It was a sort of high tea, and there was an air about everything different from their simplicity at home, but Mr. Bartram had adapted himself so readily to that. Was it out of kindly consideration?
"Now, I am going to dismiss you, my little dear," exclaimed the old man gently, "for I want to hear what Aldis has to say. And you have been very sweet and patient. Promise that you will not disappear in the night."
"Oh, I promise. I am not a bird that I could fly back in the night, and then I think only evil birds fly at that period."
He kissed her on the forehead. She sat on the porch awhile with Mrs. Jarvis, and then went to bed in the room that was sweet with rose and lavender. Well, so was her pillow at home. But it was so still here. Even the insects seemed to have modulated their shrillness. She buried her face in the softness and cried. Was she regretting the change? Was some gladness, some hope, lost out of her life, that could never come again?
It was bright morning when she woke. Even the very sun seemed to shine in gladness. Susan came, bringing her some water, and wished her good-morning. Yes, it should be a good morning and a good day.
They went to drive when the mists of the night had blown away. Oh, how gay everything looked! Stores had increased, beautiful buildings had gone up, and there was the President's residence. Lady Washington, as many people still called her, came out with her maid and her black servant, with a huge basket. There were others doing the same thing, for it was quite a fashion of the day, though some people were beginning to be waited on by the market men. Ladies in carriages and men walking or riding bowed to M. de Ronville, and wondered who the pretty girl beside him could be. He quite enjoyed the surprised look they gave her.
Then he took a rest on the sofa, and begged her to tell him of the changes they had made in the house, and the boats her father was building, and what new industries had been started. And was grandad as bright and merry as ever? And the ignoble whiskey insurrection; the soldiers at the Fort!
Everything had so much interest for him, and the time passed so rapidly, that Mr. Bartram came home before they hardly thought of dinner. He asked with a smile if she was homesick yet, and although she shook her head with vague amusement, she wondered why she had cried last night? They had some bright talk and then M. de Ronville asked her if she did not want to go shopping with Mrs. Jarvis, who would like very much to have her. Mr. Bartram had brought some papers that must be looked over and signed. But she must not stay out too late for his cup of afternoon tea.
The shopping was really a great diversion. They met several people, who remembered her. And how funny it seemed to pay away so much money for an article, but then there seemed plenty of paper money.
Chestnut Street was gay with riders, both men and women, and some of the latter looked fine in their dark-green habits and gilt buttons. There were many promenading, dressed in the quaint style of the day, and not a few Friends in silvery-gray, with the close-fitting scuttle-shaped bonnets.
"I am so glad you have come," was Susan's greeting. "There are two ladies waiting to see you, Miss Daffodil, and M. de Ronville would make me bring in the tea for them."
"Oh, what are their names?" cried the girl eagerly.
"I was not to tell you;" and a smile lurked behind Susan's lips.
She ran upstairs and took off her hat and mantle, and came into the library wondering.
"Oh;" pausing to think for a moment. "It's Miss Pemberton, and – is it Belinda?"
"Oh, you haven't changed a bit, except to grow tall;" and Belinda almost hugged her. "But Mary is Mrs. Hassel, and has the darlingest little boy you ever saw. Oh, do you remember our party out on the lawn, and our picnic? I'm so glad you have come again. I'm the only girl home now;" and then Belinda blushed deeply.
"And Mr. de Ronville would have us share his tea. I've heard it's a kind of English fashion, which he ought not countenance, since he is French, I tell him," said Mrs. Hassel jestingly. "But it is delightful. I think I'll start it. A cup of tea seems to loosen one's tongue."
"Do women really need the lubrication?" asked M. de Ronville with a smile.
"Yes, they do. Think of three or four different women hardly knowing what to say to each other, and after a few sips of tea they are as chatty as you please. But I must say I was so delighted with his charming news that I would have waited until dark for the chance of seeing you."
"Oh, thank you;" and Daffodil blushed prettily.
"And we know a friend of yours, at least Jack does, a young doctor, who is going to be great some day, and who is from Pittsburg, Dr. Langdale."
"Oh, yes, I knew he was studying here."
"And he has made one or two remarkable discoveries about something or other. Dr. Rush considers him one of the coming men."
"I am very glad to hear that. Oh, we all seemed children together. And his older brother is a lieutenant at Fort Pitt."
"Can't he get a furlough? I'd like to see him," said Belinda gayly.
"He's tired of dull Fort Pitt, and was talking of getting exchanged. That isn't quite right, I believe; it sounds as if he was a prisoner."
"We must go," insisted Mrs. Hassel. "We will hardly have time for another call. M. de Ronville has been so fascinating."
"Oh, did I hold out a fascination?" mischievously.
"It was both," admitted Belinda. "And now we want to see ever so much of you. Mary, give us a regular tea party; she only lives round in Arch Street. And you will want to see the baby."
"Of course I will," said the young girl.
Then they made their adieus. Susan took away the tea-things.
"Was the shopping nice?" enquired her guardian.
"Oh, there are so many lovely things! I didn't mean to buy anything, you know, but we looked at such an elegant pelisse. Only everything costs so much!"
"Oh, economical little girl!"
"And the shopwoman would try on such a splendid white beaver that had just come in with a beautiful long plume and a white satin bow on top. Why, I felt as if I had just arrived from Paris!"
M. de Ronville leaned back and laughed. She looked so pretty and spirited, standing here. He could imagine her in the white beaver and handsome pelisse.
"How about the French?" he asked. "Have you forgotten it all?"
"Oh, no. Grandmere and I talk sometimes."
"We must have a little reading. Why, we could talk as well. I sometimes get rusty."
"It was very nice of the Pembertons to remember me," she said reflectively.
"I had said you were likely to come, and they heard Mr. Bartram had returned. So they came at once."
She could see he was proud of the compliment paid her.
"Now, you are tired," he said. "I'll read the paper for myself."
"No, no." She took it away playfully. "When my voice gets shaky, you may ask me to stop;" and the mirth in her tone was good to hear.
How delightful it was to lean back comfortably and listen to the pleasant voice, with its subtle variations. Ah, if Aldis Bartram could have made sure of her in that other time, before she had learned to love and had her sorrow. And now he seemed to be settled in bachelor ways, and resolved to miss the sweetness of love and life.
"Aldis," he said, at the tea table, "do you know young Dr. Langdale?"
"In a way. He is not in my line, you know. A very promising young fellow. Were you thinking of trying him?"
"Oh, no. But he is from Pittsburg. The Hassels and Miss Pemberton seem to know him quite well. And he is a friend of Daffodil's."
"Oh, and is that lieutenant his brother?"
Daffodil blushed, though why, she could not have told, and she merely nodded.
"Mrs. Hassel seems to think very highly of him."
"He's made some sort of discovery – they had him at Dr. Rush's, and he is in a fair way to success. Score one for Pittsburg."
"But he has been studying here," rejoined Daffodil frankly.
The next day it rained, and rainy days seemed to affect M. de Ronville, but he hardly noted it. They read and talked French, and had a rather laughable time. And in the afternoon an old friend, Colonel Plumsted, came in to play chess, and Daffodil watched, much interested. Aldis was surprised to find his host in such good spirits when he returned.
Mrs. Hassel gave her tea party soon after. Daffodil met several old friends, who remembered the little girl. Belinda found time to impart the secret that she and Jack Willing were engaged, though she meant to have one good winter of fun before she was married. Jack seemed to be a nice, jolly fellow. And there was Anton Wetherell and Arthur Pemberton, and Arthur was asked to take her out to the supper table.
"Why, it's quite like old times to have you here again! Truly, I never thought of your growing up. You were always in my mind as a little golden-haired fairy that flashes about and then – do they return to the 'little folk'?"
"I haven't, you see. But I was not quite a fairy. And one grandfather used to call me Yellowtop." She laughed musically.
"One? How many grandfathers did you have?"
"I had three at one time, one in every generation. But the oldest one went away, and now there are only two."
"And I danced with you, I remember. I hope you haven't forgotten how. We have dancing parties, as well as tea parties. We are considered quite staid and sober-going people, but we young folks put in a good deal of fun. Bel's engaged, I dare say she told you, and I am the only solitary – shall I call myself a blossom? left on the parent stalk."
They both laughed at that. It takes so little to amuse young people.
"You'll have to go to one of Lady Washington's receptions, though in the whisper of confidence be it said they are rather stiff. There's the Norris house, that's the place for fun. The Norris girls find so many bright people, and they're not the jealous kind, but they make everybody shine."
Then Bel took her off to meet Miss Plumsted.
"I'm very glad to see you;" and Miss Plumsted's voice was honestly sweet. "Grandfather goes to play chess with M. de Ronville. He is your guardian, I believe. And now, are you going to live here?"
"Oh, no. I am here only on a visit. My parents and all my folks live at Pittsburg."
"Oh, that seems way out West. The Ohio River is there, and they go out to St. Louis and down to New Orleans. Is it a real city?"
"Not yet, but they are talking about it."
Then some one else came. Two or three of the young men dropped in during the evening, and there was some music on a flute and a violin. Altogether it was a very pleasant time, and Arthur Pemberton took her home and asked if he might not have the pleasure of calling occasionally.
She hardly knew what was proper. It seemed ungracious to say "no," so she answered that he might.
CHAPTER XVI
SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER
One of the quiet evenings, the two men were playing chess and Daffodil was watching them; Susan came in and said in her most respectful manner:
"A gentleman wishes to see Miss Carrick. Here is his card."
Daffodil took it and read, "Archibald Langdale, M.D."
"Oh," in a glad, girlish tone, "it's my old friend, Archie, that I haven't seen in ever so long. Dr. Langdale;" with a pretty assumption of dignity.
"Yes."
"And, uncle, you must see him. Not that I want you to accept him for a family physician, for really I don't know what he is like. He may be the veriest prig;" and she gave a dainty half laugh. "If he is spoiled it will be the fault of your city, he was very nice at Pittsburg. And you, too, Mr. Bartram."
"I have met the young man. I didn't see that he was much puffed up with his honors."
"Thank you." She made a fascinating courtesy. How pleased she was, he could see that.
"We will soon be through with the game. Yes, I'll come," said M. de Ronville.
She would hardly have known Archie. He stood up straight and he was quite as tall as Ned. He had filled out somewhat, though he was still rather thin, but his face had lost that deprecating expression, and had a clear notion not only of truth and honor, but of his own power as well. It was a tender face also, with the light in it that draws one unconsciously. The eyes seemed to have grown darker, but the hair was light as in boyhood.
"I am so glad to see you again;" and he took both hands in a warm clasp. "I couldn't wait until some accidental meeting, where you might kindly invite me for old friendship's sake."
"That would not have been worth while. I have heard about you, and I wondered if you had outgrown childish remembrances."
"You would bring them all back if I had. How little you have changed, except to grow tall. And now tell me about yours and mine. Once in a great while Ned writes, and mother doesn't seem to have the gift of chatty letters. Hers are mostly about my humble self, her son rather, and how he must avoid certain things and do other certain things, and not grow hard-hearted and irreligious and careless of his health;" smiling with a touch of tenderness. "So, you see, I do not hear much about the real Pittsburg."
"Oh, you would hardly know it now, there are so many changes, and so much business. New streets, instead of the old lanes, and the old log houses are fast disappearing. We are making real glass, you know, and there is talk of a paper mill. And nearly all the girls are married; the older ones, I mean. Families are coming in from the country, others go out to Ohio and Kentucky. Why, it is a whirl all the time."
"I'd like to see it and mother. I've planned to go several times, but some study or lectures that I couldn't miss would crop up. And it takes so much time. Why doesn't some one invent a quicker way of travelling? Now, if we could fly."
"Oh, that would be just splendid!" eagerly.
"I used to watch the birds when I was a boy, and flying seemed so easy for them. Now, why can't some one think up a pair of wings that you could slip on like a jacket and work them with some sort of springs, and go sailing off? I'm learning to put people together, but I never was any hand for machinery."
"Oh, think of it! A winged jacket;" and they both laughed gleefully.
Then M. de Ronville entered and expressed his pleasure at meeting the young man, who was already distinguishing himself, and who was an old friend of Miss Carrick.
"Not that either of you are very old," he commented smilingly.
Mr. Bartram he recalled. And certainly the generally quiet student talked his best. Was Daffodil a sort of inspiration? Was that one of the graces of early friendship?
He apologized presently for his long stay. He so seldom made calls, that he must plead ignorance of the correct length, but he had enjoyed himself very much. And then M. de Ronville invited him to drop in to tea. He would like to discuss some new medical methods with him.
"A very intelligent, well-balanced young man," the host remarked. "If the other one is as sensible, they are sons to be proud of."
"Their mother is proud of them, but their father would rather have had them in business," said Daffodil.
Belinda Pemberton was quite fascinated with Daffodil. "You are such a sweet, quaint, honest little thing," she said, "and you do make such delightfully naïve remarks. And Arthur declares you must have learned to dance in fairyland."
"I think I did," she returned gayly. "And I do love it so."
Then the little circle, and the wider one, had a fine surprise. Betty Wharton, now Madame Clerval, returned quite unexpectedly, as her husband had resigned his position.
"I had quite enough of Paris," she said to a friend. "One wants an immense fortune to truly enjoy it. And somehow things seem shaky. Then, too, one does have a longing for home when one gets past youth."
So she opened her house and set up a carriage. Monsieur Clerval found himself quite in demand by the government, as the country needed a multitude of counsellors.
She came in to see M. de Ronville, who gallantly said she had renewed her youth, and begged for the secret.
"It is simply to keep young, to resolve not to grow old;" with a gay emphasis.
"But time passes, my dear lady."
"And where is that pretty, golden-haired Daffodil?" she enquired.
The girl was summoned. Yes, she had outgrown childhood, but there was a delightful charm in her young womanhood.
"We were such friends – if you can remember so far back."
"And you were so good to me, and made everything so enjoyable. Wasn't I very ignorant?"
"You were very frank, and honest, and adaptable. So we must take up the old intimacy again. M. de Ronville, I shall drop in often and say, 'Lend me your daughter for this or that occasion.' Or is it your niece? And if some one falls in love with her you must not scold me. Young men have eyes, and really, I am too kindly-hearted to throw dust in them."
Daffodil turned scarlet.
"Is it quite right to go about so much?" she said to M. de Ronville afterward, and the tone had a great uncertainty in it, while the curves of her pretty mouth quivered. "For you know – "
He drew her down beside him on the sofa.
"I thought some time we would talk it over – your unfortunate marriage, I suppose, comes up now and then to haunt you. Yet, it was fortunate, too, that the explanation came just as it did. I honestly believe it was an ignorant child's fancy. You were not old enough to understand real love. I think he could hardly have been a thorough villain, but an incident like this has happened more than once. And I truly believe you have overlived it."
She shuddered, and her eyes were limpid with tears. It was good to feel his friendly arm about her.
"It is like a dream to me, most of the time. And I think now, if he had made a passionate, despairing protest, it would have gone much harder with me. But it was right for him to go away when his father sent, and he was the next in succession to Hurst Abbey. And there was his child, his boy. I could never have been his true wife, but it hurt to be given up so readily, yet it was best. It gave me courage. And what if he had tired of me later on? They all helped me to bear it. And there was the deception. For if he had told the truth, there might have been pity, but no love."
"It was a sad thing to happen. My heart ached for you. But you know, Daffodil, you never were a wife in the true sense of the word. You are quite free, you have always been free. And you must feel so. You must not carry about with you any uncertainty. It is something buried fathoms deep, that you need never draw up to the surface, unless in time to come you tell the story to the man you marry."
"I shall never marry," she returned gravely. "I have it all planned. Felix shall have the fortune, for what could a woman do with it in her own hands? And he has the name, he has only to leave off the Carrick. And it shall be my business to make every one as happy as I can. And if it is not wrong to take pleasure for myself – I do love joy and happiness, and I could not grieve forever, when I knew the thing I would grieve for was wrong."
There were tears dropping off the bronze lashes, but she was not really crying. He pressed her closer. There was an exquisite depth to her that did not often come to the surface.
"So you have it all planned for the years to come," he returned after a moment or two. "That is quite far off. Meanwhile you must have a good time with other young people. That will make me the happiest, if you care for me."
"Oh, indeed I do, indeed I do," she cried earnestly. Then, after quite a pause, she continued —
"I almost lost sight of what I wanted to ask. It was whether I ought to explain anything, whether it would be sailing under false colors when no one knew;" and she gave a tangled sort of breath that she would not allow to break into a sob.
"My dear child, there would be no use in explaining what could only be a matter of gossip. I think, nay, I am certain, Aldis and myself are the only ones who know, and if there had been any trouble I should have sent him to your assistance. I dare say, some of your friends and neighbors at home have wellnigh forgotten about it. And now, do not let it disturb you, but be as happy as God meant you should be, when He snatched you from the peril."
"Oh, thank you," she rejoined with a grateful emotion that he felt quiver through her slender body.
She wondered if she was too light-minded, too easily pleased. For every joyous thing seemed to come her way. The girls sought her out, the young men wanted to dance with her, and were willing to bore themselves going out to supper, if they knew she would be there. It was not because she was brighter or wittier than the others, or could think of more entertaining plays, but just that she seemed to radiate an atmosphere of happiness.
She did not give up all her time to pleasure. She drove with her guardian on pleasant days; he had left off riding now, but he sent her out occasionally with Mr. Bartram, lest she should get out of practice, he said. Then she read to him, or they took up French. She made merry over her blunders.
The autumn was long and warm. They sat in the garden in the sunshine, or walked up and down. Now and then he went to the office, when there were some important matters on hand.
Madame Clerval gave a dance after she had her house set in order. It might have been called a ball. It was mostly for the young people; she was just as fond of them as ever, and secretly admitted that she didn't enjoy prosy old people, who could talk of nothing but their pains and aches, and how fast the country was going to ruin.
"Do you think Mr. Bartram would consider it a nuisance to come for me?" she asked of her guardian, with a face like a peony.
"Why, no, child. Madame made quite a point of his coming. He is growing old too fast."
"Why, he isn't old," she said rather indignantly. "And you see – it's hard sometimes not to offend this one or that one, and if he is really coming, will you ask him to bring me home? Wouldn't you prefer it?"
"I think I would;" very gravely, though he wanted to smile.
Wetherell and Arthur Pemberton were pushing each other for her favors, and she tried to distribute them impartially.
The dance was a splendid success, and the dainty supper had a French air. Mr. Bartram came in just before that. Daffodil was engaged, of course. Madame provided him with a charming partner.
There was only a galop afterward. At private affairs it was not considered good taste to stay after midnight. Mr. Bartram made his way to Daffodil, and asked her if she was ready to go, and she nodded gracefully.
She looked so pretty as she came down the stairs, wrapped in something white and fleecy, smiling on this side and that.
"It was very enjoyable," he said, "at least to you young people. I'm not much of a dancer nowadays, so I didn't come early."
"It was just full of pleasure. Madame Clerval always plans admirably."
He smiled to himself. Most girls would have protested about his being late, even if they had not specially cared.
The young people took up the habit of calling in the evening, three or four of them, sometimes half a dozen. Mrs. Jarvis would send in some cake and nice home-made wine, which was quite a fashion then. They made merry, of course.
"Dear uncle," she said one morning, it was raining so they couldn't go out, "didn't we disturb you last evening with our noise and laughter? I don't know why they are so eager to come here, and think they have a good time, for I am not as full of bright sayings as some of the girls. And if it annoys you – "
"My child, no. I lay on the sofa and listened to it, and it almost made me young again. I had no merry youth like that. Oh, am I coming to second childhood?"
His eyes were bright, and she thought she had never seen them so merry, save at first, when he had laughed at some of Felix's pranks. And his complexion was less pallid, his lips were red.
"Then second childhood is lovely. And you have grown so interested in everything. You don't get tired as you used. Are you real happy, or are you doing it just to make me happy?"
She gave him such a sweet, enquiring look, that he was touched at her solicitude.
"It is both, I fancy. You see, last winter I was ill and alone a great deal. I missed Betty Wharton, who was always flying in with some fun, or a bright story that had been told. Aldis had all the business to attend to, and sometimes wrote in the evenings. Time hung very heavy on my hands, and I began to think it was time for me to go hence. And by spring I had quite lost heart, though I began to crawl about a little. And I kept thinking how I should live through another dreary winter, and be half sick. It kept looming up before me. Then I thought I ought to settle something about your business when your father wrote concerning the lease. You came into my mind. I thought how brave you had been through that unfortunate time, and wondered if you would not like a change. I wanted some one to bring in the sunshine of youth, and you had spent so many of your years with elderly people, I thought you must have some art. I could make it pleasant for you, and the reflected light would brighten me. So I begged a little of your sweet young life."
"I am glad if it has made you happy," she said, much moved.
"It has given me new zest, it has made me almost well. True, I have had some twinges of my old enemy, rheumatism, but they have not been severe. I have not been lonely. There was some pleasure within my reach all the time. Oh, old people do want a little of the sun of youth to shine on them. And if you had no dear ones at home, I should keep you always, golden-haired Daffodil."
She took his hand in hers, so full of fresh young life. "And I should stay," she said.
"So, do not think your little merry-makings annoy me at all. I am glad for you to have them, and next day it is like reading a page out of a book, a human book that we are apt to pass by, and say we have no pleasure in it, but it is what we need, and what we want, down in our very heart of hearts, but often we are ashamed to ask for it."
It was true, he was much better. The house was losing its grave aspect. Jane had been used to flinging about wise old saws, and comparisons, and finding things to enjoy; Susan was quiet, falling into routine, and staying there until some new duty fairly pushed her out in another direction. She had no sense of humor or enthusiasm, yet she performed all the requirements of her place with ease and industry.
Mrs. Jarvis was just as kindly solicitous as ever, but intellectually there was a great gulf between her and M. de Ronville. She entertained whatever guests came with an air of precision, never forgetting she was a higher sort of housekeeper. She enjoyed the quiet of her own room, where she sewed a little, and read a good deal, the old-fashioned English novels, such as "Children of the Abbey," "Mysterious Marriage," "The Cottage on the Cliff," and stories of the latter half of the century. She thought it no part of a woman's business to concern herself with politics, she would have preferred living under a real King and nobility, but she accepted the powers that ruled, and stayed in her own little world, though she, as well as M. de Ronville, enjoyed the stir and interest that Daffodil brought about.
After Madame Clerval came, there was more variety and gayety in Daffodil's life, and she helped to rouse M. de Ronville as well. Then came a reception at the Presidential mansion.
"Of course, you will go," Madame said to him, in her persuasive, yet imperious, manner. "We must not be a whit behind those New York people in the attention we pay our President. And one need not stay the whole evening through, you know. You will meet so many old friends. Come, I cannot have you getting old before your time."
"But I am an old man," he protested.
"In our new country we must not get old. It is to be the land of perennial youth," she answered gayly.
Aldis Bartram joined his persuasions as well, and M. de Ronville went almost in spite of himself. He had kept his delicate, high-bred air and French atmosphere, and looked well in the attire of that day, with his flowered waistcoat, his black velvet suit and silk stockings, with a jewelled buckle on his low shoes. His beautiful white hair was just tied in a queue, with a black ribbon. There was something dignified and gracious about him, and friends thronged around to congratulate him. And though he had seen Washington in many different phases of his eventful life, he had not as yet met him as President of the nation he had fought for and cemented together.
There were handsomer girls than Daffodil; indeed, the fame of the beauties of Philadelphia in that day has been the theme of many a song and story. But she was very pretty in her simple white frock that in the fashion of the day showed her exquisite neck and shoulders, though the golden curls, tied high on her head, shaded and dazzled about it in a most bewitching manner. Madame Clerval was wise, she was not trying to outshine any of the belles, yet there was a bevy of young men about her constantly, and most devoted to her and to M. de Ronville, was Dr. Langdale. In fact, he was really the favorite visitor at the house. He ran in now and then with news of some new book, or some old translation, and a talk of the progress of the library and the trend of general education. Why should Boston have it all? Or a new medical discovery, though he was in no sense M. de Ronville's physician.
Was it strange that both these young people, having passed their childhood in Pittsburg, should come to a nearer and dearer understanding? Aldis Bartram watched them with the sense of a new revelation. Yet he could not subscribe to it cordially. The medical enthusiast was hardly the one he would choose for a girl like Daffodil. Arthur Pemberton would do better, yet he was not quite up to her mark. She was a simple seeming girl, yet he was learning that she had a great deal of character and sweetness. Somehow she kept herself curiously enfranchised from lovers. Her friendly frankness gave them a status it was difficult to overcome.