University of Virginia Library

5. V.

It was one of the mildest and loveliest of all the days that
make our western autumns so beautiful. The meadow sides,
indeed, were brown and flowerless; the lush weeds of summer
lopped down, black and wilted, along the white dry dust of
the roadside; the yellow mossy hearts of the fennel were faded
dry; the long, shriveled iron-weeds had given their red bushy

tops for a thin greyish down, and the trees had lost their summer
garments; still, the day was lovely, and all its beauties
had commended themselves with an unwonted degree of accuracy
to the eyes of Charlotte—Mr. Dinsmore had asked her to
join him in an autumn ramble and search for the last hardy
flowers. All the morning she was singing to herself,

It had been stipulated by Mr. Dinsmore, “so as not to excite
observation,” he said, that they should leave the house separately,
and meet at an appointed place, secure from observation.
Why a ramble in search of flowers should be clandestine,
the young lady did not pause to inquire, but she went forth at
the time appointed, with a cheek bright almost as the calico
she wore.

On the grassy slope of a hollow that ran in one direction
through a strip of partly cleared woodland, and in the other
toward an old orchard of low heavy-topped trees, she seated
herself, fronting the sun, which was not shining, but seemed
only a soft yellow spot in the thick haze that covered all the
sky. A child might have looked on it, for scarcely had it
more brightness than the moon. The air was soft and loving,
as though the autumn was wooing back the summer. The
grass was sprouting through the stubble, and only the clear
blue sky was wanting to make the time spring-like, and a bird
or two to sing of “April purposes.” It was full May-time in
the heart of Charlotte, and for a time, no bird could sing more
gaily than she, as she sat arranging and disarranging the scarlet
buds she had twined among her hair; now placing them on
one side, now on the other: now stripping off a leaf or two,
and now adding a bud or blades of grass.

So an hour was wiled away; but though it seemed long,
Charlotte thought perhaps it was not an hour after all; it could
not be, or surely Mr. Dinsmore would have joined her. The
day was very still, and she knew the time seemed longer when
there were no noises. And yet when she became aware of
sounds, for a cider-mill was creaking and grating in the edge

of the orchard, they seemed only to make the hours more long
and lonesome.

Round and round moved the horse, but she could not hear
the crushing and grinding of the apples—only the creaking of
the mill. Two or three little boys were there, whistling and
hopping about—now riding the horse, and now bending over
the tub and imbibing cider with a straw. An old man was
moving briskly among bundles and barrels, more from a habit
of industry, it seemed, than because there was anything to do.
But, try as she would, Charlotte could not interest herself in
their movements. An uneasy sensation oppressed her—she
could not deceive herself any longer—it was time, and long
past the time appointed. At first she looked back on the way
she had come, long and earnestly; then she arose and walked
backward and forward in the path, with a quick step at first,
then more irresolutely and slowly. The yellow spot in the
clouds had sunken very low and was widening and deepening
into orange, when she resumed the old seat, folded her hands
listlessly in her lap, and looked toward the cider-mill. The
creaking was still, the horses harnessed, and barrels, and bundles
of straw, and boys, all in the wagon. The busy farmer
was making his last round, to be sure that nothing was amiss,
and this done he climbed before the barrels and bundles and
boys, cracked his whip, and drove away toward the orange
light in the clouds. Mr. Dinsmore was not coming—of that
she was confident, and anger, mortification, and disappointment,
all mingled in her bosom, producing a degree of misery
she had never before experienced.

Not till night had spread one dull leaden color all over the
sky, did she turn her steps homeward, in her thoughts bitterly
revolving all Mr. Dinsmore had said, and the much more he
had suggested. And, as she thus walked, a warm bright light
dried up the tears, and she quickened her step—she had fallen
back on that last weakness—some unforeseen, perhaps terrible
event, had detained him, and all the reproaches she had framed
were turned upon herself; she had harshly blamed him, when
it was possible, even probable, that he could not come. The
world was full of accidents, dangers, and deaths—some of these

might have overtaken him, and he perhaps had been watching
as anxiously for her as she for him. At this thought she quickened
her steps, and was soon at the house. The parlor was
but dimly lighted, and, with a trembling and anxious heart, she
entered, and recognizing Mr. Dinsmore in one of the recesses
of the windows, she obeyed the first impulse, hurried toward
him, and parting the heavy and obscuring draperies, said, in
an earnest whisper, “Why did you not come?”

“Come—where?” he replied, indolently; and added, in a
moment, “Ay, yes, really, I forgot it.”

A half sigh reached her, and turning, she became aware that
a young and pretty lady occupied the corner of the window
opposite. No further explanation was needed.

With feelings never known before, pent in her heart, Charlotte
sought the chamber in which she was used to sleep—the
lamp was faintly burning, and the bright carpet and the snowy
counterpane and curtains, and low cushioned seats, looked very
comfortable; and as Charlotte contrasted all with the homely
garret in which she had slept at home, the contrast made it
luxury.

In her heart, she wished she had never slept any where else
but under the naked rafters of her father's house. “I should
have known better than to come,” she thought; “it is no wonder
they think the woods the best place for me.” Now, no one
had said this, but she attributed it and many such thoughts to
her rich friends, as she called them, and then set herself as
resentfully against them as though they had said they despised
her.

Her eyes turned toward the night; she was sitting very still,
with all bitter and resentful and sorrowful feelings running
through her heart, when a soft tap on the door summoned her
to answer. With a haughty step and repellant manner she
went forward; and when, opening the door, she saw before
her the pleasant-faced little lady she had seen in the window,
below, she said, very coldly, “You have mistaken the apartment,
I think,” and was turning away, when the intruder
eagerly but artlessly caught up both her hands, saying, in a
tone of mingled sweetness and heartiness, “No, I am not mistaken;

I know you, if you do not know me—I could not wait
for a formal introduction, but commissioned myself to bring
you down to tea. My name,” she added, “is Louise—Louise
Herbert.”

Charlotte bowed stiffly, and saying, “You are very obliging,
but I do n't want any tea,” closed the door abruptly, and
resumed her old seat, looking out into the night as before.

“I suppose it was mere curiosity that brought her here,”
she said, by way of justifying her rudeness; “of course, she
could feel no interest in me.” And further, she even tried to
approve of herself by saying she always hated pretence, and
for a fine lady like Miss Herbert, who had evidently been
accustomed to all the refinements of wealth, to affect any liking
for a poor ignorant country girl, as she chose to call herself,
was absurd. In truth, she was glad she had shown independence
at least, and let the proud creature know she would not
cringe because of her silk dress, or white hands, or pretty face.
She did n't want anything of her—she could live without her,
and she would. And rising and pacing the room, she made
what she thought a very wise and dignified resolve. When
they were all asleep she would tie in a bundle what few things
she had, and walk home; she would not ask her uncle to take
her—she would not tell him she was going—he might find it
out the best way he could. This decision made, she undressed
and went to bed, as usual, and tried to compose herself to
sleep by thinking that she was about as ugly and ill-bred, and
unfortunate in every way, as she could be; that everybody
disliked and despised her, and that all who were connected with
her were ashamed of her. Nor was this any wonder—she was
ashamed of herself. There was one thing she could do, nevertheless,
and that she would do—go back and remain where she
belonged. Thus she lay tossing and tumbling, and frightening
the drowsy god quite from the neighborhood of her pillow,
when Kate entered, accompanied by the agreeable looking little
woman, who, being introduced, begged in a jocular way, that
she would afford her sleeping-room for only one night. “I
could not,” she added very sweetly, “give my friends the

trouble of making an extra bed, if you would allow me to
share yours.”

Charlotte answered, coldly and concisely, that she was ready
to do anything to oblige, and placing herself close against the
wall, buried her face in the pillow, and lay stiff and straight
and still. But Miss Herbert, singularly oblivious of the young
woman's uncivil behavior, prepared for sleep,

“How cold you are,” she said, creeping close to her companion,
and putting her arm about her. Charlotte said nothing,
and gave a hitch, which she meant to be from, but, somehow,
it was toward the little woman. “Oh, you are quite in a
chill,” she added, giving her an embrace, and in a moment she
had hopped from the bed, and in her clean, white, night dress,
was fluttering out of the room.

“I never had such a night-gown,” thought Charlotte, “with
its ruffles and lace trimming—I never had any at all,” and she
resumed her old position, which, however, she had scarcely
gained, when the guest came fluttering back, and folding off the
counterpane, wrapt, as though she were a baby, her own nicely
warmed woollen petticoat about her feet, and having tucked
the clothing down, slipt under it and nestled Charlotte in her
arms, as before, saying, “There, is n't that better?”

“Yes—thank you,” and her voice trembled, as she yielded
to this determined kindness.

“Another night we must have an additional blanket,” said
the lady; “that is, if I succeed in keeping you from freezing
to-night,” and pressing the chilly hands of Charlotte close in
her bosom, she fell asleep. And Charlotte, thinking she would
be at home the next night, fell asleep too, and woke not till
along the counterpane ran the shadows of the red clouds of
morning.

But I am lingering, and must hasten to say, that Louise
Herbert was one of the most lovable, generous, and excellent
of women; that she had been accustomed to affluence was
true, and that she could not know the feelings of Charlotte,
who had been born and bred in comparative poverty, was not

her fault; from her position in life, she had naturally fallen
into certain agreeing habits and ways of thinking, but her soul
was large, her heart warm, and her apprehensions quick; and
when she saw Charlotte, and heard the trembling inquiry, and
the answer of indifference, she read the little history, which to
the young girl was so much, and appreciating, so far as she
might, her sorrows, determined to win her love; for at once
her heart went out toward her—for she was unsuspicious and
unhesitating, always ready to find something good in every one.

Even Charlotte found it impossible not to love her. She
did n't know why, but she could get on a stool at her feet, lay
her head on her lap, and forget that Louise was not as poor
and humble as herself; or, if she remembered it, the silks and
plumes and jewelry worn by her, did n't make her envious or
jealous—it gave her pleasure to see Louise look pretty.

Mr. Dinsmore, after some vain attempts to coquette and
flirt with Miss Herbert, who had too much tact, or was too
indifferent to him, to pay much regard to his overtures,
departed rather abruptly, merely sending his adieus to Charlotte,
who was engaged in the kitchen at the time, and who
had been in the shade since the coming of Miss Herbert.

And after a month of eating and sleeping, talking and laughing,
baking and making and mending, Louise was joined by
her party, who had left her with her friends, the Baileys, while
they continued a ruralizing tour through the West, and Charlotte's
heart grew desolate at the thought of separation from
her. But such a misfortune was not yet to be; for before
the departure of the young lady, she persuaded the parents of
Charlotte (who could not help liking, though they regarded her
very much as they would a being from another sphere) to
allow their daughter to accompany her home.

With a heart full of curious joy, but with tears in her eyes,
Charlotte took leave of the old home that she had so despised,
and yet loved so well.