The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 01, No. 06, April, 1858. Various
changed color, but would not betray too much eagerness.
"I cannot promise," she replied, trying for coolness,—"but if I can, I will tell you all you want to know about it."
Alice could hide it no longer. She held up a ring, with a motto on it in blue enamel. I had seen it upon Kate's finger, but not recently.
"Where did you find it?" asked my sister, with difficulty. She was very pale.
"In the box-tree arbor. How came it there? It was Watty's, for I was with him when he bought it in Venice. I can believe that it is yours; but how came it lost, and trampled into the earth? Didn't you care for it?"
She questioned with an arch smile. She knew better than that, and she was burning with curiosity to understand why finding it moved Kate so deeply. She had a young girl's curiosity about love-affairs. I came to the conclusion that Kate had offered to return the ring on the day they parted, and that it fell to the ground, disregarded by both, occupied, as they were, with great emotions.
"Come," continued Alice,—"did he, or you, throw it away? Speak, and you shall have it."
"I can tell you nothing about it, and I will not claim your treasure-trove. Keep it, Ally."
"Indeed, I won't keep other folks' love-tokens! There,—it belongs on that finger, I know! But do tell me about it!—do! I will tell you something, if you will. Yes, indeed, I have got a secret you would give anything to know! Walter told it to me, and it is about you. He spoke of it in his last letter, and said he meant to—Come, I'll tell you, though he said I mustn't, if you will only let me into the mystery of this ring. The secret is in my letter, and I will let you read it, if you will."
Lina looked at me with meaning eyes. The contents of the letter were doubled in value by this confession, and yet this was no temptation at all. She was not alone.
"You foolish little thing," she said, kissing the sweet, entreating face, "do you suppose I will tell you my secrets, when you are so easily bribed to betray your brother's?"
Alice's conscience was alarmed.
"Why!" she ejaculated. "How near I came to betraying confidence,—and without meaning to do it, either! Oh, how glad I am you did not let me go on so thoughtlessly! I should have been so sorry for it afterwards! I know Walter will tell you himself, some day,—but I have no business to do it, especially as he did not voluntarily make me his confidante; I found out the affair by accident, and he bound me to secresy. Oh, I thank you for stopping me when I was forgetting everything in my eager curiosity! And this letter, too, I offered to show you! How strangely indiscreet!"
"Perhaps I read it while you were gone," said Kate, in a low voice.
"No, you didn't, Kate! You can't make me believe that of you! I know you too well!"
"Indeed!" said Kate, blushing violently; "I can tell you, I came very near it."
"'A miss is as good as a mile,' Lina. And I know you were far enough from anything so mean."
"I was so near as to have my hand upon your letter, Alice dear. One feather's weight more stress of temptation, and I should have fallen."
"Pure nonsense! Isn't it, Charles?"
"Yes. Kate, you need not flatter yourself that you have universal ability, clever as you are. In anything dishonorable you are a perfect incapable, and that is all you have proved this morning."
V
New York; July.
I was too comfortable, Mary! Such peace could not last, any more than a soft Indian-summer can put off relentless winter.
Oh, for those sweet June days when I had my couch wheeled to the deepest shade of the grove, and lay there from morning until evening, with the green foliage to curtain me,—the clover-scented wind to play about my hair, and touch my temples with softest, coolest fingers,—the rushing brook to sing me to sleep,—the very little blossoms to be obsequious in dancing motion, to please my eye,—and the holy hush of Nature to tranquillize my soul!
I had brought myself, by what I thought the most Christian effort, to be content with my altered lot. I gave up ambition, active usefulness, fireside, and family. I tried but for one thing,—peace.
I had nearly attained it, when there comes an impertinent officer of fate, known as Dr. G., and he peremptorily orders me out of my gentle bliss. I am sinking into apathy, forsooth! The warm weather is prostrating me! I must be stirred to activity by torture, like the fainting wretch on the rack! I am commanded to travel! I, who cannot bear the grating of my slow-moving wheels over the smooth gravel-walk, without compressed lips and corrugated brow!
The Doctor ordained it; Kate executed it. I am no longer my own master; and so here I am in New York, resting for a day, on my way to some retired springs in the Green Mountains, where the water is medicinal, the air cool and bracing, the scenery transcendent, and the visitors few.
I have taken Ben for my valet. He looks quite a gentleman when dressed in his Sunday clothes, and his Scotch shrewdness serves us many a good turn. He has the knack of arresting any little advantages floating on the stream of travel, and securing them for our benefit.
I journey on my wheeled couch from necessity, as I have not been able to sit up at all since the heats of June set in. So I have, in this trip, a novel experience,—on the railroad, being consigned to the baggage car, and upon the steamboat, to the forward deck. I cannot endure the close saloons, and prefer the fresh breeze, even when mingled with tobacco-smoke. I go as freight, and Kate keeps a sharp eye to her baggage, for she will not leave my side. I tried to flatter her by saying that the true order of things was reversed,—her sex being entitled to that name and position, and mine to the relation she now bore to me. She had the perversity to consider this a twit, and gave me a stinging reply, which I will not repeat to you, because you are a woman likewise, and would enjoy it too much.
We left peaceful, green Bosky Dell late in the afternoon, and slept in Philadelphia that night. Yesterday—the hottest day of the season—we set out for New York. I thought it was going to be sultry, when, as we passed Washington Square before sunrise, on our way to the boat, I saw the blue haze among the trees, as still and soft and hay-scented as if in the country. Ben often quotes an old Scotch proverb,—"Daylight will peep through a sma' hole." So beauty will peep through every small corner that is left to Nature, even under severe restrictions. Witness our noble trees, walled in by houses and cramped by pavements!
The streets were quite deserted that morning,—for, being obliged to ride very slowly, I had set out betimes. No one was up but ourselves and the squirrels, except one wren, whose twittering sounded strangely loud in the hushed city. Probably she took that opportunity to try her voice and note her improvement in singing, for in the rush of day what chance has she? These country sounds and sights, in the heart of a populous city, were, for that reason, a thousand-fold more sweet to me than ever. Their delights were multiplied to me by thinking of the number of hearts that took them in daily.
Kate and I rode in a carriage. Ben followed in a wagon, with the trunks and "jaunting-car-r-r." When we reached the ferry, the porters carried my couch, and Ben myself, depositing us upon the deck, where I could look upon the river. The stately flow of the waters impressed me with dread. They swept by, not swift, not slow,—steady, like fate. Ours may be a dull river to an artist; but its volume of water, its width, perhaps even the flat shores, which do not seem to bound it, make it grand and impressive.
Kate recalled me from my almost shuddering gaze down into the water, and drew my attention to a scene very unlike our little picturesque, rural views at home. The ruddy light of morning made the river glow like the deep-dyed Brenta, while our dear, unpretending Quaker city showed like one vast structure of ruby. Vessels of all kinds and sizes (though of but two colors,—black in shadow, and red in sunlight) lay motionless, in groups.
The New York passengers had now collected on the ferry-boat, and I was all alive to impressions of every kind. A crowd of men and boys around a soap-peddler burst into a laugh, and I must needs shout out in irrepressible laughter also, though I did not hear the joke. I was delighted to mingle my voice with other men's in one common feeling. Compulsory solitude