True womanhood a tale |
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| 13. | CHAPTER XIII. |
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 | CHAPTER XIII. True womanhood |  |
13. CHAPTER XIII.
The next day and the following were spent in multiplied
household arrangements, long since provided for among themselves,
but found to have been overlooked in practice. Having
sold the carriage and horses, they were now dependent upon the
nearest railroad, a very obliging omnibus proprietor, always ready
to go out of his way, and a distant livery stable. The marketing
had to be done by piecemeal, and by proxy; and as neither Mrs.
Maynard nor Julia had any experience whatever in this department
of household economy, and the Major and Arthur were all
at sea, whenever the subject was mentioned, it was finally thought
best, after weighing every possible objection, to leave that business
in the hands of a middle-aged woman, who had been secured
as a sort of general superintendent, or housekeeper at large.
“It will take time, brother, for us to learn our trade; but as
soon as the weather moderates, and the walking is good enough,
Julia and I have made up our minds to enter upon the business
of purveying for the house in downright earnest,” said Aunt Elizabeth
one morning, after they had got through with their consultation
for the day.
The Major nodded and smiled — looking up from the paper
he held, just long enough to show that he understood the question,
and heartily approved of the course determined upon.
“If we are to carry out our plan of retrenchment,” continued
Mrs. Maynard, “all must concur and coöperate; and our chief
attention for awhile must be given to what we have long been
accustomed to regard as quite unworthy of our consideration.”
“To be sure, Elizabeth. We must alternate, as other do, between
beefsteaks and mutton chops, hot rolls, muffins, hashes,
and buckwheat cakes, and be satisfied with lunches instead of
cheese at a pinch.”
“I am glad to see you take it so pleasantly, brother; for to
tell you the truth, I have been more troubled about you, just
recovering, as you are, from a wasting illness, and therefore
needing to be cherished and pampered for awhile, than about
ourselves. Julia, poor thing, hardly ever knows what we have
had for dinner, and might be satisfied, day after day, with what
you and Arthur would never think of touching — pastry and
cakes, or olives and sardines.”
“Or hard-boiled eggs and a cold mince-pie, — the greatest of
all our luxuries at college,” said Arthur.
“No, no, Arthur, excuse me,” said Julia; “I have no objection
to a bit of apple-pie, or plain cake, or a sandwich, or a very
thin slice of bread and butter; and there is nothing I like more
than what is called a picked-up dinner, with a dish of tea, — a
dinner of odds and ends, I think they call it, Aunt Elizabeth;
such as we used to have in the cottage at Margate, when we
were all there together; but I never indulged in the luxuries
of cold mince-pie, or hard-boiled eggs, whatever Arthur may
think.”
“'Pon honor, Julia?”
“'Pon honor, Arthur.”
“Well, then, all I have to say is, that if you had been sent to
college, and learned a trick or two at the oar, and got acquainted
with sparring, or small-sword, or sporting, or cricketing, you
would not be so ready to turn up your nose at hard-boiled eggs
and cold mince-pie, nor even at a cold sausage; and I should be
sure of seeing you always provided with a pocket full of shrimps
or sandwiches, instead of the sugar-plums and fiddle-de-dees you
girls are so fond of coquetting with, when you are left to yourselves.”
“Two or three regular dinners a week, brother, — a plain
roast or boiled, a good soup, something nice for a dessert, and
occasionally, if you say so, something in the shape of a fish, —
and I think we may manage to get along very pleasantly for
awhile, — don't you think so?”
“Certainly, Elizabeth; and as we are steadfastly resolved to
look with our own eyes into the mysteries of housekeeping on a
moderate scale, so that we may be prepared for the worst hereafter,
happen what may, you may be sure of my hearty concurrence
in whatever you undertake.”
“And of mine, also, dear mother, if you are obliged to put us
upon short allowance —”
“Of roast beef and plum-pudding?” whispered Julia.
At this moment, a note was handed to Uncle George. It was
from Mr. Fay, threatening to drop in “to-day or to-morrow in
season for dinner, and to take a bed, perhaps, if they had one to
spare.”
“To-day or to-morrow!” exclaimed Aunt Elizabeth.
“Confound the fellow!” said Arthur to Julia, in a very low
voice, but loud enough to be heard by his mother, who shook her
head at him. “Two dinners will have to be provided for now,
when we have but just blundered through with our first rehearsal
for the season, of the new and laughable farce of — of — what
shall we call it, Cousin Julia?”
“Of Household Economy.”
“Very good, — of Household Economy; or How to make
both ends meet.”
“Or,” added the Major, “A penny saved is as good as a penny
earned, hey?”
“All for the best, dear brother. We can order the two dinners
at once; or, if you men-folk will be patient and reasonable,
I propose to order what may be needed for a handsome, quiet
dinner to-day, and if the gentleman should not make his appearance,
to put aside for to-morrow whatever may be best spared.”
“Capital!” said Arthur; “or you might have somebody stationed
at the Ferry, and have dinner at six, or half-past six, as
no hour has been mentioned, and we are but young housekeepers,
you know; and if Mr. Fay shouldn't appear by five at furthest,
the whole dinner might be postponed till to-morrow, — why not?
— or, upon my word, mother, I do think it was a very happy idea
of yours, to begin with taking us all three into consultation! and
I have another plan to suggest. What if you should go on with
all your arrangements, upon the supposition that Mr. Fay will
work, and when everything is ready to be served, all hot and
smoking, if you are disappointed, you will have time enough to
toss up something for the family, as others often do, I dare say,
and whip aside for to-morrow whatever will bear to be warmed
over, or served up cold; so that our friend Mr. Fay may have
nothing to complain of.”
Though all this was said with a pleasant and playful air,
Julia detected a dash of bitterness in it, and her aunt, something
she was not well satisfied with, for she grew serious, and turned
the conversation into another channel.
“You have put aside several of the daily papers, I see, brother.
If they relate in any way to the proceedings in court, pray oblige
me by destroying them at once; or by locking them up, so that
by no possibility they would be likely to fall in our way, or in
the way of the servants, who are very curious and prying just
now, let me tell you.”
“I have already provided for this. No papers will be left
here; and after to-morrow there will be nothing to fear. A nine
day's wonder seldom outlives the first twenty-four hours in New
York. Three papers only have mentioned the affair, — and in
this, not even the name is mentioned.”
“Don't, brother, pray don't! We are not strong enough, I
assure you, whatever you may think of us, to bear another word
on the subject; are we, Julia?”
Julia trembled from head to foot, and after choking a moment,
answered, “No” — very faintly — “No.”
“Don't be frightened, Elizabeth. What I had to say was
rather of a nature to comfort and strengthen you and our dear
Julia, much more than to trouble you. Perhaps you had better
allow me to finish the little I wanted to say.”
“As you please, brother,” — growing pale, but speaking cheerfully.
“It was only this. In one of these three papers, which are
all that I find containing so much as an allusion to the affair, no
names are given; in another, the name is Penniman, and the
facts are so represented as to leave an impression rather favorable
than otherwise; and in the third, the initials are given, but
London banker, G. P.; so that G. A. P. will escape, and the
chances are, that Mr. George Peabody, or his friends, will have
something to say to the proprietors of the paper, if the paragraph
should not happen to be overlooked — as it well may — crowded
into an unfrequented corner, and printed in very small type, as
it is, among the on dits of the day, instead of appearing under
the head of police intelligence, or proceedings in court; for all
which I am very thankful; — not for myself, however, for I have
made up my mind to bear patiently whatever may happen, till
the day of my vindication, — but for your sake, Elizabeth, and
for the sake of these dear children. All I ask of you is, to believe
me when I say, with all seriousness, that so far as character
is concerned, — the character of a Christian gentleman, — I have
nothing to fear. Months may pass, before I have the opportunity
I am waiting for; but sooner or later, it must and will come;
and if I should be taken away by death, or disqualified by sickness,
there will be found among my papers, — and I wish you all
to remember what I now say, in the presence of God himself, —
the most conclusive and satisfactory evidence, for my entire exculpation.
You look troubled, my dear sister, and so do you,
Julia; and you are wondering, perhaps, why, — if I am so perfectly
sure of the result, and if I have such conclusive and satisfactory
evidence in my possession, why there should be months of
delay, and why, with my impatient pride of character and great
sensitiveness, I should be willing to bide my time for a single
day. But my reasons are manifold. Some of the papers are of
a nature to involve another, as innocent as myself; others may
need such corroboration as I cannot possibly obtain without correspondence,
or without going abroad myself, or sending Arthur.
If Charles were with us, I should know what to do, and the trying
season of delay might be greatly abridged.”
Julia and Arthur interchanged a look of intelligence, but nothing
was said by either.
“I hope there may be no more of these paragraphs; and I
rather think I have a friend at court, who has been busy from
the first in my behalf. In no other way can I account for the
fact, that although I have looked into all the evening and morning
printed Penniman, I have only found the case mentioned three
times; and if I am right in my conjectures, that friend, whoever
he may be, will take very good care that no subsequent apologies
or explanations, on account of the two initials G. P. — the great
London banker — may set people talking anew, or have a mischievous
bearing upon G. A. P.”
“How glad I am to see you take it so pleasantly, Uncle
George,” said Arthur; “but you will excuse me, — I hear the
carriage I have ordered for Julia, and we have no time to lose.
Come, Julia, get your shawl and bonnet, and your cloak and
wrapper, — for you will find it rather cool, in the light open carriage
I have ordered.”
The Major looked puzzled; but as Aunt Elizabeth said nothing,
he went back to the papers, which lay in a pile upon the sofa,
and asked no questions.
“Children,” said Aunt Elizabeth, just as they were going, “if
you could stop five minutes on the way, I might give you a little
order for the marketman, — it would save time and trouble.”
“And the pennies, too, mother.”
“And the pennies, too, my dear son; if we `take care of the
pennies, the pounds will take care of themselves,' you know.”
“You will be back in season for dinner, children?” said Uncle
George.
“Certainly! We wouldn't miss that conditional dinner for
any consideration,” said Julia.
“Nor the conditional Mr. Fay,” added Arthur, in a tone Julia
thought more than significant, — almost spiteful, in fact.
After a long, silent, and very uncomfortable ride, they found
themselves near the gateway of a two-story cottage, one of a
score built on both sides of a large court, and all precisely alike,
with piazzas, and a little patch of green turf, with a flower-garden
in front.
On being admitted to the number mentioned on the card, Julia
and Arthur were shown into a snug little room, prettily furnished,
having a shallow recess in the rear, hung with drapery like a
boudoir, and rather crowded with pictures and odd-looking chairs,
of all sizes and shapes; but before they had time to seat themselves,
upon a door-mat, sprang toward Julia with a loud, joyful bark.
For a single moment, Julia lost her presence of mind, for the
magnificent creature had both paws upon her shoulders, and was
looking her in the eyes; but just as Arthur was reaching out
his hand to take him by the collar, the door opened, and the voice
of Mrs. Archibald was heard, crying, “Down, Carlo! down!
Don't be frightened, Miss. Oh, how thankful I am! and how
happy poor Edith will be!”
“Carlo! Carlo!” said Julia; “can it be possible! poor Carlo!”
and she threw both arms round the neck of the dog, and sobbed
like a child.
“Gamma, — I say, gamma!” lisped a little bright-eyed, sunny-haired
thing, who had crept in behind Mrs. Archibald, without
being observed, and was now holding on by her dress, — “Gamma!
don't let 'em hurt Tarlo.”
Whereupon the dog broke away from Julia, and, tumbling the
poor child head over heels upon the floor, began slabbering his
face and neck, till the grandmother was obliged to interfere.
“Have done, Carlo! don't be frightened, Charley!”
Carlo! Charley! What could all this mean? Carlo she
knew. It was a dog that once belonged to her poor brother, and
had so mysteriously disappeared about a month before Charles
himself had left her, that she had somehow coupled the two
events together, and so associated her brother and Carlo, that
now, on seeing the poor dog, she almost expected the door to
open, and her brother to walk in. But who was Charley?
There he was, to be sure, flat upon his back, with his rich
golden hair tumbling about like sunshine over the rich carpet,
whenever he threw up his heels at Carlo, or tried to escape the
tousling, of which he began to tire, by rolling over and over,
and screaming for joy. That he was a live cherub, a downright
romping, breathing cherub, with monstrous eyes, the ripest
mouth you ever saw, — and a laugh, so merry and so musical,
that you couldn't help joining in it, even while you were stopping
your ears, Julia was ready to acknowledge; but who was
he? and what was he? and why named Charley?
Mrs. Archibald saw the look of uneasiness, and well understood
with one hand, as if she would never stop, and smiling, as if she
had never been so happy in all her life, and chirping to the
baby, she had managed to get hold of Julia with the other, and
carrying her hand to her lips, in a transport of joy, had well nigh
set poor Arthur a-blubbering, just as he came forward to offer
the long mediated apology.
“No, no, Mr. Maynard, you must excuse me,” said Mrs. Archibald,
“I want no apology, — I do not blame you, I never did,” —
almost sobbing; — “appearances were all against me; and how
should you know that I was not one of the wretched creatures,
who are always to be found about the doors and passage-ways
of the grand hotels, or besieging the boarders at every turn?”
“You are very kind, Mrs. Archibald; but where a young fellow,
with a decent education, and a live mother, behaves like a
brute and a coxcomb —”
“Not another word! not another word, for your life!” exclaimed
Mrs. Archibald, clapping her hand over his mouth, and
then bursting into tears, in her motherly kindness, and forgetfulness
of all propriety. “Oh, Sir! oh, Mr. Maynard! forgive me,
I beseech you! — but I was so carried away by your resemblance
to the dear boy we have lost, that I forgot myself entirely. Poor
Charles! the very tone of your voice, and your whole manner,
and your very language, were so like his, that for a moment I
mistook you for him — I do in my heart believe — though, just
now, when I look at you again, as you stand there, I wonder at
myself, that I should have seen the least resemblance.”
“Others have thought as you do, Mrs. Archibald. When we
were boys together, before he had outgrown me, and become
altogether a man, or the magnificent creature he was when I saw
him last, and not such a girl as I am, — with loose hair, a child's
complexion, and the daintiest hands you ever saw, — look here!
— hands that he would be ashamed of, — hands that any man,
with any respect for himself, ought to be ashamed of —”
“Why, Arthur! are you mad?” whispered Julia.
“Almost, I believe; but where was I?” — flinging back his hair
with an imperial shake of the head, as he caught up the boy with
one hand, and throwing himself into the attitude of John Kemble
high up in the air, greatly to the astonishment of poor Carlo and
everybody else. “I am not so weak as I sometimes appear,
Mrs. Archibald; and though Charles and I were never mistaken
for each other, after we had got our growth, I find people ready
enough to acknowledge a resemblance, whenever I show off in
this way, or talk somewhat wildly, or get surprised into some
exhibition of bodily strength, just to satisfy these gainsayers that
I am not altogether a woman.”
There was a concentrated, scornful bitterness in what he said,
which grieved Julia to the heart, and troubled Mrs. Archibald,
who, seeing her distress, and anxious to change the subject,
caught away the boy, just as Arthur had begun a new game of
toss-up-and-catch, greatly to the delight of the dear little fellow,
and turning toward Julia, she said to her, —
“He was named for your brother, my dear young lady.”
“For my brother? — indeed!”
Fancying that poor Julia looked a little embarrassed, Arthur
inquired the age of the child.
“Nearly three,” was the answer.
“Haff-pas two, gamma!” said Charley, slipping down from
his grandmother's lap, and catching Carlo by the ears, and trying
to get on his back for a `yide.'
This did not much help the matter, and Julia began playing
with the sunshiny locks of the boy, as if hoping to find the explanation
there.
“You must be very strong, Mr. Maynard. I never saw anybody
do that, with so much ease, except Mr. John Kemble himself,”
said Mrs. Archibald.
“You have seen his Rolla, then?”
“Seen it! yes, indeed! When I was about the age of your
cousin here, I used to see him and Mrs. Siddons in all their
leading parts; but after I married Mr. Archibald, I saw nothing
more of the stage.”
“And why not, pray?”
“Well, Sir, my husband was a godly man, a little bigoted
perhaps in the opinion of others, who were not descended from
the Covenanters, and were not Scotch Presbyterians. I did not
ceremonies of the Catholic Church — for he classed them all together;
but I yielded, nevertheless, and have not seen the inside
of a theatre since my marriage, and have now either outlived, or
outgrown the desire. We had a sharp argument before marriage
about the putting away of childish things, and I must
acknowledge that, instead of convincing him, he came so near
convincing me, that — between ourselves — I was more than half
ready to say, `Almost thou persuadest me to be a Christian!'”
“A Christian!” said Arthur, “why, surely, he did not take
such high ground as that!”
“He always took the highest ground; he maintained that no
Christian could safely encourage any sort of theatrical representation,
so long as theatres were what they are.”
“So long as theatres are nothing but theatres, — neither conventicles
nor churches, hey?”
“Precisely,” said Mrs. Archibald, with a benevolent smile,
just as the kindling of Arthur's eyes began to betray the inward
working of his nature, and she saw signs of that uncontrollable
vehemence, which had so frightened them a few minutes before,
when he swung the child high up in the air, and seemed just on
the point of breaking forth into some new extravagance.”
“You must be very strong, as Mrs. Archibald says; are you
not, Cousin Arthur?” added Julia, seeing him stoop and take the
child by the arm, as if about to swing him into position once
more.
“Don't, don't! you may dislocate the shoulder, my dear Mr.
Maynard; I have known such a thing to happen upon the stage.”
“Pray don't!” said Julia, — and the child screamed, and Carlo
barked furiously.
“Poh, poh, Cousin Julia, — I shall not harm the boy — there
is no sort of danger — it requires very little strength, and is
rather a knack, as you see!” And notwithstanding all the remonstrances
of the grandmother and Julia, and the dog and the baby,
up went the little fellow once more, and Arthur struck the attitude
you see in the engraving, very much after the style of a
star at Bartlemy Fair, who has been greatly over-clapped.
“There! you see how it is managed! The boy's knee is on my
holding him up, as Kemble did, at arm's length, and by an effort
of prodigious bodily power.”
“Very true, — I see how it is done,” said Mrs. Archibald,
“and I am only the more astonished, when I remember that Mr.
Kemble used to catch up the child from the stage, with a single
effort, while others would heave and sway, and after all, not
accomplish the feat.”
Afraid that other demonstrations, yet more boyish perhaps,
might follow, if Arthur and the baby and the dog were left
together, Julia looked at Mrs. Archibald, who, catching up Charley,
and asking if Miss Julia wouldn't like to see poor Edith,
moved toward the door, followed by the dog.
“Certainly, — I have come for the very purpose: will you
wait for me, Cousin Arthur, or call for me in half an hour at
furthest, — or say three quarters?”
“I'll wait here if you will leave the baby with me — and
Carlo — here, Carlo, here!”
But Carlo was in no humor to be left behind, now that he saw
the door opened, and the passage-way up-stairs all free; and off
he sprang toward the door.
Mrs. Archibald shook her head, with a smile for Julia, which
Arthur did not quite understand; so he drew a chair to the table,
and opened a volume of Shakespeare he found lying there; and
Carlo tumbled up-stairs with a loud, joyful cry, which died away
at last, in a low, musical whimper.
“Excuse me, for a moment, my dear young lady,” said Mrs.
Archibald. “We have been expecting you every day, since we
received your note, and I have no doubt we shall find the poor
thing fully prepared for the interview; but still, perhaps, it would
be safer for me to see her first.”
“Certainly — by all means; but, my dear Mrs. Archibald,
perhaps you had better leave the baby with me, while you are
making the arrangements above. I am afraid the noise below
may have disturbed her already.”
“Disturbed her! disturb our little Edith! no, indeed! There's
nothing she seems to enjoy so much, now that she is able to sit
up, as the frolics of Carlo and the baby; — they are always
them, like playfellows just let out of school, in a long summer
afternoon.”
“All three of them! I thought poor little Edith, as you call
her, was confined to her bed.”
“Oh, no! She is not very strong, to be sure; but she sits up
most of the day, sleeps well now, and has a good appetitie; and,
to tell you the truth, has been growing better and better, and
happier and happier, ever since the letters I left you were
received.”
Mrs. Archibald tapped — a sweet, pleasant voice answered
from within — the baby shouted — and as the knob of the door
turned, Carlo pushed through with a yelp of ungovernable joy,
and sprang toward a large easy-chair, and rested both paws upon
the arms, and set up the most piteous wail ever uttered by a reasonable
dog in a sick-chamber. Though Julia was not superstitious,
her blood ran cold, when she caught her mother's eye.
“Poor Carlo! poor Carlo!” said the same sweet, ringing,
childish voice, — “how glad I am to see you once more! and
my little neffy too! how d'ye do, baby, how d'ye do! kiss little
aunty. You have been having a nice time below, hey? — there,
there, that'll do! down Carlo, down! be quiet, will you! — both
of you — I don't want to be slabbered all over. Ah, my dear
mother! I have been growing a little anxious, and impatient,
and peevish, I'm afraid, while you have all been having such a
good time there below; but you'll forgive me, I know you
will.”
“Yes, my love.”
“But oh, mother, if you knew how I long to see that dear
Julia we have heard so much of!”
“Hush — hush, my love!” whispered Mrs. Archibald, with a
glance at the door.
“I understand you, mother. She is there! — I know it! — I
feel it!”
“Shall I come in?”
“Oh, yes, yes! I am dying to see you!”
Julia entered on tiptoe, stepping softly, as all women do in a
sick-chamber, if women they are; but she stopped suddenly on
at the most, judging by her looks, with eager eyes, a mouth half
opened, as if she had been chirping to herself, and a countenance
of wonderful beauty, stowed away in the large easy-chair, and
half buried in shawls, with her feet cuddled up under her clothes,
and a prodigious quantity of golden hair floating away over the
pillow behind, like sunshine spilled, and rippling toward her lap.
There was no look of wasting, nor of sorrow, — no unpleasant
stillness nor seriousness; and, for a moment, Julia hesitated, and
looked about with an air of embarrassment.
“Oh, you are disappointed, I see! But I am not — I should
have known you among ten thousand, though not so much from
what poor Charles used to say — for, do you know? I don't
believe in brothers — as from the description dear mother gave
me.”
Julia began to breathe more freely.
“And you, you are that poor little Edith, I have been picturing
to myself,” said she, going a little nearer.
“I am, indeed, I assure you,” — kicking her little feet free, and
stretching out both hands toward Julia, — “upon my word I am!
just that poor little Edith, of whom you have heard so much, I
dare say, from that good mother of mine, — but I don't believe
in mothers any more than I do in brothers, — no, indeed, not I!
— when they get a-going about their children, that is; and so,
you may as well make up your mind to look no further for poor
little Edith.”
Julia was no longer in doubt. There was no withstanding
the witchery of this appeal — the pleasant, cheerful voice —
the playfulness of look — the outstretched, eager, trembling
hands.
Mrs. Archibald pushed up a chair directly in front of Edith,
and begging Julia to be seated, and taking the baby, and chirping
to Carlo, left the room.
Not a word was spoken for two or three minutes, — their
hearts were too full, — and the eyes of both were overcharged;
and when Edith spoke at last, it was only to say, “And you are
that beloved Julia, — that dear, faithful sister, we have heard so
much of!”
“But you don't believe in brothers, you know,” murmured
Julia, smiling through her tears, and pressing Edith's dear little
hands with trembling emotion.
“Not always.”
“And it is to you, then, my dear Miss Archibald ——”
“No, no! — not Miss Archibald — Edith, if you please; and
if you will permit me, otherwise I cannot talk freely with you,
I will call you Julia, — when we are by ourselves, I mean.”
“With all my heart!”
“And now, if you please, just finish what you had to say to
Miss Archibald.”
“I was about saying that it is to you, Edith — dear Edith —
judging by my poor brother's letter, that we are indebted for that
which is more than life to us — the hope that he will yet become
what we have so long prayed for?”
“With the blessing of our heavenly Father, yes; but your
dear brother is a very strange man, — he frightens me sometimes,
when I believe in my heart he means to be kind and gentle;
and then too, he is so haughty, and imperious, and unforgiving.”
“Not unforgiving; oh no!”
“Oh yes! — I know him better than you do, Julia.”
“Better than I do, Edith!”
“Yes; for whatever you may know of his temper, I know
something more of it, which you do not. He has often said so.
Mother has often heard him say that you and I are the only two
human beings that ever understood him, and that some portions
of his character, and not the best by any means, I am better
acquainted with than you are. You smile — you shake your
head; and now that I am no longer afraid of you, I can tell you
what you are thinking of.”
“Afraid of me!”
“To be sure I was, and have been, ever since our first acquaintance,
when he threatened to throw me into the water, if I
wouldn't give him a kiss.”
“A kiss!”
“Oh, it was all a mistake. He thought I was a child, — only
a little child — for Carlo and I had just got acquainted, and we
were tumbling about in the long grass, all by ourselves; and
about me, as I heard her say, after it was all over. But
— he found his match, I tell you! and he got, oh, such a slap in
the face! — but it did him good though, for he never asked me to
kiss him after that, nor ever kissed me, until — until” — growing
very red, and giggling till her heart ran over at her eyes, — “Oh,
you needn't turn away your face! I know what you are thinking
of, as I told you before, — you cannot make up your mind about
me, whether I am a woman or a child, — nor could your poor
brother; sometimes I believe he thought me beside myself, as
you do, — I see it in your eyes — an elf, or a changeling, or a
downright simpleton; there, you needn't deny it!”
Julia could not bear to contradict her, and yet, how could she
bear to acknowledge the truth? Never in all her life had she
been so puzzled.
“After we had got acquainted, and he had learned to behave
himself, he took such a fancy to me, that he was forever talking
about his wonderful sister, and telling how she behaved, and how
amiable she was, and how patient, and how much more she knew
than other people of her age, and how much he wanted me to be
like her, and so — and so — I began to be afraid of you, and
then to dislike you, and thought you must be a very tiresome
sort of a thing; so proper, and so conscientious, and so mean-spirited.”
Julia let go the hand she was holding, and her countenance
flushed.
“Oh, don't be alarmed. This too was all a mistake, as I came
to know after we had been acquainted two or three years, and I
had learned the difference between the `poor in spirit' and the
mean-spirited. You had always been too patient, according to
his notion, too humble by half, too meek, and much too ready to
forgive.”
“You are not afraid of me now, hey?”
“Not afraid of you! Yes, but I am though, more than ever!”
catching her hand to her lips.
“But, Edith,” — coloring slightly, and then repeating the
name Edith.
“Well, how do you like it?”
“Very much, I assure you.”
“I do not ask you, Julia, dear Julia, how you like me; it is a
little too soon, perhaps; but I dare say I shall, before we get
through; for you must remember that although you have been
acquainted with me only about half an hour, I have been acquainted
with you — oh, ever so long!”
“But nevertheless, I think you must be under a strange delusion
about my poor brother, and perhaps about me. He was
never thought unforgiving, nor ungenerous.”
“Ungenerous! no, indeed! not he! the most headlong, uncalculating,
generous creature that ever breathed; but unforgiving,
— I insist upon it, — unforgiving!”
“No, no, Edith, you wrong my poor brother; I know of many
cases where he had been cruelly betrayed and wronged, and yet,
upon the first word or look of repentance, he would not only
forgive, but so entirely forget the offence, that he would have to
be reminded of it.”
“Did you ever know him to forgive anybody, till he had him
in his power?”
“I do not remember,” — musing, — “perhaps not.”
“And is that a forgiving temper, Julia? Must we have our
adversary under our feet, before we forgive? Are we not told
that if our brother offend us seventy times seven in a day, we
are to forgive him?”
“Provided he comes to us, and says `I repent.'”
“Well, well, may be so; but if he were not unforgiving, Julia,
would he bear the grudge, till he had his enemy in his power?
Would you?”
“No, indeed; but my brother and I were always unlike;
though he remembered wrongs, and up to a certain point would
avenge them, yet he was not vindictive, nor did he ever bear a
grudge.”
“You were never more mistaken in your life; and I am
glad now that I used the word; for do you know, dear Julia,”
lowering her voice, and leaning half out of the chair, “that
one of my chief reasons for wishing to see you so soon after
the letters reached me, was to get your help, in overcoming
the deadliest grudge your brother ever entertained in his life.”
“You must be mistaken, Edith.”
“No; for the very last time we ever met, and parted, never
to meet again perhaps, he breathed so heavily when dear mother
happened to mention the name of a certain person, the last you
would ever be likely to think of, and there was something so terrible
in his look, that we were appalled. He did not use threatening
language, but I saw and knew, that he would never stop
till he had that enemy in his power, though he should have to
hunt him to the ends of the earth.”
“Frightful! But I must continue to believe that you are mistaken,
if not altogether, at least in a measure. But — stop! — I
see by your eyes that you have something more to communicate;
what is it?”
Edith seemed to be struggling and choking for utterance.
“Are you at liberty to tell me who that person was?”
“I shall take the liberty, come what may. You would have
been told months ago, had not your brother disappeared so suddenly;
but, since the letters reached me, I have been thinking it
all over anew, and I am satisfied that my duty is clear. That
person was your Uncle George.”
“Merciful Heaven!” whispered Julia, all aghast with horror.
“Mother! mother!” screamed poor Edith, as Julia's countenance
changed; and then, after a short struggle, she pitched
forward upon the nearest pillows, with a broken-hearted wail
of astonishment, and grief and terror.
The scream and the wail were heard below, and Arthur came
rushing up-stairs, three steps at a time, followed by Mrs. Archibald
and Carlo and the baby; the last a long way behind, on
his hands and knees.
As Arthur entered the room, and saw poor Julia leaning forward
on the bed, silent and motionless, and a little creature in
the shape of a child, with the energy of a woman, chafing her
hands, trying to lift her up, and looking toward the door, and
calling “Mother! mother!” he lost all command of himself, and
was about to ask what business that changeling had there? and
why Edith did not make her appearance? but just then, Julia
stirred, gasped for breath, shuddered, and put forth her hands,
feel her way out.
“You are Cousin Arthur, I suppose, are you not?” asked Edith.
Arthur bowed, astonished at the calm beauty of the countenance,
and greatly relieved as he saw Mrs. Archibald push by
him, with a tumbler in her hand, kneel by the side of the dear
sufferer, and put one arm round her, while she held the water to
her lips, and then sprinkle her face with a few drops.
“No, no, Edith! You must not try to lift her,” said her
mother, “you are too weak; but Mr. Maynard, if you please,
you may help me to lay her on the sofa. Ah! she is coming
to, — hush!”
“And why not give her my chair?” said Edith, gathering up
an armful of drapery, and springing to the floor in her slippered
feet, with the lightness of a shadow; “here! here, mother, let
her sit here.”
“No, my love, that would never do; she must be carried to
the sofa, and left there, till she comes to herself.”
Obeying a sign from Mrs. Archibald, Arthur lifted her up,
and refusing all assistance, carried her without help to the sofa,
and left her lying there, pale as death, and speechless, but breathing
faintly at long intervals, and moaning and sobbing, as if in
her sleep.
“There! there!” whispered Edith, “you had better go now,
Cousin Arthur,” touching him on the shoulder as she spoke.
“When you are wanted, I'll rap for you.”
Had the sunshine that plays over a cottage-floor, and then
over the ceiling, and then over the damp rose-bushes at the
window, dazzling the eyes, and tickling the lips, and astonishing
the little folks with every change, whenever a mischievous boy,
with a bit of broken looking-glass, begins to find out for the first
time what it is good for, — had a good old-fashioned will-o'-the-wisp
flashed into his very face and eyes, without a word of notice,
and called him “Cousin Arthur,” he could not have been
much more startled.
As it was, however, he bowed and withdrew, wondering what
the apparition would say next.
All being hushed and quiet, Julia soon recovered, and after
looking about and recalling what had happened, would have
gone off in another fainting fit, and still another, but for the good
common sense of poor Edith, who happened to recollect her
mother's hartshorn bottle, just in time.
Julia looked at her watch, and tried to rise.
“No, no, — you must not think of going yet,” said Mrs. Archibald,
— “you are altogether too weak; it would be as much as
your life is worth, dear child!”
“But we have company to dinner, and Arthur and I have
promised to be there, and we must not fail; they would be so
disappointed, and so troubled, perhaps; for we never break a
promise, if it can be helped.”
“But my dear young lady, it cannot be helped. You must
not go till you are safe; but if you will permit me, I can easily
send over and let them know; or perhaps Mr. Maynard might
be willing to ride over, and leave you here till to-morrow?”
“No, no, thank you; that would never do. They would be
frightened to death; — but now, that I recollect myself, I find
that I have two or three questions, dear Edith, which I must
beg of you to answer before I go, or I shall never sleep
again.”
“What are they? I will answer anything and everything,
dear Julia, that concerns either myself or your brother.”
Mrs. Archibald thought she heard the baby just then; and
Julia and Edith were left alone together once more, — sitting
face to face, and holding each other's hands, and talking as if
they were in the house of death, and felt the presence of the departed,
or had the gift of “discerning spirits.”
“I must be very brief, Edith; but you will forgive me, I
know.”
Edith lifted the pale hand to her lips, and her eyes filled.
“You are not the child I thought you, dear Edith. You are
indeed a woman.”
“I never was a child, Julia; and I am afraid I never shall be
a woman. But compose yourself, and waste no more words, in
preparation, I pray you.”
“Thank you, dear Edith. My first question shall be this: —
Uncle George?”
“No, Julia, I cannot say that I know; but I have heard
enough, and seen enough, to believe that your Uncle George
never lost sight of him for two or three years; that he watched
him too narrowly; that the persons employed — the `spies,' your
brother called them — betrayed their trust, and lied, he says, to
both parties, the uncle and nephew. I have no doubt, moreover,
that your brother believes I should have married him, but for
your Uncle George.”
“And why did you not marry him, dear Edith?”
“Why did I not marry him? Because I loved him.”
“And you did really love my poor brother?”
“Love him, Julia! There has been, I believe, no time since
the first year of our strange wayward acquaintance, when I would
not have died for him, if that would have helped the matter.”
“And yet you refused to marry him?”
“Well, I did; though I do not understand how you should
know it, for I never mentioned it in my life, — not even to my
dear mother.”
“I know it from Charles himself. In the letter I have here,
— which I will now leave with you — he has told me many
things which I never dreamed of; and some, perhaps, which
you ought to know, and may not be altogether prepared for.
But when did this happen?”
“The very night he saw you last. He had been with us all
the afternoon, — he had just found Carlo, — and we were all so
happy; and I know not how it happened, — for I do not believe
he had ever thought of marriage, in a serious way, — all at once,
while we were talking about our first acquaintance, and about
the death of poor Effie, — the mother of little Charley, — and
about some things in your brother's life, which had come to my
knowledge, and grieved me so that I could neither eat nor sleep,
— and for a long while saw visions, and had a dreadful ringing
in my ears, — he started up, and taking both my hands into his,
and looking at poor mother, who had just happened to mention
your Uncle George, made a sign for her to leave us together;
and then — having shut the door after her — he came up to
mouth working, as you have seen it, I dare say, with deadly determination;
he said, almost in the very words I am now repeating,
— I remember them well, they were burned in upon my
heart as with a hot iron, and the dreadful sound is in my ears
now, — `Edith! I have made up my mind to leave this country,
and, I hope, forever. But you I cannot leave. My arrangements
are all made; — I have the means of living comfortably
where I am going. What say you, Edith, dear? Everything
depends upon your answer. Life and death, — here and hereafter,
it may be! What say you, at a word! I have no time
to waste, — will you go with me?'
“I know not what I did, — for I was choking. I could not
have answered yes or no, if my life had depended upon it; but
he flung away from me, suddenly, as if I had spoken, and began
pacing the floor. At last, after a short struggle, I managed to
shake my head. He stopped short, and commanded me, with
that imperious, unforgiving air I complain of, to `speak out!'”
“Poor child,” murmured Julia.
“`If thou canst nod, speak too!' said he; and I saw at
once that he was growing wild; and instantly, as by a revelation
from the other world, I remembered all that I had been told by
your Uncle George, — and my path was clear before me.
“`Dear Charles,' I said, `the question takes me by surprise.
You have never mentioned marriage to me before, — and I have
never thought of marriage, — and I have heard you say, that no
woman ought ever to marry under twenty, if she hopes to be
good for anything after marriage.'
“`Nonsense, Edith! You are afraid to be plain with me,'
said he.
“`That's a fact!' said I. And, would you believe it, the man
almost laughed in my face?
“`Well, what say you?' said he; growing more and more
gloomy.
“`In two years and a little more,' said I, — hoping to bring
him back to a more pleasant humor, — `when I shall be of the
age bargained for.'
“`Nonsense, Edith! I am not playing with you. Will you
better and worse, here and hereafter, — or will you not?'
“`Here and hereafter!' said I; and my blood thrilled as I
remembered the warning of the Apostle, about being yoked with
unbelievers, or unequally yoked; and God strengthened me, and
I answered something in this way, — `How can I leave my poor
mother, dear Charles?' — for I did not like to hurt his feelings.
“He smiled bitterly, — and pressing his lips to my forehead,
while a tear dropped into my face, he said, `I understand you,
Edith. And yet, on my soul, I think you love me, — and I
know you have loved me.'
“`Yes, Charles, I have indeed loved you; and I am afraid I
love you now, much more than is likely to be for my peace of
mind hereafter; unless, to be sure,' — and I hesitated.
“`Out with it!' said he; and a deathlike paleness overspread
his countenance, and he seemed just ready to drop; he staggered,
and as I caught him, he drew me up to his heart with all his
strength, — and then and there I received the first, and the last
kiss upon my lips, that your brother ever gave me. `Out with
it, Edith! I know what is coming!' said he; `and I know
well to whom you and I are indebted for your change of disposition
toward the man you loved so much but a twelvemonth
ago, — ten thousand curses on the meddlesome fool! — but
speak! speak out, like yourself, dear, and let me know the worst,
and the fewer words the better.' I looked up into his face, and
the tears fell into mine like a summer shower, and I was terribly
frightened and shattered; but I prayed for strength, and the
strength came, and I slipped through his arms upon the floor,
and then told him, — but no matter what I told him, — the words
I no longer remember, but I well remember their meaning.
Upon my knees, and in the presence of God's holy angels, I declared
to your noble, generous, high-hearted brother, that much
as I loved him, I would sooner die, sooner give him up, and
forever, than risk the everlasting welfare of both, till he had
become a changed man. He sneered, and paced the room, and
flung his arms wildly into the air, and stamped with passion;
but after awhile he grew calmer, and asked me what I meant by
a changed man? I hesitated, — for I did not like to discourage
give up certain evil habits, — we needed something more.
“`Edith,' said he, at last, — kneeling by my side, and throwing
one arm round my waist, — oh, how well I remember that convulsive
pressure! — `Edith, dear, I believe I understand you;
but I want to be very sure. Will you go with me, and share
my fate, here and hereafter, if I will promise you, on the faith
of a man who never broke his plighted word, to give up gambling,
and drinking, and every other evil habit, which you suppose
me to have been guilty of?'
“`At the end of a twelvemonth, dear Charles, I will,' said I,
`if —,' but before I could finish what I had to say, he sprang
to his feet, and lifting me up, and then stooping so as to look me
straight in the eyes, he said in a tone I shall never forget, — oh,
Julia! it was the wail of a broken-hearted man, just ready to
give up the ghost, — I shall never forget it, though I should live
a thousand years, — `Now or never!' said he; `I cannot wait a
twelvemonth, — I will not wait another day, — now or never!'
“`Never!' said I, — for God strengthened me, Julia, —
`never!' and he was gone! and I never saw him afterward!”
A long silence followed, interrupted by tears and sobs. Julia
was entirely overcome; — the child, the changeling, the little
creature who had so astonished her at first, by her waywardness
and playfulness, had now astonished her a thousand times more,
by these revelations of womanly character, and high principle;
and she took her to her heart, and kissing her again and again,
and calling her sister, and putting her brother's letter into her
hand with a most encouraging smile, they dropped upon their
knees together, side by side, and wept and prayed together, till
notice came from below that the carriage was waiting, and they
had not another moment to lose.
| CHAPTER XIII. True womanhood | |