"Mary Upham is my name,America is my nation;Salem is my dwelling place,And Christ is my salvation."
"Isn't the frame nice?" she asked. "I made father two shirts and he gave me the frame and the glass. Peter Daly made it. And the frame is oiled and polished until the grain shows—well, almost like watered silk. Gitty Sprague has a beautiful pelisse of gray watered silk. And now I have one thing for my house. I'm beginning to lay by."
"Your house!" Cynthia ejaculated in surprise.
"Why, yes—when I'm married. You have such lots of things, you'll never have to save up."
Cynthia was wondering what she could give away. Not anything that was her father's or her mother's.
"I'll paint you a picture. You do so much better needlework than I that I should be ashamed to offer you any."
"And the girls will give me some, I know. I'd fifty times rather have the picture. What a nice young fellow that cousin is! I'm glad his name isn't Leverett. There's such a host of them. But I don't like Anthony so well."
"That was father's name. It's quite a family name. It always sounds good to me."
"And is he going to Harvard?"
"Yes; even if he can't get in right away."
"That's nice, too. It's quite the style for young men to go to college. Some of them put on a sight of airs, though. He doesn't look like that kind."
"He isn't," she returned warmly. "He is going to work his way through."
"Oh! Hasn't he any father?"
"Yes; but his father will not do anything for him. I think it is real grand of him."
Polly nodded, but she lost interest in the young man.
Bentley walked home with Cynthia. It was afternoon, so he did not really need to.
"I suppose that cousin isn't going to live with you?" he asked presently.
"Oh, no; he will have to live in Boston."
"And come up here for Sundays?"
"Why, I don't know. That would be nice. I think I am growing fond of company."
"Well, I can come over;" half jocosely.
"Oh, I meant other people;" innocently.
"Then you don't care for my coming?"
"Yes, I do. Oh, do you remember that winter I was half sick and how you used to come over and read Latin? And I used to say it to myself after you."
That delighted him. He didn't feel so cross about the young fellow, but he half hoped he wouldn't pass, and have to go back to New Hampshire for another year.
They sat on the stoop and chatted until the old stage stopped and Chilian alighted.
"Oh!" the young girl cried, "where did you leave Anthony?"
"With Cousin Giles. The examinations will begin to-morrow."
It was near supper-time and Ben rose to go. Sometimes they asked him to stay to supper, but to-night they did not.
Then an event happened that took Cynthia's entire interest for a while. This was the return of Captain Corwin. He came up the walk one day—quite a grizzled old fellow it seemed, with the sailor's rolling gait—and looked at her so sharply that she had a mind to run away.
"Oh, Captain Anthony's little girl," he cried. "You have forgotten me. And it ain't been so long either."
She thought a moment and turned from red to white. Then she stretched out both hands and cried, her eyes and voice full of tears:
"Oh, you couldn't bring him back!"
"No, little Missy. He'd shipped for the last time before I'd reached there and gone to a better haven. He was the best friend I ever had. But he knew itlong afore, and that was why he wanted you safe with friends."
"I know now." She brushed the tears from her eyes.
"And I hope you've been happy."
"I waited and waited at first. Sometimes I wished I was a bird. Oh, wouldn't we have a lovely time if we could fly? And one time in the winter I was quite ill—it was so cold and I did get so tired of waiting. Then Cousin Chilian told me he had gone to mother and I knew how glad she would be to see him. I had some nice times. Cousin Chilian loved me very much. So did Cousin Eunice. I think Cousin Elizabeth would if she had lived longer, but she went away, too. Oh, I've done so many things—studied books, and taken journeys, and made friends, and painted pictures, flowers, and such. And I've tried to paint the sea, but I can't make it move and seem like a real sea."
"Oh, Missy, how smart you must be!"
"There are so many things I don't know," she laughed. "And now tell me about yourself and why you did not come back."
"We had a pretty fair journey all along first. But as we were nearing Torres Strait an awful storm took us, and we were driven ashore almost a wreck and lost two of our men. After a while we got patched up and set sail again, but I was afraid we would never reach harbor. Howsomever we did, in a pretty bad condition. PoorFlying Starseemed on its last legs and'twasn't sea legs either. Then I went up to Hong Kong and cruised around, buying stuff and selling it elsewhere. TheFlying Starwas patched up again, but she wasn't thought safe for a long journey. But there was plenty of work near at hand. Of course, I knew all about your father, and that the word must have reached you, but I hated mortally to come back and face you. But after a while the hankerin' for old Salem grew upon me. And there was theAurorawantin' a captain, for the man who brought her out died of a fever. So says I, 'I'm your man, and I've been over often enough to know the ropes, the islands, and p'ints of danger and safe sailing.' So here I be once more. But jiminy Peter! I should hardly 'a' knowed little old Salem. Why, she looks as if she was going to outsail all creation!"
"Oh, we're getting very grand. New streets, and splendid new houses, and stores, and churches. Why, Boston isn't very much finer."
"Don't b'lieve Boston harbor can show tonnage with her! And where's first mate?"
"I don't know, but he will be in soon. Oh, there's Rachel. Rachel, come here to an old friend."
The captain shook hands heartily. "Why, you don't seem to have changed a mite, only to grow younger and plump as a partridge."
It had all to be talked over again and in the midst of it supper was ready, and there was Miss Eunice's surprise. Cynthia could hardly eat, the long journeyand the dangers seemed such a strange thing now. Had she really come from India, or was it all a dream?
Yes, old Salem was almost fading out of the minds of even middle-aged people. There were curious stories told about witches and ghosts, but the real witchcraft was dying out of mind and the old houses that had been associated with it were looked upon as curiosities. Public spirit was being roused. In 1804 the East India Marine Society left the Stearns house and moved to the new Pickman Building in Essex Street. People began to send in curiosities that had been stored away in garrets: models of early vessels, articles from Calcutta, from the islands about the Central and South Pacific, cloths, and cloaks, and shawls, and implements.
The captain was quite sure Winter Island had grown larger—perhaps it had, by docking out. And he declared the streets looked like London, with the gayly gowned women, the stores, the carriages, for a number of handsome late ones were to be seen. There were a few fine young men on the promenade and they were attired in the height of fashion, as the society men of New York and Philadelphia. They were still paying attention to business and devoting the evenings to pleasure. Descendants of the strict old Puritans met to play cards and have dances and gay times with the young ladies. In the afternoon a cup of tea would be offered to callers, or a piece of choicecake and a glass of wine—often home-made. There were few excesses.
Many were still wearing the old Continental attire, yet you saw an old Puritan gentleman, with his long coat, his high-crowned hat, black silk stockings, and low shoes with great steel buckles.
Anthony was very much interested in the captain, whose best friend had been Anthony Leverett. He was proud of the name, and Cynthia's story was like a romance to him. He was taken up quite cordially by Cousin Giles, and very cordially by Mrs. Stevens, who had a liking for young men when they were well-mannered. He had managed to enter Harvard, with some studies to make up. Chilian Leverett insisted he should do no teaching this year, and offered him enough to see him through, but he would only accept it as a loan.
Bentley Upham was a year ahead and had a good standing, but he felt a little jealous of the young country fellow—"bumpkin" he would have liked to call him, but he was not that. A young man received at Mr. Giles Leverett's, and who sometimes escorted Mrs. Stevens to an entertainment, was not to be ignored.
The captain staid in port nearly two months and Cynthia experienced her old fondness for him, if he was a little uncouth and rough. They went down to see theAuroraoff and she recalled the day she had said good-bye to theFlying Star, that was to bring back her father.
As for her she was very busy learning to play and to paint. It was a young lady's accomplishment, but she really did very well. There were girls' teas, and now and then a small dance that began at seven and ended at nine, but boys were invited generally. Miss Polly Upham was quite in the swim, as we should say now. Mothers expected their daughters to marry, and how could they if they did not see young men? But there was a certain propriety observed, and very little playing fast and loose with the most sacred period of life, with the greatest God-given blessing—Love.
The next winter Cynthia was fairly launched on society. There was no regular coming out in almost bridal array, with a grand tea and a houseful of flowers. When a girl left school she expected to be invited out and to give little companies at home. Almost the first thing, she was asked to be one of the six bridesmaids at Laura Manning's wedding.
The Mannings had one of the splendid new houses on Chestnut Street, with spacious grounds before the houses grew so close together. Avis Manning was still in school, Cynthia was between the two in age. Mr. Manning was connected with the East India trade and an old friend of the Leverett family. It had begun by Cynthia being invited to a girls' tea, and Mrs. Manning had taken a great fancy to her. Laura was not very tall, and they did not want any one to dwarf the bride.
Every one was to be in white, the bride in a soft, thick silk, and she was to have a court train. The maids were to be in mull or gauze, as a very pretty thin material was called. The Empress Josephine had brought in new styles that certainly were very becoming to young people. The short waist and square neck, the sleeve puffs that had shrunk so much they no longer reached the ears, the short curls around the edge of the forehead arranged so the white parting showed, the dainty feet in elegant slippers and choice silk stockings that could not help showing, for the skirts were short. Pretty feet and slim ankles seemed to be a mark of good family.
"Will I do?" Cynthia stood before Cousin Chilian with a half-saucy smile. Around her throat she wore a beautiful Oriental necklace, with pendants of different fine stones that sparkled with every turn of the head. There were match pendants in her ears, and just back of the rows of curls was a jewelled comb.
She was a pretty girl without being a striking beauty. But her eyes would have redeemed almost any face, and now they were all aglow with a wonderful light.
He looked his admiration.
"Because ifyoudon't like me——"
There was a charming half-coquettish way about her, but she never made a bid for compliments.
"What then?" laughing.
"I'd stay home and spoil the wedding party. I know they couldn't fill my place on a short notice."
He thought they couldn't fill it at all, but he said almost merrily, "You need not stay at home."
Cousin Eunice said she looked pretty enough for the bride. Miss Winn had attended to her toilette,and now she wrapped a soft silken cloak about her and Cousin Chilian put her in the carriage. He was all in his best, ruffled shirt-front, light brocaded silk waist-coat, and there were lace ruffles about his hands.
One feels inclined to wonder at the extravagance of those days, when one sees some of the heirlooms that have come down to us. But their handsome gowns went through several seasons, and then were made over for the daughters. And they did not have their jewels reset every few months.
Such a roomful of pretty girls! Youth and health and picturesque dressing make almost any one pretty. Miss Laura looked fine, but she paused to say, "Oh, Cynthia, what an elegant necklace!"
"Father had it made for mother," she replied simply.
They patted and pulled a little, powdered, too.
Miss Willard, the great mantua-maker of that day, who superintended the dressing of brides, saw that everything was right. The young men came from their dressing-room, and they began to form the procession. Both halls were illuminated with no end of candles, and guests were standing about. Mr. Lynde Saltonstall took his bride-to-be, and they let the white train sweep down the broad stairway, then Avis Manning and Ed Saltonstall followed. They were not much on knick-names in those days, but he had been called Ed to distinguish him from some cousins.
Cynthia and a cousin came next, and there wereseveral other relatives. It was a beautiful sight. The bride walked up to the white satin cushion on which the couple would kneel during the prayer, the maids and attendants made a semicircle around her, and then the nearest relatives. The old white-haired minister had married her mother.
Then there was kissing and congratulation and Mrs. Saltonstall had her new name, though Avis said she liked Manning a hundred times better.
"Then you wouldn't accept my name?" said Ed, but he looked laughingly at Cynthia.
"Indeed I wouldn't! I don't want any one's name at present. I'm going to be the only daughter of the house a while," she returned saucily.
"I wonder if I ought to go on and ask all the maids?" There was such a funny anxiety in his face that it added to the merriment.
"You needn't ask this one," said Ward Adams, and Cousin Lois Reade blushed scarlet, though they all knew she was engaged.
"But I'm going to dance with every maid. And just at twelve I'm going to hunt for a glass slipper."
His look at Cynthia said he needn't hunt very far, and she blushed, which made her more enchanting than before.
They all laughed and talked, the older men teasing the bride a little and giving her advice as to how she should break in her new husband. Young people's weddings were expected to be gay and every oneadded his or her mite. The fine new house was duly admired. On one side it was all one long room, beautifully decorated. On the other a library, for books were beginning to come in fashion, even if you were not a clergyman or a student. Then a kind of family sitting-room, with a large dining-room at the back. Some of the fine old houses were taken for public purposes later on.
They went out to refreshments and the bride cut the cake with a silver knife. Large suppers were no longer considered the style, but there was a bountiful supply of delicacies. They drank health and long life to the bride and groom, and good wishes of all kinds.
The black waiter, in white gloves and white apron, stood in the hall to deliver boxes of wedding cake as the older people took their departure. And then the fiddlers began to tune up. There were two minuets to take in all the party. Cynthia and Mr. Jordan were in the head one, with the bride. He was a little stiff and excused himself, as he wasn't much given to dancing. It didn't matter so much in the minuet.
Then they paired off any way. Mr. Ed Saltonstall caught Cynthia's hand.
"I'm just dying to dance with you, and this is the basket quadrille. Jordan dances like a pump handle, but he's a good fellow. Now let us have something worth while. I know you dance beautifully."
"How do you know?" piquantly.
"I'd like to be nautical and impertinent, but I'mafraid you'd report me to Mr. Leverett. Oh, it's in you, in every motion. Aren't you glad you didn't live in those old Puritan days when you would have been put in the stocks if you had skipped across the room? Come."
Thatwasdancing. Not a halt nor an ungraceful turn, but every curve and motion was as perfect as if they had danced together all their lives. She gave two or three happy sighs. Her cheeks were like the heart of a blush rose; she never turned very red when she ran or skipped, and never looked blowsy.
Another person watched and thought her the prettiest thing in the room, and was very glad she belonged to him.
"I'm sorry I have to dance with some one else and it's Lois Reade. Adams would like to kick me, I know, and she would be twice as happy with him. That is the price you pay for assisting your brother into matrimony. Next time there shall not be but one bridesmaid, and I'll dance with her all the evening."
"Next time? Will he be married twice?" she asked demurely.
"Oh, you witch! You are the most delicious dancer—it almost seems as if you were sipping some very fine wine——"
"And it went to your head," she laughed.
"Head and heels both. I'm extravagantly fond of it with a partner like you. You'll go to the assemblies this winter?"
"Oh, I don't know."
"Is Mr. Leverett very—he's your guardian, and somehow I stand just a little in awe of him. He is so polished, and knows so much, and is he going to be very exclusive?"
"Why——" She didn't quite understand, but she looked out of such lovely eyes that all his pulses throbbed.
"Take your places."
She was standing there alone when Mr. Adams asked her. That was only fair play. Mr. Saltonstall was in the same set and he gave her hand a squeeze when he took her, crumpled it all up in his, and she flushed daintily.
He could not dance with her again until the very last. That was a "circle" in which you balanced and turned your partner and went to the next couple, but some way you returned to your own. There were various pretty figures in it. Once or twice she was a little confused, but he seemed always on the watch for her.
The music stopped and the fiddlers were locking their cases. The dancers went out to the supper-room again.
"I'd rather dance than eat. I believe I could dance without music. Would you like to try?" he asked.
"Oh, no!" with a frightened look that made him laugh.
Mr. Leverett came, and Mr. Saltonstall was all polite deference. He wished he could be invited to call, but how was it to be managed?
Then Cynthia went upstairs to put on her cloak. The bride kissed her, and said she was glad to have had her, and when they gave their house-warming she must be sure to come.
"I've had such a lovely time. Thank you ever so much."
"I'm the obliged one," was the reply.
If she had not been in the carriage she must have danced all the way home. There was music in her head and a "spirit in her feet." She hardly heard what Cousin Chilian was saying, only after they entered the house and she slipped out of her wrap, with his good-night, he said, "You are a very pretty girl, Cynthia." Of course, he should have had more sense than to foster a girl's vanity.
The next morning she asked him about the assemblies.
"They are very nice dancing parties. Only the best people go and no sort of freedom or misbehavior is tolerated. I think I'll take out a membership."
"Oh, do, please do," she entreated.
The elegant wedding was talked of for days. Girls called on Miss Leverett—it seemed funny to be called that. She was asked to join a sewing society that made articles of clothing for the widows and children of drowned sailors, and there were many of them onthe New England coast. Her tender heart was moved by the pathetic tales she heard.
"Dear Cousin Eunice," she said one day, "I went with one of the committee to see a poor sick woman who is in awful destitution. There are three small children, and when she is well she goes out washing. They send her driftwood and old stuff from the ship-yards, and one of the companies pays her rent. But you should see the things! Such ragged quilts that hardly hold together, and one little boy was without stockings. There are so many things up in the garret that you will never use——"
"Likely, dear, but they are Chilian's."
"He said I might ask you, that he was willing. Can't we go up and find some? What is the use of their being piled up year after year, and people in need? Ah, if you could see the poor place!"
Miss Eunice went unwillingly. The thrift of New England did often shrivel into penuriousness. She and Elizabeth were in the habit of putting away so many partly worn articles for the time of need.
"Those old blankets and quilts——"
"Elizabeth thought they would do to cover over."
"But there are so many better ones. And some on the closet shelves that have never been used. Why, there is enough to last a hundred years."
"Oh, no;" with an alarmed expression.
"And even I shall not last a hundred years. No one does."
"Oh, yes. I knew a woman who lived to be one hundred and four."
"Did she come to want?"
"She had a good son to take care of her."
"And you have Cousin Chilian. I read somewhere in the Bible—I wish I could remember the chapters and verses, 'While we have time let us do good untoallmen.' I suppose that means those who haven't been frugal and careful, as well as the others."
"We can't tell just what every sentence means."
"But we can help them. And here is a poor woman who doesn't go to taverns;" smiling tenderly and with persuasive eyes.
They picked out enough for a wagon-load. Some of Cousin Chilian's clothes that would do to cut over, old woollen blankets, and a variety of articles.
"Let us put them all in this chest."
"We might need the chest."
"Oh, no, we won't. They will be so much easier to carry that way. Silas could drive down there. And, oh, you can't imagine how much good they will do."
Cynthia went down to see afterward, and the poor woman's gratitude brought tears to her eyes.
"They will be a perfect God-send this winter," she said. "I've been frettin' as to what we should do. I've never begged yet. Well, the Lord is good."
Then there came another source of interest. Polly Upham was "keeping company." A nice, steady young man in the ship-chandlery business, with alittle money saved up, whose folks lived at Portsmouth. He came regularly on Wednesday night and Sundays to tea. They went to church in the evening, and that certified it to the young people. Betty had left school and was trying her hand at housekeeping. Louis, the little fellow, was a big boy.
Alice Turner was engaged also, and certainly very much in love if she considered the young man a paragon. Cynthia compared them all with Cousin Chilian, and it wasn't a bit fair.
She met Mr. Saltonstall at a small party, where they played games and had forfeits.
It was odd, she thought, how the girls chose him in everything. She didn't choose him once. He spoke of it afterward.
"Why, I thought some of the others ought to have a chance," she explained with winning sweetness. "But if it had been dancing!" and she laughed, and that reconciled him.
Then Mrs. Lynde Saltonstall gave her house-warming. It was a simple dwelling and not very large, but it was pretty as a picture. And young people didn't expect to rival their fathers and mothers in the start.
They had dancing, and that was enough. They were all young people, and two of the fiddlers were there. They had a gay time and a nice supper.
"I think Ed is smitten with Cynthia Leverett," Laura remarked to her husband. "He seemed to feelannoyed that they had sent Miss Winn in the carriage for her. She's a lovely dancer."
"It wouldn't be a bad thing for Ed. She has lots of money that just turns itself over on interest. And her trustee has been buying up some choice Boston property for her. She's pretty and has charming manners and comes of a good family."
Then Mrs. Stevens asked her to come in to Boston for a few days. She was going to have a little dancing party.
"My dear, you'll dance yourself to death," said Cousin Eunice.
"Oh, no. It isn't as hard as cleaning house or washing, as some of the poor women do. And it is tiresome to practise on the spinet, hour after hour—counting time and all that. If I was a girl of twenty years ago I'm afraid I should be chasing up and down some old garret, spinning on the big wheel."
Cousin Eunice laughed, too. Cynthia always made commonplaces seem amusing, she accented them so with her bright face.
They were very glad to have her in Boston. Chilian took her in on Saturday and staid with her until Monday morning. On Sunday Anthony Drayton was invited in to dinner. He had improved very much. The country air had been effaced. And he was a gentleman by instinct, and acquired cultivation readily.
"And a fine fellow!" said Cousin Giles, rubbing his hands. "He's decided to go in for law presently,and it will be a most excellent thing. I don't know but I'll have to adopt him, as you did Cynthia."
Anthony hovered about the young girl. She had been cultivating her voice the last year. It was a sweet parlor voice, adapted to the old-time songs. Mrs. Stevens had a book of them and she sang most cheerfully.
"Oh, I wish you were going to stay over another Sunday," he exclaimed wistfully. "But I shall come in on Tuesday evening. I don't dance, but Mrs. Stevens is so kind to me, I've met several of the first men in the city here."
"Oh, I am glad you are coming."
It was a very sincere joy and she could not keep it out of her face, did not try to. And it was such a sweet face that she raised to his. He had a sudden unreasonable wish that he was five years older and settled in business, but then—she was very young.
Mrs. Stevens said to her on Monday, after she had read a note over and glanced up at her rather furtively, "There's a friend of yours coming Tuesday night—a friend from Salem that I hope you will be glad to see."
"From Salem——"
"Mr. Saltonstall. He was in here a fortnight or so ago. His mother and I used to be great friends. I happened to ask him if he knew the Leveretts, and he told me about his brother's marriage, that you were one of the bridesmaids."
"Oh, yes. Laura Manning was one of the older girls at Madam Torrey's. They had just gone in their new house and the wedding was splendid. And I liked Mr. Edward Saltonstall so much. He is a most beautiful dancer. I'm so glad he is coming. You see I don't know many of the new dances, and I shouldn't so much mind making a break with him."
She looked up in her sweet, brave innocence as she uttered it.
"You are not in love with him, little lady, and he is very much smitten with you," Mrs. Stevens ruminated. "But you shall have the chance."
"I've always liked Ed," she continued. "He's a nice, frank, honest fellow, pretty gay at times, but not at all in the dissipated line, just full of fun and frolic. So I asked him down, and here he says he will come," waving her note. "I look out for men who dance. I do like to see young folks have a good time. The older people can play cards."
It seemed rather odd that at eight o'clock not a soul had come. At home they would be beginning the fun by this time. Then a sudden influx of girls, some she had met before—two or three young men—and then young Saltonstall, who had been counting the moments the last half hour.
"I am so glad to see you. It was such a surprise."
He could see it in her face, hear it in her voice. He really was afraid of saying something foolish—something that would be no harm if they were alone.
"I've known Mrs. Stevens a long while. And Mr. Giles Leverett. It's queer—well, not quite that either—that I've known you such a little while. I always thought of you as a child, though I've seen you drive your pony carriage."
"Mrs. Stevens is delightful."
Then there was another relay, quite a number of young gentlemen. The black fiddlers in the hall began to tune up.
There were two very handsome girls and beautifully gowned. All of them looked pretty in dancing attire. Then a quadrille was called. There were just eight couples.
Of course, Mr. Saltonstall took her. The rug was up and the floor had been polished. The dancing was elegant, harmonious.
"The next is the Spanish dance. You will like that. The windings about are like the song words to the music."
"But—I don't know it;" and she shrank back.
"Oh, you'll get into it. You are the kind that could pick up any step. You make me think of a swallow as it darts round. If it made a mistake no one would know it."
"Oh, I'd rather not;" entreatingly.
"Don't spoil the set."
She rose up and let him lead her out. She had a way of yielding so quickly, when it was right and best, very flattering to a man in love and easily misread.
If dancing had been art instead of nature, something by rote instead of a segment of inner harmony, she could not have succeeded so well. He warded off the few blunders, and at the third change she had another well-bred partner. But she was glad to get back to him. The joy shone in her dangerous eyes.
There were some new dances coming in. One of the girls from New York and her escort waltzed up and down the room in a slow-gliding manner that was the poetry of motion. She was fascinated, enchanted, and she knew she could do it herself.
"We'll try it sometime," Saltonstall said.
Mr. Leverett came in, bringing Anthony Drayton with him. He knew he was late, but he didn't dance, and he had earned five dollars copying that evening. But he must see Cynthia.
"Oh, I thought you would not come!"
Then she had been giving a thought to him out of her happy time!
"I was detained. Are they all well, or didn't Cousin Chilian come down?"
"Oh, no."
They were being marshalled out to supper.
"You'll have to content yourself with me," said Mrs. Stevens to Anthony, and he accepted smilingly. But she placed Cynthia next, so he could have a little talk with her. He was getting on so well, and she was glad for him.
Some one wanted Miss Tracy to waltz again. Thenthey had a galop, and the party broke up. Anthony said good-night, and that he was coming up on Saturday. Then Saltonstall drew her into a little nook in the hall that made a connection with another room when it was open. Mrs. Stevens had smiled over its uses.
"Cynthia, my darling, I must tell you this," and his voice seemed to throb with emotion. "I want the right to come and visit you as lovers have, for I love you, love you! I am coming to see Mr. Leverett and ask his permission. I do nothing but dream of you day and night. You are the sweetest, dearest——"
"Oh, don't! don't!" She struggled in the clasp. "Oh, I can't—I——" and he felt her slight body tremble, so he loosed it.
"Forgive me. I wanted you to know so no one can take you from me. I want to see you often. Oh, love, good-night, good-night!"
He pressed a rapturous kiss upon her hand and was gone. She slipped through to the dining-room and took a glass of water.
"You look tired to death, little country girl," said Uncle Giles, and he kissed her on the forehead.
"Take me home with you, Cousin Chilian," she pleaded, when he came in the next day.
"But I thought"—he studied her in surprise.
"I want to go home," she interrupted, and her under lip had a quiver in it that would have disarmed almost any one, persuaded as well.
"Why, yes. Didn't you enjoy the party?" He felt suddenly at loss, he was not used to translating moods with all his knowledge.
"Oh, it was delightful! And some such pretty girls. There were new dances. And Mrs. Stevensischarming. Anthony came over a little while."
In spite of inducements held out, she would go. Cousin Giles was almost cross about it.
"I'm so glad to get back," she said to Rachel. "One feels so safe here."
"Was there any danger?" laughed the elder.
Cynthia's face was scarlet. It wasn't danger exactly, but she felt better under Cousin Chilian's wing. And she was her bright gay self all the evening.
But how to get her story told? For if Mr. Saltonstall came and asked for her company, as they termed it then, and not being warned, he should consent——
They sat by the study fire. It had turned out cold and cloudy, with indications of snow. He had a lamp near him on the small table, and read and thought, as his glance wandered dreamily over the leaping flashing blue and yellow flames. If it stormed for one or two days, she could not have come home.
She rose presently and came and stood by him, laid her hand lightly on his shoulder. She was a young lady now, and it was hardly proper to draw her down on his knee.
"Cousin Chilian;" hesitatingly.
"Well, dear?" in an inquiring tone.
"There is something I ought to tell you, and I want to ask you—to—to do—oh, I hardly know how to say it. Mr. Saltonstall came down; he and Mrs. Stevens are old friends——"
Ah, he knew now. This young man had dared to invade the virginal sweetness of her soul, to trouble the quiet stream of girlhood. He was roused, strangely angry, for all his placid temperament.
"I couldn't help it—just before he went away—and I couldn't have dreamed of such a thing——"
Then she hid her head down on his shoulder and cried.
"Dear—my dear little girl—oh, yes, it would have to happen sometime. And—he loves you."
"Oh, that isn't the worst;" illogically, between her sobs. "He is coming to ask you if he may—and I don't want him to come that way. I just want it as it was before. Polly Upham can't think or talk of anything but her intended, and it gets tiresome. He doesn't seem so very wonderful to me. And wouldn't it weary you to hear me praising some one all the time?"
"I think it would," he answered honestly, yet with some confusion of mind.
"So I don't want it;" with more courage in her voice. "I want good times with them all. And I don't see how you can come to love any one all in a moment."
Was he hearing aright? Didn't she really want the young man for a lover? He was unreasonably, fatuously glad, and the pulses, that were chilled a moment ago, seemed to race hot through his body.
"It was not quite marriage?" a little huskily.
"He wanted to ask if he might have the right to come, and he said he loved me, and, oh, I am afraid——"
She was trembling. He could feel it where she leaned against him. He took sudden courage.
"And you do not want him to come in that way? It would most likely lead to an engagement. And then I should have to listen to his praises continually. Yes, it would be rather hard on me;" and he laughed with a humorous sound.
It heartened her a good deal. She was smiling now herself, but there were tears on her cheek.
"And you won't mind telling him; that is notverymuch, that——"
"I think you are too young to decide such a grave matter, Cynthia," he began seriously. "And you ought to have a glad, sweet youth. There is no reason why you should rush into marriage. You have a pleasant home with those that love you——"
"And I don't want to go away. I feel as if I would like to live here always. You are so good and indulgent, and Cousin Eunice is so nice, now that she doesn't seem afraid of any one. Were we all afraid of Cousin Elizabeth? And we have such nice talks. She tells me about the old times and what queer thoughts people had, and how hard they were. And about girls whose lovers went away to sea and never came back, and how they watched and waited, and sometimes we cry over them. And the house is so cheerful, and I can have all the flowers I want, and friends coming in, and, oh, I shall never want to go away, because I shall never love any one as well as you."
That was very sweet, but it was a girl's innocence, and her face did not change color in the admission.
"Well, I will explain the matter to Mr. Saltonstall. I am glad you told me, otherwise I should hardly have known your wishes on the subject. And now we willgo on having good times together, and count out lovers."
"Yes, yes." She gave his hand a squeeze and was her own happy self, not feeling half as sorry for the man who would come to be denied as he did.
It snowed furiously the next morning, and sullenly the day after. Then it was cold, and she said half a dozen times a day she was so glad she came home.
She did not see Mr. Saltonstall when he called, and she really did miss him at two little companies. Then she wondered if she oughtn't give one, she had gone to so many.
"Why, yes," Cousin Chilian answered. She might have turned the house upside down so long as she was going to stay in it.
Then she wondered if she ought to invitehim. Mrs. Lynde and she were very good friends, and she should ask Avis, of course. They spoke—they were not ill friends.
Chilian considered. "Yes, I think I would," he made answer.
They had a merry time and danced on the beautiful rugs, and had a fine supper. And Mr. Saltonstall was glad to be friends. Shewasyoung and presently she might think of lovers. He would try and keep his chance good.
Anthony came nowand then and spent a Sunday with them. He loved to hear Cousin Chilian read Greek verses, but the pretty love odes seemed to meanCynthia, and he used to watch her. Then Ben Upham was a visitor as well, and used to play checkers with her, as that was considered quite a good exercise for one's brains.
Polly would be married in the spring, Alice Turner in June. The Turners were always besieging her for a two or three days' visit, and the Turner young men hovered round her. She never seemed to do anything, she never demanded attention, but when she glanced up at them, or smiled, they followed her as the children did the Pied Piper. She might have led them into dangerous places, but she was very simple of heart. Yet the danger was alluring to them.
Polly came to her for a good deal of counsel. When there were two patterns of sleeves, which should she take?
"Why, I'd have the India silk made with this and the English gingham with that—you see it will iron so much easier. Miss Grayson does up the puffs on a shirring cord, then you can let them out in the washing."
"That's a fine idea. You do have such splendid ideas, Cynthy."
"They are mostly Rachel Winn's," laughed the young girl.
They had a capable woman in the kitchen now. Cynthia should have been mastering the high art of housekeeping, people thought, instead of running about so much and driving round in the pony carriage withMiss Winn, or a girl companion. Of course, there was plenty of money, but one never quite knew what would happen.
John Loring was building his house as people who could did in those days. They would not be able to finish it all inside, and there was a nook left for an addition when they needed it. Polly was to have some of grandmother's furniture, and John's mother would provide a little. Corner cupboards were quite a substitute in those days for china closets, and window-seats answered for chairs. But there was bedding and napery, and no one thought of levying on friends. Relatives looked over their stock and bestowed a few articles. Cynthia thought of the stores in the old house and wished she might donate them. She did pick out some laces from her store, and two pretty scarfs, one of which Polly declared would be just the thing to trim her wedding hat, which was of fine Leghorn. So she would only have to buy the feather.
They haunted the stores and occasionally picked up a real bargain. Even at that period shoppers did not throw their money broadcast.
"Cynthia Leverett is the sweetest girl I know," Polly said daily, and Bentley was of the same opinion.
They were to stand at the wedding.
"And I want you to wear that beautiful frock that you had when Laura Manning was married. I shall only have two bridesmaids, you and Betty, but I want you to look your sweetest."
And surely she did. They had a very nice wedding party and the next day Polly went to her own house and had various small tea-drinkings, and she arranged them for Saturday so Bentley could come up. They were wonderfully good friends, but Cynthia felt as if she had outgrown him. In her estimation he was just a big friendly boy that one could talk to familiarly. Anthony was more backward in the laughter and small-talk.
Then there was the college degree. There was no such great fuss made over commencement then, no grand regattas, no inter-collegiate athletics, for it was a rather serious thing to begin a young man's life and look forward to marriage.
He went straight to Mr. Chilian. It was the proper thing to be fortified with the elders' consent. Of course, he would not marry in some time yet, but if he could be her "company" and speak presently—they had been such friends.
Chilian studied the honest young fellow, whose face was in a glow of hope. So young to dream of love and plan for the future!
"You are both too young;" and his voice had a bit of sharpness in it. "Cynthia is not thinking of such things."
"But onecanthink of them. They begin somehow and go into your very life. I believe I've loved her a long while."
"I think neither of you really know what love is.No, I cannot consent to it. I want her to go on having a good free time without any anxiety. I have some right to her, being her guardian."
"But—I will wait—I didn't mean to ask her immediately."
"We are going on a journey presently. I cannot have her disturbed with this. No, your attention must be devoted to business for the next two years."
He drew a long breath. "But you don't mean I must break off—everything?" and there was an unsteadiness in his voice.
"Oh, no. Not if you can keep to the old friendliness."
Then Chilian Leverett dropped into his easy-chair and thought. The child had grown very dear to him, she was a gift from her father. A tumultuous, uncomprehended pain wrenched his very soul. To live without her—to miss her everywhere! To have lonely days, longer lonely evenings when the dreariness of winter set in. And yet she had a right to the sweet, rich draught of love. But she did not need it amid all the pleasures of youth. Let her have two or three years, even if it was blissful thoughtlessness. But he must put her on her guard. A young fellow soon changed his mind. The old couplet sang itself in his brain: