Chapter VIII: Part 8

"Oh, of course! but don't feel the least bit hurried about it! Henry will never think of it till the time comes. He always forgets all about his bills when they are once out. Wait till it is perfectly convenient."

"Thank you," said Eugene huskily; "you are all goodness. I have not deserved this of you." He had already risen to go: but as he drew near the door he turned back: "Oh, Lucy, don't believe I was ever quite as heartless as I seemed. I know I treated you in a scoundrelly way, but I loved you all the time--indeed, indeed, I did."

"Stop, Mr. Talbot! This is no language for you to use! If you have no regard for me, recollect at least what is due to your wife."

"I have nothing to say against Mabel. She's a dear good girl, a great deal too good for me. It isn't her fault that things have gone against me. I always felt it was to pay me up for my conduct to you. I loved you as well as I ever could love anyone; but I was a selfish brute, and thought to better myself in the world--"

"Stop, Mr. Talbot! I ought not to hear any more of this! I was too much overcome by surprise at first to check you, but now I must ask you to leave me at once if you cannot control yourself."

"I haven't a word to say that need offend you," said Eugene, humbly. "I only wanted to ask you to forgive me for old time's sake."

"There is nothing I know of for me to forgive. I am sorry, for your own sake, to hear that you ever had such feelings. I never dreamed of them."

"It seemed to me as if you could not help knowing."

"Indeed? I don't remember," said Mrs. Wilson, smiling. "I was so engrossed with my own affairs then, you see," she added with engaging candour; "and if I thought about you, I supposed you were the same. You can understand, after what you have seen of Henry, how little attention a girl who loved him would have to spare for anyone else."

Eugene assented absently. He was unable to discipline his wandering memory, which just then was vividly picturing Lucy Morton at her prettiest, as with a sparkle in her eye and a curl on her lip she had, for the amusement of them both, flung some gentle sarcasm at "Henny Wilson." He could still hear her ringing laugh at his affected jealousy of her neighbour. But those days were past, and there before him sat Mrs. Wilson, her face lighted up with earnest emotion, grown more lovely still, and her voice thrilling with a deeper music. He allowed with a pang of mortification that he was not as clever as he had supposed himself in sounding the depths of womankind; and then with keener shame he stifled his incredulous doubts of Dr. Wilson's being able to win and keep love. "He deserves it all," he said aloud, while still a secret whisper told him that love does not go by desert.

"Does he not?" said Lucy. "And now we will not talk of this any more. You must know how glad we are to be able to give you any little help, and you must be willing to take it as freely as it is given. I am very sure that brighter days are coming for Mabel and you; and when they do, we will all enjoy them together, will we not?"

"You are an angel," said Eugene, taking the hand she held out; and then he let it go and turned away without another word. Lucy stood looking after him a longer time than she usually allowed herself to waste in revery; and then, starting, hastened off intent on household duties.

"Why are these boots in such a condition?" she asked, in a more emphatic tone than was her wont to use to her servants, as a muddy pair in her back entry caught her eye.

"I am very sorry, ma'am. I brought them down here to be cleaned, but Crossman has gone, as you ordered, to take Mrs. Talbot a little drive, and James is out with the doctor somewhere, and there are two clean pair in his dressing-room. Shall I black these, ma'am?" inquired the highly trained parlour maid, who would have gone down on her very knees to scrub the stable floor at a hint that such a proceeding might be agreeable to Dr. Wilson.

"Oh, no; never mind," said her mistress, carelessly; but when the girl had gone, she stooped and, picking up the boots, bore them to her own room, and bringing blacking also, cleaned and blacked them all over in the neatest manner, with her own delicate hands.

"I know I'm not worthy to black Henry's boots," she thought to herself, as a tear or two, which she made haste to rub away, dropped on their polished surface; "but I can do them well, at least. No one shall ever say that I have not made him a good wife!"

THREE CUPS OF TEA

"Mrs. Samuel N. Brackett, at home Wednesday, December Tenth,
from four to seven, 3929 Commonwealth Avenue."

* * * * *

"Miss Caldwell, Wednesdays, Mount Vernon Street, December
10th, 4.30-6.30."

* * * * *

"100 CHARLESGATE, EAST.

"DEAREST CARRIE:

"I am obliged to give up the Bracketts'. Mother went and
asked Dr. Thomas if I could go, and he said, of course not.
I was so provoked, for if she hadn't spoken of it, he would
never have dreamed of forbidding me to go out--he never
does. Most likely he never imagines that anybody will go
anywhere if they are not obliged to. Now that I am not
going, mother won't go herself. She wants to go to Cousin
Jane's little tea. She says they are so far apart she can't
do both. So stupid in Cousin Jane to put hers the same day
as the Bracketts'--but I dare say she will have a sufficient
number of her own set to fill up. I doubt if she gets many
of the girls. You are so soft-hearted that I dare say you
will struggle for both. Do get through in time to drop in
here any time after half-past six. I am going to have a few
girls to tea in my room to cheer me up and tell me all about
the Bracketts'. They have asked everyone they possibly can,
and I dare say everyone will go to see what it is like. I am
sure I would if I could. Remember you must come.

"Ever your
"GRACE G. D.
"_Tuesday P.M._"

As Miss Caroline Foster, after lunch on the tenth of December, inspected the cards and notes which encircled her mirror in a triple row, she selected these three as calling for immediate attention. Of course she meant to go to all: when was she ever known to refuse an invitation? Though young and pretty, well connected and well dowered, and far from stupid, she occupied in society the position of a down-trodden pariah or over-worked galley-slave, for the reason that she never could say no to anyone. She had nothing--money, time, sympathy--that was not at the service of anyone who chose to beg or borrow them. At parties she put up with the left-over partners, and often had none--for even the young men had found out that she could always be had when wanted. Perhaps this was the reason why, with all her prettiness and property, she was not already appropriated in marriage. Of course she had hosts of friends, who all despised her; but one advantage she did enjoy, for which others might have been willing to barter admiration and respect; no one, man, woman, or child, was ever heard to speak harshly to Caroline Foster, or to say anything against her. Malice itself must have blushed to say that she was too complying, and malice itself could think of nothing else.

This tenth of December marked an uncommon event in her experience, for on it she had, for the first time in her life, made up her mind to refuse an asked-for gift; and the consciousness of this piece of spirit, and of a beautiful new costume of dark-blue velvet trimmed with otter fur, which set off her fair hair and fresh face to perfection, gave her an air of unwonted stateliness as she stepped into a handsome coupe and drove off alone. She was by no means an independent or unguarded young woman; but her aunt, with whom she lived, had two committee meetings that afternoon, and told Caroline that she might just as well go to Miss Caldwell's little tea for ladies only, alone. They would meet at Mrs. Brackett's; and if they didn't they could tell everyone they were trying to--which would do just as well.

Miss Caldwell lived in an old house on Mount Vernon Street which gave the impression that people had forgotten to pull it down because it was so small; but within it looked spacious, as it sheltered only one lady and two maids. Everything about it had an air of being fresh and faded at once. The little library in front was warm dull olive-green; and the dining-room at the back soft deep grey-blue; and the drawing-room, up one flight of an unexpected staircase, was rich dark brick-red--all very soothing to the eye. They were full of family portraits, and old brass and pewter, and Japanese cabinets, and books bound in dimly gilded calf-skin, and India chintzes, all of which were Miss Caldwell's by inheritance. Even sunlight had a subdued effect in these rooms; and now they were lighted chiefly by candles, and none too brilliantly.

Miss Caldwell had been receiving her guests in the drawing-room; but there were not many, and being a lady accustomed to do as she pleased, she had followed them down to the dining-room, which was just comfortably full. Conversation was, as it were, forced to be general, and the whole room heard Mrs. Spofford remark that "Malcolm Johnson would be a very poor match for Caroline Foster."

"Caroline Foster and Malcolm Johnson, is that an engagement?" asked the stout, good-natured Mrs. Manson, who was tranquilly eating her way through the whole assortment of biscuits and bonbons on the table. "Well, Caroline is a dear, sweet girl--just the kind to make a good wife for a widower."

"With five children to start with, and no means that I know of!" said Miss Caldwell, scornfully. "I am sure I hope not!"

"I have heard it on the best authority," said the first speaker.

"It will take better authority than that to make me believe it."

"If he proposes to her," said Mrs. Manson, "I should say she would take him. I never knew Caroline to say no to anyone."

"Well," said Miss Caldwell, "I suppose it's natural for a woman to be a fool in such matters--for most women," she corrected herself; "but if Caroline marries Malcolm Johnson I shall think her _too_ foolish--and she has never seemed to me to be lacking in sense."

"Perhaps," said the pourer out of tea, a pretty damsel with large dark eyes, a little faded to match the room--"perhaps she wants a sphere."

"As if her aunt could not find her fifty spheres if she wanted them!"

"Too many, perhaps," said a tall lady with a sensible, school-teaching air. "I have sometimes thought that Mrs. Neal, with managing all her own children's families and her charities, had not much time or thought to spare for poor little Caroline. She is kind to her, but I doubt if she gives her much attention."

"A woman likes something of her own," said Mrs. Manson.

"Her own!" said Miss Caldwell. "How much good of her own is she likely to have if she marries Malcolm Johnson?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Spofford, "his motives would be plain enough; I dare say he's in love with her. Caroline is a lovely girl, but of course in such a case her money goes for something."

"But she has not so very much money," said Mildred, dropping a lump of sugar into a cup--"plenty, I suppose, for herself, but it would not support a large family like Mr. Johnson's."

"It would pay his taxes, my dear, and buy his coal," said Miss Caldwell, "and he has kept house long enough to appreciate the help _that_ would be."

"Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Manson, "coal is so terribly high this winter!"

"It would be a saving for him to marry anybody," said a thin lady with a sweet smile, slightly soiled gloves, and her bonnet rather on one side. "He tells me that his housekeepers are no end of trouble. He is always changing them, and his children are running wild with it all. He's a very old friend of mine," she added with a conscious air.

"They are very troublesome children," said Miss Caldwell. "I hear them crying a great deal."

"Poor little things!--they need training," said Mrs. Manson.

"Caroline would never train them; she is too amiable."

"They have so much illness," said Mrs. Eames, the "old friend." "Poor Malcolm tells me he is afraid that little Willie has incipient spine complaint; he is in pain most of the time. The poor child was always delicate, and his mother watched him most carefully. She was a most painstaking mother, poor thing, though I don't imagine there was much congeniality between her and Malcolm. I wish I could do something for them, but I have _such_ a family of my own."

"Someone ought to warn Caroline," said Miss Caldwell. "I wonder he has the audacity to ask her. If he wasn't a widower he wouldn't dare to."

"If he wasn't a widower," said Miss Mildred, "her loving him in spite of all his drawbacks would seem more natural."

"If he wasn't a widower," said Mrs. Manson, "he wouldn't have the drawbacks, you know."

"If he wasn't a widower," said Mrs. Eames, "he might not be so anxious to marry her. Good-by, dear Miss Caldwell. Such a delightful tea! I may take some little cakes to the dear children?"

"Good-by," said Mrs. Manson, swallowing her last macaroon. She turned back as she reached the doorway; and her ample figure, completely filling it up, gave opportunity for a young lady who had been standing in the shadow of the staircase to dart across the hall unseen. Miss Caroline Foster had sought her hostess in the drawing-room, but finding it empty, had come downstairs again, and had been obliged to listen to the conversation, which she had not the courage to interrupt; and she now threw on her wrap and rushed past the astonished maid out of the house before Mrs. Manson's slow progress could reach the cloak-room.

* * * * *

At half-past five o'clock the Brackett tea was in full swing. The occupants of the carriages at the end of the long file were getting out and walking to the door, and some of the more prudent were handing in their cards and departing, judging from the crush that if their chance of getting in was but small, their chance of getting away was none at all. The Bracketts were at home; but of their home there was nothing to be seen for the crowd, except the blazing chandeliers overhead, the high-hung modern French pictures in heavy gilded frames, the intricate draperies of costly stuffs and laces at the tops of the tall windows, here and there the topmost spray of some pyramid or bank of flowers, and the upper part of the immense mirrors which reflected over and over what they could catch of the scene. The hostess was receiving in the middle drawing-room; but it was a work of time and pains to get so far as to obtain a view of the sparkling aigret in her hair. A meagre, carefully dressed woman had accomplished this duty, and might now fairly be getting off and leaving her place for someone else; yet she lingered near the door of the outer room, loath to depart, looking with an anxious eye for familiar faces, with an uneasy incipient smile waiting for the occasion to call out. Sometimes it grew more marked, and she made a tentative step forward; and if the person went by with scant greeting or none at all, she would draw back and patiently repair it for future use. For the one or two who stopped to speak to her she kept it carefully up to, but not beyond, a certain point, while still her restless eye strayed past them in search of better game. Just as she had exchanged a warmer greeting than her wont with a quiet, lady-like woman who was forced on inward by the crowd, she was startled by a smart tap on her shoulder, and as she turned sharp round towards the wall, the rich brocade window-curtains waved, and a low voice was heard from behind them.

"Come in here, won't you, Miss Snow?"

Miss Martha Snow, bewildered, drew aside the heavy folds, and found herself face to face with a richly arrayed, distinguished-looking, though _passee_ woman, who had settled herself comfortably on the cushioned seat between the lace curtains without and the silk within.

"My dear Mrs. Freeman! how do you do? How you did frighten me!"

"I have been trying to get at you for an age," said Mrs. Thorndike Freeman, laughing. "I thought you would never have done falling into the arms of that horrid Hapgood woman."

"I could not help it. She would keep me. She is one of those people you can't shake off, you know."

"I! _I_ don't know her."

"But why are you here, out of sight of everyone? Are you waiting for a chance to get at Mrs. Brackett?" hurried on Miss Snow.

"I'm waiting for a chance to get away from her. I would not be seen speaking to her for any consideration whatever."

"I--I _was_ surprised to meet you here!"

"I came because I wanted to see what it would be like, but I had no conception it would be so bad. Did you ever see such a set as she has collected?"

"It does seem mixed."

"Unmixed, I should call it. I have been waiting for half an hour to see a soul of my acquaintance. Sit down here, and let us have a nice talk."

A nice talk with Mrs. Thorndike Freeman foreboded a dead cut from her the next time you met her; for she never took anyone up without as violently putting them down again--and then there was no one now to see and envy. However, Miss Snow dared not refuse, and seating herself with a conciliatory, frightened air, somewhat like a little dog in the cage of a lioness, asked in timid tones:

"Why do you stay? Is not your carriage here?"

"I want to get something to eat first," said Mrs. Freeman, "for I suppose their spread is something indescribable."

"Oh, quite! The whole middle of the table is a mass of American Beauty roses as large as--as cabbages, and around that a bank of mignonette like--like small cauliflowers, and all over beneath it is covered with hothouse maiden-hair ferns, and----"

"And what's the grub?"

"I--did not eat much; I only wanted to see it; but I had a delicious little _pate_--chicken done in cream, somehow; and I saw aspic jelly with something in it handed round; and the ices--they are all in floral devices, water lilies floating on spun sugar, and roses in gold baskets, and cherries tied in bunches with ribbons, and grapes lying on tinted Bohemian glass leaves--and------"

"It sounds appetising. I'll wait till I see a man that doesn't know me, and he shall get me some. I don't want it known that I ever entered their doors."

"Shall I not go back to the dining-room and send a waiter to you?"

"No, indeed--he would be sure to know me, and I should get put on the list."

"The stationers who sent out the invitations will do that."

"Oh, well--I can only say I never came. But the waiter would swear to me, and very likely describe my dress. No, I shall wait a little longer. Stay here and keep me company."

"Oh, it will be delightful!" quavered Miss Snow, though worrying at the prospect of getting away late on foot, and ill able to afford cab-hire.

"You've heard of the engagement, I suppose?"

"Which of them?" asked Miss Snow, skilfully hedging.

"Why, the only one, so far as I know. Why, haven't you heard? Ralph Underwood and Winnie Parke."

"Oh, yes! has that come out? I have been away from home for a few days, and had not heard. Very pleasant, I'm sure."

"Very--for her. It was her sister who did it, Mrs. Al Smith. She's a very clever young woman; fished for Al herself in the most barefaced way, and now she's caught Ralph for her sister; and she's not nearly so good-looking, either, Winnie Parke, though I should say she had a better temper than Margaret. You know Margaret Smith of course?"

"Not very well," said Miss Snow, deprecatingly. "I thought when you spoke of an engagement you meant Malcolm Johnson and Caroline Foster."

"That never will be an engagement!" said Mrs. Freeman scornfully.

"Oh! I am very glad to hear you say so--only I have met him so much there lately, and it quite worried me; it would be such a bad thing for dear Caroline; she is a sweet girl."

"You need not worry about it any longer, for I know positively that she has refused him."

"I am very glad. I was so afraid that Caroline--she is so amiable a girl, you know, and so apt to do what people tell her to--I was afraid she might say yes for fear of hurting his feelings."

"She would never dream of his having feelings--her position is so different. Why, Caroline is a cousin of my own."

"Oh, yes, of course--only he would doubtless be so much in love; and many people think him delightful--he _was_ very handsome."

"Before Caroline was born, maybe. No, no, Caroline has plenty of sense, though she looks so gentle--and then the family would never hear of it. His affairs are in a shocking condition. Why, you know what he lost in Atchison--and I happen to know that his other investments are in a very shaky condition."

"He has that handsome house."

"Mortgaged, my dear, mortgaged up to its full value. No, he's badly off--and then there are such discreditable rumours about him; Thorndike knows all about it."

"Dear me! I never heard anything against his character."

"I could tell you plenty," said Mrs. Freeman, with a little shrug. "And then he drinks, or at least he probably will end in drinking--they always do when they are driven desperate. Oh, no, Caroline is a cousin of mine, and a most charming girl. Don't for heaven's sake hint at such a thing."

"Oh, I assure you, I never have. I am always so careful."

"Yes, I never say a thing that I am not certain is true," said Mrs. Freeman, yawning. "Why, where do all these lovely youths come from? Ah! I see; past six o'clock; the shop is closed, and they have turned the clerks on duty here. Well, now, I can get something to eat, for I never buy anything of them. Tell that one over there to come to me, the light-haired one, I mean; he looks strong and good-humoured."

As Miss Snow rose to obey this order, a fair-haired girl in a dark-blue velvet gown, who on entering had been pinned close against the wall within hearing by the crowd, made a frantic struggle for freedom, and succeeded in reaching the entrance hall, to the amazement of the other guests, who did not look for such a display of strength in so gentle-looking and painfully blushing a creature.

* * * * *

At half-past six a select party was assembling in Miss Grace Deane's own room, the prettiest room, it was said, in Boston, in the handsomest of the new Charlesgate houses; a corner room, with a bright sunny outlook over the long extent of waterside gardens. The high wainscot, the chimney-piece, the bed on its alcoved and curtained _haut pas_ were of cherry wood, the natural colour, carved with elaborate and unwearied fancy; and its rich hue showed here and there round the Persian rugs on the floor. At the top of the wall was a painted frieze of cherry boughs in bloom, with now and then one loaded with fruit peeping through, and the same idea was imitated in the chintzes. The wall space left was papered in a shade of spring green so delicate and elusive that no one could decide whether it verged on gold or silver, almost hidden with close-hung water colours and autotypes; and the ceiling showed between cherry beams an even softer tint in daintily stained woods. The Minton tiles around the fireplace and lining the little adjoining bathroom were all in different designs of pale green and white sparingly dashed with coral pink. There were sofas and low chairs and bookcases and cabinets and a tiny piano and a writing-desk and a drawing-table, and a work-table and yet more tables, all covered with smaller objects. Useless, and especially cheap, bric-a-brac was Miss Deane's abomination, but everything she used was exquisite. The bed and dressing-table were covered with finest linen, drawn and fretted by the needle, into filmy gossamer; and from the latter came a subdued glitter of a hundred silver trifles of the toilet, beaten and chiselled like the fine foamy crest of the wave.

Miss Deane, the owner of this pretty room, for whom and by whom it had been devised and decked with abundant means held well in check by taste, was very seldom in it. The Deanes had two country houses, and they spent a great deal of time abroad, and in the winter they often went to California or Florida or Bermuda; and when they were at their town houses they were usually out. But Miss Deane did sometimes sleep there, and when she had a cold and had to keep in she could not but look around it with gratification. It certainly was a pleasant room to give a little tea in. Its being her bedroom only made the effect more piquant. She believed the ladies of the last century used to have tea in their bedrooms; and this was quite in antique style--yes, the tea-table and some of the chairs were real antiques. By the time she had arranged the flowers to her taste and sat down arrayed in a tea-gown of rose-coloured China crape and white lace to make tea in a Dresden service with little rosebuds for handles, she felt quite well again, and ready to greet a dozen or so of her dearest friends, who ran upstairs unannounced and threw off their own wraps on the lace-covered bed.

Some of these young women were beautiful, and all looked pretty, their charms equalised by their clothes and manners. They had all been on the most intimate terms with each other from babyhood, and they had the eagerness to please anyone and everyone, characteristic of the American girl. Each talked to the other as if that other were a lover, and they had the sweetest smiles for the maid.

"So it was pleasant at the Bracketts'?" asked Grace, beginning to fill her cups.

"Oh, delightful!" exclaimed the whole circle; "that is"--with modified energy--"it was crowded of course, and very hot, and it was hard to get at people, and there was no time to talk when you did; but everybody was there," they concluded with revived spirit.

"I was not there," sighed Mildred; "I had to make tea for Miss Caldwell--mother said I must--and some of the people stayed so late that it was no use thinking of the other place, though I put on this gown to be all ready. I thought it would do to pour out at such a little tea"--surveying her pale fawn cloth gown dashed with dark velvet worked in gold.

"Oh, perfectly! most appropriate!" said the others.

"Who else poured out?" said Grace.

"Why, she told me that Caroline Foster was coming, and I was so delighted; but when I got there I found Mrs. Neal had sent a note saying she could not allow Caroline to give up the Bracketts' altogether; and Miss Caldwell had invited that Miss Leggett, whom I hardly know--wasn't it unpleasant? And she wore regular full dress, pink India silk and chiffon, cut very low--the effect was dreadful!"

"Horrid!" murmured her sympathising friends.

"Caroline was there, I suppose?" queried one.

"No--she never came at all."

"Probably she went to the Bracketts' first, and couldn't get away," said Grace. "I wonder she isn't here by this time. Who saw her there?" General silence was the sole answer, and she looked round her only to have it re-inforced by a more emphatic "I didn't."

"Why, she must have been there! She told me she should surely go. How odd--" but her words died away, and the group regarded each other with looks of awe, till one daring young woman broke the spell with, "Do you think--can it be possible--that she's really engaged?"

"To Mr. Johnson?" broke out the whole number. "Oh! I hope not! It would be shocking--dreadful--too bad!"

"We shouldn't see a thing of her; she would be so tied down," murmured Dorothy Chandler, almost in tears.

"Everyone who marries is tied down, for that matter," cheerfully remarked a blooming young matron, who had been the rounds of the teas. "I assure you," she went on, nibbling a chocolate peppermint with relish, "I am doing an awful thing myself in being here at this hour; aren't you, Anna?"--addressing a mate in like condition, who blushed, conscience-stricken as she said, "Perhaps Caroline is in love with Mr. Johnson."

"I don't see how any one can fall in love with a widower," said Mildred.

"That depends on the widower," said the pretty Mrs. Blanchard. "I do think Mr. Johnson is rather too far gone."

"Oh, yes," said Mildred; "he looks so--so--I don't know how to express it."

"What you would call dowdy if he were a woman," said her more experienced friend. "He looks as if he wanted a wife; but I don't see why someone else would not do as well as Caroline--some respectable maiden lady who could sew on his buttons and make his children stand round. I don't think Caroline would be of the least use to him."

"It would be almost impossible to keep her up," said Grace.

"Yes," said Mrs. Blanchard; "I'm very fond of Caroline, but I'm afraid I could never get Bertie up to the point of intimacy with Malcolm Johnson; he thinks him underbred--says his hats show it."

"Is your tea too strong, Harriet, dear? There is no hot water left," said Grace, ringing her little silver bell with energy. But no one came. "I told Marguerite to keep in the sewing-room, in hearing," she went on, ringing it again.

"I thought I heard her at the door just now," said the outermost of the circle.

"_Would_ you mind looking, dear? If she's not there I'll ring the other bell for someone from downstairs."

No Marguerite was at the door, the sounds laid to her charge having been caused by the precipitate retreat of a young lady who had come late and, running quickly upstairs unannounced, had paused at the room door to recover her breath, and had just time to do so and to fly downstairs again and out of the house without encountering anyone.

Caroline--for it was she--hurried round the corner; for her home was so near that she had dismissed her carriage. The house was empty and dark. Mrs. Neal had gone to spend the evening with one of her married daughters and had not thought it necessary to provide any dinner at home. There was no neglect in this. There were plenty of cousins at whose houses Caroline could have dined and welcome; or if she did not choose to do so, there was abundance in the larder, and if her teas had left her any appetite she had but to give the order herself and sit down alone to her cold meat and bread and butter. As we know, her teas had been feasts of Tantalus; but she did not feel hungry--for food. She hastened up to her room without a word to the maid, lighted her gas, took a key from her watch-chain, opened her writing-desk, and took out a letter which she read, not for the first time, with attention.

"MOUNT VERNON STREET.

"MY DEAR MISS FOSTER:

"You will, I am afraid, be surprised at what I am going to
say. Perhaps you will blame me for writing it, and perhaps
you will blame me for saying it at all. I know it is an act
of presumption in me to ask one so beautiful, so young and
untrammelled by care, to link her fortunes with mine: but I
do it because I cannot help it. I love you so much that I am
unable to turn my thoughts to my most pressing duties till I
have at least tried my fate with you; and yet my hopes are
so faint that I cannot venture to ask you in any way but
this.

"Don't think I love you less because I have so many other
claimants for my affections; any more than I love them less
because I love you. My poor children have no mother; I could
never ask any woman to take that place to them unless we
could both feel sure that ours was no mere match of
convenience; but I could not love anyone unless she had the
tenderness of nature which belongs to a true mother. I
never saw any girl in whom it showed so plainly as in you.
Your angelic sweetness and gentleness are to me, who have
seen something of the rough side of life, unspeakably
beautiful. I know I am not worthy of you in any way; but it
sometimes seems to me that appreciating you so thoroughly as
I do must make me a little so.

"Your family will very likely object to me on the score of
want of means. I am fully aware that I cannot give you such
advantages in that respect as you have a right to expect,
even if I were much richer than I am ever likely to be; but
I am not so poorly off as they may suppose. I own the house
in which I live, free of encumbrance, and I should like to
settle it upon you. I do not know whether your property is
secured to your separate use or not; but I should wish to
have it so in any case. If my life and health are spared, I
have no fears that I shall not be able to support my family
in comfort. I know you will have to give up a great deal in
the way of society; and I cannot promise that you shall have
no cares, but I can and do promise that you will make us all
very happy.

"I still fear my chances are but small; but do, I entreat
you, take time to think over this. No matter what your
answer may be, I am and ever shall be

"Your faithful and devoted
"MALCOLM JOHNSON.
"_December 8, 189-._"

After Caroline had read this letter twice, she drew out another, spotless and freshly written, and breaking the seal, read:

"BEACON STREET.

"MY DEAR MR. JOHNSON:

"I was very sorry to receive your letter this morning. Pray
don't think I blame you for writing--but indeed you think
much too highly of me. I am not at all fitted to assume such
serious duties as being at the head of your family would
involve, and it would only be a disappointment to you if I
did. I have had no experience, and I should feel it wrong to
undertake it, even if I could return your generous affection
as it deserves. Indeed, I don't value money, or any of those
things; but I do not want to give up my friends and all my
own ways of life, unless I loved you. I am so sorry I
can't--but surely you will not blame me, for I never dreamed
of this, or I would have tried to let you know my thoughts
sooner.

"I am sure my aunt would disapprove. Highly as she esteems
you, she would think me too young, and not at all the right
kind of wife for you. I shall not breathe a word to her or
to anyone, and I hope you will soon forget this, and find
some one who will really be a good wife to you and a devoted
mother to your children. No one will be more delighted at
this than

"Your sincere friend,
"CAROLINE ALICE FOSTER.
"_December 9, 189-._"

This letter, which Caroline had spent three hours in writing, and copied six times, she now tore into small pieces and threw them into the fireplace. The fire was out, and the grate was black, so she lighted a match and watched till every scrap was consumed to ashes, when she sat down at her desk and, heedless of the chilly room, wrote with a flying pen:

"BEACON STREET.

"MY DEAR MR. JOHNSON:

"Pray forgive me that I have been so long in answering your
letter. I could not decide such an important matter in
haste. Indeed you think more highly of me than you ought;
but if such a foolish, ignorant girl as I am can make you
happy, and you are sure you are not mistaken, I will try to
return your love as it deserves. I have not much experience
with children; but I will do my best to make yours love me,
and it will surely be better for the dear little things than
to have no mother at all.

"I dare say my aunt will think me very presumptuous to
undertake so responsible a position; but she will not oppose
me when she knows my heart is concerned,--and I am of age,
and have a right to decide for myself. I shall be so glad of
some real duties to make my idle, aimless life really useful
to someone. I don't care for wealth, and as for society, I
am heartily tired of it. The only fear I have is that you
are over-rating me; but it is so pleasant to be loved so
much that I will not blame you for it.

"I am ever yours sincerely,
"CAROLINE ALICE FOSTER.
"_December 10, 189-._"

If Caroline, by writing this letter, constituted herself a lunatic in the judgment of all her friends, it must be allowed, as Miss Caldwell had said, that she was not quite lacking in sense. Unlike either a fool or the heroine of a novel, she rang the bell for no servant, sent for no messenger, but when she had sealed and stamped her letter she tripped downstairs with it and, having slipped back the latch as she opened the door, walked as far as the nearest post-box and dropped it in herself.

THE TRAMPS' WEDDING

"They know no country, own no lord.
Their home the camp, their law the sword."

"Who is it?" asked Mrs. Reed, as her husband entered her sitting-room; with some curiosity, pardonable in view of the fact that a stranger had for some time been holding an interview with him in his study.

"Why," replied the Reverend Richard Reed, looking mildly absent, as was his custom when interrupted of a Saturday morning, "it is a Mr. Perley Pickens--the man, you know, who has taken the Maynard place for the summer."

"Indeed! what did he want?" cried the lady, interested at once. The Maynard house was the great house of the place, and the Maynard family the magnates of the First Parish, and the whole town of Rutland. Their going abroad for a year or two had been felt as a public loss, and when, somewhat to the general surprise, it transpired that their house was let, it was at once surmised that it could only be to "nice" people, though the new occupants had never been heard of, and were rarely seen.

"Oh, his daughter is to be married, and he wants the ceremony to take place in our church."

"You don't say so? and he wants you to marry them?"

"Certainly."

"Why, we haven't had a wedding in the church for quite a while! It will be very nice, won't it?"

"Yes, my dear; but excuse me, I am in a hurry just now. Mr. Pickens is waiting. He wants you to give him a few addresses. I gave him the sexton's----"

"It will be a good thing for poor Langford," said Mrs. Reed, benevolently.

"Yes--" drawled the Reverend Richard, still abstractedly, "very good; and he wants a Boston caterer, and a florist. I know nothing about such things, and I told him I'd ask you, though I did not believe you did, either."

"Oh, yes, I do! Mrs. Maynard always has Rossi, and as for a florist, they must have John Wicks, at the corner here. He's just set up, and it will be such a chance for him."

"Do you think he will do? Mr. Pickens said that expense was no object--that everything must be in style, as he phrased it."

"Oh, he'll do! Anyone will do, at this season. Why, they could decorate the church, and house too, from their own place; but I shan't suggest that."

"Very well, my dear--but I am keeping Mr. Pickens waiting."

"I'll go and speak to him myself," said the lady, excitedly; and she tripped into the study, where the guest was sitting, with his hat on his knees; a tall, narrow-shouldered man, with a shifty eye. Somehow the sight of him was disappointing, she could hardly tell why, for he rose to greet her very politely, and thanked her effusively.

"My wife will be most grateful, I am sure--most grateful for your kindness. It will save her so much trouble."

"Here are the addresses you want," said Mrs. Reed, hastily scratching them off at her husband's desk, "and if Mrs. Pickens wants any others, I shall be happy to be of use to her."

"Thank you! thank you! You see, she's a stranger here, and doesn't know anything about it."

"You have not been in this part of the country before?"

"No--oh, no, I come from Clarinda, Iowa. At least, I always register from there, though I haven't any house there now; and my present wife was a Missouri woman, though she's never lived in the State much. I had to be in Boston on business this summer, so thought I'd take a place outside, and Mr. Bowles, the real estate agent, said this was the handsomest going, and the country first-rate; but my wife's a little disappointed."

"I suppose, if she has travelled so much, she has seen a great deal of fine scenery--but this is generally thought a pretty place."

"Yes, certainly--very rustic, though, ain't it?"

"I suppose so," said his hearer, a little puzzled, while for the first time her husband looked up, alert and amused. "I will call on Mrs. Pickens," she hastened to say, "if she would like to see me."

"Yes, certainly; delighted, I'm sure; yes, she'd be delighted to see you, and so would Miss Minnie, too."

"What a very queer man!" thought Mrs. Reed. But she only smiled sweetly, and made a little move, as if the interview were fairly over. Her visitor, however, did not seem inclined to depart, and after a moment's silence began again.

"And there's another thing; if you would be so very kind as to recommend--I mean, introduce--we know so few people here, and Miss Minnie wants everything very stylish; perhaps you know some nice young men who would like to be ushers; I believe that is what they are called. It would be a good thing for them to be seen at; everything in first-class style, you know."

The Reverend Richard, whose attention was now thoroughly aroused, beamed full on the speaker a guileless smile, while his wife thoughtfully murmured, "Let me see; do you expect a great many people?"

"Oh, no, we don't know many round here; but if you and your family, and the ushers and their families, would come to the house, it would make quite a nice little company. As to the church--anyone that liked--it would be worth seeing."

"I can find some ushers," said Mrs. Reed, still musing; "two at least; that will be enough, I should think."

"And then," murmured Mr. Pickens, as if checking off a mental list, "there is a young man to go with the bridegroom, I believe. I never had one, but Miss Minnie says it's the fashion."

"Oh, yes, a 'best man!'" explained his hostess, "but--the bridegroom usually selects one of his intimate friends for that."

"I don't believe Mr. MacJacobs has any friends; round here, that is. He came from Tobyhanna, Pennsylvania, but he's never been there since he was a boy. He's been in New Orleans, and then in Europe, as travelling agent for MacVickar & Company. I suppose you've heard of _them_."

"I dare say I can find a best man."

"Thank you. You are very kind; yes, very kind indeed, I'm sure."

"I presume," interposed the host, in bland accents, "you wish to give away the bride yourself?"

"Yes!" said Mr. Pickens, starting; "oh, yes, I suppose I can, if there's not too much to do. Should I have to say anything?"

"Scarcely," replied the clergyman, reassuringly. "I ask a question to which you are supposed to reply, but a nod will be quite sufficient. The bridegroom is generally audible, and sometimes the bride, but I have never heard a sound proceed from the bride's father."

"Very good--very good; it will be very pleasant to join in your service, I am sure. Many thanks to you for your kind advice. I will now take my leave," and after a jerking bow or two he departed, with a sort of fluttering, bird-like step. The pastor laughed, but his wife looked sober.

"Our friend is as amusing a specimen as I ever encountered," he began.

"Amusing! I call him disgusting, with his 'Miss Minnie 'and 'take his leave.' He can't be a gentleman; there is something very suspicious about the whole affair."

"Indeed! and what do you suspect?"

"I don't believe there's a wedding at all. Perhaps he's an impostor who wants to get in here to steal."

"Do you miss anything?"

"No," said the lady, after a peep into her dining-room. "I can't say I do. But he may come back on this pretended wedding business. Are you sure that he really is Mr. Perley Pickens?"

"Why, yes. I have never spoken to him before, but I have seen him at the post-office, opening his box, and again at the station. I cannot be mistaken in that walk of his."

"Well, he may be the head of a gang of thieves, and have taken the house and got up this scheme of a wedding for some end of his own."

"Such as what?"

"Why, to cheat somebody, somehow. I am sure you will never get a wedding fee for it; and he may not pay any of the bills, and the people may bother us."

"He gave me the name of his Boston bankers, May & Maxwell, to whom he said I could refer the tradespeople, if they wished it, 'being a stranger here himself,' as he justly remarked. But whom, my dear, do you expect to provide for ushers or best man?"

"Oh, for ushers, the Crocker boys will do. They will be glad of something to amuse them in vacation."

"Are they not rather young? Fred can hardly be eighteen yet."

"Well! he is six feet and over. One needn't tell his age; and as for best man, I think William Winchester wouldn't mind it--to oblige me."

"But why, my love, since you are so distrustful, are you so anxious to be of use in this matter?"

"Why!" echoed his wife, triumphantly; "it's the best way to encourage them to go on, and then, don't you see? if they have any dishonest designs, they'll be the sooner exposed; and then--I do want to see what the end of it all will be--don't you?"

In pursuance of these ideas, Mrs. Reed, next afternoon, put on her best bonnet, and went to call on the ladies of the Pickens family. The gardens and shrubberies of the Maynard house, always beautiful, yet showed already the want of the master's eye. The servant who opened the door was of an inferior grade, and the drawing-room, stripped of Mrs. Maynard's personal belongings, looked bare and cold. Mrs. Reed sat and sighed for her old friend full quarter of an hour, before a pale, slim, pretty girl, much dressed, and with carefully crimped locks, came in with, "It's very kind in you to call. Aunt Delia's awfully sorry to keep you waiting, but she'll be down directly."

"I am very glad to see you," said Mrs. Reed, looking with some attention at the probable bride-elect.

"Aunt Delia was sitting in her dressing-sack. She generally does, day-times. It's so much trouble to dress, she thinks. Now I think it's something to do; there isn't much else, here."

"This is a lovely place. I always admire it afresh every time I come here."

"It's lonesome; but then, it's pleasant enough for a little while. I never care to stay long in any one place. I've lived in about a hundred since I can recollect; and I wouldn't take a house in any one of 'em for a gift, if I had to live in it."

"Perhaps you may feel differently when you have a house of your own."

"Well, that's one of the things Mr. MacJacobs and I quarrel about. I want to board, and he wants to take a flat. I tell him I'll do that, if he'll get one where we can dine at the table d'hote. That's about as easy as boarding. As like as not, when we get settled, he'll have to go off somewhere else; but if he is willing to pay for it himself, why, let him! Here's Aunt Delia," she suddenly added, as a fresh rustle announced the entrance of a stout lady, also very handsomely attired, and carrying a large fan, which she waved to and fro, slowly but steadily, gazing silently over it at her visitor, whom Minnie introduced with some explanation, after which she remarked that it was "awfully hot."

"It is warm; but I have not found it unpleasant. I really enjoyed my walk here."

"Did you walk?" asked her hostess, with more interest.

"Oh, yes; it is not more than a mile here from the church; and the parsonage is but a step farther."

"A mile!"

"I am very glad," said Mrs. Reed, well trained, as became her position, in the art of filling gaps in talk, and striking out on new lines, "to find you at home, and Miss--I beg your pardon, but I have not heard your niece's name. Mr. Reed thought she was your daughter."

"Oh, Minnie isn't my niece!" exclaimed the hostess, laughing, as if roused to some sense of amusement, which Minnie shared; "she's an adopted daughter of Mr. Webb's second wife!"

"My name's Minnie Webb, though pa never approved of it, and when he married again, we thought it would be easier to say Aunt Delia, to distinguish her from ma, you know."

Mrs. Reed paused before these complicated relationships, and skilfully executed another tack; "I hope you find it pleasant here."

"It's a pretty place here, but it's awful dull," said Mrs. Pickens, "and it's so much trouble; I never kept house before. I've always boarded, and mostly in hotels."

"I am afraid it may seem quiet here to a stranger," said Mrs. Reed, apologetically. "You see when anyone takes a house here for the summer, people are rather slow to call; they suppose that you have your own friends visiting you, and that you don't care to make new acquaintances for so short a time. I am sorry I have not been able to call before. I was not sure that you went to our church."

"I don't go much to church; it is so much trouble. But Minnie says yours is the prettiest for a wedding," said Mrs. Pickens, smiling so aimlessly that it was impossible to suppose any rudeness intended. Mrs. Reed could only try to draw out the more responsive Minnie. "Is there anything else that I can do to help you about the wedding?"

"Why, yes--only, you've been so kind. I most hate to ask you for anything more."

"Don't mention it!"

"Well, then, if you could think of any girl that would do for a bridesmaid."

"A bridesmaid?"