University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.
RICHARD EVELYN AND HARLEY ASHMORE.

Emma had not long been with us, ere her fame reached
the little village “over the river,” and drew from thence
many calls, both from gentlemen and ladies. Among
these was a Mr. Richard Evelyn and his sister, both of
whom had the honor of standing on the topmost round
of the aristocratic ladder in the village. Mr. Evelyn, who
was nearly thirty years of age, was a wealthy lawyer, and
what is a little remarkable for that craft, (I speak from
experience,) to an unusual degree of intelligence and polish
of manners, he added many social and religious qualities.
Many kind-hearted mothers, who had on their hands

good-for-nothing daughters, wondered how he managed
to live without a wife, but he seemed to think it the easiest
thing in nature, for, since the death of his parents, his
sister Susan had acted in the capacity of his housekeeper.

I have an idea that grandmother, whose disposition
was slightly spiced with a love for match-making, bethought
herself how admirably Mr. Evelyn and Emma
were suited for each other; for, after his calls became frequent,
I heard her many times slily hint of the possibility
of our being able to keep Emma in town always. She,
probably, did not think so; for, each time after being
teased, she repaired to her room and read, for the twentieth
time, some ominous looking letters which she had
received since being with us.

It was now three weeks since she came, and each day
she had gained in health and strength. Twice had she
walked to the woods, accompanied by Mr. Evelyn, once
to the school-house, while every day she swung under the
old maple. About this time Agnes began to think of returning
home, so Juliet and Anna determined on a party
in honor of her and Emma. It was a bright summer afternoon;
and, for a wonder, I was suffered to remain
from school, although I received numerous charges to
keep my tongue still, and was again reminded of that excellent
old proverb, (the composition of some old maid, I
know,) “children should be seen and not heard;” so,
seated in a corner, my hand pressed closely over my
mouth, the better to guard against contingencies, I looked
on and thought, with ineffable satisfaction, how much
handsomer Cousin Emma was than any one else, although
I could not help acknowledging that Carrie never looked
more beautiful than she did that afternoon, in a neatly-fitting
white muslin, with a few rose-buds nestling in her
long, glossy curls.

Matters were going on swimmingly, and I had three
times ventured a remark, when Anna, who was sitting
near the window, exclaimed, “Look here, girls, did you
ever see a finer looking gentleman?” at the same time
calling their attention to a stranger in the street. Emma
looked, too, and the bright flush which suffused her cheek
made me associate the gentleman with the letters she had
received, and I was not surprised when he entered our
yard and knocked at our door. Juliet arose to answer
his summons, but Emma prevented her, saying, “Suffer
me to go, will you?”

She was gone some time, and when she returned was
accompanied by the stranger, whom she introduced as
Mr. Ashmore. I surveyed him with childish curiosity,
and drew two very satisfactory breaths when I saw that
he was wholly unlike Monsieur Penoyer. He was a very
fine looking man, but I did not exactly like the expression
of his face. It was hardly open enough to suit me, and I
noticed that he never looked you directly in the eye. In
five minutes I had come to the conclusion that he was not
half so good a man as Mr. Evelyn. I was in great danger,
however, of changing my mind, when I saw how
fondly his dark eye rested on Emma, and how delighted
he seemed to be at her improved health; and when he,
without any apparent exertion, kept the whole company
entertained, I was charmed, and did not blame Emma for
liking him. Anna's doctor was nothing to him, and I
even fancied that he would dare to go all alone to the old
mine!

Suddenly he faced about, and espying me in the corner,
he said, “Here is a little lady I've not seen. Will some
one introduce me?”

With the utmost gravity, Anna said, “It is my sister,
little crazy Jane.”

I glanced quickly at him to see how he would receive
the intelligence, and when, looking inquiringly first at me
and then at Emma, he said, “Is it really so? what a
pity!” the die was cast—I never liked him again. That
night in my little low bed, long after Lizzie was asleep, I
wept bitterly, wondering what made Anna so unkind, and
why people called me crazy. I knew I looked like other
children, and I thought I acted like them, too; unless,
indeed, I climbed more trees, tore more dresses, and burst
off more hooks.

But to return to the party. After a time I thought
that Mr. Ashmore's eyes went over admiringly to Carrie
more frequently than was necessary, and for once I regretted
that she was so pretty. Ere long, Mr. Ashmore,
too, went over, and immediately there ensued between
himself and Carrie a lively conversation, in which she
adroitly managed to let him know that she had been
three years at school in Albany. The next thing that I
saw was that he took from her curls a rose-bud and appropriated
it to his button hole. I glanced at Emma to
see how she was affected, but her face was perfectly calm,
and wore the old sweet smile. When the young ladies
were about leaving, I was greatly shocked to see Mr.
Ashmore offer to accompany Carrie and Agnes home.

After they were gone, grandmother said, “Emma, if
I's you, I'd put a stop to that chap's flirtin' so with Car'line
Howard.”

Emma laughed gaily, as she replied, “Oh, grandma, I
can trust Harley; I have been sick so long that he has
the privilege of walking or riding with anybody he
pleases.”

Grandmother shook her head, saying, “It was n't so
with her and our poor grandfather;” then I fell into a fit
of musing as to whether grandma was ever young, and if

she ever fixed her hair before the glass, as Anna did when
she expected the doctor! In the midst of my reverie,
Mr. Ashmore returned, and for the remainder of the evening
devoted himself so entirely to Emma that I forgave
him for going home with Carrie. Next day, however,
he found the walk to Capt. Howard's a very convenient
one, staying a long time, too. The next day it was the
same, and the next, and the next, until I fancied that even
Emma began to be anxious.

Grandma was highly indignant, and Sally declared,
“that, as true as she lived and breathed, if Mike should
serve her so, he'd catch it.” About this time, Agnes
went home. The evening before she left, she spent at
our house with Emma, of whom she seemed to be very
fond. Carrie and Ashmore were, as usual, out riding or
walking, and the conversation naturally turned upon them.
At last, Anna, whose curiosity was still on the alert, to
know something of Penoyer, asked Agnes of him. I will
repeat, in substance, what Agnes said.

It seems that for many years Penoyer had been a teacher
of music in Albany. Agnes was one of his pupils, and
while teaching her music he thought proper to fall over-whelmingly
in love with her. This, for a time, she did
not notice; but when his attentions became so pointed as
to become a subject of remark, she very coolly tried to
make him understand his position. He persevered, however,
until he became exceedingly impudent and annoying.

About this time there came well authenticated stories
of his being not only a professed gambler, but also very
dissipated in his habits. To this last charge Agnes could
testify, as his breath had frequently betrayed him. He
was accordingly dismissed. Still he perseveringly pursued
her, always managing, if possible, to get near her in
all public places, and troubling her in various ways.

At last Agnes heard that he was showing among her
acquaintances two notes bearing her signature. The contents
of these notes he covered with his hand, exposing to
view only her name. She had twice written, requesting
him to purchase some new piece of music, and it was these
messages which he was now showing, insinuating that
Agnes thought favorably of him, but was opposed by her
father. The consequence of this was, that the next time
Agnes' brother met Penoyer in the street, he gave him a
sound caning, ordering him, under pain of a worse flogging,
never again to mention his sister's name. This he
was probably more willing to do, as he had already conceived
a great liking for Carrie, who was silly enough to
be pleased with and suffer his attentions.

“I wonder, though, that Carrie allowed him to visit
her,” said Agnes, “but then I believe she is under some
obligations to him, and dare not refuse when he asked
permission to come.”

If Agnes knew what these obligations were, she did not
tell, and grandmother, who, during the narration had knit
with unwonted speed, making her needles rattle again,
said, “It's plain to me that Car'line let him come to make
folks think she had got a city beau.”

“Quite likely,” returned Agnes; “Carrie is a sad flirt,
but I think, at least, that she should not interfere with other
people's rights.”

Here my eye followed hers to Emma, who, I thought,
was looking a little paler. Just then Carrie and Ashmore
came in, and the latter throwing himself upon the sofa by
the side of Emma, took her hand caressingly, saying,
“How are you to-night, my dear?”

“Quite well,” was her quiet reply, and soon after, under
pretense of moving from the window, she took a seat
across the room. That night Mr. Ashmore accompanied

Carrie and Agnes home, and it was at a much later hour
than usual, that old Rover first growled and then whined
as he recognized our visitor.

The next morning Emma was suffering from a severe
headache, which prevented her from appearing at breakfast.
Mr. Ashmore seemed somewhat disturbed, and made
many anxious inquiries about her. At dinner time she
was well enough to come, and the extreme kindness of
Mr. Ashmore's manner called a deep glow to her cheek.
After dinner, however, he departed for a walk, taking his
accustomed road toward Capt. Howard's.

When I returned from school he was still absent, and as
Emma was quite well, she asked me to accompany her to
my favorite resort, the old rock beneath the grape-vine.
We were soon there, and for a long time we sat watching
the shadows as they came and went upon the bright green
grass, and listening to the music of the brook, which
seemed to me to sing more sadly than it was wont to do.

Suddenly our ears were arrested by the sound of voices,
which we knew belonged to Mr. Ashmore and Carrie.
They were standing near us, just behind a clump of alders,
and Carrie, in reply to something Mr. Ashmore had said,
answered, “Oh, you can't be in earnest, for you have only
known me ten days, and besides that, what have you done
with your pale, sick lady?”

Instantly I started up, clinching my fist in imitation of
brother Billy when he was angry, but Cousin Emma's arm
was thrown convulsively around me, as drawing me closely
to her side, she whispered, “keep quiet.”

I did keep quiet, and listened while Mr. Ashmore replied,
“I entertain for Miss Rushton the highest esteem,
for I know she possesses many excellent qualities. Once
I thought I loved her, (how tightly Emma held me,) but
she has been sick a long time, and somehow I cannot

marry an invalid. Whether she ever gets well is doubtful,
and even if she does, after having seen you, she can
be nothing to me. And yet I like her, and when I am
alone with her I almost fancy I love her, but one look at
your sparkling, healthy face drives her from my mind —”

The rest of what he said I could not hear, neither did I
understand Carrie's answer, but his next words were distinct,
“My dear Carrie forever.”

I know the brook stopped running, or at least I did not
hear it. The sun went down; the birds went to rest;
Mr. Ashmore and Carrie went home; and still I sat there
by the side of Emma, who had lain her head in my lap,
and was so still and motionless that the dread fear came
over me that she might be dead. I attempted to lift her
up, saying, “Cousin Emma, speak to me, won't you?”
but she made me no answer, and another ten minutes went
by. By this time the stars had come out and were looking
quietly down upon us. The waters of the mill-dam
chanted mournfully, and in my disordered imagination,
fantastic images danced before the entrance of the old
mine. Half crying with fear, I again laid my hand on
Emma's head. Her hair was wet with the heavy night
dews, and my eyes were wet with something else, as I
said, “Oh, Emma, speak to me, for I am afraid and want
to go home.”

This roused her, and lifting up her head I caught a
glimse of a face of so startling whiteness, that throwing
my arms around her neck, I cried, “Oh, Emma, dear Emma,
don't look so. I love you a great deal better than I
do Carrie Howard, and so I am sure does Mr. Evelyn.”

I don't know how I chanced to think of Mr. Evelyn,
but he recurred to me naturally enough. All thoughts
of him, however, were soon driven from my mind, by the

sound of Emma's voice, as she said, “Mollie, darling, can
you keep a secret?”

I didn't think I could, as I never had been entrusted
with one, so I advised her to give it to Anna, who was
very fond of them. But she said, “I am sure you can do
it, Mollie. Promise me that you will not tell them at
home what you have seen or heard.”

I promised, and then in my joy at owning a secret, I forgot
the little figures which waltzed back and forth before the
old mine, I forgot the woods through which we passed,
nor was the silence broken until we reached the lane.
Then I said, “What shall we tell the folks when they ask
where we have been?”

“Leave that to me,” answered Emma.

As we drew near the house, we met grandmother, Juliet,
Anna and Sally, all armed and equipped for a general
hunt. We were immediately assailed with a score of
questions as to what had kept us so long. I looked to
Emma for the answer, at the same time keeping my hand
tightly over my mouth for fear I should tell.

“We found more things of interest than we expected,”
said Emma, consequently tarried longer than we should
otherwise have done.”

“Why, how hoarse you be,” said grandmother, while
Sally continued, “Starlight is a mighty queer time to see
things in.”

“Some things look better by starlight,” answered Emma;
“but we staid longer than we ought to, for I have
got a severe headache and must go immediately to bed.”

“Have some tea first,” said grandmother, “and some
strawberries and cream,” repeated Sally; but Emma declined
both and went at once to her room.

Mr. Ashmore did not come home until late that night,
for I was awake and heard him stumbling up stairs in the

dark. I remember, too, of having experienced the very
benevolent wish that he would break his neck! As I expected,
Emma did not make her appearance at the breakfast
table, but about ten she came down to the parlor and
asked to see Mr. Ashmore alone. Of what occurred during
that interval I never knew, except that at its close
cousin looked very white, and Mr. Ashmore very black,
notwithstanding which he soon took his accustomed walk
to Capt. Howard's. He was gone about three hours, and
on his return announced his intention of going to Boston
in the afternoon train. No one opposed him, for all were
glad to have him go.

Just before he left, grandmother, who knew all was not
right, said to him,—“Young man, I wish you well; but
mind what I say, you'll get your pay yet for the capers
you've cut here.”

“I beg your pardon, madam,” he returned, with much
more emphasis on madam than was at all necessary, “I
beg your pardon, but I think she has cut the capers, at
least she dismissed me of her own accord.”

I thought of what I had heard, but 't was a secret, so I
kept it safely, although I almost bit my tongue off in my
zealous efforts. After Ashmore was gone, Emma, who
had taken a violent cold the evening before, took her bed,
and was slightly ill for nearly a week. Almost every day
Mr. Evelyn called to see how she was, always bringing
her a fresh bouquet of flowers. On Thursday, Carrie
called, bringing Emma some ice cream which Aunt Eunice
had made. She did not ask to see her, but before
she left she asked Anna if she did not wish to buy her old
piano.

“What will you do without it?” asked Anna.

“Oh,” said Carrie, “I cannot use two. I have got a
new one.”

The stocking dropped from grandmother's hand as she
exclaimed—“What is the world a comin' to! Got two
pianners! Where'd you get 'em?”

“My new one was a present, and came from Boston,”
answered Carrie, with the utmost sang froid.

“You don't say Ashmore sent it to you!—how much
did it cost?” asked grandma.

“Mr. Ashmore wrote that it cost three hundred and
fifty dollars,” was Carrie's reply.

Grandmother was perfectly horror stricken; but desirous
of making Carrie feel as comfortable as possible, she
said, “Sposin' somebody should tell him about Penoyer?”

For an instant Carrie turned pale, as she said quickly,
“What does any one know about him to tell?”

“A great deal—more than you think they do—yes, a
great deal,” was grandma's answer.

After that, Carrie came very frequently to see us, always
bringing something nice for Emma or grandma!

Meanwhile Mr. Evelyn's visits continued, and when at
last Emma could see him, I was sure that she received
him more kindly than she ever had before. “That'll go
yet,” was grandma's prediction. But her scheming was
cut short by a letter from Emma's father, requesting her
immediate return. Mr. Evelyn, who found he had business
which required his presence in Worcester, was to
accompany her thus far. It was a sad day when she left
us, for she was a universal favorite. Sally cried, I cried,
and Bill either cried or made believe, for he very industriously
wiped his eyes and nasal organ on his shirt sleeves;
besides that, things went on wrong side up generally.
Grandma was cross—Sally was cross—and the school
teacher was cross; the bucket fell into the well, and the
cows got into the corn. I got called up at school and set
with some hateful boys, one of whom amused himself by

pricking me with a pin, and when, in self-defense, I gave
him a good pinch, he actually yelled out—“She keeps a
pinchin' me!” On the whole, 'twas a dreadful day, and
when at night I threw myself exhausted upon my little
bed, I cried myself to sleep, thinking of Cousin Emma and
wishing she would come back.