ROBERT GLENDENNING.
Sara rose, with the now sleeping baby in her arms, and stood with the
firelight playing over her noble young form, and with something--was it
the firelight too?--flushing her sweet, sensitive face. She had no idea
what a picture she made, nor how fair she appeared in the eyes of the
young man in the doorway; for her thoughts were full of chagrin at what
seemed the untidiness of the room, with baby's clothes and the
children's books scattered about, and the fact that she had on an old,
worn dress, instead of the Boston cashmere. For she did not realize that
our most beautiful moments come from thoughts within, and are quite
independent of dress and adornment, and that to-night the struggle she
had been through made her expression so lovely, she had never been more
attractive. She held out the hand that could best be spared from the
little one's support, and said cordially,--
"I'm very glad to see you, Mr. Glendenning; are your aunt and uncle
here?"
"No, Miss Olmstead; I left them in Boston, and just ran down for a day
or two, before I go West once more. I--had business."
She saw him seated before she stepped to the alcove bed to lay the baby
down, then, coming back, took a seat on the other side of the fireplace,
and asked softly,--
"Have you heard?"
"Yes," in the same tone; "Miss Zeba told me. You did not write to
auntie?"
"I could not--yet."
There was a little pause, which was broken by an outburst from the other
side of the room, where the children were supposed to be studying.
"I tell you 'tis too, Morton Olmstead. I'll ask Sara, now!"
"Well, Molly, what is it?" she turned to ask.
"Isn't it right to say 'seven and six _are_ twelve?" Morton says it
isn't."
"Why, certainly," began Sara obliviously, when the guest interposed,--
"How'll seven and _five_ do, Molly? Perhaps that will suit Morton
better."
Molly tossed her head at her grinning brother, pouting an instant, then
broke into a giggle, as she caught the full force of the sell, and went
on with her sums, while Sara remarked,--
"I am not quick at such things, Mr. Glendenning. I wish I were! You
spoke of going West just now; do you go soon?"
"Yes; my home is in Chicago. I have been East nearly six months on
business for my firm, and now am recalled."
She looked pensively into the fire, and he thought he heard a little
sigh, which perhaps encouraged him to go on, though it was with
something like embarrassment that he said,--
"I felt before going so far that I ought to make a call on some of the
good people here: it may be years before I return."
"H'm," muttered Molly; "I tell you, if I ever get away I'll never want
to come back."
"Well, nobody'd want to have you, either," muttered her brother in
return. "A girl who can't add two simple little numbers!"
Molly contented herself with making a face at him, and the two by the
fire continued their rather patchy discourse:--
"I have sometimes thought," said Sara, "that we will have to leave here
now, though I haven't much of an idea where we should go, or what I
could do--but I must do something soon."
He was longing to ask all sorts of questions, but dared not; instead, he
leaned forward, and said earnestly,--
"Miss Olmstead, I have been thinking of that, and I want you to promise
me you will not take any decisive step without consulting my aunt. If I
had known--all, I would have brought her with me, but here is her latest
address," producing a card. "Write her everything, and let her counsel
you, will you?" She bowed her head.
"It's very kind of you all to care, and if you are sure she would not be
annoyed"--
"Annoyed? What an idea! Why, aren't you both daughters of the King?
Doesn't that make you sisters? I know you will not break your word, Miss
Olmstead."
"No, she won't," said Molly briskly; "when she says she is going to send
us to bed early, she always does it."
"Molly!" cried Sara, half-laughing, half-angry, "I think it must be your
bedtime, now."
"There! That's just because you want to talk to Mr. Glendenning," whined
the child. "Last night, 'cause you was lonesome, you let us sit up till
nine. I don't think it's fair!"
"Well," laughed the young man, to cover Sara's embarrassment, for she
had blushed like a rose at this, "I did have something in my pocket;
however, as it's only for early-go-to-beders, I don't believe I'll
produce it to-night."
Molly was on her feet in an instant.
"I always go to bed early, Mr. Glendenning, only when Sara wants me to
sit up, like last night: you don't blame me for that, do you?"
"Indeed I don't; and seeing you're so anxious to go to-night, I think I
will give it to you, after all," slowly drawing a package from the
pocket of his great-coat, which was thrown over a neighboring chair.
Molly grasped it, managing to get out a hurried "Thank you," under
Sara's eyes; pulled at the string, whirled around a few times in search
for a knife, though Morton was holding his out all the time, and
finally, getting to the box, snatched at its cover--and dropped the
whole thing, the bonbons inside rolling all over the floor.
"Oh, oh, oh! Sara," she screamed, dancing up and down, "they're running
away! What are they?"
The young man laughed heartily.
"Only French creams and candied fruits, child; you may not like them as
well as Miss Zeba's striped lemon and horehound sticks, but I thought
I'd give you a taste of Vanity Fair, at least."
"Is that its name?" asked Molly, who had secured a chocolate-cream, and
was now burying her little white teeth in its soft lusciousness. "Oh,
how sweet! and it melts while you're tasting. Is Vanity Fair all that
way?"
"Pretty much," he said gravely, with an odd look at Sara.
"Well, it's nice," she concluded, after a second taste, "but there isn't
much to it; you can't _chomp_ it like horehound, or wintergreen
candy. _I_ like to chomp!"
"I presume so, and suck lobster-claws too, don't you? The fact is, I
fear your tastes are too commonplace for you to thoroughly relish these
French sweeties, and I'm glad of it! Now, don't eat too much to-night,
for a very little of Vanity Fair goes a great way, you'll find. And now,
good-night."
"Good-night, sir. I suppose some is for Morton?"
"I left that to your magnanimity."
"My who?" bewilderedly. "Do you mean Sara? Well, then, I may as well
give him half this minute, 'cause she'll certainly make me," and the two
finally disappeared, Molly laboriously counting over the recovered
bonbons, to be sure the division was exact.
He turned back to Sara.
"It is too much care for you," he said warmly. "Think of that boy, who
will soon be beginning to assert himself, and Molly, who is enough to
keep a whole family on the alert, to say nothing of the baby. How are
you going to manage?"
His reference to Morton reminded her of their difference, which for a
time she had forgotten, and she told him about it, adding,--
"What can I do?"
"Stand firm," he said at once. "But wait; I see how hard that will be,
with the whole town against you. Let me think."
She waited, watching him, while he gazed into the fire.
Finally he turned again to her.
"You spoke of leaving here, why not do so now, soon? Put it to Morton
that you need his protection and help, and go to Boston. You have some
means?"
"Yes." If Sara had mentioned the sum of these, the young man would have
been aghast; but, accustomed as she was to the most frugal living, it
seemed large to her.
"Then what is to hinder?" eagerly. "Uncle Leon will stay there this
winter, anyhow; and they can find you a small flat, where you could keep
house in a cosey way. Then there are things you can do at home, I am
sure; things for the Woman's Exchange, say, that'll help you out."
Sara's eyes brightened. It was her dream to go out into that wider life
she had read of, and this seemed her opportunity.
"What would I have to pay for such rooms?" she asked.
"Oh, that would depend on locality, the conveniences, and so on;
probably from eighteen to thirty dollars, although I am more familiar
with Western than Eastern rentals, but I presume that's somewhere near
it."
Sara, supposing him to mean this as the yearly rental, thought it
moderate enough, and went on,--
"If it were not for baby, I could teach perhaps, or go out to sew; but
I'll have to wait till he's older for that."
"Would you take the baby?" he asked surprisedly.
"How could I leave him?" she returned.
"I thought perhaps--didn't your stepmother have any relatives?"
"A few; but they are not people with whom he would be happy," she said
simply.
He looked at her with a puzzled face, made a move to speak, then
stopped, ashamed to utter what was in his mind; ashamed to tell her that
such devotion to a half-brother would hardly be expected of her, and
that, freed from him, she might make a far easier start in life.
Instead, he merely nodded his head understandingly, and kept silence,
feeling that here was a nature not to be approached, except with care
and reverence, first putting off the dust-soiled shoes of custom and
worldly prudence, as unfit to enter there. After a little more talk he
rose reluctantly.
"Our good Mrs. Updyke will be scandalized to see a light here after
half-past nine," he remarked lightly. "Have you any word to send to Aunt
Felicie?"
"Always my love and reverence," said Sara, with a touch of the old-
fashioned manner that Robert thought one of her greatest charms. "And,
if you think I may trouble her, I will write what there is to tell,
though even Miss Prue does not know all the dreams I have had for the
future."
"Why should she?" asked the young man jealously. "My aunt may not be so
old a friend, but I am sure she is as good a one."
"She's more than kind! I can't understand," with a little burst of
confidence, "why you are all so good to a poor fisherman's daughter like
me?" They had risen, and he had shaken himself into his fur-trimmed
great-coat; now he turned, hat in hand, and looked down upon her, for,
though Sara was tall for a girl of eighteen, he towered well above her.
"You ask why?" he began in a quick, eager tone, then something in her
calm face seemed to alter his mind, or at least speech, for he added
more carelessly, "Do you think it so queer? But you forget you are a
princess!" laughing lightly. "Well, good-night; it is time for me to
go," and, with a more hasty farewell than he had intended, he turned,
and left her standing in the doorway.
* * * * *
The next morning he was sitting before a cheerful grate fire in his
aunt's private parlor at a certain hotel in Boston, his long legs
stretched towards the blaze, and his chin dropped meditatively on his
breast, while she, at the other end of the leopard-skin, worked busily
on some fleecy white wool-work, occasionally glancing towards his
darkly-thoughtful face.
"Ah, well, Robare," she said at last, "this is then your last evening
here?"
He shook himself a little, sat upright, took his hands from his pockets,
and, forcing a smile, turned to her.
"Yes, Aunt Felicie; and a nice way to spend it, glowering at the fire!
Where's uncle?"
"He has to that meeting gone at the Natural History building; I cannot
its name remember. Why? had you a private word to say?"
"Well, I haven't told you about my trip yet, to Killamet."
"Ah! It was then to Killamet that you have been? I have thought so,
though you did say it was a business trip."
"And so it was, partly; old Adam has sold my yacht, and I went to get
the money."
"Are there, then, no banks with drafts, or notes of post in Killamet?"
rallyingly.
"Don't tease, auntie, but listen. I called on the little princess."
"Of course."
"And, Aunt Felicie, her father is lost at sea, and she is caring for all
those little ones, alone."
"Ah, the poor child! Is she then born to trouble, as the sparks do fly
upward? Are they very, very poor, Robert?"
"No; she said they had means, though it is probably but little, a
thousand or two at most; they seemed comfortable, though you know how
plainly they live; and, aunt, she is more beautiful than ever!"
"Yes, hers is of that kind of beauty that does grow, as her soul grows,
for it is from the within. Did she to me send any special word?"
"Yes, her 'love and reverence;' can't you imagine just how she said it,
with that little Priscilla touch which is so quaintly charming?" Then
he told of Morton's revolt, and the advice he had given Sara, at her
request; also the promise he had extorted.
"And now, aunt, she must have help; not only advice, but other things
perhaps."
"Never from you, Robare!" sharply. "Of what are you thinking?"
"You have always let me help in your charities, auntie," he said in a
wheedling tone; then, tossing back his head suddenly, "But this is
different, of course; only just think, Aunt Felicie, how the poor
child's hands are tied!"
"But the poor child's spirit is not, my Robare, and it is that of a
free-born fisher-lass, who would not be dependent, even in its thought;
leave Sara to me, my dear boy; I think it is that you may trust my
discretions, is it not?"
He leaned forward, caught the pretty white hand from its flying task,
crushed it against his lips, then, flushing hotly, rose from his chair,
and walked down the room, ashamed of the agitation he could not
suppress.
There was silence for a moment, while the perky little Bougival clock on
the mantel ticked merrily, and madame's needles kept the time; then
Robert broke it abruptly.
"Aunt, I'm almost twenty-four."
"Yes."
"And worth a clear ten thousand."
"Yes." "And make at least three thousand a year."
"Yes."
"And uncle and yourself are my nearest relatives."
"I am aware."
"Well, haven't I a right to please myself?"
"You haven't a right to tie yourself by your hands, and your feet, for a
whimsey which may pass away. Go back to your busy Chicago, my Robare,
and work hard, and live the right, pure life for one year, then tell me
what is your thought."
"_Must_ I, auntie?"
It was with the old boyish voice and manner he said this, and his aunt
broke into a laugh, though her eyes were wet.
"You naughty child! Will you now obey your good _tante_, or not?"
"Yes, ma'am, I will; but you will keep me posted?"
"Possibly, my boy," bending carelessly over her work.
"Aunt Felicie," he strode up to her with sudden passion.
"Do not answer me so! I am a man, and I love this fisher-lass with all
my heart!"
He had stopped directly before her, and she saw that his face was white
with feeling. Down went the worsted-work, and, rising, she flung both
arms about his neck.
"My Robare, my nephew, my son!" she cried in a choked voice, "I want the
best that earth and heaven can give to you; and you--you do push over my
ambitions, and expect that I will at once be glad and gay."
"But, auntie, you admire her too."
"I do, Robare; she is good and fair to see; but you must of the others
take thought too, and she does need many teachings, dear."
"You'll teach her, auntie?"
"Oh, be quiet, then!" pushing him pettishly away. "Of what use to argue
with a man so enamoured? Go thy Western way; obey me, and I will tell
you every week all that there is to tell. Are you content?"
"I'll have to be," laughing a little at her expression; "but remember,"
turning in the doorway, "if I don't hear, I shall immediately find that
business compels an Eastern trip." And, shaking a warning finger at her,
he disappeared to his packing in an opposite apartment.
Madame Grandet, meanwhile, resumed her work, and held it till the door
had closed behind the young man. Then she dropped it, her smiles
vanished, and she grew grave and thoughtful; for, though far less
worldly than many, she was too much of a Frenchwoman to look upon a
misalliance without a shiver of dread and apprehension. Her relationship
to Robert was only by marriage, but an own child could not have been
dearer, for he was bound to her by all the traditions and ties of a
lifetime. His mother, pretty Nadine Grandet, had been her earliest
friend, and they had lived side by side, in a little village on the
Ouise, until she was wooed and won by the American artist, Robert
Glendenning, who had been attracted to that neighborhood by his studies,
and the fame of Sevigne, whom he worshipped afar. He finally brought his
pretty French bride to America, and they lived happily in an Eastern
city till the little Robert was twelve years old. Then a sudden illness
took the wife and mother to heaven, leaving the husband and son to keep
house in a Bohemianish way, until Nadine's studious brother, Leon, who
had meanwhile married the lifelong friend of his sister, Felicie
Bougane, decided to come to America.
The Grandets had no children, and as soon as the madame's eyes fell upon
the little Robert, who was wonderfully like his dead mother, her heart
went out to him; and from that time on he had been like a son to her,
especially after his father's death, a few years later.
As the artist was unusually prudent, and no genius, by which I mean he
painted pictures which the public could understand, and therefore did
buy, he left a snug little sum to his son. This the young man decided to
invest in Chicago, and chose architecture for a profession, two wise
moves, as subsequent events proved. As for his uncle and aunt, they had
no settled home, but followed wherever science beckoned, and a wild
dance she sometimes led the two, as the poor little madame often
thought.
But this winter certain proof-sheets anchored them in Boston; hence
Robert's intense desire that Sara should make haste to settle under his
aunt's protection, before some new flitting should put too great a
distance between them. This devoted aunt was ready to make any sacrifice
for her dear boy, but not so ready to see him make one; often a much
harder thing for a loving heart.
The madame, being of Huguenot ancestry, and as sturdy a Protestant as
ever lived, could have suffered martyrdom, like her grandfather of
blessed memory, for the faith that was in her; but to see her boy suffer
perhaps a ruined life because of one mistake in early manhood, terrified
her, and she was now often sorry she had let her artistic admiration for
that unusually fine head in the cottage doorway lead her to such lengths
the summer before.
Sara as a pet and _protegee_ was one thing; Sara as her nephew's
wife quite, quite another!
But in her varied life she had learned the two wisest lessons God ever
sets his children,--those of waiting and trusting. So, after a half-
hour's silent meditation now, she resumed her work with a more cheerful
look and manner.
"What is done is done," she said in her own tongue. "The only thing left
is to make the best of it;" and when Robert returned, after completing
the preparations for his journey, he would never have dreamed that she
had a care upon her mind, or the least foreboding in her heart, to see
her bright face, and hear her sunny laughter.