A PROPOSAL
I see a small, old-fashioned room,
With paneled wainscot high;
Old portraits round in order set,
Carved, heavy tables, chairs, buffets,
Of dark mahogany.
And there a high-backed, hard settee
On six brown legs and paws,
Flowered o’er with silk embroidery;
And there, all rough with filigree,
Tall screens on gilded claws.
CAROLINE SOUTHEY.
When young Ronald Bruce awoke in the morning he found all things
prepared for his toilet by the care of the two boys, who had brought
fresh water and towels for their guest while he slept.
He arose and dressed himself before the tall mirror on the chest of
drawers that stood between the two back windows looking out upon the
precipice.
Just before leaving his room he leaned from the window and plucked a
wild mountain rose that grew in the cleft of the rock and placed it in
his buttonhole.
Then he went downstairs to find his way to the parlor.
He found the little Italian girl, Vennie, in the hall below. With the
impetuosity of her age and nation she rushed to him, threw herself into
his arms, calling him by the most extravagant pet names that her
hyperbolical language afforded.
He responded to all her enthusiastic caresses, and then allowed her to
lead him into an old-fashioned, oak-paneled front parlor that looked out
upon the garden of the old manor-house, and beyond that upon the section
of the wooded vale with its wall of mountains and its far down glimpse
of the river.
Here he found the breakfast table neatly set and Em. herself flitting
from cupboard to kitchen, back and forth, putting finishing touches to
its arrangement.
She paused suddenly in her work to greet him as he entered.
He noticed the lovely flush and the timid smile that lighted up her face
as she offered her hand and her low-toned “good-morning.”
He took the delicate hand and raised it to his lips, while her eyes
dropped and her color deepened under the eloquent gaze he fixed on her
face.
But before he could speak a word John entered with boisterous cordiality
and greeted his guest. Since coming to the country and entering upon a
happier and more prosperous manner of life, John’s nature had risen out
of its subdued sadness into something very like hilariousness.
Susan soon followed him; breakfast was brought in, and the four sat down
to the table.
Old Monica waited on them.
“I hope the old commodore won’t be up early enough this morning to
inquire after you and grow anxious before you get home,” said blunt
John.
“Oh, no, my uncle rises very late. It is a habit he has grown into since
his retirement from the navy,” smilingly replied the young man.
“You didn’t tell me whether there was any one else at The Breezes to
keep the old gentleman company,” said Palmer.
“Oh, a house full. My mother is there, and his sister, and her daughter,
and two lady friends,” said Ronald Bruce.
“A nice party for a country house, I should say. But, dear me, five
ladies and only one young gentleman to take care of them! You must have
your hands quite full, sir,” exclaimed John in comic dismay.
“Oh. not at all! My uncle relieves me—plays whist, reads, drives and
tells stories. I assure you, he is the more popular of the two of us,”
laughed Ronald, as they rose from the table.
“Well, Lieutenant, whenever you are disposed, by way of a little change,
to leave high life and ladies’ society for a plain man’s company and
table, we shall all be very glad and grateful to have you here,”
heartily declared John.
“Thanks, very much. Now, however, I shall have to bid you a happy
good-morning,” replied Ronald.
“Stay. I will order your horse,” exclaimed Palmer, hurrying from the
room.
Susan had already left it temporarily to see to some household affairs.
The young lovers were alone.
“Oh, my little fairy of the forest, when shall I see you again?” he
breathed in a low sigh, as he took her hand and looked into her face.
She dropped her eyes, but did not reply.
“When shall I see you again, Em.?” he pleaded.
“When you come again. Father said he would be glad to have you,” she
murmured without raising her eyes.
“And _you_, will you be glad to see me?”
Susan Palmer bustled into the room before the girl could reply.
Ronald dropped Em.’s hand and turned away.
John came in and announced the horses, for there were two.
“I have ordered a groom to attend you, sir, that he may bring back the
beasts without giving you any trouble,” Palmer explained.
“You give yourself a great deal of trouble, my friend,” said Ronald.
“No, the animals need exercise. I am glad of the chance of giving it to
them. Between you and me, sir, two-thirds of their number ought to be
sold, and so I have told the agent time and again. What good do they do
standing in their stalls? Well, sir, Lord bless you!” said John,
heartily shaking the offered hand of his departing guest.
Ronald Bruce then took leave of Susan and of Em., holding the girl’s
hand a little while in hope that she would raise her blue eyes once to
his own.
But she did not, so he pressed the little hand and left her.
Then Em. slipped out of the room and flew up to her attic chamber and
placed herself at the window which commanded a view of the mountain path
by which Ronald Bruce left the house.
She saw him ride away slowly up the mountain until he reached the
entrance of an evergreen thicket, which would soon conceal him from
view.
There he paused and turned to look back at the house which contained his
idol. To Em.’s dismay his eyes caught her as she watched him from the
window. He raised his hat, bowed very low and rode slowly and
reluctantly into the thicket, where he disappeared.
Em. remained at the window, gazing up the now deserted mountain path,
lost in thought.
“To think that he should have remembered me so long! To think he, a
cultured and refined man of good family, should care for me so much—for
me, the child of a workman; a poor, half educated girl! Yet he _does_
care for me. But, oh! I wish he had not held my hand so long or dropped
it so suddenly when poor mother came in. If there was any harm in his
holding my hand, why _did_ he hold it? Or if there was _no_ harm, why
did he drop it so quickly? I don’t understand! I wonder what will come
of it all! Oh, how I do wish I could look into the future!”
“EM.!”
She started from her dreamy reverie. It was her mother’s voice calling
loudly from the foot of the stairs.
“Yes, ma’am; I’m coming directly,” she answered, as she hurried down
from the attic.
Susan was at the foot of the stairs.
“Where have you been all this time, girl?”
“Only upstairs, mother.”
“There’s a whole basket full of stockings to darn, and you ought to have
been at it an hour ago; only this having a visitor puts everything back;
not but what he was a very agreeable young man, too,” said Susan Palmer,
as she led the way, followed by her daughter, to the family
sitting-room, where just then a patch-work quilt was stretched out in
the frame, and all the women and girls of the house, except Em. and her
mother, were seated at it, industriously quilting.
Susan joined the quilters and Em. sat down to her basket of stockings.
So the family routine was taken up again.
Days passed, and the visit of young Ronald Bruce was nearly forgotten by
all the busy family except Em., who, more was the pity, thought of him
all day and dreamed of him all night.
“I can’t think what has come over the child!” said John. “She is so
silent.”
“She wants amusement. She wants some change. Some companions of her own
age. She is not a child any longer, but a young woman,” said Susan.
“Well, I know; but she can drive, and she can ride, and she can row,”
said John; “and she used to be very fond of doing that when she first
came down here.”
“Oh, yes, it was all new to her then; but it is all played out now. Em.
wants the company of young people of her own age. Here she has only old
folks and children.”
“Well, poor gal, I wish I could give her all she wants,” sighed John.
“Where is she now?”
“Sitting out in the back porch making a dress for Mrs. Whitlock.”
No more was said at the time.
Weeks passed and nothing more was heard of Ronald Bruce.
“I wonder why he does not come,” sighed Em. to herself. “He seemed so
delighted to see me, so anxious to know whether I was going to stay in
the neighborhood, and so overjoyed when I told him that I was living
here permanently. He even told me that would decide him to remain with
his uncle. And yet he has never called here since, though father invited
him so cordially to do so. Perhaps he stays away because father has not
returned his visit; but surely a young gentleman like himself would not
stand on ceremony with a plain, elderly overseer like poor father. Oh,
dear, I don’t understand it at all, and I wish I could stop thinking
about it.”
But she did not stop thinking about it, although she busied herself more
actively and constantly than ever with her household duties.
Two months passed, and the very memory of the young lieutenant’s visit,
which had broken the monotony of their life in the Wilderness, seemed to
have faded away into dreamland.
The golden days of October were at hand, and still no news was heard of
their neighbor, Ronald Bruce.
One glorious autumn morning about this time the family had finished
breakfast and John and the boys had gone out to work.
Susan and the other women and children were gathered in the family
sitting-room, where a cheerful wood fire burned on the hearth.
They were busily engaged in their various employments. Susan was making
up flannel shirts for the winter, assisted by the three little girls,
who were hemming for her. Ann Whitlock was knitting yarn socks for
coming cold weather, old Monica was sewing carpet rags, and Em. seated
at the window which commanded the mountain pass leading to The Breezes,
was carefully working the buttonholes in the otherwise finished shirts.
Suddenly she called out:
“Oh, mother, what do you think? There is a carriage coming down the
mountain road toward the house! Such a handsome carriage, with such fine
horses and liveried servants! Whose can it be, do you think?”
“Lord knows!” exclaimed Susan, as she started, dropping her work, and
rushed to the window, followed by all the family, to see the
unprecedented sight of a carriage coming to the solitary manor-house.
They crowded before the two windows of that end of the room and gazed
with wonder upon the phenomenon.
It was certainly a very handsome, close carriage, drawn by a splendid
pair of silver-gray horses, and driven by a stout, gray-haired negro
coachman in livery.
It wound down the mountain road, turned into the house drive, and
finally drew up before the main entrance of the old hall. A footman got
down from behind and knocked at the door.
“The idea of anybody knocking at that empty old house! It’s awful, it’s
ghostly, and one wouldn’t be astonished if a ghost was to open the door
at last!” exclaimed Susan Palmer, as she left the sitting-room and went
out of her own house door to meet the visitors, whoever they might
chance to be.
The women and children stared through one of the windows to see what was
coming of this arrival.
Em. gazed through the other, hoping some news of—well, of one Ronald
Bruce, in whom she took some interest.
She saw her mother go up the front steps of the old manor-house to the
still persistently knocking footman and seem to explain to him the utter
futility of his exertions and the total impossibility of receiving any
response from a closed-up and deserted house.
She then saw her, followed by the footman, walk up to the door of the
carriage and speak to some one within.
Finally she saw the carriage door open and a lady alight and join her
mother.
As they walked towards the old house Em. had a good view of the lady’s
face and form.
She was a tall, slender, dark-haired, dark-eyed woman, still beautiful,
though passed the prime of life, for she seemed from forty to forty-five
years of age. She was richly dressed in black, but not in mourning, and
a handsome cashmere shawl fell gracefully from her shoulders.
But what took Em.’s breath as the stranger drew nearer was her wondrous
likeness to Ronald Bruce.
“She is his mother! I know that beautiful and queenly woman is his
mother,” said Em. to herself in breathless interest, as the lady and her
conductress approached.
“If you will excuse our plainness, madam, and come into the sitting-room
you will find a fire. There is none in the parlor, and as it is damp
there, you might take cold,” said Susan, as she entered the house.
“Pray make no apologies, Mrs. Palmer; I am sure this room is
delightfully home-like and attractive,” answered the lady, with just a
tinge of condescension in her manner that escaped the notice of Susan,
but slightly chilled Em.’s more sensitive spirit.
“Pray take a seat, Mrs. Bruce,” said Susan, pushing forward the best
arm-chair. “This is my oldest daughter that I have at home,” added
Susan, introducing Em., but not thinking it necessary to present the
other members of her numerous family.
“How do you do, my dear?” said the lady, kindly holding out her
kid-gloved hand to the girl as if to encourage a poor child of the lower
orders, but looking on her with the beautiful dark eyes of Ronald Bruce.
Em. bent her head respectfully, but in silence; for indeed there was no
need for her to speak, as the lady turned away almost instantly and
addressed Susan:
“Yes, Mrs. Palmer, as I was saying to you, I have come here in search of
a seamstress and in some hope of getting one from your family. My son,
Lieutenant Bruce, of the navy, who knows your husband, I think——”
“Yes, madam, he does. I hope the lieutenant is well?”
Em.’s eyes, ears and heart were all on the _qui vive_ now. She almost
feared her companions of the moment might read her thoughts, her hopes
and her fears in her face, so she bent lowlier over her task and worked
more diligently at her buttonholes.
“Thanks, he is quite well. He has just returned from a two months’
sojourn at the Naval Academy of Annapolis, where he was suddenly called
upon some business connected with the school—some investigation of—I
know not what.”
“Oh, indeed,” said Susan.
Em.’s troubled heart leaped for joy and then settled into a delicious
calm. He had not forgotten her. He had been away. That was all.
“My son, hearing me inquire in vain of my friends for a seamstress,
casually informed me that the new overseer of the Wilderness Manor had
several daughters, and it would be quite worth while to try whether one
of them would not be able to enter my service. I really _must_ have help
in getting ready for the winter, Mrs. Palmer. So if one of your girls
would come to me at once she should have a comfortable home and liberal
remuneration,” continued the lady.
“Well, really, ma’am, it is true I have several daughters—six of ’em, in
fact; but the two eldest are married and away. And the three youngest
are little things, from six to ten. So it comes to this, that there is
no one but Em. here who is fit for the place.”
“As Ronald Bruce knew well enough,” smiled Em. to herself.
“Ah, is it so? But of course Lieutenant Bruce could not know all these
little details of your family. He only knew that you had several girls
who might possibly be good seamstresses.”
“Just so, ma’am; but there’s only Em.,” said Susan.
“As he knew—as he knew,” silently sang the girl’s heart.
“Is she a neat and skillful seamstress?”
“None better in the world, ma’am, I think.”
“Then if you will part with her to me, I would like to engage her for a
few weeks.”
“It is just as Em. pleases, madam. There is no necessity in us why our
girls should go out to work, but I am willing to oblige you; and
besides, I think the change would do the girl good. She has been moping
lately. What do you say, Em.?” inquired Susan, turning to her quiet
daughter.
“I will go, mother, if this lady wishes me to do so; and I will do my
best to give satisfaction,” answered the girl demurely.
“Very well. Can you be ready to come to-morrow if I send the carriage
for you?” inquired Mrs. Bruce.
“I will come to you to-morrow, madam; but do not take the trouble to
send for me. One of my brothers can take me to you,” said Em.
“Just as you please, my dear. Three dollars a week, with board and
washing, is what I have been in the habit of giving my seamstresses,”
concluded the lady, as she arose to take her leave.
“What will father say to this, mother?” inquired Em. when Mrs. Bruce had
gone.
“Your father won’t say nothing against it, child. We have had many a
talk about you. He’ll be glad you’ll have a change. And mind, he’ll take
you over there himself to-morrow morning,” answered Susan.
Em. spent the remainder of the day in packing her little box for her
removal to Commodore Bruce’s.
When John Palmer came home to dinner he was told what had happened and
gave his hearty approval.
“I’m glad for the girl’s sake,” he said. “I know it will do her a great
deal of good. We’ll miss her very much, I feel. But our loss will be her
gain, and we must put up with it; for ‘sich is life.’”
Later in the day old ’Sias and Aunt Sally, who had heard the news from
the boys, strayed into the house to pay Em. a parting visit.
“Well,” said old ’Sias, “I ain’t had sich a surprise, no, not since I
was a boy, and dat were about a hund’ed and fifty years ago, more or
less, honey, more or less!”
“Law! What a story! But he don’t mean no harm by it, Miss Em. ’Deed he
don’t! He nebber does nuffin’ to nobody,” said Aunt Sally. “But I’m
mighty pleased long o’ dem dere B’uces what yer gwine to, honey. I
nebber seed de ole man, nor yet de madam, but I see de young man, what
time he come and took supper and stayed all night here. He’s a good
soul, honey. I took a good look at him, and I know it. He’s a good soul.
He’ll nebber do nuffin’ to nobody.”
With these consoling assurances Aunt Sally took leave and departed,
carrying Uncle ’Sias away with her.
That night after Em. went to bed her mother came up unexpectedly and sat
by her side.
“After this busy day I wish to take this only chance I shall have of
speaking to you in private, my child,” she said.
Em. took her mother’s hand and kissed it with silent affection.
“Listen to me, child. I want to give you a little advice before you
leave us for your safe guidance while you are away.”
“Dear mother, indeed I will listen; indeed I will follow your counsel,”
said the girl simply and earnestly.
“I need not tell you to read the Word of God, with prayer, morning and
evening. That I am sure you will do.”
“Yes, dear, I will.”
“Nor need I give you any hints as to your conduct toward your employers.
Your own good sense will teach you how to behave toward them. But, oh,
my dear child, there are dangers that beset youth which I cannot even
hint at without hurting you.”
“Speak what is on your mind, dear mother; never mind hurting me,” said
Em. tenderly.
“No, I cannot. But I will give you one little simple rule, easy to
remember and easy to follow for your safe guidance among your new
companions: _Never do or say anything that you would not like your
mother to see or hear._”
“I never will! Indeed, dear mother, I never, never will!” earnestly
replied Em.
“That is right. Be guided by that rule, my child. It is the path of
safety.”