IN THE PARK.
The prettiest park phaeton you ever set eyes on, drove up to the
Laurence cottage; a pair of white ponies with snowy tails that took the
wind like banners, stopped with the docility of pet kittens before the
gate. An afghan on which living roses seemed to bloom, was thrust aside,
and out sprang a young lady, who ran up the walk and entered the house
without knocking.
“Ruthy, Ruthy dear, I have got them in training at last. Do look out of
the window and see what darlings they are. Now for your first ride in
the park.”
Ruth sat up on her couch, thrilled throughout her feeble frame with
unusual excitement.
“Oh Eva, are those the horses? am I to ride in that pretty thing? but
how—how can I get there?”
“Never mind about that; I feel strong enough to carry you myself. The
truth is, I—I never was so happy in my life; to think, dear, that they
should give me all the pleasure of doing this, for everything is mine,
Ruth. We can use it just when we please, and you shall ride every
pleasant day of your life.”
“And see how the country looks. Oh Eva, what a darling, fairy god-mother
you have been to us!”
“Have I? Then you are glad I went away?”
“Only half away, sister. Why you are with us a great deal more now, than
while slaving down in that store.”
“So I am, darling, and it _is_ delicious to belong to one’sself. They
love me too.”
“Yes, I should think so,” answered Ruth, a little sadly. “Who could help
it?”
“But we must not be talking at this rate; the day is too lovely. Where
is mother? Oh, here she comes.”
In the bright exuberance of her feelings, Eva threw both arms around her
mother’s neck and kissed her with affectionate warmth.
“Where are Ruthy’s things, mother? she must be dressed at once.”
“They are lying on the bed, Eva; everything is in order,” answered the
old woman, fairly smiling all over her face.
Eva ran into the bedroom and came out with a sacque of fleecy, white
cloth, and a hat on which some soft feather tips clustered like snow.
These she put on to sister Ruth with her own hands, saying blithely as
she tied the hat strings:
“Yes, Eva had a little lamb,
Its fleece was white as snow;
And every where that Eva went
That lamb was sure to go.”
At which Ruth laughed like a pleased child, but said the bonnet felt so
strangely on her head, it would take her a little while to get used to
it. Then her curls had always wandered about in such a lazy fashion,
what could she do with them?
“Oh, they’re all right,” cried Eva, bringing a little seven by nine
mirror that Ruth might look at her own sweet face, framed in by the
bonnet, which she did, blushing like a wild rose at the sight of her own
delicate beauty.
“Oh Eva, I hardly know myself!”
“Of course you don’t. Come, mother, are you and I strong enough to carry
her out? I might have brought one of the men, but somehow I could not
bear to have them touch her.”
The two women were about to lift Ruth between them, for the length of
the flower-garden was more than she could hope to walk, when Mrs. Smith
came through the gate followed by her husband, who approached the house
with evident hesitation, which his wife was eagerly reproving.
“Come along, they don’t hold malice, I tell you, besides, they know that
you didn’t mean it,” she said. “No wonder you are ashamed of yourself,
but that scamp might have imposed on Sampson—no, Solomon—hisself. So
just walk in, as if nothing was the matter, and never seem to mind it.”
Smith did walk in, looking humble and confused, but his reception was so
frank and cordial that he found no difficulty in offering to carry Ruth
to the carriage, which had been the object of his visit. So the girl was
taken out triumphantly in the powerful arms of their old neighbor, while
the other females followed smiling, chatting, and congratulating each
other, like a brood of robins, when the strongest fledgling begins to
fly.
Mrs. Smith shook up the cushions which formed a sort of couch in the
carriage, on which the gentle girl was placed in a half recumbent
position by Smith, while all the neighborhood looked on from doors and
windows, wondering what would happen next to that Laurence family, and
if they had really made up with Smith, after that affair about the
robbery.
There would be no doubt on that subject after that dainty nest of a
carriage drove away, for Eva shook hands with Smith before she raised
her whip from its socket, and Mrs. Laurence stood talking with him in
the most cordial manner by the gate, full ten minutes after it drove
off. One of the nearest neighbors heard him say,
“You can always depend on me to carry her in and out, Mrs. Laurence. It
is the least I can do.”
Then all the curious people that had been anxious about the matter, saw
Mr. Smith and Mrs. Laurence shake hands over the fence, and they knew
that cordial relations had been established between the cottage and the
corner grocery.
This pleasant thought perhaps served to deepen the exquisite sense of
enjoyment that pervaded the whole being of that gentle invalid, as she
found herself moving in the open air for the first time almost in her
life.
The easy motion; for Eva kept her ponies down to a soft unbroken trot;
calmed her into a state of dreamy happiness. At first she was a little
frightened by the noise of heavy wheels and the rush of life all around
her; but Ruth had not won for herself such abiding faith in God’s mercy
without putting some trust in human strength. She wondered at the cool
dexterity with which Eva guided her pretty equipage through the streets,
and shuddered a little now and then, as a carriage rushed by them, so
near that it seemed as if there must be a clash of wheels; but this soon
wore off, for, with a graceful sweep and a swifter trot the ponies
turned into the park, and Ruth found herself in paradise.
Trees just tinged with the first frost of autumn, the grass soft and
green as velvet, gleams of water here and there, flowers scattered along
the drive, or clustering in gorgeous masses; above all a soft blue sky
with snowy clouds heaped upon it, drifted to and fro by a mild south
wind. Can anyone doubt that this was Heaven itself to that fair and
gentle girl who had never in her whole life looked upon a scene of such
beauty before; indeed had scarcely seen a tree that was not covered with
dust from a city street, or a growing flower except the humble garden
plants that bloomed around her own home.
“Oh, Eva, Eva! this is too beautiful! drive slower! drive slower! I
cannot bear to see all these heavenly things pass away,” she would
murmur, catching her breath with delight. “The water there; the water,
let me look at it; let me feel the moist sweet air on my face.”
Eva would check her ponies and bend her smiling eyes on the invalid with
loving satisfaction whenever she made a request of this kind;
occasionally she would utter a little gleeful laugh at some question
that a child would not have asked. Sometimes her eyes would fill with
tears, as she felt the touching pathos of all this joy springing out of
her sister’s utter isolation, which she in her health and beauty had
scarcely comprehended before.
“What are those beautiful white creatures, Ruthy? Ah, indeed! how should
you know? They are swans, dear; there now, watch them as they clear the
water with their snow-white bosoms. See them arch their graceful necks
and sail off toward the other shore scarcely caring to make way for the
pretty boats that glide up and down with such sleepy stillness.
Beautiful, you say, yes, indeed it is beautiful. I shall never get so
used to it that every visit will not give me new delight.”
Ruth did not answer. Her heart was too full of new feelings. She drew a
deep breath and closed her eyes. It all seemed like a dream that she
wanted to impress on her brain.
That moment a landeau drove by in which was a lady and gentleman. Mrs.
Lambert and her step-son, Ivon.
Ruth opened her eyes suddenly.
“What is the matter, what made you start so, Eva?”
“Nothing,” answered Eva, gathering up her reins.
“Only you seem tired.”
“No, no, I am only happy.”
Mrs. Lambert had seen Eva Laurence, and the sight sent a swift thrill of
pain through her bosom. She turned and spoke to her son.
“Ivon.”
Young Lambert turned sharply to his mother; he also had seen the two
girls in their little phaeton, and the sight brought back a keen
remembrance of all that this woman’s pride had made him suffer.
“Did you speak, madam?”
“You saw that young lady, and bowed coldly. I am sorry for that.”
“Sorry, why, madam?”
“Because circumstances are changed, now. I no longer oppose your wish to
marry her.”
“Indeed, and in what has the lady changed?”
“She has become the adopted child of a man who, at least, holds a high
position in commercial circles.”
“And is, I am told, engaged to marry the person whom that man intends to
make his heir.”
“Ivon, I do not believe it!”
“If it were possible for me to doubt what is an admitted fact, my own
position is the same.”
“What, have you ceased to care for her?” asked the lady in a voice
rendered sharp by intense anxiety.
The young man answered her with four of the most mournful words that
ever brought sadness to a human heart,
“It is too late!”