Part 21 (1/2)
”Yes,” said Mrs. Blanchard; ”I'm very fond of Caroline, but I'm afraid I could never get Bertie up to the point of intimacy with Malcolm Johnson; he thinks him underbred--says his hats show it.”
”Is your tea too strong, Harriet, dear? There is no hot water left,”
said Grace, ringing her little silver bell with energy. But no one came.
”I told Marguerite to keep in the sewing-room, in hearing,” she went on, ringing it again.
”I thought I heard her at the door just now,” said the outermost of the circle.
”_Would_ you mind looking, dear? If she's not there I'll ring the other bell for someone from downstairs.”
No Marguerite was at the door, the sounds laid to her charge having been caused by the precipitate retreat of a young lady who had come late and, running quickly upstairs unannounced, had paused at the room door to recover her breath, and had just time to do so and to fly downstairs again and out of the house without encountering anyone.
Caroline--for it was she--hurried round the corner; for her home was so near that she had dismissed her carriage. The house was empty and dark.
Mrs. Neal had gone to spend the evening with one of her married daughters and had not thought it necessary to provide any dinner at home. There was no neglect in this. There were plenty of cousins at whose houses Caroline could have dined and welcome; or if she did not choose to do so, there was abundance in the larder, and if her teas had left her any appet.i.te she had but to give the order herself and sit down alone to her cold meat and bread and b.u.t.ter. As we know, her teas had been feasts of Tantalus; but she did not feel hungry--for food. She hastened up to her room without a word to the maid, lighted her gas, took a key from her watch-chain, opened her writing-desk, and took out a letter which she read, not for the first time, with attention.
”MOUNT VERNON STREET.
”MY DEAR MISS FOSTER:
”You will, I am afraid, be surprised at what I am going to say. Perhaps you will blame me for writing it, and perhaps you will blame me for saying it at all. I know it is an act of presumption in me to ask one so beautiful, so young and untrammelled by care, to link her fortunes with mine: but I do it because I cannot help it. I love you so much that I am unable to turn my thoughts to my most pressing duties till I have at least tried my fate with you; and yet my hopes are so faint that I cannot venture to ask you in any way but this.
”Don't think I love you less because I have so many other claimants for my affections; any more than I love them less because I love you. My poor children have no mother; I could never ask any woman to take that place to them unless we could both feel sure that ours was no mere match of convenience; but I could not love anyone unless she had the tenderness of nature which belongs to a true mother. I never saw any girl in whom it showed so plainly as in you.
Your angelic sweetness and gentleness are to me, who have seen something of the rough side of life, unspeakably beautiful. I know I am not worthy of you in any way; but it sometimes seems to me that appreciating you so thoroughly as I do must make me a little so.
”Your family will very likely object to me on the score of want of means. I am fully aware that I cannot give you such advantages in that respect as you have a right to expect, even if I were much richer than I am ever likely to be; but I am not so poorly off as they may suppose. I own the house in which I live, free of enc.u.mbrance, and I should like to settle it upon you. I do not know whether your property is secured to your separate use or not; but I should wish to have it so in any case. If my life and health are spared, I have no fears that I shall not be able to support my family in comfort. I know you will have to give up a great deal in the way of society; and I cannot promise that you shall have no cares, but I can and do promise that you will make us all very happy.
”I still fear my chances are but small; but do, I entreat you, take time to think over this. No matter what your answer may be, I am and ever shall be
”Your faithful and devoted ”MALCOLM JOHNSON.
”_December 8, 189-._”
After Caroline had read this letter twice, she drew out another, spotless and freshly written, and breaking the seal, read:
”BEACON STREET.
”MY DEAR MR. JOHNSON:
”I was very sorry to receive your letter this morning. Pray don't think I blame you for writing--but indeed you think much too highly of me. I am not at all fitted to a.s.sume such serious duties as being at the head of your family would involve, and it would only be a disappointment to you if I did. I have had no experience, and I should feel it wrong to undertake it, even if I could return your generous affection as it deserves. Indeed, I don't value money, or any of those things; but I do not want to give up my friends and all my own ways of life, unless I loved you. I am so sorry I can't--but surely you will not blame me, for I never dreamed of this, or I would have tried to let you know my thoughts sooner.
”I am sure my aunt would disapprove. Highly as she esteems you, she would think me too young, and not at all the right kind of wife for you. I shall not breathe a word to her or to anyone, and I hope you will soon forget this, and find some one who will really be a good wife to you and a devoted mother to your children. No one will be more delighted at this than
”Your sincere friend, ”CAROLINE ALICE FOSTER.
”_December 9, 189-._”
This letter, which Caroline had spent three hours in writing, and copied six times, she now tore into small pieces and threw them into the fireplace. The fire was out, and the grate was black, so she lighted a match and watched till every sc.r.a.p was consumed to ashes, when she sat down at her desk and, heedless of the chilly room, wrote with a flying pen:
”BEACON STREET.