not as singular as they would have me
believe. Do you come here often?"
"This is only my second visit."
"Indeed! But it is a long walk from your house. I live nearer, although
on the other hill."
"I understood you were from the country," said Ida.
"So I am--but my sister resides here, and hers is another home to me. I
_love_ the country, yet I like Richmond. It is a beautiful city," she
continued, her glance roving over the landscape.
"Outwardly--yes."
"You do not think the inhabitants adapted to their abode, then?"
"I do not know that they are worse than the rest of mankind. It is a
matter of astonishment to me, that this globe should have been set
apart as the theatre for so depraved a race."
"I don't know," said Carry, cheerily. "I find it a nice world--the best
I am acquainted with; and the people harmless, good creatures--some
dearer to me than others; but I entertain a fraternal affection for
all."
"I have read of philanthropists," said Ida; "but you are the sole
specimen I have seen. And this universal love--is it content to exist
without a reciprocation?"
"The heart would be soon emptied were this so," returned the other,
her bright face becoming serious. "There are many who love me; if any
dislike, I am in blissful ignorance of the sentiment and its cause."
"But if your friends were removed, and replaced by enemies?"
"I would teach them friendship. My affection for the dead would make me
more desirous to benefit the living."
"And if they would not be conciliated--if upon the broad earth you had
not an answering spirit?"
"I should die!"
"How then do I live?" nearly burst from Ida's heart, but she smothered
it, and replied, "It is easier to speak of death than to brave it."
"Death! did I say death?" exclaimed Carry. "I saw life as it would be
were I bereft of father, sister, friends--and I said truly that it
would not be worth the keeping--but death! I would not rush on _that!_
I have such a horror of the winding-sheet and the worm!" She shivered.
"Yet you like to be here?"
"Yes. This is a sunny, cheerful place, with no fresh graves to
remind one that the work of destruction is still going on. I love
life. Others may expose its deceits, and weep above its withered
blooms; I see blue sky where they fancy clouds. It is the day--the
time for action and enjoyment; who would hasten the coming of the
night--impenetrable--dawnless!"
"'To die--and go--we know not where!'"
quoted Ida. "That line conveys all that I fear in death. There have
been seasons when the uncertainty shrouding the abyss beyond alone
prevented my courting its embrace. Were it eternal forgetfulness, how
grateful would be its repose. Looking around me here, I think of calm
sleepers under these stones, hands folded meekly upon bosoms that
will never heave again; of aching heads and wearied spirits at rest
forever."
"You are too young to covet this dreamless slumber," said Carry "With
your talents and facilities you have a work to do in this world."
"What can I do? and for whom?"
"Why--for every body."
"Too wide a scope--define. For example, what are my school-duties,
setting aside my studies?"
"We can help each other," was the modest rejoinder. "We can impart
pleasure, and avoid giving pain. Not a day passes in which we cannot
add a drop of sweet to the appointed draught of some one of our
fellow-creatures."
"Apropos to honey--it suggests its opposite, gall, and our ei-devant
professor. I have not thanked you for your generous interference in
my behalf, on the day of our fracas," said Ida, with an ease and
cordiality that surprised herself.
"You magnify the favor. I spoke the truth. To withhold it would have
been dishonesty."
"Dishonesty!"
"Your character for veracity was assailed. I had the proof which would
establish it. I should have felt like a receiver of stolen goods had I
concealed it."
"Moreover, to your philanthropy, I was not an individual, but the
impersonation of the sisterhood;" said Ida, jestingly.
"Perhaps so," returned Carry, in a like strain. "You remember the
'Young Ladies' Female meeting.'"
"That was a piece of Ellen Morris' grandiloquence. Do you know, I envy
that girl her faculty of creating mirth wherever she goes!"
"I had rather be Emma Glenn," said Carry. "One is witty, the other
affectionate, and they will receive respectively admiration and love."
"I do not quite agree with you. Ellen's high spirits will carry her
through many a sharp battle, from which Emma's sensitive nature would
never recover. To combat with the world one should have no heart; and I
heard a clergyman once say that a woman had no use for sense."
Carry laughed. "Between you, you would represent us as a superfluous
creation. Yet woman has her sphere, no less than man; and if he
conquers in his by might of purpose and brute strength, she guides,
instead of rules in hers, by love and submission. As for the world,
that semi-fabulous ogre, supposed to live somewhere, all out of doors,
whose cold charities are proverbial; who eats up widow's houses, and
grinds the poor; we have no dealings with it. It is, to my notion, an
innocent bugbear, kept by the men, to prevent us from meddling in their
business matters; and to melt flinty-hearted wives into pity for one,
who has been fighting this monster all day, and has now to drink smoked
tea, and eat burnt toast for supper."
"Are you ever sad?" questioned Ida.
"Not often, why do you ask?"
"You appear so light-hearted. I was at a loss to determine whether it
was natural or feigned."
"My spirits are good, chiefly from habit, I believe. My father is
remarkably cheerful. It is a maxim of his, that we are unjust, when we
cause others to do penance for our humors; they have trouble enough
of their own to bear. Controlling the manifestations of temper and
discontent, is generally followed by the suppression of the feelings
themselves. It has been so with me."
"See that burlesque of life!" said Ida, pointing. "Children turning
somersets upon a tomb-stone!"
The tomb was built with four brick walls, supporting a horizontal
tablet; and upon this flat surface, the irreverent youngsters were
gambolling. One, the most agile, and the leader of the troop, was,
as she spoke, in the act of performing a vehemently encored feat,
viz.: throwing two somersets upon the marble, another _in transitu_
for the ground, and a fourth, after landing upon the turf. Two were
accomplished in safety, the third was a flying leap, and he did not
move afterwards. The children screamed, and the girls ran to the
spot. In falling, he had struck his head against a stone, and was
senseless, the blood gushing from a wound in, or near the temple. Carry
rested his head upon her arm, and with nervous haste, unbuttoned his
collar. "Where are his parents?" inquired Ida. But they only cried the
louder. "I fear he is killed!" said Carry. Ida shook her purse at the
terrified group. "Who will bring me a doctor,--who, his mother?" Her
collected manner tended to quiet them, as much as the clink of coin.
Half-a-dozen scampered in as many directions, and she ordered the rest
off, without ceremony. There was no rebellion. Each had a misgiving
that he was to blame for the casualty, and they were glad to skulk away.
The handkerchief which Carry held to the gash, was saturated, and Ida
supplied hers. He showed no sign of life, except that Ida imagined that
she detected a feeble fluttering of the heart. Carry wept as though her
heart would break. "Poor little fellow!" she exclaimed repeatedly. Ida
did not shed a tear, but her compressed lips and contracted brow said
this did not proceed from insensibility. "I cannot bear this suspense,"
she said. "I will look for a doctor myself, if you are not afraid to
stay here alone."
"No, go!"
She met the medical man at the gate. It was Mr. Read's family
physician, who chanced to be in the neighborhood. "Oh, Dr. Ballard!"
exclaimed Ida. "I am rejoiced to see you!"
"And I am always happy to meet Miss Ross--but what is this about a boy
killed? None of your friends, I hope."
Ida explained, as she led him to the scene of the disaster. It seemed
ill-timed to the agitated girls, to see him touch his hat, with grave
courtesy, to Carry, as he stooped to make an examination. "He is not
dead," he said, feeling the pulse and heart; "but it came near being an
awkward hurt. Miss Ross, I will trouble you to call one of those boys,
and send him for my servant, who is in the street with my carriage. If
I only had some soft linen!" looking around. Ida took an embroidered
scarf from her neck. He tore it into strips, rolled them into a ball,
and bound it tightly upon the cut. "Where does he live?" he asked.
The information was furnished by the boy's mother, who hurried up at
this instant. She, with her reviving son, were put into the carriage,
and the doctor stepped in after them.
The girls had no inclination to linger in the church-yard. The
conversation, during their walk, ran upon the accident; but as they
parted at the corner of the streets diverging to their separate
abodes, Carry expressed a strong desire for the continuation of the
acquaintance. "We have had an odd talk this morning;" said she smiling;
"I would not have you regard it as a fair sample of my conversational
powers."
Ida walked homeward with a lightened spirit. "Odd" as was their talk,
and alarming as was the incident which interrupted it, she was better
for both. There was a charm in Carry's frankness, which beguiled
her confidence, and her cheerful philosophy was a pleasant, if not
a prudent rule, for making one's way in life. She dwelt upon her
declaration, that each day brought its opportunities for benevolent
deeds; and her conscience responded joyfully to the appeal, "Have I
contributed my drop of sweet to-day?" by pointing to her exertions for
the relief of the unknown sufferer. Carry had praised her presence of
mind, and the doctor complimented her warmly. "If I have not given
pleasure, I have mitigated pain."
The struck chord ceased to vibrate as she reached the house where she
had suffered and learned so much. When she came down to dinner, she was
impassive and distant. Mr. Read vouchsafed to inquire if she had seen
Mr. Dermott. She replied in the negative.
"I thought there was an arrangement to that effect;" said he,
sneeringly.
"I addressed a note to him which made his call unnecessary."
"I do not presume to meddle with your correspondence, Miss Ross;"
with "immense" stiffness; "but I trust neither my name, or that of my
daughter was contained in that communication."
"I am responsible for my actions, sir; it is certain I never thought
of referring them to your influence. I suppose Mr. Dermott is
satisfied,--_I_ am."