University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.
MRS. SANDERSON TAKES A COMPANION AND I GO TO COLLEGE.

During the closing days of summer, I was surprised to meet
in the street, walking alone, the maid who accompanied Mrs.
Sanderson to the sea-side. She courtesied quite profoundly
to me, after the manner of the time, and paused as though she
wished to speak.

“Well, Jane,” I said, “how came you here?”

She colored, and her eyes flashed angrily as she replied:
“Mrs. Sanderson sent me home.”

“If you are willing, I should like to have you tell me all
about it,” I said.

“It is all of a lady Mrs. Sanderson met at the hotel,” she
responded,—“a lady with a pretty face and fine manners, who
is as poor as I am, I warrant ye. Mighty sly and quiet she
was; and your aunt took to her from the first day. They walked
together every day till Jenks came, and then they rode
together, and she was always doing little things for your aunt,
and at last they left me out entirely, so that I had nothing in
the world to do but to sit and sew all day on just nothing
at all. The lady read to her, too, out of the newspapers and the
books, in a very nice way, and made herself agreeable with her
pretty manners until it was nothing but Mrs. Belden in the
morning, and Mrs. Belden at night, and Mrs. Belden all the
time, and I told your aunt that I didn't think I was needed
any more, and she took me up mighty short and said she didn't
think I was, and that I could go home if I wished to; and
I wouldn't stay a moment after that, but just packed up and
came home in the next boat.”

The disappointed and angry girl rattled off her story as if

she had told it forty times to her forty friends, and learned it
all by rote.

“I am sorry, Jane, that you have been disappointed,”
I responded, “but is my aunt well?”

“Just as well as she ever was in her life.”

“But how will she get home without you?” I inquired,
quite willing to hear her talk farther.

“She'll manage the same as she does now, faith. You may
wager your eyes the lady will come with her. You never
saw the like of the thickness there is between 'em.”

“Is she old or young?” I inquired.

“Neither the one nor the other,” she replied, “though I
think she's older than she looks. Oh, she's a sharp one—she's
a sharp one! You'll see her. There was a world of quiet
talk going on between 'em, when I couldn't hear. They've
been at it for more than a month, and it means something. I
think she's after the old lady's money.”

I laughed, and again telling Jane that I was sorry for her
disappointment, and expressing the hope that it would all turn
out well, parted with her.

Here was some news that gave me abundant food for reflection
and conjecture. Not a breath of all this had come to
me on the wings of the frequent missives that had reached me
from Mrs. Sanderson's hand; but I had an unshaken faith
in her discretion. The assurance that she was well was an
assurance that she was quite able to take care of herself. It
was natural that the maid should have been irate and jealous,
and I did not permit her words to prejudice me against Mrs.
Sanderson's new friend. Yet, I was curious, and not quite
comfortable, with the thoughts of her, and permitted my mind
to frame and dwell upon the possible results of the new connection.

It was a week after this meeting, perhaps, that I received
a note from Mrs. Sanderson, announcing the confirmation of
her health, stating that she should bring a lady with her on her
return to Bradford, and giving directions for the preparation

of a room for her accommodation. It would not have been
like my aunt to make explanations in a letter, so that I was
not disappointed in finding none.

At last I received a letter informing me that the mistress of
The Mansion would return to her home on the following day.
I was early at the wharf to meet her—so early that the
steamer had but just showed her smoking chimneys far down
the river. As the boat approached, I detected two female
figures upon the hurricane deck which I was not long in
concluding to be my aunt and her new friend. Jenks, in his
impatience to get quickly on shore, had loosed his horse from
the stall, and stood holding him by the bridle, near the carriage,
upon the forward deck. He saw me and swung his hat, in
token of his gladness that the long trial was over.

The moment the boat touched the wharf I leaped on board,
mounted to the deck, and, in an impulse of real gladness
and gratitude, embraced my aunt. For a moment her companion
was forgotten: then Mrs. Sanderson turned and presented
her. I did not wonder that she was agreeable to Mrs. Sanderson,
for I am sure that no one could have looked into her
face and received her greeting without being pleased with her.
She was dressed plainly but with great neatness; and everything
in her look and manner revealed the well-bred woman.
The whole expression of her personality was one of refinement.
She looked at me with a pleased and inquiring gaze which
quite charmed me—a gaze that by some subtle influence
inspired me to special courtesy toward her. When the carriage
had been placed on shore, and had been made ready for the
ride homeward, I found myself under the impulse to be as
polite to her as to my aunt.

As I looked out among the loungers who always attended
the arrival of the Belle, as a resort of idle amusement, I caught
a glimpse of Henry. Our eyes met for an instant, and I
detected a look of eager interest upon his face. My recognition
seemed to quench the look at once, and he turned abruptly
on his heel and walked away. It was not like him to be

among a company of idlers, and I knew that the arrival of Mrs.
Sanderson could not have attracted him. It was an incident,
however, of no significance save as it was interpreted by subsequent
events which wait for record.

Mrs. Sanderson was quite talkative on the way home, in
pointing out to her new companion the objects of interest presented
by the thriving little city, and when she entered her
house seemed like her former self. She was like the captain
of a ship who had returned from a short stay on shore, having
left the mate in charge. All command and direction returned
to her on the instant she placed her foot upon the threshold.
She was in excellent spirits, and seemed to look forward upon
life more hopefully than she had done for a long time previous.
Mrs. Belden was pleased with the house, delighted with
her room, and charmed with all the surroundings of the place;
and I could see that Mrs. Sanderson was more than satisfied
with the impression which her new friend had made upon me.
I remember with how much interest I took her from window to
window to show her the views which the house commanded,
and how much she gratified me by her hearty appreciation of
my courtesy and of the home to which circumstances had
brought her.

I saw at once that she was a woman to whom I could yield
my confidence, and who was wholly capable of understanding
me and of giving me counsel. I saw, too, that the old home
would become a very different place to me from what it ever
had been before, with her gracious womanliness within it. It
was love with me at first sight, as it had been with my more
critical aunt.

The next morning Mrs. Sanderson called me into her little
library and told me the whole story of her new acquaintance.
She had been attracted to her by some heartily-rendered courtesy
when she found herself among strangers, feeble and alone,
and had learned from her that she was without relatives and a
home of her own. They had long conversations, and were led,
step by step, to a mutual revelation of personal wishes and

needs, until it was understood between them that one was in
want of a companion in her old age, and the other was in want
of a home, for which she was willing to give service and society.

“I have come,” said my aunt, “to realize that I am old, and
that it is not right for me to stay in the house alone as I have
done; and now that you are to be absent for so long a time, I
shall need society and help. I am sure that Mrs. Belden is the
right woman for me. Although she will be in a certain sense a
dependent, she deserves and will occupy the place of a friend.
I do not think I can be mistaken in her, and I believe that you
will like her as well as I do.”

I frankly told my aunt of the pleasant impression the lady
had made upon me, and expressed my entire satisfaction with
the arrangement; so Mrs. Belden became, in a day, a member
of our home, and, by the ready adaptiveness of her nature,
fitted into her new place and relations without a jar.

On the same day in which Mrs. Sanderson and I held our
conversation, I found myself alone with Mrs. Belden, who led
me to talk of myself, my plans, and my associates. I told her
the history of my stay at The Bird's Nest, and talked at length
of my companion there. She listened to all I had to say with
interest, and questioned me particularly about Henry. She
thought a young man's intimate companions had much to do
with his safety and progress, and was glad to learn that my
most intimate friend was all that he ought to be.

“You must never mention him to Mrs. Sanderson,” I said,
“for he offended her by not accepting her invitation to spend
his vacations with me.”

“I shall never do it, Arthur,” she responded. “You can
always rely upon my discretion.”

“We are to be chums at college,” I said.

“How will you manage it without offending your aunt?”
she inquired.

“Oh, she knows that I like him; so we agree not to mention
his name. She asks me no questions, and I say nothing.
Besides, I think she knows something else and—” I hesitated.

“And what?” inquired Mrs. Belden, smiling.

“I think she knows that he is fond of my sister Claire,” I
said.

Mrs. Belden gave a visible start, but checking herself, said,
coolly enough, “Well, is he?”

“I think so,” I answered. “Indeed, I think they are very
fond of one another.”

Then, at the lady's request, I told her all about my sister—
her beauty, her importance in my father's house, and her accomplishments.
She listened with great interest, and said that
she hoped she should make her acquaintance.

“If you are to be tied to my aunt in the society you meet
here you will be pretty sure not to know her,” I responded.
“My father is Mrs. Sanderson's tenant, and she has very strict
notions in regard to poor people, and especially in regard to
those who occupy her houses. She has never invited a member
of my family into her house, and she never will. She has
been very kind to me, but she has her own way about it.”

“Yes, I see; but I shall meet your sister in some way, I
know, if I remain here,” Mrs. Belden replied.

I had never seen Jenks so happy as he appeared the next day
after his arrival. He had been elevated immensely by his voyage
and adventures, and had been benefited by the change quite
as much as his mistress. He went about humming and growling
to himself in the old way, seeking opportunities to pour into
my amused ears the perils he had encountered and escaped.
There had been a terrific “lurch” on one occasion, when everybody
staggered; and a suspicious sail once “hove in sight”
which turned out to be a schooner loaded with lumber; and
there were white caps tossing on a reef which the captain
skillfully avoided; and there was a “tremenduous ground swell”
during a portion of the homeward passage which he delighted
to dwell upon.

But Jenks was in no way content until I had pointed out his
passage to him on the map. When he comprehended the
humiliating fact that he had sailed only half an inch on the largest

map of the region he possessed, and that on the map of
the world the river by which he passed to the sea was not large
enough to be noticed, he shook his head.

“It's no use,” said the old man. “I thought I could do it,
but I can't. The world is a big thing. Don't you think, yourself,
it would be more convenient if it were smaller? I can't
see the use of such an everlasting lot of water. A half an inch!
My! think of sailing a foot and a half! I give it up.”

“But you really have been far, far away upon the billow,”
I said encouragingly.

“Yes, that's so—that's so—that is so,” he responded, nodding
his head emphatically: “and I've ploughed the waves,
and struck the sea, and hugged the shore, and embarked and
prepared for a storm, and seen the white caps, and felt a ground
swell, and got through alive, and all that kind of thing. I tell
you, that day when we swung into the stream I didn't know
whether I was on my head or my heels. I kept saying to myself:
`Theophilus Jenks, is this you? Who's your father and
who's your mother and who's your Uncle David? Do you
know what you're up to?' I'll bet you can't tell what else I
said?”

“No, I'll not try, but you'll tell me,” I responded.

“Well, 'twas a curious thing to say, and I don't know but it
was wicked to talk out of the Bible, but it came to me and
came out of me before I knew it.”

“What was it, Jenks? I'm curious to know.”

“Says I: `Great is Diany of the 'Phesians!' ”

I laughed heartily, and told Jenks that in my opinion he
couldn't have done better.

“That wasn't all,” said Jenks. “I said it more than forty
times. A fellow must say something when he gets full, and if
he doesn't swear, what is he going to do, I should like to know?
So always when I found myself running over, I said `Great is
Diany of the 'Phesians,' and that's the way I spilt myself all
the way down.”

It was a great comfort to me, on the eve of my departure, to

feel that the two lives which had been identified with my new
home, and had made it what it had been to me, were likely to
be spared for some years longer—spared, indeed, until I should
return to take up my permanent residence at The Mansion.
Mrs. Belden's presence, too, was reassuring. It helped to give
a look of permanence to a home which seemed more and more,
as the years went by, to be built of very few and frail materials.
I learned almost at once to identify her with my future, and to
associate her with all my plans for coming life. If my aunt
should die, I determined that Mrs. Belden should remain.

There was one fact which gave me surprise and annoyance,
viz., that both my father and Mr. Bradford regarded the four
years that lay immediately before me as the critical years of my
history. Whenever I met them, I found that my future was
much upon their minds, and that my experiences of the previous
winter were not relied upon by either of them as sufficient
guards against the temptations to which I was about to be subjected.
They knew that for many reasons, growing out of the
softening influence of age and of apprehended helplessness on
the part of Mrs. Sanderson, she had become very indulgent towards
me, and had ceased to scan with her old closeness my
expenditures of money—that, indeed, she had a growing pride
in me and fondness for me which prompted her to give me all
the money that might be desirable in sustaining me in the position
of a rich young gentleman. Even Mr. Bird came all the
way from Hillsborough to see his boys, as he called Henry and
myself. He, too, was anxious about me, and did not leave
me until he had pointed out the mistakes I should be likely to
make and exhorted me to prove myself a man, and to remember
what he and dear Mrs. Bird expected of me.

These things surprised and annoyed me, because they indicated
a solicitude which must have been based upon suspicions
of my weakness, yet these three men were all wise. What
could it mean? I learned afterwards. They had seen enough
of life to know that when a young man meets the world, temptation
comes to him, and always seeks and finds the point in his

character at which it may enter. They did not know where
that point was in me, but they knew it was somewhere, and
that my ready sympathy would be my betrayer, unless I should
be on my guard.

I spent an evening with Henry in my father's family, and
recognized, in the affectionate paternal eye that followed me
everywhere, the old love which knew no diminution. I believe
there was no great and good deed which my fond father did not
deem me capable of performing, and that he had hung the
sweetest and highest hopes of his life upon me. He was still
working from day to day to feed, shelter and clothe his dependent
flock, but he looked for his rewards not to them but to me.
The noble life which had been possible to him, under more
favorable circumstances, he expected to live in me. For this
he had sacrificed my society, and suffered the pain of witnessing
the transfer of my affections and interests to another home.

On the day before that fixed for my departure, a note was
received at The Mansion inviting us all to spend the evening
at Mrs. Bradford's. The good lady in her note of invitation
stated that she should be most happy to see Mrs. Sanderson,
and though she hardly expected her to break her rule of not
leaving her house in the evening, she hoped that her new companion,
Mrs. Belden, would bear me company, and so make
the acquaintance of her neighbors. My aunt read the note to
Mrs. Belden, and said: “Of course I shall not go, and you
will act your own pleasure in the matter.” Hoping that the
occasion would give me an opportunity to present my friend
and my sister to Mrs. Belden, I urged her to go with me, and
she at last consented to do so.

I had strongly desired to see my friend Millie once more, and
was delighted with the opportunity thus offered. The day was
one of busy preparation, and Mrs. Belden was dressed and
ready to go when I came down from my toilet. As we walked
down the hill together toward Mr. Bradford's house, she said:
“Arthur, I have been into society so little during the last few
years that I feel very uneasy over this affair. Indeed, every

nerve in my body is trembling now.” I laughed, and told her she
was going among people who would make her at home at once
—people whom she would soon learn to love and confide in.

I expected to see Henry and Claire, and I was not disappointed.
After greeting my hearty host and lovely hostess, and
presenting Mrs. Belden, I turned to Henry, who, with a strange
pallor upon his face, grasped and fairly ground my hand within
his own. He made the most distant of bows to the strange
lady at my side, who looked as ghost-like at the instant as himself.
The thought instantaneously crossed my mind that he
had associated her with Mrs. Sanderson, against whom I knew
he entertained the most bitter dislike. He certainly could not
have appeared more displeased had he been compelled to a moment's
courtesy toward the old lady herself. When Mrs. Belden
and Claire met, it was a different matter altogether.
There was a mutual and immediate recognition of sympathy
between them. Mrs. Belden held Claire's hand, and stood and
chatted with her until her self-possession returned. Henry
watched the pair with an absorbed and anxious look, as if he
expected his beloved was in some way to be poisoned by the
breath of her new acquaintance.

At last, in the general mingling of voices in conversation
and laughter, both Mrs. Belden and Henry regained their
usual manner; and the fusion of the social elements present
became complete. As the little reunion was given to Henry
and myself, in token of interest in our departure, that departure
was the topic of the evening upon every tongue. We talked
about it while at our tea, and there were many sportive speculations
upon the possible transformations in character and
bearing which the next four years would effect in us. As we
came out of the tea-room I saw that Mrs. Belden and Claire
still clung to each other. After a while Henry joined them,
and I could see, as both looked up into his face with amused
interest, that he was making rapid amends for the coolness
with which he had greeted the stranger. Then Mr. Bradford
went and took Claire away, and Mrs. Belden and Henry sat

[ILLUSTRATION]

Mrs. Belden held Claire's hand.

[Description: 587EAF. Illustration page. Image of two young women facing each other. One woman has her hand upon the shoulder of the other and her other hand is clasping her the woman's hand. The young man is watching them with a slight smile on his face.]

down by themselves and had a long talk together. All this
pleased me, and I did nothing to interfere with their tête-à-tête;
and all this I saw from the corner to which Millie and I had
retired to have our farewell talk.

“What do you expect to make?” said Millie, curiously,
continuing the drift of the previous conversation.

“I told Mrs. Sanderson, when I was a little fellow, that I
expected to make a man,” I answered; “and now please tell
me what you expect to make.”

“A woman, I suppose,” she replied, with a little sigh.

“You speak as if you were sad about it,” I responded.

“I am.” And she looked off as if reflecting upon the bitter
prospect.

“Why?”

“Oh, men and women are so different from children,” she
said. “One of these years you'll come back with grand airs,
and whiskers on your face, and you will find me grown up,
with a long dress on; and I'm afraid I shan't like you as well
as I do now, and that you will like somebody a great deal better
than you do me.”

“Perhaps we shall like one another a great deal better than
we do now,” I said.

“It's only a perhaps,” she responded. “No, we shall be
new people then. Just think of my father being a little boy
once! I presume I shouldn't have liked him half as well as I
do you. As likely as any way he was a plague and a pester.”

“But we are growing into new people all the time,” I said.
“Your father was a young man when he was married, and now
he is another man, but your mother is just as fond of him as
she ever was, isn't she?”

“Why, yes, that's a fact; I guess she is indeed! She just
adores him, out and out.”

“Well, then, what's to hinder other people from liking one
another right along, even if they are changing all the time?”

“Nothing,” she replied quickly. “I see it: I understand.

There's something that does'n't change, isn't there? or something
that need'n't change: which is it?”

“Whatever it is, Millie,” I answered, “we will not let it
change. We'll make up our minds about it right here. When
I come back to stay, I will be Arthur Bonnicastle and you shall
be Millie Bradford, just the same as now, and we'll sit and talk
in this corner just as we do now, and there shall be no Mister
and Miss between us.”

Millie made no immediate response, but looked off again in
her wise way, as if searching for something that eluded and
puzzled her. I watched her admiringly while she paused. At
last a sudden flash came into her eyes, and she turned to me
and said: “Oh, Arthur! I've found it! As true as you live,
I've found it!”

“Found what, Millie?”

“The thing that does'n't change, or need'n't change,” she
replied.

“Well, what is it?”

“Why, it's everything. When I used to dress up my little
doll and make a grand lady of her, there was the same doll,
inside, after all! Don't you see?”

“Yes, I see.”

“And you know how they are building a great church right
over the little one down on the corner, without moving a single
stone of the chapel. The people go to the big church every
Sunday, but all the preaching and singing are in the chapel.
Don't you see?”

“Yes, I see, Millie,” I answered; “but I don't think I
should see it without your eyes to help me. I am to build a
man and you are to build a woman right over the boy and girl,
without touching the boy and girl at all; and so, when we come
together again, we can walk right into the little chapel, and find
ourselves at home.”

“Isn't that lovely!” exclaimed Millie. “I can see things,
and you can make things. I couldn't have said that—about
our going into the little chapel, you know.”

“And I couldn't have said it if you hadn't found the chapel
for me,” I responded.

“Why, doesn't it seem as if we belonged together, and had
been separated in some way?”

At this moment Mr. Bradford rose and came near us to get
a book. He smiled pleasantly upon us while we looked up to
him, pausing in our conversation. When he had gone back
and resumed his seat, Millie said:

“There's a big church over two chapels. He has a young
man in him and a boy besides. The boy plays with me and understands
me, and the young man is dead in love with mamma,
and the old man takes care of us both, and does everything.
Isn't it splendid!”

Ah, Millie! I have heard many wise men and wise
women talk philosophy, but never one so wise as you; and I
have never seen a young man whose growth had choked
and destroyed his childhood, or an old man whose youth had
died out of him, without thinking of our conversation that
night. The dolls are smothered in their clothes, and the little
chapels are fated to fall when the grand cathedral walls are finished.
The one thing that need not change, the one thing that
should not change, the one thing which has the power to preserve
the sweetness of all youthful relations up to the change
of death, and, doubtless, beyond it, is childhood—the innocent,
playful, trusting, loyal, loving, hopeful childhood of the soul,
with all its illusions and romances and enjoyment of pure and
simple delights.

Millie and I talked of many things that evening, and participated
very little in the general conversation which went on at
the other end of the drawing-room. I learned from her of the
plans already made for sending her away to school, and realized
with a degree of pain which I found difficult to explain to myself,
that years were to pass before we should meet for such an
hour of unrestrained conversation again.

Before I bade the family farewell, Aunt Flick presented to

both Henry and myself a little box containing pins, needles,
buttons, thread, and all the appliances for making timely repairs
upon our clothing, in the absence of feminine friends.
Each box was a perfect treasure-house of convenience, and had
cost Aunt Flick the labor of many hours.

“Henry will use this box,” said the donor, “but you” (addressing
me) “will not.”

“I pledge you my honor, Aunt Flick,” I responded, “that
I will use and lose every pin in the box, and lend all the needles
and thread, and leave the cushions where they will be stolen,
and make your gift just as universally useful as I can.”

This saucy speech set Millie into so hearty a laugh that the
whole company laughed in sympathy, and even Aunt Flick's face
relaxed as she remarked that she believed every word I had said.

It was delightful to me to see that while I had been engaged
with Millie, Mrs. Belden had quietly made her way with the
family, and that Henry, who had met her coldly and almost
rudely, had become so much interested in her that when the
time of parting came he was particularly warm and courteous
toward her.

The farewells and kind wishes were all said at last, and with
Mrs. Belden upon my arm I turned my steps toward The Mansion.
The lady thought the Bradfords were delightful people,
that Henry seemed to be a young man of a good deal of intelligence
and character, and that my sister Claire was lovely.
The opening chapter of her life in Bradford, she said, was the
most charming reading that she had found in any book for
many years; and if the story should go on as it had begun she
should be more than satisfied.

I need not dwell upon my departure further. In the early
morning of the next day, Henry and I were on our way, with
the sweet memory of tearful eyes in our hearts, and with the
consciousness that good wishes and prayers were following us
as white birds follow departing ships far out to sea, and with
hopes that beckoned us on in every crested wave that leaped
before us and in every cloud that flew.