INSIDE
“Do you think, Luclarion,”
said Desire, feebly, as Luclarion came to take away
her bowl of chicken broth, “that it
is my duty to go with mamma?”
“I don’t know,”
said Luclarion, standing with the little waiter in
her right hand, her elbow poised upon her hip, “I’ve
thought of that, and I don’t know.
There’s most generally a stump, you see, one
way or another, and that settles it, but here there’s
one both ways. I’ve kinder lost my road:
come to two blazes, and can’t tell which.
Only, it ain’t my road, after all. It lays
between the Lord and you, and I suppose He means it
shall. Don’t you worry; there’ll
be some sort of a sign, inside or out. That’s
His business, you’ve just got to keep still,
and get well.”
Desire had asked her mother, before
this, if she would care very much, no,
she did not mean that, if she would be disappointed,
or disapprove, that she should stay behind.
“Stay behind? Not go to
Europe? Why, where could you stay?
What would you do?”
“There would be things to do,
and places to stay,” Desire had answered, constrainedly.
“I could do like Dorris.”
“Teach music!”
“No. I don’t know
music. But I might teach something I do know.
Or I could rip,” she said, with an
odd smile, remembering something she had said one
day so long ago; the day the news came up to Z
from Uncle Oldways. “And I might make out
to put together for other people, and for a real business.
I never cared to do it just for myself.”
“It is perfectly absurd,”
said Mrs Ledwith. “You couldn’t be
left to take care of yourself. And if you could,
how it would look! No; of course you must go
with us.”
“But do you care?”
“Why, if there were any proper
way, and if you really hate so to go, but
there isn’t,” said Mrs. Ledwith, not very
grammatically or connectedly.
“She doesn’t care,”
said Desire to herself, after her mother had left
her, turning her face to the pillow, upon which two
tears ran slowly down. “And that is my
fault, too, I suppose. I have never been anything!”
Lying there, she made up her mind
to one thing. She would get Uncle Titus to come,
and she would talk to him.
“He won’t encourage me
in any notions,” she said to herself. “And
I mean now, if I can find it out, to do the thing
God means; and then I suppose, I believe, the
snarl will begin to unwind.”
Meanwhile, Luclarion, when she had
set a nice little bowl of tea-muffins to rise, and
had brought up a fresh pitcher of ice-water into Desire’s
room, put on her bonnet and went over to Aspen Street
for an hour.
Down in the kitchen, at Mrs. Ripwinkley’s,
they were having a nice time.
Their girl had gone. Since Luclarion
left, they had fallen into that Gulf-stream which
nowadays runs through everybody’s kitchen.
Girls came, and saw, and conquered in their fashion;
they muddled up, and went away.
The nice times were in the intervals
when they had gone away.
Mrs. Ripwinkley did not complain;
it was only her end of the “stump;” why
should she expect to have a Luclarion Grapp to serve
her all her life?
This last girl had gone as soon as
she found out that Sulie Praile was “no relation,
and didn’t anyways belong there, but had been
took in.” She “didn’t go for
to come to work in an Insecution. She had
always been used to first-class private families.”
Girls will not stand any added numbers,
voluntarily assumed, or even involuntarily befalling;
they will assist in taking up no new responsibilities;
to allow things to remain as they are, and cannot
help being, is the depth of their condescension, the
extent of what they will put up with. There must
be a family of some sort, of course, or there would
not be a “place;” that is what the family
is made for; but it must be established, no more to
fluctuate; that is, you may go away, some of you,
if you like, or you may die; but nobody must come
home that has been away, and nobody must be born.
As to anybody being “took in!” Why, the
girl defined it; it was not being a family, but an
Insecution.
So the three Diana, and
Hazel, and Sulie were down in the kitchen;
Mrs. Ripwinkley was busy in the dining-room close by;
there was a berry-cake to be mixed up for an early
tea. Diana was picking over the berries, Hazel
was chopping the butter into the flour, and Sulie
on a low cushioned seat in a corner there
was one kept ready for her in every room in the house,
and Hazel and Diana carried her about in an “arm-chair,”
made of their own clasped hands and wrists, wherever
they all wanted to go, Sulie was beating
eggs.
Sulie did that so patiently; you see
she had no temptation to jump up and run off to anything
else. The eggs turned, under her fingers, into
thick, creamy, golden froth, fine to the last possible
divisibility of the little air-bubbles.
They could not do without Sulie now.
They had had her for “all winter;” but
in that winter she had grown into their home.
“Why,” said Hazel to her
mother, when they had the few words about it that
ended in there being no more words at all, “that’s
the way children are born into houses, isn’t
it? They just come; and they’re new and
strange at first, and seem so queer. And then
after a while you can’t think how the places
were, and they not in them. Sulie belongs, mother!”
So Sulie beat eggs, and darned stockings,
and painted her lovely little flower-panels and racks
and easels, and did everything that could be done,
sitting still in her round chair, or in the cushioned
corners made for her; and was always in the kitchen,
above all, when any pretty little cookery was going
forward.
Vash ran in and out from the garden,
and brought balsamine blossoms, from which she
pulled the little fairy slippers, and tried to match
them in pairs; and she picked off the “used-up
and puckered-up” morning glories, which she
blew into at the tube-end, and “snapped”
on the back of her little brown hand.
Wasn’t that being good for anything,
while berry-cake was making? The girls thought
it was; as much as the balsamine blossoms were
good for anything, or the brown butterflies with golden
spots on their wings, that came and lived among them.
The brown butterflies were a “piece of the garden;”
little brown Vash was a piece of the house. Besides,
she would eat some of the berry-cake when it was made;
wasn’t that worth while? She would have
a “little teenty one” baked all for herself
in a tin pepper-pot cover. Isn’t that the
special pleasantness of making cakes where little children
are?
Vash was always ready for an “Aaron,”
too; they could not do without her, any more than
without Sulie. Pretty soon, when Diana should
have left school, and Vash should be a little bigger,
they meant to “cooeperate,” as the Holabirds
had done at Westover.
Of course, they knew a great deal
about the Holabirds by this time. Hazel had stayed
a week with Dorris at Miss Waite’s; and one of
Witch Hazel’s weeks among “real folks”
was like the days or hours in fairy land, that were
years on the other side. She found out so much
and grew so close to people.
Hazel and Ruth Holabird were warm
friends. And Hazel was to be Ruth’s bridesmaid,
by and by!
For Ruth Holabird was going to be
married to Dakie Thayne.
“That seemed so funny,”
Hazel said. “Ruth didn’t look
any older than she did; and Mr. Dakie Thayne was such
a nice boy!”
He was no less a man, either; he had
graduated among the first three at West Point; he
was looking earnestly for the next thing that he should
do in life with his powers and responsibilities; he
did not count his marrying a separate thing;
that had grown up alongside and with the rest; of
course he could do nothing without Ruth; that was
just what he had told her; and she, well
Ruth was always a sensible little thing, and it was
just as plain to her as it was to him. Of course
she must help him think and plan; and when the plans
were made, it would take two to carry them out; why,
yes, they must be married. What other way would
there be?
That wasn’t what she said,
but that was the quietly natural and happy way in
which it grew to be a recognized thing in her mind,
that pleasant summer after he came straight home to
them with his honors and his lieutenant’s commission
in the Engineers; and his hearty, affectionate taking-for-granted;
and it was no surprise or question with her, only
a sure and very beautiful “rightness,”
when it came openly about.
Dakie Thayne was a man; the beginning
of a very noble one; but it is the noblest men that
always keep a something of the boy. If you had
not seen anything more of Dakie Thayne until he should
be forty years old, you would then see something in
him which would be precisely the same that it was
at Outledge, seven years ago, with Leslie Goldthwaite,
and among the Holabirds at Westover, in his first
furlough from West Point.
Luclarion came into the Ripwinkley
kitchen just as the cakes the little pepper-pot
one and all were going triumphantly into
the oven, and Hazel was baring her little round arms
to wash the dishes, while Diana tended the pans.
Mrs. Ripwinkley heard her old friend’s
voice, and came out.
“That girl ought to be here
with you; or somewheres else than where she is, or
is likely to be took,” said Luclarion, as she
looked round and sat down, and untied her bonnet-strings.
Miss Grapp hated bonnet-strings; she
never endured them a minute longer than she could
help.
“Desire?” asked Mrs. Ripwinkley, easily
comprehending.
“Yes; Desire. I tell you
she has a hard row to hoe, and she wants comforting.
She wants to know if it is her duty to go to Yourup
with her mother. Now it may be her duty to be
willing to go; but it ain’t anybody’s
else duty to let her. That’s what came to
me as I was coming along. I couldn’t tell
her so, you see, because it would interfere
with her part; and that’s all in the tune as
much as any; only we’ve got to chime in with
our parts at the right stroke, the Lord being Leader.
Ain’t that about it, Mrs. Ripwinkley?”
“If we are sure of the score,
and can catch the sign,” said Mrs. Ripwinkley,
thoughtfully.
“Well, I’ve sung mine;
it’s only one note; I may have to keep hammering
on it; that’s according to how many repeats there
are to be. Mr. Oldways, he ought to know, for
one. Amongst us, we have got to lay our heads
together, and work it out. She’s a kind
of an odd chicken in that brood; and my belief is
she’s like the ugly duck Hazel used to read
about. But she ought to have a chance; if she’s
a swan, she oughtn’t to be trapesed off among
the weeds and on the dry ground. ’Tisn’t
even ducks she’s hatched with; they don’t
take to the same element.”
“I’ll speak to Uncle Titus,
and I will think,” said Mrs. Ripwinkley.
But before she did that, that same afternoon by the six
oclock penny post, a little note went to Mr. Oldways:
DEAR UNCLE TITUS,
“I want to talk
with you a little. If I were well, I should
come to see you in your
study. Will you come up here, and see
me in my room?
“Yours sincerely,
DESIRE LEDWITH.”
Uncle Titus liked that. It counted
upon something in him which few had the faith to count
upon; which, truly he gave few people reason to expect
to find.
He put his hat directly on, took up
his thick brown stick, and trudged off, up Borden
Street to Shubarton Place.
When Luclarion let him in, he told
her with some careful emphasis, that he had come to
see Desire.
“Ask her if I shall come up,”
he said. “I’ll wait down here.”
Helena was practicing in the drawing-room.
Mrs. Ledwith lay, half asleep, upon a sofa. The
doors into the hall were shut, Luclarion
had looked to that, lest the playing should disturb
Desire.
Luclarion was only gone three minutes.
Then she came back, and led Mr. Oldways up three flights
of stairs.
“It’s a long climb, clear from the door,”
she said.
“I can climb,” said Mr. Oldways, curtly.
“I didn’t expect it was
going to stump you,” said Luclarion, just
as short in her turn. “But I thought I’d
be polite enough to mention it.”
There came a queer little chuckling
wheeze from somewhere, like a whispered imitation
of the first few short pants of a steam-engine:
that was Uncle Titus, laughing to himself.
Luclarion looked down behind her,
out of the corner of her eyes, as she turned the landing.
Uncle Titus’s head was dropped between his shoulders,
and his shoulders were shaking up and down. But
he kept his big stick clutched by the middle, in one
hand, and the other just touched the rail as he went
up. Uncle Titus was not out of breath. Not
he. He could laugh and climb.
Desire was sitting up for a little
while, before going to bed again for the night.
There was a low gas-light burning by the dressing-table,
ready to turn up when the twilight should be gone;
and a street lamp, just lighted, shone across into
the room. Luclarion had been sitting with her,
and her gray knitting-work lay upon the chair that
she offered when she had picked it up, to Mr. Oldways.
Then she went away and left them to their talk.
“Mrs. Ripwinkley has been spry
about it,” she said to herself, going softly
down the stairs. “But she always was spry.”
“You’re getting well,
I hope,” said Uncle Titus, seating himself,
after he had given Desire his hand.
“I suppose so,” said Desire,
quietly. “That was why I wanted to see
you. I want to know what I ought to do when I
am well.”
“How can I tell?” asked Uncle Titus, bluntly.
“Better than anybody I can ask.
The rest are all too sympathizing. I am afraid
they would tell me as I wish they should.”
“And I don’t sympathize?
Well, I don’t think I do much. I haven’t
been used to it.”
“You have been used to think
what was right; and I believe you would tell me truly.
I want to know whether I ought to go to Europe with
my mother.”
“Why not? Doesn’t
she want you to go?” and Uncle Titus
was sharp this time.
“I suppose so; that is, I suppose
she expects I will. But I don’t know that
I should be much except a hindrance to her. And
I think I could stay and do something here, in some
way. Uncle Titus, I hate the thought of going
to Europe! Now, don’t you suppose I ought
to go?”
“Why do you hate the
thought of going to Europe?” asked Uncle Titus,
regarding her with keenness.
“Because I have never done anything
real in all my life!” broke forth Desire.
“And this seems only plastering and patching
what can’t be patched. I want to take hold
of something. I don’t want to float round
any more. What is there left of all we have ever
tried to do, all these years? Of all my poor
father’s work, what is there to show for it
now? It has all melted away as fast as it came,
like snow on pavements; and now his life has melted
away; and I feel as if we had never been anything
real to each other! Uncle Titus, I can’t
tell you how I feel!”
Uncle Titus sat very still. His
hat was in one hand, and both together held his cane,
planted on the floor between his feet. Over hat
and cane leaned his gray head, thoughtfully. If
Desire could have seen his eyes, she would have found
in them an expression that she had never supposed
could be there at all.
She had not so much spoken to
Uncle Titus, in these last words of hers, as she had
irresistibly spoken out that which was in her.
She wanted Uncle Titus’s good common sense and
sense of right to help her decide; but the inward
ache and doubt and want, out of which grew her indécisions, these
showed themselves forth at that moment simply because
they must, with no expectation of a response from
him. It might have been a stone wall that she
cried against; she would have cried all the same.
Then it was over, and she was half
ashamed, thinking it was of no use, and he would not
understand; perhaps that he would only set the whole
down to nerves and fidgets and contrariness, and give
her no common sense that she wanted, after all.
But Uncle Titus spoke, slowly; much
as if he, too, were speaking out involuntarily, without
thought of his auditor. People do so speak, when
the deep things are stirred; they speak into the deep
that answereth unto itself, the deep that
reacheth through all souls, and all living, whether
souls feel into it and know of it or not.
“The real things are inside,”
he said. “The real world is the inside
world. God is not up, nor down, but in the midst.”
Then he looked up at Desire.
“What is real of your life is
living inside you now. That is something.
Look at it and see what it is.”
“Discontent. Misery. Failure.”
“Sense of failure.
Well. Those are good things. The beginning
of better. Those are live things, at any
rate.”
Desire had never thought of that.
Now she sat still awhile.
Then she said, “But
we can’t be much, without doing it.
I suppose we are put into a world of outsides for
something.”
“Yes. To find out what
it means. That’s the inside of it.
And to help make the outside agree with the in, so
that it will be easier for other people to find out.
That is the ’kingdom come and will be done,
on earth as it is in heaven.’ Heaven is
the inside, the truth of things.”
“Why, I never knew” began
Desire, astonished. She had almost finished aloud,
as her mother had done in her own mind. She never
knew that Uncle Oldways was “pious.”
“Never knew that was what it
meant? What else can it mean? What do you
suppose the resurrection was, or is?”
Desire answered with a yet larger
look of wonder, only in the dim light it could not
be wholly seen.
“The raising up of the dead;
Christ coming up out of the tomb.”
“The coming out of the tomb
was a small part of it; just what could not help being,
if the rest was. Jesus Christ rose out of dead
things, I take it, into these very real ones
that we are talking of, and so lived in them.
The resurrection is a man’s soul coming alive
to the soul of creation God’s soul.
That is eternal life, and what Jesus of Nazareth
was born to show. Our coming to that is our being
‘raised with Him;’ and it begins, or ought
to, a long way this side the tomb. If people
would only read the New Testament, expecting to get
as much common sense and earnest there as they do
among the new lights and little ‘progressive-thinkers’
that are trying to find it all out over again, they
might spare these gentlemen and themselves a great
deal of their trouble.”
The exclamation rose half-way to her
lips again, “I never knew you thought
like this. I never heard you talk of these things
before!”
But she held it back, because she
would not stop him by reminding him that he was
talking. It was just the truth that was saying
itself. She must let it say on, while it would.
“Un
She stopped there, at the first syllable.
She would not even call him “Uncle Titus”
again, for fear of recalling him to himself, and hushing
him up.
“There is something isn’t
there about those who attain to that
resurrection; those who are worthy? I suppose
there must be some who are just born to this world,
then, and never ’born again?’”
“It looks like it, sometimes; who can tell?”
“Uncle Oldways,” it
came out this time in her earnestness, and her strong
personal appeal, “do you think there
are some people whole families of people who have no business in the reality of
things to be at all? Who are all a mistake in the world, and have nothing to do
with its meaning? I have got to feeling sometimes lately, as if I had
never had any business to be.”
She spoke slowly awe-fully.
It was a strange speech for a girl in her nineteenth
year. But she was a girl in this nineteenth century,
also; and she had caught some of the thoughts and questions
of it, and mixed them up with her own doubts and unsatisfactions
which they could not answer.
“The world is full of mistakes;
mistakes centuries long; but it is full of salvation
and setting to rights, also. ’The kingdom
of heaven is like leaven, which a woman hid in three
measures of meal till the whole was leavened.’
You have been allowed to be, Desire Ledwith.
And so was the man that was born blind. And I
think there is a colon put into the sentence about
him, where a comma was meant to be.”
Desire did not ask him, then, what he meant; but she turned to
the story after he had gone, and found this:
“Neither hath this man sinned,
nor his parents, but that the works of God should
be manifest in him.”
You can see, if you look also, where
she took the colon out, and put the comma in.
Were all the mistakes the
sins, even for the very sake of the pure
blessedness and the more perfect knowledge of the setting
right?
Desire began to think that Uncle Oldways’
theology might help her.
What she said to him now was,
“I want to do something.
I should like to go and live with Luclarion, I think,
down there in Neighbor Street. I should like to
take hold of some other lives, little children’s,
perhaps,” and here Desire’s
voice softened, “that don’t
seem to have any business to be, either, and see if
I could help or straighten anything. Then I feel
is if I should know.”
“Then according to
the Scripture you would know.
But that’s undertaking a good deal.
Luclarion Grapp has got there; but she has been fifty-odd
years upon the road. And she has been doing real
things all the time. That’s what has brought
her there. You can’t boss the world’s
hard jobs till you’ve been a journeyman at the
easy ones.”
“And I’ve missed my apprenticeship!”
said Desire, with changed voice and face, falling
back into her disheartenment again.
No! Uncle Oldways almost shouted. Not if you come to the
Master who takes in the eleventh hour workers. And it isnt the eleventh hour
with you, child!”
He dwelt on that word “child,”
reminding her of her short mistaking and of the long
retrieval. Her nineteen years and the forever
and ever contrasted themselves before her suddenly,
in the light of hope.
She turned sharply, though, to look
at her duty. Her journeyman’s duty of easy
things.
“Must I go to Europe with my
mother?” she asked again, the conversation coming
round to just that with which it had begun.
“I’ll talk with your mother,”
said Uncle Oldways, getting up and looking into his
hat, as a man always does when he thinks of putting
it on presently. “Good-night. I suppose
you are tired enough now. I’ll come again
and see you.”
Desire stood up and gave him her hand.
“I thank you, Uncle Titus, with all my heart.”
He did not answer her a word; but he knew she meant
it.
He did not stop that night to see his niece. He went home, to
think it over. But as he walked down Borden Street, swinging his big stick, he
said to himself,
“Next of kin! Old Marmaduke
Wharne was right. But it takes more than the
Family Bible to tell you which it is!”
Two days after, he had a talk with
Mrs. Ledwith which relieved both their minds.
From the brown-and-apricot drawing-room, from
among the things that stood for nothing now, and had
never stood for home, he went straight
up, without asking, and knocked at Desire’s third-story
door.
“Come in!” she said, without
a note of expectation in her voice.
She had had a dull morning. Helena
had brought her a novel from Loring’s that she
could not read. Novels, any more than life, cannot
be read with very much patience, unless they touch
something besides surface. Why do critics some
of them make such short, smart work, such
cheerful, confident despatch, nowadays, of a story
with religion in it, as if it were an abnormity, a
thing with sentence of death in itself, like a calf
born with two heads, that needs not their
trouble, save to name it as it is? Why, that is,
if religion stand for the relation of things to spirit,
which I suppose it should? Somebody said that
somebody had written a book made up of “spiritual
struggles and strawberry short-cake.” That
was bright and funny; and it seemed to settle the
matter; but, taking strawberry short-cake representatively,
what else is human experience on earth made up of?
And are novels to be pictures of human experience,
or not?
This has nothing to do with present
matters, however, except that Desire found nothing
real in her novel, and so had flung it aside, and
was sitting rather listlessly with her crochet which
she never cared much for, when Uncle Oldways entered.
Her face brightened instantly as he
came in. He sat down just where he had sat the
other night. Mr. Oldways had a fashion of finding
the same seat a second time when he had come in once;
he was a man who took up most things where he left
them off, and this was an unconscious sign of it.
“Your mother has decided to
sell the house on the 23d, it seems,” he said.
“Yes; I have been out twice.
I shall be able to go away by then; I suppose that
is all she has waited for.”
“Do you think you could be contented
to come and live with me?”
“Come and live?”
“Yes. And let your mother and Helena go
to Europe.”
“O, Uncle Oldways! I think
I could rest there! But I don’t want
only to rest, you know. I must do something.
For myself, to begin with. I have made up my
mind not to depend upon my mother. Why should
I, any more than a boy? And I am sure I cannot
depend on anybody else.”
These were Desire Ledwith’s
thanks; and Mr. Oldways liked them. She did not
say it to please him; she thought it seemed almost
ungrateful and unwilling; but she was so intent on
taking up life for herself.
“You must have a place to do
in, or from,” said Mr. Oldways.
“And it is better you should be under some protection.
You must consent to that for your mother’s sake.
How much money have you got?”
“Two hundred and fifty dollars a year.
Of my own.”
This was coming to business and calculation
and common sense. Desire was encouraged.
Uncle Oldways did not think her quite absurd.
“That will clothe you, without
much fuss and feathers?”
“I have done with fuss and feathers,” Desire
said with a grave smile, glancing at her plain white
wrapper and the black shawl that was folded around
her.
“Then come where is room for
you and a welcome, and do as much more as you please,
and can, for yourself, or for anybody else. I
won’t give you a cent; you shall have something
to do for me, if you choose. I am an old man
now, and want help. Perhaps what I want as much
as anything is what I’ve been all my life till
lately, pretty obstinate in doing without.”
Uncle Oldways spoke short, and drew
his breath in and puffed it out between his sentences,
in his bluff way; but his eyes were kind, as he sat
looking at the young girl over his hat and cane.
She thought of the still, gray parlor;
of Rachel Froke and her face of peace; and the Quaker
meeting and the crumbs last year; of Uncle Oldways’
study, and his shelves rich with books; of the new
understanding that had begun between herself and him,
and the faith she had found out, down beneath his
hard reserves; of the beautiful neighborhood, Miss
Craydocke’s Beehive, Aunt Franks’ cheery
home and the ways of it, and Hazel’s runnings
in and out. It seemed as if the real things had
opened for her, and a place been made among them in
which she should have “business to be,”
and from which her life might make a new setting forth.
“And mamma knows?” she
said, inquiringly, after that long pause.
“Yes. I told you I would
talk with her. That is what we came to. It
is only for you to say, now.”
“I will come. I shall be
glad to come!” And her face was full of light
as she looked up and said it.
Desire never thought for a moment
of what her mother could not help thinking of; of
what Mrs. Megilp thought and said, instantly, when
she learned it three weeks later.
It is wonderful how abiding influence
is, even influence to which we are secretly
superior, if ever we have been subjected
to, or allowed ourselves to be swayed by it.
The veriest tyranny of discipline grows into one’s
conscience, until years after, when life has got beyond
the tyranny, conscience, or something superinduced
upon it, keeps up the echo of the old mandates,
and one can take no comfort in doing what one knows
all the time one has a perfect right, besides sound
reason, to do. It was a great while before our
grandmothers’ daughters could peaceably stitch
and overcast a seam, instead of over-sewing and felling
it. I know women who feel to this moment as if
to sit down and read a book of a week-day, in the
daytime, were playing truant to the needle, though
all the sewing-machines on the one hand, and all the
demand and supply of mental culture on the other,
of this present changed and bettered time, protest
together against the absurdity.
Mrs. Ledwith had heard the Megilp
precepts and the Megilp forth-putting of things, until
involuntarily everything showed itself to her in a
Megilp light. The Megilp “sense of duty,”
therefore, came up as she unhesitatingly assented to
Uncle Oldways’ proposal and request. He
wanted Desire; of course she could not say a word;
she owed him something, which she was glad she could
so make up; and secretly there whispered in her mind
the suggestion which Mrs. Megilp, on the other side
of the water, spoke right out.
“If he wants her, he must mean
something by her. He is an old man; he might
not live to give her back into her mother’s keeping;
what would she do there, in that old house of his,
if he should die, unless he does
mean something? He has taken a fancy to her; she
is odd, as he is; and he isn’t so queer after
all, but that his crotchets have a good, straightforward
sense of justice in them. Uncle Titus knows what
he is about; and what’s more, just what he ought
to be about. It is a good thing to have Desire
provided for; she is uncomfortable and full of notions,
and she isn’t likely ever to be married.”
So Desire was given up, easily, she
could not help feeling; but she knew she had been
a puzzle and a vexation to her mother, and that Mrs.
Ledwith had never had the least idea what to do with
her; least of all had she now, what she should do
with her abroad.
“It was so much better for her
that Uncle Titus had taken her home.” With
these last words Mrs. Ledwith reassured herself and
cheered her child.
Perhaps it would have been the same it
came into Desire’s head, that would conceive
strange things if the angels had taken her.
Mrs. Ledwith went to New York; she
stayed a few days with Mrs. Macmichael, who wanted
her to buy lace for her in Brussels and Bohemian glass
in Prague; then a few days more with her cousin, Geraldine
Raxley; and then the City of Antwerp sailed.