True womanhood a tale |
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| 4. | CHAPTER IV. |
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 | CHAPTER IV. True womanhood |  |
4. CHAPTER IV.
The sound of hurrying to and fro through every part of the
prodigious pile, the crowding and stamping of strangers tumbling
through the broad passage-ways, and over the slippery marble,
and shouting for the waiters to bear a-hand there, and brush off
the snow, was beginning to die away; and the bustle about the
door was yielding to a deathlike stillness, very soothing to poor
Julia, who had just pulled out her watch once more, to be satisfied
it hadn't stopped, when all at once there burst forth from
below the sound of that “barbarian gong,” which has been
allowed to frighten strangers from their “propriety,” without
rebuke or denunciation, filling our largest houses with clamorous
uproar, and shaking the very walls, year after year; like
a steam-engine, with a menagerie aboard, running away, leap
after leap, down an inclined plane, built of sheet brass; or plunging,
with a full band of music, in full blast, through a railway
station, crowded with puppy dogs and sucking pigs and tinkettles,
till it may be sometimes heard — the abominable thing!
— not only in the largest hotels of our largest cities, but in
many a sober little country village, where summer visitors go
for quiet, a mouthful of fresh air, and a few days of comfortable
nothingness, and in some of our dirtiest and shabbiest country-taverns,
where people are obliged to stop over night, and all the
boarders belong there, and grow grayheaded, in spooning their
treacle out of the same dish, picking their teeth with a fork,
perhaps, and eschewing butter-knives and private hair-brushes,
to say nothing of tooth-brushes and soap, or the horse-trough
they are fastened to; and in still shabbier farm-houses, with
whitewashed walls, naked floors, broken windows and featherbeds,
for the sweltering heat of a northern summer, along the
three families at most, for five or six weeks at a time, trying to
persuade themselves that berries and milk, poor butter and
worse bread, are trout-fishing; or salt pork and scorched cunners,
with milk-chowder and apple-pie-root, are sea-bathing, &c.,
&c., &c.
And then, there was another tumultuous rush below, like that
of the South Sea Islanders, hurrying to battle; with the sound of
clapping doors from every part of the house, the rattling of
keys, the rustling of silks, “voluminous and vast,” low questioning
voices, and hurried compliments, till poor Julia, who had
never happened to be much in the way before, at feeding-time,
either in a great American Hotel, or at Exeter 'Change, was
half inclined to believe that a troop of horse, or at the very least,
a mob of noisy school-boys, had been turned loose above, or that
some part of the building was afire.
But as the clangor, and rush, and uproar died away in the
passages below, and she stood hesitating, with her hand upon the
lock, she heard footsteps hurrying swiftly up the stairway, followed
by a bound, like that of a panther, at the top of the landing;
then, two or three low words of inquiry, — the voices of
Peter and Bessie in what seemed to be earnest expostulation
with somebody else, — and then her own name was uttered in a
subdued, though somewhat hasty and impatient tone, — and the
next moment, the handle, upon which her hand rested, turned of
itself, and the door opened, so that she caught a glimpse of Peter
and Bessie struggling with a large man, all covered with snow,
who pushed them both aside without speaking, entered suddenly,
flung the door to, and turned the key.
“Julia, dear Julia!” said the stranger, catching her in his
arms, just as she was ready to drop, — “don't be frightened!
Speak to them, before they raise the house.”
“Peter! Bessie!” screamed the poor girl, just as Peter flung
himself against the door with all his weight, and poor Bessie
had begun to cry help! murder! thieves! fire! not, however,
so as to be heard below, but as if gasping for breath.
“Open the door, Julia, and speak to the fools! confound them
both! or we shall have the whole neighborhood about our ears.”
Julia tried to turn the handle.
“There! there!” said the stranger, wrenching the door open,
as if he would tear it from the hinges, — “recollect yourself, and
speak to them as if nothing had happened.”
Julia looked out into the entry, and being afraid to trust her
voice, lifted her hand, with what was intended for a smile, and
whispered “hush! hush!” and instantly all was quiet.
“Bravely done, Julia! I have always said you were to be
trusted in a matter of life and death, — I always knew you had it
in you!” said the stranger, throwing off the shawl, and shaking
the snow from his large flapped hat, all over the hearth-rug and
carpet.
“Watch the door, Bessie, and let nobody in till I ring,” she
added, in a pleasant low voice.
“But if Mr. Maynard wants to see you, m'em?”
“Ask him to wait, please; and tell him I am engaged.”
“Send up the dinner, m'em?”
“Charles, what say you? shall I order up the dinner?”
“Not for your life!”
“Wouldn't you like to see Cousin Arthur?”
He shook his head.
“Or Uncle George, perhaps?”
“Uncle George!”
“He is not very well to-day, and has gone up to his chamber;
but I am sure he would be glad to see you, brother. What
say you?”
“Ah! indeed! Gone up to his chamber, has he?” And
then, after a moment of consideration, he added, “No, — never.”
“Never, Charles?”
“Never — till I am able to look him in the face without winking.”
Julia drew a long breath, and turned away.
“I have only a few minutes,” he added, glancing at a half-open
door, which led to the dressing-room. “Are we safe, Julia?”
“Safe, brother!”
“No spies about, hey? — No listeners? — no eavesdroppers?”
going softly into the next room, and bolting the entry door, and
turning the key, and then to the windows, one of which, overlooking
then to a large wardrobe.
“Brother, dear brother! in mercy, tell me what has happened.”
“Hush, Julia, hush!”
“What is the meaning of all this? You are deadly pale and
gloomy, and your eyes look as if you were hunted.”
“I am hunted, Julia! The bloodhounds are on my track; and
you have no hiding-place for me here; — but I have little time
for explanation. You are a brave girl, Julia, when put to your
mettle. I have no fears, no misgivings, on your account; but I
would have you prepared — for you are soon to be taxed to the
uttermost. All I ask of you now, dear, is to believe nothing to
my disadvantage, whatever you may hear, till I stand before
you, face to face, with my accusers. Come, come, Julia, — don't
give way to your feelings. I have no time to lose, and my life
may depend upon your self-command for five minutes.”
“Your life, brother!”
“To the door instantly! — I hear a step!”
Julia sprang to the door, and listened, but the step went by;
and she stood trembling from head to foot, pale and speechless,
more troubled by the low earnest whispering of her brother, and
by the noiseless tread, than by the abrupt entrance, or the look
of gloomy determination about his eyes.
“Julia! sister!” said he, as the poor child threw herself sobbing
into his arms, — “be of good cheer. Believe me, and bear
up, — I am more than a match for the whole of them, yet!” —
straining her to his heart with convulsive strength, and kissing
her on the mouth, and eyes, and forehead, till the tears ran down
her pale cheeks like summer rain, while even his lashes were wet,
and his chin quivered, — “I have only run up to bid you good-bye,
Julia, before I go;” — managing as he spoke to gather up
the heavy shawl about him, and to disengage a travelling cap
from the flapped hat he had entered the room with.
“To bid me good-bye, brother, before you go, — where? What
do you mean? What has happened?”
“I cannot tell you, dear. We have no time now, — it would
be foolish to enter upon such a long story here, — kiss me, — and
then — and then, good-bye!”
“And you will not tell me? Oh, brother! brother!”
“You will know it soon enough, — too soon, perhaps, — but,
Julia, my beloved sister! there is one thing I will say. You
have always been faithful to me, — always loved me, — and
always tried to overlook my waywardness, my headlong temper,
and my wretched forgetfulness of what I owe to you and to myself,
— to the memory of our mother, and to the example of our
father; for which I pray God to bless you!”
“Do you mean what you say, brother?”
“Julia!”
“Well, then, if you do,” — lifting her head from his broad
chest, and looking up into his eyes, — “if you do, dear Charles,
kneel down with me, this moment — here — here — on this very
spot, — and let us ask our heavenly Father to forgive us, and
watch over, and comfort and strengthen us!” And she drew her
unhappy brother to her side, and they knelt together, — and while
he buried his face in the sofa cushions, and his whole frame
shook with the agony of ungovernable emotion, and his very
breathing was frightful, a low, distant, broken-hearted murmur
went up from his side, till they rose together, and she whispered,
“Oh, my dear brother, God comfort and help you!”
“Good-bye, Julia, — my own blessed sister, — good-bye! farewell!”
There was something so dreary, so mournful, and so hopeless,
in that last word, farewell, that poor Julia again lifted her
head from her brother's bosom, and looked into his large clear
eyes for explanation.
He understood her; and turning a way from her with a feeling
of deep sorrow and shame, and as he afterwards acknowledged,
of overwhelming self-reproach, he added, “I know not whither
to go, — I have no settled purpose, — I only know that you will
never see me again — I hope and believe — until I am worthy
of my dead father, of my poor broken-hearted mother, and of
your unchangeable, unselfish love, my angel sister!”
“Oh, Charles! Charles!”
“Am I to understand by that cry, Julia, that you have no hope?”
“No hope, Charles! Oh, my dear brother, if you but knew
the strength of my hope! If you could but feel as I do!”
The poor fellow shook his head — a tear fell upon her uplifted
face, and the strong man was like a helpless child.
“But for my hope in you, my brother, — but for my trust in
God, — but for my belief in prayer, — I could not live, I should
not desire to live another day!”
“Thank you, my dear sister. God is faithful, I know, — or,
at any rate, although I may not know it as you do, thus much I
believe; and so long as you and mother continued to hope
against hope, I was never without hope for myself, — never altogether
disheartened. Continue to hope, dear Julia; continue to
pray, whatever may become of me; and if I live, you shall be
proud of your brother even yet.”
“And if you should not live, dear brother?”
He shuddered — turned away — and then, holding her off at
arm's length, and looking her in the face with a sad, mournful
expression, he added, — “I understand you, Julia; I feel what
you say. I am not, I hope, unthankful, nor altogether” —
(hesitating) — “what I try to appear; and if all Christians were
like you and mother, and like our generous kind-hearted father,
so serene, so patient, and so hopeful, happen what may, under all
the disappointments and sorrows of life, — always remembering,
and always at the right time, too, how much they always have
to be thankful for, and how much better off they always are than
most of their neighbors, I do almost persuade myself — God
forgive me! — that I might hope to be a Christian myself before
I die;” — another kiss — “but when I see so many sad countenances
among people who pretend to be so happy, and who try to
make us believe that they are perfectly satisfied with their heavenly
Father, and with his administration of the Universe, — as
they certainly are with themselves, — you need not shake your
head, Julia, for you know they look upon themselves as God's
children, and all the rest of the world as reprobates and outcasts,
— while they go through life weeping, and groaning, and fasting,
to be seen of men; — upon my word, Julia, I have no patience
with them, and I long to say to them, `What do ye more than
others?'”
“And if this were all true, dear brother, would it change the
administration you speak of, or in any way affect our duties, or
lessen our accountability?”
“Perhaps not, I am only complaining of what you call the
church, the people of God; upon my life, sister, I do believe that
inasmuch as all who are not helpers are hinderers, they are now
the greatest hindrance in the way of unbelievers. They are
continually disappointing us, and betraying themselves. The
world has, after all, a higher standard for the christian character
than Christians themselves appear to have; that is — bear with
me for a moment, my dear sister; I have thought more of these
things than I have had credit for; and I say, in all seriousness,
that we, the world, expect more of the professed follower of
Christ than his brethren do. They overlook what we do not,
and cannot, from the moment our friends have encamped apart,
saying by their behavior, if not by their words, to each of the
forsaken, — `Stand thou aside, we are holier than thou!'”
“I cannot argue with you, dear brother; I am no match for
you —”
“Pooh, pooh, child! you are a match for me at chess, and
beat me, on the whole, oftener than I do you — or did, when we
used to play together so much, night after night, and month after
month, at our own beloved home; though I dare say I have
learned something since — and — and —” faltering and hesitating,
as if he had forgotten all he wanted to say, — “and, — ah,
I remember now; if you can do this, why should you not be a
match for me in argument? No, no, my dear sister, you wrong
yourself.”
Julia laid her trembling hand upon his arm, and looking up
with her eyes brimful, and her mouth trembling, she added, —
“No, no, Charles, I cannot argue with you; I would not if I
could; I am afraid to trust myself with controversy, — I can
only feel; and I now say again, that if all you have said were
true, — and much of it is untrue, I am sure, because I find the
oldest and best Christians least satisfied with themselves, — it
would only prove, not that unbelievers are right, but that professors
are wrong.”
“Very fair, — check!”
“And is it not well that so much is expected of us by the
world? They watch for our halting; and I dare say you find
people about you who are constantly doing, without reproach,
church member were to do, would bring the whole town about
his ears.”
“Bravo, Julia! but why don't you cry `check?'”
“At any rate, brother, — do be serious, I pray, — you will
acknowledge that, generally speaking, it does not make a man
worse to join the church.”
“Generally speaking, I should say no; though if he should
become a hypocrite, or a knave, or grow unforgiving, uncharitable,
and self-righteous, it would undoubtedly be the worse for
him, and for the church too, hereafter.”
“Undoubtedly. And you will admit, I dare say, that joining
the church does not diminish his chances for happiness hereafter,
generally speaking?”
“Upon my word, Julia, I hardly know what to say; I do not
much like the position I occupy just now, — my thoughts are wandering;
I, myself, am elsewhere; and to be check-mated in three
or four hurried moves, you know, is a fool's mate, which never
happened to me but once, I believe, and that was in my boyhood;
so, if I do not stomach it now, my dear little preacher, you must
not wholly give me up.”
“Give you up, Charles! Never!”
“Well, then, just oblige me by saying as much to the brethren
and sisters —”
“Charles!”
“And among the rest, to Uncle George.”
“Uncle George loves you, brother.”
“Loves me?”
“Yes, brother, and would almost lay down his life for you.”
“And so he walks by me in the street without seeing me;
sets a watch upon me; and when I grow desperate, withholds
from me what I most need, the encouragement and countenance
of a straightforward honest man, who has been familiar with my
temptations, and trials, and sorrows, and wanderings, from my
youth up. O, if these godly men were not so unforgiving, so
unrelenting, so unhopeful!”
“Never mind them, dear brother. If they are sometimes mistaken,
as I think they often are, I would have you remember the
thou me!'”
“Even so, dear Julia. He was always gentle and loving, —
or if not always, as where He was moved to anger, and rebuked
the pharisees and the hypocrites, and overturned the tables of
the money-changers, and drove them out of the temple with a
scourge, as with a whip of scorpions, — always ready to forgive,
and to say to them that had no hope, `Go and sin no more,' or,
`Go in peace; thy sins are forgiven thee!'”
“Dear brother!” murmured Julia, lifting her locked hands,
with streaming eyes, and a heart overflowing with thankfulness,
toward the Hearer of prayer.
“And then, too, look at his teaching. If we fast, we are not
to appear to men to fast; we are to anoint our heads, and to go
forth rejoicing about our Father's business, and not as the hypocrites
do, with sad countenances; and if we pray, we are not
to go into the market-places, nor stand at the corners of the
streets; but we are to go into our closets, and shut the door.
Think of that! And so, too, if we give alms, we are to do it so
secretly that our right hand shall not know what our left hand
doeth; and we are to forgive our brother seventy times seven in a
day if need be, and he only says `I repent'; and instead of stoning
a poor creature to death for gathering sticks on the Sabbath day,
he tells us, he himself a Jew, that the Sabbath was made for
man, and not man for the Sabbath; and better than all, perhaps,
that they love most who have been forgiven most.”
“O, my dear brother! knowing so much, if you but knew a
little more!”
“The tree of knowledge, sister Julia, has never, from the first,
been the tree of life.”
“Brother!”
“Well!”
“One word more, `Be not faithless, but believing.'”
Charles looked at her, as if to satisfy himself that he understood
her, then made a motion to pull out his watch, glancing first
at the clock, and then at the door, — and then a sort of angry
flash passed over his forehead, as he felt Julia's eye following
his movements, and he added, with some degree of embarrassment,
—
“In a single word, sister, of one thing I am sure, — if these
people who constitute the church, and who claim to be God's
people, or the saints on earth, are Christians, then Jesus Christ
himself was not a Christian.”
“Brother Charles!”
“For, how unlike they are!” continued he. “But enough, —
I am beside myself; I hardly know what I am saying, dear; I
have overstaid my time; — is that clock right? Confound it, no!
I did not look at the hour-hand; give me the time, Julia, please;”
fumbling again for his watch, and then stepping softly to the
door and listening, — “all safe, — good-bye.”
Julia drew out her watch and offered it to him; but after
glancing at the face, he pushed it away, and was again about to
turn the handle of the door, when she threw her arms about his
neck, and sobbing as if her poor heart would break, she whispered,
— “Take it, brother, dear brother, take it; you have no
watch, I see, and you are going away, among strangers, nobody
knows where. You have not forgotten your promise to mother,
I hope?”
“What promise, Julia? I have broken all but one, — God
forgive me!”
“The promise you made her upon her death-bed.”
“The last I ever made her, Julia?”
“To read a chapter in the Bible every day; one chapter at
least, if possible, and to offer one prayer at least every day of
your life, whatever else you might do, or not do.”
“That promise I have kept most faithfully.”
“God bless you, my brother.”
“And her last words I never shall forget, Julia.”
“What were they, pray?”
“The very words you have just repeated, — Be not faithless,
but believing. And now once more, good-bye, Julia.”
“And must you go? And will you not tell me where?”
“No, Julia; for I do not myself know. All I do know, and
all I can say for your comfort now, is, that I am going where I
can build up a character for myself without the help of others;
where I shall not be checked, and watched, and thwarted, and
waylaid at every turn, by my best friends; where, if I choose to
by spies, — hang them! — but they have got the lesson they
wanted, to-night, I'm thinking! — and where, do what I may,
and go where I may, I shall not always feel like a prisoner at
large, or as if out on bail, at the very best; but,”— looking more
gloomy than ever, — “the lesson they have had may teach them
what they most need to know — the fools! — that whatever else
I may be, or not be, I am my own master, and will not be
hampered, and worried, and badgered in this way, even by the
few that I most love; nor by the fewer still that love me; I
will die first! No, no, Julia, keep your watch; I shall not need
a watch after to-day.”
“Take it, brother! It will remind you not only of me, but of
mother, and of her last words, and — and — forgive me, dear
Charles, you are dreadfully agitated, I see, — I do not ask what
has happened, nor what you are afraid of, but, — in mercy,
brother, take the watch, for I —”
She stopped suddenly, overcome by the savage earnestness of
his look, as he stood listening at the door, stooping low, with
one hand upon the lock, and the other thrust into his bosom.
There was a sound of low, fitful whispering just outside the door,
as of hurried question and answer. He grew paler, and making a
sign to Julia, glanced at the open window of the dressing-room.
“What is it, brother?”
“Hush — hush! — not a word for your life,” said he, lifting
himself proudly up, and stepping back a little way, and watching
the door, as if waiting for it to be forced open.
But, after a few moments, the whispering died away, and all
was still again — still as the chamber of death. Then, turning
to Julia, he said, — “Yes, Julia, on further consideration I will
borrow your watch, for I may need it, — my life may depend
upon it for a while.”
“Your life, brother!”
“Even so, Julia;” and as he stooped to give her another
farewell kiss, another yet, and yet another, she drew a diamond
ring from her finger, and slipping it into a little net purse, murmured
— “Oh, if I had but known of this before; I might have
been a help to you, dear brother; but — but take it, take it! I
better prepared when I next hear from you.”
“You will not hear from me for a long while, dearest,” —
putting her hand back with great gentleness.
“They are only keepsakes, dear brother,” — coaxingly, and
with tears in her eyes, — “and you may be among strangers,
and they may help to remind you of dear mother, and father,
and perhaps of a —”
He had just turned the lock very softly, and was opening the
door inch by inch, making a sign for Julia to look out, and
reconnoitre, while she, taking advantage of the opportunity,
dropped the purse into a large outside pocket of his coat, just as
he drew the flapped hat over his eyes, and gathered the shawl
about him, so as to conceal the dress underneath, and leave both
arms free.
“Stop!” she whispered, catching his arm, and casting a hurried
glance along the passage-way, — “stop a moment! I hear
footsteps! They are coming this way, — hush!”
The warning was too late. He had opened the door, and was
leaning forward, when she caught a glimpse of two strangers —
policemen, by their badges — who were coming through the
passage-way, arm in arm, and keeping step, like young soldiers
after parade, tramp, tramp, tramp. On seeing Charles, they
started, stopped short, interchanged a nod and a whisper, and
came forward with a careless air, and looking another way, but
with the evident purpose of cutting off his retreat.
Whereupon Charles moved toward them as if about to speak,
and while re-arranging the shawl, turned suddenly upon the
nearest, and pushing him headlong upon his fellow, threw himself
over the top railing of the stairs, upon the first landing, and
before they recollected themselves, or uttered a cry, he had
mingled with the crowd below and vanished! vanished — as if
the earth had opened and swallowed him up alive!
The two policemen sprang after him in full cry, — not over
the balustrades, but down the broad stairway, followed by Peter
Wilson, and Bessie, and half a score of Irish servants, all shouting
together, “Stop thief! stop thief! murder! murder! fire!
fire!” but all to no purpose. Not a vestige was to be found, —
both of which were afterwards found in a part of the landing,
which they had overlooked in their hurry, though Peter had a
sort of confused notion that the chap, as he called him, underwent
some change on his way down stairs, while Bessie maintained
to the last that he would be found up stairs under the
beds, or hid away in some closet; and two or three of the startled
by-standers below, and one of the waiters, concurred in declaring
that, “just before the outcry which set them all agape, a tall,
handsome, wild-looking young man, bareheaded, in a large overcoat,
with hair flying loose, had come down the broad stairway
in somewhat of a hurry, dashed through the crowd of strangers
like a wild beast, and instantly disappeared, like a shadow;”
while the newsboys and hackney-coachmen about the door,
through which he must have escaped on his way out into the
blinding snow-storm, agreed together in saying that no such person
had passed that way; no large man, wearing a shawl and a
flapped hat; no tall man, bareheaded, with hair flying loose,
though most of them well remembered a gentlemanly looking
fellow wearing a cap and overcoat, pushing them aside, right
and left, as the uproar in the office called their attention that
way; but they were quite sure he could not be the person,
because, in the first place he wore a cap, and in the next place,
he did not hurry, after he reached the side-walk, where two
other policemen were stationed, but crossed the street, which
was never more crowded, while they were watching the doors
and looking up at the windows, and was instantly lost among the
crowd of omnibuses, carriages, and drays, and foot passengers
feeling their way through the uncomfortable darkness and the
dizzy uproar, inch by inch, and shouting to one another as if
they were lost in a fog on the North River, when it was breaking
up, and they were all drifting out to sea.
Poor Julia! When she saw her brother upset the two
policemen — she never knew how — and fling himself head
foremost, as it seemed to her, over the balustrade, she covered
her face with her hands, uttered a faint scream, and staggered
away to a chair, leaving the door wide open, while the cry of
murder! fire! and stop theif! rang through the vaulted passages
onset of South Sea Islanders.
But as the tumult died away, and just as she was beginning
to lose all consciousness, Arthur appeared, followed by Bessie
and Peter, who would not believe their own eyes, when they
found their beloved young mistress alive and safe, and able to
answer their questions.
“Would she have dinner served? the waiters had been up
two or three times to see.”
Julia shook her head; but instantly recollecting Arthur and
Uncle George, and being aware of the inferences, if she lost her
self-command for a moment, she added, “certainly; by all means,
and the sooner the better, now.”
“Shall we have the carriage at the door, m'em?” said Peter,
— managing as he spoke to get a peep into the dressing-room,
where the open window and the snow on the carpet appeared to
trouble him exceedingly, for he pursed up his mouth, and fell to
rubbing his chin very slowly, without being able to satisfy himself.
“The carriage, Peter! Oh! — ah! — I had entirely forgotten
the opera! Didn't you tell him, Bessie, that we had given
up the idea?”
“Lauk, m'em! how should I know that you had given up the
idee?” said Bessie, glancing at a large wardrobe.
“Very true. I have been so occupied —. Well, well, —
never mind now. You may put up the horses, Peter; we shall
not want the carriage to-night.”
“Bless you, m'em! they was put up long ago. I never takes
'em out in sich weather tell the last minute, m'em.”
“Thank you, Peter.”
Peter bowed and withdrew; interchanging a nod with Bessie,
however, on her way out, and winking, first at the open window,
and then at a large closet, the door of which stood a little way
open, as if he understood the whole affair; though in his heart
he was wondering what on earth had really happened to Missis,
and who that strange-looking chap might be, — comin' and goin'
when he liked, an' without so much as saying, by your leave;
and what on earth had become of him; stopping, on his way
with himself, and thought how cleverly he had floored the two
policemen, and cleared his way through the crowd like a thunderbolt.
“Bessie, child, let me have a cup of tea and a biscuit, please.
I have a terrible headache, and no appetite; and you may run
up to Uncle George, and see if he would like to join us, will
you? We are not much later than his regular dinner-hour,
abroad, I see.”
“If you please, Julia,” said Cousin Arthur, somewhat nervously,
“I will run up to Uncle George, if you say so, — though
I think he had better not be disturbed. He was just falling
asleep when I left him.”
“Asleep, Arthur! Has he gone to bed?”
“Yes; and he begged me to say to you, that you mustn't be
troubled, and that he hoped to see you to-morrow.”
“Hoped to see me to-morrow!” said Julia, starting up from
the chair and looking into Arthur's eyes for further explanation.
“What is the meaning of this? — tell him, I pray you, or shall I
send Bessie? — tell him I —”
“Tell him what, Julia?”
“Tell him I must see him to-night, — I must!”
“Allow me to run up first, and see if he is awake; for to tell
you the truth, dear Julia, though quite unwell from an accident
which happened to him this evening — not two hours ago — all
he wants now is a good night's rest. I shall be with him, and
so will Jerry.”
Julia stood still, watching his countenance, and trembling all
over, and listening to every word, with hands clasped and parted
lips.
“If he can get a few hours of undisturbed, refreshing sleep,
say the surgeons, — doctors, I mean, — which he has long needed,
you know, we shall have a — a — I hope,” — in a low, faltering
voice, — “little or nothing to fear.”
“Little or nothing to fear! Surgeons! doctors! an accident!
Oh, Arthur, Arthur! in mercy tell me what has happened!”
“I cannot tell you,” said he, turning away his head. “He desires
you to know nothing of what has happened till to-morrow.”
“What dreadful mystery is this, Arthur?”
“Julia, dear Julia, command yourself. This long day of trial,
and sorrow, and perpetual agitation, may be too much for your
strength; and as there is no immediate danger, and he begs
you not to see him till to-morrow, I am sure you will not refuse.”
“You are right, Cousin Arthur, I will command myself; I
will try to persuade myself that you are acting wisely, and that
he — Oh, my dear uncle! What would my poor mother say
if she were alive now! and what will your mother say, when she
gets here, and finds that her only brother had been left to the
care of strangers?”
“Of strangers, Julia?”
“Oh, I do not mean you, Cousin Arthur; but you are a man,
and poor uncle has been always accustomed to the gentle ministering
of woman.”
“We have a nurse, Julia.”
“A nurse! Merciful Father! a nurse and surgeons! and I
am not allowed to see him, nor to know what has happened!
O, Cousin Arthur! what shall I do! what shall I do!” sobbing
as if her heart would break.
Arthur could bear this no longer. “Stop, Cousin Julia,” said
he; “wait a moment, and I will run up and ask if you may not
be allowed to have at least a word with him, for I see you are
getting unreasonable, and there is no saying what you may take
it into your head to believe.”
“Oh, bless you, bless you! Cousin Arthur.”
“But Julia, dear, promise me that you will not have any talk
with him, nor ask him any questions, if you find him sleepy — or
thoughtful.”
“Only a word or two, a good-night kiss, dear Arthur, and I
shall be satisfied till he wants me; and then — I tell you now,
Arthur, and I wish you to understand me — I will not be supplanted
by any hired nurse, — I will not be driven away, nor
coaxed away, nor frightened away.”
“With all my heart, Julia;” and along the passage, and up
the stairs he went, with a light, swift step, to the door above.
There he saw the nurse and Jerry; and having arranged with
asleep or sleepy, he looked into the room and saw that no tokens
were left of the surgeon's doings, and that, although very pale,
and to all appearance in a sweet sleep, notwithstanding a sort of
shadow upon his large forehead, which came and went with his
labored breathing, and the slight twitching of the eyelids, and
about the mouth at times, the patient was not likely to alarm
her, after all that had happened, he returned to the parlor below.
Meanwhile the dinner had been served; but nobody knew
of it.
“Come, Julia, come, he appears to be sound asleep,” said Arthur;
“but as the sight may soothe and tranquillize you, I think you had
better go up at once, — but prepare yourself, I pray you; and if
we find him asleep, we had better not stay, perhaps, beyond a
minute or two.”
Julia looked at Arthur, and saw that he was troubled; and
then taking his arm, they went away together.
She found her uncle asleep; and after looking at him a moment,
she fell upon her knees at the bedside, full of deep thankfulness
and solemn joy to find him no worse, after all the frightful fancies
that had tormented her,—not much worse in appearance, and
though very pale, not so pale as she had pictured him to herself.
As she rose to go, the slight rustling of her dress, or something
which only the sick man could hear, disturbed him, and he opened
his eyes.
“Ah, Julia! are you here?” said he, with a faint smile.
The poor child could not speak; but she leaned over the bed
and kissed him, and a tear fell upon his cheek.
“You are a naughty thing, Julia Parry, — and when I get up
I shall have a serious talk with you.”
“Hush, hush, Uncle George.”
“Right, my love; but I sent word to you not to see me till to-morrow;
and I now say to you good-night, go to bed early, and
be of good cheer. There is nothing very serious, I hope, and
believe, in my case; but much will depend upon your behavior,
Julia. If you are patient, and hopeful, and reasonable, you may
There, there, — good-night! God bless you.”
“Good-night, Uncle George.”
“Are you satisfied?” said Arthur, as soon as they had got
back and were seated at the table.
“Perfectly.”
“Well, then, let me see that you are determined to obey Uncle
George; — a spoonful of soup would do you no harm.”
Julia shook her head.
“Or a taste of this black-fish?”
Julia turned away with an expression almost of loathing, and
took up the tea, while Arthur made believe at the soup, and then
at the fish, and then at a roast fowl; but after two or three vain
attempts to persuade her, and to satisfy himself with appearances,
he threw himself back in the chair, with a declaration that,
after all, a late terrapin lunch was a very bad preparation for
dinner.
And there they sat; Julia with a cup of tea in her hand, looking
into the fire, and he with a glass of pale sherry, which he
tasted from time to time, while urging her to try a drop of the
rough old port, selected by Uncle George himself in Oporto.
Nothing was said, till the table was cleared, and the entry
clock sounded once more.
“Can it be possible,” said Julia. “Only nine o'clock? What
a tiresome, endless day!”
Another dead silence.
“Julia!”
“Cousin Arthur!”
“I do not ask what has happened to you; but I take it for
granted, from what I have heard, that your brother has been
here.”
“Do not ask me, I pray you.”
“Poor Charles! I wish I had known it! I would give the
world to see him. But — good-night, Julia; I must run up to
Uncle George.”
“Thank you; — but if I should be wanted?” — looking rather
anxious, though trying to smile.
“No danger of your being wanted, Julia; but if you should, I
and go to sleep; and let me advise you to lie as long as you can
to-morrow; and not allow Bessie to disturb you, for you may
have to be a prisoner all day in a sick-chamber.”
“I hope so, Arthur. Good-night.”
| CHAPTER IV. True womanhood | |