Part 5 (1/2)
Dinner-time came, and the family a.s.sembled in the dining-room, Sibyl attired in a fresh muslin, and Bessie and Hugh somewhat dusty after their morning in the studio. Tom and Gem came in with flushed faces;--the B. B.'s were to return after dinner and finish the excavation, and the afternoon was to be full of glory.
”Sibyl,” said Aunt Faith, when the others had left the dining-room, ”would you like to go with me to see Margaret Brown, about four o'clock? You have been there before, I believe?”
”No, Aunt Faith, I have never been there.”
”I thought Mr. Leslie said so.”
”He did, but he was mistaken,” replied Sibyl calmly. ”I will go with you, however, this afternoon, aunt, if you wish.”
”Do not go merely to oblige me, my dear. I thought you seemed to be interested in Mr. Leslie's description. For my part, I have thought of it ever since.”
A slight flush rose in Sibyl's fair face. ”I was much interested, aunt,” she said quickly, ”and I shall be glad to go with you, if you will allow it.”
So Aunt Faith went upstairs for her afternoon siesta, and soon fell asleep on the cool chintz lounge, in her shaded room, where the old-fas.h.i.+oned furniture, high bedstead, spindle-legged chairs, and antique toilet-table, had remained unchanged from her youth, when the oval mirror reflected back a merry, rosy girl-face, instead of the pale, silver-haired woman.
But Sibyl did not sleep. She went into the still parlor, and seated herself by the window with a book; but her thoughts were busy, and only her eyes were fixed upon the page, as her mind wandered far away from the author's subject. ”Shall I or shall I not go to Saratoga?”
she mused. ”This is more than the mere question of a summer journey; I know that very well. It is, I feel it, a turning-point in my life.
Can I deliberately give up my ambition, my hopes, all my prospects for a bright and prosperous future? Is it, after all, wrong to like wealth and ease? Is it wrong to like elegance and refinement, the society of cultivated people, and the charming surroundings which only money can bring? I have an innate horror of misery,--an inability to endure the want of all that is beautiful in life. I think I could be a very good woman in an elegant city home, with all my little wishes gratified, and nothing to offend my taste. But I fear, yes, I know, I should be a miserable, if not a wicked woman, in a poor home, with nothing but rasping, wearing poverty, day after day. Why, the very smell and steam of the wet flannels coming from the kitchens of small houses where I have happened to be on was.h.i.+ng-days, has made me uncomfortable for hours. I know I am not heroic, but I am afraid I was not intended for a heroine. I know myself and all my faults thoroughly. I am sure I should be generous with my money if I was rich,--kind to the poor, and regular in the discharge of all my religious duties. People would love me; I should make them happy, and be happy myself. Now the question is, am I right in thinking such a life far better for me, const.i.tuted as I am, than any other?
”Let me look at the opposite side, now. It is not likely I should ever be obliged to work at severe manual labor; but the annoyances and privations of a limited income seem to me almost worse than that. I think I would rather be a washerwoman, provided I could acquire the strength, than the wife of a struggling man who has all the refined tastes and sensitive nerves of a gentleman, without a gentleman's income. I should see him growing more and more careless, more and more haggard, day after day; I should see myself growing old, ugly, ill-tempered, and sick, hour after hour. I have not the moral force of mind, or the physical force of body, to make a cold, half-furnished house seem a haven of rest, a piece of corned-beef and potatoes continued indefinitely through the week seem a delicious repast, or an old-fas.h.i.+oned cloak and dowdy bonnet seem like my present pretty fresh attire. Well! this being the case, I am afraid I am but a worldly woman, and, as such, would I not wrong a poor man if I consented to be his wife? Would he not be sure to repent when it was too late,--when he had discovered the selfishness and love of luxury which are in me?
I know he would. I will not put myself in such a position. I will do the best I can; but, as I cannot make myself over, I will select the life which is best suited to me.”
Here Sibyl sighed, and tried to bring her mind back upon her book. In vain; her thoughts would wander. ”There is poor Aunt Faith. I can easily see how anxious she is about me, and how her heart aches over my worldliness. I do love her dearly; all the good in me I owe to her, and if I ever do anything right, it will be the result of her loving guidance. Sometimes I am tempted to tell her all that is in my heart,--all I have been thinking this afternoon, for instance. I believe I will write it down now, and give it to her. She will understand me better, then; and, if I request it, she will never allude to the paper in words. Yes, I think I will do it.” So Sibyl took a sheet of paper from the drawer, and, in her clear handwriting, wrote out her thoughts of the afternoon, adding a request that the subject might not be brought into discussion, and also, that the paper should be destroyed. ”I will not take any false steps,” she thought; ”I will be true to my determination, and therefore I will not go to see Margaret Brown this afternoon; there would be a double motive in the visit, I fear.” Rising, she went slowly up the stairs to Aunt Faith's room; the door was partly open, and she could hear the rustle of book-leaves. ”Aunt Faith!” she said, standing outside in the hall, ”I have decided not to go with you this afternoon, if you will excuse me. I shall go over to the cottage to see Rose Saxon. And I have written down some ideas of mine on this paper; perhaps you may be interested in reading them.”
She did not wait for a reply, but laying down the folded paper on a chair by the door, she went down the stairs, took her little straw round hat, and walked over to the cottage, the residence of Mrs. Marr, whose niece, Rose Saxon, had been one of her schoolmates. Aunt Faith laid aside her book and read Sibyl's paper several times over; then she arranged her dress, and went alone to see Margaret Brown, leaving an order for some work, and inviting the children to come and play in the large garden at the old stone house. Her voice was gentle, her words cordial, and Margaret felt cheered by the visit; but the visitor's heart was sad, and when, on her way home, she met Mr.
Leslie, she merely bowed, without stopping as usual to exchange a pleasant greeting. But the young clergyman joined his old friend in spite of her constrained manner, and began talking: ”You have been to see Margaret Brown, I presume, Mrs. Sheldon. I am very glad. I am sure she will interest you, and she has so few friends to help her, that I feel anxious to gain for her your good will. Miss Warrington has also visited her, I believe?”
”No, Mr. Leslie,” replied Aunt Faith; ”Sibyl has never been to see Margaret, and she did not care to accompany me this afternoon.”
A shade came over the young clergyman's face, but he made no comment.
”Westerton is very dull for Sibyl; she is better fitted for the gay society of the busy city,” pursued Aunt Faith, determined at any cost to prevent Mr. Leslie from looking at her niece with blinded eyes.
”Miss Warrington is fitted for any life,” replied the young clergyman gravely; ”if you please, Mrs. Sheldon, I will accompany you home. I would like to see Miss Warrington.”
Poor Aunt Faith! what could she do but murmur an invitation. As they reached the old stone house and Sibyl greeted them with a bright smile, poor Aunt Faith felt very much like the spider in the old song of the spider and the fly.
The tea-table was inviting, and the circle around it as pleasant as six handsome young faces and one handsome old face could make it,--faces handsome with vivacity and good nature as well as artistic beauty. Mr. Leslie was there, and being a general favorite, the conversation was full of life and interest.
”He's just splendid!” said Gem to Tom after the meal was over, ”and I wish we dared to show him the shanty. He'd like it ever so much; I've heard him tell such funny stories about what he did when he was a boy.”
”But he would not like our keeping it all from Aunt Faith.”
”That's true. Well, I suppose, then, we'd better not tell him now.
But, oh! Tom, how I wish I could stay up with the B. B.'s to-night.”
”No; girls must always stay in nights. I've always thought it a great pity you could not be a boy, Gem. But it can't be helped now.
Remember, if I fling a stone up, it will mean that we want something, and you must be sure to get it.”