True womanhood a tale |
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| 18. | CHAPTER XVIII. |
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 | CHAPTER XVIII. True womanhood |  |
18. CHAPTER XVIII.
On the morrow, after much prayer, and a long, sleepless night,
Major Pendleton, Mrs. Maynard, Julia, and Arthur went away
together in a carriage, on their sorrowful errand to New York.
They rode in silence — like strangers at a funeral. When they
alighted, Mr. Fay appeared at the door, as if waiting for them,
and making a sign to the Major, who instantly withdrew, led
them to a large antechamber crowded with witnesses about to go
before the grand jury.
“Compose yourself, I pray, Miss Julia,” said he, “confine
yourself to the questions propounded, as you did in your first
interview with me, and you have nothing to fear. Mr. Officer —
this way, if you please. When you hear the name of Miss
Parry, Julia Parry, you will find her waiting here.”
“Aunt Elizabeth will go with me, I suppose?”
“No —”
“Or Cousin Arthur?”
“No, not even Cousin Arthur. He may not be wanted, —
nor your aunt Elizabeth; and if wanted, you will not go together,
but separately, and be questioned separately.”
“But you will be there, Mr. Fay?”
“No, my dear young friend. You must go alone — you must
depend altogether upon yourself.”
Julia turned very pale, and a tear gathered on her lashes; but
instantly recollecting herself, and interchanging a patient smile
with her aunt, and a look of cheerful trust with her cousin,
she signified, that whenever called for, they would find her prepared.
Mr. Fay looked at the generous girl, with such evident admiration
as to bring the color to her cheek — and then hurried
Arthur drew a chair somewhat nearer to Julia than he had ventured
to do for a long while; and taking his mother's hand, sat
in silence, watching the procedure, and studying the countenances
about him.
There were two or three cases of murder, and many others
of a highly aggravated character, about undergoing investigation.
And as he looked around upon the witnesses, he shuddered; for
upon the foreheads of not a few, he read, as if written with fire,
the death-warrant of more than one fellow-creature. The sluggishness,
the brutal indifference, and the squalor about him, all
which he tried to conceal from his mother and Julia, by changing
the chairs and calling off their attention to pleasanter faces,
filled him with abhorrence and loathing. He felt, indeed, that,
with such witnesses, whether for or against him, in a case of life
and death, no man was safe; and when he thought of his poor
uncle, and of the serious questions involved, his heart died away
within him, and his hand shook, as it rested on the arm of Julia's
chair.
She saw it, and was troubled. Their eyes met, and Arthur's
heart yearned for that interchange of sympathy which they had
been so long familiar with; and before he knew it, his hand had
slipped from the chair and fallen upon hers — trembling, and
cold as death. Julia started and shivered at the touch; but she
did not withdraw her hand; nor when she saw the eyes of her
aunt Elizabeth following hers, did she manifest any embarrassment,
or uneasiness. But she breathed hurriedly — her color
came and went — a crowd of tumultuous thoughts rushed through
her brain — her eyes filled — and she turned away without
speaking a word.
“Dear Julia,” whispered Arthur, — “don't be discouraged, —
let us be of good cheer! Our faith may be sorely tried, and the
issue may not be so near as we have hoped, nor altogether what
we have expected; but I have great confidence in the opinion of
Mr. Fay —”
The little hand was half withdrawn.
“Still more, in the assurance we have had from Uncle George
himself, whatever may be thought by others.”
A slight heaving of the shoulders and a faint, convulsive sob
from Julia, brought her aunt Elizabeth to her side. But the little
hand was left still nestling in that of Cousin Arthur, and, though
the deep silence continued unbroken, the old current of sympathy
was fast finding its way back through the dried-up channels of a
past friendship, and these two children were beginning to understand
each other once more, without the help of language, when
the door opened and Mr. Bayard looked in upon them for a moment,
and then disappeared.
“Did you observe the expression of his eyes, dear mother? I
am sure something hopeful has happened,” said Arthur, “and
since the interview he had with you, last evening, I am sure that
you have reason for encouragement. Judging by what you have
communicated to me, I am strong in that faith, which I hope
may be acceptable to our heavenly Father.”
A slight pressure from Julia's hand, which was instantly caught
away, as if she was afraid to trust it longer there, brought the
color to Arthur's temples.
“It is not an impatient faith, I hope,” said his mother.
At this moment, the door opened softly, and the officer appeared,
followed on tiptoe a few steps by Mr. Bayard; and the
name of Miss Julia Parry was uttered in a low, considerate voice,
— not called, so as to attract the attention of other witnesses.
Julia dropped her veil, and rose at the officer's approach; and
when Arthur took her hand to draw it under his arm, though it
struck a chill to his very heart, there was no trembling, and no
faltering; and, when he left her at the door of the grand jury
room, and whispered to her — “God bless you, my dear cousin!
God strengthen you!” she lifted her veil, and turning toward
him, with a look of such holy determination, though her eyes
were swimming, whispered, “pray for me!” that Arthur would
have knelt to her, if they had been alone.
Julia had been well prepared by Mr. Fay, as he thought, and
she thought; and having, for many a month, “possessed her soul
in patience,” had little to fear from surprise; but still, when she
found herself alone — altogether alone — in the presence of
eighteen or twenty silent, middle-aged, bearded men, looking
very serious — and perhaps a little anxious — all seated round
and another sharp, hard-looking personage, with corrugated brow,
stiff hair, just beginning to be flecked with the moonlight of
coming age, and small, keen, restless eyes, which were always
averted, when he found you trying to read them, and always
fixed upon the party questioned, with a burning intensity, alike
troublesome and exasperating — she could not help feeling as if
she herself were on trial.
This gentleman, who sat near the head of the table, with a
large pile of newspapers and other documents before him, was
the chief questioner, though most of the others had sometimes a
word to say, or a suggestion to make, as the examination proceeded.
After allowing a sufficient time for Julia to recollect herself,
and look about her, the foreman begged her to lift her veil.
Julia bowed.
And after fidgeting in his chair awhile, and whispering to his
nearest neighbor, the gentleman above-described, who turned
out to be the prosecutor himself, and who had been specially
invited by the grand jury to be present, contrary to the usual
practice, and to take charge of the examination, begged the witness
to give her name.
“Julia Parry, Sir,” she answered, in a low, sweet, clear voice,
which evidently produced a pleasant impression.
“You are related to Mr. Pendleton, I believe — George A.
Pendleton?” — looking at a list of names on a paper lying before
him.
“He is my uncle, Sir.”
“On the side of your mother, I presume? Her name was
Pendleton, I believe?”
“It was.”
“Have you any recollection, Miss Parry, of this paper?”
handing her an open letter.
“I have.”
“Are you acquainted with the handwriting?”
“I am.”
“Whose handwriting is it?”
“Mine, Sir.”
“Will you please run your eye over it, and see if any alterations
or additions have been made to it, since you saw it
last?”
“I do not find any, Sir.”
“When did you see it last?”
“When I sealed it for the post-office, immediately after finishing
it. The date will show.”
“To whom did you intrust it for the office?”
“To a waiter belonging to the St. Nicholas, I believe.”
“Do you happen to recollect his name?”
“Peter — I do not remember his other name.”
“I'll trouble you,” reaching his hand for the letter. “You
speak here of enclosures, I see. Was there anything enclosed?”
“There was.”
“And what, if you please?”
“Four Bank of England notes.”
“Do you remember the whole amount? or the denominations?”
“Altogether, about a hundred pounds, I believe; there was
one fifty, and one or two twenties.”
“Can you recall the numbers or dates?”
“No, Sir.”
“Have you any means of ascertaining the numbers or dates?”
“No, Sir.”
“Did you make any memorandum at the time, or afterward?”
“No, Sir.”
“Should you know them again, if you saw them?”
“I think I should, Sir.”
`Are these the notes?”
“I should say they were, judging by appearances, but I am
not sure.”
“To whom was the letter directed?”
“To my brother Charles. You will find the address on the
outside of the letter itself.”
“And why were they sent to your brother Charles?”
For the first time, Julia faltered; a glow of indignation flushed
her face, and her wet lashes trembled with inward brightness;
but she answered, nevertheless, and calmly too, with the same
low, sweet, mournful voice.
“My brother was going away, I knew not whither; but among
strangers, I believed, and I wanted to help him, so far as it lay
in my power.”
“But how was your letter to reach him, if you knew not
whither he was gone?”
“Our letters were to pass through the hands of a third person
for a while, and afterwards to remain till called for, in the post-offices
mentioned.”
There was a slight curl of the upper lip, as she answered the
last question, and something portentous in the look she turned
upon the prosecutor, but no quavering nor faltering.
“Could you furnish us with the name of that person, and
with a list of the post-offices?”
“I might do so, if allowed to go home for a paper I have in
my portfolio.”
“Did your brother Charles ever acknowledge the receipt of
the letter, or bank-notes?”
“How could he, Sir, when both were intercepted?”
For the first time, Julia was thrown off her guard, and forgot
her past experience, and fixed resolution; but she instantly
recovered herself, and the examination was renewed, and her
answers were carefully noted, and oftentimes at full length, by
some of the jury.
“How do you know they were intercepted, Miss Parry?”
“Because I find them here, in the possession of strangers;
and because I have heard from my brother since, and they had
never reached him?”
“How can you know that, Miss Parry?”
“Because he wrote and cautioned me not to use them; and I
take it for granted that he would have acknowledged the receipt,
if they had ever come to hand, or destroyed them, perhaps, or
he might have returned them to me.”
“But why destroy them?”
“Because they were said to be worthless, and perhaps were
forged; and his earnest desire that I should not make use of
them, satisfied me that he well understood their true character.”
“He was alarmed on your account, you believe — unwilling
to have you exposed — hey?”
“Sir!”
“Involved, I mean. Do you know if he manifested at any
time, in any way, any correspondent uneasiness about others —
your uncle George, for instance, or your aunt Maynard?”
“Not with regard to my aunt; but in a letter I have somewhere,
and perhaps in that which I have already mentioned,
there was something said by him about Uncle George, which
satisfied me at the time, that he felt anxious about him also.”
“Could you produce that letter?”
“Yes; I think I have it among my brother's letters.”
“And now, Miss Parry,” straightening himself up — adjusting
his spectacles, and glancing from face to face, up and down
both sides of the long table, very slowly, and with a look not to
be misunderstood — “allow me to ask you — and I do it with
all respect, I assure you, but my duty obliges me to do it for the
satisfaction of these gentlemen, otherwise I should not — allow
me to ask if you ever had any reason for questioning the goodness
of these notes — their genuineness, their validity, I mean —
before you sent them off to your brother? Take time for consideration,
I pray you.”
“No time for consideration is required, Sir. I never did.”
“Have you got the lady's answer, gentlemen?” said the prosecutor,
with a look that displeased Julia, and led her to question
Mr. Fay after she was through; and she was not a little vexed
and astonished, to find that she had been dealt with by the prosecutor,
as an adverse witness — a witness, that is, favorably disposed
toward the party charged — and had been cross-questioned
accordingly.
The answer being down, and all eyes turned upon her, the
prosecutor continued — a smile of bitterness and pique and triumph
playing round his mouth, as if about to feed some ancient
grudge, professional or otherwise — and for a single moment
Julia's courage gave way.
“Recollect yourself, Miss Parry, before you answer my next
question. Are you fully prepared?”
Julia bowed — somewhat scornfully, it must be acknowledged.
“Was not one of these very notes” — glancing at the jury
one evening at the bar, soon after you went to the St. Nicholas?”
Instead of being overwhelmed — thunderstruck and aghast —
as the learned gentleman expected, by the suddenness and
strangeness of the question, Julia answered instantly, and without
a sign of perturbation —
“I believe so. Something of the kind happened at the St.
Nicholas, very soon after we went there; and though I am not
sure, I have no reason to doubt, Sir, that one of these very notes,
or one of the same kind, for I had several in my possession, was
refused by somebody, and perhaps at the bar, and returned to
me.”
“And why was it refused, pray?”
“I do not know, Sir.”
“Did you never inquire?”
“No, Sir.”
“Did you form any opinion at the time?”
“No, Sir.”
“Did it give you any uneasiness?”
“Not the least in the world, Sir. I should never have thought
of it again, perhaps, had not my attention been called to it.”
“Was it not a little strange, to have a bank-note refused, and
returned to a lady boarder, in a house of such high character?”
Julia was not to be intimidated. She felt that she was no
longer a witness, but a wronged woman, with nobody at hand to
take her part; and that, while treated with a great appearance
of respect and courtesy, the gentleman was trying to show himself
off, at her expense; and the blood flashed through her
veins like fire, as she answered very slowly, but with a musical
vibration that showed the deep inward working of a chafed spirit.
In a word, her woman's rights being outraged, and her sex, in
her, she determined to vindicate herself.
“To me, Sir, as I have said before, it was not strange; and
certainly not very strange, or I should have remembered it. I was
a boarder, Sir — we were all boarding there together — and if the
note had been suspicious in my estimation, I should not have
been very likely to send it to the bar to be changed. Bank of
circulation, certainly — and at the time this note was returned
to me, all the banks of your city were failing, and most of them,
if not all, had stopped paying specie. When I asked for gold,
in exchange for a Bank of England note, in the midst of such
a panic, it was without a moment's consideration, as I should
have done it over sea; and therefore it was that I felt no surprise
and no uneasiness, I assure you, Sir, after I came to consider
the matter.”
The gentleman bowed; but with a changed expression. The
look of inward triumph was gone forever; and he found little
or no comfort in the eyes about him — all of which were rivetted
upon Julia, with an expression, far from being agreeable
to her interrogator.
“And now,” continued he, after a dreary pause — taking off
and putting on his spectacles two or three times, and wiping
them over and over again, with the inside of his glove, and rummaging
nervously among his papers — “And now, will you be
so obliging, Miss Parry, as to look at these,” — handing her the
burnt fragments of several notes, which appeared to have been
twisted together, and used for lighting a cigar — “and tell me, if
you have any recollection of having seen them before?”
After a thorough examination, Julia handed them across the
table to the foreman, who reached for them, and answering deliberately
and clearly, said “No, Sir.”
The learned gentleman had evidently mistaken his cue.
“Do you answer no, Miss Parry?”
“Certainly I do, Sir.”
What was to be done? The gentleman had reserved this,
and the other questions growing out of it, for clenching the whole
business; but instead of springing a mine for Mr. Fay, or the
Major, or Julia, he had only contrived to blow himself up.
After consulting with the foreman in a whisper, and shaking
his head this way and that, several times, and then up and down,
about as many more — feeling his chin at long intervals, and
running his fingers through his hair, and pursing out his mouth,
and rolling up his eyes to the ceiling, an idea appeared to strike
him all at once — a throe followed — a long breath — and turning
leave to ask, “if she herself had ever destroyed any such notes
by fire or otherwise?”
“Never!” was the reply.
“Do you happen to know of anybody else having done so?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, indeed! — oh! — ah!” — rubbing his hands with all
his might, like a family physician coming in from the cold, and
about to feel the pulse of a delicate woman — “and who was the
person, pray, — and when, and where, — and why was it done,
hey?”
“I may not be able to answer all your questions at once, but
I will do my best,” said Julia, with a smile the prosecutor didn't
much like, though most of his grave-looking associates did. “I
saw my uncle George —”
“The Major, you mean — George A. Pendleton — your uncle
George,” said the prosecutor, with somewhat of unbecoming
eagerness and impatience, — “the gentleman who stands charged
with the offence we are now investigating, hey?”
Julia bowed.
“I saw my uncle George destroy several Bank of England
notes, one evening, by fire. I cannot fix the time; but the newspapers
of the following day contain references to the fragments
that were carried up chimney, and found near the Metropolitan
Hotel, I believe. It was at the St. Nicholas — in my uncle's
private parlor, — late in the evening. They were burned because,
he said, they were worthless.”
“Did he tell you how he came by them?”
“No, Sir.”
“Have you any knowledge on the subject, Miss Parry?”
“Yes, Sir, — all that may be necessary, perhaps. My uncle
had the notes he destroyed — or attempted to destroy — for it
seems they were not entirely consumed — from me.”
The prosecutor started up from his chair.
“From you! Miss Parry?”
“From me, Sir.”
“And where did you get them? How came you by them,
pray?”
“My uncle George gave them to me, on leaving England for
America. He is my guardian, and is careful to keep me supplied
with pocket-money, to the whole amount of my yearly
allowance.”
“The mystery thickens, gentlemen. If you can understand it,
I must acknowledge it is more than I can do. First, we have
the party charged furnishing the witness with forged notes for
pocket-money; then, after months have gone by, withdrawing
them, and burning them before her face, and acknowledging
them to be spurious.”
“No, Sir — excuse me — acknowledging them to be worthless.”
“Well, I confess, gentlemen, I cannot understand the witness.”
“Nothing can be clearer, Sir,” retorted Julia, with perfect
self-possession — “at least, to my understanding. When he
gave the bank-notes in question, I suppose he had no more
doubt of their being what they purported to be, than if he had
taken them out of the bank himself; and when he destroyed
them, it was because he had just come to the knowledge, in some
way — I know not how — that they were worthless; I do not
say forged, nor spurious, for he did not say so — but worthless.
For the same reason that he would not trust me with them, after
he knew their real character, I take it for granted, Sir, that he
would never have put them into my hands for use, if there had
been the slightest ground of apprehension at the time.”
Here several of the grand jury interchanged nods, and smiles,
and winks, which the learned gentleman shut his eyes against,
with uncommon emphasis; and after a few minutes more spent
in idle questioning, such as you may hear any day in courts of
justice, where people do not always know enough to hold their
tongues, and are always asking impertinent questions, lest they
may appear to be nonplussed — ignorant, or forgetful of the
great leading principle that governs alike in chess, and whist,
and in the examination of witnesses; and that is, never to make
a move, nor to ask a question, without having a reason for it.
Running for luck has emptied or addled the brains of many a
sharp legal questioner. The forman signified to the officer that
they were done with the witness, and he might lead her off.
Julia rose, dropped her veil, and bowed; and the whole body of
“potent, grave, and reverend seigniors,” rose at the same instant —
with the exception of the prosecutor, who just then happened to
be looking for his spectacles, which had found their way up to
the very roots of his hair — and bowed in reply, as no one of the
whole had ever bowed before in all his life, to a witness.
Julia found Arthur waiting just outside of the door, looking
very pale, and anxious, and worried, until he saw her coming
forward, with a firm step, and a serene countenance. He caught
her hand with a murmur of admiration, and but for the presence
of strangers, would have carried it to his lips. Julia saw her
aunt's eyes fixed upon her, and blushed crimson — of course.
The worst was now over. Neither Mrs. Maynard nor Arthur
was called; and though Mr. Fay shook his head, when they
reached the door, on finding how late it was, he did not appear
much troubled. He was invited to a seat in the carriage, though
there was no room inside, unless Arthur rode with the coachman;
but he refused, saying he must be on hand early the next
day, so that if the grand jury found a bill — as he knew they
would — for they couldn't well do otherwise —”
Arthur stared; but the words were uttered in such a pleasant
chirping voice, very much as if it was just the thing to be desired,
that he felt no further uneasiness.
“Why, then,” continued Mr. Fay, “we must be ready with
new bail, and a witness or two, and prepare for trial,” — winking
at Arthur, who did not quite understand him, though he
winked in reply, just to encourage Julia and his mother.
On arriving at the cottage, after the fatigue and worry of the
day, — it was like a burst of sunshine following the dismal, dreary
weather of March or November. It was their home; — they were
no longer unsheltered, nor altogether friendless, — and they felt, as
they entered once more upon the hallowed stillness of that household
sanctuary, as they had never felt before, and as if they never
wanted to leave it again. They were silent and thoughtful, and
longed to be sitting together once more — hand in hand, if it
might be — as in the days that were past, and well-nigh forgotten,
or, if not wholly forgotten, seldom or never adverted to, when
there was no self-upbraiding in the way, and their untroubled,
sweet recollections and pleasant hopes, understood each other
without the help of language, and felt the stillness within and
about them, like a blessing.
Before they had time to throw off their shawls and bonnets, a
carriage drove up, and out jumped the venerable Mr. Bayard,
with a suddenness quite startling, followed by Miss Wentworth
and Sallie Webb, whom he handed out with the stately self-possession
and graceful ease of a man of the world, though without bowing,
or in any way forgetting himself as a Friend.
To say that Mrs. Maynard was greatly astonished, that Julia
seemed perplexed and troubled, and poor Arthur out of all patience
with such indelicate, untimely obtrusiveness, would be only
the simple truth — somewhat softened. To have strangers, or
something worse, drop in upon you just when you are longing to
throw yourself into the first easy-chair for a comfortable nap —
to steal away by yourself — to do anything, or go anywhere, so
that you may be altogether alone — is, to say the least of it,
rather trying, and sometimes very uncomfortable and provoking.
“Mary Wentworth,” said Mr. Bayard, — pointing to Aunt
Elizabeth — “guess who that is?”
“We are already acquainted, Mr. Bayard; I have had the
pleasure of meeting Miss Wentworth before,” said Aunt Elizabeth,
smiling at the oddity of the introduction.
“But still she does not know thee, Elizabeth, — nor thee, her;
— I do wish thee would remember to call me William!”
“And I do wish, Cousin William, you would just be so obliging,
before we go any farther, as to talk a little downright wholesome
English,” said Miss Wentworth; being prompted thereto
by Sallie Webb, as they had reason to know, before the visit was
ended.
“So thee hasn't quite overcome thy dislike for the plain language
of thy youth, Cousin Mary. I hoped thee would have
come to thy senses long before this, and that after trying the
world for so many years, thee might see its emptiness, and steal
back to the home of thy childhood once more — never to leave
it again.”
“Nonsense, I tell you! The language of my childhood was,
even at the worst, good English; and certainly you would have
been among the last of all the men, I know, when we were both
young, to say thee is, instead of thou art — or thee art — as many
do, who are always halting between two opinions — neither one
thing nor another.”
“Neither hawk nor buzzard,” whispered Sallie, nudging her
aunt's elbow at the same time, as if the whole had been preconcerted;
and then there was a loud ringing laugh, sounding very
much as if that also were premediated.
“Well, Cousin Mary, I acknowledge that in our youth, some
forty years ago or thereabouts, —”
“Mercy on us! what will he say next?” whispered Sallie to
Arthur, who stood nearest.
“I acknowledge that we were both in the habit of using the
plain language in a different way, and according to the laws of
English grammar, — though it was far from being palatable to
thee, I remember, or why did thee give it up?”
“Provoking! I tell you, Cousin William, that if you persist
in theeing me — I have no objection to being thou'd — I shall
be obliged to give you up, altogether.”
“Of a truth, Cousin Mary?”
“Of a truth, Cousin William. You! a well educated man —
why, I wonder you are not ashamed of yourself! — be quiet,
Sallie, — haven't I done all I threatened to do?”
“That you have,” said Sallie, to whom the last question was
put, aside as it were, and over the left shoulder. “That you
have, dear aunty — and something to spare, I acknowledge.”
“Well, well, never mind, Mary. When we are together, if I
can think of it, I will try to use the plain language as we did in
our youth; for” — smiling, and taking her hand — “I wouldn't
have my dear good cousin feel ashamed of me; and I couldn't
bear to have thee give me up, altogether.”
“Agreed! there's my hand on't!”
“Well, then. I was about saying, that, although my friend
Elizabeth and thee — thou, I mean — thou see'st how awkward
it is, at the best — have met before, I happen to know that you
are not well acquainted.”
“Not well acquainted, certainly; but —”
“Nay, nay, — hear me through. Thou mayest remember
hearing much of a young woman in our society, by the name of
Elizabeth Pendleton.”
“I do, indeed.”
“Well, — she is now standing before thee.”
“Can it be possible! And you, my dear madam, — you are
that extraordinary girl,” said Miss Wentworth, seizing her hands,
— you the dear, generous, brave creature, who had the strength
of mind to refuse a —”
“Hush, aunty, hush!” whispered Sallie, with a glance at
Julia and Arthur, and then at Mrs. Maynard; “you do not see
how you are distressing them all.”
“Don't be troubled, Sallie, — and do leave off that provoking
habit of always interfering, I pray you.”
“Yes, aunty.”
“And don't call me aunty, — if you please.”
“Agreed, as you say; but what must I call you?”
“You know well enough, minx, — and hereafter, if I can recollect
myself, I won't answer you, if you don't call me Miss Marie;
I am not a married woman — I am not a widow — and I am no
mistress, though everybody delights in calling me Mrs. Wentworth;
a plague on them, I say!”
“Poh, poh! Cousin Mary! don't be angry with her,” said Mr.
Bayard.
“But you know, aunty — Miss Marie —” continued her tormentor,
coaxingly, “you know it is an English fashion to call
maiden ladies mistress, after a certain age. Mrs. Hannah More,
for example, and Mrs. Joanna Baillie.”
This was really too much, and her aunt snapped out something
in reply, which was not well understood by the others, although
it sent Sallie to the window, with a handkerchief crammed into
her mouth to stop the gurgling — not giggling. It was too deep,
and too rich for that.
Julia was grieved, Arthur out of all patience, and Mrs. Maynard
frightened, till happening to catch the eye of Mr. Bayard,
she saw that he was not much moved, but on the contrary, rather
amused, at the exhibition of character.
But while they were wondering what had brought these two
unwelcome visitors down upon them so suddenly, Miss Wentworth,
or Aunt Marie, if you will insist upon it, came forward a
step or two, and taking Mrs. Maynard's hand once more, said to
her, with a manner so changed, and with an expression so beautiful,
as to make her wonder if she could be the same person,
“I see, my dear madam, that you do not well understand my
character, nor that of my troublesome niece there — the sauciest
thing, and the most perverse you ever saw, at times — though
well meaning, and rather kindly disposed, when she is allowed to
have her own way. But we must be going, and as your brother
is not here, I must leave a message with you. My cousin here
— a very odd sort of a creature as you see, and for that matter,
so are we all, I believe, judging by what other people say of us —
may want some help to-morrow, for the Major — there! there!
don't interfere, Sallie Webb — and I wish you to say to him,
that I shall be glad to do anything in my power, — anything
indeed — that may be required of me. I know what has happened
to-day; — good-bye — not a word, I pray you.” And
off she hurried, followed by Sallie, curtsying and smiling at every
dip, and keeping her eyes on Arthur, to the last.
Mr. Bayard was about to follow.
“Why not dine with us, and stay all night?” asked Mrs. Maynard.
After a little consideration, he answered, “yes; I want to see
thy brother, and I must see him before I sleep.”
Arthur helped the ladies into their carriage; and notwithstanding
the whimsical behavior of the niece, could not help
acknowledging that she was not only a very handsome, but a
very showy girl, with a remarkably pretty foot, and high instep,
and with an air of cool, saucy self-possession, almost unendurable.
Imperious and arch, and rather hoydenish at times, yet there was
a pleasant expression about her mouth, and something playful
in her eyes, and a sort of chirp in her voice, when she was most
provoking, which led Arthur to believe, that, after all, she was
only playing a part — perhaps.
A long silence, and not a little embarrassment followed their
departure.
“You must not judge of these two women, by their behavior
to-day, Elizabeth,” said Mr. Bayard, much to the surprise of
Julia and Arthur, who were accustomed to hear her called Elizabeth
by their uncle George, and by him only. “I do not wonder
at thy surprise, nor should I much wonder, if they were both
supposed to be women of evil temper, not only unhappy themselves,
but determined to make everybody else unhappy. Yet
nothing could be further from the truth.”
Mrs. Maynard, Arthur and Julia looked at one another, and
appeared somewhat incredulous.
“I am right, I assure you all. I have known Sallie — or
Sarah, as we used to call her, till she got her beautiful Scripture
name Frenchified — from her earliest childhood; and I know
her to be generous, intelligent, and good-tempered; nay, capable
of great sacrifices when they are needed, self-denying, and far
from being wilful; but vain, frivolous, and fashionable. Of her
aunt, I might say much more. She is what thee would call a
superior woman — a noble-hearted woman — Elizabeth, and you
will find her so. Be patient with her, and with Sarah. They
are very odd — and so are most of the family.” His voice trembled
here, and he faltered for a moment; but just as he was
about resuming the subject, the noise of a carriage was heard, —
voices at the door — and after a few minutes, the Major entered,
looking happier than he had for months.
“I must have a little talk with thee, friend George,” said Mr.
Bayard, “before thee goes to dinner, so that I may be able to
get back to my lodgings to-night, and be prepared early to-morrow,
— for Winthrop Fay tells me we have no time to lose, and
I may be wanted to-morrow.”
The Major's countenance fell; but they instantly withdrew,
and had a long conference together; at the end of which, their
guest, instead of stopping to take a bed with them, insisted on
going away, without his dinner.
“It must be so,” said he, in reply to their urgent solicitations,
“I have much to do; I am expecting a friend, who may drop in
upon me at any hour, and I must not be out of the way. Thy
brother will satisfy thee, Elizabeth, after I have gone, that I had
no choice. What I have heard from him, while we were together
must see friend Fay before I sleep. Farewell.”
“The most extraordinary man!” said the Major. “It seems
to me sometimes that I must have known him before. The tones
of his voice haunt me.”
Arthur smiled, and went into a brief history of what had happened
in the prayer-meeting, and elsewhere, during their early
acquaintance.
“No, no, Arthur, — long before that,” said Uncle George.
“Sometimes I feel as if we had been acquainted in some other
world, years and years ago.”
It was no time for further explanations, or he would have
known the truth, and the whole truth, perhaps, from his beloved
sister; but the presence of others did not allow of such communications,
and the opportunity went by.
There was a cloud over the spirits of all, that evening, up to
the very last moment they were together; and when prayers
were over, Julia withdrew, saying that she felt sleepy, and so utterly
overcome with weariness, that she must leave them, — that
she so longed for the stillness and repose of her little chamber,
though she might not go to bed for a long while, and knew she
would not be able to sleep if she did, that she felt herself growing
unreasonable and peevish.
Arthur followed, and the Major was about going, when a look
from his sister brought him to her side.
“You are troubled, my brother; has anything happened to
make you uneasy? anything to change the views of Mr. Fay?”
“Nothing, dear Elizabeth; and I ought to be ashamed of myself,
and sorely grieved for my unthankfulness; but the truth is,
I am so changed, so unlike what I used to be, when others turned
to me for consolation, that I should be wholly discouraged, were
I not very sure that most of these unhappy fluctuations of temper
are owing to impaired health. If I could but keep in mind the
two rules I laid down for myself, when I first began to go abroad,
I do not believe you would ever see anything of the fretfulness
or impatience I sometimes betray; and though I might be serious
and thoughtful — for how could I be otherwise with such a heavy
cloud hanging over me, and always ready to burst? — I do not
you or the dear children, as I do now.”
“What rules do you refer to, brother?”
“To these: — First, always to remember how much we have
left to be thankful for, happen what may: and secondly, how
much worse off multitudes about us always are — happen what
may. Just look here, Elizabeth,” — stooping and laying her
hand upon his head, — “see how these things wear upon me.”
“Heavens, brother!” she exclaimed, with astonishment. “I
had no idea of this; I have read of such things, to be sure, and
sometimes of the hair turning white in a single day, but I never
quite believed in them, till now; and I very much wonder that
we have not observed it before.”
“I have tried to conceal it, Elizabeth, not only from you, but
from myself, by brushing my hair the other way, and waiting
month after month, for what I have been hoping for, a new
growth. But never mind; — if the color was changed by fever,
as I think it may have been, because much of it has come out
since I have been able to go abroad — the new hair may be
dark, instead of gray; but whether it be or not, I care very
little, and I have only called your attention to it now, because I
did not like the idea of your being taken by surprise —”
“Do tell me what Miss Wentworth wanted of you,” said Mrs.
Maynard, as if unwilling to dwell upon so unpleasant a subject,
as premature old age.
“I will, but you must keep what I say to yourself. It seems
that one of my bail may be wanted for a witness, and when it
was mentioned to her by Mr. Fay, the generous creature, who,
by the way, appears to be a woman of large unincumbered property,
begged of him to see you, or me, and offer any help that
might be needed. In fact, Elizabeth, she went so far as to offer
a bond of indemnity to any person Mr. Fay might find willing
to be my bail — or even to become bail herself.”
“And this is the woman we have been laughing about, and
trying to avoid for the last three months!”
“Even so. We have wholly misunderstood her character, Elizabeth,
and might never have known her, as we now do, but for
Mr. Bayard.”
“But where is he? Why couldn't he furnish bail? I have
heard he is very wealthy.”
“He will do so; but as he is the very person whom we are
likely to want for a witness, and will go into court and surrender
me, if the grand jury find a true bill, it would not do for him
to furnish other bail — you understand?”
“No, indeed, not I! Nor do I care to understand these
things. If Mr. Fay and you are satisfied, I have nothing to
say; only, in mercy, dear brother, let us be more upon our
guard, I pray you, against rash conclusions to the disadvantage
of others, however much appearances may be against them.”
“Right, Elizabeth! Judge not, lest ye also be judged, — and
surely we have good reason for obeying. Few have suffered
more — and few have more need of charity. Good-night.”
“Good-night, brother.”
| CHAPTER XVIII. True womanhood | |