“John, I saw Cheyleigh in town to-day, and we have arranged all the
matters about bringing up your sister, as I suppose you will call her,
to live with us. Your mother and yourself must go down for her in the
carriage the day after to-morrow.” Thus spoke father, as he pushed his
chair back from the tea table, about a week after my return from the
Sound.
I deemed it dignified only to say, “Yes, sir.”
“My dear,” he continued, addressing mother, and taking a cigar from
his case, “you have some clothing getting ready for her, have you not?
As she didn’t bring her baggage on the door I presume her wardrobe is
scanty, so much so that she can exclaim, with the fallen Cardinal:
‘My robe,
And my integrity to Heaven, is all
I dare now call mine own.’”
“Oh, Col. Smith,” said mother, reproachfully, “do not jest at her
misfortunes.”
“Not jesting, my dear, not jesting; but, since poor Wolsey’s time, I
suppose she is the only one who could boast any integrity, when limited
to a single robe. However, we have not proved her yet—Wolsey may still
be alone.”
“That is worse than jesting,” returned mother, with a smile the good
Samaritan might have worn, “you are blotting her with suspicion before
you have ever seen her.”
“We will assume, then, for your good hearted sake,” said father,
blowing out the words on each side of the cigar he was lighting, “that
she is an angel, and let her prove her wings.”
“I am sure that she will,” said mother, as she rang her table bell for
the servants to clear off the tea things.
The next day was one of preparation, and the room intended for Carlotta
was fixed up like a fairy bower. The morning after, mother and I were
whirling rapidly toward the Sound in our open carriage, the top thrown
back to catch the fresh breeze. What a pleasure was such a drive on
such a morning, with such horses, through such scenery, on such an
errand!
Neither of us spoke, but leaned upon the side cushions of the carriage,
listening to the rapid trample of the horses’ feet and the singing
of the wheels over the level roads as we flashed along; now through
slim, quiet woods, where the sunshine drove away the shade from half
the ground; now through thick luxuriant trees, grouping themselves
with dense foliage-curtains around dark unrippled pools, where Artemis
could have bathed with perfect modesty, and from which, now, a lonely
heron, startled by our wheels, slowly rose with his blue noiseless
wings; now through a swampy hollow, where the laurel poured from its
white cups exquisite perfume, and now through the solemn forests,
where the patriarch oaks waved their gray moss-hair, and the towering
pines stretched their broad arms benignly over all, as if to invoke a
blessing from the blue heavens above.
At last Mervue, as Mr. Cheyleigh’s place was called, with its long
avenue of oaks, came in view, and in a few moments our horses, lathered
with foam, were prancing with unspent fire at the door. Mrs. Cheyleigh,
Ned and two of the children, with Carlotta, met us at the steps. Mrs.
Cheyleigh had told her of our coming, and her great speaking eyes were
turned inquiringly upon us. Mother did not wait for introduction or
salutation, but rushed forward and clasped her in her arms. Carlotta
seemed in an instant to sound the depths of mother’s tender love, and
her first touch was an electric flow of sympathy. Throwing her arms
around mother’s neck she burst into convulsive sobbing. It touched
every one present. Mrs. Cheyleigh wept; Ned turned into the house with
his handkerchief to his face, while I, trying to hide my emotion, was
ruthlessly plucking and snapping the tendrils of a jasmine that was
clambering over the sides of the porch—little Sue Cheyleigh, in the
artless curiosity of childhood, walking around to look at my eyes,
in order to discover whether I was crying or not. The first paroxysm
of grief over, mother gently released Carlotta, and Mrs. Cheyleigh,
with that half hoarse tone which always succeeds tears, invited us
in. Carlotta grasped mother tightly by the hand and we followed Mrs.
Cheyleigh into the house. Having now an opportunity to observe her
closely, I found that Carlotta was not such a little girl as I had
supposed—being, in fact, nearly as old and as large as Lulie. Mother,
Mrs. C. and the children taking seats in the large, cool sitting room,
Ned and myself went out to the stables to see about the horses. When I
returned to the sitting room I found mother and Carlotta alone—Mrs.
Cheyleigh having excused herself for a short time to attend to domestic
affairs. Mother was sitting near an open window, gently stroking
Carlotta’s head, which lay confidingly in her lap. They were talking,
and, not wishing to interrupt, I took my seat quietly near them.
“And you are willing to come with us and be our child?” mother said,
bending over her.
“If you all are willing to take me,” said Carlotta, “I will try to
deserve your love.”
“We love you already, my darling child, and will love you more and more
each day.”
“I believe you, and trust you, ma’am; but oh! my father, my dear, dead
father! how I wish that I were with you in the ground!” and the poor
child broke down into sobbing.
“Hush, dear,” said mother, gently; “do not speak so; God has seen fit
to spare you——”
“I know He has, but I wish He had not; ‘twould be far sweeter than life
to lie by father’s side, though it is cold. But oh!” she continued,
raising up her head to look in mother’s face, and taking her hand, “I
am so ungrateful to you; you are so good to offer me a home, and yet I
shrink from going where I have no right to go, except the right of your
kindness.”
“That shall be the surest right of all,” said mother, kissing her
forehead; “but you must not feel dependent. We do not take you because
we pity you, but because we want just such a daughter to live with and
love us.”
“Then, will you promise me, ma’am, if you ever tire of me, that you
will send me away? You can do it without unkindness, because papa had a
great deal of money, and you can pay some one to take care of me. Will
you promise me?”
“Yes, dear, I will promise you to send you away whenever we get tired
of you. But, in the meantime, I do not want you to feel humble in our
home, as if you were a charity child. Col. Smith has examined your
father’s papers, and finds that you are possessed of considerable
wealth. He has written to your father’s agent, who was named in the
papers, and to the American Consul at Havana. He will probably go to
Cuba himself next month, to see about the appointment of a guardian and
the settlement of your estate. Have you no relatives at all there?”
“I have a cousin, who lives on the other side of the island, but I have
not seen him since I was a very little child. Mother was an orphan,
like myself, and came from Spain to Cuba with an old uncle, who died
after she was married to papa. We had many acquaintances, but no
relatives anywhere in the island except the cousin I have spoken of. I
have heard papa speak of having relatives in New Orleans, but I do not
know their names.”
“Well, you are composed now; try to remain so. Do not give up to those
sad feelings when you feel them coming on.”
“I do struggle hard, Mrs. Smith, to keep from crying; but whenever
I commence thinking about the evening of the storm—and I cannot
help thinking about it—I remember how happy papa and I were sitting
together in our state room, and, though the wind had been high for a
day or two, we felt so secure, for the steamer was thought to be the
strongest one on the line. I remember so well his holding me by the
hand, and saying:
“‘I think the wind is lulling, Lottie, bird; we will be safe
to-morrow.’ And then came that terrible cry that the ship was sinking;
and we ran together out on the deck, only to find the crew in a panic,
and the storm wilder than ever. Papa dragged me back to the cabin, tore
off the door, tied me to it, and—— Oh! I cannot, cannot think of it
without crying. Do not blame me, I cannot help it.” And her eyes filled
again, and her lip quivered with suppressed feeling.
“Dear child, you know I do not blame you; only try by every means
to keep your mind from reverting to the painful scene. I will not
offer consolation now, for I well know how deceitful it sounds to
the bereaved to hear those who are not, quoting scripture passages
to recommend resignation and submission. The beautiful sacred words
are meant as a sympathy, not as a teaching. When your lips are lifted
farther from this cup of gall we will go together to the Fount of Life
and drink its sweet waters.”
Mrs. Cheyleigh now returned to the room, and the conversation, ceasing
between mother and Carlotta, became general. So many and varied were
the topics to be discussed that the morning passed rapidly away; dinner
came on, and the afternoon siesta, in hammocks swung in the verandas,
where the sea breeze came cool and refreshing, was enjoyed, when the
sinking sun reminded us that it was time to order the carriage.
When Carlotta came to tell Mrs. C. good-bye, and thank her for her
kindness, she had nearly lost control of herself again, but, with an
effort, she kept her tears back and entered the carriage. The shadows
which had been hiding from the sun all day around the roots of the
trees were now stretching out at great length, and spreading into all
kinds of fantastic shapes, though they still kept the trees between
them and the glaring eye they dreaded so much. The scenery through
which we passed was all drowsiness, instead of the vivacity of the
morning. The sun had gone down and the twilight was fading when we
stopped at our door. Father and Lulie Mayland were standing on the
stoop, waiting for us. Father took Carlotta in his arms out of the
carriage and pressed her to him tenderly, while I was helping mother
out. Lulie was then presented to her, and, after a kiss and embrace,
they went up the steps hand-in-hand, as fast friends as if they had
known and loved each other from their birth. We went into the dining
room, where early summer tea was already laid. Carlotta did not wish
anything, and mother withdrew in a short time with her. After the
silence that succeeded, for a few seconds, their retirement, father
said (and I knew by the twinkle in his eye he was enjoying the thorns
on which I sat):
“Lulie,” sighting at her with one eye through his iced tea, “I am
afraid you will have a powerful rival in Carlotta. You must secure all
your beaux with double chains or she will steal them away. I think
one is proving recreant already, if I may judge from the glances of
admiration he lavished upon her just now at the table.”
My face was crimson, and the consciousness that it was so made the hue
only deeper. To be teased about the girl I loved, before her face, by
father, too, was the very climax of embarrassment to me. I glanced at
Lulie, and found her not in the least disconcerted.
“Oh, John is so fickle,” she replied, laughing, “that I can never count
on him for more than a day or two. If he deserts me, however, I shall
not be desolate, as I have several others under my thumb, you know.”
Embarrassment is very much increased by being contrasted with coolness
and ease, and mine received a tenfold impulse from Lulie’s light way of
treating the matter.
“Really,” continued father, “you are quite a belle; but I am surprised
that John should have withdrawn so easily from the contest. I thought
you had more perseverance, my son. Surely, you did not encourage him,
Lulie?”
“Yes, indeed I did, but he was not to be caught, and I have given him
up as a hopeless case.”
I vainly endeavored to swallow my confusion with large gulps of tea;
the tea somehow slipped by and left the confusion sticking in my
throat, but I managed to jerk out the words:
“If you ever gave any encouragement I did not know it.”
“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed father. “Very good, my son, very good. But
suppose she were to offer encouragement now, would you come back? Try
him once more, Lulie. I would enjoy the courtship very much.”
“I am willing,” she said, demurely; but I thought I detected a smile
towards father, as if they were in conspiracy.
“Now, John,” continued father, “she says she is ready, and will return
a favorable answer. How will you commence? Don’t blurt out ‘I love
you!’ as that would be unexpected and sudden; come to it gradually, and
the slower you are in getting to the point the surer will your answer
be ‘Yes.’”
I could stand it no longer, but rose from the table and walked from the
room, not, however, before hearing Lulie say:
“I don’t quite agree with you, Col. Smith. I can’t bear a slow courting
fellow. If he loves much it won’t take him long to tell it. There! you
have run John off. I like him ever so much, only he is very timid.”
I went out and sat on the stoop in no pleasant frame of mind. I was
provoked with father for teasing me; I was provoked with myself for
being teased, and I was provoked with Lulie for not being teased.
“She cannot love me or she would not treat the matter so lightly,” I
soliloquized, grinding white circles on the brown stone with my boot
heel. “She thinks me timid, too; I’ll prove my boldness the first
opportunity I get.”
Father and Lulie now came out and sat down, but no further allusion was
made to the dining room topic. We spoke of our intended trip to the
plantation near Goldsboro’, and Lulie agreed, if her pa was willing,
to go up and spend the remainder of the summer with us, as it would be
very pleasant for her to be with Carlotta. After talking for some time
of the pleasures of the country, Lulie rose to go, and I, of course,
accompanied her.
So far from proving my boldness I walked by her side in awkward silence
till she spoke.
“Why did you let your father tease you so to-night, Johnnie?”
“He didn’t tease me,” I returned, with Munchausen mendacity. “I didn’t
care a straw for what he said, only I did not choose to be spoken of so
before a lady.”
“I’ll wager Frank Paning would not have been disconcerted,” she said.
“He has more self-possession than any one I ever saw.”
“I don’t care what in the thunder Frank Paning has; I don’t want to be
like him,” I said, savagely.
“I did not intend to offend you, sir; I am obliged to you for your
escort thus far, but, since you are so incensed, will need your
services no farther,” she said, very quietly, taking her hand from my
arm.
“I beg a thousand pardons, Lulie; I was rude and hasty, but so many
constant allusions to Paning irritate me beyond measure. He must be
very dear to you from the repeated mention of his name.”
“Oh, no, that does not follow at all. I think very well of him, as he
is attentive and kind; but here we are at our gate; won’t you come in?”
“Thanks! not to-night. Let me ask pardon again, Lulie, for my very
harsh words on the way.”
“Do not mention it; ‘tis forgotten with me. Good night!”
My feelings, as I walked homeward, were very much mingled. There was
always pleasure and pain in being with Lulie. Young as she was she
already possessed consummate skill in swaying the feelings—now by some
bewitching word or look raising your hopes, then dashing them to earth
by some sarcasm, or worse, an allusion to some other favorite. She had
reduced her game to a science, and always pitted special rivals against
each other. Frank was sure to be my thorn. A single remark, evincing a
preference for him, was enough to disturb my equanimity for an evening.
So, in my thoughts this evening there was pain, yet a sweet pleasure,
too, in the reflection that, in our retired country seat up in Wayne, I
would have her all to myself; that I could see her every day, and talk
as long and freely as I chose, with all the adjuncts and concomitants
of love—woods, birds, brooks, bowers, meadows and moonshine.
Just as I reached our gate I met Frank Paning himself, hurrying up
street to his home.
“Hello, John!” he said, lightly, as we stopped, “where have you been?
Over to the Doc’s, I suppose. I am getting jealous. Lulie must be
looked to.”
“There is no danger,” I replied; “you are certainly the idol there.”
“Oh, you tell me that to blind me, but I know a thing or two. By the
way, how is our little foundling. I heard to-day that your folks had
brought her here to raise up as a wife for you. I suppose you wish to
train her up to suit you, so she will not have to learn your ways after
marriage.”
“You heard a most infamous falsehood, then, and you can tell your
informant I said so,” I replied, the blood rushing to my face.
“Well, don’t get mad about it; I was only joking. I want to call on
her; when will she receive company?”
“Not in a year or two,” I said, emphatically. “She is going up the
country next week, and will not return till the fall, when she will
commence school, and be closely occupied with her studies.”
“I see it is plain you fear rivals. I will not trouble you.”
Before I could reply he was gone.