Chapter XXXII: The Exile's Return (4)

"She trusted me too much," sighing. "What I have preferred, you--maybe she--that is, many people--would think no career at all."

"Ah, indeed! Poetry?" (I knew that Aunt Will had no great opinion of most of the versifiers.)

She interlocked her fingers and gave them a slight twist, looked still more intently at the toe of her boot, and dropped ruefully one little word, "No."

"It is not the stage, surely?" looking at her perfect beauty with a sudden start.

"No, no! it is not that. You cannot guess. I may as well tell you. I will begin at the beginning, and you will see that I could not help it: that is--For Mercy's sake don't look at me as if I were a criminal, or I won't say another word!"

"Nonsense, Eleanor! I am not looking at you as if you were a criminal. Go on and tell me."

"It is too late now," she said hastily: "I have been here so long already. I will see you to-morrow."

"If you dare to go without making a full confession, I will never forgive you. Sit down: the sooner it is over the more composed you will feel. I have been so anxious to hear about it!"

"Well, if it must be. I know you will be disgusted. I have to begin when we left here."

"I have plenty of time to listen."

"You remember we started on the voyage by ourselves. At our first
dinner on board aunt recognized an old friend, a Mrs. Kenderdine,
who was also crossing, together with her son. That first dinner was
our last for some time, for, though we tried to be as strong-minded
as possible, in the end we were obliged to stay in our cabins.
Having recovered sooner than aunt, one day I stumbled out as far as
the companion-way, and was sitting there very disconsolately when
Mr. Kenderdine, passing by, stopped to ask if he should assist me on
deck. Of course I was only too glad to go. He had not been sick at
all, and could walk about quite easily, which gave me a high opinion
of his abilities. Later he brought me my dinner, with a glass of
wine, of which he did not spill a drop, and by evening I found that
with the aid of his arm I could promenade.

"That day was a sample of all until the voyage was over, for if I
attempted to move alone I stumbled, rolled and behaved with a lack
of dignity that was frightful; and yet, after getting a taste of
fresh air, I could not bear to stay below. Somehow, it became
understood that each morning Mr. Kenderdine might find me in the
companion-way at a certain hour; and as aunt would not leave her
state-room, and old Mrs. Kenderdine could not, we had nothing to do
but to try and amuse each other; so we ended by becoming pretty well
acquainted by the time we arrived at Queenstown.

"In England aunt was very busy. You used to think her a student
here: I wish you could have seen her there. For six months she spent
almost every hour of daylight in the library of the British Museum,
where she had been introduced by a learned friend. Aunt Will has a
wonderful admiration for Boadicea: she was also critically examining
the history of Queen Henrietta and of Elizabeth. She thinks the
latter did not do justice to her opportunities, and that her vanity
was the mark of a feeble mind. You know aunt has no patience with
vanity and--"

"But about yourself, Eleanor?"

"I am coming to that directly. Mrs. Kenderdine had gone abroad to
get medical advice: as her health would permit her to take but
little exercise, a morning drive, with receiving and paying visits
(she is of an English family and well connected), was all she was
capable of.

"It happened in this way that the only ones of our party fit for
active duty were Fred--I mean Mr. Kenderdine--and myself. As we had
formed the habit of amusing each other on the voyage, we still
continued it. Aunt would join us when any historical site was to be
visited; but there were many places that were not historical, but
that were just as pleasant or as beautiful as if they had been, and
to these we went together. We stayed in London until the season was
over, and then started for Paris.

"You can form no idea how aunt reveled in the antiquities of Paris.
If she went to the Musée Cluny in the morning, we might be sure we
should see no more of her for that day at least. She absolutely took
rooms at Versailles for two weeks that she might study up the
_locale_ of the Pompadour, whom she regards as a female Richelieu,
and she also found a rich field of investigation in the lives of the
French queens."

"And what were you doing all this time?"

"Oh! I had professors, French, Italian and German, for the
languages, I visited the galleries, and aunt would read me her
notes, so that I was gaining much information. You see, in a foreign
country it is not the thing to sit in the house to study: you must
go about as much as possible and use your eyes, which is an
education in itself. That is what I was doing."

"About your career, I mean?"

"Don't be so impatient: I am about to tell you. We concluded to
spend the winter in Rome, aunt and I: the Kenderdines
remained in Paris. Aunt preceded me to Brussels about two weeks
to explore the libraries there, as we were to make the Rhine tour
before going to Italy. I should have accompanied her, but we were
expecting a remittance from home that had not arrived, and I was
obliged to wait for it. The day before I left Paris I was regretting
that I had not been to Montmorency, and Mr. Kenderdine, who
overheard me, proposed that as I did not mind fatigue we should go.
By starting early in the morning we could make our 'last day,' as he
called it, a _fête_. I consented, and we arranged to take the early
train to Enghien, to breakfast there, ride through Montmorency to
the Château de la Chasse, where we could have dinner, and return in
time for the Belgian train in the evening. The next morning I was
ready, my riding-skirt in a satchel, and off we went. The day was
perfect, the air cool and delicious. We took the cars at the Gare du
Nord, and in less than an hour we arrived at Enghien, ordered
breakfast at a charming little hotel that overlooks the lake, and
had it brought to us on the balcony, from whence we could listen to
the band playing, and look at the beautiful villas that border the
water, watch the invalids taking their constitutionals, and see the
brightly-painted boats bobbing over the small waves. While waiting
for the horses, Fred made me go to the springs and taste the water,
which is horrid: then we mounted and cantered leisurely on to
Montmorency, a hilly, desolate-looking place, although so much
lauded by the Parisians: I suppose the beautiful forest in the
vicinity is its attraction. The road for the next five or six miles
was shaded by trees, and most of it was a soft turf on which the
horses' hoofs rebounded noiselessly, with views of rolling country
at intervals. The château had been a hunting-lodge two or three
hundred years ago, but nothing remains of it now but a couple of
towers, to which a modern country inn has been added, where
excellent dinners may be had, as I can testify. It is a great place
for the picnics and pleasure-parties of the natives, but foreigners
seldom visit it. After we had wandered about for several hours,
enjoying ourselves in that silly French way, with nothing but light
hearts, fresh air, green grass and blue sky for all incitement
thereto, I, in consideration of my evening journey, recommended our
return. We had the horses brought round, and then my career
commenced."

"Why, how?"

"You know that road from the château? No you don't, but I will tell
you of it. The woods lie on one side, and an ivy-covered wall
separates it from sloping fields on the other--the prettiest place
on earth." ("Artistic," thought I: "she has decided on
landscape-painting;" but I did not interrupt.) "It was just there
that Mr. Kenderdine came to my side: he had dismounted to open the
gate, and was leading his horse. He came to my side, and, looking up
at me, said half seriously, half smiling, 'You are very happy
to-day, Miss Eleanor: what will you do when I am not with you to
ride and walk and talk to?'

"'I suppose I shall find some one in Rome who rides, walks and talks
as well. They say the Campagna is lovely for riding.'

"'And perhaps some one who waltzes as well.'

"'Certainly: that is no great accomplishment. Like playing a
hurdy-gurdy, if you turn round often enough you cannot fail to make
a successful performance.'

"'There is one thing you will not find, Eleanor;' and he laid his
hand on my wrist: 'that is, some one who loves you as well.'

"'Mr. Kenderdine, please get on your horse, and don't talk
nonsense.'

"'I suppose I have as good a right to talk nonsense as any one, and
I believe the fancy for doing so comes to all of us once in our
lifetime.'

"'I admit your right to talk, and claim mine to refuse to listen;'
so saying, I gave my horse a cut. The animal started, but Fred's
hand was still on my bridle-wrist, and with a motion he checked the
animal so violently that it reared, afterward coming down on the sod
with a thud that almost unseated me.

"'I will talk, and you shall listen,' said Mr. Fred, looking
dangerous.

"'So it appears,' I retorted, thoroughly provoked; 'but I hope you
will oblige me by being as expeditious as possible, for I am very
much afraid that I shall miss the train to-night.'

"He looked at me a moment as if to be sure he understood my meaning,
then turned and sprang on his horse, at the same time remarking,
'You are right: I had better not detain you. I had forgotten your
journey.'

"We cantered on in silence for about three miles. The flush of anger
had slowly faded out of his face, when he commenced abruptly: 'Miss
Vachy, I have no _right_ to ask you what I intend asking, but I have
always thought you had a kind heart, and perhaps you will answer my
question. You may depend that the confidence you may place in me
will be held sacred.' Then less quickly, 'Will you tell me, have you
an understanding, or are you engaged, or do you care for any one
else?'

"For a moment I thought of entering into an explanation--of telling
him what my aunt expected of me, and what I intended doing--only I
did not myself know what I intended doing; and it seemed absurd to
begin such an account without being able to complete it. Besides, if
he thought I cared for some one else, it would end the matter and
save a world of argument; so I replied hesitatingly, 'I am sorry,
Mr. Kenderdine, that I cannot answer your question, but--'

"'Enough: I understand.'

"Then our canter quickened into a gallop, and the gallop into a
race. I am quite sure those horses never went at such a pace in
their lives before. Fred seemed unconscious of the run we were
making of it, unconscious of everything, urging his poor beast
whenever it flagged, and fretting its mouth by alternately jerking
and loosening the reins, until had it been anything but a livery
hack it would have been frantic. Conversation was impossible, and I
had nothing to sustain me during the ride but the satisfaction of
feeling that I had done my duty."

"It don't seem to me that you are getting any nearer the end of your
story."

"The darkest hour is that which precedes the dawn," said Eleanor,
adding maliciously, "if you are tired I will tell you the rest
to-morrow. Don't you see that I must bring you up to it gradually,
so that the shock will not be too great?"

"But think of the suspense I am in."

"My dear, the first steps in any career are as important as the
last; so curb your curiosity and listen. If you were telling it, you
would not get on one bit faster."

"Perhaps not," I answered doubtfully: "however, continue."

"Thanks to our haste, we got to Paris early enough to allow me to
rest and have supper. I had sent on my baggage by express, and had
nothing to worry about Starting at seven, I should arrive next
morning at Brussels. I can sleep famously in the cars, and I
apprehended no difficulty. Fred, looking as black as a thundercloud,
took me to the station, and was preposterous enough to ask me if I
was not sorry I was going."

"And what did you say?"

"Say? Why, the truth--that I was glad; and then Mr. Thundercloud
looked blacker than ever.

"I had several stations to pass before we reached Creil, where I was
to change cars and take the express. I settled myself comfortably,
so that I could look out of the window, and I whiled away the time
by reviewing the whole of my acquaintance with Mr. Kenderdine. I was
forced to admit that I had acted imprudently in not letting him know
from the beginning what my life was to be, but I never thought it
would matter to him. Then my conscience reproached me for the lie I
had implied: I might have told him the truth, and spared him the
mortification of believing that I preferred some one else. I knew,
in thinking of it calmly, that it was not to avoid an argument that
I had done it, but to make him feel as badly as possible, because I
was angry at him for stopping my horse. It was mean in me,
especially as that De Vezin was the person he would pitch on. You
see, I had made a good deal of De Vezin while in Paris, but it was
only to improve my French accent--a fact which poor Fred
could not know.

"The train whizzed on. The night grew dark: I could scarcely
distinguish objects outside the blurred window, but I still remained
attentive to the voice of the conductor as he called out the names
of the successive stations until--until I heard no more: I had
fallen asleep.

"I suppose I slept profoundly for about half an hour, when I was
suddenly awakened by a jerk: the cars had stopped. I was not aware I
had been sleeping, but I had an undefined sense that something was
wrong. I hastily opened the window and heard the name Liancourt
shouted. There was no such stopping-place between Paris and Creil,
for I had studied up my route before starting. The truth flashed
upon me, and impulsively I left my car, rushed to the conductor, and
asked, 'What place is this?'

"'Liancourt.'

"'And where is Creil?'

"'We have passed it. Did you want to go there?'

"'Of course I did. Why did you not call it?'

"'We did call it,' said he indignantly: 'you must have been asleep.'

"'No such thing,' I replied, for at the moment I did not think it
could be possible.

"There was but little time for reflection. Should I go on to the
next large town, or should I stay? If I went on, I should get to my
destination in the middle of the night, and, knowing nothing of the
place, might have great difficulty in finding lodgings. If I stayed,
I might get a train back or a carriage, or even find here a hotel of
some kind where they would accommodate me until morning. I decided
to remain, and off went the cars.

"One of the ticket-agents came forward from the office--as I
supposed to offer his services: there were but few people about, but
all understood my situation. As I said, the man came forward and
bowed: 'Your fare, if you please.'

"I handed him my ticket: he stood before me and repeated, 'Your
fare, if you please.'

"'I have given you my ticket,' said I, looking at him inquiringly.

"'This one is not for Liancourt: it is for Creil.'

"'I was going to Creil, only the train brought me past.'

"'Exactly, and you will please pay for the extra distance,' said he
politely.

"It was too much. I had the misfortune of being carried out of my
way, and this exasperating clerk was coolly asking me to pay the
company a premium for the result of the conductor's carelessness. It
was one of those situations in which words fail to express the
extent of your indignation. The fellow's audacity verged on the
sublime. He stood there with the calmness of a hero. And what did I
do? Why, I paid him. But I tell you truly that I have hated that
whole railroad company with the blackest hatred ever since. That was
not all. As soon as he received the provoking money--I wish it had
been red hot--he turned on his heel and walked into his office.

"But it was not the time to indulge in resentment: I must act
promptly. The people there when I arrived were fast dispersing. I
addressed myself to a half-grown boy who was standing near me: 'When
does the next train go to Paris?' I thought I had better return and
start afresh in the morning.

"'The last has gone for to-night,' answered the lad.

"'Are you quite sure?'

"He gave his head a decisive jerk.

"'How far is this place from Creil?'

"'About five miles.'

"'Can I get a carriage to take me there?'

"'No.' This time he looked for corroboration to the group who had
gathered round us, all of whom with one accord wagged their heads in
the negative.

"'Is there a hotel here?'

"'No.'

"'Isn't it a town?'

"'No,' much intensified.

"I knew that there are many stations in France consisting of a
single building located in the midst of fields: these places take
their names from the nearest town (which may be several
miles distant), and are marked on the maps by a black spot like a
hyphen: many of them are served by an omnibus. I found, on further
questioning, that this was one of the aforesaid black spots, minus
the omnibus.

"'What is the nearest town?' I continued.

"'Liancourt is a little more than a mile off, but it is a village.'

"'Is there an inn there?'

"'I believe there is.'

"By this time most of my audience had satisfied their curiosity and
departed, leaving only the boy, and an old man who attracted my
attention. He held a lantern which illuminated a kindly,
weatherbeaten face, looking like that of an old sailor. I discovered
later that he had come from Normandy, and like most Normans had
spent half his life on the waves. He seemed interested in my hapless
plight: perhaps he would assist me.

"'I want to go back to Creil' (I knew I should find a hotel there):
'won't you come with me and show me the way with your lantern?'

"'Can't, mademoiselle: can't leave here.' He gave an indicative jerk
of his head and thumb in a certain direction toward the railroad.

"'Why not?'

"'I am the night-watchman, and should lose my place if I left.'

"Then please point out the road: I shall have to return alone.'

"'Can't, mademoiselle: it is too dark. You would get lost.'

"I thought I could not get much more lost than I was at that moment,
but did not say so. Just then a bright idea struck me: 'I will walk
back on the railroad: I cannot fail to find my way.'

"The old man looked aghast at the proposition, and pointed to the
long line of high thick hedge that bordered it on each side.

"'How could you leave the track if you did get to Creil? They are
locked up there for the night. Besides, you would be crushed by
passing trains, and you would be fined too, for it is against the
law. Now,' he went on in that patronizing manner which, from its
naïveté is so charming in the French peasant--'now, mademoiselle
does not wish to die to-night, does she, and be also fined?'

"'No,' I replied dolefully, seeing my chances of shelter
diminishing, 'but I shall certainly die if you will not help me to
find a hotel.'

"'Wait,' he whispered--'wait a little until all the world is gone.
It won't be five minutes until every one has departed and every
light is out in the station; then--'

"I could not see how this was to improve my condition, but, having
no choice, I waited patiently while he went and busied himself about
his work. Presently he returned. Everything was silent, and pointing
mysteriously to the waiting-room in the building, he said in a low
voice, '_There_ is where you can stay till morning. They would not
allow it if they knew, but no one will be the wiser. You can leave
as soon as it is light, and to-night sleep on one of the sofas.
That's where I sit at night, and I will give it up to you.'

"The idea was repugnant to me. I could not consent; it was too
frightful; it was impossible. I hastened to say, 'It will not do--I
cannot stay here: you must take me back. Do take me to Creil.'

"'Can't do it.'

"'Well, take me to the next town: there is an inn, and it is not
far.'

"He wavered, and seeing my distress his good-nature conquered. 'I
will go with you,' he answered, slowly shaking his head as if
admonishing himself for being such a fool; 'but if they should find
it out--'

"You may think it was unkind in me to let him run the risk of losing
his place, but what was I to do? I could not submit to stay at the
station like a vagabond, and I could not find my way alone. So,
without allowing him time to change his mind, I set out. The road
was bad and the night dark; the lantern threw a circle of light
around us, but all beyond was impenetrable; still, the hope of
shelter at the end made the walk agreeable to me. We
stumbled along in silence, and by and by heard the barking of dogs
that always heralds a night approach to a village. The first house
that greeted my eyes had the welcome signboard swinging before it,
and above its lintel a bush. It was a tiny place, but it was a
refuge, and I felt quite cheerful as I requested the old tar to
knock.

"He did so, and the sound echoed and re-echoed, but there was no
response.

"'Again,' I said, and 'again,' and 'again,' with no better result.
It was anything but encouraging.

"'They cannot hear, they are asleep: take up a stone and beat the
door. You must awaken them.'

"He obediently picked up a stone, and there followed a noise like
thunder. I should not have been surprised to see the wee house tilt
over and lie down on its side under the force of the blows. Now a
gruff voice called out, 'What do you want?'

"'Lodging.'

"'We have no room for any one: go away.'

"'Tell him I must stay,' And with the help of my prompting the old
fellow put my case in the most persuasive light possible, but,
although we talked and knocked with perseverance, the owner of the
voice neither appeared, nor would he vouchsafe us another answer.
One might have thought the house had been suddenly enchanted.

"'It is of no use--of no use whatever: they will not open,' finally
said my exhausted companion.

"'Is there no other inn here?'

"'No: you will have to return.'

"'Then you must take me to Creil.'

"'That I can't do. I have been away too long already: there is a
freight-train expected, and I must see that the track is clear. We
must go back;' and he turned resolutely and led the way.

"Just as we left the village a gay party of peasant-girls passed us
coming from a ball, laughing and chatting merrily with their beaus.
I had an insane idea of accosting them, appealing to their pity, and
asking them to keep me for the night, but fear lest they should
refuse restrained me: I was too dejected to risk a second repulse.
I have been able to realize the poetical things they tell us of the
sensations of outcasts, of adventurers; and homeless wanderers ever
since. The sight of this merry party made me feel more terribly
alone; and the beaus--well, I confess I did wonder what Fred was
doing at that moment. Then I thought of the horror of my aunt could
she know where I was, and what she would think of the 'footsteps'
her own niece was making just then, could she see her.

"When we arrived at the station my guide preceded me to the
waiting-room, and I, completely worn out, meekly followed him.

"'This is much better than sleeping in the fields,' he remarked
cheerily as we entered: 'shall I make you a fire?'

"'No, thank you, but let me go into the other room.' My reason for
this was that its sofas and chairs had some pretensions to comfort,
being 'first class.' He went to open the connecting door. It was
locked.

"'This is the only room that is open: I am sorry. Wait a moment: I
will bring something to make a pillow, and you can sleep like a
top.' He went out, and returned with an old coat, which he folded
for me, and which, after covering it with my handkerchief, made a
tolerable resting-place for my head. My bed was a hard bench.

"'Now,' said my protector in a tone of much satisfaction--'now, you
will be well. _Voilà un bon gîte_! Both these other doors are
fastened, and this one you can lock after me. Very early I will come
and take you part of the way back, and by daylight you can easily
find the rest yourself. _Bonne nuit, mademoiselle: dormez bien_.' He
went to the door, and taking the key from the outside put it inside.
It would not turn. The lock had been made to work with two keys, and
the other was absent.

"'I will tell you what I will do,' said my friend, not in the least
discomfited: 'I will lock the door and take the key with me. I must
go up the road about two miles on my beat, but you can feel
quite safe: no one can get in while I am gone. There is another
watchman on the road: he might come while I am away, and--and raise
a row. It is best to lock you up.' He nodded his head with great
complacency at his good management, and prepared to leave me. I
could suggest nothing better. I was at the end of my resources, and
had to accept my fate. It would be interesting to know what the
Pompadour or Queen Elizabeth would have done under the
circumstances, wouldn't it?

"It was with no pleasant feeling that I saw the door shut, heard the
key turned, then withdrawn: the lantern glimmered for a moment
through the window, and I was left in the darkness a prisoner.
Thoroughly a prisoner, for none of the three doors had keys on my
side, and the windows, with their tiny panes of ground glass, were
high above the floor. Then, too, the old man had insisted on
speaking in a whisper, and walked about on tiptoe. Who were those
persons he evidently feared to waken? Persons near by, of course.
Probably they carried the missing keys and could enter at any
moment. And the other watchman? What if he should come, and, this
being the room allotted to himself and companion, refuse to be
barred out? Those other unknowns would be aroused by his knocking,
and rush in to seek an explanation. If I were found there, should I
be taken before the police as a vagabond? Or imagine a fire--a fire
and no one knowing that I am here! A fire and no means of escape! My
friends losing all trace of me, unable to ascertain how I came by my
death! And such a horrible death! Four hours yet till dawn! What
might not happen in four hours? The man himself might only have gone
to seek an accomplice to murder me. He might have known that the key
would not turn on the inside. But at last, in spite of myself,
fatigue conquered fear and I slept.

"I cannot say how long I had been unconscious when I was awakened by
hearing a key turning in the lock: the door cautiously opened, and a
man entered and came toward the bench where I was lying. My
drowsiness calmed me. I wondered quite placidly whether it was to be
robbery or murder. What a paragraph it would make in the _Moniteur_
next day! I would cheerfully give him my watch and purse if they
would content him. I might call out and rouse the house, but most
likely Brunhilda in my situation would have held a parley. A good
precedent. I sat up to show that I was awake, and in doing so
recognized my old man. Though nothing could look more threatening as
he stealthily advanced, shading his light, taking pains to make no
noise, I could not entirely mistrust the weatherbeaten face with its
anxious, benevolent eyes that met mine.

"'Is it time to go?' I asked.

"'Not yet, but soon. I have just returned, and came in to know if
you would have a fire: it is cold outside.'

"'No, never mind: I am doing well enough. I think I will take
another nap.'

"'Very well: I shall be near for the rest of the night, so you need
not be afraid.' And he left, carefully locking me in again.

"When he came for me the dawn was beginning to break; the morning
star was shining in the sky; the earliest birds were twittering, and
cocks answered each other from distance to distance; but not a human
being was to be seen. We crossed ploughed fields and stubble to find
the road, and I felt the truth of my guide's augury of the night
before. Had I attempted to go alone I should have become bewildered,
and ended by sleeping in the fields. It did strike me that if the
man wished to rob me, now would be his chance, and at first I
intentionally kept a little behind; but his innocent garrulity was
such as to allay all suspicions, and we jogged on very amicably
until, coming to two roads, he pointed out that which leads to
Creil, and bade me good-bye.

"Had I had the giving of a medal of the Legion of Honor, I should
have decorated him on the spot. I believe it repaid me for my
annoyance to have found such ample goodness, such chivalry, such
kindness, growing as it were by the wayside. It was as if
the world had rolled back into the days of knight-errantry, when to
rescue and protect distressed damsels ranked next to religious
worship. Sure am I if my weatherbeaten old man had lived at that
time, none would have been more renowned for gentle deeds: in this
prosaic age he is but a watchman on a railroad. I was about to pour
out my gratitude, when I remembered we were in the nineteenth
century, and looking into his face, I fancied that something more
substantial would be better. I drew out my purse. He was frankly
delighted with what I gave him, saying only that it was too much,
and we separated mutually pleased.

"I sauntered on, lingering by the way to avoid waiting at Creil;
consequently, I was just able to procure my ticket and a paper of
brioches at the buffet when the English train came in. As I stood at
the door, knowing that as soon as it moved off the Belgian train was
due, whom should I see get out but Fred! I thought he would re-enter
in a moment, and placed myself so that he could not see me. I was
mistaken. The train started, and mine puffed up: there he was still.
In the crowd I hoped I should not be discovered, but as I stepped
from the door his eyes met mine, and he rushed up to me with the
exclamation, 'In the name of Heaven, how did you get here? Was there
an accident? Are you hurt? What is the matter?'

"It was singular how his voice unnerved me: I could not say a word.
The crowd carried us with them, and he helped me into a car, sitting
by me and recommencing his questions. Then I stammered, 'You will be
taken on if you do not get out: there is nothing wrong.'

"For answer he shut the door of the compartment, and said, 'I am
going with you. Now tell me how you come to be here?'

"I do not know why I should have given way when all danger was
over--I believe there is no parallel case in the life of any
celebrated woman--but I suppose I was tired out. My anxiety and
fright, a night spent on a hard board, the surprise of meeting Mr.
Kenderdine,--whatever it was, I leaned back in the corner of the
seat, took out my handkerchief, and cried harder than I had ever
done in my life before. He was greatly alarmed, but, like a sensible
man, waited until I became more composed, and when I was able to
tell him, instead of blaming me or thinking I was stupid, he
censured himself for not accompanying me.

"'I did mean to ask your permission to do so, Miss Eleanor,' he said
slightly embarrassed, 'and I was prig enough to think you would
allow it, but when you told me of your engagement I did not dare.
After you left I had a dread that something might happen, and I
could not rest satisfied until I had made up my mind to come on and
see that you had arrived safely. I thought you would forgive me, as
it is for the last time, and De Vezin need not be jealous, for he
will have you for ever, while I--' Fred can be wonderfully pathetic.

"Then I made up my mind to undeceive him, as was my duty, you know.
I told him very gently that he was under a false impression. I was
not engaged: my aunt had educated me for a purpose, and we both had
quite determined that I should never marry, but instead do something
great in the world, though I had not yet decided what. I explained
it to him fully, so that there should be no more mistakes about it.
When I ended I did not venture to look at him for a long time,
fearing to see him grieved at this irrevocable barrier; but when I
did, what was my surprise to see his face beaming with joy! He began
impetuously, 'If you had told me I was to be crowned at Brussels, it
would not be better news. I was sure it was De Vezin who separated
us. Now I can hope.'

"'You must not talk in that way if you do not want our friendship to
cease: you offend me deeply. Can't you see that if you persist in
this idea of yours, our pleasant acquaintance must end?' It was so
frivolous in Fred, and I spoke very decidedly.

"'Not at all, Eleanor: it would only begin. Why should not our whole
life be like this past year?'

"'You know it can't,' said I. 'Haven't I told you the reason?'

"'It will be no reason when De Vezin asks you,' said he
suspiciously.

"'De Vezin is nothing to me.'

"'You carry a _gage d'amour_ from him on your watch-chain at this
very minute.'

"Now, wasn't that talk silly? De Vezin had brought me a two-centime
piece one day because I said I had never seen one, and I put a hole
in it and hung it to my chain. Fred to call that a _gage d'amour!_

"'Nonsense!' said I.

"'De Vezin thought the same when he saw it there. I took him for a
fool, but I see he was right.'

"'Well, now you will see you were both fools,' said I angrily, and I
twisted off the coin and threw it from the window.

"'Is only that preposterous notion in the way?' he asked, looking
happy again and taking a seat by me.

"I told you how I cried on first entering the cars, and now--would
you believe it?--I got terribly embarrassed. It seemed as if
everything I did or said made matters worse. I was scarcely able to
stammer, 'My aunt--'

"'I will speak to her. Let me put this on your finger until I can
replace it by another:' and he slipped off his seal and leaned
forward with an entreating look.

"I shook my head.

"'I won't ask you to promise anything: only wear it that I may not
be forgotten in Rome.'

"'No, no, I cannot!' I exclaimed, clasping my hands. I suppose the
action and tone were very exaggerated, for Mr. Kenderdine drew back,
saying, 'I shall not _force_ you to take it;' and then went to the
other window, took a newspaper out of his pocket and pretended to
read it, while I was angry and sorry and miserable, though why I
should feel so much like crying at what had only amused me the day
before I cannot understand. I suppose none of those wonderful ladies
would have acted so, would they?

"But you are tired long ago, and you can easily imagine what comes
after. See!" and she turned a ring on her finger until I could catch
the shimmer of its stone. "That is how it ended; and though I did
not accept it until the next spring in Rome, I shall always blame
that night for the whole affair. When I asked Fred why he took the
trouble to follow me after the double snubbing I had given him, he
said 'I was worth it.' But since we are engaged he teases me
shamefully--calls me doctor, hopes I intend to support him in
comfort and ease, and says that it always was his ambition to be the
husband of a strong-minded woman, and broadly hints about my
experience in traveling being so useful to him. And aunt? When I
first told her she looked so shocked and disappointed that I threw
myself in her arms, saying I would not distress her for the world;
that I would do anything she desired; that if she wished she might
send Fred off, for I loved her best on earth. But after some minutes
of deep thought she looked at me quizzically and replied, 'You know,
dear, I always said you must choose your career for yourself.' Then
seeing that I seemed hurt and ashamed, she kissed me and whispered,
'Love makes us selfish: my affection for you has grown stronger than
my ambition. If _you_ are happy, my Eleanor, I can wait patiently
for the advancement of the rest of my sex.'"

Then Eleanor rose, and drawing her shawl round her preparatory to going, said shyly, "And what I came to tell you is, that the wedding will take place at Christmas."

ITA ANIOL PROKOP.

AN AMERICAN LADY'S OCCUPATIONS SEVENTY YEARS AGO.

We are looking over sundry trunks and boxes, the careful and the careless gatherings of three generations. There are law-papers in dusty files; familiar gossipy letters from brothers and sisters and college chums; dignified letters from reverend judges and law-makers; letters bursting with scandalized Federalisms, and burning or melting with long-forgotten joys and sorrows. We have read some thousands of these papers, and begin to be very uncertain about the times we are living in. What indeed is this year of our Lord? We have a dim recollection that we have been wished a happy New Year in 1875, yet we are living and thinking with the boys and girls of 1776, who have grown to be the men and women of Jefferson's time.

To make things more misty to our comprehension, we are sitting by a dormer window in a high, "hip-roofed" garret of a mansion built just before the Revolution, and the air is redolent of ancient memories. The very cobweb that swung across the window just now has a venerable appearance, entirely inconsistent with the fact that the housemaid's broom was supposed to have whisked across these beams but yesterday. But then the housemaids of to-day, as everybody knows, are, as a source of perplexity and vexation of spirit, always to be relied upon, but never to be relied upon for anything else. And with the thought we sigh for the "good old days" and the "good old servants" of our grandmothers.

Happy grandmothers! so blessed in their simple, quiet lives, unvexed by ever-changing fashions and domestics! What did they know of trouble whose best silk gowns remained in fashion from year to year, and whose cooks never treated them to an empty breakfast-table, and a cool "I thought I'd be a-lavin' this marnin', mum"? Happy grandmothers!

Thus thinking, we pick up a little rough paper-book with marbled covers from the corner of the old hair trunk where it was long ago thrown by some careless hand. The little tumbled book proves to be a diary. Not a record of a soul's strivings and pantings after a higher life, or a curiously minute inquiry into the possible reasons which induced the Almighty to allow Satan to afflict Job, but a simple daily note-book, the memoranda of a housekeeper. The old letters had been to us what the newspapers of to-day will be to the great-grandchildren of the present generation. The diary carried us back into the immediate home-life of seventy years ago.

The diarist had been a fair and stately dame in her day, and it is easy to remove her from the frame where her portrait hangs on the walls of the south parlor, and fancy her seated in the same room before the crackling fire jotting down the memoranda of the day. She is a pretty sight, we think, sitting in her straight-backed mahogany arm-chair, with her feet on the polished brass fender and her book resting on the little stand, which also holds the two tall silver candlesticks with their tall tallow candles, for wax candles are saved for gala-nights, when diaries are not in requisition. She must have been nearly forty years old when she wrote in this little book, but we see her as her portrait shows her, very young-looking in spite of her stateliness, enhanced though it is by the high turban of embroidered muslin edged with soft lace falling over the clusters of fair curls on her temples, and by the black satin gown, short-waisted and scanty, relieved only by delicate lace frills, which shade the beautiful throat and the strong, white, shapely hands. The shadow on her face as she gazes into the fire is not marvelous, for it is winter in her quiet Connecticut home; the post comes but twice a week; her husband is representing his State in Washington, and her only child is studying in distant Yale. Perhaps, though, the shadow is not that of pure loneliness. Is there not some perplexity in it? And something also of vexation? Yes, and it is the very vexation of spirit which--in the face of Solomon's venerable testimony to the contrary--we had fancied to be peculiar to our own evil days. Almost the first entry in this quaint little diary is to the effect that "Jim was sulky to-night and gave short answers." A little farther on we find that "Yesterday Jim went away without leave, and stayed all night;" which delinquency, being accompanied by a suspicion of drunkenness, caused the anxious dame to "send for General T---- to come and give Jim a lecture." Lecturing, however, was not then so popular as now, and Jim appears to have profited little by the veteran general's discourse, for on the very next night he repeats his offence. We have reason also to fear that Jim's honesty was not above suspicion, for we read that Betsey, an American woman who acted as assistant housekeeper and companion, "found in Jim's possession a red morocco pocket-book which I had given her, but "--alas for Betsey!--"with the contents all gone."

Other entries to the effect that madam one day lost her key to the wine-cellar, and the next day discovered the bibulous Jim in the said cellar "sucking brandy through a straw inserted in the bunghole of the cask," and that, "furthermore, Jim had confessed to having stolen and sold a coffee-basin for rum," do not tend to raise in our estimation this pattern of an ancient darkey. This time it appears that madam did not need to call in the aid of General T----, for she admits that she herself "lectured Jim severely;" sarcastically adding, "he professed penitence, but that did not hinder him from stealing another basin to-day."

But the refractory Jim, we think, must have been the exception which proved the rule that all servants prior to the late Celtic invasion were models of deportment. Accordingly, we are not surprised to find that Betsey was a handmaiden held in high estimation, and that "old Jack" was a servant whose shortcomings were offset by his general good conduct and affectionate heart. But we find also that there was a certain Sally, who could be tolerated only because of her great culinary skill; and an uncertain Silvy, who appears to have been in mind, if not in fact, the twin-sister of Jim, with a spice of Topsy thrown in.

The trouble in those days was not the prospect of suddenly losing cook or nursemaid, but that there was no getting rid of either. The fact of slavery was, under the act of 1793, slowly fading away from Connecticut, but all its habits remained in full force. "I wish I could send Jim and Silvy away," writes madam, "but the poor rascals have no place to go to."

Silvy was a tricksome spright that delighted in breaking bottles of the "best Madeira wine and spilling the contents over the new English carpet" when the mistress had invited the parson's and the doctor's families to dinner. This, though of course it was "not to be endured," might have been accidental, and so was very "tolerable" in comparison with Silvy's next exploits of poisoning the beloved house-dog and throwing by the roadside the bottle of wine--possibly emptied first--the jar of jelly and the fresh quarter of lamb which had been sent to a poor and sick old woman. These two offences, occurring on the same day, we are sorry to confess, incited the stately, white-handed dame to do something more decisive than to "deliver a lecture" to Silvy. It is demurely recorded that "for these two misdeeds I whipped Silvy." What effect the whipping had upon that somewhat too frolicsome damsel we are not informed, but madam admits that it made herself ill, and adds that "if Silvy does not reform it is impossible to see what can be done for her, for she will not listen to remonstrance. Betsey is not strong enough to punish so strapping a wench, and it does not seem right that a man should be set to whip any woman or girl, even a wench, else Jack could do it."

However, Jack's own patience having been tried by the refractory Silvy, he seems to have taken the matter into his own hands, for his mistress tells us how she was scandalized, on her return from church, by "finding Jack whipping Silvy," while that young lady was "screaming vehemently, so that all the people passing by could hear her." As Jack had discovered Silvy engaged in the amiable diversion of breaking the legs of the young calves by throwing stones at them, one can have a little charity for his summary action, although, as madam gravely remarks, "he might at least have waited until Monday."

The calves, by the way, had an unlucky winter of it, and were especially shaky about the legs. We find that a few weeks later "Jack having neglected to repair the barn floor, as he had been directed, a plank had given way and three of the calves' legs had been broken by the fall." We have felt a deep interest in the fate of these calves, but with all our anxiety have failed to discover whether three calves had all their legs broken, or only three legs in all had been sacrificed to Jack's culpable neglect.

By this time we begin to think that madam would have been just as well off if she had not kept so many servants, and to wonder what they could have had to do. Perhaps it was the idle man's playmate that made the trouble. But a little farther reading in the old diary dissipates this illusion. If anybody thinks that our grandmothers must have been cursed with ennui because they did not attend three parties a night three times a week, with operas and theatres to fill in the off nights, they are mightily mistaken.

Of sociability there could have been no lack in this rural neighborhood, for besides a ball or two madam records numbers of tea-drinkings and debating clubs, and meetings of the Clio, a literary club, at which assisted at least two future judges of the supreme courts of the States of their adoption, and several other men and women whose names would attract attention even in our clattering days. Visiting, too, of the old-fashioned spend-the-day sort had not gone out of date--was indeed so common that madam one evening enters in her journal--whether in sorrow or in thankfulness there is nothing to tell us, but at least as a notable fact--that she had "had no company to-day."

But it was not company that occupied all the hours of so busy a dame as our diarist. Though she had not to remodel her dresses in hot chase after the last novelty of the fashion-weekly, she had to superintend the manufacture of the stuff of which her maids' gowns and her own morning-gowns were made, to say nothing of bed-and table-linen, etc. Bridget in our day seems to think that to do a family washing is a labor of Hercules. Yet seventy years ago before a towel could be washed the soap wherewith to cleanse it must be made at home; and this not by the aid of condensed lye or potash, but with lye drawn by a tedious process of filtering water through barrels or leach-tubs of hard-wood ashes. The "setting" of these tubs was one of the first labors of the spring, and to see that Silvy or Jim poured on the water at regular intervals, and did not continue pouring after the lye had become "too weak to bear up an egg," was a part of Betsey's daily duty for some weeks. Then came the soap-boiling in great iron kettles over the fire in the wide fireplace. Apparently, this was not always a certain operation. Science had not yet put her meddling but useful finger into the soap-pot, for madam sadly records that on the twenty-first of May she had superintended the soap-boiling, but had not been blessed with "good luck;" and on the third of June we find the suggestive entry, "Finished the soap-boiling to-day." Eleven days--for we must of course count out the two Sundays--eleven days of greasy, odorous soap-boiling! We think that if we had been in madam's slippers we should have allowed Sally, Silvy and the rest to try the virtues of the unaided waters of heaven upon the family washing, and when this ceased to be efficacious should have let the clothes be purified by fire. But upon second thoughts, no: it was too much trouble to make those clothes.