CHAPTER XVI
SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER
One of the quiet evenings, the two men were playing chess and Daffodilwas watching them; Susan came in and said in her most respectfulmanner:
"A gentleman wishes to see Miss Carrick. Here is his card."
Daffodil took it and read, "Archibald Langdale, M.D."
"Oh," in a glad, girlish tone, "it's my old friend, Archie, that Ihaven't seen in ever so long. Dr. Langdale;" with a pretty assumptionof dignity.
"Yes."
"And, uncle, you must see him. Not that I want you to accept him for afamily physician, for really I don't know what he is like. He may bethe veriest prig;" and she gave a dainty half laugh. "If he is spoiledit will be the fault of your city, he was very nice at Pittsburg. Andyou, too, Mr. Bartram."
"I have met the young man. I didn't see that he was much puffed upwith his honors."
"Thank you." She made a fascinating courtesy. How pleased she was, hecould see that.
"We will soon be through with the game. Yes, I'll come," said M. deRonville.
She would hardly have known Archie. He stood up straight and he wasquite as tall as Ned. He had filled out somewhat, though he was stillrather thin, but his face had lost that deprecating expression, andhad a clear notion not only of truth and honor, but of his own poweras well. It was a tender face also, with the light in it that drawsone unconsciously. The eyes seemed to have grown darker, but the hairwas light as in boyhood.
"I am so glad to see you again;" and he took both hands in a warmclasp. "I couldn't wait until some accidental meeting, where you mightkindly invite me for old friendship's sake."
"That would not have been worth while. I have heard about you, and Iwondered if you had outgrown childish remembrances."
"You would bring them all back if I had. How little you have changed,except to grow tall. And now tell me about yours and mine. Once in agreat while Ned writes, and mother doesn't seem to have the gift ofchatty letters. Hers are mostly about my humble self, _her_ sonrather, and how he must avoid certain things and do other certainthings, and not grow hard-hearted and irreligious and careless of hishealth;" smiling with a touch of tenderness. "So, you see, I do nothear much about the real Pittsburg."
"Oh, you would hardly know it now, there are so many changes, and somuch business. New streets, instead of the old lanes, and the old loghouses are fast disappearing. We are making real glass, you know, andthere is talk of a paper mill. And nearly all the girls are married;the older ones, I mean. Families are coming in from the country,others go out to Ohio and Kentucky. Why, it is a whirl all the time."
"I'd like to see it and mother. I've planned to go several times, butsome study or lectures that I couldn't miss would crop up. And ittakes so much time. Why doesn't some one invent a quicker way oftravelling? Now, if we could fly."
"Oh, that would be just splendid!" eagerly.
"I used to watch the birds when I was a boy, and flying seemed so easyfor them. Now, why can't some one think up a pair of wings that youcould slip on like a jacket and work them with some sort of springs,and go sailing off? I'm learning to put people together, but I neverwas any hand for machinery."
"Oh, think of it! A winged jacket;" and they both laughed gleefully.
Then M. de Ronville entered and expressed his pleasure at meeting theyoung man, who was already distinguishing himself, and who was an oldfriend of Miss Carrick.
"Not that either of you are very old," he commented smilingly.
Mr. Bartram he recalled. And certainly the generally quiet studenttalked his best. Was Daffodil a sort of inspiration? Was that one ofthe graces of early friendship?
He apologized presently for his long stay. He so seldom made calls,that he must plead ignorance of the correct length, but he had enjoyedhimself very much. And then M. de Ronville invited him to drop in totea. He would like to discuss some new medical methods with him.
"A very intelligent, well-balanced young man," the host remarked. "Ifthe other one is as sensible, they are sons to be proud of."
"Their mother _is_ proud of them, but their father would rather havehad them in business," said Daffodil.
Belinda Pemberton was quite fascinated with Daffodil. "You are such asweet, quaint, honest little thing," she said, "and you do make suchdelightfully naive remarks. And Arthur declares you must have learnedto dance in fairyland."
"I think I did," she returned gayly. "And I do love it so."
Then the little circle, and the wider one, had a fine surprise. BettyWharton, now Madame Clerval, returned quite unexpectedly, as herhusband had resigned his position.
"I had quite enough of Paris," she said to a friend. "One wants animmense fortune to truly enjoy it. And somehow things seem shaky.Then, too, one does have a longing for home when one gets past youth."
So she opened her house and set up a carriage. Monsieur Clerval foundhimself quite in demand by the government, as the country needed amultitude of counsellors.
She came in to see M. de Ronville, who gallantly said she had renewedher youth, and begged for the secret.
"It is simply to keep young, to resolve _not_ to grow old;" with a gayemphasis.
"But time passes, my dear lady."
"And where is that pretty, golden-haired Daffodil?" she enquired.
The girl was summoned. Yes, she had outgrown childhood, but there wasa delightful charm in her young womanhood.
"We were such friends--if you can remember so far back."
"And you were so good to me, and made everything so enjoyable. Wasn'tI very ignorant?"
"You were very frank, and honest, and adaptable. So we must take upthe old intimacy again. M. de Ronville, I shall drop in often and say,'Lend me your daughter for this or that occasion.' Or is it yourniece? And if some one falls in love with her you must not scold me.Young men have eyes, and really, I am too kindly-hearted to throw dustin them."
Daffodil turned scarlet.
"Is it quite right to go about so much?" she said to M. de Ronvilleafterward, and the tone had a great uncertainty in it, while thecurves of her pretty mouth quivered. "For you know----"
He drew her down beside him on the sofa.
"I thought some time we would talk it over--your unfortunate marriage,I suppose, comes up now and then to haunt you. Yet, it was fortunate,too, that the explanation came just as it did. I honestly believe itwas an ignorant child's fancy. You were not old enough to understandreal love. I think he could hardly have been a thorough villain, butan incident like this has happened more than once. And I truly believeyou have overlived it."
She shuddered, and her eyes were limpid with tears. It was good tofeel his friendly arm about her.
"It is like a dream to me, most of the time. And I think now, if hehad made a passionate, despairing protest, it would have gone muchharder with me. But it was right for him to go away when his fathersent, and he was the next in succession to Hurst Abbey. And there washis child, his boy. I could never have been his true wife, but it hurtto be given up so readily, yet it was best. It gave me courage. Andwhat if he had tired of me later on? They all helped me to bear it.And there was the deception. For if he had told the truth, there mighthave been pity, but no love."
"It was a sad thing to happen. My heart ached for you. But you know,Daffodil, you never were a wife in the true sense of the word. You arequite free, you have always been free. And you must feel so. You mustnot carry about with you any uncertainty. It is something buriedfathoms deep, that you need never draw up to the surface, unless intime to come you tell the story to the man you marry."
"I shall never marry," she returned gravely. "I have it all planned.Felix shall have the fortune, for what could a woman do with it in herown hands? And he has the name, he has only to leave off the Carrick.And it shall be my business to make every one as happy as I can. Andif it is not wrong to take pleasure for myself--I do love joy andhappiness, and I could not grieve forever, when I knew the thing Iwould grieve for was wrong."
The
re were tears dropping off the bronze lashes, but she was notreally crying. He pressed her closer. There was an exquisite depth toher that did not often come to the surface.
"So you have it all planned for the years to come," he returned aftera moment or two. "That is quite far off. Meanwhile you must have agood time with other young people. That will make me the happiest, ifyou care for me."
"Oh, indeed I do, indeed I do," she cried earnestly. Then, after quitea pause, she continued--
"I almost lost sight of what I wanted to ask. It was whether I oughtto explain anything, whether it would be sailing under false colorswhen no one knew;" and she gave a tangled sort of breath that shewould not allow to break into a sob.
"My dear child, there would be no use in explaining what could only bea matter of gossip. I think, nay, I am certain, Aldis and myself arethe only ones who know, and if there had been any trouble I shouldhave sent him to your assistance. I dare say, some of your friends andneighbors at home have wellnigh forgotten about it. And now, do notlet it disturb you, but be as happy as God meant you should be, whenHe snatched you from the peril."
"Oh, thank you," she rejoined with a grateful emotion that he feltquiver through her slender body.
She wondered if she was too light-minded, too easily pleased. Forevery joyous thing seemed to come her way. The girls sought her out,the young men wanted to dance with her, and were willing to borethemselves going out to supper, if they knew she would be there. Itwas not because she was brighter or wittier than the others, or couldthink of more entertaining plays, but just that she seemed to radiatean atmosphere of happiness.
She did not give up all her time to pleasure. She drove with herguardian on pleasant days; he had left off riding now, but he sent herout occasionally with Mr. Bartram, lest she should get out ofpractice, he said. Then she read to him, or they took up French. Shemade merry over her blunders.
The autumn was long and warm. They sat in the garden in the sunshine,or walked up and down. Now and then he went to the office, when therewere some important matters on hand.
Madame Clerval gave a dance after she had her house set in order. Itmight have been called a ball. It was mostly for the young people; shewas just as fond of them as ever, and secretly admitted that shedidn't enjoy prosy old people, who could talk of nothing but theirpains and aches, and how fast the country was going to ruin.
"Do you think Mr. Bartram would consider it a nuisance to come forme?" she asked of her guardian, with a face like a peony.
"Why, no, child. Madame made quite a point of his coming. He isgrowing old too fast."
"Why, he isn't old," she said rather indignantly. "And you see--it'shard sometimes not to offend this one or that one, and if he is reallycoming, will you ask him to bring me home? Wouldn't _you_ prefer it?"
"I think I would;" very gravely, though he wanted to smile.
Wetherell and Arthur Pemberton were pushing each other for her favors,and she tried to distribute them impartially.
The dance was a splendid success, and the dainty supper had a Frenchair. Mr. Bartram came in just before that. Daffodil was engaged, ofcourse. Madame provided him with a charming partner.
There was only a galop afterward. At private affairs it was notconsidered good taste to stay after midnight. Mr. Bartram made his wayto Daffodil, and asked her if she was ready to go, and she noddedgracefully.
She looked so pretty as she came down the stairs, wrapped in somethingwhite and fleecy, smiling on this side and that.
"It was very enjoyable," he said, "at least to you young people. I'mnot much of a dancer nowadays, so I didn't come early."
"It was just full of pleasure. Madame Clerval always plans admirably."
He smiled to himself. Most girls would have protested about his beinglate, even if they had not specially cared.
The young people took up the habit of calling in the evening, three orfour of them, sometimes half a dozen. Mrs. Jarvis would send in somecake and nice home-made wine, which was quite a fashion then. Theymade merry, of course.
"Dear uncle," she said one morning, it was raining so they couldn't goout, "didn't we disturb you last evening with our noise and laughter?I don't know why they are so eager to come here, and think they have agood time, for I am not as full of bright sayings as some of thegirls. And if it annoys you----"
"My child, no. I lay on the sofa and listened to it, and it almostmade me young again. I had no merry youth like that. Oh, am I comingto second childhood?"
His eyes were bright, and she thought she had never seen them somerry, save at first, when he had laughed at some of Felix's pranks.And his complexion was less pallid, his lips were red.
"Then second childhood is lovely. And you have grown so interested ineverything. You don't get tired as you used. Are you real happy, orare you doing it just to make me happy?"
She gave him such a sweet, enquiring look, that he was touched at hersolicitude.
"It is both, I fancy. You see, last winter I was ill and alone a greatdeal. I missed Betty Wharton, who was always flying in with some fun,or a bright story that had been told. Aldis had all the business toattend to, and sometimes wrote in the evenings. Time hung very heavyon my hands, and I began to think it was time for me to go hence. Andby spring I had quite lost heart, though I began to crawl about alittle. And I kept thinking how I should live through another drearywinter, and be half sick. It kept looming up before me. Then I thoughtI ought to settle something about your business when your father wroteconcerning the lease. You came into my mind. I thought how brave youhad been through that unfortunate time, and wondered if you would notlike a change. I wanted some one to bring in the sunshine of youth,and you had spent so many of your years with elderly people, I thoughtyou must have some art. I could make it pleasant for you, and thereflected light would brighten me. So I begged a little of your sweetyoung life."
"I am glad if it has made you happy," she said, much moved.
"It has given me new zest, it has made me almost well. True, I havehad some twinges of my old enemy, rheumatism, but they have not beensevere. I have not been lonely. There was some pleasure within myreach all the time. Oh, old people do want a little of the sun ofyouth to shine on them. And if you had no dear ones at home, I shouldkeep you always, golden-haired Daffodil."
She took his hand in hers, so full of fresh young life. "And I shouldstay," she said.
"So, do not think your little merry-makings annoy me at all. I amglad for you to have them, and next day it is like reading a page outof a book, a human book that we are apt to pass by, and say we have nopleasure in it, but it is what we need, and what we want, down in ourvery heart of hearts, but often we are ashamed to ask for it."
It was true, he was much better. The house was losing its graveaspect. Jane had been used to flinging about wise old saws, andcomparisons, and finding things to enjoy; Susan was quiet, fallinginto routine, and staying there until some new duty fairly pushed herout in another direction. She had no sense of humor or enthusiasm, yetshe performed all the requirements of her place with ease andindustry.
Mrs. Jarvis was just as kindly solicitous as ever, but intellectuallythere was a great gulf between her and M. de Ronville. She entertainedwhatever guests came with an air of precision, never forgetting shewas a higher sort of housekeeper. She enjoyed the quiet of her ownroom, where she sewed a little, and read a good deal, theold-fashioned English novels, such as "Children of the Abbey,""Mysterious Marriage," "The Cottage on the Cliff," and stories of thelatter half of the century. She thought it no part of a woman'sbusiness to concern herself with politics, she would have preferredliving under a real King and nobility, but she accepted the powersthat ruled, and stayed in her own little world, though she, as wellas M. de Ronville, enjoyed the stir and interest that Daffodil broughtabout.
After Madame Clerval came, there was more variety and gayety inDaffodil's life, and she helped to rouse M. de Ronville as well. Thencame a reception at the Presidential mansion.
"Of course,
you will go," Madame said to him, in her persuasive, yetimperious, manner. "We must not be a whit behind those New York peoplein the attention we pay our President. And one need not stay the wholeevening through, you know. You will meet so many old friends. Come, Icannot have you getting old before your time."
"But I am an old man," he protested.
"In our new country we must not get old. It is to be the land ofperennial youth," she answered gayly.
Aldis Bartram joined his persuasions as well, and M. de Ronville wentalmost in spite of himself. He had kept his delicate, high-bred airand French atmosphere, and looked well in the attire of that day, withhis flowered waistcoat, his black velvet suit and silk stockings, witha jewelled buckle on his low shoes. His beautiful white hair was justtied in a queue, with a black ribbon. There was something dignifiedand gracious about him, and friends thronged around to congratulatehim. And though he had seen Washington in many different phases of hiseventful life, he had not as yet met him as President of the nationhe had fought for and cemented together.
There were handsomer girls than Daffodil; indeed, the fame of thebeauties of Philadelphia in that day has been the theme of many a songand story. But she was very pretty in her simple white frock that inthe fashion of the day showed her exquisite neck and shoulders, thoughthe golden curls, tied high on her head, shaded and dazzled about itin a most bewitching manner. Madame Clerval was wise, she was nottrying to outshine any of the belles, yet there was a bevy of youngmen about her constantly, and most devoted to her and to M. deRonville, was Dr. Langdale. In fact, he was really the favoritevisitor at the house. He ran in now and then with news of some newbook, or some old translation, and a talk of the progress of thelibrary and the trend of general education. Why should Boston have itall? Or a new medical discovery, though he was in no sense M. deRonville's physician.
Was it strange that both these young people, having passed theirchildhood in Pittsburg, should come to a nearer and dearerunderstanding? Aldis Bartram watched them with the sense of a newrevelation. Yet he could not subscribe to it cordially. The medicalenthusiast was hardly the one he would choose for a girl likeDaffodil. Arthur Pemberton would do better, yet he was not quite up toher mark. She was a simple seeming girl, yet he was learning that shehad a great deal of character and sweetness. Somehow she kept herselfcuriously enfranchised from lovers. Her friendly frankness gave them astatus it was difficult to overcome.
"I never expected to enjoy myself so much again," said M. de Ronville,when they were in the carriage. "It is an excellent thing to go onmoving with the world, to keep in touch with the things that make upthe sum of life, instead of feeling they belong to the gone-by time,and you have no interest in them."
How much like his olden self he was, Aldis Bartram thought. Hewondered if he had been at fault in letting him drop down. There wasmuch perplexing business, and he had hated to bother the elder manwith it. Sometimes it seemed tedious to explain. Had he grown selfishin certain ways, preferring to take the burthen, rather than thetrouble of sharing it with another? He had much personal ambition, hewas in full earnest of a man's aims and life purposes. Yet it was thisman who had helped him to the place whereon he stood, and it was nothonorable to crowd him out under the plea that his best days wereover.
It seemed, indeed, as if days fairly flew by, there was so muchcrowded in them. When the morning was fine, Daffodil insisted theyshould drive out. It was delightful to keep bowing and smiling tofriends, with this attractive girl beside him. He went to somemeetings of the Philosophical Society, and he took a new interest inthe Library plans.
"You certainly have worked a transformation," Bartram said toDaffodil, when M. de Ronville consented to go to a concert with them,to hear two remarkable singers, who had come from abroad. "You willhave to stay. Didn't I hear you discussing Pittsburg with Mrs.Jarvis?"
"Oh, they are longing for me to return. And in two days March willcome in, that will be spring. And I was only to stay through thewinter."
"But March is a cruel and deceitful travesty on spring. February hasbeen too short."
"But they want me. And, yes, I want to see them all, and the garden,and the woods, and what new things have happened to Pittsburg. Forthere is something new coming in all the time."
Her face was so eager and full of happy interest.
"Well--I don't know what we shall do without you"; and the inflectionof his voice was disconsolate. "I am afraid we shall fall back to theold routine. I am a busy man, you know, and have to shoulder a greatmany cares not really my own. Perhaps, too, I haven't the divine artof making a house bright, a woman's province."
"Oh, Mr. Bartram, I will tell you;" in a clear, earnest tone. "Why doyou not marry, and bring some one here to do it? There are so manycharming girls, sometimes I feel quite unimportant and ignorant besidethem."
She uttered it in the same manner she might have asked why he did notbring home some flowers to grace the study table. Her lovely eyes wereraised to his in the utmost innocence, and not a tint of color waveredon her cheek. His flushed with sudden surprise.
"Perhaps the charming young girl would consider it a dull house forlife, and then elderly people have whims and fancies--well, youngermen do. I have myself. And it would be asking a good deal."
"I think uncle hasn't many whims, and he does keep them in thebackground. You almost have to watch for them. Why, think of grandad!"and she laughed with a soft musical sound. "What he liked yesterday hemay not like at all to-day, so Norry does the new thing, and saysnothing about the other. And he often disputes with father as towhether there was any real need for the war, and that we would bebetter off under King George. But uncle is so large-minded, and thenhe has so many refined and delightful tastes. But you would getlonesome if you were not very well, and no one came to cheer you up,or bring you new thoughts and bright bits of things, that were goingon in the world outside."
She paused suddenly, and flushed like a culprit, looking morebeguiling than ever, with her downcast eyes.
"I suppose I oughtn't have said it, but it seems true to me, only I'mnot blaming you. You have a great many things to attend to, and youmust do them in a man's way, devote your whole mind to them, and youcan't be frivolous, or other people's business would suffer. If Ihadn't any one I would come and stay, but--I love them, and sometimes,in spite of the pleasure, my heart is almost torn in two with thelonging. I said I would come back in the spring, and I must go. Thenit will not be quite so bad, for Madame Clerval will be in and out,and he is so much better. And you'll let him take an interest inbusiness, when he feels like it--oh, I seem to be giving you advice,and I sincerely beg your pardon. After all, I am not much more than alittle girl, and I am talking as if I was old and wise;" and a suddenshame flamed her cheeks with scarlet.
"I think you have been wise, and sweet, and patient, without growingold. You have done a great deal for your guardian this winter--Ireally was afraid we should not have him with us for very long, and hedid seem to wish for you so. Perhaps we were selfish, he and I."
"Oh, I was ready to come, too. It has been a delightful winter, andeverybody has been so good to me, I've been just full of pleasure. Butwhen you love those you have left behind, you sometimes feel as ifyou could fly."
She winked very fast, then made a sudden dab at her eyes, and halflaughed, too.
"I think I understand. I have had no one to love dearly since I was alittle lad, and all I remember about my mother is that she was pale,and ill, and could not endure a noise. Then I was put in school, andmy father went away and died. When I was eighteen I went in M. deRonville's office, and finished my studies. He has been my bestfriend, really like a father to me. I ought to make all the return inmy power."
"Oh;" and there was a bewildering sweetness in her tone. "I have beenso happy most of my life, and had so many to love me."
Then that unfortunate episode had not cost her any deep-seated grief.Had she loved at all, or was it only a childish fancy? He hoped itwas, for the sake of her future.
br /> He turned then and went out of the room. M. de Ronville had been up inhis dressing-room, with his valet, and now he went to the library, andshe followed him. There were some reports to look over, then thecarriage came for them. It was sunny, with very little wind, and theyhad plenty of wraps.
Aldis Bartram went his way to the office. The two clerks were thereand busy. He opened his letters, and answered several, the others hadneed of some legal opinions to be looked up. Then he took up a rathercomplicated case, but he soon lost the thread of it, for Daffodil'salmost upbraiding voice haunted him. He had been outwardly patientmany a time when all was irritation within, for he was too manly andtoo really grateful to show impatience.
Had Daffodil's being there this winter proved the source of thereaction in M. de Ronville's health? Had loneliness intensified thedisease and discomfort? Perhaps. And now two or three young mendropped in, and had entertaining talks with him. Or was it becausethey liked the byplay of the pretty, vivacious girl, who never madeherself the first attraction.
"Marry some pretty, charming young girl!" Where would he find one toM. de Ronville's liking?