University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.
A MANEUVER.

The grey twilight of a cold December afternoon was
creeping over the village of S—, when Ada Harcourt
left her seat by the window, where, the live-long day, she
had sat stitching till her heart was sick and her eyes were
dim. On the faded calico lounge near the fire, lay Mrs.
Harcourt, who for several days had been unable to work,

on account of a severe cold which seemed to have settled
in her face and eyes.

“There,” said Ada, as she brushed from her gingham
apron the bits of thread and shreds of cotton, “There, it
is done at last, and now before it is quite dark I will take
it home.”

“No, not to-night, child,” said Mrs. Harcourt; “to-morrow
will do just as well.”

“But, mother, answered Ada,” you know Mrs. Dayton
always pays as soon as the work is delivered, and what I
have finished will come to two dollars and a half, which
will last a long time, and we shall not be obliged to take
any from the sum laid by to pay our rent; besides, you
have had nothing nourishing for a long time; so let me
go, and on my way home I will buy you something nice
for supper.”

Mrs. Harcourt said no more, but the tears fell from her
aching eyes as she thought how hard her daughter was
obliged to labor, now that she was unable to assist her.
In a moment Ada was in the street. The little alley in
which she lived was soon traversed, and she was about
turning into Main street, when rapid footsteps approached
her, and St. Leon appeared at her side, saying, “Good
evening, Miss Harcourt; allow me to relieve you of that
bundle.”

And before she could prevent it, he took from her
hands the package, while he continued, “May I ask how
far you are walking to-night?”

Ada hesitated a moment, but quickly forcing down her
pride, she answered, “Only as far as Mr. Dayton's. I am
carrying home some work.”

“Indeed!” said he, “then I can have your company
all the way, for I am going to inquire after Lizzie.”

They soon reached their destination, and their ring at

the door was not, as usual, answered by Bridget, but by
Lucy herself, whose sweet smile, as she greeted St. Leon,
changed into an angry scowl when she recognized his
companion.

“Ada Harcourt!” said she, and Ada, blushing scarlet,
began: “I have brought —,” but she was interrupted
by St. Leon, who handed Lucy the bundle, saying, “Here
is your work, Miss Dayton, and I hope it will suit you,
for we took a great deal of pains with it.”

Lucy tried to smile as she took the work, and then opening
the parlor door she with one hand motioned St. Leon
to enter, while with the other she held the hall door ajar,
as if for Ada to depart. A tear trembled on Ada's long
eyelashes, as she timidly asked, “Can I see your grandmother?”

“Mrs. Dayton, I presume you mean,” said Lucy,
haughtily.

Ada bowed, and Lucy continued: “She is not at home
just at present.”

“Perhaps, then, you can pay me for the work,” said
Ada.

The scowl on Lucy's face grew darker, as she replied,
“I have nothing to do with grandma's hired help. Come
to-morrow and she will be here. (How horridly cold
this open door makes the hall!”)

Ada thought of the empty cupboard at home, and of
her pale, sick mother. Love for her conquered all other
feelings, and in a choking voice she said, “Oh, Miss Dayton,
if you will pay it you will confer a great favor on
me, for mother is sick, and we need it so much!”

There was a movement in the parlor. St. Leon was
approaching, and with an impatient gesture, Lucy opened
the opposite door, saying to Ada, “Come in here.”

The tone was so angry that, under any other circumstances,

Ada would have gone away. Now, however,
she entered, and Lucy, taking out her purse, said, “How
much is the sum about which you make so much fuss?”

“Two dollars and a half,” answered Ada.

“Two dollars and a half,” repeated Lucy; and then, as
a tear fell from Ada's eye, she added, contemptuously,
“It is a small amount to cry about.”

Ada made no reply, and was about leaving the room,
when Lucy detained her, by saying, “Pray, did you ask
Mr. St. Leon to accompany you here and bring your
bundle?”

“Miss Dayton, you know better,—you know I did not,”
answered Ada, as the fire of insulted pride flashed from
her dark blue eyes, which became almost black, while her
cheek grew pale as marble.

Instantly Lucy's manner changed, and in a softened
tone she said, “I am glad to know that you did not;
and now, as a friend, I warn you against receiving any
marks of favor from St. Leon.”

“What do you mean?” asked Ada, and Lucy continued:
“You have sense enough to know, that when a
man of St. Leon's standing shows any preference for a
girl in your circumstances, it can be from no good design.”

“You judge him wrongfully—you do not know him,”
said Ada; and Lucy answered, “Pray, where did you
learn so much about him?”

Ada only answered by rising to go.

“Here, this way,” said Lucy, and leading her through
an outer passage to the back door, she added, “I do it to
save your good name. St. Leon is undoubtedly waiting
for you, and I would not trust my own sister with him,
were she a poor sewing girl!”

The door was shut in Ada's face, and Lucy returned to
the parlor, where she found her father entertaining her

visitor. Seating herself on a crimson ottoman, she prepared
to do the agreeable, when St. Leon rising, said,
“Excuse my short call, for I must be going. Where have
you left Miss Harcourt?”

“I left her at the door,” answered Lucy, “and she is
probably half way to `Dirt Alley' by this time, so do not
be in haste.”

But he was in haste, for when he looked on the fast
gathering darkness without, and thought of the by streets
and lonely alleys through which Ada must pass on her
way home, he felt uneasy, and bidding Miss Dayton good-night,
he hurried away.

Meantime, Ada had procured the articles she wished
for, and proceeded home, with a heart which would have
been light as a bird, had not the remembrance of Lucy's
insulting language rung in her ears. Mrs. Harcourt saw
that all was not right, but she forbore making any inquiries
until supper was over. Then Ada, bringing a stool
to her mother's side, and laying her head on her lap, told
everything which had transpired between herself, St. Leon,
and Lucy.

Scarcely was her story finished, when there was a rap at
the door, and St. Leon himself entered the room. He had
failed in overtaking Ada, and anxious to know of her safe
return, had determined to call. The recognition between
himself and Mrs. Harcourt was mutual, but for reasons
of their own, neither chose to make it apparent, and Ada
introduced him to her mother as she would have done
any stranger. St. Leon possessed in an unusual degree
the art of making himself agreeable, and in the animated
conversation which ensued, Mrs. Harcourt forgot that she
was poor,—forgot her aching eyes; while Ada forgot everything
save that St. Leon was present, and that she was

again listening to his voice, which charmed her now even
more than in the olden time.

During the evening, St. Leon managed, in various
ways, to draw Ada out on all the prominent topics of the
day, and he felt pleased to find, that amid all her poverty
she did not neglect the cultivation of her mind. A part
of each day was devoted to study, which Mrs. Harcourt,
who was a fine scholar, superintended.

It was fast merging toward the hour when phantoms walk
abroad, ere St. Leon remembered that he must go. As
he was leaving, he said to Ada, “I have a niece, Jenny,
about your age, whom I think you would like very much.”

Oh how Ada longed to ask for her old playmate, but a
look from her mother kept her silent, and in a moment
St. Leon was gone.