A Little Girl in Old Pittsburg
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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.
"I never expected to enjoy myself so much again," said M. de Ronville, when they were in the carriage. "It is an excellent thing to go on moving with the world, to keep in touch with the things that make up the sum of life, instead of feeling they belong to the gone-by time, and you have no interest in them."
How much like his olden self he was, Aldis Bartram thought. He wondered if he had been at fault in letting him drop down. There was much perplexing business, and he had hated to bother the elder man with it. Sometimes it seemed tedious to explain. Had he grown selfish in certain ways, preferring to take the burthen, rather than the trouble of sharing it with another? He had much personal ambition, he was in full earnest of a man's aims and life purposes. Yet it was this man who had helped him to the place whereon he stood, and it was not honorable to crowd him out under the plea that his best days were over.
It seemed, indeed, as if days fairly flew by, there was so much crowded in them. When the morning was fine, Daffodil insisted they should drive out. It was delightful to keep bowing and smiling to friends, with this attractive girl beside him. He went to some meetings of the Philosophical Society, and he took a new interest in the Library plans.
"You certainly have worked a transformation," Bartram said to Daffodil, when M. de Ronville consented to go to a concert with them, to hear two remarkable singers, who had come from abroad. "You will have to stay. Didn't I hear you discussing Pittsburg with Mrs. Jarvis?"
"Oh, they are longing for me to return. And in two days March will come in, that will be spring. And I was only to stay through the winter."
"But March is a cruel and deceitful travesty on spring. February has been too short."
"But they want me. And, yes, I want to see them all, and the garden, and the woods, and what new things have happened to Pittsburg. For there is something new coming in all the time."
Her face was so eager and full of happy interest.
"Well – I don't know what we shall do without you"; and the inflection of his voice was disconsolate. "I am afraid we shall fall back to the old routine. I am a busy man, you know, and have to shoulder a great many cares not really my own. Perhaps, too, I haven't the divine art of making a house bright, a woman's province."
"Oh, Mr. Bartram, I will tell you;" in a clear, earnest tone. "Why do you not marry, and bring some one here to do it? There are so many charming girls, sometimes I feel quite unimportant and ignorant beside them."
She uttered it in the same manner she might have asked why he did not bring home some flowers to grace the study table. Her lovely eyes were raised to his in the utmost innocence, and not a tint of color wavered on her cheek. His flushed with sudden surprise.
"Perhaps the charming young girl would consider it a dull house for life, and then elderly people have whims and fancies – well, younger men do. I have myself. And it would be asking a good deal."
"I think uncle hasn't many whims, and he does keep them in the background. You almost have to watch for them. Why, think of grandad!" and she laughed with a soft musical sound. "What he liked yesterday he may not like at all to-day, so Norry does the new thing, and says nothing about the other. And he often disputes with father as to whether there was any real need for the war, and that we would be better off under King George. But uncle is so large-minded, and then he has so many refined and delightful tastes. But you would get lonesome if you were not very well, and no one came to cheer you up, or bring you new thoughts and bright bits of things, that were going on in the world outside."
She paused suddenly, and flushed like a culprit, looking more beguiling than ever, with her downcast eyes.
"I suppose I oughtn't have said it, but it seems true to me, only I'm not blaming you. You have a great many things to attend to, and you must do them in a man's way, devote your whole mind to them, and you can't be frivolous, or other people's business would suffer. If I hadn't any one I would come and stay, but – I love them, and sometimes, in spite of the pleasure, my heart is almost torn in two with the longing. I said I would come back in the spring, and I must go. Then it will not be quite so bad, for Madame Clerval will be in and out, and he is so much better. And you'll let him take an interest in business, when he feels like it – oh, I seem to be giving you advice, and I sincerely beg your pardon. After all, I am not much more than a little girl, and I am talking as if I was old and wise;" and a sudden shame flamed her cheeks with scarlet.
"I think you have been wise, and sweet, and patient, without growing old. You have done a great deal for your guardian this winter – I really was afraid we should not have him with us for very long, and he did seem to wish for you so. Perhaps we were selfish, he and I."
"Oh, I was ready to come, too. It has been a delightful winter, and everybody has been so good to me, I've been just full of pleasure. But when you love those you have left behind, you sometimes feel as if you could fly."
She winked very fast, then made a sudden dab at her eyes, and half laughed, too.
"I think I understand. I have had no one to love dearly since I was a little lad, and all I remember about my mother is that she was pale, and ill, and could not endure a noise. Then I was put in school, and my father went away and died. When I was eighteen I went in M. de Ronville's office, and finished my studies. He has been my best friend, really like a father to me. I ought to make all the return in my power."
"Oh;" and there was a bewildering sweetness in her tone. "I have been so happy most of my life, and had so many to love me."
Then that unfortunate episode had not cost her any deep-seated grief. Had she loved at all, or was it only a childish fancy? He hoped it was, for the sake of her future.
He turned then and went out of the room. M. de Ronville had been up in his dressing-room, with his valet, and now he went to the library, and she followed him. There were some reports to look over, then the carriage came for them. It was sunny, with very little wind, and they had plenty of wraps.
Aldis Bartram went his way to the office. The two clerks were there and busy. He opened his letters, and answered several, the others had need of some legal opinions to be looked up. Then he took up a rather complicated case, but he soon lost the thread of it, for Daffodil's almost upbraiding voice haunted him. He had been outwardly patient many a time when all was irritation within, for he was too manly and too really grateful to show impatience.
Had Daffodil's being there this winter proved the source of the reaction in M. de Ronville's health? Had loneliness intensified the disease and discomfort? Perhaps. And now two or three young men dropped in, and had entertaining talks with him. Or was it because they liked the byplay of the pretty, vivacious girl, who never made herself the first attraction.
"Marry some pretty, charming young girl!" Where would he find one to M. de Ronville's liking?
CHAPTER XVII
OH, WHICH IS LOVE?
March opened cold and stormy. Rheumatism made a clutch at M. de Ronville. For several days he did not come downstairs, but insisted that some of the guests must come to him. Dr. Langdale skipped away from a lecture he really desired to hear, and spent an hour comforting the invalid. Madame Clerval came in with a budget of news and friendly gossip, and Daffodil talked of her little girlhood, and old Pittsburg, as they had begun to call it, and sitting on the arm of great-grandfather's chair, and listening to tales of a still older time. He did not wonder that his friend Duvernay had lived to be almost a hundred, with all that affection to make the way pleasant.
Then he improved and came downstairs, took up chess-playing, and little promenades on the porch when the sun shone. And then the talk veered round to Daffodil's departure. He would not hear anything about it at first.
"Yet we have no right to keep her away from her own household, when she has been brave enough to give up all the winter to us," Mr. Bartram said.
"Oh, no, I suppose not. If I was younger, or in assured health, I should go and spend the summer with them. Oh, don't look so startled. I know it wouldn't do, with my uncertain health."
Aldis smiled. "If the summer is fine, and you keep pretty well, we might both take a trip. I would hardly trust you to go alone."
"So we might." The elder was gratified with the consideration.
"Aldis?" presently, in a half-enquiring tone.
"Well?" glancing up.
"Do you think – that Dr. Langdale – that there is anything between him and Daffodil?"
"There has been some talk. But young Pemberton is devoted to her as well."
"With either she would have to come back here to live. I like the doctor. He is such a fine, large-hearted, sympathetic young fellow, with so much real charity for suffering. I seem to be envying other people's sons and daughters;" ending with a longing sound. "Yes, if she were in love with him."
Aldis Bartram experienced a feeling of protest. Yet, why should he object? They were both young, they had been friends from childhood, and he was certainly worthy of her.
That very evening he dropped in. There had been a wonderful surgical operation on a poor fellow, who had been mashed and broken by a bad fall. There had been a dispute at first, whether they could save him intact, but after hours of the most careful work there was a good chance. Dr. Langdale was so proud and enthusiastic, giving every one his due with no narrowness.
Then he said, "Oh, Daffodil, are you really going home?"
"They have sent for me. The winter has gone!" and there was a piquant smile hovering about her face.
"It has been such a short winter I have not done half the things I planned to do. But I am resolved to run away some time in the summer. It is ungrateful not to visit mother. And I do want to see the town, and all the old friends."
"Oh, do come!" There was a joyous light in her eyes, and a sweetness played about her lips.
Yes, he surely thought he would. Then they went on about other matters. Bartram was not much versed in love indications, but something rose within him – as if there should be a higher, stronger, more overwhelming love for her.
She would make them talk cheerfully about her going. She said sagely there was such a thing as wearing out one's welcome, and that now she should feel free to come again.
"Next winter," said her guardian. "I think I can get along through the summer with this thought to sustain me, but I shall be a year older, and perhaps more feeble."
"I strictly forbid either of the consequences;" she laughed with adorable gayety, her eyes alight with fun.
"One would think I was of great consequence," she exclaimed a few days later, "by the lamentations my friends make. Or is it a fashion? It will make it harder for me to go. If we could move Pittsburg over! But there are the splendid rivers, and the hills covered with rhododendrons. And, you see, I shall miss the daffodils."
"If it is such sorrow to part with one, I hardly know how you can endure losing so many," said Aldis Bartram gravely.
She looked at him enquiringly. He seldom paid compliments to any one but Madame Clerval.
There were bloom and beauty enough in the grand old town, where every point was romantic. Every day Daffodil and her guardian were out driving, until it seemed to her she could have found her way about in the dark. And in his office Aldis Bartram sat thinking how lonely the house would be without the sunshine of her golden head, and the sound of her sweet, merry voice, her small, thoughtful ways, and the ease with which she could change from one mode of action that she saw was not bringing about a desirable result. At first he considered this a sort of frivolity, but he understood presently that she not infrequently gave up her own pleasure or method for something that suited M. de Ronville better.
He was ambitious, and he had marked out a career for himself. He meant to be rich and respected, his instincts were all honorable, and this had commended him to his employer, who detested anything bordering on double dealing. So, from one position he had been advanced to another, and by persistent study had taken his degree with honor. He enjoyed the life of the class with which he was in keen touch, and he found he could maintain a degree of mental superiority that satisfied his ambition.
There had been a partnership; he was junior counsel, and some of the clients preferred the young, broad-minded man. Then had come the proffer of a home that really surprised him. There were no relatives to be jealous; why, then, should he not be as a son to this man, who no longer felt equal to the burthen and heat of the new day that had dawned on the country, and was calling forth the highest aims and energies of the men of the time?
There had been one intense fascination in his life that had turned to the ashes of bitterness. And now, while he was affable and enjoyed the society of women, he considered himself proof against their blandishments. He had heard of Daffodil's interrupted marriage, and gave her a very sincere sympathy. But he had not been warmly in favor of her visit. Still, it seemed cruel and selfish not to agree to the longing of the invalid, who had an obstinate idea that his days were numbered. A pet and play-thing was perhaps what he needed, for sometimes the devotion exacted bored him and seemed a painful waste of time and energy.
Then M. de Ronville saw the necessity of arranging his guardianship of Daffodil Carrick on a different basis, so that there might be no trouble at his death. Her father might not understand all the fine points, and need some legal aid. This had brought about the visit to Pittsburg, and he had joined his solicitation to that of the guardian, truly believing M. de Ronville's days were numbered, and he did fervently desire to give him whatever happiness and comfort was possible.
But Daffodil was different from the vague idea he had formed of her. She was not a sentimental girl, even if she had been caught by a specious love, and though gay and eager, had a tender, truthful, and noble side to her nature. They were all of a higher class than he had thought possible, and Felix he considered quite an unusual boy. Mr. Carrick had made one brief explanation of the marriage, none of the others alluded to it.
"But you know that the law holds her as an unmarried woman. There was nothing binding in the vows on her side, and pure fraud on his," said Bartram decisively.
"Yes, we are aware of that, but young as she is, it has changed her in some respects. But she is dearer than ever to us. I deprecate this fashion of such youthful marriages, though mine has been very happy," returned the father.
Dr. Langdale came in one morning with a face full of the highest satisfaction. Bartram had been lingering about, discussing the journey. Madame Clerval had offered one of her French maids, but she knew so little of American ways.
"Daffodil," the doctor exclaimed, "will you take me for an escort? I find there is nothing very important for the next few weeks. I have but one more lecture in my course. And I do want to see mother. So, if you have no objection – "
"Why, I should be delighted, though I begin to feel quite like a wise and travelled body. And think how women are coming from abroad and from Canada, and going West, and all over, and reach their destination safely. But I shall be very glad all the same, and your mother will be wild with joy."
"I am afraid we do not think of the pleasure we can give our elders, who, in the nature of things, have less time for the enjoyment of their children. And I feel ashamed that I have allowed the time to slip by, content with a hurried letter. I mean to do better in the future."
"And I applaud your decision," exclaimed M. de Ronville. "Oh, I think you young people really do not know how much happiness you can give us elders just by the sight of your happy faces, and a little cordial attention."
Daffodil glanced at Dr. Langdale with a smile that seemed almost a caress, it was so approving, enchanting. Aldis Bartram caught it and turned away, saying —
"I must leave you to perfect arrangements. I am late now, so I must wish you good-morning," bowing himself out of the room.
He was very busy, and did not go home to dinner, as he had been doing of late. And it was not until he was walking home in the late afternoon that he allowed himself to think of Daffodil's departure.
"She will marry Dr. Langdale and come back here to live, which will be a great pleasure to M. de Ronville," he said to himself, remembering it had his friend's approval. And why should it not have his? Yet he felt as if he did not cordially assent. And if she returned next winter – he lost a sudden interest in the plan. They would be lovers and there would be their joy and satisfaction flaunted in everybody's face.
How could Daffodil keep so bright and cheerful? Had she any real depth? Did not every change, every new plan appeal to her just the same?
But if he had seen her with her arms about Mrs. Jarvis' neck, and the tears in her eyes, he would not have made the comment to himself. And the tender, beseeching tone in which she was saying —
"Oh, you will not let him miss me too much. And when it is pleasant, won't you walk about the garden with him and praise his roses and the flowers he cares for? And keep him thinking that he is better, and has years yet to live, and if Mr. Bartram will go on being devoted to him."
"Mr. Bartram seems to have grown more tenderly thoughtful. Of course, he has a great deal on his mind, and now there are so many perplexing questions about the country, and when one is tired out with the day's work it is hard to rehearse it all over. Oh, my dear, I think you have worked a change in us all with your sweet, generous ways, and your lovely outflowing youth. I am afraid I was beginning to think too much of my own comfort."
Dr. Langdale proved himself most solicitous. Bartram found the planning was taken quite out of his hands, and he chafed a little. Madame Clerval declared herself inconsolable, but she had the fine grace that speeds the parting guest when the going is inevitable.
There was only one day more. M. de Ronville had his breakfast sent upstairs. Daffodil went to find some papers her guardian was going over, and turning, she met Aldis Bartram entering the library.
"I was afraid you might forget them," she said, handing the packet to him.
"Thank you." How often she had charged her mind with these little things.
"I suppose," he began in a wandering sort of tone, as if his mind had strayed to something else, "that it will not really be out of order to congratulate you, since it will be a long while before I shall see you again."
"Oh, about going home? But I shall often think of you all here, and wish the old fairy stories were true, where you could be transported elsewhere in a moment. I think I did truly believe in them once."
How charming she was in that absolute simplicity, the exquisite, innocent, glowing face too frank for concealment. He had no business to probe her secret, and yet he must know.
"Oh, I meant, you will not come back to us the same. You will have learned the lesson of love, and I hope – you will be very happy."
"I don't understand" – a puzzled line settling in her fair brow. "Oh!" suddenly relieved, and then half smiling, "did you think," and then her face crimsoned to its utmost capacity, "that I, that Dr. Langdale – it is a mistake. We were dear friends in childhood, we are warm friends now. For, you see, he has been like a little bit of Pittsburg to me, and sometimes, when I was longing for the dear ones at home, it was comforting to talk them over. And he has no thought of marrying in a long, long while. He means to do so much first."
Was she a finished coquette by the grace of nature? Young men were not given to consideration of this or that when the bewildering passion seized them. But coquette or not, a sharp, overmastering knowledge seized him. Once she had advised him to marry and bring in the household a charming girl. She recognized that his duty would be to M. de Ronville while he lived. He knew that, too, if he would not prove himself an ingrate. And here was the charming girl.
He looked at her so long and steadily that there came faint colors in her face, growing deeper, the lines about her mouth showed tremors, the bronze-fringed lids drooped over her eyes, and she turned away. But the delicious half-bashful movement set his pulses aflame.
"Daffodil," and he caught her hand, "if there is no other among these young men, or even at home, may I not sue for a little favor? I know it surprises you; then perhaps I am too old to win a young girl's regard, love I mean – "
"Oh, you must not," she interrupted. "For I think you hardly like me – you did not at first. And then, I – well – I do not mean to marry. You know there was the – "
"Which simply has no weight in your life."
"But you see, I thought I loved him. Oh, I did love him. And I was so happy. Why, I would have gone to the end of the world with him! Only when one deceives you, when one dares not tell the whole truth, and when one cannot, does not want to give up wealth and station, what was love is some way crushed out. But how could I tell if any new love was the right thing? I might be mistaken again. And there are fickle women in the world I have heard, who can love many times. I don't desire to be one of them. Maybe it is only friendship I am fitted for."
She was trembling in every pulse, though she had made such a brave defence. And she seemed to him a hundred times sweeter than she ever had before. He had much ado not to clasp her to his heart. "My dear little Daffodil," he said with passionate tenderness, "though you have been wooed and said marriage vows, you know nothing about a true and fervent love. That was not much beyond a child's fancy, and you have overlived it, or you could not be so light-hearted. It is only a dream in your life. And I will wait until the woman's soul in you wakes. But I shall not let you go from my influence, I shall keep watch and ward, and try to win you."
"No, no, I am not worth all that trouble. No, do not try," she pleaded.
"I shall take your earlier advice. You said I must marry some charming girl and bring her here. No other girl or woman could satisfy M. de Ronville as well."
"Did I advise you to do that?" and she blushed daintily. "Well," and there was a glint of mischief in her eyes, soft as they were, "once I was offered to you, and you declined."
"Offered to me?" in surprise.
"When I was here before. It was in this very library. I was outside, and when I knew who was meant I ran away."
"Oh, you were such a child then! And I was doing something that I have always despised myself for. I knew a beautiful and fascinating woman, who led me to believe she cared a great deal for me. And then she laughed at my folly. I deserved it for my blindness. So you see, I too had a rude awakening, and found that it was not love, but a mere sham. I believe for a month or so I have been trying not to love you, shutting my eyes to a longing that stirred all my nature. And now that I have admitted it, it has taken a giant's growth in a few hours. I will wait until you can give me the true, sincere regard of your soul. But I could not let you go until I had settled whether I had any ground for hope. Shall we be friends, dear and fond friends, until that time? But I want to be loved sincerely, deeply."