“By the way, I must be moderate here, for I have another dinner to eat to-night: one, too, where the fatted calf has been killed.”
Up to this point I had not once thought of Miss Elliston since I found Tom sitting in my room, but now I remembered the handsome dinner table seen through the windows of No. — Grosvenor Square, and felt sure it was to that table Tom had been bidden as a guest; but I would not ask him, and he continued:
“My fellow-traveler from India was an invalid—that Lieut. Elliston of whom I wrote you once. I nursed him through a contagious disease when every one else had deserted him, and he seems to think he owes his life to me, and sticks to me like a burr; while his family, on the strength of that and the little Gordon blood there is in my veins, make much of me, and insist that I shall dine with them to-night; so I must leave you soon, but shall return to-morrow.”
I made no answer, but busied myself with preparing his coffee, and after a moment he went on:
“By the way, Norah, what do you think of Miss Elliston? She wrote you were at the same hotel in Paris.”
“At the same hotel with me? Miss Elliston at the Grand? When?” I asked, in much surprise; and he replied:
“Last September, when you were there with friends. Did you not see her?”
“No,” I answered, “I did not see her, or if I did, I did not know it; and she is much too proud to make herself known to me, a poor music teacher.”
This last I said bitterly, but Tom made no reply, and hardly knowing what I was saying, I added:
“Then you are the Mr. Gordon she talks so much about?”
“Miss Elliston talk about me! How do you know that?” Tom asked, with an increase of color in his face.
Very foolishly I told him how I knew, and of the photograph which must be his, though it was not quite like him now.
“Yes, it was taken three years ago, and we exchanged.I remember it now—and she has it yet,” he said, abruptly; then looking steadily at me across the table, he continued: “Norah, I have not told you all the reasons which brought me home. I am thinking of getting married and settling down in England among the daisies and violets.”
“Yes, Tom,” I said, with a great throb of pain in my heart, for I knew his marriage with Miss Elliston would separate him from me further than his absence in India had done.
“Are you not glad?” he added, and there was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, and a lurking smile at the corners of his mouth.
Then I told a fib, and said I was glad, for I could some time hope to see him. My life would not be so lonely.
He had risen by this time, and was putting on his overcoat, which made him so big and bearish.
“Good-by, Mousey, till to-morrow. Take off those boots and dry your feet the instant I am gone. I cannot have you sick now.Au revoir.”
He passed his warm hands caressingly over my hair and across my cheek, and then he was gone, and I sat down alone to think it all over, and wonderif it really was Tom who had been there, or if it was a dream from which I should awaken. Naturally too, I followed him in imagination to the dinner, and saw Miss Lucy in her blue silk with white roses in her hair, and to my very finger tips I felt how Tom must be impressed with the difference between her high-bred grace and ease of manner, and the little shrinking woman in faded gray, with worn out, leaky boots. I did not take them off, but held them to the fire and watched the steam as it came from the soles, and rather enjoyed my poverty and loneliness, and thought hard things against Miss Elliston, who had known I was at the hotel and had never spoken to me.
I must have fallen asleep while I thought, and the fire was out, and the clock striking twelve when I awoke, chilled in every limb, with a dull, heavy pain in the back of my head, and a soreness in my throat. I remember going to the window and looking out into the foggy night, and wondering if the grand dinner was over, and how soon Tom would come again. Then I crept shivering to bed, and when I woke the Misses Keith were all in my room,together with Mrs. Trevyllan, and I heard them say:
“Twelve pairs of boots for her to try, with orders to keep them all if they fit. He is very generous.”
Then I knew that somebody had sent me a box of beautiful French gaiters, and it made me so tired to think of wearing them all at once, as I thought I must, that I gave a weary sigh, which brought the ladies instantly to my side with anxious inquiries as to how I felt, and where I was the sickest.
“Not sick at all,” I said, “only tired, and cold, and sleepy. Please go away with the dinners, and boots, and Toms, and leave me alone. I want to sleep it out.”
“Poor girl, she’s out of her head,” I heard one of them say, and then I slept again, how long I do not know, but when I woke a curious thing seemed to have happened, which yet did not surprise me in the least.
I, Norah Burton, was hidden away in the deep window seat, where, myself unseen, I could command a view of the bed, which had been brought from the little recess, and now occupied the centerof my room. On that bed, with a face as white as the pillows, save where the fever spot burned on either cheek, somebody was lying—somebody who looked like me, and yet was not I, though they called her Norah, and talked in whispers about the long strain upon her nerves, being so much alone; the long walk in the November mist and fog before she was able, and the repeated wetting of her feet from the want of strong, new shoes. How queerly it all sounded; how curiously I watched the girl, who looked so young, lying there so still, with her hands folded always the same way, just over her breast, and her face turned a little toward me.
If she had ever been restless, and from what they said I judged she must have been, it was over now, and she lay like one dead, never moving so much as an eyelid, or paying the slightest heed to what was passing around her. The Misses Keith and Mrs. Trevyllan were never all together in the chamber now, though each came frequently, and Mrs. Trevyllan always cried out and asked, “Do you think she is any better? Will she live?” of the tall man who sat and watched the sick girl just asclosely as I did, and who would sometimes answer, “God knows,” and again shake his head mournfully, as if there was no hope.
How kind, and tender, and gentle he was—gentle, and tender, and kind as any woman—and I found myself wishing the girl could know he was there, and know how, when he was all alone, he kissed the pale little fingers, and smoothed the ruffled hair, and called so soft and low, “Norah, Norah! don’t you hear me? Don’t you know old Tom?”
She did not hear; she did not know; and the pale fingers never stirred to the kiss he gave them, and only the breath from the parted lips told there still was life. How sorry I felt for them both, but sorriest I think, for the man, who seldom left the room, and sat always where he could see the white face on the pillow.
“Dear little face! dear little girl! I cannot let her die. Please, God, spare her to me!” I heard him say once. Then there certainly was a fluttering of the eyelids—an effort like struggling back to life; and I think the girl in the bed wanted to tell the man in the chair that she heard him, and appreciated all his watchful care.
But nature was too weak to rally, and after that one sign the sick girl lay quiet and motionless as ever, and only the ticking of the clock broke the deep silence of the room. I wondered did that ticking disturb her. It would have worried me, and I should have been forever repeating the monotonous one-two, one-two, which the pendulum seemed to be saying. Did my thought communicate itself to her the girl on my pillow, with a face like my face, and which yet was not mine? Perhaps, for she did at last move uneasily, and the pale lips whispered: “One-two, one-two! it keeps going on forever and ever, and makes me so tired. Stop it, Tom.”
He knew what she meant, and the clock which had not run down in years was silenced at once, while Tom’s face grew bright and hopeful, for she had spoken, and called him by his name.
Outside there was the sound of carriage wheels stopping before the door—a pull at the bell, a hurried conversation in the hall below, Miss Keith’s voice sounding flurried and confused, the other voice self-assured, surprised, and commanding; and then footsteps came up the stairs, and Archie’s mother, Mrs. Browning, was standing on the threshold,red, tired, panting, and taking in rapidly every portion of the room, from the cheap hearthrug and carpet to the tall man by the bedside, and the pallid face on the pillows. At sight of that her countenance changed sensibly, and she exclaimed:
“I did not suppose it so bad as this.”
Then Tom, who had arisen from his seat, spoke a little sternly, for he was angry at the intrusion:
“Madam, don’t you know Miss Burton is very sick and cannot see strangers?”
“Yes, I know;” and Archie’s mother pressed close to the girl on the pillow, trailing her India shawl on the floor directly across Tom’s feet. “She was engaged to read to me every day for two hours, and I waited for her to come or send some message, till at last I concluded to drive round and see what had become of her. You are her cousin, I believe? I am Mrs. Browning.”
She said the last name as if between Mrs. Browning and the cousin there was a vast difference, but if Tom recognized it, he did not seem to notice it; he merely said:
“Yes, I am her cousin, and you were to have been her mother-in-law?”
“Yes, Archie was my son. If he had lived he would have been heir of Briarton Lodge; both the young lords are dead.”
“Oh, yes, and my cousin would have been Lady Cleaver of Briarton Lodge,” Tom answered, and it seemed to me that he thought just as I did, namely, that the sick girl was of more importance to Mrs. Browning because of what shemight have been.
The shadow of the honor she had missed reached even to this humble room, and made Mrs. Browning more gracious, more pitiful, more anxious than she might otherwise have been. And yet it was wholly the fault of her birth and education that she cared so much for these things. At heart she was a thoroughly good woman, and there was genuine kindness in her inquiries of Tom as to what was needed most, and in her deportment toward the sick girl, whom she tried to rouse, calling her by name, and saying to her:
“I am Archie’s mother; you remember Archie, who died?”
There was a little sob in the mother’s voice, but the girl gave no sign; only Tom looked gloomy, and black, and intensely relieved when the Indiashawl was trailed down the stairs, and the Browning carriage drove away. Next day it stopped again before the house, and this time it held an added weight of dignity in the person of Lady Darinda Fairfax, whose heavy silk rustled up the stairs, and whose large white hands were constantly rubbing each other as she talked to Tom, in whom she had recognized the Mr. Gordon seen once at Miss Elliston’s, where she was calling at the same time with himself.
“Really, Mr. Gordon, thisisa surprise. I had no idea, I am sure, that Miss Burton was your cousin; really, I am surprised. And she came near beingmycousin, too. You must know about Archie?”
“Yes,” and Tom bowed stiffly. “I had the honor of seeing him years ago when he visited my cousin. I went out to India just before he died.”
“Yes, I see; and did not return until a few days since. It must have shocked you very much—the change in her circumstances. Poor girl, we never knew it until she came to us for employment. I am glad for her, that you have come to care for her. Shewill live with you, of course, if you marry and settle here.”
Lady Darinda, though esteeming herself highly bred, was much given to direct questioning which sometimes seemed impertinent. But Tom did not resent it in this case; he merely replied:
“My cousin will live with me when I am married, and I am happy to say she has no further need to look for employment of any kind. I shall take care of her.”
Lady Darinda was so glad. Nor was it a sham gladness. The intimate friend of Miss Lucy Elliston, she had heard much of “the Mr. Gordon who had saved Charlie’s life, and who was of the Gordon stock, and a thorough gentleman.” She had also felt a kindly interest in the girl who hadalmostbeen Lady Cleaver, and that interest was increased when she knew her to be a near connection of Miss Elliston’s Mr. Gordon. The time might come when it would do to speak of her and possibly present her to her friends, and she made many anxious inquiries concerning her, and talked so rapidly and so loud that the head on the pillow moved as if disturbed, and Tom was glad when the lady at last gathered herselfup to leave. She was still nervously rubbing her jeweled hands, and Tom’s attention was attracted to a solitaire of great brilliancy, the same I had observed the day I sat in her reception-room, and she stood talking to me and rubbing her hands just as she was rubbing them now. Suddenly, and as if her mind was made up, she drew off the ring, and bending over the sick girl pushed it upon the fourth finger of the left hand, saying to Tom as she did so:
“The ring is hers, and she ought never to have parted with it. I don’t know why she sent it back to us, but she did, just after Archie died, and as his cousin I kept it, but wish her to have it again, and I fancy she is too proud to take it if she knew. I must go, now, but will come again soon, or send to inquire. Shall I see you at Miss Elliston’s to-night at the musicale? Lucy will be greatly disappointed, if you do not come.”
“I shall not leave my cousin while she is so sick,” was Tom’s reply, and with a loud spoken good-by, Lady Darinda left the little room which she had seemed to fill so full with her large, tall person and voluminous skirts.
Scarcely was she gone, when Tom took in his own the pale little hand where the solitaire was sparkling, looked at it a moment, then gently withdrew it; put it in his pocket-book, with a muttered something I could not quite understand. Then the girl on the pillow began to grow restless, and her fever came on, and Tom said there had been too much talking in the room, and no one must be admitted except the Misses Keith and Mrs. Trevyllan, and across the window they hung a heavy curtain to exclude the light, and so to me everything became a blank, and I knew no more of what was passing until one bright December morning, when I awoke suddenly to find myself in the bed where the sick girl had lain.
I was very weak and languid, and very much bewildered as I tried to recall the past, and remember what had happened. It was something like the awakening after Archie died, only, in place of dear old Aunt Esther, here was a tall, brown man looking down upon me, with so much kindness and anxiety in his eyes, that without knowing at all who he was, I tried to put out my hand as I said: “You are very, very good. I’ll tell Tom about it.”
“Norah, Norah. I am Tom. Don’t you know me?” and his great warm hands were laid on mine as he bent over me with his eager questioning. “Don’t you know me, Norah? I am Tom.” I did know him then, and I said:
“Yes, I know you, and I’ve been very sick; it must have been the leaky boots which kept my feet so cold and wet. Where are they, Tom?”
“Burned up, Norah. I did it myself in the kitchen range, and you have in their place twelve pairs of the neatest little gaiters you ever saw, waiting for your feet to be able to wear them. Shall I show them to you now?”
He did not wait for me to answer, but darted into the recess adjoining, and bringing out the boots, tumbled them all upon the bed where I could see them. Twelve pairs of boots, of every style and make! Walking boots, morning boots, calling boots, prunella boots, bronze boots, French calfskin boots, and what was very strange, a dainty pair of white satin boots, which laced so very high, and were so pretty to look at. I think these pleased me more than all the others, though I had no idea as to when or where I could wear them.
A handsome boot was one of my weaknesses, and lo! here were a dozen pairs of them, and I laughed as a child would have done over a box of toys. He let me enjoy them a few moments, and then took them away, telling me I was not to get too tired, and how glad he was that I was better, and able to recognize him. I had been sick three weeks, he said, and he had been with me all the time, except when he went out for a short time each day.
“You have been out of your head,” he said, “and insisted that you were sitting over in the window, and that somebody else was here in bed, and that I was a big bear. What do you think of me, now?”
I looked at him closely, and saw that the heavy overcoat and coarse sea clothes had given place to garments of the most fashionable kind, which fitted him admirably, and gave him quite adistingueair, while his hair and beard were cut and trimmed after the most approved style of Hyde Park and Rotten Row at the height of the season. He was a man to be noticed anywhere, and after inspecting him a moment, I said:
“I think you are very nice, and very handsome, and I am so glad you have come home.”
This was a great deal to say at once in my feeble state, and he saw how tired I was, and bade me not talk any more, and drew the covering about me and tucked it in, and brought me a clean handkerchief, and laid it on my pillow, and did it all as deftly and handily as any woman could have done.
Oh, those first days of getting better, how happy they were, and how delightful it seemed to be made much of, and petted, and waited on as if I were a princess.
Archie’s mother called two or three times, and was very kind to me, and said once, as she was leaving:
“You will hardly come to me now as we had agreed upon.”
“Oh, yes I shall,” I replied. “I must get to work again as soon as I am able.”
Then Tom came forward and said in a quiet, decided way, as if he had a right:
“My cousin will not go out any more. She is under my care now.”
That was so like Tom; and I let him have hisway with Mrs. Browning, but was nevertheless just as firm in my determination to care for myself. I had not forgotten what he had said about being married, nor had I any doubt that he meant to marry Miss Elliston, and if so, our lives must necessarily drift very far apart. But it was so nice to have him all to myself just now, and I enjoyed it to the full, and let him wait on me as much as he liked, and took gladly what he brought me, rare flowers and hot-house plants, and books of engravings for me to look at, and books which he read aloud to me while I lay on my pillows, or sat in my great arm-chair and watched him as he read, and wondered at, and rejoiced over, and felt glad and proud of the change in his appearance. I think he was, without exception, the finest-looking man I ever saw, and Mrs. Trevyllan quite agreed with me, always excepting, of course, her George. She was with me a great deal during my convalescence, and one morning, when Tom was out, she came with a radiant face, which I knew portended some good news. Miss Elliston had actually called—that is, she had come to the door in her carriage, sent in hercard, and with it an invitation to a large party to be given the next week.
“And are you going?” I asked; and she replied:
“Certainly I am. I think it was real snipping in her not to call herself, but then I can excuse something on the score of old acquaintance, and I must wear that lovely silk before it gets quite out of fashion. She wrote me a little note, saying it was to be a grand affair—quite a crash. I can hardly wait to see it.”
Just then Tom came in, and the conversation ceased, though I was tempted to tell him I knew of the party. He was going, of course, and I felt a little hurt that he did not speak to me about it; He might have done as much as that, I thought, but he did not until the very day, when he said to me, late in the afternoon:
“I have an engagement for to-night, Mousey. Miss Elliston gives a large party, and as she has deferred it until I could be present, I think I ought to go.”
“Yes, certainly, by all means,” I said; and then, when he was gone, I was silly enough to cry, and tothink hard things of Miss Elliston, who was so rich and happy in everything.
When Mrs. Trevyllan was dressed she came to let me look at her, and I thought I had never seen anything as lovely as she was, in pink silk, and lace, and pearls, with her sunny blue eyes and golden hair.
“You will be the belle of the party,” I said; but she shook her head, laughingly, and replied:
“I’ll tell you to-morrow.”
Alas! when the morrow came, the little lady’s plumes were drooping, and her spirits a good deal ruffled. Tom was late in his visit that morning, and so she had ample time to tell me all about it.
“Such a jam!” she said; “and it had taken half an hour for their carriage to get up to the house, then another half hour to push her way to the dressing-room and down again to the drawing-room, where Miss Elliston just touched her hand and said good-evening; and then she was shoved on to a corner, where she and George stood, entirely surrounded by strangers, and feeling more alone than if they had been in the desert. When the dancing commenced, it was better, for the parlorsthinned out, and she was able to walk and look about a little; but nobody spoke to her or noticed her in any way, and she was not introduced to a single individual, until the lion of the evening, the man who received so much attention from every body, accidentally stumbled upon her, and was so kind and good. And who do you suppose it was? I was never more astonished in my life. And they say he is to marry Miss Elliston. It is quite a settled thing, I heard. Your cousin, Mr. Gordon; and that was his photograph, though not very natural; at least, I did not recognize him from it. Perhaps, because I never thought of such a thing.”
“The picture was taken three or four years ago,” I said; “and Tom says it was never a good one.”
“Then you did know all the time that he was Miss Elliston’s Mr. Gordon, and you never told me?” Mrs. Trevyllan cried, in a slightly aggrieved tone of voice.
“I knew he was her brother’s friend,” I said, “but not till after he came home. Is she so very handsome?”
“Why, yes, I think she is, or at least she has astyle and high-bred air better than mere beauty. Last night she was all in white, with blush roses on her dress, and in her hair, and when she walked or danced with Mr. Gordon, everybody remarked what a splendid couple they were, she so tall and graceful, and he so big and prince-like. Did you know they were engaged?”
She put the question direct, and I knew my cheeks were scarlet, as I replied:
“I supposed—yes. I—Tom told me he came home to be married; that’s all I know.”
I was taking my breakfast, and my hand shook so that I spilled my chocolate over the clean napkin and dropped my egg-spoon into my lap.
There was an interval of silence, and then the impulsive little lady burst out:
“I say, Miss Burton, it’s too bad. Here I’d been building a castle for you, and behold, Lucy Elliston is to be its mistress. I don’t like her as well as I did, I’m free to say, for I do not think she treated me as she should at the party; never introducing me to a person, or even speaking to me till just as I was leaving, when she was so glad I came, and hoped I had not found it very dull among so manystrangers; and then, Miss Burton—I despise a talebearer—but I will tell you what I heard. I was standing by myself in a little window alcove, and Lucy came along with a tall, large woman, whom I think she called Lady Fairfax. They did not see me, and after the conversation commenced I dared not show myself, so I kept still and heard them talk of you.”
“Of me?” I exclaimed; and she continued:
“Of you; yes.” Lady Fairfax said:
“‘What a splendid fellow he is, and how he wins the people. I almost envy you, Lucy, if you do marry him. By the way, do you know his cousin, Miss Burton? Was she invited to-night?’
“‘No,’ Lucy said. ‘I’ve never called upon her. She teaches music, you know. I saw her in Paris, with one of her pupils; rather pretty, but no style. You never saw her, of course!’
“‘Yes, I have;’ and I fancied Lady Fairfax spoke a little hotly. ‘I know all about her, and she is as nice as she can be, and a lady too. She was to have married Cousin Archie, who died, and if she had she would have been Lady Cleaver, of BriartonLodge, now. She has been very sick; did you know that?’
“‘Yes, I should think so, for that has kept Mr. Gordon from us so much, and Charlie was so vexed, for he needed amusing himself. I trust she will soon be well. Is she really nice and a lady?’
“‘Yes, every whit a lady; and I advise you to cultivate her at once.’
“From where I sat I could see Miss Elliston distinctly, and saw her give a little shrug which she picked up abroad, and which always irritates me. Lady Fairfax must have understood its meaning, for she went on:
“‘Mr. Gordon is evidently very fond of his cousin, and looks upon her as a sister, and——’
“‘How do you know that? How do you know he is very fond of her?’ Miss Elliston asked, quickly; and I saw in a moment she was jealous of you. And when Lady Fairfax told of her call when you were sick, and of his devotion to you, and added, ‘He will undoubtedly expect her to live with you when you are married,’ she gave another shoulder shrug and said:
“‘Cela depend.I have not married him yet, and,if I should, I do not propose marrying his entire family. This girl is not of the Gordon blood.’
“What more they would have said I do not know, for just then some dancers came out to cool themselves, and behind them Mr. Gordon, looking for Lucy, who took his arm with such a sweet smile and air of possession, and I heard her say to him:
“‘Lady Fairfax has been telling me such nice things about your cousin. I wish you would bring her to see me; I am so busy and have so many engagements, I think she might waive ceremony with me.’”
“What did Tom reply?” I asked, and Mrs. Trevyllan said:
“I did not hear his answer; but, mark my words, she’ll make a fool of him, and he will be asking you to call on her. But don’t you do it, and don’t you live with them either.”
“I never shall,” was my answer; and as Tom’s step was heard in the hall just then, Mrs. Trevyllan left me to receive his visit alone.
He looked tired and ennuied, and was absentminded and moody for him, while I, too, was veryreticent, and never once mentioned the party until he said:
“I met Mrs. Trevyllan as I came up. She told you about the party last night, I suppose.”
“Yes,” I answered, and he continued:
“What did she say of Miss Elliston? They are old friends, I believe.”
“Yes: they knew each other in Ireland. She said she was very pretty and stylish, and so lovely last night in white, with blush roses——”
“Yes,” Tom replied, evidently wishing to hear something more.
“And she said everybody was talking of you, and what a fine-looking couple you were.”
“Yes,” and this time the yes rang out rather sharply, but brought no response from me.
I had told him all I had to tell him of Miss Elliston, and, after waiting a few moments, he began himself:
“Miss Elliston it a very handsome girl, with fine manners and style. She is considered a great catch, I believe. Would you like to see her—that is, enough to call on her with me when you are able?She asked me to bring you, as her time is so fully occupied. Will you go?”
“No, Tom, I’d rather not. I’d do much to please you, but not that. It is her place to call on me, if she cares to know me.”
I said this faintly, and with tears gathering in my eyes, and a horrid feeling of loneliness gathering in my heart.
I was losing Tom sure, and it made me very sad, and made the old life to which I must return seem harder than before. Perhaps it was this, and perhaps it was that I had no vital force with which to rally, no bank to draw from, as the physician said, which kept me an invalid all that winter, with barely strength to walk about my room, and drive occasionally with Tom, who came to see me nearly every day, and who surrounded me with every possible comfort and luxury, even to the providing me with a maid to wait upon me. I protested against this, knowing how hard it would be to go back to my work after so much petting, and said so once to Tom when he was spending the evening with me.
“Go back to your work again! What do you mean?” he asked, and I said:
“Mean just what I say. Take care of myself as soon as I am able, and—and—you are married, as they say you are going to be.”
Since the morning after the party he had never mentioned Miss Elliston or referred to her in any way, and his silence was beginning to annoy me, and so I added:
“You are, are you not?”
“Are what?” he asked, with a comical gleam in his eye.
“Are going to be married?” I replied, and he continued:
“Yes, I believe I am, provided the lady will have me. Do you think she will?”
“Have you! Of course she will,” I said, quite vehemently, and felt my whole face burn with excitement.
“And if I do marry,” Tom added, “why should that compel you to return to your teaching, I’d like to know? Wouldn’t you still be my care?”
“No,” I answered, emphatically. “I shall just take care of myself as I did before you came from India. It will not be any harder.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” Tom answered, with alaugh, nor was I so sure of it either, and after he was gone I remember that I cried bitterly over the certainty of his marriage and the change it would bring to me.
During the next three or four weeks I did not see Tom quite as often as usual; he was very busy, he told me; occupied, I supposed, with Miss Elliston, whom I saw with him in the gardens where I was taking an airing in a Bath chair one pleasant morning in April. Mrs. Trevyllan was walking by my side, and first called my attention to them coming straight toward us, and so near that to escape by turning into a by-path was impossible. Tom saw me at the same moment, and I fancied there was a look of annoyance on his face as if the meeting were one he would have avoided. But it was too late now. We were very near each other, and wishing to spare him the necessity of recognition, if possible, I pulled my blue hood closely about my face and pretended to be very much interested in a bed of crocuses; but Tom was not inclined to pass me by, and before I quite knew what I was doing, I had been presented to Miss Elliston, and she was looking at me, and I was looking at her, and each wasundoubtedly forming an opinion of the other not altogether complimentary. Mine of her was: Fine-looking, stylish, very stylish, but cold as an iceberg, selfish, smooth and deep, and if it be true that in the case of every married couple there is one who loves and one who permits it, Tom will be the one who loves, and she the passive recipient. I should as soon think of receiving a caress from an iceberg as from that calm, quiet, self-possessed woman. Poor Tom, with his warm, loving heart, and demonstrative nature! This was my opinion of Miss Elliston, while hers of me, I fancy, was something as follows: “That little dowdy, faded old maid, Mr. Gordon’s cousin! and does Lady Fairfax think I’ll ever consent to her living with me as a poor relation?”
I thought I read all this in her eyes, which scanned me so curiously, while she tried to be agreeable and said she was glad to see me; that she had been coming to call upon me for a long time, but really her time was not her own, and she wished I would come to see her with Mrs. Trevyllan, “who, naughty girl, owes me a party call,” she added,playfully, and shaking her finger at the “naughty girl,” she made a movement to pass on.
Tom said very little, and I felt he was glad when the interview was over, and I was being trundled along the road further and further from him and hisfiancee. She was that, I almost knew, and when three weeks later, he told me of a place on Finchley Road, Hampstead, which was for sale, and which he meant to buy, I was sure of it, and asked him when it was to be.
“The wedding, you mean?” and he looked so quizzically at me. “I’d like it as soon as the middle of June. How do you suppose that would suit her?”
I thought he could ascertain that better by asking her rather than me, and I told him so a little pettishly, I am afraid, though he did not seem the least bit ruffled, but held me high in his arms just as he did the night he came from India, and said: “Mousey must manage to get back some color in her cheeks, for I want her to look her best at the wedding.”
Secretly I hoped I’d be sick and unable to go, but I did not say so, and when, a few days later, hecame and told me he had bought Rose Park, and wished me to drive out with him and see it, I did not object, but put on my hat and shawl with a feeling as if I were about to visit a grave, instead of the charming spot which Rose Park proved to be. The house stood in an inclosure of two acres, and we went through the grounds first, admiring the beautiful flowers and shrubs, the velvety grass, the statuary gleaming so white through the distant trees, the rustic seats and gravel walks, and pretty little fountain which sent up such tiny jets of water near the front door. How delightful it all was; just a bit of country in the busy city, from which it was shut out by a high stone wall, over which the English ivy was rioting so luxuriantly. And yet in my heart there was an ache as I thought how very, very seldom I should ever go there, and in imagination saw Miss Elliston’s tall, graceful figure, wandering about the shaded walks with Tom, or sitting down to rest in the rose-covered arbor, just as he and I were doing, he asking me innumerable questions about the place, how I liked it, and if I thought his wife would be suited with it.
“Suited!” I cried. “She ought, for I think it alittle Paradise. I did not know there was such a pretty place in London, city and country all in one.”
“Well, then, Mousey,” he said, “if you like the grounds so much, let us go inside and see what you think of the house, and what, if any, changes you would suggest.”
The inside of the house took my breath away, it was so handsome, and yet so cozy and home-like, as if made to live and be happy in. There was nothing stiff about it, nothing too grand to be used every day, and yet it was elegant and rich, and I felt like one in a dream as Tom led me through room after room, some with low windows and balconies, others opening into little conservatories, and all so charming that I could not tell which I liked the best.
“Has Miss Elliston been here? Has she seen it?” I asked, and Tom replied: “Not yet. I wished to bring you here first and see if there was any alteration you could suggest.”
“I!” and I looked quickly up at him. “She would not think much of my taste, I fancy. Neitherdo I think she will care to have a thing changed, it is all so charming, especially her room.”
That was indeed the glory of the house, so large and airy, and commanding a fine view of the town outside the garden walls. To the south was a large bay window, fitted up just like a fairy playhouse, with pictures and flowers, and lace curtains across the arch, and a canary bird caroling a merry song in his handsome cage. To the west a long balcony, with two or three easy-chairs, and at each corner an urn full of bright flowers and drooping vines. Such a nice place to sit and read, or work in the morning, especially as a door from it communicated with the sleeping room, which had the tallest bedstead and bureau I had ever seen, and was pretty enough for the queen herself. Indeed, I doubted whether there was in Buckingham Palace or Windsor Castle any rooms as pretty and suggestive of genuine comfort as these, and I said so to Tom as we stood in what he called “my wife’s room,” with the south bay window and the long west balcony.
“Then you really like it, and think you could behappy here?” Tom said, sitting down upon the blue satin couch, and drawing me beside him.
“Happy!” I repeated; “yes, perfectly happy with people whom I loved, and I am sure you’ll be happy, Tom, and I’m so glad for you that you have so beautiful a home.” He was silent a moment, and then he said:
“Norah, you have not selected your room yet. I know which I have designed for you, but I want you to be suited. Can you tell me which you would like?”
Now was the time to make an end of all the talk about my living with him at Rose Park, and I began:
“Tom, why can’t you understand how impossible it is that I should stay here after you are married?”
“Why impossible?” he asked, and I replied:
“Because there is nothing in common between me and Miss Elliston. She is elegant, and grand, and high-born, and I am a little plain old maid of whom she would be ashamed even as a poor relation. She loves you, and you will be happy with her alone. I should only be an element of discordin your household. No, Tom, don’t speak till I’m through. My mind is fully made up. I cannot live with you, and shall resume my old work again and so be independent. But I thank you all the same for your kind offer, and shall be happier in the old life, knowing you are in London, where I can reach you if anything should happen.”
I had made my speech, and when it was ended Tom began in a tone of voice I had never heard from him before, except as I remember dimly the time I was so sick and heard him say:
“Dear little girl, please, God, spare her to me now.”
Sitting in the window, as I fancied I sat then, and watching the man who ministered so tenderly to the sick girl, I had thought there was love in his voice and manner, but when the cobwebs of delirium cleared away the past seemed very vague and misty, and sometimes I doubted if I had seen or heard anything, or if Tom’s lips had touched mine more than once as a brother’s lips never touch those of his sister. Now, however, there could be no mistaking his voice, or the fact that he hadwound his arm around my waist and drawn me nearer to him.
“Norah,” he began, “do you remember that summer afternoon years ago when you walked with me down the lane, and said good-by at the stile when the stage stopped to take me up? Yes, you remember it, and how the boy cried, and the wild words he spoke about having meant you for his wife—you, who were ten months his senior, and felt yourself to be his grandmother. Norah, I was in earnest then, and there was such a pain in my heart as I watched you standing on the stile and waving your hand to me, and to myself I said: ‘Please God if I can’t have her, I’ll never have anybody.’ Then the years went by and changes came, and the boy-love seemed to have died out, though I never saw a fair English face in India that I did not contrast it with yours, and say to myself: ‘Norah’s is the best, though possibly not so pretty.’ I was a man among men. I had money and social position, and more than one mother wanted me for her daughter, and I knew it, and, being human, was flattered by it somewhat, but always remembered you and the summer afternoon when we said good-by at the stile in Middlesex.Then Miss Elliston came to India. It was an honor to be noticed by her, and I was thus honored, and as the friend of her favorite brother was often at their rooms and came to know her well. She is very handsome, and though she may be cold and haughty to those whom she considers her inferiors, she is sweet and gracious to her equals, and was the most popular girl in Calcutta. I was much in her society, and liked her better than any girl I knew, and, as was natural, our names came at last to be mentioned together, and I was looked upon as a suitor for her hand; but I never was, Norah—never.”
I started then, but the arm around my waist tightened its hold, and he continued:
“I was not a marrying man, I thought, and whenever I did dream of a home and wife, your face came always before me as it looked that day when you watched me going from you. ‘It is not like that now,’ I said to myself. ‘Norah must have grown old in these dozen years;’ and then I sent for the photograph, which, when it came, astonished me so much by its sweet, pensive beauty and girlish fairness that I changed my mind, and thought I wasa marrying man, and that no other face than that of the original could ever satisfy me. So I came home and found you more than I had hoped. I saw at once that you, too, associated me with Miss Elliston, and as a means of winning you I suffered you to be deceived. Miss Elliston is nothing to me—never can be anything to me, even if you now refuse to select your room at Rose Park. Which shall it be, Norah? Will you take the pretty suit, you supposed was intended for another, and will you let me be somewhere in the vicinity, say within call, in case you need me?”
It was a novel way of asking me to be his wife, but it was like Tom, and I understood what it meant, and for a moment sat perfectly still, too much overcome to speak. Then, as Tom pressed me for an answer, and said:
“Come, Norah, I am bound to marry somebody so which shall it be, Miss Elliston or you?” I answered:
“I think it better be I; but oh, Tom, I never dreamed of such a thing,” and then, of course, I cried, and Tom soothed and quieted me in the usual way, and we sat and talked it over, and I found thatI must have loved him all my life, and he was certain he had loved me since the first day of his arrival at the old home in Middlesex, when he chased me with an apple-tree worm, which he succeeded in dropping into my neck, and for which I rewarded him with a long scratch on his face.
It was settled that we should be married sometime in June, and that Archie’s mother and Lady Darinda should be invited to the wedding, which otherwise was to be void of guests, with the exception of the Misses Keith and Mrs. Trevyllan. How surprised these last were, and how glad, and how much they made of me as the future Mrs. Gordon, I went and told Lady Fairfax myself, and she insisted upon giving me a wedding, and saying that I should be married from her house in Grosvenor Square. But to that Tom would not listen. A quiet wedding suited him better, with no fuss and worry, and no one to criticise.
Lady Darinda was bitterly disappointed, and was not to be appeased until Tom consented to allow her to give us a party after our return from Switzerland, for we were going there on the bridal trip—going to see the glorious Alps once more,with their ever-changing hues, and the silvery lakes which sparkle in the sunshine like silver jewels on a bed of green. Oh! that lovely June morning, when the air was filled with the perfume of roses and violets, and not a cloud hung over Kensington. My wedding morning, and it comes back to me so freshly now, with the song of the robin in the tree by my window, the dewy sweetness of the air, the deep blue of the sky, the smiles, and tears, and kisses of Mrs. Trevyllan and the Misses Keith, the loud, decided talk of Lady Darinda, the quiet “God bless you, child, and make you happy,” of Archie’s mother when she was ushered into my room, for both ladies came to the house and went with me to the church, on the street just around the corner, where Tom met me, radiant and happy, and so handsome in his new suit “right from Paris,” and the old saucy, teasing smile in his eyes and about his mouth, as he looked down upon me and heard me promise to love, honor, and obey. There were no tears at my wedding, and I trust no sorry hearts, though Miss Lucy Elliston was there with her brother Charlie, mere lookers-on, and when the ceremony was overand we were going down the aisle, she confronted Tom laughingly, and said:
“I meant to see you married whether you invited me or not.”
To me she was very polite and affable, and I remembered what Tom had said of her sweet graciousness to those whom she thought her equals. I was that now, and she said something about seeing much of me when I returned to England; but she has not, and we shall never be more than mere calling acquaintances, with occasionally a dinner or a lunch.
Lady Darinda gave the promised party, and I wore white satin and pearls, and the white boots Tom bought with the dozen, and Archie’s solitaire, too, for Tom told me about it one night at Giessbach, where we spent two delightful weeks, wandering through the woods and up and down the falls to the shores of the lake.
“I did not wish to see it on your finger then,” he said, “when you were so sick and I feared you might die; but now that you have the wedding ring and are absolutely mine, I do not care, and you can wear it if you choose.”
I did choose, for I had a weakness for diamonds, and this was a superb one, handsomer even than the one Tom gave me, which chagrined him, I think, a little.
The party was a great success, so far as numbers, and dress, and music, and titled people were concerned; and I was, I believe, considered a success, too, especially after it was generally known that I came near being Lady Cleaver of Briarton Lodge, and that Tom was one oftheGordons, with heaps of money and the prettiest place in St. John’s Wood. For myself, I did not like the party at all, and felt tired, and bored, and glad when it was over and I could come back to the beautiful home where I have been so happy since the day Tom brought me here as his bride.
It iswifenow. The bridal festivities are all in the past; the bridal dress worn at Lady Darinda’s party is yellowed by time, and on the terrace in front of the bow window where I am writing two children are playing—my sweet, blue-eyed Nellie of six, and my brave, sturdy boy of four, with light brown hair and a freck on his nose, just where Tom’s used to be when he, too, was a boy. Wecalled him Archie, to please the dear old lady, whom I have learned to love so much, and who divides her time about equally between Lady Darinda and myself. The children call her grandma, and I heard Archie explaining to the gardener’s son, the other day, that she was really his grandmother, because she was the mother of his first father!
To me the past seems all a dream, and when I look about me upon my home, and hear the voices of my children shouting on the lawn, and see their father coming up the walk, and know that he will soon be at my side, bending over me in the old, teasing, loving way, I cannot realize that I am she who once plodded so drearily through the London fog and rain, hunting for work with which to get my daily bread. God has been very good to me, and, though I have known much of poverty and sorrow, it is over now, and in all the United Kingdom there is not a happier home than mine, or a happier pair, I am sure, than Tom and I—and so this quiet story of real English life is done.