"If she be not fair for me,What care I how fair she be?"
Did he get over his early love and forget? We all say, "But ours was different."
How to find the right moment? Ben did not come over. She was very busy with this friend and that, youth finds somanyinterests. But one evening, when they were sitting on the porch in the moonlight, the young fellow walked slowly along, glanced at them, halted.
She flew down to the gate.
"Oh, Ben, what has happened?" she cried, the most bewitching anxiety in her face. "Why, you have not been in—for weeks."
"Not quite two weeks." Had it seemed so long to her? To him it had been months.
"Oh, come in. Cousin Chilian will be glad to see you."
The radiant cordiality in her face unnerved him.
"And you?" Yes, he must know.
"Do you have to ask that question?"
The sweet, dangerous eyes said too much, but the smile was that of amusement.
So they walked up the path together. Mr. Leverett greeted him in a friendly manner.
"I thought I ought to come in and say good-bye. I'm going off on some business for father, and may not be back for several weeks."
"That sounds as if you needed an apology for coming at all," she commented with half-resentful gayety.
He flushed and made no immediate reply.
"And we are going to take a journey as well. Up somewhere in Maine. Mr. Giles Leverett insists we shall, for our health, but I think it is our delightful company. He has to go to look after a large estate where some people think of founding a town. Isn't it funny?" and she gave her bewitching laugh that was like the notes of silver bells, soft, yet clear. "They must go off and build up new places. And some people are going West, as if there wasn't room here. Have you noticed that we are overcrowded?"
"Well, sometimes along the docks it looks that way."
"I like a good many people. Often Merrits' is crowded, and it's funny to catch bits of sentences. And at Plummer's as well. Did you ever read right across the paper, one line in each column, and notice the odd and twisted-up sense it made? That's about the way it sounds."
How bright and charming she was! Ben could not keep his eyes from her radiant face. Was she really a coquette, Chilian wondered. Yet she was so simple with it all, so seemingly careless of the effect. That was the danger of it.
He lingered like one entranced. Poor young lad! Chilian began to feel sorry for him.
She walked down to the gate with him, and hoped they would have a nice time when autumn came, if he meant to stay in Salem.
A young man not in love would have called her abright, merry, chatty girl. He went away with the consciousness that she liked him very much. Chilian asked her if she did.
She glanced up wonderingly.
"Why—he is nice, and being Polly's brother makes it—well, more familiar. Then we can talk about Anthony. I believe he didn't like him much at first, but he does now."
Oh, how could he put her on her guard! She was not dreaming of love. Saltonstall's fancy had died out—no doubt this would, too. Lad's love. Was it worth ruffling up the sunny artlessness? But he would watch the young men closer now that he knew the danger line.
He said simply to himself that he could not give her up to any one else so soon. There would be a long life of joy and satisfaction to her, and he knew she would not grudge him these few years. Then, too, he was quite certain she had not even had an imaginary fancy for these two men—Ben was nothing but a boy.
Anthony Drayton was to join them. Miss Winn was to be Cynthia's companion. Mrs. Stevens had refused to trust her precious self to any wilds, and bear and wolf hunts, though Mr. Giles declared they were not going to take guns along. He was not an enthusiastic hunter. As for Chilian, such sport did not attract him.
The journey was partly by stage, partly on horseback, and one or two days they left the ladies at thetavern where they stopped. Cynthia was charmed and amused at the uncouthness of the people and their dialect in some places, and positive good breeding in others. Anthony unearthed a college chum who was tally man at a sawmill. The new town was really making progress. A small chapel had been started, a schoolhouse built. And twenty years later it was a pretty town; in fifty years an enterprising city.
"Anthony's going to be a first-class fellow. I should like to have such a son. Chilian, you and I should have married and have sons and daughters growing up. But at my time of life I should want them grown up. And smart, as well. I always feel sorry for the fathers of dull lads, when they have plenty of means to educate them. Yes, I should want mine to have a good supply of brains."
Chilian Leverett enjoyed the change very much and the breath of spruce and pine was invigorating. But there was a little nervous feeling about Cynthia. Cousin Giles was somewhat of a lady's man, and he was on the continual lookout that Cynthia should not tire herself unduly, that she be assisted over the rough places, that she should have the best of everything. He was almost jealous at times.
But Cynthia moved about gayly, serenely, full of merry little quips, seizing the small ridiculous events with such a sense of amusement that she inspirited them all. And he could not notice that she paid any more attention to Anthony than either of her seniors.There was such a genuine frankness in all she said and did, a charm of manner that was just herself, and had none of the arts of society, but came from a heart that overflowed with spontaneous warmth, but was not directed to any particular person.
Cousin Giles declared he was sorry to get back to Boston. He could not remember when he had enjoyed such a good time. Then in a business way it had been a success, which added to his satisfaction.
They really had to stay in Boston one night. They would fain have kept Cynthia for a week, but she said she was tired of just changing from one frock to another, and longed for more variety.
"And I'm so glad to get back home again," she cried delightedly. "I've had a splendid time, and I like Anthony ever so much. Cousin Giles was so nice and fatherly. He ought to adopt Anthony and give him his name, and that would always make me think of father. But after all, home is best. Oh, suppose I was a waif, just being handed from one to another!"
She looked frightened with the imaginary lot. She expressed emotions so easily.
"You couldn't have been;" hoarsely.
"Cousin Chilian, if you had not been in the world, or if you hadn't been willing to take me—I don't think father knew much about Cousin Giles—why, I must have gone to strangers."
There were tears in her eyes, and a sweet melancholy in her voice.
She had so much to tell Cousin Eunice that it seemed really as if she had taken the journey with them. She put on Jane's faded gingham sunbonnet and gave her voice a queer nasal twang, and talked as some of the women did up there in the wilderness, who thought a city "must be an awfully crowdy place an' she jes' didn't see how people managed to live in it. An' as fer the sea, give her dry land every time."
Then she talked the French-English patois of the emigrants from Canada, and told of their funny attire, and their log huts, sometimes with only one big room, with a stone chimney in the centre, and sawed logs for seats.
"They did that in Salem nigh on to two hundred years ago," said Cousin Eunice.
"How much people do learn by living," remarked the little girl sagely.
Then the olden round began. Being asked out to tea and inviting in return, sewing bees, quilting parties when some girl was making an outfit. And though the elders shook their heads at such a waste of time, they went out to walk in the afternoon and stopped in the shops that were making a show on Essex Street and Federal Street. There was Miss Rust's pretty millinery parlor—it had a sofa in the front room and a table with an embroidered cover that Cynthia had sent her. They talked of new styles and colors, and were aghast at the thought that royalty sometimes had as many as twenty hats and bonnets. She made prettyold lady caps as well, and she did love to hear the young girls chatter. And Molly Saunders was still baking gingerbread, that had delighted them as school children, and no one made such good spruce and sassafras beer.
One evening at a dance she had a great surprise. Some one said, "Miss Cynthia Leverett, Mr. Marsh."
A rather tall, ruddy, good-looking fellow, with laughing eyes and an unmistakable sailor air, held her dainty hand and studied her face.
"Oh, you don't know me!" in the jolliest of tones. "And I should know you if you had been cast ashore on a rocky island and I were looking at you through a spyglass. You haven't changed in the main, only to grow prettier. You were a poor pale little thing then."
"Oh, I can't think!" She flushed and smiled. Something in the hearty voice won her.
"At Dame Wilby's school. And the bad boy who sat behind you—Tommy Marsh."
"Oh! oh! And that day I sat on the floor!" She laughed gayly. She did not mind it a bit now.
"Wasn't it funny? And the way you just sat still with the school in an uproar. You standing up there and 'sassing' back the old dame! Such a mite of a thing, too. My! but you were a plucky one!" in admiration. "And you never came to school after that. I ought to get down on my knees and beg your pardonfor the sly pinches I gave you, and the times I tweaked your curly hair. I've half a mind to do it."
"Oh, no!" and she made a funny gesture of alarm, and both laughed.
"And I've been over there to India, where you came from, and found some people who knew your father. I've been to sea seven years, three on this last cruise, and when theVixenis repaired and refitted I'm going out again as first mate. One of these days I shall be a captain."
How proud and strong he looked. Why, one couldn't help liking him.
"I wonder if I might dance with you?"
"Oh, do you dance? I thought sailors—and there are no girls——" and she blushed at her incoherence.
"I think we do a little. Where did you get the Sailor's Hornpipe from? We're sorry about not having girls, but we make it answer. And when you get in the doldrums, or becalmed, it stirs up your blood. Oh, they are taking their places."
Ben was in the same quadrille. Every time he touched her hand he gave it a pressure that made her cheeks rosier. Altogether it was a delightful evening.
Cousin Chilian came for her. He had found she preferred it.
"Oh, Cousin Chilian, I've had such a funny adventure. Perhaps you can recall the little boy I really hated that week I went to the dame's school. Well, he is a nice big fellow now, and we had a talk, and hehas been to Calcutta and seen people who knew father. I want him to come so we can have a good long talk, and won't you ask him? You'll like him, I know. I'll find him and bring him to you, and you can ask him to come while I'm putting on my things."
She hunted him up and he was very pleased to meet Mr. Leverett. She gave them quite a while, for she was chatting with the girls about some weddings on the tapis.
She gave Mr. Marsh her hand and a smile that would have set almost any masculine heart beating. It must have been born with her, though it was pitifully appealing in the childhood days. Now the true, sweet nature shone through it, lending it a fascinating radiance.
Mr. Leverett said he should be glad to have him call while he was in port, and the young man thanked him and said he should give himself the pleasure.
"And when he does come," said the little lady in her half-coaxing, half-imperious way, "can't we have him up in the study? You see, it does very well for half a dozen of us to be down in the parlor, but it gets kind of stiff and not cheerful with just one. And you'll like to talk to him."
He assented readily. Ben always came up in the study, though now he would rather have been alone with Cynthia. There were some things he meant to say, if he ever had a chance, in spite of youth and guardianship.
Mr. Marsh did not lose much time considering. The very next week he called.
They found him a nice, agreeable, well-informed young man, a true sailor lad, and like many a Yankee boy, he kept adding to his stock of knowledge where-ever he went. He had drawn some useful charts of seaports and islands he knew about, their products and climates, and really his descriptions were as good as a geography.
"There's no doubt Salem has the lead in the foreign trade, but we're going to be pushed hard the next few years. Other cities have found out the profit in it. But we've some of the best captains, and that's what I mean to be myself."
At Calcutta they still held a warm remembrance of Captain Anthony Leverett. And Marsh thought it quite a wonderful thing that the little girl had gone back and forth and braved all the perils. He told them of a pirate ship they had once battled with and the rich stores they had taken from her. The prisoners had been left on an island.
"But—how would they get to their homes?" she asked.
"Oh, that wasn't our lookout. They'd have done the same thing to us if they could, maybe worse. Occasionally vessels are wrecked, and sometimes it is months before a ship goes that way and sees their signal."
Yes, she was glad nothing of the kind had happenedto her. And Chilian, watching the little shiver, gave thanks also.
Thomas Marsh enjoyed these evenings wonderfully. He was always glancing at Cynthia to see if what he said met with her approval. It seemed so strangely sweet to be thrilled at the tones of her voice and the touch of her hand. And when she looked up and smiled, the blood surged to his brain. He was quite a favorite with the girls, but no other one had that power over him.
Of course, they met here and there at the different companies—he never went unless she was sure to be there, and if he asked she answered frankly. Cousin Chilian took her down to see theVixen, which was nearly ready for her new cruise. He was very proud of her, so was Captain Langfelt, and they had some tea in the cabin. But some sudden knowledge came to Chilian Leverett, and he was sincerely glad the young man was going away.
The evening Thomas Marsh came in to say good-bye, she was alone.
"You'll find Miss Cynthia up in the study," said Jane, and thither he went two steps at a time. She had on a soft gown, and he thought she looked like some lovely flower as she rose to greet him.
"I believe we are to sail to-morrow. Stores and cargo are all in, and now the captain is in haste to be off. Come down about eleven in the morning and wish me God-speed, a safe journey, and a happy return."
"Yes. We were talking of it to-day. Oh, I hope you will have all, though a great many things happen in three years." Neither of them, indeed no one, could have predicted what was to happen in those eventful three years.
They discussed the pleasant times, the girls and boys who had grown up and married during the whole seven years of his absence. Oh, how sweet and pretty she was! He envied the boys like Bentley Upham and two or three others who had business at home—but no, he never could have been anything but a sailor.
Then he rose to go. He stood holding her hand and the red and white kept flitting over her face, her eyes were so soft and dark. They would haunt him many a night on the deck.
"It's best that I am going so soon," he began in a rather tremulous voice. "Do you remember what your uncle was reading the other day about the man who wanted to be lashed to the mast when they passed the Syrens? It would be that way with me if I staid much longer. I—I wouldn't be able to help loving you, and I doubt whether it would be a good thing for either of us. I've tried all along to keep it to a plain, honest like, but I know now it is more than that. I shall take away with me the remembrance of the sweetest girl in all the world, and I have no right to spoil her life. But sometimes maybe you'll think of a far-away lad, who sends you his love and the best wishes for your happiness with the man you will love best of all."
Then he pressed her hand to his lips and went slowly down the stairs. She heard the door shut. And, foolish girl, she sat down and cried, and there Cousin Chilian found her, and had to listen and absolve.
"No," he said, "it would not do for you to have a sailor lad. Your tender heart would break with the anxiety. He's a nice, upright fellow, and he will never shirk a duty. But you——" What should he say to her?
"I want to stay here. Oh, I wonder if you will like me when I get as old as Cousin Eunice, and the world will change and improve and I shall be queer and old-fashioned?"
He held her in his arms, but he was shocked to find what was in his own heart.
Avis Manning's "Company" was one of the events of the season. She was a full-fledged young lady, and knowing she could have her choice of the young men of Salem, was rather difficult to capture. She and her brother-in-law were very good friends, but not lovers. And Laura, who knew where his fancy lay, counselled him to go slowly, though she was quite sure he would win in the end.
"You see, she is like a child to Mr. Chilian Leverett, and he is loath to part with her. But all girls do marry sooner or later, and he isn't selfish enough to want her to stay single. If he was not so much older he might marry her—they are not own cousins, you know."
"He marry her! Why, he's getting to be quite an old man," and there was a touch of disdain in his tone. "But there's half a dozen others——"
"It's queer, but she isn't a flirt. She's one of the sweetest of girls—she was, at school. And with her fortune she might hold herself high. They say the Boston trustee has doubled some of it that he invested."
"I wish she hadn't a cent!" the young man flung out angrily.
"Well, money is not to be despised. She'll get a little tired by and by, and long for a home and children of her own, as we all do. And if you haven't found any one else——"
"I never shall find any one like her;" gloomily.
"Oh, there are a great many nice girls in the world."
Avis knew all the best people in Salem, it was not so large, after all. And they came to the beautiful house and made merry, played "guessing words"—what we call charades, quite a new thing then—and it made no end of merriment. Of course, Cynthia was in them, was arch and piquant, and delighted the audience. Then they had supper and more dancing. One of the Turner boys, Archibald, hovered about Cynthia like a shadow. There was Ben Upham, but Edward Saltonstall warded them off to her satisfaction. But Bella Turner was shortly to be married, and Archie would have her for that evening surely.
She and Mr. Saltonstall were very good friends. He was a little older than the others, and grown wary by experience. But it was queer that half a dozen girls were pulling straws for him and here was one who did not care, would not raise a finger, but, oh, how sweet her smiles were.
"If you are a bridesmaid the third time, you will never be a bride," said some of the wiseacres.
Cynthia tossed her proud, dainty head and laughed over it to Cousin Chilian. He looked a little grave.
"Would you mind if I were an old maid? Iwouldn't really beoldin a long while, you know. And you will always want some one. If anything should happen to Cousin Eunice, how lonely you would be."
"Yes, if you went away."
"I don't care for any of them very much. I like Mr. Saltonstall the best. He isn't quite so young, so—so sort of impetuous. And the boys get jealous."
Then it was likely to be Mr. Saltonstall, after all! Was he going to be narrow and mean enough to keep her out of what was best in a woman's life? But he looked down the dreary years without her. He could not attach himself to the world of business as Cousin Giles did. Some of these young fellows might come into a sort of sonship with him—there was Anthony Drayton.
Why was it his soul protested against them? He did not understand the deep underlying dissent that made a cruel discordance in his desire for her happiness.
Mr. Saltonstall walked home from church with her and Miss Winn. And he came in one evening to ask some advice. He had cudgelled his brain for days to find just the right subject. That ended, they had a talk about chess—that was becoming quite an interest in some circles. There were several moves that puzzled him.
"Come in some evening and talk them over," said Mr. Leverett.
Edward Saltonstall wondered at the favor of the gods and accepted. Not as if he was in any vulgar hurry, but he dropped in, politely social, and asked if he should disturb them. Chilian had been reading Southey's "Thalaba."
"Oh, no. We often read in the evening," said Cynthia.
She was netting a bead bag, an industry all the rage then among the women. They really were prettier than the samplers. But she rose and brought the box of chessmen, while he rolled the table from its corner.
"Will I disturb you if I stay?" she asked.
"Not unless it interferes with Mr. Saltonstall's attention," said Chilian, then bit his lip.
"Oh, I do not think it will;" smilingly.
"You are very good to bother with a tyro. I'd like to be able to play a good game. Father is so fond of it, and Lynde seldom comes in nowadays—family cares;" laughingly.
They led off very well. Saltonstall was wise enough to try his best, though out of one eye he watched the dainty fingers threading in and out among the colored beads, and could not help thinking he would rather be holding them and pressing kisses on the soft white hand. Then he made a wrong play.
"We may as well turn back," said Mr. Leverett, "since the question at stake is not winning, but improving."
"You are very good," returned the young man meekly.
This time they went on a little further, but the result was the same. So with the third game.
"Of course, I could let you win," Mr. Leverett began, "but that wouldn't conduce to the real science of the game which a good player desires. But you do very well for a young man. I should keep on, if I were you."
"And annoy you with my shortcomings?"
"Oh, it will not be annoyance, truly. Come in when you feel like it."
"Thank you." Then he said good-night in a friendly, gentlemanly manner, and Cynthia rose and bowed.
After that she gathered up her work and said good-night. Chilian sat and thought. Edward Saltonstall was a nice, steady young fellow; that is, he neither gamed, nor drank, nor went roystering round in the taverns jollying with the sailors, as some of the sons of really good families did. He would not have all his fortune to make, and his father's business was well established. The sons would take it. The two daughters were well married. What more could he ask for Cynthia? She was not so young now and would know her own mind.
Yet it gave his heart a sharp, mysterious wrench, a longing for what he was putting away, the essence of the solemn ideals of love that run through the intricate meshes of the human soul. He knew that he loved her, that he wanted her for his very own, and his conscience told him it was not right. Of all her admirers he liked this one the best. Under other circumstances he would have considered him an admirable young man.
Saltonstall dropped in now and then, not too often. He did not mean to startle any one with his purpose, but to let it grow gradually. Still, at the last assembly of the season, his attentions were somewhat pronounced. It was partly her doings, she was sheltering herself from other rather warm indications.
A few days later she went over to Polly Loring's with her work. Polly's bag had somehow gone wrong. Cynthia had to cut the thread and ravel out a round. The baby was to be admired as well as the chair seat Polly had begun in worsted work, which was the new accomplishment. And they talked over various matters: who had new gowns, new lovers, and new babies. But every time she came almost to the subject so near her heart, Cynthia made an elusive detour. Then she ventured out straight with her question.
"Cynthia, are you going to take Ed Saltonstall?"
Cynthia's face was scarlet.
"He hasn't asked me, he hasn't even asked Cousin Chilian," but her voice was not quite steady.
"How do you know? It was talked of at the assembly—the two men were a good deal together. And if you don't mean anything, Cynthia, you'll get yourself gossiped about, and you'll spoil some lives," declared Polly spiritedly. This thing had been seething in her mind, and she was going to have it out at the risk of breaking friendship.
"I don't want to spoil any one's life. And I've never really kept company with any one."
The keeping company was the great test. When the young man came steady one night in the week, to Sunday tea, and went to church with the girl alone, the matter was as good as declared.
"But—well, I don't know how you've done it, but they hang about you and it does upset them. First it's one, then it's another. You ought to know. You ought to settle upon one and let the others alone."
Polly had acquired a good deal of married wisdom, and she really did love Cynthia. Ben loved her, too.
"But suppose I didn't want any of them?" and Cynthia tried to laugh, but it was a poor shadowy attempt.
"Oh, nonsense! You don't mean to be an old maid. No girl does. But it is time you stopped playing fast and loose with hearts. Now there's Ben. You know he's loved you this long while. And we all like you so. Last fall he quite gave up and went to see Jenny Willing. She'll make a good wife and she's a nice girl, though she hasn't your fortune. Mother's been trying to make him believe that you are looking higher."
"Oh, Polly—I never scarcely think of my fortune," Cynthia interrupted, her face full of distressful color.
"Well, I'm not saying that you do. Ben's gettingalong first-rate. He has a college degree and father isn't poor. I know several girls who would jump at a chance for him. Of course, we wouldallrather have you. Then at Avis Manning's party you gave him the sweetest of your smiles, and lured him back."
Oh, she recalled it with a kind of shame. It was to keep off Archie Turner and Mr. Saltonstall. And then for a while he had grown troublesome. If they could be merely friends!
"The thing is just here, Cynthia. I know I'm speaking plainly and you may get angry. If you don't want Ben, let him alone. A young man begins to think of a home and a wife of his own, and when he likes a girl very much—yes, I will say it, she can make or mar. She can take him away from some other nice girl. And people now are beginning to say you are a flirt. I think Jenny will make Ben a nice wife, and if you don't want him——"
"Oh, Polly, I don't want any of them. You can't think how delightful life is with Cousin Chilian. I couldn't be as happy anywhere else, or with any other person. I can't make myself fall in love as all of you girls have, and think this one or that one perfect. Something must be wrong with me. And I'm very sorry. I'm not a bit jealous when they take to other girls. Why, I'd be glad to be Jenny's bridesmaid if she wanted me to."
Cynthia paused and mopped the tears from her cheeks. Polly was a little subdued. Cynthia was taking this so meekly. But she said rather spitefully, "You had better marry Mr. Leverett."
Ah, Polly, it was a dangerous seed to fling at a young girl. And it dropped on a bit of out of the way fruitful soil.
Cynthia rose quietly. She was very pale. She began to roll up her work.
"Now I think you can go on with it," she said. "If you get in trouble again, let me know."
Then the two friends looked at each other until the tears came into their eyes.
"I'm very sorry," murmured Cynthia in a broken voice.
"But you see——"
"Yes. I understand. I hope Ben will be very happy."
Afterward Polly sat down and cried. She knew Ben loved Cynthia so. They had counted on having her in the family. But she felt quite certain now that Ed Saltonstall would get her. And he was a flirt, going with every pretty girl, every new girl for a little while.
Cynthia went home in a very sober mood. Why had they all cared so much about her? They had nice attractive qualities, but why could they not look at her just as she looked at them! She did not know very much about men and that with them pursuit often merged into the strong desire for possession, which she did not understand. But she did not want to beblamed. She would have none of them. Cousin Chilian was more to her. If he seldom danced and was never very gay, there were so many other requirements to life; there was something in his nature to which hers responded readily.
Then suddenly she seemed to have lost the clue. She experienced a season of bewilderment. Was Cousin Chilian meaning she should take Mr. Saltonstall for a lover? He surely gave him opportunities he had given no other. Sometimes he excused himself and went out. There were some difficulties with the mother country that men were discussing. She really felt a little awkward at being left alone with Mr. Saltonstall. Not only that, but it awoke a strange terror in her soul that he should come so near; it was as if her whole being rose in arms.
Occasionally Chilian spoke of her marriage—he had always said she was too young, in a protesting manner. So on one occasion she gained courage.
"Do you mean—that is—you would like to—have me married, Cousin Chilian?"
Married! It was as if she had given him a stab. And yet was not that just the thing he had been thinking of?
"Why, you see, Cynthia," he made his voice purposely cold, "I am much older than you. I may die some day. Cousin Eunice will no doubt go before me, and you would not like to go on alone. Then Giles is older even than I. One has to think of these things.Yes, it would be nice to know you were happily settled."
"And why couldn't a woman live alone as well as a man? I could have Miss Winn, and a housekeeper, and a man——"
"It's a lonely life for a woman."
"But why not for a man?"
"Oh, well, that is different. Only a few men do. And they grow queer and opinionated."
A fortnight ago she would have protested and said, "You are not old, you are not opinionated," in her eager, girlish manner. Now she was hurt, and she could not tell why; so she kept silent.
And she began to note a change in him. The delightful harmony in which they had lived fell below the major key into minors, that touched and pierced her. He did not come so often to listen to her music, to ask her for a song, to watch while she painted some pretty flower, to go around with her training roses, or cutting them for the house. She put a few of them everywhere; she did not like great bunches, only such things as grew in clusters, lilacs and syringas and long sprays of clematis. She missed the little walks around, and the dear talks they used to have.
She felt somewhat deceitful in planning adroitly. She made Miss Winn go to church with her, and when they came home with Mr. Saltonstall they sat on the porch together. A girl thinking of a lover would have asked him in. Then she went down to Boston, andAnthony came over as often as he could. Surely there was no danger with him.
All this time Chilian Leverett was having a hard fight with himself. He was really ashamed of having been conquered by what he called a boy's romantic passion. He could excuse himself for the early lapse; he was a boy then. His honor and what he called good sense were mightily at war with this desire that well-nigh overmastered him. True, men older than he had married young wives. But this child had been entrusted to him in a sacred fashion by her dying father; he must place before her the best and richest of life, even if it condemned him to after-years of joyless solitude.
For it was not as a father he loved her, though he had played a little at fatherhood in the beginning. She was so companionable, they had so many similar tastes. He was so fond of reading to an appreciative listener, and even as he sat in the darkness, when she did not know he was alone in the study, he could see her lovely eyes raised in their tender light. He thought this her unusual wisdom and discernment, never dreaming it had been mostly his training and her receptiveness. And to think of the house without her! Why, going out of it in her wedding gown would be almost as if she had been laid in her shroud and shut away. Of course, he could not have her here and see her love another.
Giles Leverett's dream was much happier. In hismind he saved her for his favorite. When Anthony was through—and he was putting in law, with the classics—he would take him in his office, where he would find much business made to his hand. The house was big enough for them all, and he had grown curiously interested in young people. Anthony was very fond of his sweet, fascinating cousin—they all were. He did not know whether there was any one in Salem quite good enough for her. Saltonstall was a rather trifling fellow, whose fancies were evanescent.
But Mr. Ed Saltonstall had a good friend in Mrs. Stevens, and she counselled him not to be too ardent in his pursuit. She said pleasant little things about him without any effusiveness. She considered his friendship with her very charming—young men were not generally devoted to middle-aged women. Once she shrewdly wondered why he had not made some errand down.
Altogether it was a pleasant visit, though Cynthia kept revolving her duty, if such there was in the case. A blind, mysterious asking for something haunted her, something it would be sad to miss out of her life.
Then she came home alone in the stage. There was a property dispute going on, where Mr. Leverett was an important witness for a friend. When the stage stopped, Rachel and Jane both ran out and gave her a joyful welcome.
"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Cousin Eunice, "we are so glad to get you back. You are the lightofthehouse, isn't she?" glancing at the other. "Even Chilian has been mopey, though I think he isn't well. He is getting thin, too, and goodness knows he had no flesh to lose. Oh, my dear, I hope you will never go away again while I live;" and she gave a long sigh as the girl left the room.
She came down presently in a cheerful light frock and began to tell Cousin Eunice and Jane what she had seen and heard. She was in the full tide of this, eager, bright, and flushing when Chilian entered. He greeted her rather languidly. Yes, he had grown thinner, and Cousin Giles was putting on too much flesh and growing jollier. Chilian did not look well and an ache went all over Cynthia's body, every nerve being sympathetic. He was not silent, however; he asked questions, but she thought he was hardly paying attention to the answers. He remained down in the sitting-room and read hisGazette, now and then making some comment, or answering some query of Cousin Eunice. It was not nine yet when he rose and said, "He was very tired; if they would excuse him, he would go to bed."
They all went presently. She was glad to be alone in the room, glad there was no moon, and she turned her face over on the pillow and cried softly. After all, life was a riddle—two ways and not knowing which to take, both having a curiously lonely ending. Could she not bear it better alone? If he should go away as her father had done, if she should stay herein the old house, and then Cousin Eunice would fold her hands in that silent clasp, Rachel would slip into old womanhood, Jane would marry, she was keeping company now. There would be other Janes and she——
On the other hand would be love, marriage, children maybe, a pleasant home. Living along side by side, as other people did.
She did not try to shut out either vision. Which should she take? Was life just for one's self?
She was not morbid. It was only in religion that people took out their very souls and examined them for lurking sins; the days' duties were what must be accomplished, whether or no. She knew she was not very religious, the deep things seemed beyond her grasp. And there was a certain joyousness in her love for sunshine, flowers, people, and all the attractive things of life. She was deeply grateful, she raised her heart in thankfulness to God for every good gift. And now she took up the daily duties cheerfully. It was not their fault the shadow had fallen over them.
Some days afterward she was rambling around aimlessly, when she met a girl friend, and they chatted about various matters.
"Oh," exclaimed the friend, "there'll be another wedding in the autumn, and Betty Upham is keeping steady company. I used to have an idea that you and Ben would make a match——"
"It's Jenny Willing," she interrupted. "And I am heartily glad."
"You were all such friends;" looking puzzled.
"And I hope we will go on being friends. I have always liked Jenny."
"She was awfully afraid you'd cut her out. You know he did fancy you first. I think she would have been very unhappy if she had missed him. I don't see what there is about you, Cynthia;" studying her intently. "You are pretty, but there are some handsome girls in Salem. And they run after Ed Saltonstall as if there was no other man in town. And my advice to you is to seize on him, for I think your chance best. He's an awful flirt, though. I think good-looking men always are."
Cynthia flushed. Why should these things be profaned by foolish gossip.
Polly came over one afternoon. She had accomplished the bag and was proud enough of it. And she announced Bentley's engagement.
"They will be married in the early fall; they are not going to build, but have part of that double house of Nelsons'. She'll make a fine, economical wife, and that is what men need who are trying to get along. Assemblies and all that are not the thing for prudent married people."
"And one gets tired of them." She had a feeling just then that she should never want to dance any more.
Cynthia was glad to have him settled, glad Jenny Willing had the man she loved.
And the last time he had come back to her she had held up her finger to him thoughtlessly, to shield herself from some other pointed attentions. It had been a mean thing to do. But she had only meant it for that evening, and he had gone on importunately. She was ashamed of it now. Yes, she had better marry; then no one would be pleading for favors, mistaking a simple smile for deeper meaning. Was her smile different from that of other girls?
She watched Cousin Chilian narrowly. Was the old dear freedom between them gone? He seemed rather abstracted. He did not call her into the study, he went out oftener of an evening. Mr. Saltonstall would pass by, then turn and walk up the path and sit down on the step. This would occur several times a week. He asked her to ride with him, but she shrank from that. She went over one evening on special invitation, when Chilian was to play chess with the father. Mrs. Saltonstall took her in quite as if she was one of the family, and really was very sweet to her. And the old gentleman was fatherly.
That seemed to settle it for her, rather the fact that sank deeper in her mind every day that Cousin Chilian wished her to marry and that this young man was his preference. She allowed him to come a little nearer, to hold her hand, to take nameless small freedoms, and he was always delicate.
Would he be satisfied without all she could not help withholding? Would it be right to give him a half love? But then how could she help loving Cousin Chilian, who had been so tender to her in childhood? She would be gladly content to stay without any nearer tie between them; of course, that other could not be thought of.
One night Mr. Saltonstall asked her in a manly fashion. And suddenly a great white light shot up in her heart, and loving one man she knew she had no right to deceive another, to live a deception all her life long, to cheat him—yes, it was that. Better a hundred times to live out her flawed life alone.
"Oh, I cannot," she murmured. "I—I"—she choked down the strangling sob.
"My little darling, give me the opportunity to teach you what love really is. You do not know."
Cynthia had said coldly that she did not wish to marry at present, perhaps never. "I have been trying to love you to—to please some one else, and it is a compliment for you to ask me. But any woman ought to be sure before she makes a life-long promise. I must be honest—with you, with myself."
Something in the solemn tone awed him. He had not been looking at the serious side of love. She was pretty, bright, and winsome, with a good deal of Puritan simplicity, a great power of enjoyment and difficult to win. He liked to do the winning himself. He liked to find some new qualities in girls, and Cynthia, with all her daintiness, had many sides that surprised one. She had been brought up by a man—that made the difference.
"We will wait a little," he said. "Talk to your cousin about it. I think it will all come right. You are the first woman I ever desired to marry, and I have been fond of girls, too."
That would have flattered some women. She said good-night in a strained, breathless tone, and vanishedthrough the door. He sat and thought. There was no other lover, he was quite sure.
She went to bed at once. She did not cry, she was somehow stunned at this revelation about herself, for she had resolved to accept him and this sudden protest told her that it was quite impossible. If Cousin Chilian was disappointed, if he was tired of her, there was a warm welcome in Boston.
She did not sleep much. Rachel noted her heavy eyes, and the expression as if she might be secretly upbraiding fate. What if Mr. Saltonstall had been trifling?
Chilian went up to his study. He felt languid, he nearly always did now. He took a book and sat by the open window. Two tall trees hid the prospect, except a space of blooming garden. To-day a small outlook pleased him, for his life was to be made narrower. She would come and tell him—shut the golden gate forever. He could not, would not, enter their paradise. Let him keep quite on the outside.
She came in a soft, white gown that clung to her virginal figure. The swelling-out period had passed, even sleeves had collapsed to a small puff, and for house wear the arms and neck were left bare.
The book was a Greek play. The letters danced before her eyes as she stood there. He looked off the book, but not up at her.
"Cousin Chilian, I want to tell you"—her voice had the peculiar softness that one uses to try to coverthe hurt one cannot help giving—"Mr. Saltonstall was here last evening. He has asked me to marry him."
It seemed to her the silence lasted moments. Then he said in an incurious tone, "Well?"
"I—will you be angry or disappointed when I confess that I cannot, that I do not love him."
"Oh, Cynthia, child; what do you know about love?" he said impatiently.
"Enough to know that it would be wrong to take a man's love and give him nothing in return." Now her voice was steady, convincing.
He had a sudden thought. Like a vision the stalwart form of the young sailor rose before him. He had carried admiration, yes, love in his eyes. What if he had carried more than that away?
"Cynthia, is there some one else, some one youcouldlove——"
"There is some one else." Her tone was very low, but brave. That admission would settle the matter.
"Are you to wait three years for him?"
"For whom?" in surprise.
Then he glanced up. Her face, that had been lily-white, was flushed from brow to neck. What was there in the beautiful, entreating eyes?
"Cynthia?" All his firmness gave way.
His arm stole softly around her, drew her a trifle down. "Tell me! Tell me!" he cried, yet he hadno idea he was asking her to lay her heart bare. There was still the boy Anthony.
"Cousin Chilian, if a woman loved very much, would it be a shame to her if, unasked, she——"
Her head sank down on his shoulder. He felt the warm, throbbing breath on his cheek. He drew her closer. Did the slim, palpitating body betray its secret?
"Oh, Cynthia, child, the most precious thing in all the world to me, tell me that I will not have to give you to another, that I may keep you to myself. For I cannot comprehend how so great a joy could come to me. And whether I would have the right to take your sweet young life, that should be replete with the joys of youth, with the gladness that is its proper birthright."
"If I gave it to you? If I could never have given it to any other?"
He drew her down closer, and the gentle yielding, the sort of rapturous sigh, answered him better than any words. He pressed kisses on the unresisting lips, kisses that then were sacred to affianced lovers and husbands.
Was it an hour or half a lifetime? He inclined her to his knee as he had when she was a little girl, but at length he came back to his senses.
"Cynthia," he began with tender gravity, "there are many points to consider. Do you know that I am more than double your age——"
"Don't tell that to me. Isn't love as sweet?"
Could he deny it in the face of that ravishing smile, those appealing eyes.
"Still—the world will think about it. And you are a rich young woman, you could take your pick of lovers——"
"But they are all so troublesome," she interrupted. "And one gets affronted with the other. And if I picked very much I might be called a flirt, perhaps I have been. I didn't want them, only to dance and be merry with, and there are so many pretty girls in the world—enough for all of them."
He smiled a little and it gave her a heartache to see how thin he had grown, and there were new creases in his forehead that had been so fair and smooth.
"And if some day you should repent?"
"I'm not going to repent. Why should one when one gets the thing one wanted?"
There was a touch of the old brightness in her tone. Had she really wanted him?
"I've been very naughty with all these lovers, haven't I? But no one came near enough to really ask me that question until last night, though Mr. Marsh thought he would if he were going to stay. And Cousin Chilian, I had made up my mind truly, I thought, for I liked Mr. Saltonstall very much, and it seemed to me you wanted me to——" Her voice died away in pathos.
"I did. Oh, you must know the worst of me.When I found you were growing into my very heart, and I began to feel jealous of the young men, I took myself in hand as a most reprehensible old fellow. But I found you had entwined yourself in every fibre of my heart, and it was hard indeed to uproot you."
"And you really tried?" Her tone was upbraiding.
"I tried like an honest, upright man. I shall never be ashamed of the effort. I would not mar or spoil your life. You see you might have loved some of these brave young lads. You might have been very happy with them."
"Oh, you can't have but one husband;" in laughing gayety.
He flushed at her mischief.
"I wonder when you began to love me? And what has made you so cold and distant, as if you were taking your affection away?"
"I was—I was—Heaven forgive me! I was learning to live without you; to go back to a life more solitary than it was before you came. And, Cynthia, you were not altogether a welcome guest. I did not know what to do with a little girl. I was set in my ways. I did not like to be disturbed. I could have sent a boy off to school. And Elizabeth thought it a trouble, too. You must read your father's letter and see the trust he reposed in me. But you were such a strange, shy little thing, and so delicate in all your ways. You never touched an article without permission, you handled books so gently, you never made dog's-ears, or crumpled a page. And that winter you were ill—and the faith you had in his return. How many times my heart ached for you. After that I could not have given you up, and I fell into a sort of belief that it would go on this always. When the lovers began to come, I found I must awake from my delusion. And then I knew that an oldish fellow could love a sweet girl in her first bloom, but that it would be a selfish, unpardonable thing."
"Not if she loved him!" She raised her face in all its sweet bravery of color.
"But it was his duty to let her see what pleasure there was in the world for youth; it was the promise to her dead father, who had confided his treasure to him. And even now he hesitates, lest you shall not have the best of everything."
"I shall have the best;" with winning confidence.
"I loved your mother. I was a young lad, and she some five years older. I suppose I was like a young brother to her, because your father, her lover, had been here so much. And somehow, you slipped into the place where there never had been any other."
"It must have been kept for me," she said gravely. "And now I give you warning that I shall never go out of it. No place could ever be so dear as this house with all its memories. I am glad you knew and loved my mother."
It came noon before they were talked out, or beforethey had settled only one point, about which she would have her way. She wrote a pretty note to Mr. Saltonstall, reiterating some things she had said the evening before, and acknowledging that when she had tried to accept him, she had found her heart was another's, "and you are worthy of a woman's best love," she added, which did comfort him.
Still it puzzled him a good deal, but he finally settled upon Anthony and thought it a rather foolish choice. No doubt but that Giles Leverett was back of it all.
They told Cousin Eunice and Miss Winn. The former cried for sheer joy. She seemed older than her years, but she was well and bid fair to live years yet.
"Then you will never go away. I could not live without you, and as for Chilian——"
"It would only be half a life," returned the lover, and he kissed Cousin Eunice.
Miss Winn hardly knew whether to be pleased or not. She liked Mr. Saltonstall very much for his gayety, good humor, and fine presence, and then he had the divine gift of youth to match hers. Would she not tire of Chilian Leverett's grave life?
After all, they were foolish lovers. She did not hoard up any sweetness. If he could not look forward to so many years, she must give him a double portion. That was her only regret about him, and she never confessed that.
He was surprised at himself. If she had loved another, the wound of loneliness must have bled inwardly until it sapped his life. Oh, how daintily sweet she was! Every day he found some new trait.
"You see," she explained to Miss Winn, "we shall all keep together. Father trusted you to the uttermost, and you have been nobly loyal. I couldn't do without you. And no one could look so well after Cousin Eunice, who will keep growing older."
That was true enough. She was very well content in her home, and at her time of life did not care to try a new one. Cynthia was almost like a child to her.
Meanwhile matters had not gone prosperously with old Salem, England had claimed her right of search, against which the country strongly protested. The British government issued orders, and the FrenchEmperor decrees, forbidding ships of neutrals to enter the ports, or engage in trade with their respective enemies. This crippled the trade of Salem. Then there had been the embargo, which for a while closed the ports. But the town went on improving. Fortunes had been made and now were being spent. But much of the shipping lay idle. Yet the social life went on, there was marrying and giving in marriage.
Of course, there was some gossip about the Saltonstall fiasco. No one, at least very few, supposed a sensible girl would give up such an opportunity to settle herself. Miss Cynthia would no doubt use her best efforts to get him back. She seemed superbly indifferent to the gossip.
At first Chilian insisted upon an engagement of some length, so that she might be sure of the wisdom of the step. But she only laughed in her charming fashion, and declared she would not give up the old house, much more its owner.
But they had a quiet wedding, with only the choicest friends, and then they went to Boston to escape the wonderings. Cousin Giles was really displeased.
"It's an unfair thing for an old fellow like you to do. And you had money enough of your own; her fortune should have gone to help some nice young fellow along. Why, really Cynthia has hardly outgrown childhood. You might have been her father!"
"Hardly!" returned Chilian dryly.
On their return the house was opened and really crowded with guests. Cynthia was in her most splendid attire. Happiness had certainly improved Chilian Leverett, he had gained some flesh and looked younger. The most beautiful belongings had been brought out to decorate the rooms.
"For I am not going to have them stored away for possible grandchildren," she declared gayly.
And the guests had a charming welcome. The younger girls were truly glad she had made her election, and no one could deny that she was very much in love with her husband. Neither had need to marry for money, since both had fortunes. And they wished her health and happiness with all their hearts.
Jane had said to her, "Mis' Leverett, there's an old adage: