_A BRICK TURNS UP._
THE snow had been all night falling silently over the long elm avenues
of Springdale.
It was one of those soft, moist, dreamy snow-falls, which come down
in great loose feathers, resting in magical frost-work on every tree,
shrub, and plant, and seeming to bring down with it the purity and
peace of upper worlds.
Grace’s little cottage on Elm Street was imbosomed, as New-England
cottages are apt to be, in a tangle of shrubbery, evergreens, syringas,
and lilacs; which, on such occasions, become bowers of enchantment when
the morning sun looks through them.
Grace came into her parlor, which was cheery with the dazzling
sunshine, and, running to the window, began to examine anxiously the
state of her various greeneries, pausing from time to time to look out
admiringly at the wonderful snow-landscape, with its many tremulous
tints of rose, lilac, and amethyst.
The only thing wanting was some one to speak to about it; and, with a
half sigh, she thought of the good old times when John would come to
her chamber-door in the morning, to get her out to look on scenes like
this.
“Positively,” she said to herself, “I must invite some one to visit
me. One wants a friend to help one enjoy solitude.” The stock of
social life in Springdale, in fact, was running low. The Lennoxes and
the Wilcoxes had gone to their Boston homes, and Rose Ferguson was
visiting in New York, and Letitia found so much to do to supply her
place to her father and mother, that she had less time than usual
to share with Grace. Then, again, the Elm-street cottage was a walk
of some considerable distance; whereas, when Grace lived at the old
homestead, the Fergusons were so near as to seem only one family, and
were dropping in at all hours of the day and evening.
“Whom can I send for?” thought Grace to herself; and she ran over
mentally, in a moment, the list of available friends and acquaintances.
Reader, perhaps you have never really estimated your friends, till you
have tried them by the question, which of them you could ask to come
and spend a week or fortnight with you, alone in a country-house, in
the depth of winter. Such an invitation supposes great faith in your
friend, in yourself, or in human nature.
Grace, at the moment, was unable to think of anybody whom she could
call from the approaching festivities of holiday life in the cities to
share her snow Patmos with her; so she opened a book for company, and
turned to where her dainty breakfast-table, with its hot coffee and
crisp rolls, stood invitingly waiting for her before the cheerful open
fire.
At this moment, she saw, what she had not noticed before, a letter
lying on her breakfast plate. Grace took it up with an exclamation of
surprise; which, however, was heard only by her canary birds and her
plants.
Years before, when Grace was in the first summer of her womanhood, she
had been very intimate with Walter Sydenham, and thoroughly esteemed
and liked him; but, as many another good girl has done, about those
days she had conceived it her duty not to think of marriage, but to
devote herself to making a home for her widowed father and her brother.
There was a certain romance of self-abnegation in this disposition
of herself which was rather pleasant to Grace, and in which both the
gentlemen concerned found great advantage. As long as her father lived,
and John was unmarried and devoted to her, she had never regretted it.
Sydenham had gone to seek his fortune in California. He had begged
to keep up intercourse by correspondence; but Grace was not one of
those women who are willing to drain the heart of the man they refuse
to marry, by keeping up with him just that degree of intimacy which
prevents his seeking another. Grace had meant her refusal to be final,
and had sincerely hoped that he would find happiness with some other
woman; and to that intent had rigorously denied herself and him a
correspondence: yet, from time to time, she had heard of him through an
occasional letter to John, or by a chance Californian newspaper. Since
John’s marriage had so altered her course of life, Grace had thought of
him more frequently, and with some questionings as to the wisdom of her
course.
This letter was from him; and we shall give our readers the benefit of
it:—
“DEAR GRACE,—You must pardon me this beginning,—in the old
style of other days; for though many years have passed, in
which I have been trying to walk in your ways, and keep
all your commandments, I have never yet been able to do
as you directed, and forget you: and here I am, beginning
‘Dear Grace,’—just where I left off on a certain evening
long, long ago. I wonder if you remember it as plainly as
I do. I am just the same fellow that I was then and there.
If you remember, you admitted that, were it not for other
duties, you might have considered my humble supplication. I
gathered that it would not have been impossible _per se_,
as metaphysicians say, to look with favor on your humble
servant.
“Gracie, I have been living, I trust, not unworthily of you.
Your photograph has been with me round the world,—in the
miner’s tent, on shipboard, among scenes where barbarous men
do congregate; and everywhere it has been a presence, ‘to
warn, to comfort, to command;’ and if I have come out of
many trials firmer, better, more established in right than
before; if I am more believing in religion, and in every way
grounded and settled in the way you would have me,—it has
been your spiritual presence and your power over me that has
done it. Besides that, I may as well tell you, I have never
given up the hope that by and by you would see all this, and
in some hour give me a different answer.
“When, therefore, I learned of your father’s death, and
afterwards of John’s marriage, I thought it was time for me
to return again. I have come to New York, and, if you do not
forbid, shall come to Springdale.
“Will you be a little glad to see me, Gracie? Why not? We
are both alone now. Let us take hands, and walk the same
path together. Shall we?
“Yours till death, and after,
”WALTER SYDENHAM.“
Would she? To say the truth, the question as asked now had a very
different air from the question as asked years before, when, full
of life and hope and enthusiasm, she had devoted herself to making
an ideal home for her father and brother. What other sympathy or
communion, she had asked herself then, should she ever need than these
friends, so very dear: and, if she needed more, there, in the future,
was John’s ideal wife, who, somehow, always came before her in the
likeness of Rose Ferguson, and John’s ideal children, whom she was sure
she should love and pet as if they were her own.
And now here she was, in a house all by herself, coming down to her
meals, one after another, without the excitement of a cheerful face
opposite to her, and with all possibility of confidential intercourse
with her brother entirely cut off. Lillie, in this matter, acted,
with much grace and spirit, the part of the dog in the manger; and,
while she resolutely refused to enter into any of John’s literary or
intellectual tastes, seemed to consider her wifely rights infringed
upon by any other woman who would. She would absolutely refuse to go
up with her husband and spend an evening with Grace, alleging it was
“pokey and stupid,” and that they always got talking about things
that she didn’t care any thing about. If, then, John went without
her to spend the evening, he was sure to be received, on his return,
with a dead and gloomy silence, more fearful, sometimes, than the
most violent of objurgations. That look of patient, heart-broken woe,
those long-drawn sighs, were a reception that he dreaded, to say the
truth, a great deal more than a direct attack, or any fault-finding
to which he could have replied; and so, on the whole, John made up
his mind that the best thing he could do was to stay at home and rock
the cradle of this fretful baby, whose wisdom-teeth were so hard to
cut, and so long in coming. It was a pretty baby; and when made the
sole and undivided object of attention, when every thing possible was
done for it by everybody in the house, condescended often to be very
graceful and winning and playful, and had numberless charming little
ways and tricks. The difference between Lillie in good humor and Lillie
in bad humor was a thing which John soon learned to appreciate as one
of the most powerful forces in his life. If you knew, my dear reader,
that by pursuing a certain course you could bring upon yourself a
drizzling, dreary, north-east rain-storm, and by taking heed to your
ways you could secure sunshine, flowers, and bird-singing, you would be
very careful, after a while, to keep about you the right atmospheric
temperature; and, if going to see the very best friend you had on earth
was sure to bring on a fit of rheumatism or tooth-ache, you would
soon learn to be very sparing of your visits. For this reason it was
that Grace saw very little of John; that she never now had a sisterly
conversation with him; that she preferred arranging all those little
business matters, in which it would be convenient to have a masculine
appeal, solely and singly by herself. The thing was never referred to
in any conversation between them. It was perfectly understood without
words. There are friends between whom and us has shut the coffin-lid;
and there are others between whom and us stand sacred duties,
considerations never to be enough reverenced, which forbid us to seek
their society, or to ask to lean on them either in joy or sorrow: the
whole thing as regards them must be postponed until the future life.
Such had been Grace’s conclusion with regard to her brother. She well
knew that any attempt to restore their former intimacy would only
diminish and destroy what little chance of happiness yet remained to
him; and it may therefore be imagined with what changed eyes she read
Walter Sydenham’s letter from those of years ago.
There was a sound of stamping feet at the front door; and John came
in, all ruddy and snow-powdered, but looking, on the whole, uncommonly
cheerful.
“Well, Gracie,” he said, “the fact is, I shall have to let Lillie go
to New York for a week or two, to see those Follingsbees. Hang them!
But what’s the matter, Gracie? Have you been crying, or sitting up all
night reading, or what?”
The fact was, that Gracie had for once been indulging in a good cry,
rather pitying herself for her loneliness, now that the offer of relief
had come. She laughed, though; and, handing John her letter, said,—
“Look here, John! here’s a letter I have just had from Walter Sydenham.”
John broke out into a loud, hilarious laugh.
“The blessed old brick!” said he. “Has he turned up again?”
“Read the letter, John,” said Grace. “I don’t know exactly how to
answer it.”
John read the letter, and seemed to grow more and more quiet as he read
it. Then he came and stood by Grace, and stroked her hair gently.
“I wish, Gracie dear,” he said, “you had asked my advice about this
matter years ago. You loved Walter,—I can see you did; and you sent him
off on my account. It is just too bad! Of all the men I ever knew, he
was the one I should have been best pleased to have you marry!”
“It was not wholly on your account, John. You know there was our
father,” said Grace.
“Yes, yes, Gracie; but he would have preferred to see you well
married. He would not have been so selfish, nor I either. It is your
self-abnegation, you dear over-good women, that makes us men seem
selfish. We should be as good as you are, if you would give us the
chance. I think, Gracie, though you’re not aware of it, there is a
spice of Pharisaism in the way in which you good girls allow us men
to swallow you up without ever telling us what you are doing. I often
wondered about your intimacy with Sydenham, and why it never came to
any thing; and I can but half forgive you. How selfish I must have
seemed!”
“Oh, no, John! indeed not.”
“Come, you needn’t put on these meek airs. I insist upon it, you have
been feeling self-righteous and abused,” said John, laughing; “but
‘all’s well that ends well.’ Sit down, now, and write him a real
sensible letter, like a nice honest woman as you are.”
“And say, ‘Yes, sir, and thank you too’?” said Grace, laughing.
“Well, something in that way,” said John. “You can fence it in with as
many make-believes as is proper. And now, Gracie, this is deuced lucky!
You see Sydenham will be down here at once; and it wouldn’t be exactly
the thing for you to receive him at this house, and our only hotel is
perfectly impracticable in winter; and that brings me to what I am here
about. Lillie is going to New York to spend the holidays; and I wanted
you to shut up, and come up and keep house for us. You see you have
only one servant, and we have four to be looked after. You can bring
your maid along, and then I will invite Walter to our house, where he
will have a clear field; and you can settle all your matters between
you.”
“So Lillie is going to the Follingsbees’?” said Grace.
“Yes: she had a long, desperately sentimental letter from Mrs.
Follingsbee, urging, imploring, and entreating, and setting forth all
the splendors and glories of New York. Between you and me, it strikes
me that that Mrs. Follingsbee is an affected goose; but I couldn’t
say so to Lillie, ‘by no manner of means.’ She professes an untold
amount of admiration and friendship for Lillie, and sets such brilliant
prospects before her, that I should be the most hard-hearted old Turk
in existence if I were to raise any objections; and, in fact, Lillie is
quite brilliant in anticipation, and makes herself so delightful that I
am almost sorry that I agreed to let her go.”
“When shall you want me, John?”
“Well, this evening, say; and, by the way, couldn’t you come up and see
Lillie a little while this morning? She sent her love to you, and said
she was so hurried with packing, and all that, that she wanted you to
excuse her not calling.”
“Oh, yes! I’ll come,” said Grace, good-naturedly, “as soon as I have
had time to put things in a little order.”
“And write your letter,” said John, gayly, as he went out. “Don’t
forget that.”
Grace did not forget the letter; but we shall not indulge our readers
with any peep over her shoulder, only saying that, though written with
an abundance of precaution, it was one with which Walter Sydenham was
well satisfied.
Then she made her few arrangements in the housekeeping line, called in
her grand vizier and prime minister from the kitchen, and held with
her a counsel of ways and means; put on her india-rubbers and Polish
boots, and walked up through the deep snow-drifts to the Springdale
post-office, where she dropped the fateful letter with a good heart on
the whole; and then she went on to John’s, the old home, to offer any
parting services to Lillie that might be wanted.
It is rather amusing, in any family circle, to see how some one member,
by dint of persistent exactions, comes to receive always, in all the
exigencies of life, an amount of attention and devotion which is never
rendered back. Lillie never thought of such a thing as offering any
services of any sort to Grace. Grace might have packed her trunks to go
to the moon, or the Pacific Ocean, quite alone for matter of any help
Lillie would ever have thought of. If Grace had headache or toothache
or a bad cold, Lillie was always “so sorry;” but it never occurred to
her to go and sit with her, to read to her, or offer any of a hundred
little sisterly offices. When she was in similar case, John always
summoned Grace to sit with Lillie during the hours that his business
necessarily took him from her. It really seemed to be John’s impression
that a toothache or headache of Lillie’s was something entirely
different from the same thing with Grace, or any other person in the
world; and Lillie fully shared the impression.
Grace found the little empress quite bewildered in her multiplicity of
preparations, and neglected details, all of which had been deferred to
the last day; and Rosa and Anna and Bridget, in fact the whole staff,
were all busy in getting her off.
“So good of you to come, Gracie!” and, “If you would do this;” and,
“Won’t you see to that?” and, “If you could just do the other!” and
Grace both could and would, and did what no other pair of hands could
in the same time. John apologized for the lack of any dinner. “The fact
is, Gracie, Bridget had to be getting up a lot of her things that were
forgotten till the last moment; and I told her not to mind, we could do
on a cold lunch.” Bridget herself had become so wholly accustomed to
the ways of her little mistress, that it now seemed the most natural
thing in the world that the whole house should be upset for her.
But, at last, every thing was ready and packed; the trunks and boxes
shut and locked, and the keys sorted; and John and Lillie were on their
way to the station.
“I shall find out Walter in New York, and bring him back with me,” said
John, cheerily, as he parted from Grace in the hall. “I leave you to
get things all to rights for us.”
It would not have been a very agreeable or cheerful piece of work to
tidy the disordered house and take command of the domestic forces
under any other circumstances; but now Grace found it a very nice
diversion to prevent her thoughts from running too curiously on this
future meeting. “After all,” she thought to herself, “he is just the
same venturesome, imprudent creature that he always was, jumping to
conclusions, and insisting on seeing every thing in his own way. How
could he dare write me such a letter without seeing me? Ten years make
great changes. How could he be sure he would like me?” And she examined
herself somewhat critically in the looking-glass.
“Well,” she said, “he may thank me for it that we are not engaged, and
that he comes only as an old friend, and perfectly free, for all he has
said, to be nothing more, unless on seeing each other we are so agreed.
I am so sorry the old place is all demolished and be-Frenchified. It
won’t look natural to him; and I am not the kind of person to harmonize
with these cold, polished, glistening, slippery surroundings, that have
no home life or association in them.”
But Grace had to wake from these reflections to culinary counsels with
Bridget, and to arrangements of apartments with Rosa. Her own exacting
carefulness followed the careless footsteps of the untrained handmaids,
and rearranged every plait and fold; so that by nightfall the next day
she was thoroughly tired.
She beguiled the last moments, while waiting for the coming of the
cars, in arranging her hair, and putting on one of those wonderful
Parisian dresses, which adapt themselves so precisely to the air of the
wearer that they seem to be in themselves works of art. Then she stood
with a fluttering color to see the carriage drive up to the door, and
the two get out of it.
It is almost too bad to spy out such meetings, and certainly one has
no business to describe them; but Walter Sydenham carried all before
him, by an old habit which he had of taking all and every thing for
granted, as, from the first moment, he did with Grace. He had no idea
of hesitations or holdings off, and would have none; and met Gracie as
if they had parted only yesterday, and as if her word to him always had
been yes, instead of no.
In fact, they had not been together five minutes before the whole life
of youth returned to them both,—that indestructible youth which belongs
to warm hearts and buoyant spirits.
Such a merry evening as they had of it! When John, as the wood fire
burned low on the hearth, with some excuse of letters to write in his
library, left them alone together, Walter put on her finger a diamond
ring, saying,—
“There, Gracie! now, when shall it be? You see you’ve kept me waiting
so long that I can’t spare you much time. I have an engagement to be in
Montreal the first of February, and I couldn’t think of going alone.
They have merry times there in mid-winter; and I’m sure it will be ever
so much nicer for you than keeping house alone here.”
Grace said, of course, that it was impossible; but Walter declared
that doing the impossible was precisely in his line, and pushed on his
various advantages with such spirit and energy that, when they parted
for the night, Grace said she would think of it: which promise, at the
breakfast-table next morning, was interpreted by the unblushing Walter,
and reported to John, as a full consent. Before noon that day, Walter
had walked up with John and Grace to take a survey of the cottage,
and had given John indefinite power to engage workmen and artificers
to rearrange and enlarge and beautify it for their return after the
wedding journey. For the rest of the visit, all the three were busy
with pencil and paper, projecting balconies, bow-windows, pantries,
library, and dining-room, till the old cottage so blossomed out in
imagination as to leave only a germ of its former self.
Walter’s visit brought back to John a deal of the warmth and freedom
which he had not known since he married. We often live under an
insensible pressure of which we are made aware only by its removal.
John had been so much in the habit lately of watching to please Lillie,
of measuring and checking his words or actions, that he now bubbled
over with a wild, free delight in finding himself alone with Grace and
Walter. He laughed, sang, whistled, skipped upstairs two at a time, and
scarcely dared to say even to himself why he was so happy. He did not
face himself with that question, and went dutifully to the library at
stated times to write to Lillie, and made much of her little letters.