University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.
A BRICK TURNS UP.

THE snow had been all night falling silently over
the long elm avenues of Springdale.

It was one of those soft, moist, dreamy snow-falls,
which come down in great loose feathers, resting in
magical frost-work on every tree, shrub, and plant,
and seeming to bring down with it the purity and
peace of upper worlds.

Grace's little cottage on Elm Street was imbosomed,
as New-England cottages are apt to be, in a tangle
of shrubbery, evergreens, syringas, and lilacs; which,
on such occasions, become bowers of enchantment when
the morning sun looks through them.

Grace came into her parlor, which was cheery with
the dazzling sunshine, and, running to the window,
began to examine anxiously the state of her various
greeneries, pausing from time to time to look out
admiringly at the wonderful snow-landscape, with its
many tremulous tints of rose, lilac, and amethyst.

The only thing wanting was some one to speak
to about it; and, with a half sigh, she thought of

the good old times when John would come to her
chamber-door in the morning, to get her out to look on
scenes like this.

“Positively,” she said to herself, “I must invite some
one to visit me. One wants a friend to help one enjoy
solitude.” The stock of social life in Springdale, in
fact, was running low. The Lennoxes and the Wilcoxes
had gone to their Boston homes, and Rose Ferguson
was visiting in New York, and Letitia found so much
to do to supply her place to her father and mother,
that she had less time than usual to share with Grace.
Then, again, the Elm-street cottage was a walk of
some considerable distance; whereas, when Grace lived
at the old homestead, the Fergusons were so near as to
seem only one family, and were dropping in at all hours
of the day and evening.

“Whom can I send for?” thought Grace to herself;
and she ran over mentally, in a moment, the
list of available friends and acquaintances. Reader,
perhaps you have never really estimated your friends,
till you have tried them by the question, which of them
you could ask to come and spend a week or fortnight
with you, alone in a country-house, in the depth
of winter. Such an invitation supposes great faith in
your friend, in yourself, or in human nature.

Grace, at the moment, was unable to think of anybody
whom she could call from the approaching festivities
of holiday life in the cities to share her snow
Patmos with her; so she opened a book for company,
and turned to where her dainty breakfast-table, with its

hot coffee and crisp rolls, stood invitingly waiting
for her before the cheerful open fire.

At this moment, she saw, what she had not noticed
before, a letter lying on her breakfast plate. Grace
took it up with an exclamation of surprise; which,
however, was heard only by her canary birds and
her plants.

Years before, when Grace was in the first summer
of her womanhood, she had been very intimate with
Walter Sydenham, and thoroughly esteemed and liked
him; but, as many another good girl has done, about
those days she had conceived it her duty not to think
of marriage, but to devote herself to making a home
for her widowed father and her brother. There was a
certain romance of self-abnegation in this disposition of
herself which was rather pleasant to Grace, and in which
both the gentlemen concerned found great advantage.
As long as her father lived, and John was unmarried
and devoted to her, she had never regretted it.

Sydenham had gone to seek his fortune in California.
He had begged to keep up intercourse by correspondence;
but Grace was not one of those women who
are willing to drain the heart of the man they refuse
to marry, by keeping up with him just that degree of
intimacy which prevents his seeking another. Grace
had meant her refusal to be final, and had sincerely
hoped that he would find happiness with some other
woman; and to that intent had rigorously denied herself
and him a correspondence: yet, from time to time,
she had heard of him through an occasional letter

to John, or by a chance Californian newspaper. Since
John's marriage had so altered her course of life,
Grace had thought of him more frequently, and with
some questionings as to the wisdom of her course.

This letter was from him; and we shall give our
readers the benefit of it: —

Would she? To say the truth, the question as asked
now had a very different air from the question as asked
years before, when, full of life and hope and enthusiasm,
she had devoted herself to making an ideal home for her
father and brother. What other sympathy or communion,
she had asked herself then, should she ever
need than these friends, so very dear: and, if she
needed more, there, in the future, was John's ideal
wife, who, somehow, always came before her in the
likeness of Rose Ferguson, and John's ideal children,
whom she was sure she should love and pet as if they
were her own.

And now here she was, in a house all by herself,
coming down to her meals, one after another, without
the excitement of a cheerful face opposite to her, and

with all possibility of confidential intercourse with
her brother entirely cut off. Lillie, in this matter,
acted, with much grace and spirit, the part of the dog
in the manger; and, while she resolutely refused to
enter into any of John's literary or intellectual tastes,
seemed to consider her wifely rights infringed upon
by any other woman who would. She would absolutely
refuse to go up with her husband and spend an
evening with Grace, alleging it was “pokey and stupid,”
and that they always got talking about things that
she didn't care any thing about. If, then, John went
without her to spend the evening, he was sure to be
received, on his return, with a dead and gloomy silence,
more fearful, sometimes, than the most violent of objurgations.
That look of patient, heart-broken woe, those
long-drawn sighs, were a reception that he dreaded, to
say the truth, a great deal more than a direct attack,
or any fault-finding to which he could have replied;
and so, on the whole, John made up his mind that the
best thing he could do was to stay at home and rock the
cradle of this fretful baby, whose wisdom-teeth were so
hard to cut, and so long in coming. It was a pretty
baby; and when made the sole and undivided object of
attention, when every thing possible was done for it by
everybody in the house, condescended often to be very
graceful and winning and playful, and had numberless
charming little ways and tricks. The difference between
Lillie in good humor and Lillie in bad humor
was a thing which John soon learned to appreciate as
one of the most powerful forces in his life. If you
knew, my dear reader, that by pursuing a certain course
you could bring upon yourself a drizzling, dreary, northeast
rain-storm, and by taking heed to your ways you
could secure sunshine, flowers, and bird-singing, you
would be very careful, after a while, to keep about you
the right atmospheric temperature; and, if going to see
the very best friend you had on earth was sure to bring
on a fit of rheumatism or tooth-ache, you would soon
learn to be very sparing of your visits. For this reason
it was that Grace saw very little of John; that she
never now had a sisterly conversation with him; that
she preferred arranging all those little business matters,
in which it would be convenient to have a masculine
appeal, solely and singly by herself. The thing was
never referred to in any conversation between them.
It was perfectly understood without words. There are
friends between whom and us has shut the coffin-lid;
and there are others between whom and us stand sacred
duties, considerations never to be enough reverenced,
which forbid us to seek their society, or to ask to lean
on them either in joy or sorrow: the whole thing as
regards them must be postponed until the future life.
Such had been Grace's conclusion with regard to her
brother. She well knew that any attempt to restore
their former intimacy would only diminish and destroy
what little chance of happiness yet remained to him;
and it may therefore be imagined with what changed
eyes she read Walter Sydenham's letter from those
of years ago.

There was a sound of stamping feet at the front door;

and John came in, all ruddy and snow-powdered, but
looking, on the whole, uncommonly cheerful.

“Well, Gracie,” he said, “the fact is, I shall have to
let Lillie go to New York for a week or two, to see
those Follingsbees. Hang them! But what 's the
matter, Gracie? Have you been crying, or sitting up
all night reading, or what?”

The fact was, that Gracie had for once been indulging
in a good cry, rather pitying herself for her loneliness,
now that the offer of relief had come. She
laughed, though; and, handing John her letter, said, —

“Look here, John! here 's a letter I have just had
from Walter Sydenham.”

John broke out into a loud, hilarious laugh.

“The blessed old brick!” said he. “Has he turned
up again?”

“Read the letter, John,” said Grace. “I don't know
exactly how to answer it.”

John read the letter, and seemed to grow more and
more quiet as he read it. Then he came and stood by
Grace, and stroked her hair gently.

“I wish, Gracie dear,” he said, “you had asked my
advice about this matter years ago. You loved Walter,
— I can see you did; and you sent him off on my account.
It is just too bad! Of all the men I ever knew,
he was the one I should have been best pleased to have
you marry!”

“It was not wholly on your account, John. You
know there was our father,” said Grace.

“Yes, yes, Gracie; but he would have preferred to

see you well married. He would not have been so selfish,
nor I either. It is your self-abnegation, you dear
over-good women, that makes us men seem selfish.
We should be as good as you are, if you would give us
the chance. I think, Gracie, though you 're not aware
of it, there is a spice of Pharisaism in the way in which
you good girls allow us men to swallow you up without
ever telling us what you are doing. I often wondered
about your intimacy with Sydenham, and why it
never came to any thing; and I can but half forgive
you. How selfish I must have seemed!”

“Oh, no, John! indeed not.”

“Come, you needn't put on these meek airs. I insist
upon it, you have been feeling self-righteous and
abused,” said John, laughing; “but `all 's well that
ends well.' Sit down, now, and write him a real sensible
letter, like a nice honest woman as you are.”

“And say, `Yes, sir, and thank you too'?” said
Grace, laughing.

“Well, something in that way,” said John. “You
can fence it in with as many make-believes as is proper.
And now, Gracie, this is deuced lucky! You see Sydenham
will be down here at once; and it wouldn't be
exactly the thing for you to receive him at this house,
and our only hotel is perfectly impracticable in winter;
and that brings me to what I am here about. Lillie is
going to New York to spend the holidays; and I wanted
you to shut up, and come up and keep house for us.
You see you have only one servant, and we have four
to be looked after. You can bring your maid along,

and then I will invite Walter to our house, where he
will have a clear field; and you can settle all your matters
between you.”

“So Lillie is going to the Follingsbees'?” said Grace.

“Yes: she had a long, desperately sentimental letter
from Mrs. Follingsbee, urging, imploring, and entreating,
and setting forth all the splendors and glories
of New York. Between you and me, it strikes me that
that Mrs. Follingsbee is an affected goose; but I couldn't
say so to Lillie, `by no manner of means.' She professes
an untold amount of admiration and friendship for
Lillie, and sets such brilliant prospects before her, that
I should be the most hard-hearted old Turk in existence
if I were to raise any objections; and, in fact, Lillie is
quite brilliant in anticipation, and makes herself so
delightful that I am almost sorry that I agreed to let
her go.”

“When shall you want me, John?”

“Well, this evening, say; and, by the way, couldn't
you come up and see Lillie a little while this morning?
She sent her love to you, and said she was so hurried
with packing, and all that, that she wanted you to
excuse her not calling.”

“Oh, yes! I 'll come,” said Grace, good-naturedly, “as
soon as I have had time to put things in a little order.”

“And write your letter,” said John, gayly, as he went
out. “Don't forget that.”

Grace did not forget the letter; but we shall not indulge
our readers with any peep over her shoulder, only
saying that, though written with an abundance of precaution,

it was one with which Walter Syndenham was
well satisfied.

Then she made her few arrangements in the housekeeping
line, called in her grand vizier and prime minister
from the kitchen, and held with her a counsel of ways
and means; put on her india-rubbers and Polish boots,
and walked up through the deep snow-drifts to the
Springdale post-office, where she dropped the fateful
letter with a good heart on the whole; and then she
went on to John's, the old home, to offer any parting
services to Lillie that might be wanted.

It is rather amusing, in any family circle, to see how
some one member, by dint of persistent exactions,
comes to receive always, in all the exigencies of life, an
amount of attention and devotion which is never rendered
back. Lillie never thought of such a thing as
offering any services of any sort to Grace. Grace might
have packed her trunks to go to the moon, or the Pacific
Ocean, quite alone for matter of any help Lillie would
ever have thought of. If Grace had headache or tooth-ache
or a bad cold, Lillie was always “so sorry;” but it
never occurred to her to go and sit with her, to read
to her, or offer any of a hundred little sisterly offices.
When she was in similar case, John always summoned
Grace to sit with Lillie during the hours that his business
necessarily took him from her. It really seemed
to be John's impression that a toothache or headache
of Lillie's was something entirely different from the
same thing with Grace, or any other person in the
world; and Lillie fully shared the impression.

Grace found the little empress quite bewildered in
her multiplicity of preparations, and neglected details,
all of which had been deferred to the last day; and
Rosa and Anna and Bridget, in fact the whole staff,
were all busy in getting her off.

“So good of you to come, Gracie!” and, “If you
would do this;” and, “Won't you see to that?”
and, “If you could just do the other!” and Grace
both could and would, and did what no other pair
of hands could in the same time. John apologized
for the lack of any dinner. “The fact is, Gracie,
Bridget had to be getting up a lot of her things
that were forgotten till the last moment; and I told
her not to mind, we could do on a cold lunch.”
Bridget herself had become so wholly accustomed to
the ways of her little mistress, that it now seemed
the most natural thing in the world that the whole
house should be upset for her.

But, at last, every thing was ready and packed;
the trunks and boxes shut and locked, and the keys
sorted; and John and Lillie were on their way to the
station.

“I shall find out Walter in New York, and bring
him back with me,” said John, cheerily, as he parted
from Grace in the hall. “I leave you to get things
all to rights for us.”

It would not have been a very agreeable or cheerful
piece of work to tidy the disordered house and take
command of the domestic forces under any other
circumstances; but now Grace found it a very nice

diversion to prevent her thoughts from running too
curiously on this future meeting. “After all,” she
thought to herself, “he is just the same venturesome,
imprudent creature that he always was, jumping to
conclusions, and insisting on seeing every thing in
his own way. How could he dare write me such a
letter without seeing me? Ten years make great
changes. How could he be sure he would like me?”
And she examined herself somewhat critically in the
looking-glass.

“Well,” she said, “he may thank me for it that
we are not engaged, and that he comes only as an
old friend, and perfectly free, for all he has said, to
be nothing more, unless on seeing each other we are so
agreed. I am so sorry the old place is all demolished
and be-Frenchified. It won't look natural to him; and
I am not the kind of person to harmonize with these
cold, polished, glistening, slippery surroundings, that
have no home life or association in them.”

But Grace had to wake from these reflections to culinary
counsels with Bridget, and to arrangements of
apartments with Rosa. Her own exacting carefulness
followed the careless footsteps of the untrained hand-maids,
and rearranged every plait and fold; so that by
nightfall the next day she was thoroughly tired.

She beguiled the last moments, while waiting for the
coming of the cars, in arranging her hair, and putting
on one of those wonderful Parisian dresses, which
adapt themselves so precisely to the air of the wearer
that they seem to be in themselves works of art. Then

she stood with a fluttering color to see the carriage
drive up to the door, and the two get out of it.

It is almost too bad to spy out such meetings, and
certainly one has no business to describe them; but
Walter Sydenham carried all before him, by an old
habit which he had of taking all and every thing for
granted, as, from the first moment, he did with Grace.
He had no idea of hesitations or holdings off, and
would have none; and met Gracie as if they had parted
only yesterday, and as if her word to him always had
been yes, instead of no.

In fact, they had not been together five minutes
before the whole life of youth returned to them both, —
that indestructible youth which belongs to warm hearts
and buoyant spirits.

Such a merry evening as they had of it! When
John, as the wood fire burned low on the hearth,
with some excuse of letters to write in his library,
left them alone together, Walter put on her finger
a diamond ring, saying, —

“There, Gracie! now, when shall it be? You see
you 've kept me waiting so long that I can't spare
you much time. I have an engagement to be in
Montreal the first of February, and I couldn't think of
going alone. They have merry times there in mid-winter;
and I 'm sure it will be ever so much nicer
for you than keeping house alone here.”

Grace said, of course, that it was impossible; but
Walter declared that doing the impossible was precisely
in his line, and pushed on his various advantages with

such spirit and energy that, when they parted for
the night, Grace said she would think of it: which
promise, at the breakfast - table next morning, was
interpreted by the unblushing Walter, and reported
to John, as a full consent. Before noon that day,
Walter had walked up with John and Grace to take
a survey of the cottage, and had given John indefinite
power to engage workmen and artificers to rearrange
and enlarge and beautify it for their return after the
wedding journey. For the rest of the visit, all the
three were busy with pencil and paper, projecting
balconies, bow-windows, pantries, library, and dining-room,
till the old cottage so blossomed out in imagination
as to leave only a germ of its former self.

Walter's visit brought back to John a deal of the
warmth and freedom which he had not known since he
married. We often live under an insensible pressure
of which we are made aware only by its removal.
John had been so much in the habit lately of watching
to please Lillie, of measuring and checking his words
or actions, that he now bubbled over with a wild,
free delight in finding himself alone with Grace and
Walter. He laughed, sang, whistled, skipped upstairs
two at a time, and scarcely dared to say even to
himself why he was so happy. He did not face himself
with that question, and went dutifully to the library at
stated times to write to Lillie, and made much of her
little letters.