V
One morning, a few days after the evening of the last chapter, Mrs. Gregory – on entering the breakfast-room – found her husband reading a letter.
“This is from my sister, Mrs. Horland, of Cincinnati: she is suffering a great bereavement in the death of her husband. It will be difficult, but I believe I must go to her, Catharine. Poor Ellen was always a dependent creature, and I cannot leave her alone. A note from Mr. Horland’s clerk says, that his affairs were left in a very embarrassed condition, and presses urgently that I should come to save Ellen from imposition and fraud.”
“She does, indeed, need you sadly, and we ought to let you go; but, can your practice spare you?”
“There are no patients now whom it would not do to leave with young Philips, I think. I shall return as soon as possible.”
The journey and its object formed the topic of conversation at the breakfast-table, and it was decided that Doctor Gregory should start the next morning.
“Dear Catharine,” said he, at parting, “I pray you to feel that you are mistress of this house. Be sure that the children revere your authority – I am happy in intrusting them to you.”
One week from that day, in the pleasant twilight, an antique family carriage, that had been splendid in its day, drew up before the gateway, and two individuals very much of the same description emerged from its cavernous interior.
“Grandfather and Grandmother Newell, as true as I live!” cried Alice, who was looking out.
All rushed to the window and then to the door to welcome the venerable visitants. With joyous exclamations and great running to and fro, they were at last seated so comfortably that nothing more could be done without making them less comfortable. Eddie was on his grandfather’s knee, Alice leaned over her grandmother’s chair, while Clara was seated between them. Mrs. Gregory hastened to prepare a dish of tea, to refresh them after their ride.
“Well, my poor dears, how do you get along?” asked Mrs. Newell, as soon as the step-mother had disappeared.
Clara looked to Alice.
“As well as we possibly could without our own dear mother,” said Alice. “I am glad you are come to see for yourself,” and she kissed the old lady’s pale, wrinkled cheek.
“Yes, I shall see,” replied the grandmother; and accordingly that evening and the next day were spent in the closest observation.
“See what Mr. Brentford gave me!” cried Eddie, as, returning from a walk with Clara on the following afternoon, he bounded into the room, brandishing above his head an enormous paper of bon-bons.
“Mr. Brentford was very kind, was he not?” said his mother, taking a sugar-plum which the child generously extended to her. He bestowed a similar bounty on every one in the room, and then sat down to the work of feeding himself, which he performed with extraordinary celerity, bolting the sugar-coated poison by the handful.
“There, Neddie, you have had quite enough for this time,” interposed his mother. “You will make yourself sick.”
“No, no!” cried the young gourmand, grasping his precious package with great energy, and turning away, “I want them all.”
“Not all, now – Oh, no, that would not do, at all. Bring them to me, and I will keep them for you, and give them to you when it is best for you to have them.”
Emboldened to disobedience by the presence of those whom he had never failed to conquer, the child hugged his treasure still closer, and arranged his physiognomy for a cry.
“Neddie – I want you to bring me your sweetmeats,” said Mrs. G.
He took refuge by the chair of his grandmother, who began to caress him. The step-mother’s color deepened; but she said in a low, firm tone, not to be mistaken —
“Edward, my child, bring me that package.”
It was with rather slow and reluctant footsteps; but he did bring it and place it in her hands. She said simply —
“That is right,” and left the room.
As she closed the door, however, she heard tremulous tones telling how “they shouldn’t abuse grandma’s little dove – no, they shouldn’t! – who was grandma’s darling!”
This was but one instance, among many, that occurred during the visit, when the step-mother found herself forced to exercise her parental authority, and then to listen to the condolence bestowed on the victim of her despotism.
That evening Mr. Brentford spent there. He made himself very much at home, holding old Mrs. Newell’s yarn for her, listening with the most exemplary complaisance to Mr. Newell’s interminable tales, consigning to Eddie his elegant repeater for a plaything, singing with Clara, playing chess with Alice, talking with Mrs. Gregory, evidently bent on earning for himself the epithet, which the old lady was not slow in bestowing, of “a very pretty young man.”
Mrs. Gregory admired him in all but his conversation, and in this she could not persuade herself that he was not shallow, flippant, and arrogant. She sought to draw him out on many subjects, but found none on which he was thoroughly informed – none on which he expressed fine sentiments that had about them any of the freshness of originality.
CHAPTER VI
“What a genial, delicious air it is, to-night,” said Mrs. Gregory to herself, as she sat alone in her chamber one evening, “so light, too! How beautiful!” she exclaimed, as she opened the window and stepped out on the balcony. As she did so, the sound of voices arrested her attention.
She looked down into the garden, and saw Brentford and Clara slowly pacing along the garden walk, in the light of “the young May moon.” His arm girdled the light shawl that floated about her waist; his cap was placed coquetishly over her dark curls; his musical voice filled her ear.
“Poor, poor child!” murmured her step-mother, as she turned away; “how I wish this stranger had never come here! How continually he is in her society – how much he fascinates her, and how destitute he really is of every thing worthy of her regard. What shall I do? What would my husband have me do? Shall I leave her to her own discretion? – ‘I am happy in intrusting them to you!’ – Oh! if she only had a mother!”
At that moment, the soft sound of music stole up through the sleeping air. How deep and rich, yet how delicately modulated, was the voice that sung,
In parlors of splendor, though beauty be glancing,
Bright mirrors reflecting the fairy forms dancing,
In banqueting halls, by the lily cheek glowing,
With flush of the wine, in the silver cup flowing,
Fair fingers disporting with musical sprite,
And stealthily clipping the wings of the night;
I’d hie to the home where the roses are dreaming,
And Hope, from those eyes, on my spirit is beaming;
I’d choose the still moonlight, thro’ vine-lattice stealing,
The face that I love, in its beauty revealing.
I’d list to the voice that is sweeter by far
Than the tones of
