■?A L.-, ■>.;^*>i^"■ v^. %: ^t^i-i .>;^kL":iiL!lS.c " " I really can tell you nothing more, but I suppose in due course of time he will be the Count Romano." ASPIRATIONS, 189 CHAPTER XVII. When Mr. Marsh found himself undergoing close and repeated questionings from M. Petitspains, and the recipient of embraces and caresses from the aged crone in the Romano picture-gallery, he felt him- self an actor in what might prove to be more than a comedy. But when that same evening, he had parted from his friends, and had been conducted into the presence of Count Nicolo, with only Mr. Barclay and M. Petitspains as audience, it seemed to him a broad farce. That he — a simple-minded Ameri- can citizen, a dauber of paints, an unknown fisher-lad — should be a supposed aspirant to Italian nobility, was too absurd. He felt himself, as I have said, an actor, playing an unexpected part in a surprising drama ; and though there was enough reality in all that had transpired, and enough connection with that which had been always a dream to him, — viz., his days of infancy, — he now found himself most reluctantly forced to accept the truth, and comply with the count's request to return to the States and collect every vestige of paper which might have any power to prove his identity. He found the count as Mr. Barclay described him, . — an old, sorrowful man, living in an out of the way 1 90 ASPIRA TIONS. part of Florence, unvisited, forgotten by the gay- world, absorbed in the one only thing which inter- ested him, — simply the defence of his property, which, little comfort as it yielded him, was yet a some- thing which aroused the only remains of his old spirit ; a something which he would keep, if to retain it was only to withhold it from the clutches of the ravening aggressor who assailed it. The new hope which the discovery of his possible and probable heir aroused was as marrow to his bones and warmth to his veins. His whole being was stimulated. To have the aid of a young, fresh, vigorous spirit in the warfare he was waging; to make the possession of his prop- erty an impossibility to his enemy in the future, as well as in the present, — was even more than he could have hoped. With tremulous eagerness, he was con- fident of success ; and he welcomed Lillo with senile tenderness that would have touched the young man's heart could he have forgotten that this same man's anger and wretched failure of parental duty had been the cause of his mother's misfortunes. Their meeting was peculiar. Lillo did not speak Italian with ease. Count Nicolo knew no English ; but M. Petitspains was an enthusiastic interpreter. By the glimmering light of candles, in the gloomy apartment, might be seen the remarkable family likeness between the grandfather and grandson ; but it seemed to be purely physical, for in the young man's steadfast gaze there was none of the older man's vacillating weakness. Mr. Barclay noticed the almost contemptuous indifference of Lillo when M. Petitspains enlarged and dilated upon the mag- ASPIRA TIONS. 1 9 1 nificence of being a Romano, and the questioning disappointment which crept into the old man's coun- tenance at the negative part which Lillo took in the discussion. The candles flamed and flared. The lawyer pre- sented every point of the necessary legalities, and with rapid pen wrote out remarks, directions, expla- nations ; his little wizened face shining with acute- ness. On his left sat the white-haired count, wrapped in some sort of a loose cloak, which, from its braids and frogs, seemed a remnant of military service. In his delicate white hand, with its signet ring, was held a metal snuff-box, from which he carefully took a pinch at odd intervals. His gaze was fastened with intensity upon the young painter, who, after the cor- dial recognition vouchsafed him, had drawn somewhat into the shadow of some overhanging drapery, and leaned carelessly upon the carved back of a prie- dieti. Lillo's fine features were just a little flushed, and his foot tapped the polished floor uneasily. The or- deal was not agreeable to him, and it was with great reluctance that he assented to the propositions urged. He had not intended an immediate return to Amer- ica, and it interfered with his professional plans so to do ; but when his grandfather clasped his hands, and wept, he could not have refused, if only from motives of pity. But besides the pity, and independ- ently of all other considerations, there was now the desired opportunity of making certain the proofs of a legal marriage between his father and mother, with- out which he would never ask Ruth Morris to be his 192 ASPIRATIONS, wife. To be sure, he had in an unguarded moment given her an inkling of his admiration, and had been made glad by the sweet confidence with which that inkling had been received ; but he would not have felt himself justified in asking her to accept a name to which, perhaps, he had no right. " You will go then and return as speedily as pos- sible } " urged monsieur. Lillo nodded. " And you will accept your aged relative's offer of a permanent home as his only son and heir?" " Pardon, I cannot promise that." ** Why not } why not } Every advantage is to ac- crue, — the estates, the title, the political honor, the" — " None of which I care for," interrupted Lillo. The lawyer glared upon him, so great was his astonishment. " You forget that I have a profession," said Lillo. " But that need not interfere." " I have made my own career ; I am satisfied : why should I burden myself with all these empty honors and unwelcome privileges ? " "Because you are a Romano," said the lawyer decisively, with a wave of his hand. " Because I am but half a Romano, left to fight my own battle with the world, disowned, discarded, neglected, forgotten," said Lillo indignantly. " Pardon me, that is not truth : your grandfather loved you ; you were taken from him ; he would have nourished you as the apple of his eye." "As he did my mother, perhaps," said Lillo satiri- cally. ASPIRATIONS, 193 "Ah, young man ! " pleaded the little lawyer, "you little know the keenness of a parent's disappointment when a child marries wilfully, secretly, out of her station. But let that pass : her wrongs have been atoned for by years of acute remorse and humilia- tion. Accept, I beg you, this grandparent's contri- tion. Look at him ; see his eager hope : wouJd you cloud it } " "I have no wish to add to his sorrows," replied Lillo, forced to answer. " Then give him the satisfaction he so desires." " I promise nothing," said Lillo again, rising from his leaning attitude and preparing to depart, ** noth- ing that may harass my future movements. You will please make my " (here he hesitated) " my grand- father — if that is the title the Count Nicolo prefers me to use — understand how much I thank him for his proposal and warmth of recognition, and assure him that I shall either bring or send him the papers I possess. I will do that, but I will bind myself to nothing more." He drew himself up with some hau« teur, and the old count looked from one to the other with pleading inquiry. M. Petitspains was much dis- concerted, but strove to maintain a smiling aspect. " I will trust to your better nature, your generos- ity. You cannot be so cruel as to disappoint this aged parent ! This has come upon you too suddenly. You have really had no time to consider ; and you will better appreciate the brilliancy of position, wealth, family, an ancient name, when you find how the world regards this opportunity. Ah, young man, I have no fear but that all will come around as we 1 94 ASPIRA TIONS. wish ! Every thing happens to those who wait. This time next year, no one in Italy will be so much sought after, no one better known for his fine prospects, than the young Count Lillo Romano, grandson and heir of the Count Nicolo." His beaming smile and as- sured tones revived hope in the aged count, who rose, and, as Lillo departed, placed upon his reluctant hand the signet ring from his own finger. " I feel like a thankless prodigal son, who prefers the husks and the swine from sheer choice," said Lillo to Mr. Barclay as they separated. It was indeed wonderful how quickly the story got about, and how soon congratulations came pouring in. Between the day of his leaving and that of the fete^ a week had hardly elapsed ; and yet numerous cards were left, and carriages rolled away from the studio, to Bianca's delight, who saw in this attention a recognition of her lodger's importance which might bring her in an increase oifrajtchi. How the news spread, Lillo did not know, but he shrewdly suspected M. Petitspains had a hand in it. He had little time to speculate, however, on this or any other question : the arrangement of his affairs, the finishing of pictures already ordered, and the preparation for his journey, took up all his time. ASPIRATIONS, 195 CHAPTER XVIII. At the last moment of the steamer's sailing, in which Mrs. Vedder and Ruth were to leave, they were surprised by the appearance of her son. He came aboard in haste, and showed no especial pleas- ure in so doing ; for, in truth, he had been forced to this by a quarrel with his elder brother and a failure of funds. But he seemed to be more resisrned to his fate when he discovered that his mother had so young and pretty a companion in her travels, and he soon made it apparent that he intended to assume every cousinly right. But Ruth was far from respon- sive. At a first glance she had conceived an aver- sion difficult to conceal, and a nearer acquaintance froze her into an icicle of reserve, which increased Mr. Vedder's ill-humor. Lillo Marsh was also on the same steamer, under no new name or title. But Ruth was conscious of but one presence, and that was Mrs. Vedder's. I do not know whether the ocean malady has been analyzed in these analyzing days, but I am confident that no aspiring, elevating emotions are ascribed to it. Ruth found it absolutely degrading. She felt herself indulging all sorts of regrets. She wished she had never seen her aunt, never heard of her cousins, never left Mr. Barclay. 1 96 ASPIRA TIONS. In the pauses of intense misery her ears were filled with Mrs. Vedder's complaints of the way the world treated her, particularly the little world of ex- clusive people journeying to their republican homes with a fresh stock of aristocratic ideas. "Snub- bing," as Mrs. Vedder expressed it, was dealt out in large measure. She could not understand why she was the object of so much indifference. What had she done or left undone t The poor woman had not a particle of tact, and intruded herself on people without knowing how repugnant she was to them. Neither could she com- prehend why her beloved Charley was not regarded with admiring eyes. Was he not outwardly all that a gentleman need be ? And why did not Ruth like him } What other girl but would be pleased with his attention } To be sure, he was a little frisky, and sometimes made mis- takes. Ruth listened to her aunt's complaints as she listened to the throb of the engine, and the rush of the waves, — with the apathy of despair. Should she ever behold her native land, she would never again trust herself off of terra firnia. One day she seemed stronger, and the stewardess urged her to leave her berth. Muffled in wraps, and attended by Mrs. Vedder, she did so. It was the first sight of her which had gladdened Lillo's eyes since their departure. He noticed keenly her pallor, her listlessness, and the fatigue of Mrs. Vedder's presence. With delicacy he sought to divert her ; but she scarcely brightened, her depression re-acting ASPIRATIONS. 197 upon himself. It seemed to him that he must have been mistaken in those vague but happy imaginings in which he had indulged. Even the day was an uncertain one, — the sky full of gray clouds, the sun glancing out only at intervals. No one spoke to them. Mrs. Vedder's voice intimidated those who might have approached the interesting languid young invalid ; and Mr. Vedder's cigar-smoke made an im- pregnable halo about them. It was impossible that the conversation should be any thing better than the merest commonplace ; and yet it was with a quick perception of jealous regard that Lillo saw Charley Vedder assume the proprietary right to be Ruth's guardian and escort, and strive to make his trifling words carry an accent of meaning wholly lost on Ruth. Poor Ruth was sadly homesick, and the mere men- tion of Mr. Barclay brought tears to her eyes. Uneasy and discomposed, Lillo wondered if, after all, the absurd reports — absurd until now — con- cerning Mr. Barclay and his young ward had any foundation. Was it altogether impossible that their strong affec- tion for each other had taken a different coloring } Why should he have supposed as entirely a matter of course that the love of which he was so conscious should be returned } Had not many a young girl given similar recognition of an unconcealed passion, and then acted in the most deliberate and contradic- tory manner. Even granting that she was free from the guile of coquetry, might she not have been mis- taken in her own feelings ? 1 98 ASPIRA TIONS. Every lover can thus torment himself. It is but a phase of the tender passion, that such doubts should ebb and flow. And it was not an unreasonable sup- position for an imaginative person to hold, that Mr. Barclay should have reared and educated a charming young girl with the intention of making her his wife, — a wife of his own modelling. He knew that this view was held by many. But why, then, should Mr. Barclay have allowed Ruth to leave him even for a few months 1 Perhaps the separation was to be a test. Perhaps he was generous enough to wish her to see the world for herself, unbiassed by his presence or advice; and perhaps, too, she was only just now appreciating how very much she cared for him. Lillo's thoughts ran in this current all that day. So long as Ruth staid on deck, he remained beside her, loath to give her into Charley Vedder's keeping ; for, in addition to the cigar-smoke, Mr. Vedder had made frequent visits to the steamer's bar. But Ruth's mood was one of such utter indifference, that, had there been an opportunity for serious conversation, Lillo would not have seized it ; for moods can be as unconquerable as barriers of stone. The day grew darker, the wind higher, and Mr. Vedder found stimu lants even more necessary than before. Indeed, so unsteady had his nerves become, that Lillo was obliged to persuade him to seek the retirement of his berth ; but he was not a youth accustomed to yield to per- suasion which conflicted with his own views. No, he would not go, and he would persist in maudlin attentions to Ruth, who at last roused to the true condition of her cousin rose hastily for the purpose ASPIRA TIONS. 1 99 of going to the cabin. How she rose, and how both young men advanced with her, and the one in eager haste to baffle the other sprang before in such a way as to confuse the heated brain of his companion, can hardly be told : enough that one of them plunged down the narrow companion-way, striking his head in his fall, and lying senseless. There was instant stir and commotion. The sur- geon was summoned, and a crowd of excited, ques- tioning people gathered around. Lillo hurried Ruth to her state-room, and returned to his unfortunate acquaintance. The surgeon was applying remedies, and there did not seem to be much harm done. But Mrs. Vedder was frantic in her accu- sations. In vain the cooler heads tried to calm her. " Hush ! hush !" they said. But she began to weep, and amid her sobs asserted that the young painter had been the cause of the fall. It seemed absurd to notice her, but Lillo essayed to stem the reproachful torrent of her speech. She would not listen to him. Nothing and no one could convince her that she was mistaken ; not even Ruth could change her : so after that Lillo kept away from her as she desired. This affair did not increase the Vedders' popularity. Mr. Vedder remained in seclusion the rest of the voyage, and Mrs. Vedder maintained her anger. Ruth forbore any further defence of Lillo, and the journey came soon to an end, — heavy fogs making it still more dreary. Her great-uncle, Mr. Boggs, met them on landing, and was profuse in his welcome. His studs were larger than ever, and his voice even more resonant. 200 ASPIRATIONS. " Glad to see you, Miss Morris, glad to see you with your aunt. She's the proper person for you to be with. Never did like the idea of your livin' on a man who was neither kith nor kin to you. Hope you ain't too fine a lady through his foolish notions. Goin* to be somethin* and do somethin' now, ain't you } " Ruth opened her large eyes and looked at him as she might have done when she was the little friend- less girl of years before. Her present desolation nearly equalled that of those long-forgotten days. "Now, Cauldwell," interposed Mrs. Vedder, "don't be too aggravatin* just as I've reached my native land. The stars and stripes make me feel good-natured, and I don't want to be riled. Get my things through the custom-house, and let Charley and Ruth come on with me. Charley's not well, and Ruth's had an awful sea-sick time. We'll go to the Fifth Avenue and get a good dinner, and take the evening train straight to Berryville. See here," and her voice dropped to a whisper, " there's a lot of lace sewed inside the trimming of one of my wrappers ; take care that they don't find it out. And I've got lots of gloves and things that haven't been worn, that they'll want to charge duty on ; but it's none of the Government's business : I am not a smuggler, and they've no right to suspect me. The custom-house is a mean, mis- erable concern, anyway." While Mr. Vedder harangued her brother, and the luggage was being inspected, Lillo drew near to bid Ruth good-by. He had necessarily kept aloof, — for Mrs. Vedder's unreasoning aversion and his own self- respect obliged him to, — but he was none the less ASPIRA TIONS. 20 1 determined to know Ruth's whereabouts and plans, even if, as he feared, there might be little chance of his ever having any share in them. She was standing in all the confusion of the wharf, looking absently toward the bay and the far-away ves- sels. Her color rose as Lillo approached and offered his arm. "Let us get a little out of the crowd," he said, drawing her away from the bustling and pushing people. " Our rather unsatisfactory journey has pre- vented me from asking you where you are going, and how long you will remain with your aunt : may I not know ? " " Certainly, as far as I can know myself. But truly I am much confused. Mr. Boggs has just now sug- gested that I must * be something and do something : ' what would you advise ? " Lillo looked amused as he said, " Is it worth while considering what such a man thinks } " " Oh," said Ruth, " I don't think he is alone in his views : everybody is expected to be something or do something extraordinary now-a-days. I am afraid my guardian has hardly prepared me to meet the expec- tations of society." " Society is a tremendous humbug. But how long are you to remain with these people } '* " I really don't know," said Ruth ruefully. " If I had known that Mr. Vedder was to return with his mother " — She stopped short. " Does he annoy you in a way that I can help } " asked her companion, blazing up. " Oh, no, no ! " she cried, fearful of these two com- 202 ASPIRA TIONS. ing in conflict again ; " and I hope you will forgive the rudeness you have suffered from them/' "That's a trifling matter; but may I not hear from you? I am on my way to Codtown, as you know, and expect to return by next week's steamer." " So soon ? " ** Yes ; there will be nothing to detain me, and my newly found relative will be impatient. Mr. Barclay will want to hear all about you. May I not visit Berryville, if that is where you are going, so that I can report.^" " Of course," replied Ruth, unconscious of the little bitterness with which her companion spoke, for she was thinking how desolate she would be. So long as he had been near, she had been sure of some one who understood her and sympathized with her. She looked up at him now with a glance, which, had he been in a more hopeful state of mind, would have carried enlightenment. He mistook its tenderness for regret at her separation from Mr. Barclay. " And the Aldens, too, — you will have some mes- sage for them ? " he went on, wishing to prolong the conversation, yet jealous and unsatisfied with its turn. '* Yes. I must write at once to May. Poor Grace will not care much. You know that her engagement is broken } " " I heard so. Does she care t " The little mocking tone did not escape Ruth. " She is wretched." " Is it possible } I supposed good little girls obeyed their parents and guardians, and had no feeling in ASPIRA TIONS. 203 these matters. Miss Alden, I presume, believing the young man too poor, forbade his addresses." *'You are mistaken," said Ruth gravely. At this moment, Mr. Boggs and Mrs. Vedder, hav- ing superintended the opening of numerous boxes, drew near, and at the same moment Charley Vedder appeared with a hack ; and Lillo released Ruth's hand from his arm. He looked at her with a certain ques- tioning intentness, which made the color again flush her pale cheeks, and tint even her pretty little ears, in which there were no rings. ** You will come see me," she said earnestly. " I want to hear all that romantic story of yours, your own version of it, and whether you are going to be Count Romano ; and besides, I shall feel quite a stranger in my native land." " You will miss Mr. Barclay," said Lillo ; add- ing, "If you wish me to come, I will certainly do so." Then Mrs. Vedder, who had stood by rather awk- wardly, with a very nonchalant nod, put out her hand, and said, — " I believe, Mr. Marsh, I was mistaken on the steamer. I was all riled up and disturbed by that acci- dent. Charley says I was a fool to act so. You must come and see us in Berryville ; we are all goin' there soon. Ain't this custom-house business a bother ? But you ain't got the traps we have. Now, just look at Ruth : she's as pretty as a picture to-day. That's all because she's on dryland. The ocean don't agree with her, nor with me either. Isn't the weather hot here in New York t I'm all wrapped up in my seal- 204 ASPIRATIONS. skin, so they shouldn't charge duty on it. Well, good- by. Don't forget to come and see us." Ruth got into the carriage with a dull, desolate feeling that she had made some great mistake. Every thing had suffered a sea-change. She had been so happy in the last few months, had so thoroughly enjoyed her youth, her liberty, her friends, — and, above all, the new and exquisite sensations which had come like the first sweet breath of summer, the mere shadow of a hope as evanescent as the perfume of wild-flowers, a something intangible and yet joyful, a something which she could not translate, for which speech had no words. And now where was it t Not long was she allowed to indulge in revery. An earnest discussion had arisen as to what should be ordered for dinner, and Mrs. Vedder had loudly in- veighed against the cookery of the Cunard steamers. " Oh, dear me ! " she said. " We must have a real good spread. It is late for shad, I suppose, June shad ain't good for much. Ruth's looking as thin as one now ! I suppose strawberries are plenty. Oh, how hungry I am, and how glad to get away from all those foreign fixin's ! Cauldwell, I advise you never to go abroad." " I never mean to : America is good enough for me," said Mr. Boggs, clearing his throat as if for a speech, and addressing his sister as from a rostrum, with a wave of his hand, on which glittered a huge carbuncle. "I suppose," he continued, "you saw much of the deplorable effects of dram-drinking in those towns and villages where grapes are raised." ASPIRA TIONS. 205 Ruth thought with a shuddder of his nephew's habits, and feared lest a personal reproof might be coming; but Mr. Boggs's words were but the preface to a long address on the follies of the day. He liked to hear himself talk, and did not expect replies. But Mrs. Vedder also liked to talk, and had no inten- tion of letting him have all his own way. Was she not fresh from scenes that his eyes had never beheld, and had she not met people of much more impor- tance than Mr. Boggs had any conception of } But the bad pavement over which they were pass- ing made Mr. Boggs's elocution jerky, and the rusty springs of the hack deprived his expressions of grace ; besides, the blocked and tangled mass of vehicles, with swearing drivers, made it necessary for both of them to shout : so after a while conversation was abandoned, and they drove on in silence, leaving Ruth to her desolate meditations. ** Here we are at last ! " exclaimed Mrs. Vedder, as the carriage stopped before the gleaming white front of the Fifth-avenue Hotel. "Now for a good dinner ! '* 206 ASPIRATIONS. CHAPTER XIX. "A NOTE from Miss Alden, sir; the man waits for a reply," said Mr. Barclay's servant, presenting the billet on a silver salver. Mr. Barclay was at his writing-table this warm morning, with a heap of correspondence before him. He tore open Miss Alden's note and read : "Can you come to me for an hour's talk this afternoon } I need your advice." " Certainly. I will be with you at four p.m. We can drive afterwards, if you wish," was his reply. He had staid in Florence solely on Miss Alden's account, as her niece's illness had prevented her from leaving when all their American and English friends had departed ; but he was finding it very irksome. The Protestant schools were closed ; the Duchess of Stickingham was on her way home ; Mrs. Coit had gone to Switzerland; and Mr. Barclay, without Ruth or Miss Marchbank, found the days too long for him. He missed his young ward sadly ; and, as the possibility of losing her altogether was thereby suggested to him, there came unbidden the query, whether, in spite of all reasons against such a step which he had always argued so plausibly, he should not secure himself against such a loss. Yes, ASPIRA TIONS. 207 in his loneliness and ill-health and depression, he had allowed himself to look at their relation from the vulgar point of view which he had so condemned, and really was thinking seriously if he had not bet- ter make Ruth his wife. To be sure, he did not deceive himself with any absurd idea of being in love again. A man never really could be that but once in his life, and his past was an unusually sacred one, too sacred to be even thought of in connection with this present plan, which, after all, was perhaps more for Ruth's benefit than his own. But, though he had no such love to offer, he was sure that no one's society was so necessary to him as that of Ruth's. Had he not trained and trimmed and guided her young life entirely to his liking.-^ Had he not instilled his own views, principles, and opinions, even to such an ex- treme that he had actually seen the need of her view- ing the world for a while through her own eyes, as an educational advantage ? And who could be more sweetly devoted to his comfort than Ruth t Ah, how much he missed her pretty ways, her attention, her docility ! How much he missed their talks and walks and readings } How silent and empty the rooms were, how vacant his time ! And who could understand her so well, who could make her so happy, who knew her every wish and thought } Surely no one but himself. And yet, there was the possibility that even now she might be making new ties, new friendships, which, if they did not sever, might weaken old ties. For Ruth was young, and Mr. Barclay remembered with a sudden uneasiness that novelty and change some- 208 ASPIRATIONS, times worked wonders with young people. Of one thing he was certain : she had no thought unknown to him, she had no friendships made under his eye that he need fear Even her personal attributes were presented to him with strange force and per- sistence as he sat thinking these thoughts, with his pen in his hand, and his note-paper before him. Her sweet face rose before him like a vision ; and he almost heard her soft footfall, and smelt the faint fragrance of her fineries. As he dawdled over his letters, he imagined her by his side, questioning, criticising, examining, as had been her wont, and as he had allowed. She was a very lovely girl, a rare refinement in her by nature, and the daughter of a man he had loved. Why should he not follow this impulse ? Would there, could there be but one answer if he did } Ah, again came that vague un- easiness as to what change might have already been begun in her ! Drawing a fresh sheet from a quire, and dipping his pen leisurely in the ink, he began writing. " My DEAR Ruth, — It is with a strange feeling of surprise that I find myself compelled to consider why I allowed you to leave me." No, that was not what he wanted to say : so he began over again. ** My dear Ruth, — Since your departure, I find myself a strange and lonely being. All Florence is changed. Ever}-- body except the Aldens has gone. Grace is yet very weak, and her aunt very uneasy about her ; while May is as fresh as a rose, and vexed with impatience to be off. I cannot leave my ASPIRA TIONS. 209 old friend to the untender mercies of innkeepers and servants, therefore I linger. But a constant undercurrent of wonder at myself for letting you leave me is ebbing and flowing through all these lonely days. I did not appreciate my dependence upon you, and, in truth, have come to look at our relative positions in a very remarkable way. I believe I am growing old, Ruth, — not so much outwardly as inwardly, — which is a very curious admission for me to make just now to you, meditating, as I do, the asking of the greatest favor a man can ask or a woman can grant. But you and I have always been very honest to each other, and to tell you any flattering falsehood would be as for- eign to my nature as to yours. Old I am, and clinging more to the idea of home and established ways : it is this which has been bringing me around to the conviction that I must cease to be your guardian. I have positively fought against this idea, mainly because it was the common one of the stupid people who think all friendships between man and woman must culmi- nate in matrimony, but also because it seemed ungenerous to offer you so little and ask so much. But here I am asking it, after all, — and why ? Because I see no other way of keeping you all to myself." The little silver travelling-clock here rang out three clear notes ; and Mr. Barclay, remembering a necessary errand before going to Miss Alden, as well as the need of dressing, was forced to lay aside his pen for a more convenient season. There was no haste required, and he wanted to put his ideas very deliberately on paper. So he rose and began his toilet. It was past four when he reached Miss Aldeu's, and found her waiting for him. " The girls are out, most opportunely," she said, as she greeted him. " What ! not Grace ? I thought she was yet too ill." 2 1 ASPIRA TIONS. "For any lengthened exertion yet, she is. But May has urged her into making an attempt. They took the maid, and Branly Potter was to drive them. But I must go home, Frank. These girls have kept me now in a perpetual worry for so long that I have reached the limit of my patience. Never, never again shall I be induced to chaperone marriageable girls : it is too great a responsibility. My brother has relied too much upon me. May's freaks of in- dependence, her intimacy with Mrs. Gray, and her wilful opposition to my views have been most har- assing ; while Grace's engagement terminated, as I knew it would, in disaster, — not that I supposed the man would do quite what he did, but I knew no good could come of the affair." " Is she getting over it ? '* "Yes, I think she is. Our difference of opinion previous to the iclaircisseincnt has prevented me from being in her confidence ; but I see that her natural pride is asserting itself. She never mentions the man's name." " Naturally," said Mr. Barclay. " Oh, yes ! I trust such folly will never be repeated. But I sent for you, Frank, to have a business talk, and I must not allow myself to digress. Here is a letter from my brother that has troubled me greatly, and I can't quite make it out. He has lost heavily in recent speculations, but I fail to see why it should affect me. Suppose you read it and explain : a third person can always do better than an interested party." Miss Alden handed Mr. Barclay the letter, and ASPIRA TIONS. 211 took up her crochet. Her needle flew in and out of the fleecy wool, and the diamonds on her slender fin- gers flashed with each movement. Her soft, rich black silk and creamy lace became her well ; but her face looked worn and thin, and her eyes were some- what dim, as if they had recently shed tears. Mr. Barclay read in silence, but rose hastily as he ended, and stood before the window. "Well, what do you make of this strange docu- ment, Frank, which to me was so perplexing } " asked Miss Alden anxiously. Mr. Barclay came back from the window with heightened color. " It does not contain good news,'* he said quietly. But something in his tone made Miss Alden's work slip from her fingers ; seeing which, he took her hand very gently and drew it to his lips. " What is it, Frank } what is it that you have dis- covered ? " she asked ; and her voice trembled. " Be courageous, my dear friend ; there are many things worse than the loss of money in this world." " Oh, no, no ! " she cried ; " not to those who have no power of making it. Nothing but crime and sin can be worse." " The loss of those we love," he began gently, re- membering the blight upon his own life ; but she quickly broke in — ** Those losses Heaven consoles; sorrow carries its own balm; but money — Oh, it is simply what we cannot do without ! But how does my poor brother stand } Is he penniless ? " "I fear he is," 2 1 2 ASPIRA TIONS, " And I ? how will it affect me ? '* " I am afraid " — " Oh, there you must be mistaken, Frank ! My brother may be involved, but it cannot do me much harm. To be sure, I must help him as far as I can ; but — Why do you look so at me ? " ** Is it possible you do not know ? " " No ; I see no cause " — " For hope that any thing remains." He com- pleted her sentence, as a surgeon might, with incisive firmness, plunge in his scalpel. " Frank ! " *' My dear friend, do not deceive yourself. Your brother has used your funds as well as his own." She rose now in her excitement, and her eyes flashed with a strange light ; but in a moment more she had dropped into her chair, and was sobbing violently. Mr. Barclay went for water, and found a carafe on the sideboard, and a glass, into which he poured a few drops from the little flask his own invalidism necessitated carrying ; but already Miss Alden had conquered her hysteria, and was fanning herself. " Forgive my outburst, I beg of you," she said feebly. " I could not bring myself to believe that was the truth ; but I see now it must be as you say. What shall I do.? what shall I do.? Alas! here come the girls. Let us keep them ignorant a little longer." " By all means," quickly responded Mr. Barclay, admiring her quick repossession of herself, and her equally brave desire to bear her trouble alone. " But remember I am every way at your service." He ASPIRATIONS, 213 had not time to say more ; for, like a summer breeze, May burst laughing in, and Grace followed, leaning on Branly Potter, and looking still like an Easter lily. " We have bought all the shops out, auntie,*' cried May, "for I knew this was my last chance when I saw how well Grace bore the fatigue ; there is no earthly excuse now why she should remain in Flor- ence. I tried to inveigle Mr. Potter to wager that we would return when he does ; but he had no faith in my betting-book, — nor in me, either, I am afraid.'* But catching a very expressive glance from her now confessed lover, she stopped and looked from one to the other. "Something is the matter," she said decidedly, and with a little sniff of her pretty nose, as if she smelt something in the air. " Matter enough," said Mr. Barclay, gallantly has- tening to assist Grace to a chair and a footstool and a fan, and any thing and every thing which would cover Miss Alden's emotion. " You are too giddy. May, for a good nurse ; I shall have to take Grace under my wing.'* "With all my heart,'* answered May, waving her hands in a fresh pair of palest primrose gants de Suede. " As soon as you please, I will resign ; only I hope she will not be the torment of your existence as she is of mine, with her proud determination to give up every wish and whim of her own, and become a perfect saint. Saints always were my abhorrence, and Grace is fast becoming one : so take her, Mr. Barclay, and welcome.'* 2 1 4 ASPIRA TIONS. Poor Grace smiled faintly, and looked appealingly to Mr. Barclay, saying, — "It's all because I wouldn't be extravagant and buy a pair of amber bracelets for these wretchedly thin wrists of mine, and would make her take the money for some tortoise-shell things which she wants to give away. An easy way to procure saintliness, is it not ? " " Oh, the motive is quite equal to many that have gained niches in the chapels ! We don't measure the deed," answered Mr. Barclay, wondering why the talk would run on money, and pitying Miss Alden deeply. He was touched, too, with the new, sweet expression of Grace's face. She looked wan and weary, and no longer had the bright girlishness of May ; but there was a look of calm serenity which indicated that she had conquered in the trial to which she had been subjected, and would hereafter be equal to the duties her life might impose, with perhaps an added power of sympathy with the wants and woes of humanity, which her own pain had taught her. Mr. Barclay thought he had never seen her looking lovelier ; and it pained him to think what was before these girls who had not known even the restrictions of small means. All their lives they had lived in luxury ; not in wanton wastefulness or in pompous show, but in the delightful ease of gratified desires, as pure and healthful and refined as education and culture inspire. To what now might they be hurry- ing.? — to privation, toil, care, want. It made him chilly as he sat there with Miss Alden's hopeless, sad glance meeting his in dumb anguish. She had taken ASPIRATIONS. 215 up her crochet ; but the needle seemed to catch in the wool, her fingers were so tremulous : and in the pauses of May's lively rattle he caught the sound of one or two sighs which were almost sobs. Poor woman, what a crushing grief this was to her ! For, besides the loss of money, both he and she knew that there was loss of honor. He would not go till he could assure her of his sympathy and aid, and beg her to keep the worst of the tidings from these inno- cent girls. There was no need of their knowing all. It was late before Branly Potter ceased making les beaux yeiix to May, and she to him, — for if ever two people were to outsiders confessedly " in love," and yet unwilling to acknowledge it, these were ; and for May, Mr. Barclay had little apprehensiveness. Her very happiness was a shield ; not even poverty could sting her with its usual venom. But for the aunt, whose pride was intense, and whose locks were even grayer than his own ; and for the girl whose recent acute experience of sorrow rendered her as a bruised reed, — Mr. Barclay was full of pity. So he staid on. But he gained no chance to express him- self that evening; for after awhile Miss Alden, unable to bear the strain of suppressed feeling, excused her- self, and as she left the room seemed to have become shrunk and bent under the burden of her woe. 2 1 6 ASPIRA TIONS. CHAPTER XX. Mr. Barclay went to his rooms with almost as much depression as Miss Alden displayed. His sym- pathetic nature was disturbed, and he was deeply concerned about these friends. He saw nothing be- fore them, no way out of their trouble. What could they do .? and how should he help them } He was translating some hymns for the use of the schools, and he sat down to his work with the uncomfortable feeling that it was hardly difficult enough to absorb him, that as a man he might be doing more ; but his habits were too fixed now to change, and, as far as money went, there was no need for him to do more. But he knew that, had he been a business-man, some- thing would have suggested itself by which he could have aided these unfortunate women. Miss Alden was too proud, he knew, to easily accept favors which she would never be able to repay; and yet she was entirely unfitted by her age and manner of life for arduous exertion of any sort. He cast about for any method whereby she could aid herself, and put aside as utterly impracticable every thing that was suggested. The customary self-sustaining work of middle-aged people was the keeping of schools, board- ing-houses, and accounts, or sewing. All these might ASPlRATIOiVS. 217 do for women of tougher fibre ; but for his friend they seemed as absurd as engineering or any of the pur- suits of men. Why, he did not stop to define. And as for the girls, poor tender young things, how his heart ached for them ! It quite absorbed him, and the letter he meant for Ruth was put aside as of sec- ondary importance, something that could be attended to when his thoughts were less painfully occupied. It seemed too selfish to be considering his own affairs, when these friends of his were overtaken by dis- aster. Just then Branly Potter came in ; and Mr. Barclay thought it best to give him some hint of the state of Miss Alden's affairs, wondering what effect it would have. The young fellow seemed positively elated by it, and confessed that he had been holding off from any communication with May's aunt because May would not let him speak ; but now she must give way. He would not only speak, but he would insist upon immediate marriage ; as, no matter how poor he might be, they were poorer, and together they could bear the brunt of unkind fortune. Mr. Barclay smiled in spite of himself at Branly*s eagerness and quick solution of his part of the prob- lem, and then he sighed to think how quickly poor Miss Alden would be obliged to succumb and yield her favorite ideas of prudence, etc. But Mr. Potter succeeded in cheering him, and imparted some of his own hopeful spirit ; and together they walked over to Miss Alden's rooms, and found the girls alone, read- ing and sewing, their aunt not having risen. "Aunt is not at all well," said Grace, putting down 2l8 ASPIRATIONS. her book as she welcomed the two men, and May- laid aside her sewing. " I was afraid she would be affected by the painful news she received yesterday," said Mr. Barclay, as Branly Potter drew May into the recess of a cur- tained window. Grace looked startled. ** Has she not told you } Is it possible you do not know } " he asked hurriedly. ** No ; she has told me nothing. She seems fever- ish and dull. I am afraid we have staid here too long ; our maid tells me there is much illness about. What is it, Mr. Barclay, that troubles aunt t " " Oh, if she has said nothing, it will be as well to wait ! I was rash ; but I supposed, of course, you knew." *' Oh, pray, Mr. Barclay, tell me all ! I can bear any thing now, — any thing. Is any one ill } " "Ah, dear child, you do not know what you ask!" said Mr. Barclay, looking pitifully at this slender, dark-eyed young thing, who had so recently been struck with so cruel a blow, and who seemed to have grown so much older and wiser than her years. "No one is ill," he continued. "But there is an entanglement in your aunt's and your father's busi- ness affairs — a great loss — much embarrassment," he stumbled on, hardly knowing what he was saying ; when she suddenly interrupted him, putting one of her pretty hands on his arm with a quick gesture, saying, — " Is that all } and do you fear telling me that?'' " To be sure : it's deplorable, dreadful." ASPIRA TIONS. 2 1 9 *'Not at all, unless there has been something fraudulent ; " and then she stopped, with a sudden flush of color. The supposition took away her breath, and it was in a whisper she said, " That only can make loss of money the bitter thing you think it." He waived her questioning look, and said, — " You are brave indeed, dear Grace. But remem- ber you know nothing of hardship. It is my fear for you that makes me think so much of the mere loss of money. You have been so delicately reared, and know nothing of the trials of adversity." " But I know where to look for guidance," she answered reverently. Then Mr. Barclay asked to see her aunt, and she went to find out if he could be received. Meanwhile, Branly Potter had urged his suit with May, and made her acknowledge that it was now time for him to speak to her aunt, whose acquies- cence he hoped to obtain. But it had taken many words and much persuasion, for she felt that it was positively taking an undue advantage of her aunt to gain her consent while under the depressing influence of evil tidings ; but the young man was accustomed to have his own way, and as soon as Mr. Barclay re- appeared he was also allowed an interview. He found Miss Alden supported by pillows in an easy-chair; but there was the flush of fever on her cheeks, and its glitter in her eyes. By great effort she had risen to receive her old friend ; and, notwithstanding all his kind assurances, she had not grown calm. When Branly, after a few hurried expressions of sympathy, made known his errand, she quickly responded, — 220 ASPIRATIONS. "You find me hors de combat^ Mr. Potter. I ap- preciate your affection for my neice, but I am no longer capable of exercising calm judgment in the matter. I have always regarded marriage as excel- lent and desirable if the parties to it were of. equal birth, education, and fortune, with a strong leaning towards the surplus being in the masculine hands ; but my point of view was from the comfortable ranks of those who possess competence. I find myself deprived now of the very means of existence. My nieces are equally destitute. My friend Mr. Barclay is our only dependence. He promises to take us home at his own cost, though of course my jewels will recompense him. If, knowing all this, you still persist in asking my permission to marry May, you are either a — a fool — or a very high-minded man." " I will take the latter, if you please," said Branly, laughing, in spite of the gravity of the discussion, and pressing Miss Alden's hot hand. " I love May very much, and I flatter myself that she cares a little for me, — at all events, she has promised to, — and I don't see that we can do better than join forces at once ; for, if I have the right to protect her, I can also assist you, my dear Miss Alden." Miss Alden put her hand over her eyes. '*It does increase one's faith in human nature to see such an exhibition of kindness, but common prudence de- mands that I should ask you if you can do this with- out an utter sacrifice of all your plans and projects." "My dear Miss Alden, all my plans and projects centre in your niece." ASPIRA TIONS. 22 1 "Ah, well, it is a mystery to me ! But I suppose we are not all able to fathom mysteries." And then Mr. Potter withdrew, very well satisfied with this conclusion. So it came about, that, after many conferences and much discussion, there was a hasty departure from Florence and a rapid journey to England ; and Mr. Barclay had to have passports visM, and luggage for- warded, and make preparation for the quiet little cer- emony which they concluded to have performed in London. It was rather rapid work ; and, in addition, Miss Alden's condition was alarming. She rallied from the first prostration; but at times her brain appeared to be affected, and fits of silence were fol- lowed by intervals of spasmodic talking, which were more painful to hear than the silence was to endure : for the theme was invariably of bold projects and plans which her listeners could not but think the fan- tasies of mental disorder. Grace's devotion to her aunt was noticeable. She was far from strong, but all her energy of character manifested itself. To be sure, she had the quiet and patient sympathy of all, but Mr. Barclay remarked that Miss Alden turned to Grace for more complete understanding. Was it any wonder that he found himself admiring her gentle womanliness and self- sacrifice, and that even her countenance had an in- crease of beauty for him } *' You have certainly the gift of sympathy, Grace," he said to her one day, after she had been more than usually taxed to divert her aunt. " Do you think so .? " she said, smiling in that half- 222 ASPIRATIONS, sad way which had unconsciously become a habit. " Is it any thing uncommon ? " " It is very rare, and is seldom a birthright : one has to gain it through suffering. But all sufferers do not possess it : they rather hug their own pains to themselves, and forget all about other people." " That seems to me a poor and trivial relief. What is the adage about a trouble shared V " You have proved its truth. But, Grace, you are too young for so much wisdom." She shook her head. " We must find some way for you to forget. The time has not arrived for you to need so much philoso- phy. You must not mistake a little breeze for a great blow.** Again she shook her head, as she said, " What I want is work, Mr. Barclay. When we get home, will you help me find it } " " Certainly," he said gravely, wondering what she could do. ** Next to religion and philosophy comes work, as a panacea for our many ills." " What can you possibly know about it } " " Oh, one can know intuitively a great deal with- out absolute experience ! I have done a great deal of thinking lately." " More than has been good for you, I fear. But may I ask what sort of work you desire t " ** It puzzles me a little. I am not a skilful needle- woman, and I am afraid I don't know enough about mathematics to teach in schools ; but I think I might get writing or copying to do." ASPIRA TIONS. 223 Mr. Barclay here remembered his own work of late, and the bright thought struck him that it would be well to transfer it to her hands. "Are you fond of translating } " he asked. *' I can read French and German with some ease," she replied modestly. " And Italian ? " " Not so well." " I want some help in a hymnal I am preparing, — in fact, if you can render some of the verses into prose, together we might make them jingle, — and perhaps it would be as well for you to begin with such work before undertaking any thing which would bring you in contact with strangers, who would neces- sarily be more exacting." A bright look of gratitude made Grace's eyes glis- ten. "This is extremely kind. I will begin as soon as we have a quiet moment, and at least try what I can do. Really, Mr. Barclay, you have been our haven of refu!2:e in this storm." At this Mr. Barclay politely demurred, attributing all to the happy accident of their being together. They were now in London, and making haste to have May's marriage over in time to take the steamer home. But Miss Alden, at the last moment, had taken a freak to postpone it ; declaring they had been too precipitate, and that such unseemly haste was not dignified. Notwithstanding Mr. Potter's family had all concurred, and that a younger brother was to be best man, she shut herself up, and declined to have any part in the proceedings. In vain Mr. Barclay 224 AS PI R A TIONS. remonstrated, and Grace argued, and May wept : there seemed to be really no way out of the dilemma but to take their own course, regardless of her disappro- bation. But this was a most disagreeable thing to do ; for no outsider could detect in Miss Alden's ir- reproachable appearance and manner the distraught condition of her mind, and her nieces' love and re- spect for her were undiminished. Thus several weeks elapsed, as May was inclined to wait, hoping for a change; but at last there was no alternative, and so after interviews with the American authorities and legal representatives, and clerical dignitaries, the little party, minus Miss Alden, drove to St. George's and had the ceremony performed. It was a dull day, and the drizzle did not lend a cheerful aspect to the wedding. Mr. Barclay gave the bride away ; and the bride herself was teary and pale, but not more so than her bridesmaid, who, however, strove to do her part courageously. There were few lookers-on, but that they did not mind ; and, as soon as the service was concluded, Branly Potter hurried May off to catch a train which was to take them to Scotland, for he was determined to have a little honeymoon which should be as bright as he could make it. Thus Grace and Mr. Barclay were daily together. The translating had progressed favorably, Grace prov- ing herself more capable than he could have sup- posed ; and as Miss Alden preferred to be much alone, maintaining a proud disapprobation, they were necessarily dependent upon each other for society. Who does not know the power of propinquity? ASP IRA TIONS. 225 Neither would have admitted for a moment that there was any thing but the coolest, calmest friend- ship between them. Both had their own sad memo- ries into which they withdrew as into the shadow of cathedral aisles ; and yet, in these retreats they found less and less gloom. The afternoon light from ruby panes shone not with a richer glow than did the mellow radiance which was more and more surely revealing the depths of these two hearts each to the other. With a pang of remorse, the elder was the first to discover that he no longer lived in the past, and measured every happiness by the sorrow of his youth. He felt himself a traitor to the dear companion of early days, and would have torn himself away from this sweet-faced, gentle girl as from an evil influence, had not all the heroism of his manhood demanded that he should not desert her. This may seem absurd in the face of his written, but unsent, letter to Ruth ; but a totally different rea- son for his proposal to Ruth had urged him to that action, — one which he fancied far less recreant to the beloved object of his early affections; and he smiled, as he tore it up, to think how purely a matter of benefit to Ruth, and convenience to himself, that idea had been. And yet it was painful for him to ad- mit the truth ; so painful, that Grace feared she had in some way lost his confidence and approbation. And, in her anxiety on this account, it first became evident to her how surely his untiring kindness and gentleness of character were effacing the memory of that sad attachment of hers for a man, who, though 2 26 ASPIRA TIONS. he had proved himself unworthy, yet remained en- shrined as a broken image might retain its place on an altar deserted of its worshippers. Ah, poor weak and blind children of a tender mother ! Nature knows no unmotherly preferences : as she commands, we obey ; thinking ourselves wise, profound, so above the common herd, that even our affections have a finer and firmer texture, — one that will withstand time, silence, distrust, and death itself. ASPIRA TIONS. 227 CHAPTER XXI. Perhaps nothing is more depressing and mortify- ing than to find that which one has supposed to be almost an heroic action entirely deprived of its best element, to have our poetry reduced to common prose. And yet this conviction is just what pressed upon Ruth, as she paced her close hotel-room the night of her arrival in New York. Her aunt, now that she was on her native shore, and having her son with her, was in a most satisfied and happy condi- tion of mind, and appeared to Ruth not only not to need her, but to find her just a little unsociable and inflexible. For, elated with having made a successful voyage, and free from the critical and uncongenial persons she had met, Mrs. Vedder had loudly pro- tested her gladness at the dinner-table, and had even suggested, but quite contrary to Ruth's wishes, a trip to a watering-place before settling down at home. It had been a day of remarkable loveliness and early June freshness. Even the city felt its charm ; for as yet there had been little of the intense heat which bakes and burns, and makes New York a ter- ror by night and by day. The balconies and court-yards, the restaurant win- dows and the parks, were smiling with flowers. 228 ASPIRATIONS. Heaps of them, loosely strewn or trimly set in bas- kets, and tied and wired in bouquets, were on all the street-corners, compelling, by their sweetness, the banishment of evil odors ; and on the table in her room Ruth had found a choice bunch without card or name attached. So delicate an attention had not come from the Vedders ; and poor Ruth put her face down in the blossoms, and wet them with her tears. Her sacrifice of inclination had lost all purpose and merit. She was tired, disappointed, and disheart- ened. Her pompous uncle reminded her of the sad days of her childhood in this great, noisy city ; and the thought of close association with him and his still more repugnant nephew became abhorrent. How should she escape ? Must she be tied to these people until Mr. Barclay should release her .'' Was there no way out of this enforced bondage, none the less enthralling that she had forged the bonds herself.^ She could not sleep. The dinner upon which Mrs. Vedder had so felicitated herself, had hardly been tasted ; and the evening had only been gotten through by going to the theatre, where Char- ley Vedder found some pretty actresses who were more responsive than Ruth, and towards whom Ruth felt almost grateful for securing his attention. Morning came at last, but brought no relief to the exhausted, dejected girl. Mrs. Vedder was even in higher spirits than on the previous day, and had a new programme made out, which included much shopping, visiting, and many excursions ; for she was honestly desirous of entertaining Ruth in her own way, and had not the faintest conception that ASPIRATIONS, 229 there could be any other which would be more agree- able. Mr. Boggs harangued again from the depths of the newspaper, but principally on political matters and side issues of small moment to any uninterested in local affairs. He had an overbearing way of deliv- ering the slightest opinion ; and both his nephew and sister made no attempt to thwart him, though their irritation was visible. He objected to every proposal, was urgent to have his nephew enter into some business arrangement which was repugnant to the luxurious young man, and finally told his sister that she must attend to her affairs, as his own were of paramount importance and called him home. To this there was no remonstrance. But he did not go until he had again made Ruth wince by unfeeling allusions to her father, and his own regret that she should have been brought up by so unpractical a man as Mr. Barclay ; for, he added, — " I've no sort of idea your accomplishments are of any financial value." " I don't know," said Ruth, smiling a sad sort of smile, " having never tested them in that way ; " but quite sure that her guardian was guilty in the light of Mr. Boggs's accusations. "But you may have to, you know," said Mr. Boggs, resuming what might better be called a monologue than a conversation. "You may have to. Your father didn't leave a cent ; your grandfather doesn't know you, and, if he did, would just as likely leave his fortune to the Lenox Library. He's nothing but an old bookworm. Now, if I'd had a hand in the care of you, you'd have been at Vassar or some- 230 ASPIRATIONS. where else, instead of dawdling over Europe ; and by this time you could have had a good situation in the public schools. My influence would have procured that. But I did my best. I warned Mr. Barclay, and I offered to do my share. He was too proud and stuck-up to listen to me ; and, if ever you suffer, it'll not be my fault. Has he made provision for you, in case he marries ? or does he mean to marry you?" This question capped the climax. They were sitting in the public parlor, — Mrs. Ved- der gazing out of the window at the throng in the street ; Charley with his back to the empty fire- place, twisting his thin mustache, and watching Ruth as she leaned back in the cushions of a sofa, with a book in her lap. She was tired and pale, — almost as white as her muslin draperies, with their falls of creamy lace, — but her only sign of uneasiness had been in a little nervous movement of her hands. Now the color poured into her face. She looked at Mr. Boggs with an expression in which were blended indignation and contempt ; but, meeting his self- confident and impertinent gaze, she regained her composure, and said very quietly, — " I am not in the habit of discussing my private affairs in this manner, Mr. Boggs ; nor do I think your interest in me warrants any inquiry of the sort. You forget that we are comparative strangers." Mr. Boggs glared, Charley Vedder drew in a half- suppressed whistle, and Mrs. Vedder turned from the window to see what was going on within. The scowl on her brother's face, and Ruth's returned paleness^ ASPIRATIONS. 231 would have warned any one else ; but she was too obtuse, and instantly asked what was the matter. ** Matter enough," growled Mr. Boggs. "A decent question deserves a decent answer ; but I'm not fine enough for this elegant piece of goods you've got hold of, Mrs. Vedder." "O Cauldwell!" ejaculated his sister, "don't be cross so soon ; you're forever finding fault with Jim and Charley, but you might let Ruth alone. — Come, Ruth, don't mind him : he is always preaching. Let's go out and shop. I want lots of things, and it's ever so much easier to buy things here than where they jabber French at you." She rose and trailed one of her new French gar- ments after her, in which she was as dazzling as the Queen of Sheba; and Ruth followed, glad of the chance to escape, but in no mood for the doubtful pleasure promised. The day had grown very warm, with the sudden fiery heat which comes like a simoom ; and, though Mrs. Vedder took a cab as she went about from place to place, Ruth became more and more wearied. The city was entirely new to her, and many of its ways contrasted singularly with her foreign experiences ; none more so than the tardiness or indifference manifested in the shops. But Mrs. Vedder was thoroughly happy. She chaffed the clerks, joked with their superiors, and tumbled about the fineries as remorselessly as if they were her own ; and, when at the end of her pur- chases, sighed that she had no more money to spend, or wants to gratify. After an ice at a restaurant, 232 ASPIRA TIONS. they drove about the town, despite the glare from the heated pavements. With Mrs. Vedder as cice- roncy it was no wonder that Ruth became hopelessly mixed as to localities ; and she had only a confused sense of row upon row of tall and narrow buildings, incongruous architecture, and showy equipages, min- gled with the painful remembrance of the corner drug-shop where she had procured her father's last bottle of medicine, which was doubly enforced by Mrs. Vedder's pointing out the dingy boarding-house from which her poor father had been carried to his last resting-place. Had Ruth been of the sternest stuff, she could hardly have steeled herself to bear two such blows as she received that day from her well-meaning, but callous, relatives, without giving evidence of it. As it was, she became ill enough to excuse herself from any more immediate expeditions, and shut herself in her room for at least twenty-four hours, — hours of lonely self-reproach and regret, and a dull sense of resistance. The heat had not abated, and the incessant roar of the surging multitude about the hotel made her long for quiet. Not even a letter had come to cheer her, and Mr. Vedder had made this the topic of fre- quent jest, — striving to pierce the thick armor of a reserve which she had found it necessary to wear in his presence. He was the type of man she most disliked, — frivolous, insincere, sensual, and selfish, and yet attracted to her by one of those peculiar and inexplicable attachments which have no foundation in any congruity of nature, and seem to be merely wanton freaks. Why he persisted in his attentions. ASPIRA TIONS. 233 she could not conceive. He loudly admired the powdered and painted damsels of the ballet ; was as quick to perceive the fine points of a handsome woman as of a fast horse, and in much the same terms ; and, in short, had no sense of appreciation of any thing delicate or sensitive. Ruth did not think of herself as I have put it, but she knew she had nothing in common with Mr. Vedder, — no point of approach in any one way; and yet he, in these few days, had striven to pose as her lover. If any thing had been needed to complete her un- happiness, this accomplished it; and, without coming to any definite conclusion, she was casting about for a way of escape. She could not bring herself to speak to her aunt, whose satisfaction at her son's re- gard for Ruth made her supremely happy, and who was purposely delaying her departure from the city, "that Charley might have more of a chance." She had no intimate friends in town, and no desire to seek their advice (notwithstanding one has said very wisely, " Men choose a course of action, women an adviser ") in any case ; for an instant, the thought of her unknown grandfather flashed across her mind, to be quickly put aside. But help was nearer than she thought. 234 ASPIRATIONS. CHAPTER XXII. New York is thought to be too crude and new, too barren of old historic mould, to bear upon its exterior any of the clinging ivy of romance. Com- merce has its grip upon much that might have been retained to suggest that past which is not wholly devoid of dignity, and which had a delicate flavor which is fast disappearing under the rank growth of excessive wealth. But, in spite of its mercantile ad- vancement, there are some quarters of the city which are more interesting to the student of human nature than might be supposed possible. One of these is situated between the two extremes of business and fashion. It is comparatively quiet and unassuming ; but it has some points of elegance and picturesque- ness dear to its denizens, and wears upon its face an expression of ease and contentment which comes from a sense of superiority to the vulgar haste with which the towering tenements in the upper part of the city rear themselves. Just beyond this pleasant quarter are abodes of vice and misery, and perhaps because of their close proximity stands one of the oldest churches in the town, — a structure suggestive of mediaeval architecture, with its castellated Nor- man towers and oaken doors ; a church that was once ASPIRATIONS. 235 the resort of the wealthy, but which now opens its pews principally to the poor. Faithfully and regu- larly are its services maintained, without any of the modern arts with which people are lured to their duty, but with a simplicity and earnestness which commend themselves to the humble and God-fearing worshipper. Not far from the church, in one of the side streets which diverge from this region, is the mission-house of the old church, — a place where its charities are dis- pensed, and from which proceed other Christian in- dustries. It is under no ecclesiastical rule other than that of the parish rector, nor is it obligatory that its affairs shall be administered by a sisterhood ; though its active work and good organization are undoubt- edly due to the same spirit of self-abnegation and Christian love which animate the sisterhoods. It is a centre of influence for good, physically, morally, and spiritually, combining as it does a lodging-house for the church's homeless ones ; an infirmary for its sick ; a dispensary for the ailing ; a meeting-place for its workers ; and rest, refreshment, advice, as well as food and clothing, for the needy. On this warm summer morning St. Armand's had been unusually well attended. A few families of distinction still cling to it, and many short sojourn- ers in the neighborhood find it a welcome retreat. All these and more had shared in the services, as well as strangers from the near hotels ; among them, our little, disappointed Ruth, who, hearing it mentioned, had found her way to it alone, without the irksome attendance of her cousin. She had walked the whole 236 ASPIRATIONS. distance down the glaring avenue, with the hot sun in her eyes, and was glad to get within the sombre coolness of St. Armand's ; but the services had soothed her, and she had lingered till nearly all the congregation had dispersed, when, rising suddenly, a faintness came over her which obliged her to resume her seat. " Are you not well } " said an even-toned voice in her ear ; and, looking up, she saw a gentlewoman in garments of black, but with the rigid simplicity of a Quaker's dress. The face within the small poke- bonnet was so sympathetic that Ruth would have been glad to respond, but her voice failed her : she could only gasp " water," and then the darkness of unconsciousness overpowered her. When she recovered, she was in the open air, sup- ported by the lady, and having stimulants proffered her by the sexton. Quickly rallying, she made an at- tempt to walk, and would have summoned a cab ; but the lady was urgent to have her remain until stronger, and begged that she might accompany her to the mission-house. *' It is but a short walk, and the effort may revive you. Let me have my way, and do something for you. I am known as the Sister Camilla, and it is my vocation to aid the sick and suffering." The calm voice, in which there was a ring of resem- blance to that of some one of her own friends, and the persuasive manner, carried the point. Ruth took her new friend's arm, and walked away. "This is my first Sunday in New York since I was a little child," she explained ; " and I did not AS PI R A TIONS. 237 realize the heat of the day, in coming so far. I am Miss Morris." " Of Morristown 1 " questioned Sister Camilla. " No, of New York. But I have been abroad so long with my guardian, Mr. Barclay, that I am almost an alien." " I know a Mr. Barclay of Boston. Is he not related to Miss Alden .? " "Oh," joyfully exclaimed Ruth, "it is the same one ! No, he is not related to Miss Alden, but we are all friends. Oh, this is charming ! " " Indeed it is," responded the quiet sister, regard- ing her young companion with admiration; "for now I can claim you for more than a moment's rest. I should like to hear about the schools in Italy, for which Mr. Barclay has done so much." " And I shall be so glad to have something to tell Mr. Barclay about you." " Not about me, but my work," said Sister Camilla. "And h^re we are at the mission-house. You will dine with me now, and let me be assured that your faintness was but temporary. May I send any word for you to your friends t " " Oh, I have none ! " came forth from Ruth, with an ingenuous earnestness that made Sister Camilla pause in surprise and pain. " What do you mean, my child ? " she asked. Whether it was due to an overburdened mind, or the strange, quaint unworldliness of the religiatscy and her simple directness, and the peaceful atmos- phere of her quiet, darkened apartment, acting upon an imaginative nature, Ruth could not have defined ; 238 AS PI R A TIONS. but, in another moment, she was opening her griefs to Sister Camilla as to a confessor. To no one else could she have so spoken, and to no one better quali- fied to listen. She did not speak of the one thing even yet hidden to herself, — the vague and tender longing of her heart, — but she spoke of her utter disappointment, her dissatisfaction, her wasted effort ; she told how she had really longed to be useful to her aunt, but how entirely impossible it was ; and then she touched lightly upon the new and repug- nant situation in which Mr. Vedder's attentions had placed her. ** Clearly, this is a case for me," said Sister Ca- milla, smiling, as Ruth paused in her impassioned speech, and pressed her hand held out so cordially. " Oh, can you help me t Can you suggest to me what I shall do t You must be so wise, so clear- sighted," cried Ruth. ** Do you think you could endure to share what I can offer, — for a while t " said Sister Camilla. "Endure ! Why, this seems peace and heaven itself, compared to what is before me ! Let me share your work too : it is what I have longed to do." " But the Vedders, — how will you explain t Must I do it for you .? " " No ; I can be brave. They will be angry enough, but that will not hurt them. I will tell my aunt that this is just what I need. She is generous enough to yield, not because she will understand, but because she has doubted me from the first. Poor woman, she was wise enough to see that we 'had no affinity ! " " And her son } " ASPIRA TIONS. 239 "I cannot imagine how he may regard it," and Ruth drew herself up proudly. " Is he capable of revenge ? '* " I do not know. He is both weak and wicked." " An undesirable compound. But how do you know that you will like my monotonous toil, my meagre hospitality } " " Something assures me of peace here," answered Ruth, glancing at the chaste and simple neatness of the room, and the calm exterior of her companion. " Can you put aside these pretty garments "i " said the sister, touching Ruth's gauzy habiliments, which glittered with beads of iridescent hue ; "for of course they would be superfluous here." " Gladly ; " and she thought, but did not say, " They are symbols of a false happiness, while yours indicate a useful life and higher aspirations." " Come with me, then, and see our rooms for the sick people. Perhaps they may intimidate you." She opened the door, and led Ruth to where the narrow cots in their white draperies stood, — some empty, some bearing pale-faced invalids. Every thing was neat and spotless ; but it was the abode of suffering, and the cross upon the wall was the token of its only hope. " You cannot alarm me," said Ruth, as she watched the pale faces brighten at the sister's approach, and heard her words of cheer. "Then, if you are resolute, we will take counsel here," said Sister Camilla, opening another door, dis- closing a small oratory. In silence they knelt on the cushions before a reading-desk which held a Bible 240 ASPIRA TIONS. and a Book of Common Prayer, and in silence they arose, feeling no need of speech. The compact was made. After that they had a genuine love-feast. A note had been despatched to Mrs. Vedder ; and Ruth, re- covering some of her vivacity, talked brightly of her travels, of their mutual friends, of books and music. Sister Camilla had no depressing austerity of de- meanor : she was cheerful, even gay, with a fund of anecdote, and quickness of repartee. The dining- table was spread on a vine-covered piazza, where flowers bloomed, and birds in cages sang. It opened into a little, narrow city garden, trimly set with box, but making a spot of greenery most pleasant to the eye, despite the brick walls surrounding it. Ruth could scarcely understand her own rise of spirits. Her faintness had gone entirely, and Sister Camilla's companionship enabled her to be herself again, — something she had not been during all the Vedder period. Unconsciously with them she with- held herself, spoke in commonplaces, ventured no deep thoughts, was guarded at all points, as one must be with coarse or even common natures, unless they wish their sanctities trampled upon. Now she spoke of sweet and serious things long treasured in her mind, and found in Sister Camilla a responsive- ness and understanding that warmed and exalted her. But this peace was rudely broken. St. Armand's bell had begun to summon them to afternoon prayers, — the day was waning, — when, with loud and impet- uous haste, Mrs. Vedder burst in upon them. " What is all this nonsense, Ruth } Why did you ASPIRA TIONS. 24 1 frighten me half out of my wits sending me word you were sick ? Who is your friend ? " (this in a stage-whisper). " A nun, to be sure. None of your nuns for me : I've seen enough of them in Europe. Come, I want you to go to Central Park with me. I haven't been able to get my nap, and my head aches. Come along. Charley will meet us, and to-morrow we must be off for Saratoga." " I find that Sister Camilla is a friend of Mr. Bar- clay's, aunt Abby," said Ruth. ** She has been most kind to me. I was quite ill in church this morning." Sister Camilla had risen at once, and welcomed Mrs. Vedder, who chose to be very distant, in a child- ish, undignified way that she once in a while assumed when displeased. " Oh, indeed ! Well, I thought you were foolish to come so far down-town. I've got a carriage at the door: a ride will do you good." Ruth knew that the storm had to be met ; perhaps it would be better to break the news to her aunt gently, and without disturbing Sister Camilla : so she said she would go; "to return as soon as I can," she whispered to her new friend. "What is that you were saying to that woman } " Mrs. Vedder asked, as soon as they were in the carriage. " I don't like her looks. What does she dress up in that way for 1 Who is she, anyhow } And what possessed you to dine there instead of at the hotel, where you can get any thing you want that's to be had for money." Ruth despaired of making Mrs. Vedder, whose religious feelings were very crude, comprehend her 242 ASPIRA TJONS. new plan or Sister Camilla : so she wisely forebore an explanation, but, in as direct a way as she could, told her aunt that Sister Camilla had invited her to make her a visit, and she had accepted. *' What ! stay in that dismal hole this hot summer weather? You're crazy, Ruth; you're out of your senses ! " " No, aunt Abby, I prefer it to Saratoga." ** Nonsense, nonsense ! " " But I have quite made up my mind." Then Mrs. Vedder stormed, and became more and more angry. She had lost all the humility with which her foreign disappointments had invested her; and she boldly told Ruth that she believed she was pin- ing for Mr. Barclay, and that Charley was a great deal more suitable ; that she ought to be kinder to him, and not treat him as if he were the scum of the earth. It was the old story of the lioness and her whelp. She forgot every thing but her own griev- ance; and the crowd of amusement-seekers in the Park, that Sunday afternoon, turned their startled gaze upon the occupants of the landau, where a red and voluble woman sat beside a pale and delicate girl, who received the storm of words in silence. But this phase of the situation wore off by the time they reached the hotel ; and Mrs. Vedder, whose moods were very variable, became tearful and penitent. But Ruth was not to be shaken. With quiet determination, she packed and locked her trunks, wrote her letters, and made her preparations. She pitied her aunt, but her conviction that she had made a grievous mistake in thinking that she could be conducive to her happi- ness remained the same. ASPIRATIONS, 243 They parted the next day, kindly, even affection- ately, — for all the quarrel; Charley only maintain- ing a sullen scorn. Several letters for Ruth were in his pocket. He took them out, and burned them, one by one, in the gaslight of the smoking-room. Mrs. Vedder was quite sure Ruth would soon join her at Berryville. 244 ASPIRA TIONS, CHAPTER XXIII. Saratoga is a social vortex, which gathers in all sorts and conditions of men, from the gravest to the gayest, — the clergyman and the gambler being led thither by as contrary roads as can well be con- ceived; and it would be an endless task to attempt to delineate the mixed motives which propel the crowd towards its refreshing waters. It was not therefore surprising that the two men of my story most interested in a certain charming young woman should have met in Saratoga, under circumstances far from pleasing to either. One was perplexed, uncertain, and desponding, as the more sensitive, artistic nature is so apt to be when the world's jar and confusion disturb its delicate balance. The other was vexed, snarling, and sore at the depri- vation of any thing which his selfishness craved. Neither would have approached the other, had they not been in a measure forced to do so by meeting at a public table, and the angry one being desirous of getting a chance to wreak his wrath to its fullest ex- tent. To Lillo's annoyance, the story of his life had gone before him. He had been to Codtown, was returning, and had stopped at Saratoga to find a man with whom he had business relations. ASPIRA TIONS. 245 Before he knew it, he was a centre of attraction. Cards were showered upon him, introductions sought, invitations given, and a bevy of pretty girls making him the target of their bright attacks. " The Count Romano " they insisted upon calling him, with true republican distaste for the plain *' Mr.'* But it was as Mr. Marsh that he responded. " Find yourself quite a lion, don't you } " said Charley Vedder, between the puffs of his cigar, as the two strolled towards one of the springs, after a brief allusion to Miss Morris, in which Charley managed to convey an impression that she was to rejoin them shortly. "Oh, any thing serves as a subject for gossip in this warm weather," said Lillo absently. "Have you been interviewed by the newspaper men > " " Not yet." "They know how to do it in a devilish under- handed way." "It's rather hard lines to earn one's living by that sort of rubbish," said the painter, in the same non- chalant manner with which the talk had begun. "Then you've no objection to furnishing the beg- gars with their means of subsistence .-* " " I am not anxious to do it," said the other, and turned to join an acquaintance. "I'll give them a few points," muttered Vedder, casting a glance fraught with malice after the artist, who was now the centre of a group of men whom Vedder knew only as people of social worth and standing, but who would have none of him. The 246 ASPIRATIONS, opportunity was not slow in coming. A reporter, with his roll of yellow paper, was on the piazza of the hotel, taking notes, as Vedder returned. A cigar and a glass of whiskey soon established harmonious relations between them, and the catechism which fol- lowed enabled Charley to do what he wished without much mental effort. The following morning Mr. Vedder was absent from the breakfast-table when Lillo appeared. He thus lost half his sport at seeing the latter turn over the pages of a morning journal, glance down a cer- tain column, crush the paper suddenly, and thrust it aside ; while the veins of his temples swelled, and the angry flash of his eyes betokened a storm. Rising impetuously, he left his breakfast half eaten, and sought the open air. Who had thus dared to make his affairs the subject of so much idle talk, was as nothing compared with what he read between the lines. The innuendoes, the hints which made his blood boil, were of Ruth ; and the climax was capped by an insinuation that the artist's rival was by no means his junior. Of course there were no names, and there was a misty veil of sentiment concealing facts ; so that the whole read more as an emanation from the writer's brain than a veritable history. But Lillo saw it all, and it burned into his brain like caustic. His hot, Italian blood was in a ferment, and yet he scorned himself for his anger. Why should he rave at the wretched scribbling of this penny-a-liner } He flung himself into the crowd on its way to some boat-races, and strove to forget the insult. Had his passion for Ruth needed any stimu- ASPIRATIONS. 247 lus, it received it now. Her grace, sweetness, and companionable qualities were not of an order to inspire furious ardor ; but a Cleopatra might have been satisfied with the sudden blaze that rose in his breast, and made her seem the only necessary acqui- sition to his happiness. What would success, fame, the fulfilment of his wishes be without her ? Apples of Sodom, indeed ! He wanted nothing of his Ro- mano relative ; but, if the title would win her, he would take it. He had the necessary proofs of his rights ; but, unless she so ordered, they should never be presented. And then came the chilling doubt of Mr. Barclay's prior claim. Why might not a man fight for the object of his affections as in primitive times.!* Why couldn't he seize her and ride like young Lochinvar.? Must he stand idly by and let that gray -haired " dotard " mildly take as his due all her wealth of young affection } And then he reverted to the newspaper's cut-and-dried phrases, in which he was alluded to as a disappointed aspirant, etc. Who could have done it t A rollicking set of men drove past him, and Charley Vedder gave him a familiar nod. Then came like a flash the few words of the day before. Could it be possible that this fool had been amusing himself in so contemptible a man- ner } and if he had, how could he punish him ? He was impervious to slights, or the ordinary way in which gentlemen rebuked each other. Nothing but a sound thrashing would make an impression on him. The temptation to give it increased as he went on ; his fists clinched involuntarily, and the desire to whip the scoundrel was so strong that he found him- 248 ASPIRATIONS. self following the man to the stand where a good view was to be had of the boats. A gleaming, pretty sheet of water, on which the dazzling sun was pouring his hottest rays ; crowds of gayly dressed women in pleasure-boats, in carriages, on foot ; men of all ages, with the ribbons of their favorites in their button-holes, laughing, cheering, betting ; and the long line of rowers bared to the waist, bending to their oars, as they sent their skiffs over the water with electric rapidity, — this was the scene before him. But he was in no mood to enjoy it. A pretty throng of girls saluted him. " Who will win ? " " Which do you think has the best chance ? " ** Be on our side, do ! " "See, there's Harry Holton ; what splendid muscle ! " " Did you ever see the equal of this abroad } " These were the words flying about his ears, when he heard a strange, cracking sound. The boats had flashed past : it could not come from them. The hub-bub of voices increased as each one strove to exalt his favorite; but the laughter rose to a shrill shriek, for now, not only was the cracking heard, but there came a great crash, and down went half of the stand whereon stood so merry a throng of human beings. The light jest, the lively banter, merged into groans and screams. Dense confusion ensued. Those not on the struc- ture crowded about to succor those who were. Men and women fought frantically to push their way in and out, displaying the usual selfishness of fear. It was a time of wildest disorder, and the little squad of country police were at their wit's end to know what to do. ASPIRA TIONS, 249 Lillo had been one of the first to notice the sway- ing of the light structure, as well as to hear the cracking sound, and had leaped quickly aside, grasp- ing as he did so the girl nearest him, and pushing several others towards the steps. These were then in no danger, but it had been impossible to save more ; and though the water was by no means deep, nor the stand very high, there were many who might be seriously injured. He had dashed therefore into the water, and with the alertness of one accustomed to it was soon relieving others, and giving orders to the clumsy but well-intentioned countrymen about him, who were only too glad to be directed. In the exercise of this authority he was obliged to divest himself of as much of his clothing as he could tear off, and plunge into deeper water. He found the current strong, but not strong enough to warrant a curious, dragging sensation which now thwarted his movements, and which, striking out to rid himself of, he became conscious was the grasp of a man. This meant death, unless he could get free. Vainly he struggled to see who was thus clutching him with drowning desperation. The more he strove, the more frantic and fast became the other's grasp. But now their positions changed ; for Lillo, with the art of a practised swimmer, made a movement which threw the man beneath him, and then both sank. But, as the clear water bubbled over them, he saw Charley Vedder's distorted features. For an instant a fiendish joy took possession of him ; but in another he was aware not only of his own danger, but also of the necessity for a cool and calm 250 ASPIRATIONS. effort that should save them both. He was so used to the water, that many of his movements were invol- untary ; and, indeed, now there seemed to be two dis- tinct and separate lines of thought flashing along the electric wires of his nerves. With one he main- tained his composure, his presence of mind, and un- impassioned action. With the other he was absorbed in that retrospection which is so common to crises like this. As they sank, he remembered that he had a com- mon case-knife in his pocket ; and, though he was fast losing strength, he managed to get it out, and cut away the clothing in Vedder's grasp. In a mo- ment more he had risen to the surface, free. With one long inspiration of the pure air, and a glance at his whereabouts, he dove for Vedder, but in doing so struck an unseen rock. Stunned, bewildered, but half-conscious, he tried to grapple for his late com- panion. He had a frantic desire now to save him : it seemed to him an awful necessity, that he must do it or be guilty of his death ; and again he struggled and sought, but all in vain. Nothing but mud and pebbles met his touch ; and with a weary, hopeless prostration he let himself go, thick darkness shut- ting him out of life and light and happiness. ASPIRATIONS. 251 CHAPTER XXIV. On the second floor of one of those cheap and con- venient London lodging-houses, in a room which is but sparely furnished, sits Miss Alden, knitting. Her face looks worn and anxious, and she seems to be impatient for the coming of some one for whom she is waiting, as she turns towards the door whenever a passing vehicle jars its loosely hung hinges. But she has not long to wait, as the small travelling clock has hardly struck six when Grace enters alone. She is tired and agitated, and falls listlessly into a seat as her aunt's knitting stops, and a scrutinizing glance asks as plainly as words for information. But Grace apparently forgets her aunt's presence : she leans wearily back, takes off her gloves, pushes the hair from her temples, and seems lost in thought. " Well, was your walk pleasant } " queries Miss Alden. Grace starts, and says, " Oh, yes, about as usual ! " *'Why did not Mr. Barclay come for his cup of tea ? " " He has friends at his hotel, he wanted to meet " — And Grace falters under the still keen and scru- tinizing glance. " Has any thing happened } " " How, when, where 1 " vaguely asks Grace. 252 AS PI R A TIONS. ** Between you two," comes out the frank reply. " Why do you ask, Aunt Althea ? What should, what could happen ? " " Much," is the brief answer. Grace looks up, and meets the same unswerving glance. Her aunt is quite well now, but her tem- per is less under control than it used to be. They are waiting for the rather tardy bride and groom, who have staid in the lake region half the summer, and they are expecting to return with them to America; and, meanwhile, the translating of which I have spoken has been completed. " You are keeping something from me, Grace," re- sumes her aunt. " Why do you think so .? " " From your manner. You know very well what I expect to hear." " Is it not quite natural that I should dislike to disappoint you } " "Grace ! " almost screams her aunt, " have you re- fused Mr. Barclay.?" " I have," comes resolutely but painfully forth from the girl's compressed lips. " I will not believe it," says her aunt, rising and coming towards her: "you are not such an utter fool." She even puts her hand on her niece's shoul- der, as if to see whether she is really in the flesh and speaking sense. " I am quite what you call me, if doing as I have determines it," Grace answers. " Oh, oh, oh ! " moans Miss Alden, " you surely do not know your own mind ; you cannot justify this ASPIRATIONS. 253 in any one way. Why, I thought you had entirely forgotten that wretched creature who was so base, so dishonorable ! It is positively weak and wicked in you, Grace, to cling to him : he may be married by this time. I hope he is." " I hope so, too," is the quiet response. ** What t do you know what you say ? Are you in your right mind ? " " I trust so, aunt." " Then what under the sun has made you act thus } I have been hoping so much that every thing was working around to the desirable conclusion I had promised myself. It has been evident enough that you two were absorbed in each other, and I did think you were becoming rational enough to look at life in a common-sense way. Where would you find a man to be a truer friend than Mr. Barclay ? " "Nowhere," Grace says, in that same wearied, quiet, acquiescent tone which so irritates her aunt. *' Then why don't you explain t " " I cannot hope to, aunt : you and I have never quite understood each other." "Oh, I beg to differ," says Miss Alden impatiently. " I have always understood you as being unpractical and unwise in the extreme, led by your feelings rather than by your judgment." " Perhaps so," again feplies the girl, wondering if it would do any good to tell her aunt that she too has a very well-defined opinion as to her relative's lack of sympathy. " But I never supposed you were quite such a fool as this," continues Miss Alden. 254 ASPIRATIONS. Grace does not seem to care in the least for her aunt's reproaches, which sting the more. " It is so ungrateful of you, besides, to refuse a man twice your age, — one who has done so much for us, who is so chivalric, so kind," — Miss Alden is now weeping — "one whom I have known and respected so long, and he too so long devoted to the memory of his first wife, who was a lovely woman, an angel indeed." Grace winces. " I cannot understand it," continues Miss Alden, who suddenly dries her tears and bluntly queries, "Are you in love with any one else } " But Grace rises now, and her listlessness is ex- changed for a dash of her old spirit and fire. " That is my affair, if you please, aunt ; and do let us cease this useless discussion. Mr. Barclay has asked me to marry him, and I have declined the honor : that is all." ** Indeed, it is not all. How are we to live ? What will you do 1 You forget our humiliating position." " I forget nothing," says Grace proudly, wearied with conflicting emotions within and without. " Help- less as I am, unfitted as I am for my own mainte- nance, I would rather die than marry any one simply for a support." The girl spoke with so much earnestness and dignity, that for a moment her aunt was subdued, but her old habits of thought regained the ascend- ency. "Ah, that is all very well in theory, but not in practice ! " ASPIRATIONS, 255 " I hope I may live long enough to prove its truth in both," responded Grace, leaving the room. When she returned, her eyes were red with weep- ing ; but the housemaid was bringing in the tea, and she sat herself down to pour it out. The postman's whistle was heard soon after, and the letters for a while served to divert Mies Alden's attention. But she returned to the charge immediately after, for one of the envelopes contained a brief and hurried note from Mr. Barclay, bidding her good-by, and telling her that he had left a sufficient sum at his banker's at her disposal until Mr. and Mrs. Potter's return, when he supposed some other and more permanent arrangement for her comfort could be decided upon. There was no allusion to Grace, and no intimation of where he was going, and she read it in blank despair. But it was useless to question Grace. The girl's reticence was complete ; and, though she was evi- dently unhappy, she showed a self-command which Miss Alden could not but admire. The next day Grace was gone for so long a time that again her aunt was on the tip-toe of expectation. It was very wearisome for this once active woman to sit alone in the dull lodging-house, pondering her unhappy fate, her disappointments, her misfortune. Set aside from all the busy currents of a world that she had so long enjoyed, and to know that all her in- fluence with her nieces had been as naught, it was more than wearisome. And yet, so strangely do we all adapt oui selves to an altered course, that she gazed from her window with a languid interest in the children playing in the street, and found herself won- 256 AS FIR A TIONS. dering what would be the next scene in their domes- tic drama. " Here I am at last," cried Grace, entering with her arms full of bundles, assuming a gayety she did not feel, and striving to amuse her very much vexed and injured companion, who had been silent and dis- traite in her presence since the evening previous. " Here I am, and you cannot guess what I have here, or whom I have met ! " Miss Alden made no response. She had not been nursing her wrath in all these long, silent hours for nothing, nor was she to be easily appeased. Grace tossed her bundles on the table, saying, — " I was looking for the office of the Decorative Art Society, when my good genius led me to inquire for the Duchess of Stickingham. A pompous old butler nearly annihilated me for supposing her to be in town so late in the season. But when I assured him that I knew she did occasionally come to town, and that she would very much regret not meeting an American friend, he yielded to my persuasions, let me in, and actually brought me wine and biscuits in a grand, old library, which was dim and dark and mys- terious as any haunted chamber. Of course I had to wait and wait, but I knew the duchess would come ; for she had told me in Florence that she made it a point to be in the city on Tuesdays if she were near enough to do so. And at last she came, was as sweet and kind and interested as if we had always known each other. It was a great relief to me, for I knew the old butler had been nervous about admit- ting me, and had kept strict guard on my movements ; ASPIRA TIONS. 2Sy giving me the slight refreshment as much for an ex- cuse to be in and out of the room, as for my comfort. Well, the short and long of it is, that I can get all the work I want ; and here are crewels and silks and canvas enough to keep me busy till May comes, and long after, if you prefer London to New York." Grace stopped for want of breath. Her aunt drew herself up in a stiffly dignified and disdainful manner. " It is bad enough that we are paupers, without making the world aware of it. I cannot commend this sort of beggary." Grace did not retort : she knew that her aunt was smarting under a sense of injury; but she was hurt too, and could not trust herself to argue. She took off her hat, opened her work-basket, and began to embroider. But it was difficult not to let the tears impearl the design. The false view her aunt took of her honest effort to be independent and self-sus- taining did not encourage her to make the explana- tion she knew was due to her relative. And other reasons also made that difficult. She was not sure that she could ably defend the attitude she had assumed towards Mr. Barclay. Sometimes she re- proached herself as bitterly as her aunt could do ; and then, again, she neither repented nor was willing to have any one suppose that she did. The hours seemed to drag themselves along. Her work was difficult, for she had the disadvantage of inexperience to contend with, although she had been well supplied with patterns, and received many useful hints ; but these were not equal to the practised skill required. To be sure, the duchess had given her the 258 ASPIRATIONS, privilege of instruction in the classes at the Kensing- ton school ; but she was at so great a distance, and would be so obliged to leave her aunt alone, that she could but infrequently avail herself of these opportu- nities. It was a dreary time, but she worked on coura- geously; although the bitter feeling that she was misunderstood, and under her aunt's displeasure, was not cheering. Miss Alden^s correspondence seemed to have wonderfully increased. She spent hours at her little table with pen and ink, and seemed so absorbed that Grace hardly knew what to make of it. She had always held a ready pen, but as soon as her reverses overwhelmed her had declared her intention of cut- ting loose from society, and had left all her letters unanswered. One day she looked up at Grace with a quizzical smile and a trace of her old good-humor, saying, — " How much will you get for that piece of work, child.?" Her niece had become so used to her indifference in this direction, that, for a minute or two, she was at a loss how to account for so unusual a remark ; and she was slow in answering. "About twenty shillings, I suppose; nearly five dollars, you know." " Humph ! that's little enough." "Yes; but you see," Grace went on to explain, " I will do better after a while. They can't pay me quite as much as my time is worth yet ;" and then, seeing the undiminished look of interest on her ASPIRATIONS. 259 aunt*s countenance, she proceeded at' further length. *' My next order will bring me more, as it is for mark- ing house-linen for the duchess ; and such lovely linen as it is, too, — heavy as satin damask, and so fine. Ah ! it is a nice thing to be able to possess beautiful '* — But here she stopped, checking her sudden flow of confidence as she saw her aunt's brow darkening. " For goodness' sake, Grace, don't remind me of that absurd freak of yours in going to the duchess. She doubtless looks upon you as a polite species of beggar, or a representative of American audacity." "I don't agree with you. She is large-minded enough to respect the wish to make one's industry remunerative ; indeed, she told me very kindly that she admired the step I had taken." "Polite humbug! You know well enough she wouldn't put you on her visiting-list." " I really don't know. It would, of course, be a mere form if she did, when all my time must be given to turning an honest penny. Poor people have no leisure for visits ; it is one of the hardships of their life. But, either way, the duchess is no sham, and she shows her honest interest in working women." " Working-women ! " repeated Miss Alden scorn- fully. " Yes, I suppose that is what we are." " It is good Saxon, I believe," said Grace, smiling, and drawing a long silken thread through her pretty fingers, which had learned to move more swiftly and accurately than she had ever supposed they could do ; " but, dear aunt, you needn't include yourself, unless you propose to do a little dressmaking, which I fear may soon become necessary." 26o ASPIRATIONS. "No dressmaking for me !" exclaimed Miss Alden, holding up her hand with a deprecating gesture. " I'd scrub first ; and I may as well confess first as last, Grace, that I have earned a little money." With what shy pride this was said, and how painfully Miss Alden blushed as Grace's merry laugh pealed out ! She hadn't laughed in so long a time that it fairly frightened Miss Alden. " Hush, child, hush ! It is no laughing matter, I assure you. Look ! here is a check you will have to get cashed for me. I couldn't endure the thought of touching Mr. Barclay's money after your cruel treat- ment of him ; and so I set my wits to work, and wrote to several literary friends, who have secured me the post of foreign correspondent to a newspaper at home." " You, aunt Althea ! " " Yes : why not 1 1 " Grace couldn't speak ; her work had slipped from her grasp, her spools and scissors were falling, — she was completely dumbfounded. With a curious blending of pride and humility, and an abject sort of submissiveness, Miss Alden, drumming on the table nervously with a paper-cut- ter, went on, " I know it seems absurd ; but what is it, after all-, but relegating to pen and ink the power of speech with which we entertain others .^ And that I have done all my life. I have a fund of expe- rience to draw upon which will last some time. To be sure, I am not in active connection with the usual sources of supply of newspaper correspondents ; but with the aid of foreign journals and reviews I may ASPIRATIONS. 261 be able to continue to please " (she could not get out the word "employers") "my — ah — the people for whom I write. And, Grace, I want you to see if you can get me a free admission to the Museum ; for of course, with the aid of the resources of the British Museum, I can make my letters quite readable." Grace had lost much of her girlish impulsiveness, but it was not all gone ; and she sprang from her chair, courtesied profoundly before her aunt's little table, and seizing her hand pressed it to her lips. " Grace, don't be so ridiculous ! " said her aunt, drawing away her hand, and giving her a little slap with the paper-cutter. " Sit down and behave your- self." "How can I.?" exclaimed Grace. "Oh, isn't this richness ! " She was quoting Mr. Squeers, but Miss Alden did not recognize the authority. " Richness ! No, indeed : the pay is hardly better than yours." " It is a triumph, nevertheless," said Grace, wiping her eyes, for she had laughed till the tears came ; "and I congratulate you with all my heart. Let me see, the duchess will be just the one to get me a ticket for the Museum." " Then I will do without it," promptly replied Miss Alden. " Oh, no, you won't ! " said Grace, looking out the window. " Why, what is this ? A brougham, men in livery, a splendid pair of bays ! " "Do stop your nonsense," said Miss Alden. But that moment the housemaid handed in a note, which Grace read. 262 ASPIRATIONS, " The duchess has placed her carriage at our dis- posal for a drive, aunt : will you go ? " " Are you quite certain there is no error ? '* ** Quite. It is a friendly little note. She is not in town, you know, and says she will take it kindly if we will exercise the horses. The air will do you good." " Well, I suppose I must," answered Miss Alden resignedly. " You may get my bonnet." ASPIRA TIONS, 263 CHAPTER XXV. When Mr. Barclay received from Grace Alden her grateful, but none the less decided, refusal of his offer of marriage, he was completely and humiliat- ingly surprised ; as much so as a younger or more self-confident man might have been. He could not understand it ; and, with more precipitation than was common to him, he rushed off to the Continent again, eager to get away from surroundings that embarrassed him. All his friends knew that he had espoused Miss Alden's cause, and had been, as she said, chivalric in his kindness ; and he wanted to escape from their inquiries. Ruth had written him of her failure of intention, and had told him how en- tirely she was satisfied to remain with Sister Camilla till he should command otherwise. She had no wish to do any thing in opposition to his wishes, but she confessed that she would be glad to assist Sister Camilla in her work, and live for a while with some more distinct object in view than amusement or even cultivation ; and he saw no reason to refuse. In fact, he knew it would be good and useful employment. He had a high estimation of the sisterhood to which Miss Camilla Deforest belonged, and on the whole he would prefer not to have Ruth with him until he 264 ASPIRA TIONS. had become used to his disappointment ; for, of course, he had been very absurd, very ridiculous, and wholly mistaken, just as Ruth had been, and it was by no means an agreeable thing to have to acknowl- edge it. Yes, Ruth could get along without him ; but how about this other young creature, for whom he had conceived so tender a regard, but who had cast him off, not disdainfully, not contemptuously, but alas, quite firmly ? Did she know her own mind? Was it not possible that her painful experience of one man's faithlessness had led her to doubt all ? Perhaps he had not waited long enough ; he had been in too much haste, and in his suddenness had put an end to her sweet confidence and trust in him as an adviser. Why had he not exercised more patience, and been better satisfied with those long, quiet hours in which this girl's true and tender, though resolute, nature had been as open to his contemplation as the field flowers are to the sun } And why, too, had never a doubt that he would win her crossed his mind } Were girls of the present so different from those of the past } Ah, he had been too sure, he had forgotten his age ! These were not pleasant thoughts, and Mr. Bar- clay found himself quite moody and morose. He missed Ruth : she had been his occupation, he had lived quite out of his grief in her. But there was no desire to repeat that unsent note. No one must ever know of that : it had been a momentary folly. After a while he would go home, and Ruth should return to him, and be the head of his house, the stay of his old age. But, meanwhile, what should he do with him- ASPIRA TIONS. 265 self ? He was in Switzerland, whither he had gone so hurriedly ; and a letter from Branly Potter, long detained because of his uncertain movements, in- formed him that Branly, having received an excellent offer in Colorado, was to sail, with his wife, the last of August, but that Miss Alden had decided to re- main in England for the winter. This puzzled him still more. How could he go home and leave Grace alone with her aunt in a foreign city ? What if she had severed the bond that held him, was he not still her friend ? Nettled, vexed, disappointed, hurt, he had yet enough magnanimity to forget his own trouble when he thought of hers. Hers was to be a fight with fortune, single-handed, and without other weapons than merely youth and courage. Ah, hers was a sad experience for one so young ! and since Miss Alden's mental disturbance he felt her to be very unreliable. The more he thought, the more per- plexed he became.- He could not thrust himself upon these lonely women as a dictator, nor could he even open his purse to Grace with the hope that she would use it now : indeed, he knew she would not ; and yet how was suffering — absolute, positive suffer- ing — to be averted t It was now the last of August. The weather was uncertain. It was too late to be lingering in the mountains, and he had invitations for the autumn at English country-houses. But Mr. Barclay was no sportsman. He had liked to carry a gun about with him when wandering ; but none of the keen zest of killing, or the fine fury of the chase, ever possessed him. However, a man could do as he pleased in those 266 ASPIRATIONS. houses which opened their hospitable doors so sys- tematically to large parties of people, and their libra- ries fortunately equalled their stables, in most cases. So he concluded to accept one, at least, of the invitations, though he knew it would cost him con- siderable annoyance ; but that had to be met sooner or later. As the train whizzed along which was carrying him to Paris, a few days later, he suddenly made up his mind to another and an entirely different course. He would not go to the country ; he would do some- thing more effective, even if it was quixotic. Staid and tranquil as was his usual demeanor, his eye began to flash, and his cheek to burn, at the scheme which now presented itself. But of this scheme it will not now be necessary to say more than that it gave Mr. Barclay considerable exercise of ingenuity. While he was leaning back on the cushions of the railway- carriage, with all his customary luxurious appoint- ments about him, he remembered that he had not looked at a newspaper for weeks, that in his absorp- tion he had even neglected to write to Ruth, and that her letters had been few and far between, and also in one of her latest she had mentioned the intense heat of New York as being something terrible, worse than any thing she had imagined. Now, with a pang of remorse, he wondered if she had been ill ; but of course in that case Miss Deforest would have forwarded intelligence. No, Ruth was young and vigorous, though so fair and slender. And yet he was a little uneasy, just enough so to make him wish he had been less neg- ASPIRA TIONS. 267 lectful. Taking up an Italian journal shortly after, he saw the death of Count Romano, which set him wondering whether the young American painter would change his mind and assume the title and for- tune that belonged to him. Arriving in Paris, he lost no time in getting on to Calais, and from thence to London ; but here, tired and travel-worn as he was, instead of going to the Langham, his usual comfortable resort, he made a cabman drive him to a little inn of the East End where nobody who was anybody ever went ; and, so far from registering at his banker's, he took good care to avoid it, leaving most of his luggage at the railway-station, and carrying only what was barely necessary for his immediate wants. But even at this inn he did not stay long. Evidently Mr. Barclay was getting more and more capricious. 268 ASPIRATIONS. CHAPTER XXVI. " I HAVE been here at least three weeks, and as yet have seen nothing of the homes of your poor people, Sister Camilla. You make me too much of a guest," remonstrated Ruth one morning, when the July sun was pouring down torrid beams upon the blistering earth. " Every day you go and come on your errands ; while I sit here in this cool and darkened room, doing nothing worth speaking of. Why cannot I go with you to-day } " Sister Camilla paused as she replied. She was just going out, and her hand was on the door. " I have feared you were unequal to it ; but you are not doing nothing when you regulate my accounts, and give little Dora music-lessons, and look over my linen, and prepare my basket of supplies." "But I don't feel as if that were any thing, when I see you going and coming, night and day, in and out among those who are suffering. Let me go with you occasionally, now, —to-day, — as a beginning." Miss Deforest assented reluctantly. She had not wished Ruth to see all that she saw, and was accus- tomed to ; but Ruth's desire was sincere, and she allowed herself to be persuaded. It did not take long to reach the quarter where her ASPIRATIONS, 269 ministrations led her. The poor and the rich have often only a few layers of brick between them, how- ever wide the spiritual distinction. The heat made it hardly possible for the aged and infants to remain within doors : they swarmed on the door-steps, under awnings, and wherever air and shade could be found. But there were many who could not do this ; and Ruth's heart ached when they mounted up rickety stairs to the stifling bedrooms, where wan and weary people were struggling with fatal illness, or children, too weak to move, turned their glassy gaze upon the visitors. Sister Camilla saw that Ruth was growing faint and pale, and made her errands shorter on this ac- count; but not until she had been a messenger of aid and strength to many. To one she gave medicine, to another wholesome advice, to all that needed it food, and sometimes money ; but, to each and all, words of sympathy and hope, which drew forth thanks, and occasionally the merest shadow of a smile. " How do you stand it 1 " said Ruth, as they turned their steps homewards. " It was too much for me, I confess ; hut fou, — it is your life." "Yes, it is my life," said Sister Camilla gravely, " chosen deliberately." " It can never be mine," said Ruth hopelessly. " I am beginning to think myself a failure every way." " You must not do that. Take it more patiently. You are very young yet." *' But is it not true that only women who have had some trouble, some great sorrow or disappointment, ever give themselves up to a life of renunciation } " 270 ASPIRA TJONS. She Spoke as if thinking aloud, and the color rushed to her face as she became conscious that her com- panion regarded her with a quizzical little smile. "Oh, forgive me!" she cried. "I was debating the question in my own mind. I was not intending to question j^z^" Sister Camilla seized her little hand, and squeezed it. " I understand," she said. " You, like all the rest of the world, think only a man can drive a woman to good works." " I did not put it that way," said Ruth, blushing again. " No, but you mean it. You think a lover is a neces- sary adjunct to a woman's happiness ; and that, if he prove false, she may then turn her attention to some- thing else : well, I admit that to be a very moving force among women, and rightly. Nothing is sweeter and lovelier or more ennobling, than a tender and true affection ; but it does not come to all. Many live and die without it. Look at our professional women, — authors, artists, editors, teachers, nurses, physi- cians. Are they all heart-broken people t " " Oh, no ! of course not ; at least I suppose not, " faltered Ruth, who by this time had sunk into a bam- boo chair in the little parlor of the mission-house, and was waving a palm-leaf fan. " You have started me on one my hobbies," said Sister Camilla, " and I will have to give you a little sketch of my own career, by way of illustration, if you care to hear it." " If I care," repeated Ruth reproachfully ; " you know I shall be delighted." ASPIRATIONS. 271 " Take this lemonade, then, and don't look so ut- terly dejected. Ah, Ruth, that far-away expression of your eyes tells me a tale ! " Ruth's color came and went again. " It is only the heat," she said, but Miss Deforest knew better. " No matter, dear, that will all come right, — * so he be brave, so he be true.' Well, to go on about my indifferent self. When I had emerged from a very lively and untrammelled girlhood, I had what may be called a very keen intuition that marriage was not to be my portion. I was not pretty to begin with, nor had I any other ' attractions ' in the way of wealth or wit ; and, though I tried very hard to be- lieve I was talented, my genius never seemed to be properly appreciated by other people." Ruth laughed. " Now, that was the very hardest thing I had to bear, though I can laugh with you about it easily enough ; for no matter what people say about useful- ness, those who can entertain others by the least show of any one talent are much more highly re- garded than the poor hum-drum, useful people." " Oh ! there it seems to me you must be mistaken," put in Ruth. "No, I am not," said her companion emphatically. " See what a fuss is made over a good picture or a successful novel if it is by a woman. But who hears of the humble one, she who in a quiet home exercises as much financial ability as a railroad king, and makes of that home a haven of peace for some weary man, and nurtures his children for lives of industry and 272 ASPIRATIONS. self-respect ? No one. But let a woman have a voice like a bird, something that she hardly has to make an effort to use, — I don't speak of the artificial cultivation of it demanded novv-a-days, — and her name is known through all the civilized world. But I only say this to prove the truth of my assertion about usefulness not being so much appreciated as talent. Well, as I have said, here I was with youth, health, strength, no prospect of marriage, no genius : what was I to do } My grandmother died ; I was an orphan, and she had indulged me greatly. Her death opened my eyes to the selfish vanity that possessed me. Could I not do something for somebody t I asked myself in those days of sorrow. I had been indifferent to religious duties ; but I now went to church, and gradually became convinced that in the faithful performance of Christian duties there was a higher peace than in the pursuit of any pleasure. I studied nursing, and found it an excellent means of helping others. One thing led to another, and here I am, — heart whole, happy, and pledged, as you see me, to a life which is my choice." She paused, and just then there was a peal of thunder, and in a few moments more a driving shower obliged them to close the windows ; but not until Ruth's quick ear caught, above the sound of wind and rain, the hoarse cry of a new's-boy shouting an "extra." It jarred upon the quiet of the room and the even tones of Sister Camilla's voice, and they both listened as the sound drew nearer. " Boat-races ! " " Saratoga ! " ** Acci- dent ! " — " Hark ! what is it } " said Ruth. ■— " Lives lost ! " came again the cry, now beaten down by ASPIRA TIONS. 273 the blast, and again rising above the sweeping gale. "I will send out for a newspaper," said Sister Camilla. ** I am afraid the morning visits have been too much for you, Ruth; or are you timid when it lightens t " " I don't know," faltered Ruth. " I feel oppressed, alarmed ; what does that dreadful cry reiterate ? " " Oh, it is nothing ! We never mind those sensa- tional things : the least occurrence serves as a pre- text to issue an 'extra.' Ah, here comes Mary with a paper, wet with rain ! " and she held its dripping sheet away from her, reading aloud as she did so, — " An accident on Saratoga Lake ; the breaking down of a platform ; men, women, and children pre- cipitated into the lake. Daring conduct of a young artist. Fears that his life may be lost. Drowning of Mr." — Sister Camilla stopped suddenly, and looked at Ruth. "Go on," she said, but growing steadily whiter. " What are the names t " "There are only two mentioned," said Sister Camilla, putting down the paper; "no one that we know, probably. At least, only one is familiar to me ; and you are ill, and had better not look at the details." " I must," said Ruth, seizing the paper and glan- cing hurriedly at it. "Mr. Marsh and Mr. Vedder;" both names stood prominently before her as she repeated them aloud. " Which is drowned } or are both ? " she asked in a pitiful, beseeching voice. "It is not known yet; these things are always 274 ASPIRA TIONS. exaggerated," said Sister Camilla, in the way that people try to soften dread tidings. "I am so confused," murmured Ruth. "There must be some mistake : he was to return to Italy. Perhaps it is some one else." " Yes, perhaps," said Sister Camilla, equally con- fused, for she knew nothing of Mr. Marsh ; and, though Ruth had spoken of Charley Vedder, she could not imagine that any thing happening to him would cause quite such intensity of anguish as was now apparent. But she had no time to consider, for Ruth was falling unconscious beside her, as white as her dress, and as motionless. The storm had subsided when the young girl had recovered sufficiently to be carried to her room, but she looked as did the flowers in the garden when the gale was over. She tried to rise, but her strength was gone ; and all the long hours of the night were spent in a wakefulness which alarmed Sister Camilla. She could not close her eyes without visions of terror and pain ; and the faces of the old and young she had seen the day before were confused with those of her former companions. " I must go to Mrs. Vedder," she said to Sister Camilla, after a day or two spent in this silent, pros- trate way. " It is impossible ! " was the answer. " Besides, she has left Saratoga." " You have heard from her } " " I telegraphed for information." ** Please tell me all," urged Ruth. Sister Camilla looked steadily at her for a few moments, and then said, — ASPIRATIONS, 275 " Yes, I will tell you ; for suspense is always harder to bear than definite news, however ill they may be. Charley Vedder was drowned. Mrs. Vedder was taken home by Mr. Boggs. The accident was not as severe as at first supposed, for his was the only life lost ; the other people were more or less injured.'* To her surprise Ruth simply said, "Thank God!" and turned away her face. " Surely you do not thank God that the man's life was lost," said Sister Camilla in her bewilderment. Ruth shuddered and grasped her hand ; with a burst of tears she sobbed, — "I did not think of him — forgive me — I had for- gotten him. I was so grateful — that no one else " — She stopped convulsively. " No one else ! " repeated Sister Camilla thought- fully. "Were you interested in any one else ? " " Yes," said Ruth between her sobs. " But I am so sorry for poor Mrs. Vedder. Poor, poor aunt Abby, whose heart must be broken ! And now I can do her no worse harm than to let her see me. She will never forgive me." Sister Camilla, like a wise woman, forbore ques- tions. It was much of an emigma to her ; but she knew that this outburst of violent grief was better than the quiet, pent-up stillness and suffering of the last few days. Ruth sobbed till exhaustion and sleep followed; and, when this phase of her illness was reached. Sister Camilla knew that recovery would follow. She was not mistaken. Ruth slept like a tired child, — once in a while sighing softly, and waking to 2/6 ASPIRATIONS. weep; but re-assured at finding the calm, tranquil face of Sister Camilla beside her, or bending with a motherly tenderness to offer the nourishment of beef- tea or jelly. " I do not deserve this," she said once, after an ice had been given her. " Your poor people should have these good things, and you ; but not I who have proved my weakness and miserable insufficiency." " Tut, tut ; none of us are of brass or iron, child. And you have not had a mother's nurture ; any one can see that at a glance," was the reply. " What do you mean. Sister Camilla } " asked Ruth, brightening a little. "Just that, my dear," said the sister roguishly. '* Men are very good in their way, but not at bringing up young women. How little Mr. Barclay knows of girls, is proved by you. Why, he hasn't the shadow of a doubt but that you are as giddy and gay at this moment as the flies that are whirling in the sunshine ! '* "He knows I am with you," said Ruth, remon- strating. Sister Camilla laughed. "I accept the implied trust, but all the same consider myself justified in my assertion. What mother would have left a tender young creature like you to meet such possibilities and probabilities as you have done } Ah, it was like a man ! " " Now, Sister Camilla, you shall not abuse Mr. Bar- clay : he is the dearest, kindest of men," said Ruth. " Of course ; but he went out of his sphere in un- dertaking your education and bringing up." Ruth saw by the twinkle in Sister Camilla's eye ASPIRATIONS, 277 that she wanted a tilt ; but again the heavy weariness of sadness overcame her, and she answered faintly, — *' He could not have saved me this." " Oh, yes, he could ! " said the sister, " at least in a measure. * Make doors upon a woman's wit, and it will out of the window; shut that, 'twill out at the key-hole ; close that, and it will fly with the smoke from the chimney.* That means we are good at con- triving and baffling destiny, which men are not. But now tell me where would you most like to go, — to the mountains or the sea .'* " "Oh, to neither!" "Now, that is selfish, my dear: you cannot get strong in this hot city." " Well, what does it matter ? I am of no use." " No, I know it ; but you can be by getting well." "To whom .?" "To me, to yourself, to Mr. Barclay, and perhaps to some one else in the vague, indefinite future." Ruth turned away. " I am quite in earnest," proceeded Sister Camilla. " Some of my poor people are going away, thanks to the ' Fresh-air fund ; ' the rest are to be under the care of Sister Anne till I return : for I must have an outing, you know." "Ah, if it is for you, I will go anywhere!" re- sponded Ruth. " Well, it is for me as well as for you : change is absolutely necessary. Where would you rather go ? " Ruth was still a moment. Her thoughts flew back to the childish pleasures of days spent with May and Grace Alden after her father's death ; she remem- 27S ASPIRATIONS. bered the glittering sands, the light-house, the long roll of the waves, the rocks, the salt smell of marshy- land ; and it seemed as if a breath of that air would indeed put new life in her. "To the sea," she said. "And so be it," answered Sister Camilla. And then she put a package of letters before Ruth, — one from Scotland, one from London, and one from the Engadine. Ruth turned them over. " Are these all ? " she asked. "Yes, all." Ruth sighed. ASPIRATIONS, 279 CHAPTER XXVII. Here stands the old brown house which has been looking out to sea these long, long years, in the face of fogs and driving storms, over the glittering sands, out to the line where sky and ocean meet, waiting for the ship to come in which shall bring to it life and happiness. It looks no older, no more weather-worn, than it used to look when a merry boy went whistling through its doors, or old Abner Marsh sat in the sun- shine mending his nets ; and it seems still to be a picturesque part of the land or water scape. Its doors and windows rattle at the passing gust, and here and there it has been propped or strengthened by a heavy beam, which, with a little red paint and a few tiles, are all its modern improvements. But its ship has come in, — as our ships so often do, without our knowing it. For from the chimney curls a thin thread of blue smoke, and in the sitting-room is the customary litter of an artist's working-room. No frescoes and dadoes here, no brasses and bronzes and tapestries, to delight the artistic eye ; nothing but an easel, some mahl-sticks, sketches, stretchers, and canvas. The floor is still one of bare boards ; but the open shutters of the windows let in the sun- shine and the broad sweep of the distant sea, which 280 ASPIRA TIONS. is SO much rest to the eye, so suggestive to the mind. It is meant to be a place for work, and not one of ease or amusement ; but its owner touches neither paint nor pencil. He is recovering from something worse than illness, — a fit of disdain, of bitter self- reproach, of dissatisfaction with all the world. Why- had he not staid always in this little old brown house and been contented t Why had fame or fortune tempted him, and what had they brought him that he should have been lured to listen for a moment to their siren voices .-* Never again would he swerve from his allegiance to art. And then that horrid day at Saratoga hung still like a black cloud between him and his brightest dreams. He had been rescued by a boat, when so far ex- hausted by the blow on his head, and his efforts to evade the clutch of a drowning man, that it had been several days before he could rush from the scene of horror to the quiet of the one spot on the earth which had for him no painful suggestions. For with his recollections of Italy came the remembrance of Ruth ; and she to whom he had poured out his story in page after page of burning words, she to whom he had left his fate, the decision of his career, the choice of a titled name, had disdained even to reply. What wonder, then, that his work stands undone, and that the days crawl on in their slow length, leav- ing him to his lethargy. The visitors at the Neck have all gone, the houses are closed, the sands are deserted. The days are getting shorter, the gales are begirining. So Lillo ASPIRATIONS. 281 now ventures abroad. He has become thin and worn and haggard from so much thought and so Httle exercise. He stops a little, as with his oars and fish- ing-lines he makes his way to a boat ; but he has resolved to shake off this deadly oppression, and be himself again. If he could have saved that miserable life, which had been almost in his hands, he would have been better satisfied. Often that despairing, dreadful glance comes to him ; and often his own hateful wish for revenge, rises like a ghost in his memory. And how wasted was all that passion ! spent on a girl who had given him one or two tender smiles, who had made him the whim of the moment. Was she, in- deed, so fair and false as to wilfully deceive him ? or had he been so weakly presumptuous and mistaken ? He knew little of women ; they were more or less mysteries to him, as they are to so many men. But if she had cared ever so little, would she not have answered his letter } Where was her grace ? where her courtesy ? Could the letter have miscarried } Not likely ; but, whether it had or not, he should never know. For, of course, she would be Mrs. Bar- clay some time or other ; that was more than likely, as the miserable scribbler had insinuated. It must have been apparent to everybody but himself. And what a dreadful waste of time was all this question- ing, surmising, and useless, vain speculation ! So he fights his despondency, and goes out to wage war with the elements. It is a bleak, wild day, and he notes the white curling foam of the breakers tossing high against the 282 ASPIRA TIONS. rocks. Nature is unsympathetic only to those who do not love her. For those who do, she has always an undertone that responds to the mood one is in. The sun may shine UDon one's sorrow, but it does not gladden : it is only the smiling mask which makes the world believe that death and decay are for- gotten. The gray sky, the tossing waves, the gloom, were in keeping with Lillo's turn of thought ; and it was with keen desire for a contest that he loosened his boat, and sent her flying. At least, the air of heaven was his, and its saltness gave him strength. His good right arm had power to breast the waves. And what better life need a man ask than this wild freedom t Perish dreams ! Let them fade, — given this strong actuality of life and force. But, as he pulled valiantly against the strong cur- rent, new thoughts came to him. Ruth had been his personification of all that was lovely in woman- hood. Why should he forget her because of her apparent disdain .-* He became convinced that he had erred. She was as true, as gentle, as perfect and fair a flower as ever, whether she loved him or not ; and he vowed that nothing should expel her image. To be more worthy of her, more capable of trusting her, and so of trusting all women, was the higher and nobler way of solving his difficulties. It was puerile to be jealous and doubting. Time would yet give him the opportunity to make all clear between them. And, meanwhile, he would work. The resolve brightened his mental horizon ; but, around and about him, sky and sea were uniting towards denser gloom. He had gone farther than he knew, and Seal ASPIRA TIONS. 283 Island was before him. It was a barren little spot still, with only its few shrubs and a hut which served as a shelter for fishermen ; and, as he guided his craft among its rocks, he was surprised to see another small boat drawn upon its beach, for the fog was rolling in, and to any one unaccustomed to these waters, a return to the mainland would be a difficult, if not a dangerous, thing. To warn any unwary trav- eller seemed to be only ordinary civility, for the boat was one of the sort hired by guests. So Lillo shouted, "boat ahoy!" at the top of his lungs. For a while there was no answer ; but presently from a far corner came a slim, straight, black-robed figure, more like a Florentine nun than a Codtown visitor. In her hand was a book, and on her head was a small poke-bonnet, and so absorbed was she in her near-sighted reading, and slow strolling, that she neither heard nor saw what was before her. Lillo moored his boat, sprang from it, and, with accus- tomed grace, doffed his cap, and stood in her path before she discovered him. Then with a startled smile she closed her book, and gave him a calm and cool salutation. "Are you aware, madam,'* said he, "that it is already hardly possible for you to return to the main- land ? And may I ask who has been so stupid as to bring you here such a day } " "You may ask, but I am not certain that I shall answer," said the lady; "seeing that it will oblige me to exonerate all the men at the Neck, who warned me of my foolishness. But, really," and she glanced hastily at the forbidding sky, "I had not 284 ASPIRA TIONS. been aware that the fog was driving in at this rate, I was so interested in my book ; but this is bad, isn't it ? " and she turned towards the path which led to the hut, as if to get something she had left there. "Pardon me, if you are alone, pray get into my boat at once, and I will take you back. Is it possible you rowed here by yourself? Few ladies attempt it." "Ah, that is just what made me try it. But I am not alone. Could you manage to carry two of us .-* " " If you are quick," answered Lillo, going back to where his craft was now tossing restlessly. "A bad bargain," he muttered, as he peered into the thick- ening distance. " Just like a woman ! I've half a mind to make her stay where she is, as a lesson." He bent to loosen the knot which secured the other boat, but decided that it would be better not to strive to manage a tow, and re-tied it again ; when a hand was laid lightly on his sleeve, and a remem- bered voice thrilled him with its sweetness. " Is it possible that this is you t " He was instantly erect, himself in every fibre. " Miss Morris ! " was all he said, but his eyes devoured her. "She is pale, she is thin, she has been ill and suffering. Am I in a dream t " he asked himself. But again her sweet voice spoke. "This is Miss Deforest, Mr. Marsh, — or am I to say Count Romano } — and she tells me we have no time to lose, that you think there is some danger. We had no idea we were so venturesome ; at least, I trusted to Sister Camilla*s excellent seamanship." She stopped confused at his intent gaze, and at ASPIRATIONS. 285 the strange situation. She was dressed in a dark brown cloth, faced and hooded with velvet ; and her hair was coiled under a cap of the same, with a snowy- sea-bird's wing fastened with a glittering aigrette of curious stones. At her feet were the cushions and shawls which they had brought from the boat to the hut. He saw her as if she were a picture, and not a living reality ; and his own voice sounded strange and far away as he replied, — "There is not a moment to lose. Indeed, I am not sure but that discretion would advise your re- maining here till the fog lifts. The wind seems to be rising ; if so, it would be hard pulling, but safer than to risk this. — What is your opinion, Miss Deforest > " Sister Camilla saw his uncertainty had arisen at sight of Miss Morris. She saw, also, that the embar- rassment of these two must have been caused by- more than was now apparent ; and as she peered into the fog she said, — "I don't fancy the prospect before us, either way ; but, if you will be good enough to share our captivity, I shall be less anxious than if we are left to our own responsibility." He seized the chance, flung his oars back into the boat, and drew her high and dry out of the waves. ** Now, I suppose we must return to the hut, if we wish to keep off this penetrating moisture," said Sister Camilla, somewhat relieved to see that on neither countenance was there any thing more than constraint, and that even this was fast disappearing from Ruth's. 286 ASPIRATIONS, Lillo took the wraps and cushions in his keeping, saying rather brusquely as he did so, " I thought all visitors in this part of the world knew more than to trust wind or weather to-day ; and, indeed, I cannot imagine what brought you here. I have been told that all the houses are closed for the season." " So they are, — at least, all but the one we are in," answered Miss Deforest ; " and when a wilful child who has been ill expresses a wish, it is wise to grant it, don't you think so ? " " Have you been ill } " said Lillo, turning to Ruth, who lagged behind, and wondering if she had known that he was in this neighborhood too. " Yes ; and I had so pleasant a remembrance of happy days spent here long ago, that I wanted to see the Neck once more. I did not know — at least I 'was not sure — that this was where you used to live." Unhappy speech ! it turned his hope to bitterness. He stalked on moodily, pushed into the hut, threw down the cushions, and went out again, saying he would soon return. " Who is this, Ruth ? and what is the matter with him } " asked Miss Deforest. ** He is an Adonis in the rough, is he not ? " " Have I not told you his story } " responded Ruth. "O Sister Camilla, he is angry with me; but why, I do not know." "Oh, is he the young count whose history is so romantic ? " "The same, but " — - " You said so little that I had to imagine much. ASPIRA TIONS, 287 But here he comes with fire-wood : that is thoughtful and practical. I like him, dear." " Hush ! ** said Ruth, smiling. In a few minutes there was a light blaze dancing in the rude fireplace ; and, though the little hut was bare and smoky, there was a homely comfort in the warmth. " Now for my provisions ! " said Sister Camilla, opening a basket and displaying a well-stocked larder. " You had better be frugal : there is no knowing how long you may have to stay here," said Lillo. " Oh, you only want to frighten us ! " " Indeed, no ; it is possible that night may add to your discomfort." " That is not a pleasant suggestion." "Necessarily, truth is apt to be unpleasant." " Now, there I differ with you. But I thought I heard oars : could anybody be coming for us ? " " I will go and see." " Pardon me, let me look out ; you stay with Miss Morris. — I will return in a moment, Ruth." Sister Camilla pushed open the door and vanished. Lillo took a long look at Ruth. She did not raise her eyes, but it seemed to her he must hear her heart beat. " I must say one word," he hurriedly murmured : " did you get my letter } " " What letter ? " she asked, in a surprise that it would have taken a clever actress to feign. " One that I mailed to you two days after leaving New York. I addressed it to Mrs. Vedder's care, at the Fifth-avenue Hotel." 288 AS FIR A TIONS. " I never received it." There was no mistaking those words nor the sim- ple directness of her gaze ; but Sister Camilla this moment entered, saying, '*I was wrong: there is no boat, it was the beating of the waves. We are indeed stranded: the fog is worse than ever." ASPIRATIONS. 289 CHAPTER XXVIII. There was nothing to do but wait for the fog to lessen, and Sister Camilla buried herself in her book. Lillo stirred up the driftwood fire ; and Ruth, perched on an upturned box, sat dreamily watching him, a faint flush of color in her cheeks, and a gladness in her eyes that Miss Deforest had never seen in them before. The girl seemed to be so contented with the peace of the present moment that she made no effort at conversation ; but at last, as Lillo suffered the fire to rest, and began tracing with a stick in the soft, white ashes, — an old habit of his, — she gathered her wandering wits together, and said, — ** I have never heard the conclusion of your story. Are you going to Italy .«* and will you assume the title which belongs to you, Mr. Marsh t " " You know, then, that my grandfather is dead t '* he quickly returned. " I saw the death announced," she replied. "And any thing else .'' ** " Nothing of consequence." He looked narrowly at her as he said, "The news- papers cannot let people alone : why they meddle with personal concerns so much, I am at a loss to understand ; for me they are the most trivial of mat- ters." 290 ASPIRATIONS. "I hope you do not resent a friendly interest," Ruth said gently. " Indeed not/' was the quick reply, with an equally quick look of gratitude. " No, I am not going to Italy, unless," and then he checked himself, glanced at Sister Camilla, who was reading intently, and said in a low tone, ** unless you send me there." Ruth's eyes dropped ; but he at once resumed more audibly, ** My grandfather's death makes the position now much more difficult, for the lawyers tell me that the informalities of my papers, — which are nevertheless genuine, — and the legal differences of the two countries, would involve long-continued litigation, which would be a great bore to me ; the game not being worth the candle. My Italian cousin, who is next of kin, will probably regard me as an amiable lunatic forgiving up what he thinks so much to him so easily. But what do I want of a title 1 " Sister Camilla now laid down her book and drew near. Ruth's delighted sympathy and appreciation, and the young artist's enthusiastic disdain, were charming to her : so she purposely said, — " Is not a title considered by all respectable and ambitious Americans the proper handle to one's name.^ I am afraid, Mr. Marsh, you are not up to the times." " I am not up to society's shams. Miss Deforest. If titles are emblems of honor, let those who have them keep them : my crest is a painter's brush. You know it is said, I forget by whom, that those who now wear coats-of-arms were wearing coats with- out arms a short time ago." ASPIRA TIONS. 2 Q I Miss Deforest laughed; but Ruth said softly, — " You forget, though, that you have the right to some family distinction." "No, I do not consider it a right in one sense; for I think I owe more to the poor old fisher-folk who cared for me, than to the proud family who cast me off, and made my poor mother suffer." He rose as he spoke, and his tall young figure seemed to touch the top of the hut. " Then you wilfully renounce the pomps and vani- ties offered you } " said Miss Deforest. "Yes, wilfully. Whatever I can do to make a name for myself will be a better satisfaction than the empty honors of the Romanos. But I must go now and see to our prospect for getting home to-night," and he left the hut. "What a delightful young democrat!" said Sister Camilla mischievously, watching Ruth's expressive face. " He does not seem to consider for a moment what a feather in his cap a title would be, nor how the girls would dote on it." Ruth's lip curled, and a proud satisfaction in her young hero could not be concealed. " He has the right spirit. I am so glad he thinks the title unnecessary." " Why, what difference does it make to you, dear } " " Oh, none particularly ! " faltered Ruth, conscious that Sister Camilla was laughing in her sleeve ; " but I like to hear noble sentiments expressed." " Especially by one so graceful, so gifted, so manly." Ruth looked up. " I did not say so." 292 ASPIRA TIONS. "But I do." "Are you jesting, or in earnest?** "In sober earnest. He is admirable. And to think that we found him in this desert spot, — a chevalier sans peur et sans reprochey — this suits my idea of romance ! '* Ruth still was not sure she understood Sister Ca- milla s banter, nor did she altogether like the looking at Lillo as a mere hero of romance. To her he was a very real embodiment of the bravest, manliest sen- timents ; besides, she was pondering what he meant by saying he would not go to Italy unless she sent him there. Sister Camilla gathered her skirts about her, and sat down at Ruth's feet. " Forgive me," she whis- pered, " I never can resist a little teasing. I will say no more, after I have told you that you are look- ing like a new creature." Ruth bent down and kissed her. The door of the hut now blew open, and they could see the gulls fly- ing, the white-caps tossing, and the fog breaking. " We have wind enough now," said Lillo, coming in. " Will you venture home } " " If you will take Miss Morris in your boat," said Sister Camilla, "and not otherwise. For, though I can pull a strong oar, I should not like to risk such a stiff breeze as this, with more than myself as pas- senger." "Very well," said Lillo ; "as you please." They were soon embarked, glad not to have the discomfort of a night on Seal Island ; and, though the low band of yellow light in the west bespoke ASPIRA TIONS. 293 the need of haste, the short day drawing to its close did not intimidate them. It was indeed hard pulling for a while, and there was enough to do to manage their boats ; but, as they neared the shore and shoal water, Lillo leaned over his oars and said, — "Have you any conception of all the miserable doubt I have been in these past few months, Ruth ? " "No," she answered. "I thought you did not care, — that you had forgotten every thing." " Then you did wonder a little why I neither wrote nor came ? " "Yes." She did not tell him how she had suffered, nor did he ask her more. He was satisfied to be near her, to look at her sweet face, to note the tender outline of her features, — more delicate than when in stronger health, — and to breathe the same atmosphere. He was so happy that he could hardly believe himself to be the gloomy, morose, dissatisfied creature of the morning. He leaped to the shore in time to take Miss Deforest's oars and secure her boat; then they walked up the sands in the dim light, the wind blowing the drifting clouds about, and a few stars peeping here and there in the dark space. As they approached the house where Miss Deforest was lodging, a ruddy light streamed from the doorway ; and the lounging men on the step moved off uneasily under Lillo's sharp rebuke to them for allowing ladies to go on the water alone in such rough weather, — though their inattention had given him such un- looked-for happiness. 294 ASPIRA TIONS. *• You will stay a while longer at the Neck, I sup- pose, Miss Deforest," said Lillo as they separated. "Long enough to visit your studio, if you will allow us to-morrow," she replied. He laughed at the idea of calling his old house a studio, but promised to show them any of his studies that they cared to see. People in love are not supposed to be so material as to suffer the commonplace pangs of hunger, but Lillo's man of all work was kept busy that evening over his kitchen-fire; and when he raked out its em- bers, it was with some dismay that he heard orders for breakfast which would oblige him to be stirring early, having exhausted all his resources on the even- ing meal. He had so long had his own leisurely way, that it was also a surprise to him to have to put the whole house in as trim shape as a ship's cabin, and to see his master trailing in heaps of woodland treasures which he had gone miles to gather in the early morning. The shells and seaweed which adorned the small sitting-room had to yield preced- ence to masses of crysanthemums, in white, yellow, and red ; but the man smiled knowingly, when, later in the day, two ladies made their appearance. "So this is your den," said Ruth, "the place of poetic visions," as she glanced at the low walls, the bare boards, and the quaint, stiff, straight chairs. " Oh, no ! not my den ; these are my ancestral halls," said Lillo, laughing, " the palace of the Marsh- Romano." "It would not be a bad idea to link the two names," said Miss Deforest. "It, in a way, estab- ASPIRA riONS. 295 lishes your right to relinquish the title, or not, as you please." "That shall be as Ruth chooses," he would have liked to respond, but he had to check himself. The reversion from the exultant frame of mind which had been his had set in, and he was now again in suspense. " Look," he said, as he threw open the wooden shutters; "the title to this is one that no one can dispute." The broad blue expanse of water lay calm in the autumnal sunshine, dotted here and there with the white sails of the fishing-smacks. Ruth seated her- self near the window, and gazed in silent abstraction. Meanwhile, Lillo drew out his sketches and stud- ies for Miss Deforest's inspection, saying, as he did so, — "They are hardly worth looking at. I have done no good work for months, but I shall begin in ear- nest as soon as I have secured a studio in New York." " I am glad you intend to do that. This may do very well as a place to dream in, but every artist needs the friction of active city life ; besides, your work requires good, living models." "Yes, seclusion will not answer; one must be in the world. — By the by, Miss Morris " (he did not dare to say " Ruth " before Miss Deforest), " what has be- come of all our little Italian world of friends ? Where are the Aldens and Mr. Barclay ? " "Surely you've heard of the Aldens' loss of for- tune," answered Ruth. "Not a word." 296 ASPIRATIONS, " Nor May's marriage ? " " No ; to Branly Potter, I suppose, as a matter of course." " Yes. I should have thought he would have writ- ten." " Oh, when a fellow's happy, he forgets his friends ! I am glad, however, to hear of his good luck. Do you know what he is about ? " " He is going to Colorado. Their steamer was due some days ago, but I am afraid I have missed seeing May. We have wandered about so, that letters have miscarried, or not been forwarded ; and my illness made me negligent about writing." "And Miss Grace, — where is she } " "With her aunt in London. She writes that she is very busy. She has found a good friend in the Duchess of Stickingham. You remember her. What a contrast she was to Mrs. Coit ! Grace is deter- mined to maintain herself, and has resisted all May's inducements to go with her to the West. She and her aunt are almost penniless. Indeed, I don't know what they would have done, had it not been for my guardian." " And is Mr. Barclay well } Does he soon return t '* " Ah, that I cannot answer ! He has been very mysterious lately. He must be well, for he has been to Switzerland; but whether I am to join him abroad, or he is to return, I really do not know." Lillo received this answer with another chill of anxiety and impatience. He knew that Miss De- forest was to leave the Neck on the morrow, and the prospect of more uncertainty was unendurable. ASPIRA TIONS. 297 It was well that Mr. Barclay could not hear his men- tal apostrophe. Miss Deforest now arose from look- ing over a portfolio, and suggested a walk ; but Ruth seemed quite contented to remain where she was. She had not paid much attention to the studies and sketches : she was thinking of the old Italian gar- dens and palace, and contrasting them with the little brown house she was in, and wondering whether it was quite right, after all, to throw off the burden of ancestral honors, and be contented to toil obscurely on, as Lillo proposed to do. To be sure, here was peace and primeval simplicity ; but might not the other career be better, wider, larger, more suited to his tal- ents } Could not his influence be made more condu- cive to the good of others } She was quite lost in these abstractions, as she arose dreamily to do her companion's bidding. Lillo misconstrued her absence of mind immedi- ately as a lack of interest, and he too became moody. There seemed to be less sunshine in the day, as they all emerged from the house. But the good sister had her surmises ; and, as they neared the sands, she turned quickly away, and said she must go home to pack, leaving her young friends to themselves. It was the opportunity Lillo had coveted, but his lips seemed sealed. The ocean, in its limitless expanse, was suggestive of the futurity before him. He too had his thoughts of Ruth, and her sweet womanhood, as momentous, as conflicting, as her views of his career. There was a thrill of deep emotion in his voice, when he at last found courage to speak. 298 ASPIRATIONS. " Ruth,*' was all he said. She turned towards him at once, but seeing his excitement, became, as women will, all eagerness to avert an issue. " How bright and clear the view is to-day ! Who would have supposed yesterday, that the sun would ever shine again, and where do the fogs come from so suddenly } It must be a dreadfully dangerous coast. An old woman on the beach, the other day, told me she had lost her father, her husband, and three sons, all by the sea. And yet we think it so beautiful, for- getting its cruel hunger, its deadly enmity." - " Ruth, I must speak to you." " Yes," she sort of gasped. "You know I love you." She did not say " yes " again, but her face lost its look of alarm for one of tender sadness. Love comes as a great and solemn trust to a girl of her nature. She listened intently as he went on, now rapidly, now slowly, — watching her as he spoke, and wondering if she understood him. " You must have known this long ago. I would have spoken before. The letter I wrote you contained the expression of it, but that never reached you ; and the withholding of an answer made me desperate, I am not worthy of you, but no one is. I would strive to be, if you would let me. Am I mistaken in daring to hope that you care a little for me .'* " She could not speak yet, the joy and the pain were too exquisite ; but he saw her lips parting with the words that trembled to escape. " I must speak the whole truth now, and tell you ASPIRA TIONS. 299 that I have tried to live without you. When no answer came, I was wounded, and it added to the doubt I have had all along ; for, you know, it is thought by so many " — But here he stopped, unwil- ling to put his doubts in shape. "Yes, I know," said Ruth, made calmer by this allusion. " But it is not true, Ruth. Tell me so, for I cannot live without you. All my interest even in my pro- fession has died within me ; only you can waken it. Do speak to me, Ruth ! " His tones had varied from the simplest, manliest utterance to the passionate pleading which intense feeling only could impart, and Ruth felt so shaken by it that she could scarcely command her voice. She had thought of him as always so strong and joyous ; but she rallied her forces and whispered, — "What shall I say.? That I, too, have tried living without you, and found it impossible." He could not take her in his arms as he would have liked to do, but he grasped her hands as if she might possibly escape him. "And you are not in any way bound } " " No. Mr. Barclay has never demanded what the world expected, nor do I think my gratitude could have gone so far." " Then you have no absurd heroics to overcome. You will be my wife 1 " " I will," came slowly and softly, but firmly, from her now smiling lips ; and once again, as when a boy, Lillo felt as if the earth were air, and he had wings. They never knew how that day spent itself. There 300 ASPIRATIONS. was so much to say, so much that remained unsaid ; but Ruth managed to make known the failure of all her aims, and her utter inability to be or do any thing remarkable, which all the more satisfied her lover, as giving him the larger share of her affec- tions. They strolled till again the stars were twinkling as on the night before, here and there in wind-swept spaces, and the fishing-boats were coming in over the tossing waves. Long lines of light darted from the cottage windows where busy women were making suppers ready for the hungry toilers of the sea, and the voices of little children trilled out shrill welcomes to the deep bass of fathers' and brothers' voices. There was a homely warmth and gladness even on this chill, windy coast, and it found a response in the happiness of these two young hearts full of their new, deep joy. Sister Camilla met Ruth with a playful reproof that needed no defence, for she knew intuitively what had happened. Hers was no ascetic soul narrowed to the small groove of one set of duties. She could feel for those who were happy as well as for those who sorrowed, which is sometimes the more difficult task. Lillo concluded to turn the key in the door of his little house on the sands, and go with his friends to the city. It was rather late in the season, but he had now a new impetus towards climbing the ladder of fame, which, if not synonymous with that of for- tune, ought to be ; and there was much to be done in the way of establishing himself for the winter's work. ASPIRATIONS. 301 As yet there could be no immediate hope of marriage, for besides Mr. Barclay's approbation, of which he was by no means sure, in view of any such prepara- tions, Mr. Barclay's purse would also be an important factor, — a truth, however, not so apparent to him as to Ruth. 302 ASPIKA TIONS. CHAPTER XXIX. It is a cold, cheerless day in London ; and Grace Alden cannot help comparing its inclemency with the bright, soft airs of Italy, or the abundant sunshine of her American home. She is the more inclined to do this because of her loneliness and sadness at hav- ing to part with her buoyant young sister, who came upon herself and her aunt with the suddenness of a cyclone one morning, and expected them to at once take leave of the Old World for the New, and join fortunes with her and her young husband. This Miss Alden would not do. No amount of persuasion or argument could induce her to leave London now that she had tasted the sweets of independence, in the shape of checks for her foreign letters ; and least of all would she go to the horrid West, the frontier, the place of barbarisms, the uncivilized chaos of society. Branly Potter urged that its new life, its freshness, were just what she needed, and that no- where else could she be so entirely respected for herself alone as in their new home. He was to hold some responsible position connected with the mines, and felt amply able to assist Grace and Miss Alden in any effort they might wish to make. But Miss Al- den was invincible. No new country for her, "Bet- ASPIRA TIONS. 303 ter fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay/' though this Western Cathay was a much worse place to her imagination than the Eastern one, a place of dreary uncouthness and disorder, sterile of refine- ments. So Mr. and Mrs. Potter had begged and urged in vain, and had at last said "good-by" reluctantly; for they felt convinced that sooner or later Miss Al- den must yield, and it would be so much pleasanter to have Grace go with them at once than to be worried about her until she joined them. Grace, of course, had to make the best of her aunt's decision, though better than any one else did she know what it meant, — steady toil, hard fare, and small pay. She looks around her now at the faded carpet, the cheap furni- ture, the battered fire-irons, and the dull fire. Her work is beside her ; so is a clever book that has found its way to her through the kindness of some friends (for friends had found them out, in spite of themselves), but she has no time to read. She looks at it long- ingly, but takes up her needle resolutely, thinking what pleasure it would have been to go with May to that far away West, where with new courage and hope she could have helped to make her sister's little home a happy one. And she smiles with a sad sort of contempt at her own forlornness, and her aunt's preference for this dingy drudging to the plunge into the more primitive conditions of Western life. What indeed could be more absurd than their weak struggle to be ladies and working- women com- bined .? This is her way of regarding her aunt's high-flown notions. She knows better, she knows that nothing she does in the way of work can render 304 ASPIRATIONS. her less a lady than she has always been ; but, for all that, she prefers to say she is not one, that she has descended to a lower social scale, and is contented. This is partly the result of her aunt's long-continued conversations, partly the effect of all her trouble ; for, with all her courage and determination, hardship has worn upon her. It is a trial to get up early these dark mornings, and do what she can before their fire is lighted, and breakfast brought in ; and it is a still greater one to go out for the petty marketing which her small pelf obliges her to do rather than trust to her avaricious landlady. She thinks it would not have been hard to do any of these things if she had been brought up to them, — these small economies or the sacrifice of ease ; but she remembers only too well the luxury of her American home, where, with no mother and an indulgent father, there had been as lavish outlay as in many foreign palaces. Miss Alden breaks in upon her meditations with a question which answers itself concerning the post- man. The letters are a never-failing excitement ; and they have just been brought in by the poor, hard- working Httle housemaid, for whom Grace has more fellow-feeling than she ever had for any of the maids in her father's fine house. Instantly both are ab- sorbed in their correspondence. Only those who have few interests know the value of letters. Busy, active people find no time for them ; gay, worldly people think them a bore ; and even the studious and reflecting would rather not be forced to attend to them. Letters seem to have had their day ; the constant influx of news in the journals and maga- ASPIRA TIONS. 305 zines, from all quarters of the world, having taken their place. The sprightliness, the grace, the charm of letters are no longer appreciated, except by those who pay for them. But this is not the case with Miss Alden and her niece. Both are glad to forget their surroundings, and hear of the sayings and do- ings of their friends ; and frequent travelling has made letters a necessity. Miss Alden goes through her pile first, and is about gathering them together for re-perusal, when she sees something in Grace's man- ner that attracts her attention. The girl has appar- ently forgotten the letters, though but a few minutes before absorbed in them, and is gazing into the half- burnt coals of the fire as if she saw a wraith. " Grace ! " calls her aunt. "Yes." " What is the news } who have you heard from } " "Several people." This is spoken so mechanically that Miss Alden's ire is aroused. " That is rather vague." "Yes," is still the abstracted answer, and Grace still peers into the dull fire. " Who are they ? " "Oh, one and another! — the Browns, Miss Per- kins, Lily Everett." " They are of no consequence," says Miss Alden impatiently. " I wonder you keep up with them." No answer. Grace is wondering if her fate is always to meet her in a letter, as far as she can form any thought at all ; but she struggles to be unconcerned and indifferent, and succeeds, for directly Miss Alden 306 ASriRA TIONS. asks the meaning of the note with the duchess's crest. " Oh, that is an invitation ! " answers Grace, now crushing the other letters into her work-basket. " The duchess wishes us to spend a few days with her." " No ; you don't say so .^ " " Yes ; here, read it." She is quite alert now. Miss Alden devours the gracious request, written in the larg^, flowing style she likes so well. It is in the third person, and was probably penned by her Highness's secretary or governess ; but that is no matter. It pleases Miss Alden, who, to Grace's sur- prise, begins to think of ways and means immedi- ately. " It is uncommonly kind. I don't see that we can refuse. I wonder if my velvet dress is in proper shape." " Why, aunt, will you really go 1 " " I think I ought to, she has been so kind, so at- tentive. Just think of all the fruit and flowers and game we have had lately." "Yes, she has been kind; but I am not so sure that all those gifts came from one source : we have other friends, you know." "None who would so go out of their way to do us a kindness : no, no one but " — And she checked herself, for she now never mentioned Mr. Barclay. "But surely you forget how difficult it will be. There's the cost of the journey, some necessary out- lay besides, and — Why, we haven't enough even to tip the servants." ASPIRA TIONS. 307 " A very vulgar thing to do, in my opinion. Yes, I daresay" — this is said with a sigh — "that I shall have to spend a little more than is prudent ; but I must go, if only for your sake, child." And Miss Alden glances in the looking-glass in an inquiring way, as if to see whether society will discover her attempt to keep up with it on lessened resources. " Oh, don't count me in, please ! " says Grace : " I have too much to do." " Nonsense ! lose such a chance as this, — 'twould be absurd ! " " My wardrobe would forbid it, if nothing else did. I cannot appear in the necessary freshness. My silks are old-fashioned, and my evening dresses all in disorder from being boxed so long ; and as for gloves, I am on my last pair now." ** Why, how careless you must be, Grace ! My things are all as good as ever. My brocade and my satin are older than my velvet, but the three are all very handsome, even if rather antiquated in style ; but I would rather have them that way than be taken for nouveau riche by my splendor." Grace leans back in her chair, and laughs softly to herself. " It is nouveau pauvre with us, as your words betray. Poor dear aunt, don't cheat yourself into thinking there will be any possible pleasure in this attempt ! I cannot go." " O Grace, don't thwart me in every thing ! " " I'm sorry, but it is impossible." " Now, don't you suppose all sorts of people go to these places? Literary persons never have any 308 ASPIRA TIONS. money. Look at Carlyle and his wife, — poor as church-mice always." Miss Alden already felt herself of the guild of authors, as may be perceived. " They never appeared in gay society, so far as I know," said Grace. " They would have scorned to, with their hatred of shams." Miss Alden saw the mistake of her illustration. " Well, it was Carlyle's business to preach, mine is to entertain ; it is necessary, therefore, that I en- deavor to see something which will serve my pur- pose." "I quite agree with you, if it is feasible." " Then you will go too t " " Ah, that is not necessary ! Really, I cannot. Don't ask me to. Look at all this work. It will take me till Christmas to finish it." Miss Alden went into another room to look over her fineries. She did not know that almost all of Grace's had been sold, and she hoped by dint of coaxing yet to accomplish her end. Grace seized the opportunity while her aunt was out to again look at her letters. One was from Ruth, full of her new happiness. This alone was unexpected, for Grace had had a theory of her own in regard to Ruth, which this letter completely upset ; and the other was from her father's business-agent, enclos- ing a draft for a respectable sum, and a statement which overpowered all the other news. It was to this effect : All Mr. Alden's affairs had been set- tled in such a manner, through the kindness of a friend, that Mr. Alden himself would be able to re- ASPIRA TIONS. 309 sume business, and had gone to California with that intention ; and that later, if Miss Alden and her aunt would join him, he should be glad to have them do so. The one thing that checked Grace's gladness at reading this was the uncertainty as to whom the friend, the financial friend, might be. Her thoughts were in a whirl. Was their misery soon to be ended.? Was her father really free from all reproach t It had come upon her so suddenly that it seemed unreal. Her father seldom wrote to her. She hardly knew his friends, — brokers, bankers, men of money ; hard men, as she supposed, not likely to do any greatly unselfish deed, men who laughed at sen- timent, and thought generosity a weakness. Could any of these have changed his nature, and, in viola- tion of his training, become a benefactor.? No, it was not possible. It was all out of order, incompre- hensible. She would wait for further intelligence before throwing this bomb in Miss Alden's way. The news might prove untrue. It was hard to be- lieve, even if true, and no good could be gained by disturbing her aunt. In her heart of hearts, she be- lieved there was but one man in all the world capa- ble of doing so noble a deed ; and a great tide of shame and regret rushed over her as she thought of him. Where was he ? Why had he been so quick to take her at her word } She pretended to be very much absorbed in her work when Miss Alden came into the room again, but her hand trembled so that her stitches went wrong. Miss Alden was full of the new project. 3 I O ASPIRA TIONS. " I find, my dear " (she did not often now-a-days say to her niece "my dear") "that I am in better trim than I supposed. My evening attire is all that a woman of my age needs, — substantial, dignified, almost elegant. If I could be as sure of my morn- ing gowns, I would be quite satisfied. What do you suppose, Grace, is en regie for breakfast dress? Would my plain black silk answer 1 " " I don't know. I suppose so. All the shop- women wear black silk. I mean the fine shopwomen who preside over the small-fry." " Grace ! " Grace looked up smilingly, quite unconscious of the vexation she had caused. "I wish you would be serious. For pity's sake, don't associate me with such people.'* " I beg your pardon, but really some of them are fine-looking women." " Canaille^ all of them. What they do or don't do does not interest me. Have they the faintest idea of harmony or artistic fitness in dress } " " They have but feeble appreciation of either, very likely, though they sometimes light on what is becoming. Now I think of it, I believe their black silks are all given to them by the firms who employ them." " Why will you persist in talking about them } " Grace laughed. She was really wild with sup- pressed excitement. " I know what I will do, aunt. I will go to some celebrated establishment, Redfern's perhaps, and ask them just what would be the proper thing for you. ASPIRA TIONS. 311 They will expect an order, of course, but no matter ; I'll just mention the duchess, and they'll send you any thing you want to look at." " Grace ! " " Yes, it's polite stealing of their ideas ; but to keep up with society, one mustn't be too particular. We can find out that way just what is worn, and then hire some poor little sewing-woman to copy." " I do not know what has gotten into you. This sounds like Mrs. Godfrey Gray. Do behave your- self." Grace tossed away her work and went to the win- dow, saying, — " I believe I'll go out, I need exercise. My head throbs." " I should think it might, if folly ever causes head- ache ; and please get me some note-paper. I must write our acceptance. "Not mine." "Oh, you may change your mind. Fresh air is wonderfully beneficial." She was gone only a half hour, long enough to calm and collect herself, and consider whether she had not better inform her aunt of the news. It seemed so selfish to keep it to herself, even if it were unreliable ; for she was not at all disposed to accept it as a certainty after so much harassing trouble and doubt and wearing anxiety. When she returned, she found her aunt in conversation with a gentleman who was in the shadow of their cheap, stuffy curtains, nor did she at first recognize Mr. Barclay. 3 1 2 AS PI R A TIONS. CHAPTER XXX. Young people exact far more sympathy in their love-affairs than do their elders ; for when a person of maturity risks all in a venture of the affections, and loses, it is looked upon as a mistake which age and experience should have prevented. No one thinks it a very deep wound, probably because the person of maturity has learned the art of hiding the pain, and does not bemoan his fate as a younger man would do in similar circumstances. Mr. Barclay had not been without his share of trials, and had learned philosophy ; but he suffered nevertheless. The loss of his wife had been an in- tense sorrow, out of which he had come unimbittered, though broken in health and spirits. Time (scene- painter, as well as scene-shifter) had brushed his healing wing over the past, and mellowed its pictures into a dreamy distance, a poetic vision which was not without a certain charm for a contemplative nature. This new stroke was a fresh, keen, cutting one, a disappointment that bade fair to sour him ; the more apt since he had so buried himself in London that no friend had been able to find him. He had gone about from one suite of rooms to another, finding fault upon trifling pretexts, dissatis- ASPIRA TIONS. 3 1 3 fied, ill at ease, not staying long enough in one place to discover whether it suited him or not, and at last settling down in an obscure quarter where his ser- vant could hardly make him comfortable. , But he was not to be moved again. It was no small matter for one so accustomed to space and ease, and a large way of living, to relinquish his usual habits ; but he had a purpose in doing it, from which he was not to be deterred by any personal inconven- ience. He became much addicted to long and soli- tary walks, and equally given to silence and medita- tion. He looked thin and altered, even much older. The people who noticed him thought him in ill-health, and would have recommended Nice or Mentone rather than the approaching dull, dreary, English winter, if he had encouraged their confidence, which he did not do. They were not friends. They had" only seen him in the street or at church, but his appearance attracted them. Although with so pre-occupied an air, he seemed always looking for some one, expecting some one ; but this was only apparent to close observers. Others thought him a very dignified, gentlemanly, sad sort of a man, rather at a loss for something to do. But these observations came from the very few with whom he had to have some contact, such as his landlady and her lodgers. He had never been attentive to small economies ; but now he showed so new an interest in the cost of commodities, and was so very frugal, that his servant came to the conclusion that he had lost heavily, and that want of money was the key to all his peculiari- 3 1 4 ASPIRA TIONS, ties. It did look as if this were the case, for his busi- ness correspondence had certainly increased, and his letters took up much of his time. But when Ruth's letter, telling of her happiness, came to him, it was like a dash of cold water. He seemed to suddenly wake up to the fact that his whims had swayed him too long, and that his ward's claim upon him had been neglected. To his serving- man's surprise, he gave orders to have every thing in readiness for an early steamer. He was going to the United States. After this he was his usual self again, — went to the Travellers* Club and everywhere else that he had the e7ttree; and on his list of people to visit or leave cards for was Miss Alden. Thus it was that late in the chilly afternoon of the day that Grace had been so startled by her home news, Mr. Barclay made his appearance. She showed her surprise quite artlessly ; but he arose in his quiet way, and greeted her as if they had met the day before. Miss Alden was nonplussed ; but, as she had never understood the cause of their separation, she made no attempt to fathom it now. She had been talking of every thing and everybody as of old, heartily glad to see her friend again, and hoping much from his coming, when he had told her of his intention of going home. This had dispirited her, and so checked the flow of her ideas, that it was a relief to have Grace enter. But Grace did not instantly recover from her sur- prise. She was constrained and perhaps a little awk- ASPIRATIONS. 315 ward. She took off her gloves and stood before the fire, as if too chilled to speak. " Mr. Barclay has brought a budget of news, Grace," said her aunt, " quite a godsend to us in our dulness. And the most charming news too — about Ruth " — " Yes, I know about Ruth," was all Grace replied, looking far into the fire. " How long have you known } Why didn't you tell me t " cried her aunt ; then turning to Mr. Bar- clay, she said, — " Ah, Frank, young people are so selfish. They think we have no romance left in us, that we are contented to plod on the latter half of our lives in stupid senility, sans eyes, sans teeth, sans every thing." Mr. Barclay smiles faintly, and looks at Grace, as if he agreed with Miss Alden ; but Grace does not respond. She is thinking how really ill Mr. Barclay is looking, how changed he is. " But charming as the news of Ruth may be, in the light of a love-story," Miss Alden resumes, " I hope there is to be a substantial pecuniary foundar tion to her happiness." " I hope so," Mr. Barclay says. " Mr. Marsh is really one of the Romano family, is he not?" " Without doubt." " Then he has but to assert his rights, and get his money." " If he will." " Oh, pshaw ! of course he will. He is no fool. You must insist, if he is squeamish, on Ruth's ac- count." 3 1 6 AS PI R A TIONS. " Ah, they must decide for themselves ! " " But Ruth is, as it were, your own daughter : you must look out for her interests/* Why would Miss Alden persist in putting Mr. Bar- clay into the position of a pater familias ? thought Grace. She quite resented it, and strove to turn the talk into another channel. But Miss Alden returned again and again to the subject, and went even farther into reminiscences and recollections, and reminded Mr. Barclay of a dozen things he had forgotten. And then she came back to the present again, and told Grace that their friend had come to say good-by, that he was going to New York. They had all drawn about the fire, in the dusk, and no one saw Grace shiver and turn white as her aunt gave her this item of intelligence. She murmured something indistinctly, and Miss Alden went on with her monologue. It was about their unhappy lot, their reverses, her sadness at having to part with her old friend, her general dissatisfaction with every thing and every- body ; and it ended in tears, which obliged Miss Alden to leave the room suddenly for the want of a handkerchief. " Does your aunt not know, has she not heard, that your father's business-affairs have been arranged, and that the worst is over } " asks Mr. Barclay, now addressing Grace for the first time. " I have not told her," responds Grace. " I have but just heard it myself, and I have been afraid of raising false hopes. Can you tell me any thing } Is it quite true, Mr. Barclay ? " ASPIRATIONS, 317 " So far as I know, yes." " And who has been so kind to him ? ** " Ah, there you ask too much ! " ** But I never heard of any friend of his that could have or would have done such a thing. It is alto- gether unusual, — something chivalric." Grace clasps her hands in front of her, and gazes more steadily than ever into the fire. Mr. Barclay sees that her eyes are moist, and notices that her low voice trembles ; but he answers calmly and coolly, — ** No, it is nothing remarkable, — just one friend assisting another. It is done every day." " Oh, I beg your pardon ! I am sure it is not, and I know but one person in all the world capable of doing such a thing." " You overrate it. But I trust it may be the means of making you happier; though work is, I believe, your panacea." Mr. Barclay says this a little satirically, and Grace hesitates to speak again ; but she remembers that he is going away, and she may never have another opportunity. " Mr. Barclay," she begins, but her voice falters. "Well." His tone is not re-assuring, it is curt and cold. " May I thank you ? " she says, with great timidity. '' For what t " " For every thing." "No, Grace." "But, Mr. Barclay" — She stops. It seems impos- sible to go on, and he does not help her. He just glances at her, and that is all. He has no desire to 3 1 8 ASPIRA TIONS. repeat his foolish absurdity ; and she looks so prettily girlish in the firelight, so winning and lovable, that he dares not trust himself to be very kind. Of course she is grateful ; that is taken for granted : and it is going to be very hard for him to say good-by to her. But what is the use of all these words ? An old man like him should have known better than to have thought it possible for her to love him. " Don't feel obliged to say any thing, Grace," he at last takes pity on her to reply. " But I must," she persists : *' I have been so proud, so mistaken, so ungrateful." " In what } " he asks, as coolly as ever, but with inwardly rising excitement. " In every way. I thought you pitied me only, and that, perhaps, if your sympathy had not been taxed, you might have chosen Ruth. I did not want to stand in her way. I did not want to be pitied; and — and — O Mr. Barclay, do forgive me !" Mr. Barclay rises now, and takes the sobbing girl in his arms, as he whispers, — "Am I not, then, quite the mistaken one.? Is it possible that you do love me, Grace } " He hardly believes her when she says, " Yes ; " but he is contented to let her remain sobbing on his shoulder, where, to her intense astonishment, Miss Alden finds her. " My dear Grace ! " she exclaims, as she stops with a tragic gesture in the middle of the room. ** What is the matter } " Grace hurriedly rushes from the room, and Mr. Barclay leads Miss Alden to a chair, saying, — AS PI R A TIONS. 3 1 9 " She will be better soon ; her nerves are over- taxed. When she is composed, may I have a little quiet talk with her, and with you ? " " Certainly, certainly. I have wanted to tell you how exasperated Grace's conduct made me, but I have had no chance. I knew how unwise she was, but I thought she had sense enough to appreciate the honor of being your wife, Frank." " I have something else to speak of," replied Mr. Barclay ; and then he told her of her brother's better fortune. Miss Alden received it with more equa- nimity than might have been expected. She was glad, of course, but she should never go to California or Colorado under any circumstances. For the rest of her life she should devote herself to literary pur- suits, but Grace might join her father as soon as she pleased. " I will attend to that," replied Mr. Barclay, which somewhat confuses Miss Alden, who cannot make out just how matters stand. But the tea-tray now comes in, and the housemaid lights the lamp ; and, after a while, Grace returns, with re-arranged toilet, and flushed cheeks, and a little tremor that makes her seem sweeter than ever to Mr. Barclay. Miss Alden has letters to write, and goes to her bedroom, leaving Grace and Mr. Barclay to them- selves ; and then comes a long explanation which satisfies both of them, though Grace cannot forgive herself for inflicting so much pain, and she is more than ever convinced that no one in the world can equal Mr. Barclay's tender, generous kindness. He does not tell her what he has done. He does not 3 20 ASPIRA TIONS. acknowledge any thing. But she knows that he has been guarding her for weeks ; that she has never gone out alone in the crowded thoroughfares, that he has not been near; and that he has almost impover- ished himself to help her father. She finds it out in the subtle way that is attributed to a woman's instinct ; and she no longer hesitates to tell Mr. Bar- clay that he is a prince among men, and that she has never loved, and never can love, any one else half so much. It is compensation for all he has undergone. He is happier than he had supposed it possible for him ever to be, with a fulness and a depth that is quite different from the ecstatic joy of youth ; and he is quite untroubled as to whether Grace's gratitude is the spring of her affection. He knows better. He sees her beaming eyes, her vivacity, hears her soft, ringing laugh, and is sure that her pure gladness is caused by his return to her, so quick has been the revulsion from doubt to trustfulness. When Miss Alden has finished her letters, she joins the happy pair again, and Grace whispers to her aunt the glad tidings. Miss Alden is more stirred by this than by what has gone before. She pressed Mr. Barclay's hand, and kissed Grace with a degree of fervor that had been absent from her caresses a long while. When Mr. Barclay has at last left them at a late hour, Grace feels obliged to inform her aunt that he is no longer a rich man. This is rather a sobering fact, but Miss Alden bears up wonderfully. " No matter, child ; you and I have gained some ASPIRATIONS. 321 Strength by our vicissitudes. So long as he is not absolutely indigent, we must not let this be a barrier to your happiness." Grace smiles, as she thinks how differently her aunt now regards these matters, and immediately enters into her aunt's plans for visiting the duchess, — plans which gild Miss Alden's dreams by day and night. Mr. Barclay lingered in London, but no longer a sad and weary man in quest of something to fill his vacant hours. All his days were full with an inter- est which only a wholly new and fresh hold upon life could have given. Grace would not consent to leaving her work unfinished, or her engagements broken ; and Miss Alden was deeply immersed in the construction of a series of essays which she pro- posed to publish under the title of ** English Country Homes." It may be surmised that her experience was not as wide as many would have thought necessary, and that her observations were rather limited, since her visit to the duchess at Longwood was the basis of her book. But Miss Alden had already discovered that the literary faculty is one that will not allow itself to be circumscribed, and that a large class may be judged from a single species. She therefore gave free rein to her imagination, and made much use of facts conveyed to her by others ; but her visit to Longwood remained the solid structure of her book. And the visit was truly a delightful one. Grace made wondrous efforts to have her aunt's toilet all that she desired : so Miss Alden's mind was at ease 322 ASPIRATIONS. to enjoy the distinguished society which paid her so much attentive consideration ; and the duchess, being a really good woman, was as simply gracious and hospitable as Miss Alden could desire. She staid ten days, and made diligent use of her opportunity, coming back to her plebeian lodgings with as much literary enthusiasm as if she were a Goldsmith, and wondering how she could ever have been contented in not having a hand at forming people's opinions, or stimulating their ideas. So en- tirely absorbed was she in her new career, that she forgot to make inquiry of Grace as to just how Mr. Barclay's fortune had so dwindled. Letters from the Potters came with every mail, describing their curious Western experiences ; the chaotic state of affairs in which mining life had thrown them being always a subject of congratula- tion with Miss Alden, in that she was not weakly drawn to follow them. "Imagine, Grace, seeing women in costumes by Worth, out in that town of Leadville ! It reminds me of that verse in Proverbs, — or is it elsewhere ? — that speaks of a ring of silver in a swine's nose. The sense of incongruity is the same." Grace laughs at all her aunt says now-a-days, in that quiet, contented, happy way which makes her so much more companionable than when she was so sadly depressed. But Grace has grown very staid, notwithstanding her happiness, and does not like any allusion made to the difference of age between her- self and her lover. She wants to meet Mr. Barclay more than half-way, and is positively glad of all her ASPIRA TIONS. 323 bitter experience, thinking rightly that it has made her wiser and better. She is wiser and better ; but Mr. Barclay finds her none too grave, and is sur- prised that she so readily adapts herself to him in all his plans for the future, going even beyond him in consideration and prudence. 324 ASPIRATIONS. CHAPTER XXXI. The winter sped on, and Mr. Barclay did not re- turn to his native land. Nor did Ruth go to him, though the choice of doing so was given her. Under Sister Camilla's wise and motherly care, she was liv- ing a wholly different life from the one of pleasant wandering she had spent with Mr. Barclay. Simple duties, housewifely arts, and thoughtful care of the ignorant and the needy filled her hours ; saving her leisure to cheer and stimulate Lillo, whose hard- working life was a constant denial of the supposition that an artist's career is one only of dreams and aspi- rations. A letter of hers to her guardian, however, must now be given, to show how she was developing. " You know all about my leaving Mrs. Vedder, and the fear- ful occurrence which so soon followed that affair. But you can hardly know how much I dreaded ever seeing her again. I flat- tered myself that there would never be any necessity for my doing so ; and that she was as glad to be left alone, as I was willing to leave her. But Sister Camilla could or would not look at the matter as I did. She implored me to see my aunt, and do what I might to soothe her sorrow. It was an ordeal which I wished to evade. But Sister Camilla never lets a duty rest ; and at last I yielded, and wrote to my aunt, asking if I could see her. To my surprise she assented, and appointed a time for me to visit her. Lillo would not let me go alone, ASP IRA TIONS. 325 though I insisted that he should not appear as my escort. We therefore started one cold morning, on an early train, and reached Berryville in less than three hours. No one but a hired man met us at the station, which was wrapped in snow, and had few signs of life about it, standing, as it did, on the edge of a little village which seemed another Sleepy Hollow. We drove about two miles out of the town, over a hilly road, which in summer must be very picturesque, and came to rather an ornate villa-sort-of-a-place, with a pretentious gateway, and an abundance of deciduous trees. Here I made them let me walk, leaving Lillo with the man who had driven us ; for, much as I feared to meet aunt Abby, much more was I unwilling to have Mr. Marsh possibly insulted by her, when she knew (as I meant to tell her) that he was to be my husband. " Well, I reached the house, and was shown to a gaudy parlor, full of useless and hideous bric-a-brac. Vulgarity was in every line of its satin and velvet furniture, in its glaring color and ab- sence of taste ; and I shuddered to think what would have been my fate, if a kind Providence had not rescued me from the hands that had fashioned this. Not a book was to be seen, unless you call those gilt-hasped albums which contain the cari- catured features of fat and lean humanity, simpering on their pages, books. (O dear Mr. Barclay^ how I thank you for not leaving me to my rich relations !) If all had only been plain and poor and clean, how much sweeter my thoughts would have been ! I was all in a ferment by the time I was allowed to go up-stairs. Aunt Abby had been making her toilet, and I could hardly see her for the folds of crape which swept around her and in yards on the floor behind her ; but the flashing light of her diamonds helped me on a little. And I looked in her face to see that she had sent for me, not to soothe, not to sympathize, not to let me see that sorrow was refining her; but to rebuke, to reproach, to sting me ! I looked in vain for the suffering I really expected and hoped to see. It was not there. She answered my look with positive defiance, as she said, — " ' So you've come at last, have you ?' " ' Yes,' I replied, * Aunt Abby ; and I would have come be- fore, if I had thought I could do you any good.* 326 ASPIRATIONS. " She laughed contemptuously as she said, * Do me good ! I think you need to do that to yourself.' " * There's no doubt of that,' I answered ; ' but I meant some- thing rather different, — I know yours was a sudden and terri- ble sorrow.' " * Oh, there, there ! ' she cried out, * for pity's sake, stop ! You might have prevented it all : it was your hatefulness to Charley that made him more than ever careless and wild, — you, with your stuck-up, proud notions of being above us all. Cauldwell was right, for once, when he gave you that lecture. Mr. Barclay spoiled you out and out. Charley was a fool for his pains, and so was I. I wish I had never seen you, I wish you had staid in Europe, with all your high-falutin ideas. And then to have you come and tell me you want to do me good, when you know you hate us all; and think' — But here her sobs made her inarticulate. " I was so horrified that I could not move. I longed to rush from the room. I felt as guilty as if every word she uttered were entirely true, and I suppose I looked as I felt ; for after a while she ceased crying, and said in a voice less sharp, but still angry, 'I suppose you'll marry that Italian count, now; but I don't see what you find in hhn.^ " The quick revulsion of feeling that this caused enabled me to speak; and, summoning all my dignity, I said as gently as I could, for all my indignation, anger, and a sense of the absurdity of the situation, now that she had turned with so evident curi- osity to my affairs, — " ' Aunt Abby, you and I have both made serious mistakes ; pardon me for supposing, even for a moment, that I could be of any use to you now or at any other time. I thought that I might offer sympathy without offence, but I see my error. I have but added to your troubles in coming here. I will go now. Good-by.' " At this she relented a little, and looked ashamed ; but still she said, ' You might have saved Charley ; you might have given him a chance. I don't see why you couldn't have been kinder, and I don't know what you find in that footy painter. It's all because Mr. Barclay hadn't the sense to bring you up as he ASPIRATIONS. 327 ought to have done. He's got all those stuck-up Boston notions, and he's spoiled you ; and, after all, I don't know whether you are going to be his wife, or the other one's. Whichever it is, poor Charley might have been given a chance.' " All this tirade gave me a chance to collect myself, and be cool : so I repeated something of the same sort that I had said before, and tried to get away ; but now she softened still more, and wept and wailed and deplored her miseries. "Will you, can you, believe me when I tell you that in another hour I had begged Lillo to go to the city without me, and that I staid in that wretched house a whole week? "When the crape and diamonds came off, aunt Abby was another woman. She begged my pardon ; she implored me to forget every thing she had said ; she unearthed all her treasures in the way of photographs of her children, and souvenirs of their infancy ; and she so drained my sympathies that I was as limp and lifeless as a rag. For a whole week I staid, and listened to ber monologues. I received Mr. Boggs every time he came to see aunt Abby; heard all his boastful harangues with all the patience at my command. I hope he did not detect my weariness, for I really tried to be interested in what he talked about. Sister Camilla says we must forget the outer rind of the individual, and remember only his spiritual essence. But I find it so hard to do this. We are not all as able to do it as she is. Every one interests her, because she is always think- ing of souls more than of bodies. " But, my dear Mr. Barclay, I now fully realize what a kind- ness yours has been. What if I had been living all these years under these influences ! " Again she wrote, — " I have been to see my grandfather. It is a curious sort of thing to look at one's blood relations from such an outside point of view. Sister Camilla went with me. He lives in one of the old houses on V. Square, alone, with only strange old colored servants, as queer as himself. The house is very spacious, but very bare of every thing but books. He is a man 328 ASP IRA TIONS. of fine presence, but reminds me of one of his own volumes, uncut. He may have plenty of wisdom within, but no one is the better for it; and the reserved cover is stiff with want of usage. Imagine what I would have been, left to his untender mercies! I should have grown into some sickly specimen of sun-deprived plant, without force enough of my own to find sun and air and moisture ; and so again I thank you, dear Mr. Barclay. Sister Camilla and I strove to interest him in St. Armand's, whose bell has rung in his ears year in, year out, without producing so much as an echoing tinkle in his heart. He listened to us politely, expressed some cut-and-dried plati- tudes about religion, and turned at once to show his fine stock of Bibles in all languages and bindings. The print, the covers, the edition, were all in all to him ; but no farther did he go. I never saw so near an approach to a look of despair on Sister Camilla's fine features. I think, if she had been alone, she would have made some attempt to probe into his poor old heart, and stir it to some purpose; but having me with her restrained her zeal, for she hopes that in time I may gain some good influence, but I see no chance of it. He is as fixed and firm as an old fossil." Thus ran the letters. Mr. Barclay read them aloud to Miss Alden and Grace. " My dear Mr. Barclay," commented Miss Alden, "you made a mistake in letting Ruth go home with that horrid woman. But how sweetly grateful the child is ! and how fortunate that she should have met Miss Deforest ! " " Yes, it is more than fortunate, for I never could have given her half so much help in all her difficul- ties. But I do not regard her going as a mistake. In no other way could she have gained quite such an experience. A human life is a serious trust. I never realized the fact so entirely as now." ASPIRATIONS. 329 He looked at Grace contemplatively, and she re- sponding, said, — "Few men would have accepted the trust so generously." It is a soft, early summer morning, the sky flecked with white clouds, and the air full of promise and balmy freshness, — a morning when Nature rejoices that the winter with its dreariness and darkness is over, and the time of singing of birds has come. The neighborhood of St. Armand's, having a square with plenty of velvet turf and shady trees, is very pleasant in the early summer; though St. Armand's itself is no brighter, tucked away as it is among the poor, dismal little houses that have seen better days a very long while ago. It does its best, how- ever, to be cheerful this morning ; and its old cracked bell has rung as usual for prayers, and its few old women have been devout worshippers. They stop and talk, and look wonderstruck, to see several car- riages driving up ; and all the poor children from far and near throng about its entrance as Sister Camilla appears with large baskets of flowers, and gives them right and left to the forlorn little waifs. The flowers seem to instantly invest them all with an appearance of festive preparation, which atones for ragged clothes and unwashed faces, and the shrill little voices rise as joyfully in the air as those of the twittering spar- rows. The old organ raises its voice too, and peals forth the "Wedding March;" and, though the guests are not very many, the fact that there are two brides quite overawes the spectators. 330 ASPIRA TIONS. The group about the altar is a picturesque one, in spite of the prim snugness of the men's morning- coats : for the brides are all filmy lace and shining silk ; and Sister Camilla, in her nun's dress, stands beside Ruth ; and Miss Alden, in turquoise-blue velvet, hovers over Grace. The chancel is filled with graceful plants, and the votive offerings beneath the picture of " The Empty Cross *' are of fairest and purest blossoms. After the ceremony they leave St. Armand's to its silent pews and much better filled than usual alms- box, and all drive over to the north side of the square, where an accommodating architect has fitted up one of the old houses with the brick and marble fronts into an artistic haunt for a colony of people who want something green for their eyes to rest on when they look out of their windows, and where Mr. Barclay, as well as Mr. Marsh, have suites of apart- ments. Strange to say, it is just beside the house where Ruth's queer and crusty old grandfather lives, whose acquaintance has been made so recently, and who, though he does not come to the wedding-feast, sends a gift of old folios which Mr. Barclay pro- nounces very unique. Some one suggests that checks to Ruth's order would have been of more im- mediate and practical value, which Lillo indignantly repudiates. Well he may, now that orders for pic- tures are coming in so fast he can hardly fill them ; this he attributes not to his genius, not to any of his own ability, but to the lift his romantic story has given him. Americans, he says, care more for ro- mance than for art, though why they separate the ASPIRATIONS. 331 two is not so palpable. Another giver of gifts is Mrs. Vedder, who was in the church swathed in crape blacker than midnight. She was not to be outdone by the duchess, who gave Grace some beautiful lace and antique bric-d-bmc : so she sends diamonds, — big blazmg brilliants, for Ruth to wear when (as she insists) she is the Countess Romano. The house on the square has been re-arranged and re-built under Lillo's eye. All its wide space has been compressed into suites of apartments, full of quaint conceits and pretty devices for making small homes convenient. There are all the cosey corners for lounging-chairs or tea-tables ; the portihes^ the brasses, the stained glass, the tiles, rest and refresh the eye upon the interior as do the old trees and clipped grass and waving shadows upon the exterior. But in addition to all these the Romano cousin has sent over old chairs and tapestries from the Italian palace. He is only too glad to be left in undisturbed possession of the estate, and willingly cedes all else that Lillo asks, — which is only enough for artistic "properties." America is more to him than Italy, and Ruth more than America, and she has decided that their lives shall be spent here, between this city home and the old house on the sands, which holds still for them its charm of silence and rest and sim- plicity ; a place where their love may brood and grow strong of wing ; where the spirit of faith and peace and hope shall prepare them for the conflicts of the outer world, and contemplation shall enrich and ripen their souls. 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