THE ARRIVAL.
Alice Churchill was none of those fragile beauties whose step is too
light to bend “a hare-bell ’neath its tread”—whose eyes are compared to
those of the gazelle, or to violets and dew-drops—with cheeks like the
blush rose, and lips vieing with sea-corals, contrasted by teeth of
pearls! No such wealth of beauty had Alice, but she was a very sweet
girl notwithstanding—just pretty enough to escape being called plain,
and yet plain enough to escape being spoiled for her prettiness. Mrs.
Churchill was a widow of very moderate fortune, living in a retired
village of Pennsylvania, more than fifty miles from any town of note,
and which even in the year ’45, (happy little village!) could boast of
neither steam-boat nor railroad. It was here she had removed with her
husband soon after their marriage, and here for a few brief years their
happiness had been unclouded—until the shadow of death resting on that
happy home severed all earthly ties. Peaceful now in the quiet
grave-yard is the sleep of the husband and father.
Seventeen summers of Alice’s life had passed away—not all cloudless,
but happily—for she was kind and affectionate—in making others happy
she was herself so—indeed, as I said before, although she had no wealth
of beauty, Alice was rich in goodness and purity of heart. Mrs.
Churchill had offended her family by marrying a poor man, and there had
been little or no intercourse since that period. When, therefore, she
received a letter from her brother, not only affectionate, but
accompanied also by a kind invitation for her daughter Alice to pass a
few months in Philadelphia, it is difficult to say whether joy or
surprise preponderated. Anxious alone to promote the happiness of Alice,
Mrs. Churchill, sacrificing her own feelings at parting with her child,
hesitated not to accept the offer. Little did Alice know of the world,
except from books. Books had been her only companions, and, under her
mother’s judicious selection, these best of friends had wrought a silent
influence over her mind, preparing her to meet the realities of life,
its pleasures and its trials also, with rationality.
Such, then, was Alice Churchill, the innocent cause of the matrimonial
_fracas_ illustrated in a preceding chapter.
The boat touched the wharf, and the motley crowd which had been watching
her approach, noisily sprang on her deck. “Have a cab, miss?” “Cab,
sir?” “Take your baggage, ma’am?” “Have a carriage?” Poor Alice shrank
back into the farthest corner of the ladies’ cabin, perfectly bewildered
with the noise and confusion. At length she heard her own name called,
and, stepping forward, she was the next moment in the arms of her uncle.
Mr. Hazleton embraced her affectionately, and then, gazing long and
earnestly upon her, exclaimed, as he wiped a tear from his eye—
“Yes, you do look like your dear mother!”
But this was no time for sentiment, especially as the stewardess,
anxious herself to be on shore, already began to bustle about
preparatory to the next trip—so, after attending to the baggage, they
left the boat, and were soon rattling through the streets at the mercy
of an independent cabman who “_had another job_.”
Who that has passed through the streets of a great city for the first
time cannot imagine the feelings of our simple country-girl, as she
found herself thus borne amid the busy throng—the side-walks crowded
with people hurrying to and from their business—the gaily ornamented
windows—elegantly dressed ladies—beggars—squeaking
hand-organs—dancing monkeys—the cry of the fish-man, mingling with the
noisy bell of the charcoal-vender—carriages clashing rapidly
past—omnibuses rattling heavily along—dust, din, smoke—no wonder the
poor girl rejoiced when the cab stopped at her uncle’s dwelling, and she
found herself safe within its walls.
“My dear love, let me have the pleasure of introducing you to my niece,”
said Mr. Hazleton, advancing with the blushing Alice on his arm.
Mrs. Hazleton coldly raised her eyes from the book on which they had
been pertinaciously fixed, and with a slight bow and a formal “How do
you do, Miss Churchill!” as coldly dropped them again.
Not so Julia, who, in spite of the lessons her ma’ma had been teaching
her for the last half hour, could not see this young, blushing stranger
so repulsed—she therefore rushed forward, exclaiming—
“O papa, do stand away, and let me greet my new cousin.”
“_Julia!_ my dear!” emphasized Mrs. Hazleton.
“Now, my dear Alice—that’s your name, is it not? Mine is Julia—Julia
Ketchim—horrible! don’t you think so? Now you must not wonder at
ma’ma—she is a great reader—she has got hold of Carlyle—but she is
very glad to see you—so are we all—but that’s her way. Come, sit
down—or would you prefer to go to your room?”
“Julia, I am surprised!” and Mrs. Hazleton rang the bell.
A servant entered.
“Show Miss Churchill her apartment.”
“O no, ma’ma, I am going with Alice.”
“Nancy, attend Miss Churchill. Julia, I want you—_Julia!—Julia!_” and
with pouting lips and a very flushed face Julia was forced to obey, but
not until she had whispered to Alice, who, almost terrified, was
following the servant maid:
“Never mind ma’ma, dear—she is great upon etiquette—she is a
Ninnybrain you know.”
There was an attempt at a Caudle lecture after Alice had left, but to
her dismay Mrs. Hazleton found her influence, like the honey-moon,
rapidly on the wane! When Alice again appeared in the drawing-room
escorted by Julia, who, in spite of ma’ma, had contrived to slip away to
her apartment, Mrs. Hazleton for the first time allowed her eyes to
dwell searchingly upon the person of her unwelcome guest. To her
inexpressible relief she found Miss Churchill presented that happy
medium of which she had never dreamed, viz. that although her
countenance was pleasing, yet she was by no means handsome enough to
cause her one moment’s fear on the score of rivalship—while her natural
ease of manner at once removed her from that awkward simplicity she had
expected to find in an unskilled country girl. The effect of her
scrutiny, therefore, was so satisfactory that Mrs. Hazleton with a
pretty, girlish air instantly embraced her, and trusted she would feel
herself as much at home as under her own dear mother’s roof. Although
somewhat surprised, Alice did not doubt the sincerity of her welcome,
and grateful for her kindness, returned her aunt’s embrace. Mr. Hazleton
gave his wife a smile of approbation, while Julia whispered:
“There, I told you so—O that odious Carlyle—I knew ma’ma would be glad
to see you when she had put down her book.”
At the close of the evening, after the girls had retired, Mrs. Hazleton
affirmed that really Miss Churchill was quite passable, and that if her
manners only had a little of the Ninnybrain air—as, for instance,
Julia’s or her own—one would hardly suspect that she had never been
accustomed to good society! Upon which wondrous conclusion of his lady,
Mr. Hazleton shrugged his shoulders and went to bed.