Mrs. Sylvestre did not leave town early. The weather was reasonably
cool, the house on Lafayette Square was comfortable, and Washington in
spring is at its loveliest. She liked the lull after the season, and
enjoyed it to its utmost, wisely refusing all invitations to fitful
after-Lent gayeties. She held no more receptions, but saw her more
intimate acquaintances in the evening, when they made their informal
calls. With each week that passed, her home gave her greater pleasure
and grew prettier.
"I never lose interest in it," she said to Arbuthnot. "It is a continued
delight to me. I find that I think of it a great deal, and am fond of it
almost as if it was a friend I had found. I think I must have been
intended for a housewife."
Mrs. Merriam's liking for Laurence Arbuthnot having increased as their
acquaintance progressed, his intimacy in the household became more and
more an established fact.
"One should always number among one's acquaintance," the clever dowager
remarked, "an agreeable, well-bred, and reliable man-friend,--a man one
can ask to do things, if unforeseen occasions arise. He must be
agreeable, since one must be intimate with him, and for the same reason
he must be well-bred. Notwithstanding our large circle, we are a rather
lonely pair, my dear."
Gradually Mrs. Sylvestre herself had found a slight change taking place
in her manner toward Arbuthnot. She became conscious of liking him
better, and of giving him more mental attention, as she saw him more
familiarly. The idea dawned by slow degrees upon her that the
triviality of which she accused him was of an unusual order; that it was
accompanied by qualities and peculiarities which did not seem to belong
to it. She had discovered that he could deny himself pleasures he
desired; that he was secretly thoughtful for others; that he was--also
secretly--determined, and that he had his serious moments, however
persistently he endeavored to conceal them. Perhaps the professor had
given her more information concerning him than she could have gained by
observation in any comparatively short space of time. "This frivolous
fellow," he said to her one night, laying an affectionate hand on
Arbuthnot's arm, as they were on the point of leaving the house
together, after having spent the evening there,--"this frivolous fellow
is the friend of my old age. I wonder why."
"So do I," said Arbuthnot. "I assure you that you could not find a
reason, professor."
"There is a kind of reason," returned the professor, "though it is
scarcely worthy of the name. This frivolous fellow is not such a trifler
as he seems, and it interests me to see his seriousness continually
getting the better of him when he fancies he has got it under and
trodden it under his feet."
Arbuthnot laughed again,--the full, careless laugh which was so
excellent an answer to everything.
"He maligns me, this dissector of the emotions," he said. "He desires
artfully to give you the impression that I am not serious by nature. I
am, in fact, seriousness itself. It is the wicked world which gets the
better of me."
Which statement Mrs. Sylvestre might have chosen to place some reliance
in as being a plausible one, if she had not seen the professor at other
times, when he spoke of this friendship of his. It was certainly a warm
one, and then, feeling that there must be reason for it, she began to
see these reasons for herself, and appreciate something of their
significance and value.
The change which finally revealed itself in her manner was so subtle in
its character that Arbuthnot himself could not be sure when he had first
felt it; sometimes he fancied it had been at one time, and again at
another, and even now it was not easy for him to explain to himself why
he knew that they were better friends.
But there was an incident in their acquaintance which he always
remembered as a landmark.
This incident occurred at the close of the season. One bright moonlight
night, having a fancy for making a call upon Bertha, who was not well
enough to go out for several days, Mrs. Sylvestre made the visit on
foot, accompanied by her maid. The night was so pleasant that they were
walking rather slowly under the trees near Lafayette Park, when their
attention was attracted by the sound of suppressed sobbing, which came
from one of two figures standing in the shadow, near the railings, a few
yards ahead of them. The figures were those of a man and a young woman,
and the instant she saw the man, who was well dressed, Agnes Sylvestre
felt her heart leap in her side, for she recognized Laurence Arbuthnot.
He stood quite near the woman, and seemed trying to console or control
her, while she--less a woman than a girl, and revealing in her childish
face and figure all that is most pathetic in youth and
helplessness--wept and wrung her hands.
"You must be quiet and have more confidence in"--Agnes heard Arbuthnot
say; and then, prompted by some desperate desire to hear no more, and to
avoid being seen, she spoke to her maid.
"Marie," she said, "we will cross the street."
But when they had crossed the street some chill in the night air seemed
to have struck her, and she began to shiver so that Marie looked at her
in some affright.
"Madame is cold," she said. "Is it possible that madame has a chill?"
"I am afraid so," her mistress replied, turning about hurriedly. "I
will not make the visit. I will return home."
A few minutes later, Mrs. Merriam, who had settled her small figure
comfortably in a large arm-chair by the fire, and prepared to spend the
rest of the evening with a new book, looked up from its first chapter in
amazement, as her niece entered the room.
"Agnes!" she exclaimed. "What has happened! Are you ill? Why, child! you
are as white as a lily."
It was true that Mrs. Sylvestre's fair face had lost all trace of its
always delicate color, and that her hands trembled as she drew off her
gloves.
"I began--suddenly--to feel so cold," she said, "that I thought it
better to come back."
Mrs. Merriam rose anxiously.
"I hope it is not malaria, after all," she said. "I shall begin to think
the place is as bad as Rome. You must have some hot wine."
"Send it upstairs, if you please," said Agnes. "I am going to my room;
there is a large fire there."
And she went out as suddenly as she had appeared.
"I really believe she does not wish me to follow her," said Mrs. Merriam
to herself.
"_Is_ this malaria?" And having pondered upon this question, while she
gave orders that the wine should be heated, she returned to her book
after doing it, with the decision, "No, it is not."
Agnes drank very little of the wine when it was brought. She sat by the
fire in her room and did not regain her color. The cold which had struck
her had struck very deep; she felt as if she could not soon get warm
again. Her eyes had a stern look as they rested on the fire; her
delicate mouth was set into a curve of hopeless, bitter scorn; the quiet
which settled upon her was even a little terrible, in some mysterious
way. She heard a ring at the door-bell, but did not move, though she
knew a caller was allowed to go to Mrs. Merriam. She was not in a mood
to see callers; she could see nobody; she wished to be left alone; but,
in about half an hour, a servant came into her room.
"Mr. Arbuthnot is downstairs, and Mrs. Merriam wishes to know if Mrs.
Sylvestre is better."
Mrs. Sylvestre hesitated a second before she replied.
"Say to Mrs. Merriam that I am better, and will join her."
She was as white as ever when she rose, even a shade whiter, and she
felt like marble, though she no longer trembled.
"I will go down," she said, mechanically. "Yes, I will go down."
What she meant to say or do when she entered the room below perhaps she
had not clearly decided herself. As she came in, and Arbuthnot rose to
receive her, he felt a startled thrill of apprehension and surprise.
"I am afraid you are not really better," he said. "Perhaps I should not
have asked to be allowed to see you."
He had suddenly an absurd feeling that there was such distance between
them--that something inexplicable had set them so far apart--that it
might almost be necessary to raise his voice to make her hear him.
"Thank you," she replied. "I was not really ill," and passed the chair
he offered her, as if not seeing it, taking another one which placed the
table between them.
Arbuthnot gave her a steady glance and sat down himself. Resolving in a
moment's time that something incomprehensible had happened, he gathered
himself together with another resolve, which did equal credit to his
intelligence and presence of mind. This resolution was that he would not
permit himself to be overborne by the mystery until he understood what
it was, and that he would understand what it was before he left the
house, if such a thing were possible. He had the coolness and courage to
refuse to be misunderstood.
"I should not have hoped to see you," he said, in a quiet, level tone,
still watching her, "but Mrs. Merriam was so kind as to think you would
be interested in something I came to tell her."
"Of course she will be interested," said Mrs. Merriam. "Such a story
would interest any woman. Tell it to her at once."
"I wish you would do it for me," said Arbuthnot, with a rather reluctant
accession of gravity. "It is really out of my line. You will make it
touching--women see things so differently. I'll confess to you that I
only see the miserable, sordid, forlorn side of it, and don't know what
to do with the pathos. When that poor, little wretch cried at me and
wrung her hands I had not the remotest idea what I ought to say to stop
her--and Heaven knows I wanted her to stop. I could only make the
mistaken remark that she must have confidence in me, and I would do my
best for the childish, irresponsible pair of them, though why they
should have confidence in me I can only say 'Heaven knows,' again."
After she had seated herself Agnes had lightly rested her head upon her
hand, as if to shade her eyes somewhat. When Arbuthnot began to speak
she had stirred, dropping her hand a moment later and leaning forward;
at this juncture she rose from her chair, and came forward with a swift,
unconscious-looking movement. She stood up before Arbuthnot, and spoke
to him.
"I wish to hear the story very much," she said, with a thrill of appeal
in her sweet voice. "I wish you to tell it to me. You will tell it
as--as we should hear it."
Nothing but a prolonged and severe course of training could have enabled
Arbuthnot to preserve at this moment his outward composure. Indeed, he
was by no means sure that it was preserved intact; he was afraid that
his blond countenance flushed a little, and that his eyes were not
entirely steady. He felt it necessary to assume a lightness of demeanor
entirely out of keeping with his mental condition.
"I appreciate your confidence in me," he answered, "all the more
because I feel my entire inadequacy to the situation. The person who
could tell it as you ought to hear it is the young woman who waylaid me
with tears near Lafayette Park about half an hour ago. She is a very
young woman, in fact, an infant, who is legally united in marriage to
another infant, who has been in the employ of the government, in the
building I adorn with my presence. Why they felt it incumbent upon
themselves to marry on an income of seventy-five dollars a month they do
not explain in any manner at all satisfactory to the worldly mind. They
did so, however, and lived together for several months in what is
described as a state of bliss. They had two small rooms, and the female
infant wore calico gowns, and did her own ridiculous, sordid, inferior
housework, and rejoiced in the society of the male infant when a
grateful nation released him from his daily labors."
Agnes quietly slipped into the chair he had first placed for her. She
did it with a gentle, yielding movement, to which he was so little blind
that he paused a second and looked at the fire, and made a point of
resuming his story with a lighter air than before.
"They could not have been either happy or content under such absurd
circumstances," he said; "but they thought they were. I used to see the
male infant beaming over his labors in a manner to infuriate you. His
wife used to come down to bear him from the office to the two rooms in a
sort of triumphal procession. She had round eyes and dimples in her
cheeks, and a little, round head with curls. Her husband, whose tastes
were simple, regarded her as a beauty, and was given to confiding his
opinion of her to his fellow-clerks. There was no objection to him but
his youth and innocence. I am told he worked with undue enthusiasm in
the hope of keeping his position, or even getting a better one, and had
guileless, frenzied dreams of being able, in the course of the ensuing
century, to purchase a small house 'on time.' I don't ask you to
believe me when I tell you that the pair actually had such a house in
their imbecile young minds, and had saved out of their starvation income
a few dollars toward making their first payment on it. I didn't believe
the man who told me, and I assure you he is a far more reliable fellow
than I am."
He paused a second more. Was it possible that he found himself obliged
to do so?
"They said," he added, "they said they 'wanted a home.'"
He heard a soft, little sound at his side,--a soft, emotional little
sound. It came from Mrs. Sylvestre. She sat with her slender hands
clasped upon her knee, and, as the little sound broke from her lips, she
clasped them more closely.
"Ah!" she said. "Ah! poor children!"
Arbuthnot went on.
"Ought I to blush to admit that I watched these two young candidates for
Saint Elizabeth, and the poorhouse, with interest? They assisted me to
beguile away some weary hours in speculation. I wondered when they would
begin to be tired of each other; when they would find out their mistake,
and loathe the paltriness of their surroundings; when the female infant
would discover that her dimples might have been better invested, and
that calico gowns were unworthy of her charms? I _do_ blush to confess
that I scraped an acquaintance with the male infant, with a view to
drawing forth his views on matrimony and life as a whole. He had been
wont to smoke inferior cigarettes in the days of his gay and
untrammelled bachelorhood, but had given up the luxurious habit on
engaging himself to the object of his affections. He remarked to me that
'a man ought to have principle enough to deny himself things when he had
something to deny himself for, and when a man had a wife and a home he
_had_ something to deny himself for, and if he was a man he'd do it.'
He was very ingenuous, and very fond of enlarging confidingly upon
domestic topics and virtues and joys, and being encouraged could be
relied upon so to enlarge--always innocently and with inoffensive,
youthful enthusiasm--until deftly headed off by the soulless worldling.
I gave him cigars, and an order of attention, which seemed to please
him. He remarked to his fellow-clerks that I was a man who had
'principles' and 'feelings,' consequently I felt grateful to him. He had
great confidence in 'principles.' The bold thought had presented itself
to him that if we were more governed by 'principles,' as a nation, we
should thrive better, and there would be less difficulty in steering the
ship of state; but he advanced the opinion hesitantly as fearing
injustice to his country in the suggestion."
"You are making him very attractive," said Mrs. Merriam. "There is
something touching about it all."
"He was attractive to me," returned Laurence, "and he was touching at
times. He was crude, and by no means brilliant, but there wasn't an evil
spot in him; and his beliefs were of a strength and magnitude to bring a
blush to the cheek of the most hardened. He recalled the dreams of
youth, and even in his most unintelligently ardent moments appealed to
one. Taking all these things into consideration, you will probably see
that it was likely to be something of a blow to him to find himself
suddenly thrown out upon the world without any resource whatever."
"Ah!" exclaimed Mrs. Sylvestre, earnestly. "Surely you are not going to
tell us"--
"That he has lost his office," said Laurence. "Yes. Thrown out.
Reason--place wanted for some one else. I shouldn't call it a good
reason myself. I find others who would not call it a good reason; but
what are you going to do?"
"What did he do?" asked Agnes.
"He came into my room one day," answered Laurence, "just as I was
leaving it. He was white and his lips trembled in a boyish way that
struck me at the moment as being rather awful. He looked as if he had
been knocked down. He said to me, 'Mr. Arbuthnot, I've lost my place,'
and then, after staring at me a few seconds, he added, 'Mr. Arbuthnot,
what would you do?'"
"It is very cruel," said Agnes. "It is very hard."
"It is as cruel as Death!" said Arbuthnot. "It is as hard as Life! That
such a thing is possible--that the bread and home and hopes of any
honest, human creature should be used as the small change of power above
him, and trafficked with to sustain that power and fix it in its place
to make the most of itself and its greed, is the burning shame and
burden which is slung around our necks, and will keep us from standing
with heads erect until we are lightened of it."
He discovered that he was in earnest, and recklessly allowed himself to
continue in earnest until he had said his say. He knew the
self-indulgence was indiscreet, and felt the indiscretion all the more
when he ended and found himself confronted by Mrs. Sylvestre's eyes.
They were fixed upon him, and wore an expression he had never had the
pleasure of seeing in them before. It was an expression full of charming
emotion, and the color was coming and going in her cheek.
"Go on," she said, rather tremulously, "if you please."
"I did not go on," he replied. "I regret to say I couldn't. I was unable
to tell him what I should do."
"But you tried to comfort him?" said Agnes. "I am sure you did what you
could."
"It was very little," said Laurence. "I let him talk, and led him on a
little to--well, to talking about his wife. It seemed the only thing at
the moment. I found it possible to recall to his mind one or two things
he had told me of her,--probably doing it in a most inefficient
manner,--but he appeared to appreciate the effort. The idea presented
itself to me that it would be well to brace him up and give him a less
deathly look before he went home to her, as she was not very well, and a
childish creature at best. I probably encouraged him unduly; but I had
an absurd sense of being somehow responsible for the preservation of the
two rooms and the peace of mind of the female infant, and the truth is,
I have felt it ever since, and so has she."
He was extremely conscious of Mrs. Sylvestre's soft and earnest eyes.
"That was the reason she called to see me to-night, and, finding I had
just left the house, followed me. Tom is ill,--his name is Tom Bosworth.
It is nearly two months since he lost his place, and he has walked
himself to a shadow in making efforts to gain another. He has written
letters and presented letters; he has stood outside doors until he was
faint with hunger; he has interviewed members of Congress, senators,
heads of departments, officials great and small. He has hoped and longed
and waited, and taken buffetings meekly. He is not a strong fellow, and
it has broken him up. He has had several chills, and is thin and nervous
and excitable. Kitty--his wife's name is Kitty--is pale and thin too.
She has lost her dimples, and her eyes look like a sad little owl's, and
always have tears in them, which she manages to keep from falling so
long as Tom is within sight. To-night she wanted to ask me if I knew any
ladies who would give her sewing. She thinks she might sew until Tom
gets a place again."
"I will give her sewing," exclaimed Agnes. "I can do something for them
if they will let me. Oh, I am very glad that I can!"
"I felt sure you would be," said Arbuthnot. "I thought of you at once,
and wished you could see her as I saw her."
She answered him a little hurriedly, and he wondered why her voice
faltered.
"I will see her to-morrow," she said, "if you will give me the
address."
"I have naturally wondered if it was possible that anything could be
done for the husband," he said. "If you could use your influence in any
way,--you see how inevitably we come to that; it always becomes a
question of influence; our very charities are of the nature of schemes;
it is in the air we breathe."
"I will do what I can," she replied. "I will do anything--anything you
think would be best."
Mrs. Merriam checked herself on the very verge of looking up, but though
by an effort she confined herself to apparently giving all her attention
to her knitting-needles for a few moments, she lost the effect of
neither words nor voice. "No," she made mental comment, "it was _not_
malaria."
Arbuthnot had never passed such an evening in the house as this one
proved to be, and he had spent many agreeable evenings there. To-night
there was a difference. Some barrier had melted or suddenly broken down.
Mrs. Sylvestre was more beautiful than he had ever seen her. It thrilled
his very soul to hear her speak to him and to look at her. While still
entirely ignorant of the cause of her displeasure against him he knew
that it was removed; that in some mysterious way she had recognized the
injustice of it, and was impelled by a sweet, generous penitence to
endeavor to make atonement. There was something almost like the humility
of appeal in her voice and eyes. She did not leave him to Mrs. Merriam,
but talked to him herself. When he went away, after he had left her at
the parlor door, she lingered a moment upon the threshold, then crossed
it, and followed him into the hall. They had been speaking of the
Bosworths, and he fancied she was going to ask some last question. But
she did not; she simply paused a short distance from where he stood and
looked at him. He had often observed it in her, that she possessed the
inestimable gift of being able to stand still and remain silent with
perfect grace, in such a manner that speech and movement seemed
unnecessary; but he felt that she had something to say now and scarcely
knew how best to say it, and it occurred to him that he might, perhaps,
help her.
"You are very much better than you were when I came in," he said.
She put out her hand with a gentle, almost grateful gesture.
"Yes, I am much better," she said. "I was not well--or happy. I thought
that I had met with a misfortune; but it was a mistake."
"I am glad it was a mistake," he answered. "I hope such things will
always prove so."
And, a quick flush rising to his face, he bent and touched with his lips
the slim, white fingers lying upon his palm.
The flush had not died away when he found himself in the street; he felt
its glow with a sense of anger and impatience.
"I might have known better than to do such a thing," he said. "I _did_
know better. I am a fool yet, it seems--a fool!"
But, notwithstanding this, the evening was a landmark. From that time
forward Mrs. Merriam looked upon the intimacy with renewed interest. She
found Agnes very attractive in the new attitude she assumed toward their
acquaintance. She indulged no longer in her old habit of depreciating
him delicately when she spoke of him, which was rarely; her tone
suggested to her relative that she was desirous of atoning to herself
for her past coldness and injustice. There was a delicious hint of this
in her manner toward him, quiet as it was; once or twice Mrs. Merriam
had seen her defer to him, and display a disposition to adapt herself to
his opinions, which caused a smile to flicker across her discreet
countenance. Their mutual interest in their _protégées_ was a tie
between them, and developed a degree of intimacy which had never before
existed. The day after hearing their story Agnes had paid the young
people a visit. The two rooms in the third story of a boarding-house
presented their modest household goods to her very touchingly. The very
bridal newness of the cheap furniture struck her as being pathetic, and
the unsophisticated adornments in the form of chromos and bright
tidies--the last, Kitty's own handiwork--expressed to her mind their
innocent sentiment. Kitty looked new herself, as she sat sewing, in a
little rocking-chair, drawn near to the sofa on which Tom lay, flushed
and bright-eyed after his chill; but there were premonitory signs of
wear on her pretty, childish face. She rose, evidently terribly nervous
and very much frightened at the prospect of receiving her visitor, when
Mrs. Sylvestre entered, and, though reassured somewhat by the mention of
Arbuthnot's name, glanced timorously at Tom in appeal for assistance
from him. Tom gave it. His ingenuous mind knew very little fear. He
tried to stagger to his feet, smiling, but was so dizzy that he made an
ignominious failure, and sat down again at Agnes' earnest request.
"Thank you," he said. "I will, if you don't mind. It's one of my bad
days, and the fever makes my head go round. Don't look so down-hearted,
Kitty. Mrs. Sylvestre knows chills don't count for much. You see," he
said to Agnes, with an effort at buoyancy of manner, "they knock a man
over a little, and it frightens her."
Agnes took a seat beside the little rocking-chair, and there was
something in the very gentleness of her movements which somewhat calmed
Kitty's tremor.
"It is very natural that she should feel anxious, even when there is
only slight cause," Mrs. Sylvestre said, in her low, sweet voice. "Of
course, the cause is slight in your case. It is only necessary that you
should be a little careful."
"That's all," responded Tom. "A man with a wife and home can't be too
careful. He's got others to think of besides himself."
But, notwithstanding his cheerfulness and his bright eyes, he was
plainly weaker than he realized, and was rather glad to lie down again,
though he did it apologetically.
"Mr. Arbuthnot came in this morning and told us you were coming," he
said. "You know him pretty well, I suppose."
"I see him rather frequently," answered Agnes; "but perhaps I do not
know him very well."
"Ah!" said Tom. "You've got to know him very well to find out what sort
of fellow he is; you've got to know him as _I_ know him--as _we_ know
him. Eh! Kitty?"
"Yes," responded Kitty, a little startled by finding herself referred
to; "only you know him best, Tom. You see, you're a man"--
"Yes," said Tom, with innocent complacency, "of course it's easier for
men to understand each other. You see"--to Agnes, though with a fond
glance at Kitty--"Kitty was a little afraid of him. She's shy, and
hasn't seen much of the world, and he's such a swell, in a quiet way,
and when she used to come to the office for me, and caught a glimpse of
him, she thought he was always making fun of everything."
"I thought he _looked_ as if he was," put in Kitty. "And his voice
sounded that way when he spoke to you, Tom. I even used to think,
sometimes, that he was laughing a little at _you_--and I didn't like
it."
"Bless you!" responded Tom, "he wasn't thinking of such a thing. He's
got too much principle to make friends with a fellow, and then laugh at
him. What I've always liked in him was his principle."
"I think there are a great many things to like in him," said Mrs.
Sylvestre.
"There's everything to like in him," said Tom, "though, you see, I
didn't find that out at first. The truth is, I thought he was rather
too much of a swell for his means. I've told him so since we've been
more intimate, and he said that I was not mistaken; that he was too much
of a swell for his means, but that was the fault of his means, and the
government ought to attend to it as a sacred duty. You see the trouble
is he hasn't a family. And what a fellow he would be to take care of a
woman! I told him that, too, once, and he threw back his head and
laughed; but he didn't laugh long. It seemed to me that it set him off
thinking, he was so still after it."
"He'd be very good to his wife," said Kitty, timidly. "He's very kind to
me."
"Yes," Tom went on, rejoicing in himself, "he sees things that men don't
see, generally. Think of his noticing that you weren't wrapped up enough
that cold day we met him, and going into his place to get a shawl from
his landlady, and making me put it on!"
"And don't you remember," said Kitty, "the day he made me so ashamed,
because he said my basket was too heavy, and would carry it all the way
home for me?"
Tom laughed triumphantly.
"He would have carried a stove-pipe just the same way," he said, "and
have looked just as cool about it. You'd no need to be ashamed; _he_
wasn't. And it's not only that: see how he asks me about you, and cheers
me up, and helps me along by talking to me about you when I'm knocked
over, and says that you mustn't be troubled, and I must bear up, because
I've got you to take care of, and that when two people are as fond of
each other as we are, they've got something to hold on to that will help
them to let the world go by and endure anything that don't part them."
"He said that to me, too, Tom," said Kitty, the ready tears starting to
her eyes. "He said it last night when I met him on the street and
couldn't help crying because you were ill. He said I must bear up for
you--and he was so nice that I forgot to be afraid of him at all. When
I began to cry it frightened me, because I thought he wouldn't like it,
and that made it so much worse that I couldn't stop, and he just put my
hand on his arm and took me into Lafayette Park, where there was a seat
in a dark corner under the trees. And he made me sit down and said,
'Don't be afraid to cry. It will do you good, and you had better do it
before me than before Tom. Cry as much as you like. I will walk away a
few steps until you are better.' And he did, and I cried until I was
quiet, and then he came back to me and told me about Mrs. Sylvestre."
"He's got feelings," said Tom, a trifle brokenly,--"he's got feelings
and--and principles. It makes a man think better of the world, even when
he's discouraged, and it's dealt hard with him."
Mrs. Sylvestre looked out of the nearest window, there was a very
feminine tremor in her throat, and something seemed to be melting before
her eyes; she was full of the pain of regret and repentance; there rose
in her mind a picture of herself as she had sat before the fire in her
silent room; she could not endure the memory of her own bitter contempt
and scorn; she wished she might do something to make up for that half
hour; she wished that it were possible that she might drive down to the
Treasury and present herself at a certain door, and appeal for pardon
with downcast eyes and broken voice. She was glad to remember the light
touch upon her hand, even though it had been so very light, and he had
left her after it so hurriedly.
"I am glad he spoke to you of me," she said. "I--I am grateful to him. I
think I can help you. I hope you will let me. I know a great many
people, and I might ask for their influence. I will do
anything--anything Mr. Arbuthnot thinks best."
Tom gave her a warmly grateful glance, his susceptible heart greatly
moved by the sweetness and tremor of her voice. She was just the woman,
it seemed to him, to be the friend of such a man as his hero; only a
woman as beautiful, as sympathetic, and having that delicate,
undefinable air of belonging to the great enchanted world, in which he
confidingly believed Arbuthnot figured with unrivalled effect, could be
worthy of him. It was characteristic of his simple nature that he should
admire immensely his friend's social popularity and acquirements, and
dwell upon their unbounded splendor with affectionate reverence.
"He's a society fellow," he had said to Kitty, in his first description
of him. "A regular society fellow! Always dressed just so, you
know--sort of quiet style, but exactly up to the mark. He knows
everybody and gets invited everywhere, though he makes believe he only
gets taken in because he can dance and wait in the supper-room. He's out
somewhere every night, bless you, and spends half his salary on kid
gloves and flowers. He says people ought to supply them to fellows like
him, as they supply gloves and hat-bands at English funerals. He doesn't
save anything; you know, he can't, and he knows it's a mistake, but you
see when a fellow is what he is, it's not easy to break off with
everything. These society people want such fellows, and they _will_ have
them."
It had been this liberal description of his exalted position and elegant
habits which had caused Kitty to stand greatly in awe of him, at the
outset, and to feel that her bearing would never stand the test of
criticism by so proficient an expert, and she had trembled before him
accordingly and felt herself unworthy of his condescending notice, until
having, on one or two occasions, seen something in his manner which did
not exactly coincide with her conception of him as a luxurious and
haughty worldling, she had gained a little courage. She had been greatly
alarmed at the sight of Mrs. Sylvestre, feeling vaguely that she, also,
was a part of these mysterious splendors; but after she heard the soft
break in the tone in which she said, with such gentle simplicity, "I
will do anything--anything--Mr. Arbuthnot thinks best," she felt
timorous no more, and allowed herself to be led into telling her little
story, with a girlish pathos which would have melted Agnes Sylvestre's
heart, if it had not been melted already. It might, perhaps, better have
been called Tom's story than her own, as it was all about Tom,--Tom's
struggles, Tom's disappointments, Tom's hopes, which all seemed
prostrated; the little house Tom had been thinking of buying and making
nice for her; the member of Congress who had snubbed Tom; the senator
who had been rough with him; the cold he had taken; the chills and
fevers which had resulted; the pain in his side. "We have used all our
money," she ended, with a touching little catch of her breath,--"if it
had not been for Mr. Arbuthnot--Mr. Arbuthnot"--
"Yes," said Tom, wofully, "he'll have to go without a pair or so of
gloves this month and smoke fewer cigars; and I couldn't have believed
that there was a man living I could have borne to take money from, but,
somehow, he made it seem almost as if he owed it to me."
When Mrs. Sylvestre went away she left hope and comfort behind her.
Kitty followed her into the passage with new light in her eyes.
"If I have the sewing," she said, clasping her hands, "it will be _such_
a load off Tom's mind to know that we have a little money, that he will
get better. And he knows I like sewing; so, perhaps, he will not mind it
so much. I am so thankful to you! If Tom will only get well," she
exclaimed, in a broken whisper,--"if Tom will only get well!" And,
suddenly, in response to some look on Agnes' face, and a quick,
caressing gesture, she leaned forward, and was folded in her arms.
It is very natural to most women to resort to the simple feminine device
of tears, but it was not often Mrs. Sylvestre so indulged herself, and
there were tears in her eyes and in her voice, too, as she held the
gentle, childish creature to her breast. She had felt a great deal
during the last twenty-four hours, and the momentary display of emotion
was a relief to her. "He will get better," she said, with almost
maternal tenderness, "and you must help him by taking care of yourself,
and giving him no cause for anxiety. You must let me help to take care
of you. We will do all we can,"--and there was something akin to fresh
relief to her in the mere use of the little word "we."