A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.
“Grandmother!”
“Well, my dear.”
Anna did not answer at first, but sat for a time lost in thought. At
last she spoke again, but in a voice so constrained that the old lady
looked at her with sudden anxiety.
“Grandmother, how long would it take us to move?”
“Not long,” answered the old lady; “we have not much to pack up. Two or
three hours would get us ready for the cart, if we all worked.”
“Could we go to-night, grandmother?”
“We could, certainly—but where?”
“I have found a place. When Miss Halstead was here the other day, she
told me of a little house which belonged to her grandmother, who did not
care to rent it just then, and wanted a nice, quiet family to take
charge of it. She had mentioned us to the old lady, and we are just the
kind of people she wants.”
“Have you seen the house, Anna?”
“No, grandmother; but Miss Halstead says it is very comfortable and
pretty.”
“And the rent?”
“I told you, if you remember, that we were to take charge of the house.
It is furnished, and they must have some one. There is no question of
rent about it.”
“That is rather strange. Are you sure, Anna, that Miss Halstead is not
making this a charity in disguise?”
“It may be—I cannot tell; but one thing I do know, if charity could be
sweet from any one, that dear young lady would make it so. She is good
and lovely as an angel!”
“She is, indeed.”
“And you will accept this offer, grandmother?”
“It seems too good to be true, Anna. But if we can take a more
comfortable house on such terms, it would be wrong to refuse it. For
many reasons, dear, I should be glad to get you out of this place.”
“And I shall be so glad to move. It seems as if I could not breathe
here. Put on your shawl, grandmother, and let us go look at the house.
It is not so very far away.”
“How impatient you are, Anna. We will look at the house, and I will get
ready; but as for moving, we must give the landlady notice—she has been
very kind to us.”
“So she has, grandmother, I had forgotten her. Indeed, it seems to me as
if I forget every thing but myself. Of course, the boys must be
consulted.”
“They must, at least, be informed.”
“Oh! how I wish it could be done at once; but if that is impossible, we
can, at least, go and see this new house.”
The old lady put on a neat crape bonnet which Anna had made for her, and
covered the darns in her dress with an old black shawl, good in its
time, but worn thin as muslin in places. She looked neat, and like a
perfect gentlewoman; and would have appeared so in any dress, for with
her, innate refinement was independent of costume.
Anna had been sitting in her bonnet and shawl, for she had taken a long
walk after her interview with Joseph, which ended in that call on Miss
Halstead, during which the business of the house had been settled.
Georgiana had received her with more than kindness. There was something
shy and tender in her manner inexpressibly touching. It seemed as if she
were accepting a favor, rather than conferring one, when a second offer
of the house was made. Old Mrs. Halstead had been called in to the
conference, and seemed delighted at the prospect of securing such
unexceptionable inmates for her house.
“It is a little box of a place in the edge of the town, so small that I
find it difficult to obtain a tenant that suits me. Besides, I may
sometimes wish to live in it myself.”
“You! grandmamma?” exclaimed Georgiana.
“Yes. When my pretty grandchild here gets tired of petting me, or loves
some other person enough to leave me.”
“That I never shall—never!” answered Georgie. “Now it is impossible.”
The old lady laid a hand on her young head with a queenly sort of
tenderness, and said, “Hush, child, hush! I do not like to hear you talk
in this way.”
“What! do you want me to leave you?” answered Georgie, rallying her
sprightliness; “that is very unkind, grandmamma.”
There was something sad and a little out of the common way here, which
Anna did not understand. Was it possible that this beautiful young
creature, living in the very lap of wealth, could have her anxieties and
feel the heartache as she did? The thought made her look on Georgie with
more interest; a growing sympathy was fast springing up between these
two girls, so far apart in the social strata, but so close together in
that refinement of heart and mind which makes high natures kin.
“If you can go to-day,” said Georgie, “I will meet you at the house and
do the honors.”
So it was arranged; and Anna went home, brightened a little by this
change in her existence, to consult her grandmother, and prepare for the
appointment she had made.
Mrs. Burns entered a street-car and sat down by Anna, pleased with an
event that had drawn her from the eternal sameness of her garret-home.
She was a mild, sweet-faced old lady, for whom even the rude jostlers of
a street-car made room reverently. So she enjoyed her ride, and thanked
God in her heart that Anna would soon be under a shelter where no bad,
rude man would dare to force himself upon her. The advent of Mr. Ward
into what had been to them always a safe and peaceful dwelling, had
distressed the old lady more than her grandchildren had dreamed of. She
had seen enough of the world in her lifetime to understand that to be
domesticated with a young man, from any grade in society, would bring
reproach of some kind on her child. The cars stopped, and after walking
a single block, these two women found themselves in front of an opening
or park, encircled by a double crescent of small three-story cottages,
with verandahs of light wood-work running along each story, all woven
and draped with climbing roses, honeysuckles, and Virginia creepers. In
fact, the front of these houses was one lattice-work of flowers; and all
the open ground inclosed in the two crescents was broken up with
guilder-roses, lilacs, spireas, and a world of roses growing in rich
masses, if not always rare, exceedingly beautiful.
A street ran between the two crescents lined with tall trees, which,
here and there, tangled their branches over it. In the grounds, too,
were weeping-willows, the paper-mulberry, and alanthus trees, drooping
under the weight of great clusters of vividly red fruit.
The old lady uttered an exclamation, half delight, half surprise. Was it
possible? Could she again gather her son’s children about her in a place
like that? To Anna it seemed a little paradise. The very breath stopped
on her lips as she paused to gaze upon it. “There must be some mistake,”
she said. “The number was on one of those gates, truly; but it could not
be.” She stood before one of the rustic gates which opened to a house in
the very deepest curve of one of the crescents, bewildered and
uncertain.
“Do not attempt to open it,” said the old lady, restraining her
granddaughter’s hand as she was about to unlatch the gate. “It cannot be
here we are to live.”
Poor old soul! She had lived so long in the close rooms of that
tenement-building, that these houses, very simple and unpretending if
divested of their grounds and flowers, seemed far too magnificent for
her aspirations.
“Let us go on,” she said, “and search out the real house; this place is
as lovely as paradise, but it is not for us. I wish you had not come
this way, Anna, it will make you dissatisfied with the reality.”
“Look, grandmother, look! It is the very house. There is Miss Halstead
in the door; you can scarcely see her for the honeysuckles—but I should
know her face anywhere. She is coming forward, and looks so pleased.
Come, grandmother.”
Through the gate they went, and along the broad path lined with flowers
on either hand. A rustic chair stood in the lower verandah, close by an
open French window, which led into a pretty little parlor connected by
folding doors, always kept open, with one of the cosiest little rooms
you ever saw. This room was just large enough to hold a small couch, an
easy-chair, a stand for flowers, and some books—just what it did
contain. Mrs. Burns sat down in the rustic chair, and drop after drop
trembled up into her dear old eyes. Was this to be her home, even for a
short season? Would her children breathe the odor of these flowers, and
sleep in those neat rooms? She could not realize it. Our readers know
how this sweet, old creature had bent and yielded to what was inevitable
in adversity without a murmur, and without shedding a single tear: but
she was childlike with gratitude now, and the tears began to steal down
her withered cheek in slow drops of happiness.
“My dear,” she said, holding out her hand to Georgiana Halstead, “come
here and let the old woman kiss you, she is getting to be a child again;
but a happy, very happy child. Are we, indeed, to live here?”
“If you will, dear madam, my grandmother wishes it; but she makes one
condition.”
“What is that? I am sure it will not be a hard one.”
“Not very, I hope. While you stay in the house, you and your family must
occupy it entirely. Your own furniture can be brought in, but you will
find the house tolerable without that. She wishes no reserve as to room
or furniture. Take possession when you please—the sooner the better;
that is all the condition my grandmother makes.”
“Your grandmother is a kind woman, and I thank her—that is all we can
do. We are poor in every thing but this gratitude, which is very sweet
to feel.”
“Let us see the house. It was pretty as a bird’s-nest when I was here
months ago. How fortunate it is that grandmamma did not wish to let it.
Come up stairs, you will find a very pretty sitting-room there, one of
the most breezy, cheerful places you ever saw. Your bed-chamber, Mrs.
Burns, opens into that. Anna’s will be on the third story. I have
arranged it all. Come and see.”
Up stairs they went, into a room which Georgie had described well as
cheerful and breezy, for the two sash-windows were open, and the whole
chamber was swept with perfumed air as they entered it. Two good-sized
book-cases were in this room, filled with pleasant reading. The
furniture was all excellent, but unpretending. Two or three engravings
hung on the walls; and one of Wheeler & Wilson’s sewing-machines stood
in a rosewood case in one corner. In the balcony, which seemed like a
little room—it was so festooned with vines—were some rustic chairs, and
a bird-cage, in which birds were chirping.
“This is my little present,” said Georgie, promptly, remarking the old
lady’s look of surprise. “Here is a rocking-chair, which grandmamma sent
from her own room. No one is to sit in that but Mrs. Burns, remember.
Now take a peep in here; comfortable, I think.”
She opened the bedroom door and revealed a low bed, white as snow, but
simple as a bed well could be; an easy-chair, covered with white dimity,
stood near it, and every thing that an old person could require for
comfort or convenience was there. Something more than the common
furniture of a house had certainly been added here. Georgiana accounted
for this frankly enough.
“Grandmamma,” she said, “had more of these things than she knew how to
use, and would send them. She does so like to make every thing
complete.”
Old Mrs. Burns had not been known to smile so frequently as she did that
day for years. There was an absolute glow on her face all the time she
stayed in that cottage. She felt intuitively that some great kindness
was intended, but it gave her no pain—generous persons can receive
favors without annoyance; the very qualities which induce them to give
freely enable them to receive gracefully. Here that good old lady had a
double pleasure, that of occupying a pleasant home, and the intense
gratitude which came out of it, which was exquisite happiness in itself.
“Tell your grandmother that her kindness has made an old woman hopeful
again. For my own sake, and in behalf of my dear children, I thank her.”
They stood by the gate looking back upon the grounds when Mrs. Burns
said this. Anna was a little apart, silent, and with a dreamy sadness in
her eyes. She had said little while examining the house. What could a
change of place do for her? Indeed, I think the old rooms under the roof
of that tenement-house was dearer to her than those open balconies, and
all the flowers that draped them, for there _he_ had held her hand
quietly in his. There he had “looked, though he was seldom talking of
love.” She was glad for her grandmother’s sake, and pleased that the
boys, who worked so hard and were so good, would be for a time, at
least, made more comfortable. As for herself, poor girl, her life was
broken up. But for those dear ones she would have been glad to die, had
God so willed it.
Georgiana Halstead did not understand this. She knew nothing of Anna’s
interview with Mrs. Savage; and deeming her possessed of a love for
which she would have given so much, was both surprised and disappointed
at a coldness which to her seemed want of feeling. In the exaltation of
a most generous nature, she had found relief in carrying out the promise
she had given Horace Savage; but she had expected more enthusiasm, more
demonstrative happiness, from a girl who had darkened her own life in
attaining the love which was so ready to lift her out of all that was
disagreeable in her life.
Georgiana went home with Mrs. Burns. She was not the girl to make half
sacrifices, and thought that, perhaps, her help or counsel might be of
use. She would not be saddened by Anna’s silence, or disheartened in any
way. Horace had asked her to befriend these people, and she would oblige
him whether they wished it or not.
Very much to the surprise of Mrs. Burns and her visitor, Robert had
reached home earlier than usual, and was sitting in the room with young
Mr. Gould, who had just returned from Ward’s room, where a fiery scene
had passed between him and his old friend. That morning Robert had
appealed to the nephew of his employer with frank earnestness, and
besought him to get the young man away from that house. He told Gould
how cruelly his presence annoyed sister Anna, and added that the
grandmother had appealed to him in vain.
Gould was terribly angry when he learned how meanly Ward had seized upon
his reckless hint to persecute a helpless girl. Every generous impulse
of his nature rose up in repudiation of an act so base. Scarcely had
Robert told his story, when Gould seized his hat and stood ready, so far
as lay in his power, to correct the evil his own rash folly had
instigated. His transient fancy for Robert’s sister had vanished long
ago, and he felt responsible for an act which might injure her, and
certainly debased the man he had once considered as his friend.
I have said there was a stormy scene in Ward’s room within ten minutes
after Gould entered the house. We do not care to give the particulars,
as it was enacted at the very time Mrs. Burns was going over her new
house—a much pleasanter subject. But the result was, that an hour after
young Ward gave up his key to the landlady, and hurried out of the house
with a portmanteau in his hand, looking greatly flurried, and as mean as
an exquisite dandy could well look.
Gould went up stairs with Robert, resolved to set the old lady and her
charge at rest for the future; and, if it could be done, offer them such
help as might atone for the trouble he had unwittingly occasioned them.
He had been angry, or at least excited with generous indignation; and
his very handsome face was lighted up into something more striking than
mere color or form. He really was splendid while moving up and down that
little room, his face bright with noble feeling, and his step lithe as
the movements of a panther.
Gould stood in the middle of the room when the young girls came in. I
think at that particular moment it would have been hard to find a more
noble-looking fellow. Anna started and turned crimson. She recognized
him at once as the Bois Guilbert of that Waverly tableau that had
terminated so disastrously. Georgie, too, remembered him, and blushed in
company with her friend.
“My dear madam,” said the young man, addressing Mrs. Burns, “I beg ten
thousand pardons for this intrusion; and as many more that any person I
have ever known should have been its cause. My friend Robert here—a boy
to be proud of, madam—informed me of the distress Ward had thrown you
into, and I came up at once to turn him out. He is gone; I saw him into
the street myself. You need have no further uneasiness on his account.”
“You are very good, very kind,” answered the old lady, thanking him with
her eyes all the time she was speaking. “It would have been a great
service, and is; but we are going to move.”
“What! has the scoundrel really driven you out?”
“No, not altogether that. We have found friends,” said Mrs. Burns,
looking significantly at Georgiana.
“I am heartily glad of that. Miss Halstead, I have already had the
pleasure of an introduction. I could hardly have found it in my heart to
forgive any one else for preceding me. But my uncle and I will settle
our share with my young friend Robert.”
“Robert,” whispered Mrs. Burns, who seemed to be trembling all over,
“who is this young gentleman?”
“Hush, grandmother! it is only young Mr. Gould.”
The old woman dropped into a chair, and, clasping her hands together,
forced herself to sit still.
“I will go now,” said Georgie, seeing that nothing could be done.
“To-morrow I will come again, and we will arrange things. Robert, are
you very tired? It is getting a little dark, I think.”
Robert got up and took his hat from the table; but young Gould took it
gently from his hand and laid it back again. “I am going by Miss
Halstead’s residence. Will she permit me to escort her?”
Georgie smiled, twisted the elastic around her lace parasol, as if it
was of no further use, and prepared to go. That splendid young fellow,
with eyes so soft, and yet so bright, was no mean escort for any
girl—and Georgiana was quite conscious of the fact. Indeed, of the two,
she could not but confess he was taller and finer-looking than Savage.
That was why he had been selected to represent the magnificent Templar.
So Georgie went home, accompanied by Mr. Gould, with her pretty gloved
hand resting on his arm lightly as a bird touches the branch it nests
on, yet sending the pleasantest sort of a sensation through that arm,
and into the impetuous heart close by. If Georgie was conscious of the
mischief she was doing, the pretty rogue gave no sign, unless a little
heavier weight upon the arm might have been deemed such; but upon the
steps of her father’s mansion she paused, after ascending just far
enough to bring her face on a level with his, and such a warm, rosy
smile met him that he longed to kiss her then and there, as an excuse
for going into that house and demanding her on the instant of her
father. Gould had seen that provokingly handsome creature many a time
without any such feelings, and asked himself, with supreme contempt,
what he had been about never to fall in love with her before.
“May you call?” said Georgie, putting the tip of her parasol up to her
mouth, and turning her head on one side, as if she were brooding over
the subject, “Yes, certainly, if you have any business with papa—I think
he does that sort of thing with your house sometimes; or if you have
taken a fancy to know grandmamma. She’s an old lady worth knowing, I can
tell you.”
“If you permit me, I certainly shall have business with your father,”
answered Gould, with a bright smile; “and am so anxious to see this fine
old lady, that to-morrow, at the furthest, I shall claim that
privilege.”
“I dare say she will be glad to see you. If she should be indisposed,
there is Aunt Eliza—you have seen Aunt Eliza?”
“Oh, yes, certainly! I have seen her, and shall be delighted to resume
the acquaintance.”
“Well, that being settled, good-night!”
Gould lifted his hat, and went away. Georgie ran up the steps, smiling
like a June morning. The door was opened, and she glided through singing
in a low, happy voice, “Spring is coming! Spring is coming!” when a
voice called to her from over the banisters. Miss Eliza spent half her
natural life leaning over those banisters—and she was there, as usual,
keeping guard.
“Who was it? Who was it you were talking to, Georgiana?” she called out.
“I heard a man’s voice. I will take my oath I heard a man’s voice.”
“It was Mr. Gould,” answered Georgie, breaking off her song.
“Mr. Gould? What, the young gentleman who was on his knees to that vile
girl in the tableau? You don’t mean to say it was him?”
“Yes, I do, Aunt Eliza.”
“Where did you meet him, Georgie, dear? Tell me all about it, that’s a
sweet angel!”
“I met him at Mrs. Burns’, Aunt Eliza.”
“What! in that garret? Is he bewitched by that creature, too? I can’t
believe it!”
“I don’t know about his being bewitched, but he certainly was in Mrs.
Burns’ room when we got there.”
“We! Georgiana. Who are you talking about?”
“Old Mrs. Burns, Anna, and myself. We had been up town on a little
business, and——”
“Georgiana Halstead, have you been in the street with those low people?”
“Yes, if you will call them so.”
“Without my permission?”
“I had that of grandmamma.”
“My mother is an old—— My mother does not know what she is about. I must
inform her.”
“She is well informed, Aunt Eliza.”
“I will make sure of that. But Mr. Gould—did he inquire for me?”
“He spoke of you, certainly.”
“What did he say? Come up here this minute, and tell me all about it.”
“He said that he had been introduced to you, and should like to renew
the acquaintance.”
“Yes, yes! I dare say he would! I saw clearly that he was watching my
Horace that night like a lynx, so jealous that he could not conceal it,
because he escorted me to the carriage. So he has manifested himself at
last. Too late! Too late!”
“He spoke of calling to-morrow, Aunt Eliza.”
“Indeed! That is serious. I will receive him courteously, of course, and
with tender dignity. If there is any time when a lady should be
considerate, it is when she is compelled to suppress the love she has
inspired. Do not look at me, niece; I shall find myself equal to the
occasion, depend on that. But, after visiting that creature, he cannot
expect the reception I might otherwise have given him.”
“Where is grandmamma, Aunt Eliza?”
“In her room. Go to her, child, and confess every thing. She is kind,
she is benevolent. Have no fear to approach her; she may not possess my
bland manner—but that is the fault of early education. She is a
trustworthy person, and deserves to be treated well.”
“Afraid to approach my darling old grandmamma, who knows so much more
than all of us put together, and is worth a thousand people, if we count
the heart for any thing. Dear me! what a precious old goose Aunt Eliza
is. Ha! she is leaning over the banister again. I hope she didn’t hear
me.”
“Georgiana!”
“Well, Aunt Eliza.”
“At what hour did Mr. Gould speak of calling?”
“He did not appoint any special time.”
“Well, it does not matter, one can dress early, and the pleasures of
anticipation are so exquisitely sweet, that I shall quite revel in
them,” muttered Miss Eliza to herself. “I only wanted this to bring that
proud man to his knees. Let him fear to lose me once, and we shall have
an interesting crisis; depend on that, Eliza Halstead.”
Once more the banisters were left to their own support, and Miss Eliza
retired into the place she called her boudoir, while Georgie went to her
grandmother, and told her all that had passed. When Georgie spoke of Mr.
Gould, the old lady seemed unusually disturbed, and asked a good many
questions with singular interest, but said nothing against his coming,
and smiled a little, as nice old ladies will when they watch the
workings of a young girl’s heart in her innocent speech. From that night
Mrs. Halstead was less anxious about the heavy eyes and pale cheeks of
her pet. In fact, it was not long before her cheeks wore the flush of
wild roses, and her eyes—— Well, it is of no use describing Georgie’s
eyes when she was happy—they were too lovely for comparison.
It had been a chilly day, which made fires pleasant, when Savage had
that interview in the old maid’s room; but the weather was deliciously
pleasant now, and Miss Eliza came out in white muslin and blue ribbons,
radiant with expectation from breakfast time till noon, and from noon
till evening. Then Mr. Gould came, and, according to her own private
instructions, was taken up to her room, where the Cupid was quivering
over a basket of real flowers, and Miss Eliza sat in position, with her
foot on the ottoman, and some innocent white flowers in her hair.
Gould was not quite so much pre-occupied as Savage had been, so he fell
into the lady’s humor, complimented her till she fluttered like a bird
of paradise on its nest, and began to think seriously of spurning young
Savage from the feet to which he was expected to fall. After awhile
Gould adroitly brought the conversation round to the lady’s mother, and
expressed an ardent wish to know intimately any person connected with a
person he had admired so long. This desire was so promising that Eliza
took Gould into the family sitting-room, where Mrs. Halstead sat with
her beautiful grandchild.
In this fashion Gould introduced himself into the family, where he soon
became intimate as a son.
It was after this bold step that the roses came back to Georgie’s face;
and the young creature began to sing again, like a bird that some great
storm has silenced for a time. The old lady smiled on all this, but at
times she would fix her eyes, with strange anxiety, on the young man’s
face, as if her thoughts were afar off, and troubled with bitter
memories.
As for Miss Eliza, it was very difficult to sweep an illusion from her
brain. Intense vanity like hers is not easily warned.