TWO YEARS AFTER
A heavy heart is a wonderful assistant in acquiring repose of manner,
it weighs so on the impulses and desires, and thus keeps them in
order--fortunately for Mrs. Jane Rowan. On the whole, she behaved
very well in her new situation, and did not fret herself nor the
family too much. By the gentleman of the house and his daughter she
was not treated as a hired servant, but as Mr. Williams's sister
might have been treated, if he had had one to take charge of his
establishment. With the sister-in-law, Mrs. Bond, and the servants,
it was otherwise. The former was one of those persons who merit pity,
from the fact that they can never feel the delight of a generous
emotion. She worshipped the guinea's stamp, but the preciousness of
fine gold she knew not: for her, the guinea might as well have been
made of copper. If she had been born to a servile estate, she would
have remained there, and adorned her position; but she had been
associated with persons of respectability and even of eminence. The
advantages of this association she showed in that the arrogance with
which she treated her supposed inferiors was cold and quiet, and her
subservience to her acknowledged superiors had an air of personal
fondness.
This woman's greatest fear was lest some one should marry her
brother-in-law, in consequence of which she labored incessantly to
remove from him all dangerous acquaintances: her second source of
terror was that her niece might be captivated by some ineligible
person, and the result was that every hovering monsieur and professor
who assisted in educating the young woman was watched as if he had
been a pick-pocket. Helen Williams used to complain bitterly to the
housekeeper of this espionage, and Mrs. Bond used as strenuously
to invoke the aid of the housekeeper in watching; so that the
unfortunate woman was between two fires, and scorched pro and
con. But the great trial of her life was the servants. Over these
potentates she was supposed to exercise some authority, and for some
of their doings she was held responsible; but the fact was that
they laughed her to scorn. As to commanding them, Mrs. Rowan would
as soon have thought of commanding the lancers or the cadets, and
indeed the lancers or the cadets would quite as soon have thought of
obeying her. But through all these mean annoyances, thanks to sorrow,
the quieter, she walked with a gentle patience which saved her from
serious hurt.
Happily, the person on whom her fortunes most depended put her
quite at ease in his regard. Mr. Williams was moderately kind, not
expressively polite, and did not scruple to make her useful. He had
also certain habits which soothed her sense of inferiority, since she
did not consider them polite: he reached across the table sometimes
in a shocking manner to help himself, he bolted his food when he was
in haste, he smoked a pipe in the sitting-room without asking leave,
and, while smoking, habitually assumed a position contrary to the
apparent intention of nature, by placing his feet higher than his
head. There were times when the housekeeper dared to think that she
was almost as much a lady as Mr. Williams was a gentleman. But she
liked him all the better for his deficiencies. She liked him, too,
for the interest he took in her son.
In the fall, Mr. Williams and Major Cleaveland had entered into
partnership, and enlarged their shipping interests, and the former
had said to Mrs. Rowan of Dick, "If the boy continues to do well, we
must give him a ship."
The mother's heart beat high. In two years Dick would come back, and
then perhaps Mr. Williams would remember his promise. That her son
would deserve such favor she never doubted. Young Mr. Rowan had the
power of inspiring every one who knew him with entire confidence.
So the mother set herself to endure and count away the months to
the coming home of her son. The winter melted, and spring came--six
months nearer! The summer glowed, and grew chilly into autumn--only a
year longer! A second winter wore itself away--but six months left!
and what you can have back again in six months, you touch already.
Six months is only twenty-four weeks; and, while you are counting
them, the four have slipped away. What signifies five months? One
sleeps through nearly a third of them, which leaves three months of
conscious waiting. Hearts do not count fractions. Three months--and
now they begin to drag. It is July, and that month has so many days,
and the days have so many hours in them, and the hours are so long.
You begin to fancy that heat dilates time as well as metals. You say
that it is just your luck that the only time in the year when two
months in succession have thirty-one days should be precisely this
time. Good-by to July! I would have spoken you more courteously,
O month of Cæsar! had you not stood between my friend and me. Not
Cæsar's self may do that! Two months now; but much may happen in
that time: kingdoms have been lost and won in less. Fade, O summer
flowers! for ye can bloom again when love is dead. Hasten, O fruitful
autumn! and bring the harvest long waited for. The weeks grow less,
and only one is left; but you dare not rejoice; so much may happen
in a week! Days roll round with an audible jar, as if you heard the
earth buzz on her axis, and only one is left. O God! how much may
happen in a day! The pendulum swings entangled in your heart-strings,
the minutes march like armed men. Merciful Father! hearts have broken
in a minute. Yes; but hearts that were sinking have grown glad in a
minute, shall grow glad, _Deo volente_. The terrible _if_ that held
his skeleton finger up before the face of your hope, that drove sleep
from your eyes, that weighed upon you ceaselessly, shall fade to a
shadow, and the shadow shall disappear in sunshine--_Deo volente!_
The sea was smooth--perhaps the prayers of the mother had smoothed
it; the sky was sunny--it may have been for that mother's sake; and
one blessed tide that came running up the harbor, ripple after ripple
falling on the shore like breathless messengers, brought a ship in
from the East with a precious freight for the owners, and for Mrs.
Rowan a freight more precious than if the ship had been piled for
her mast-high with gold.
A young man's handsome bronzed face looked eagerly through the
rigging, and saw a carriage drawn up close to the wharf, a man
standing beside the open door of it, and a woman's pale face leaning
out. The pale face turned red as he looked, and his mother's hands
were stretched toward him.
"O Dick! my own boy!"
"Jump right in and go home with your mother," said Mr. Williams. "I
want to see the captain."
And this reminds us that we are before our story. Several notable
incidents had occurred in Mrs. Rowan's life before that happy day.
One was that, on the first of September, just a month before, Mr.
Williams had asked her to be his wife. The two were sitting together
after tea, Helen having gone to a concert with her aunt. Mrs. Rowan
was hemming handkerchiefs for Mr. Williams, and thinking of Dick,
wondering where he was and what he might be doing just at that
moment, and Mr. Williams was glancing over the _Evening Post_, and
thinking of himself and his companion.
If the President of the United States, at that time General Taylor,
had sent Daniel Webster as his ambassador to invite Mrs. Rowan to
preside over the White House for him, she could not have been more
astonished.
There was nothing amazing in the manner of the proposal, however. Mr.
Williams had just been reading an editorial on the "Wilmot proviso,"
and, having finished it, took his pipe from his mouth, glanced across
the table on which his elbow leaned, and said quietly, "I've been
thinking that we may as well get married, as we shall probably always
live together. Helen and Dick will some time build nests of their
own, and they won't want either of us. I shall treat you as well as
I always have, and I hope you will be satisfied with that, and I
shall do something for Dick. I'm rather in love with the fellow. I
really cannot see why you should object, though I give you credit for
being surprised. If you had expected me to ask you, I should have
disappointed you. Suppose we should be married before Dick gets home,
for a pleasant surprise for him!"
Mrs. Rowan had dropped her work, and sat staring at Mr. Williams, to
see if he were jesting.
"I am in earnest," he said. "How does the idea strike you?"
"It strikes me"--she stammered faintly, and stopped there.
"So I perceive," was the dry comment with which he put his pipe
between his lips again. "Take time. Don't be in a hurry to answer; I
am not a frantic lover of twenty."
Mrs. Rowan sat with her hands clasped on the pile of handkerchiefs in
her lap, and tried to think. It would be good for Dick, it would be
better for Dick, it would be best for Dick. On Dick's account, she
could not dream of refusing; indeed, she would not have presumed to
refuse, even had there been no Dick in the case. But, for all that,
Mr. Williams's last sentence rang in her ears, and made her eyes
fill. Once upon a time--so long ago!--she was young and pretty, and
then there was somebody handsomer, better educated, more talented
than this man, who was a frantic lover of twenty when he asked her
to be his wife. If she had known better then, been more earnest and
serious, that blossom day of her life had borne good fruit, perhaps,
instead of an apple of Sodom, and her husband might have been still
living. If she had loved him less weakly, she might have saved him.
"Well?" said Mr. Williams, having given her ten minutes by the clock.
She started, and came back to the present. In the pain of the past
she was momentarily strong. "I suppose you know best for yourself,"
she said quietly; "and I have no objection for Dick's sake."
Mr. Williams had been a little afraid of a scene, and her quiet and
the tears in her eyes touched him. "I don't believe you will be sorry
for it, Jane," he said kindly. "I have heard that you have had one
sad experience, and I can promise you that you shall have nothing
like that from me."
A slight shadow, almost a frown, passed over her face. "You are very
kind," she said in a cold voice. "But as to the past, no one is to
blame but me. I stand by the man I married when I was a young girl. I
loved him then and always, and I hope to meet him again. He was too
good for me."
"All right!" replied the merchant cheerfully, but with some surprise.
He had not thought that the widow possessed so much spirit. "We need
not disagree about him. We can enter into a partnership for the rest
of our lives. As to the other world, I'll ask for no mortgages on
that. If you run away with Mr. Rowan when we get there, I won't run
after you. May be somebody else will be claiming me. I'm satisfied,
if you are. We are too old for sentiment."
So saying, he turned again to the _Evening Post_, and pursued his
reading.
Too old for sentiment! She looked at him with eyes in which, for a
moment, a high and shining wonder dilated. Why, if Richard had lived
and prospered, and she had made him happy, she could have run to
meet him with roses of joy in her cheeks, though she were half a
century old. She could have been as watchful of his looks and tones,
as quick to tune her own by them, as when she was a girl. Too old for
sentiment! Well, it takes all sorts of people to make a world, she
thought.
An hour of silence passed, the woman sewing, the man reading. At ten
o'clock Mrs. Rowan rose to go to bed. Mr. Williams looked up. "Let's
see, this is September first," he said. "Suppose we call in the
parson about the tenth?"
She stopped--she and her breath.
"You know we need not bother about a bridal tour," he said. "And I
think we may as well keep our own counsel. When it is all over, I'll
introduce you to Mrs. Bond as a new sister-in-law. Don't be afraid: I
will make her keep the peace. I am a justice, you know."
"Very well," said Mrs. Rowan. "Do as you like."
There was no more said that night; but the next morning Mr. Williams
gave the widow a short lecture on the manner in which he wished her
to conduct herself toward those about her. "You are too humble and
yielding," he said. "Of course, I do not expect you to change your
character; but, recollect, you have me to stand by you. If Sarah Bond
should annoy you, stand your ground. If the servants are impudent,
dismiss them. If anything whatever happens displeasing to you, tell
me the minute I get home, and I will set the matter right."
With that he went.
An hour after, a carriage drew up at the door, and a woman came into
the house, and asked to see Mrs. Rowan. She was a woman of middle
age, and looked nervous and worried.
"I am Miss Bird, Miss Clinton's companion," she announced. "Miss
Clinton wants to see you right away. She has sent the carriage for
you."
"Who is Miss Clinton?" Mrs. Rowan asked; "and what does she want of
me?"
The companion looked at her in astonishment. Not know who Miss
Clinton was! But it must be true that she did not, or she would not
have presumed to ask the other question. "Miss Clinton is one of the
first ladies in Boston," Miss Bird said, with quite a grand air.
"When you go to her, she will probably tell you what she wants."
"Cannot she come to see me?" Mrs. Rowan asked.
This last piece of assumption was from the future Mrs. Williams, not
from Mr. Williams's housekeeper.
"Why, what can you be thinking of?" the woman cried. "Miss Clinton
must be eighty years old, if not ninety. I am not sure but she is a
hundred."
Having ventured so much, after a slight pause, Miss Bird went on.
"And she is like cider, the older she grows, the sourer she grows."
"Oh! then, I will go," Mrs. Rowan said at once. "I didn't know she
was so old."
She did not hurry, however. She arrayed herself deliberately from
head to foot, and came down to find Miss Bird pacing the entry in a
fever of impatience.
"Dear me! do come!" exclaimed that frightened creature, and
unceremoniously pulled Mrs. Rowan into the carriage. "Drive for your
life!" she called out then to the coachman.
"Is anything the matter with Miss Clinton?" inquired Mrs. Rowan
anxiously.
"Oh! bless us!" sighed the companion. "Something is always the
matter with Miss Clinton when she has to wait."
They reached the house--a large, old-fashioned one in a most
respectable locality--entered, and went up-stairs to a sunny parlor
with windows looking into a garden. The four walls of this room were
entirely covered with pictures, the central places being occupied
by four portraits of a lady, the same lady, painted in different
costumes, and at different ages. It was a handsome face, not without
signs of talent. The original of these portraits sat in an arm-chair
near one of the windows. The silvery curls of a wig clustered about
her wrinkled face, a scarlet India shawl was wrapped around her tall,
upright form, and her small hands glittered with rings. On a table at
her elbow were her hand-bell, eye-glasses, scent-bottle, snuff-box,
and _bonbonnière_.
As the two entered the room, the old lady snatched her glasses, and
put them up with a shaking hand. "So you have got here at last!" she
cried out. "Have you been taking Mr. What's-his-name's housekeeper a
drive on the Mill-dam, Bird?"
"I was obliged to wait for Mrs. Rowan," Bird said meekly. "She will
tell you."
"I came as soon as I was ready, ma'am," interposed Mrs. Rowan. "I did
not want to take the trouble to come at all. If you have no business
with me, I will go home again."
Miss Clinton turned and stared at the speaker, noticing her for the
first time.
"I have business with you," she said in a sharp voice, after having
looked the widow over deliberately. "Come here! Bird, bring a chair,
and then go out of the room."
Bird obeyed.
"I want to know about that Yorke girl," the old lady began, when
they were alone. "If you wish to befriend her, you had better tell
me all you know. As for Amy Arnold, she deserves to be poor. I will
not give her a dollar. She was always a sentimental simpleton, with
her fine ideas. Not but fine ideas are good in their place: I always
had them, but I had common sense too. I kept my sentiments, as I keep
my rings and brooches, for ornament; that is the way sensible people
do; but she must pave the common way with hers. Fancy a girl with
absolute beauty, and money in expectation, if she behaved herself,
marrying a poor artist because, forsooth, they had congenial souls!
Congenial fiddlesticks! If I had had the power, I would have shut
her up till she came to her senses. I am thankful to be able to say
that I did box her ears soundly. Fortunately, the fellow died in
a year, and Mr. Charles Yorke took pity on her. Charles Yorke is
a respectable man, but I am not fond of him. I was fond of Robert
till he treated Alice Mills so. Though, indeed, it was an escape for
Alice; for he would have broken her heart. Robert didn't know enough
to love a plain woman.
"The little Pole knew how to make him behave himself. I rather liked
that girl, and I would have done something for them if Alice had not
been my friend. What is the child like? Tell me all about her."
The door opened. "I won't see anybody!" Miss Clinton screamed, waving
the servant away. Then, as he was going, she called him back. "Who is
it? Alice Mills? The very one I want! Show her in!"
Mrs. Rowan looked with eager interest at this visitor, and saw a
lady of medium size, graceful figure, and plain face. Was she plain,
though? That was the first impression; but when she had taken Miss
Clinton's hand, and kissed her cheek tenderly, putting her other hand
on the other cheek, in a pretty, caressing way, and had asked sweetly
of the old lady's health, Mrs. Rowan found her beautiful. So still
and gentle, and yet so bright, was she, all harmony seemed to have
entered the room with her. Even Miss Clinton's harsh face softened
as she looked up at her with a gaze of fondness that had something
imploring in it, and clung to her hand a moment.
"You have come in good time, my dear," she said then, in a voice far
gentler than she had spoken with before. "This is the person who had
charge of Robert Yorke's daughter."
The lady had seated herself close to Miss Clinton's side, with a
hand still resting on the arm of her chair. At this announcement she
turned rather quickly, but with instinctive courtesy, and looked
searchingly at Mrs. Rowan. Then she went to take her hand. "I had
a letter from Edith to-day," she said, "and she mentioned you very
affectionately. I thought when I read it that I would go to see you."
"Ahem!" coughed Miss Clinton harshly. "Come here, Alice! I have sent
for Mrs. What's-her-name to tell us all about the child, so you are
saved the trouble of going to her."
Mrs. Rowan's impulse had been to kiss the gentle hand that touched
hers, but this interruption checked her. Miss Mills went back to her
seat, and the catechism began. It was not a pleasant one. More than
once the widow thought that "one of the first ladies in Boston" was
a very rude and impudent old woman; but for the sake of that sweet
face, which seemed to entreat her forbearance, she answered civilly.
The questioning ended. "Now you may go," said Miss Clinton, and,
turning her back on Mrs. Rowan, began to talk to her friend.
"O my friend! how can you?" exclaimed Miss Mills reproachfully. "You
are so kind, Mrs. Rowan," rising to take leave of her. "I am glad to
have seen you."
Mrs. Rowan's face was crimson. What would Dick say to see his mother
so treated? and what would Mr. Williams say?
"Why, Alice, she is that John Williams's housekeeper," the old woman
said, when Mrs. Rowan had gone.
"And what are you?" was the question which rose almost to the younger
lady's indignant lips. But she suppressed it, and only showed her
disapproval by sitting silent a moment.
"Did you expect me to get up and make a court courtesy?" pursued Miss
Clinton. "Why, I wouldn't do that for you, my dear. And why should
I not tell her to go? I had no more to say to her, and I dare say
she was glad to get away. If people fell in love with me as they do
with you, you soft creature! then I might be sweeter with them; but
they hate me, and so I can afford to be sincere. It saves trouble,
besides."
"If every one practised that sort of sincerity, we should soon lapse
into barbarism," was the quiet reply.
"If you only came here to lecture and scold me, you had better have
staid away," the old woman cried, beginning to tremble.
The other said nothing, only sat and looked steadily at her. With
Alice Mills, charity was a virtue, not a weakness. She beheld with
pain and terror this woman, whose whole life had been one of utter
selfishness, who was going down to the grave with no love in her
heart for God nor her neighbor. She knew that she was the only one
who dared to speak the truth to Miss Clinton, and therefore she
dared not be silent. She knew that she was the only one in whom the
lonely old sinner believed, or whom she could be influenced by; and
it was one of the prayerful studies of her life how best to use
that power. To yield to pity, and refrain from reproof, would be to
encourage faults which had become habitual; so, instead of coaxing
and soothing, she only waited for submission, not to herself, but
to right and justice. The time for Miss Clinton's conversion was so
short, and the progress had been so slow, this friend was almost
tempted to despair. "Final impenitence" seemed to be written in those
hard old eyes, on that bitter old mouth.
Miss Clinton scolded, then complained, then bemoaned herself, finally
submitted. "You know, Alice, I have got so in the habit of ordering
people about, and most people are so slavish, I do not think," she
said, wiping her eyes.
That was all her friend asked--a sense of having done wrong. Then
came the time for soothing, and for bright and cheerful talk.
After such a regimen, it might reasonably be supposed that Miss
Clinton would treat her next visitor with decent civility; and the
immediate happy result of the lesson was that for that day Bird
escaped further abuse.
When, a fortnight later, Miss Mills told the old lady that Mr.
Williams and Mrs. Rowan were married, Miss Clinton was astounded.
"That accounts for her turning so red when I told her to go," she
said. "Well, well, I must be polite to Bird. For anything I know, she
may be engaged to John C. Calhoun."
Mr. Calhoun was one of the old lady's idols.
"Married his housekeeper!" she pursued dreamily. "What a _potpourri_
society is becoming! Though now I think of it, John Williams came
from nothing."
"We all came from nothing, dear," said the other softly, "and soon we
shall return to nothing."
Yes, Mrs. Rowan was married, and quite at home in her new character.
Mrs. Bond had been met in open field, challenged, engaged, and
routed. At present she was at home nursing her wounds; but we may
confidently expect that in time she will hand in her submission to
the powers that be. They were quite willing to wait: their impatience
was not devouring. Their minds were pleasantly occupied about this
time by several things. Dick's return was the principal joyful event.
Besides that, Major Cleaveland was visiting them. He had come up to
superintend the refurnishing of his town-house for the reception of a
bride. His marriage was to take place in a week or two at Seaton, and
his partner, with his new wife and step-son, were invited to go down
and be present at the ceremony. Mrs. Rowan-Williams had hesitated
very much about accepting the invitation, but it was urged by the
bridegroom-elect; Mr. Williams was disposed to go, Dick looked his
desire to go, Edith had written a coaxing letter, and even Hester
Yorke had sent a very pretty note, hoping that they would come. So it
was decided that they should go.
Why should Hester Yorke's invitation be of special consequence,
does any one ask? Having been put off as long as was possible, the
truth must be told at last, though with great dissatisfaction. Miss
Hester Yorke is to be the bride. Instead of fixing his affections on
Melicent, who was twenty years his junior, or Clara, who was twenty
two, nothing would satisfy this man but Hester, the youngest, and
Hester he won.
But it was a good while before he won the father and mother. Mr.
Yorke consented first, rather ungraciously, but Mrs. Yorke did
not yield till the last minute, and then only to her husband's
solicitations.
"If Hester is satisfied to marry a man old enough to be her father,"
he said, "we may as well consent. The age is the only objection."
"Hester is satisfied now," the mother said anxiously; "but she is
only a child. We do not know how it will be ten years hence, when her
character will be more developed. She will then be twenty-eight, and
he fifty. "Oh! I have no patience with these ridiculous widowers!"
And the lady wrung her hands.
"You misjudge Hester, my dear," the husband said. "She has developed
all she ever will. She is no pomegranate in the bud, but a cherry
fully ripened. Have you never observed that whatever is hers is
always perfect in her eyes? She is ready now to maintain to the world
that this is the most beautiful house that ever was built; that
rat-holes are an advantage; that our furniture is the more desirable
for being worn; that our roses are finer than any others, our vines
more graceful, our birds more musical. Why, my dear, she thinks that
I am a beauty!"
A soft little laugh rippled over Mrs. Yorke's lips. "So do I!" she
said.
"That is because you look at me with such beautiful eyes," replied
the gentleman gallantly. It was not often that his personal
appearance was complimented. "But, to return: Hester will be the
same to her husband. Once married to him, she will be absolutely
convinced that there is not to be found his equal. I have no fear
but that, ten years hence, if Major Cleaveland should be placed by
the side of the most magnificent man on earth, Hester would maintain
boldly that her husband was the superior. No; I anticipate no trouble
for a long while. The only disagreeable view I take is, that when
Hester is fifty, the golden middle age for a healthy woman, she will
be nursing a childish old man of seventy-four, instead of having an
equal friend and companion."
"Dear me!" exclaimed the wife, "I cannot possibly weep over what may
happen thirty-two years hence."
And so the matter was settled; and now the Major was doing his utmost
in honor of the event. The house in Seaton had been already put
in perfect order, and the house in town was now, as we see, being
adorned. They were to come there immediately, after a quiet wedding
at Hester's home.
When Major Cleaveland returned to Seaton, a week after the wedding,
he carried two offerings from Mrs. Rowan, one for the bride-elect,
the other for Edith. Hester's present was quite simple, a package of
photographic views taken in the city of Peking, and, seen through
a stereoscope, almost as good as a visit to that city. But Dick's
offering to Edith was an extravagant one: it was a Maltese cross set
with emeralds.
This gift created a warm discussion in the Yorke family, who were
almost unanimous against Edith's accepting it. Carl was especially
indignant. "Edith is almost a young lady," he said; "and the fellow
is presuming in sending her such a present. If he does not know
better, he should be taught." Even Mrs. Yorke was disposed to be
strict. But when they had all spoken, it was found that Edith had a
voice.
They were in the sitting-room with Major Cleaveland, who had just
arrived, and Mrs. Yorke was in the centre of the group. She had
opened the box, and held the cross up glittering against her white
hand. Edith had not touched it. She stood beside her aunt's chair,
and listened while the discussion went on. Her eyes were cast down,
and she seemed perfectly quiet; but, while she listened, into her
usually pale cheeks a color grew, deepening from pink to a glowing
crimson.
"I shall not refuse Dick's present," she said decidedly, when they
came to a pause; and as she spoke up went her eyelids. Finding that
Dick had no other friend but her, that he had enemies, perhaps,
that his feelings were not to be counted, instantly she came to the
rescue. As her glance flashed swiftly around the circle, it was as
though a blade had been swung before their eyes.
"But, my dearest Edith," began Melicent, and then went over the whole
argument again in her most suave and convincing manner.
"I know it all," Edith replied firmly. "I know what people consider
proper about presents; but this is not a common case. I would not
take that cross from Carl, nor from any other gentleman. But Dick is
like no one else to me, and he shall not be hurt nor offended. He
took pains to get the present, and thought a good deal about it, and
brought it over the ocean for me, and was in hopes that I would be
pleased; and I will not disappoint him."
Mrs. Yorke took the girl's hand affectionately, the disputed jewel
dropping in her lap. "I would not hurt his feelings for the world, my
love," she said. "Leave it all to me. I will explain to him so that
he cannot be offended."
"Aunt Amy, no one in the world can explain between Dick Rowan and
me," said Edith, withdrawing her hand. "You have been good to me,
all of you, and I love you, and will obey you when it is right. But
this isn't right: it is only what people who know nothing about it
think proper. Dick was good to me first of all. Mamma used to have
him take care of me when I was a tiny little girl; and, after mamma
died, he did everything for me. If I wanted anything, he got it for
me if he could; and if I broke his playthings and tore his books, he
never scolded me. I remember once I hit him with a stick, and almost
put his eye out; and when I cried, he kissed me and said, 'I know you
didn't mean to, dear,' before his eye had stopped aching. That was
the way he always did. And afterward, when the children laughed at
me, because I was poor and queer, and they threw mud and stones at me
here in the streets of Seaton, Dick fought them, he alone against the
whole. And I never cried but he comforted me. I could not tell all
that he did for me, though I should talk a week. I won't turn him off
now. If he wanted to die for me, I'd let him; for it would be more
than cruel to refuse. So, Aunt Amy, please to give me the cross. I am
going to wear it always."
They were all silent at this first outbreak of her who had often
won from Carl the greeting of Coriolanus to his wife, "My gracious
silence, hail!" No one had the heart to refuse any longer, whatever
might be the consequences of yielding.
Edith took the chain, and hung it about her neck, looking down on the
cross a moment as it rested on her bosom. "Green means hope," she
said.
Carl left the room. No one else said anything. Her address had
struck too near home. They might forget the time when she had been
poor and homeless, but she was not obliged to; and they could not in
conscience quite disentangle her from her past.
"Dearest Aunt Amy, do smile again!" Edith entreated, putting her arms
around Mrs. Yorke's neck. "You are not displeased with me! Don't you
remember you told Dick that ingratitude is the vice of slaves?"
"Dear child, you do as you will with me," her aunt sighed; and so the
dispute ended.
One day of the next week, as the steamer came ploughing up the
Narrows into Seaton Bay, Mrs. Williams and her son sat in a corner of
the deck by themselves. Mr. Williams, slightly sea-sick, was below.
There were not many passengers that day, and no one seemed to have
recognized these two. They sat leaning on the rail and looking off
over the water. It could scarcely be expected that they would not
feel some emotion on such a return to their native town after such a
departure, and Dick held his mother's trembling hand tight in his,
which, indeed, was scarcely steady.
A low, sandy island lay before them, and seemed to toss on the
surface of the bay. "I wish I could go over there before we go home
again," the mother whispered, looking up wistfully into her son's
face.
"No!" he answered. "We shall be commented on and watched sufficiently
as it is. Let the dead past bury its dead. It is a shame and
disgrace. I cannot have it dragged up again."
He spoke firmly, and his mother was silenced. She feared her son in
his rare moods of sternness. They awed her far more than his earlier
passions had. Those she had understood, and could soothe; but now he
was growing out of her knowledge. Besides, she did not dream what
an ordeal his meeting with Edith's family was to be to him. To her
simplicity, Hester's invitation and Edith's allowed intercourse with
them seemed an entire adoption; but he knew better. On the whole, it
was a time above all when he least desired to be remembered of his
father.
As they neared the wharf, they saw Major Cleaveland standing there,
with a tall, slim girl beside him. She wore a black riding-cap and
feather, and a glimpse of scarlet petticoat showed as she gathered
up her riding-skirt. The disengaged hand was flung out with a quick
welcoming gesture as she saw them, and a flush went over her face.
Mr. Rowan drew back to let Mr. and Mrs. Williams land first, and
waited till his mother had received the first greeting. Then he took
Edith's hand, and looked down at her as she looked up at him. Her
eyes sparkled, and she breathed quickly with joy. There was not, he
saw, a cloud over the delight with which she met him.
"Dick," she said ecstatically, after a minute, "I think that you are
perfectly splendid!"
In the old times they had used each other's eyes for mirrors: why not
now?
"You do!" said the young man, tossing his head with a slight laugh.
"Thank you!"
"But you have grown," she pursued, contemplating him with great
admiration. "And have not I grown tall?"
She stood back blushingly to be inspected.
"You're a pretty fair height," Dick said with an air of moderation.
"Come, they're waiting for us. Is this your pony?"
He lifted her to the saddle, then stepped into the carriage, and she
rode alongside. He looked at her, and every nerve in him vibrated
with triumph. She wore his cross on her bosom! They had not thought
how much he had dared to mean by that. "If they let her take the
cross, they will let her take me," he had said. If the gift had been
refused, he would never have seen Edith again.
"It is most beautiful," she said, catching his glance. "I got Father
Rasle to bless it, and I wear it all the time."
Presently Edith began to take notice of Mrs. Williams; and as she
looked, her wonder grew. Mrs. Rowan had possessed only a wisp of
faded hair: Mrs. Williams had a profuse and shining _chevelure_. Mrs.
Rowan's teeth had been few and far between: Mrs. Williams's smile
disclosed two unbroken and immaculate rows of ivory. But for the
lingering lines in the forehead, and the kind eyes, and the simple
ways, Edith would scarcely have recognized her old friend.
It was time for an early dinner when they reached the house, and
Edith was to stay all day, and be hostess. It had been agreed that,
under the circumstances, no hospitable cares could be expected from
their host. His visitors were to use his house as a hotel, and do
quite as they pleased in it. But in the afternoon, Major Cleaveland
insisted that Mr. Rowan should go with him and call upon Hester, who
wished to thank him without delay for the pretty present he had sent
her. Dick would much have preferred remaining where he was; but he
went, and was received with the utmost cordiality by all but Carl,
who was not visible.
But Carl came up in the evening to escort Edith home, and had then
"the honor of making Mr. Rowan's acquaintance" in a remarkably cool
and ceremonious fashion.
"Mother thought you had better come home early, Edith, because we
must all be up early in the morning," he said, after a little very
polite and very constrained talk. "Besides," he added, with a slight
smile, "I believe Patrick does not allow his horse to be out after
nine o'clock. He lent him to me very grudgingly."
The night was one of perfect silence as the two rode homeward under
the stars, and they were not talkative. Scarcely a word was spoken
till they had crossed the bridge, and were riding up North Street.
Then Edith spoke in a low voice:
"Are you tired, Carl?"
"No, thank you. Are you?"
"No."
Then there was silence for a while, till Edith began again:
"Carl, do not you think that Mrs. Williams is pleasant?"
"I did not observe," he replied coolly. "I scarcely heard her speak.
I do not doubt that she is pleasant to you."
"Oh! you talked with Mr. Williams," she said. "Did you like him?"
"Not particularly."
Another silence. They had turned from the public road, and were being
enclosed in the forest.
"How did you like Dick Rowan, Carl?" The question came with a faint
sense of strain in the voice, and it was not answered immediately.
"I hope you will not expect me to be as fond of him as you are," he
said presently. "He may be like a brother to you, but to me he is a
stranger."
"But what do you think of him?" she persisted.
"He is very handsome," Carl said in a quiet tone, "and he looks like
an honest fellow. I have no fault to find with him."
They turned up the avenue, alighted, and went up the steps together.
"Carl," said Edith wistfully, "are you troubled about anything?"
"What should trouble me, child?" he asked, with a touch of kindness
in his voice.
"I do not know," she sighed. "Then are you vexed with me about
anything?"
"No, Edith," he said, "I have no reason to be vexed with any one but
myself. Good-night, dear!"
She echoed the good-night, and went up-stairs, not nearly so happy as
she had expected to be that night.
The next morning the marriage took place. For Hester's sake we will
say that the bride was lovely, and the wedding a pretty one. But we
will not further celebrate Major Cleaveland's anachronistic nuptials.
The Williamses were to leave town in the evening. They dined at the
Yorkes', and went away immediately after dinner. Edith was to walk
down to the hotel with him, and stay there till the stage-coach
should come for him.
"And we will walk the very longest way, Dick," she said. "I have
hardly had a chance to speak to you yet. We have plenty of time, for
they have to go up after their valises."
While Edith ran up-stairs for her hat, Mr. Rowan took leave of the
others, and Mrs. Yorke walked out into the portico with him. The lady
seemed to find difficulty in uttering something which she wished to
say. But when she heard her niece coming, she spoke hastily. "Mr.
Rowan, Edith is but a child!"
His face blushed up. "I do not forget that, Mrs. Yorke," he said;
"but also, I do not forget that she is a child I have many a time
carried in my arms."
"A very headstrong young man!" thought Mrs. Yorke, as she watched the
two go down the steps together.
They went up the road, to strike into East Street, instead of down;
and as the road, after passing the house, ceased almost entirely,
they soon found themselves in a narrow forest track. Over their heads
hung the splendid crimson and gold canopy of maples and beeches
mingled, and vines ran through every glowing tone from garnet-black
up to rose-color, or hung in deep purple masses. The mountain-ash
bent to offer its clusters of red berries, and there was no tiniest
shrub nor leaf but had its gala autumn dress. A blue mist showed
faintly through the long forest reaches, and rich earth-odors rose on
the moist air.
The immense conversation which was to have been held seemed to be
forgotten; scarcely a word was said till they came out into the
eastern road. Then Edith pointed across the way, and said, "Is it not
lovely?" and they stopped a moment to look.
There was a tract of low swampy land there silvered over with mist,
that seemed scarcely to rise a foot above it. Through this mist
showed a fine emerald-green thick with pink and purple blooms, and
over it swam a yellow-bird, in smooth undulations, as if it floated
on a tide.
The two stood there for some time in silence, till that picture was
perfectly painted on the memory of each. Then they walked on into the
village. In a few minutes after they reached the hotel, the coach
came down from Major Cleaveland's with Mr. and Mrs. Williams in it,
the fare-wells were said, and they were gone.