CHAPTER XVIII.

A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.

“Grandmother!”

“Well, my dear.”

Anna did not answer at first, but sat for a time lost in thought. At last she spoke again, but in a voice so constrained that the old lady looked at her with sudden anxiety.

“Grandmother, how long would it take us to move?”

“Not long,” answered the old lady; “we have not much to pack up. Two or three hours would get us ready for the cart, if we all worked.”

“Could we go to-night, grandmother?”

“We could, certainly—but where?”

“I have found a place. When Miss Halstead was here the other day, she told me of a little house which belonged to her grandmother, who did not care to rent it just then, and wanted a nice, quiet family to take charge of it. She had mentioned us to the old lady, and we are just the kind of people she wants.”

“Have you seen the house, Anna?”

“No, grandmother; but Miss Halstead says it is very comfortable and pretty.”

“And the rent?”

“I told you, if you remember, that we were to take charge of the house. It is furnished, and they must have some one. There is no question of rent about it.”

“That is rather strange. Are you sure, Anna, that Miss Halstead is not making this a charity in disguise?”

“It may be—I cannot tell; but one thing I do know, if charity could be sweet from any one, that dear young lady would make it so. She is good and lovely as an angel!”

“She is, indeed.”

“And you will accept this offer, grandmother?”

“It seems too good to be true, Anna. But if we can take a more comfortable house on such terms, it would be wrong to refuse it. For many reasons, dear, I should be glad to get you out of this place.”

“And I shall be so glad to move. It seems as if I could not breathe here. Put on your shawl, grandmother, and let us go look at the house. It is not so very far away.”

“How impatient you are, Anna. We will look at the house, and I will get ready; but as for moving, we must give the landlady notice—she has been very kind to us.”

“So she has, grandmother, I had forgotten her. Indeed, it seems to me as if I forget every thing but myself. Of course, the boys must be consulted.”

“They must, at least, be informed.”

“Oh! how I wish it could be done at once; but if that is impossible, we can, at least, go and see this new house.”

The old lady put on a neat crape bonnet which Anna had made for her, and covered the darns in her dress with an old black shawl, good in its time, but worn thin as muslin in places. She looked neat, and like a perfect gentlewoman; and would have appeared so in any dress, for with her, innate refinement was independent of costume.

Anna had been sitting in her bonnet and shawl, for she had taken a long walk after her interview with Joseph, which ended in that call on Miss Halstead, during which the business of the house had been settled. Georgiana had received her with more than kindness. There was something shy and tender in her manner inexpressibly touching. It seemed as if she were accepting a favor, rather than conferring one, when a second offer of the house was made. Old Mrs. Halstead had been called in to the conference, and seemed delighted at the prospect of securing such unexceptionable inmates for her house.

“It is a little box of a place in the edge of the town, so small that I find it difficult to obtain a tenant that suits me. Besides, I may sometimes wish to live in it myself.”

“You! grandmamma?” exclaimed Georgiana.

“Yes. When my pretty grandchild here gets tired of petting me, or loves some other person enough to leave me.”

“That I never shall—never!” answered Georgie. “Now it is impossible.”

The old lady laid a hand on her young head with a queenly sort of tenderness, and said, “Hush, child, hush! I do not like to hear you talk in this way.”

“What! do you want me to leave you?” answered Georgie, rallying her sprightliness; “that is very unkind, grandmamma.”

There was something sad and a little out of the common way here, which Anna did not understand. Was it possible that this beautiful young creature, living in the very lap of wealth, could have her anxieties and feel the heartache as she did? The thought made her look on Georgie with more interest; a growing sympathy was fast springing up between these two girls, so far apart in the social strata, but so close together in that refinement of heart and mind which makes high natures kin.

“If you can go to-day,” said Georgie, “I will meet you at the house and do the honors.”

So it was arranged; and Anna went home, brightened a little by this change in her existence, to consult her grandmother, and prepare for the appointment she had made.

Mrs. Burns entered a street-car and sat down by Anna, pleased with an event that had drawn her from the eternal sameness of her garret-home. She was a mild, sweet-faced old lady, for whom even the rude jostlers of a street-car made room reverently. So she enjoyed her ride, and thanked God in her heart that Anna would soon be under a shelter where no bad, rude man would dare to force himself upon her. The advent of Mr. Ward into what had been to them always a safe and peaceful dwelling, had distressed the old lady more than her grandchildren had dreamed of. She had seen enough of the world in her lifetime to understand that to be domesticated with a young man, from any grade in society, would bring reproach of some kind on her child. The cars stopped, and after walking a single block, these two women found themselves in front of an opening or park, encircled by a double crescent of small three-story cottages, with verandahs of light wood-work running along each story, all woven and draped with climbing roses, honeysuckles, and Virginia creepers. In fact, the front of these houses was one lattice-work of flowers; and all the open ground inclosed in the two crescents was broken up with guilder-roses, lilacs, spireas, and a world of roses growing in rich masses, if not always rare, exceedingly beautiful.

A street ran between the two crescents lined with tall trees, which, here and there, tangled their branches over it. In the grounds, too, were weeping-willows, the paper-mulberry, and alanthus trees, drooping under the weight of great clusters of vividly red fruit.

The old lady uttered an exclamation, half delight, half surprise. Was it possible? Could she again gather her son’s children about her in a place like that? To Anna it seemed a little paradise. The very breath stopped on her lips as she paused to gaze upon it. “There must be some mistake,” she said. “The number was on one of those gates, truly; but it could not be.” She stood before one of the rustic gates which opened to a house in the very deepest curve of one of the crescents, bewildered and uncertain.

“Do not attempt to open it,” said the old lady, restraining her granddaughter’s hand as she was about to unlatch the gate. “It cannot be here we are to live.”

Poor old soul! She had lived so long in the close rooms of that tenement-building, that these houses, very simple and unpretending if divested of their grounds and flowers, seemed far too magnificent for her aspirations.

“Let us go on,” she said, “and search out the real house; this place is as lovely as paradise, but it is not for us. I wish you had not come this way, Anna, it will make you dissatisfied with the reality.”

“Look, grandmother, look! It is the very house. There is Miss Halstead in the door; you can scarcely see her for the honeysuckles—but I should know her face anywhere. She is coming forward, and looks so pleased. Come, grandmother.”

Through the gate they went, and along the broad path lined with flowers on either hand. A rustic chair stood in the lower verandah, close by an open French window, which led into a pretty little parlor connected by folding doors, always kept open, with one of the cosiest little rooms you ever saw. This room was just large enough to hold a small couch, an easy-chair, a stand for flowers, and some books—just what it did contain. Mrs. Burns sat down in the rustic chair, and drop after drop trembled up into her dear old eyes. Was this to be her home, even for a short season? Would her children breathe the odor of these flowers, and sleep in those neat rooms? She could not realize it. Our readers know how this sweet, old creature had bent and yielded to what was inevitable in adversity without a murmur, and without shedding a single tear: but she was childlike with gratitude now, and the tears began to steal down her withered cheek in slow drops of happiness.

“My dear,” she said, holding out her hand to Georgiana Halstead, “come here and let the old woman kiss you, she is getting to be a child again; but a happy, very happy child. Are we, indeed, to live here?”

“If you will, dear madam, my grandmother wishes it; but she makes one condition.”

“What is that? I am sure it will not be a hard one.”

“Not very, I hope. While you stay in the house, you and your family must occupy it entirely. Your own furniture can be brought in, but you will find the house tolerable without that. She wishes no reserve as to room or furniture. Take possession when you please—the sooner the better; that is all the condition my grandmother makes.”

“Your grandmother is a kind woman, and I thank her—that is all we can do. We are poor in every thing but this gratitude, which is very sweet to feel.”

“Let us see the house. It was pretty as a bird’s-nest when I was here months ago. How fortunate it is that grandmamma did not wish to let it. Come up stairs, you will find a very pretty sitting-room there, one of the most breezy, cheerful places you ever saw. Your bed-chamber, Mrs. Burns, opens into that. Anna’s will be on the third story. I have arranged it all. Come and see.”

Up stairs they went, into a room which Georgie had described well as cheerful and breezy, for the two sash-windows were open, and the whole chamber was swept with perfumed air as they entered it. Two good-sized book-cases were in this room, filled with pleasant reading. The furniture was all excellent, but unpretending. Two or three engravings hung on the walls; and one of Wheeler & Wilson’s sewing-machines stood in a rosewood case in one corner. In the balcony, which seemed like a little room—it was so festooned with vines—were some rustic chairs, and a bird-cage, in which birds were chirping.

“This is my little present,” said Georgie, promptly, remarking the old lady’s look of surprise. “Here is a rocking-chair, which grandmamma sent from her own room. No one is to sit in that but Mrs. Burns, remember. Now take a peep in here; comfortable, I think.”

She opened the bedroom door and revealed a low bed, white as snow, but simple as a bed well could be; an easy-chair, covered with white dimity, stood near it, and every thing that an old person could require for comfort or convenience was there. Something more than the common furniture of a house had certainly been added here. Georgiana accounted for this frankly enough.

“Grandmamma,” she said, “had more of these things than she knew how to use, and would send them. She does so like to make every thing complete.”

Old Mrs. Burns had not been known to smile so frequently as she did that day for years. There was an absolute glow on her face all the time she stayed in that cottage. She felt intuitively that some great kindness was intended, but it gave her no pain—generous persons can receive favors without annoyance; the very qualities which induce them to give freely enable them to receive gracefully. Here that good old lady had a double pleasure, that of occupying a pleasant home, and the intense gratitude which came out of it, which was exquisite happiness in itself.

“Tell your grandmother that her kindness has made an old woman hopeful again. For my own sake, and in behalf of my dear children, I thank her.”

They stood by the gate looking back upon the grounds when Mrs. Burns said this. Anna was a little apart, silent, and with a dreamy sadness in her eyes. She had said little while examining the house. What could a change of place do for her? Indeed, I think the old rooms under the roof of that tenement-house was dearer to her than those open balconies, and all the flowers that draped them, for there _he_ had held her hand quietly in his. There he had “looked, though he was seldom talking of love.” She was glad for her grandmother’s sake, and pleased that the boys, who worked so hard and were so good, would be for a time, at least, made more comfortable. As for herself, poor girl, her life was broken up. But for those dear ones she would have been glad to die, had God so willed it.

Georgiana Halstead did not understand this. She knew nothing of Anna’s interview with Mrs. Savage; and deeming her possessed of a love for which she would have given so much, was both surprised and disappointed at a coldness which to her seemed want of feeling. In the exaltation of a most generous nature, she had found relief in carrying out the promise she had given Horace Savage; but she had expected more enthusiasm, more demonstrative happiness, from a girl who had darkened her own life in attaining the love which was so ready to lift her out of all that was disagreeable in her life.

Georgiana went home with Mrs. Burns. She was not the girl to make half sacrifices, and thought that, perhaps, her help or counsel might be of use. She would not be saddened by Anna’s silence, or disheartened in any way. Horace had asked her to befriend these people, and she would oblige him whether they wished it or not.

Very much to the surprise of Mrs. Burns and her visitor, Robert had reached home earlier than usual, and was sitting in the room with young Mr. Gould, who had just returned from Ward’s room, where a fiery scene had passed between him and his old friend. That morning Robert had appealed to the nephew of his employer with frank earnestness, and besought him to get the young man away from that house. He told Gould how cruelly his presence annoyed sister Anna, and added that the grandmother had appealed to him in vain.

Gould was terribly angry when he learned how meanly Ward had seized upon his reckless hint to persecute a helpless girl. Every generous impulse of his nature rose up in repudiation of an act so base. Scarcely had Robert told his story, when Gould seized his hat and stood ready, so far as lay in his power, to correct the evil his own rash folly had instigated. His transient fancy for Robert’s sister had vanished long ago, and he felt responsible for an act which might injure her, and certainly debased the man he had once considered as his friend.

I have said there was a stormy scene in Ward’s room within ten minutes after Gould entered the house. We do not care to give the particulars, as it was enacted at the very time Mrs. Burns was going over her new house—a much pleasanter subject. But the result was, that an hour after young Ward gave up his key to the landlady, and hurried out of the house with a portmanteau in his hand, looking greatly flurried, and as mean as an exquisite dandy could well look.

Gould went up stairs with Robert, resolved to set the old lady and her charge at rest for the future; and, if it could be done, offer them such help as might atone for the trouble he had unwittingly occasioned them. He had been angry, or at least excited with generous indignation; and his very handsome face was lighted up into something more striking than mere color or form. He really was splendid while moving up and down that little room, his face bright with noble feeling, and his step lithe as the movements of a panther.

Gould stood in the middle of the room when the young girls came in. I think at that particular moment it would have been hard to find a more noble-looking fellow. Anna started and turned crimson. She recognized him at once as the Bois Guilbert of that Waverly tableau that had terminated so disastrously. Georgie, too, remembered him, and blushed in company with her friend.

“My dear madam,” said the young man, addressing Mrs. Burns, “I beg ten thousand pardons for this intrusion; and as many more that any person I have ever known should have been its cause. My friend Robert here—a boy to be proud of, madam—informed me of the distress Ward had thrown you into, and I came up at once to turn him out. He is gone; I saw him into the street myself. You need have no further uneasiness on his account.”

“You are very good, very kind,” answered the old lady, thanking him with her eyes all the time she was speaking. “It would have been a great service, and is; but we are going to move.”

“What! has the scoundrel really driven you out?”

“No, not altogether that. We have found friends,” said Mrs. Burns, looking significantly at Georgiana.

“I am heartily glad of that. Miss Halstead, I have already had the pleasure of an introduction. I could hardly have found it in my heart to forgive any one else for preceding me. But my uncle and I will settle our share with my young friend Robert.”

“Robert,” whispered Mrs. Burns, who seemed to be trembling all over, “who is this young gentleman?”

“Hush, grandmother! it is only young Mr. Gould.”

The old woman dropped into a chair, and, clasping her hands together, forced herself to sit still.

“I will go now,” said Georgie, seeing that nothing could be done. “To-morrow I will come again, and we will arrange things. Robert, are you very tired? It is getting a little dark, I think.”

Robert got up and took his hat from the table; but young Gould took it gently from his hand and laid it back again. “I am going by Miss Halstead’s residence. Will she permit me to escort her?”

Georgie smiled, twisted the elastic around her lace parasol, as if it was of no further use, and prepared to go. That splendid young fellow, with eyes so soft, and yet so bright, was no mean escort for any girl—and Georgiana was quite conscious of the fact. Indeed, of the two, she could not but confess he was taller and finer-looking than Savage. That was why he had been selected to represent the magnificent Templar.

So Georgie went home, accompanied by Mr. Gould, with her pretty gloved hand resting on his arm lightly as a bird touches the branch it nests on, yet sending the pleasantest sort of a sensation through that arm, and into the impetuous heart close by. If Georgie was conscious of the mischief she was doing, the pretty rogue gave no sign, unless a little heavier weight upon the arm might have been deemed such; but upon the steps of her father’s mansion she paused, after ascending just far enough to bring her face on a level with his, and such a warm, rosy smile met him that he longed to kiss her then and there, as an excuse for going into that house and demanding her on the instant of her father. Gould had seen that provokingly handsome creature many a time without any such feelings, and asked himself, with supreme contempt, what he had been about never to fall in love with her before.

“May you call?” said Georgie, putting the tip of her parasol up to her mouth, and turning her head on one side, as if she were brooding over the subject, “Yes, certainly, if you have any business with papa—I think he does that sort of thing with your house sometimes; or if you have taken a fancy to know grandmamma. She’s an old lady worth knowing, I can tell you.”

“If you permit me, I certainly shall have business with your father,” answered Gould, with a bright smile; “and am so anxious to see this fine old lady, that to-morrow, at the furthest, I shall claim that privilege.”

“I dare say she will be glad to see you. If she should be indisposed, there is Aunt Eliza—you have seen Aunt Eliza?”

“Oh, yes, certainly! I have seen her, and shall be delighted to resume the acquaintance.”

“Well, that being settled, good-night!”

Gould lifted his hat, and went away. Georgie ran up the steps, smiling like a June morning. The door was opened, and she glided through singing in a low, happy voice, “Spring is coming! Spring is coming!” when a voice called to her from over the banisters. Miss Eliza spent half her natural life leaning over those banisters—and she was there, as usual, keeping guard.

“Who was it? Who was it you were talking to, Georgiana?” she called out. “I heard a man’s voice. I will take my oath I heard a man’s voice.”

“It was Mr. Gould,” answered Georgie, breaking off her song.

“Mr. Gould? What, the young gentleman who was on his knees to that vile girl in the tableau? You don’t mean to say it was him?”

“Yes, I do, Aunt Eliza.”

“Where did you meet him, Georgie, dear? Tell me all about it, that’s a sweet angel!”

“I met him at Mrs. Burns’, Aunt Eliza.”

“What! in that garret? Is he bewitched by that creature, too? I can’t believe it!”

“I don’t know about his being bewitched, but he certainly was in Mrs. Burns’ room when we got there.”

“We! Georgiana. Who are you talking about?”

“Old Mrs. Burns, Anna, and myself. We had been up town on a little business, and——”

“Georgiana Halstead, have you been in the street with those low people?”

“Yes, if you will call them so.”

“Without my permission?”

“I had that of grandmamma.”

“My mother is an old—— My mother does not know what she is about. I must inform her.”

“She is well informed, Aunt Eliza.”

“I will make sure of that. But Mr. Gould—did he inquire for me?”

“He spoke of you, certainly.”

“What did he say? Come up here this minute, and tell me all about it.”

“He said that he had been introduced to you, and should like to renew the acquaintance.”

“Yes, yes! I dare say he would! I saw clearly that he was watching my Horace that night like a lynx, so jealous that he could not conceal it, because he escorted me to the carriage. So he has manifested himself at last. Too late! Too late!”

“He spoke of calling to-morrow, Aunt Eliza.”

“Indeed! That is serious. I will receive him courteously, of course, and with tender dignity. If there is any time when a lady should be considerate, it is when she is compelled to suppress the love she has inspired. Do not look at me, niece; I shall find myself equal to the occasion, depend on that. But, after visiting that creature, he cannot expect the reception I might otherwise have given him.”

“Where is grandmamma, Aunt Eliza?”

“In her room. Go to her, child, and confess every thing. She is kind, she is benevolent. Have no fear to approach her; she may not possess my bland manner—but that is the fault of early education. She is a trustworthy person, and deserves to be treated well.”

“Afraid to approach my darling old grandmamma, who knows so much more than all of us put together, and is worth a thousand people, if we count the heart for any thing. Dear me! what a precious old goose Aunt Eliza is. Ha! she is leaning over the banister again. I hope she didn’t hear me.”

“Georgiana!”

“Well, Aunt Eliza.”

“At what hour did Mr. Gould speak of calling?”

“He did not appoint any special time.”

“Well, it does not matter, one can dress early, and the pleasures of anticipation are so exquisitely sweet, that I shall quite revel in them,” muttered Miss Eliza to herself. “I only wanted this to bring that proud man to his knees. Let him fear to lose me once, and we shall have an interesting crisis; depend on that, Eliza Halstead.”

Once more the banisters were left to their own support, and Miss Eliza retired into the place she called her boudoir, while Georgie went to her grandmother, and told her all that had passed. When Georgie spoke of Mr. Gould, the old lady seemed unusually disturbed, and asked a good many questions with singular interest, but said nothing against his coming, and smiled a little, as nice old ladies will when they watch the workings of a young girl’s heart in her innocent speech. From that night Mrs. Halstead was less anxious about the heavy eyes and pale cheeks of her pet. In fact, it was not long before her cheeks wore the flush of wild roses, and her eyes—— Well, it is of no use describing Georgie’s eyes when she was happy—they were too lovely for comparison.

It had been a chilly day, which made fires pleasant, when Savage had that interview in the old maid’s room; but the weather was deliciously pleasant now, and Miss Eliza came out in white muslin and blue ribbons, radiant with expectation from breakfast time till noon, and from noon till evening. Then Mr. Gould came, and, according to her own private instructions, was taken up to her room, where the Cupid was quivering over a basket of real flowers, and Miss Eliza sat in position, with her foot on the ottoman, and some innocent white flowers in her hair.

Gould was not quite so much pre-occupied as Savage had been, so he fell into the lady’s humor, complimented her till she fluttered like a bird of paradise on its nest, and began to think seriously of spurning young Savage from the feet to which he was expected to fall. After awhile Gould adroitly brought the conversation round to the lady’s mother, and expressed an ardent wish to know intimately any person connected with a person he had admired so long. This desire was so promising that Eliza took Gould into the family sitting-room, where Mrs. Halstead sat with her beautiful grandchild.

In this fashion Gould introduced himself into the family, where he soon became intimate as a son.

It was after this bold step that the roses came back to Georgie’s face; and the young creature began to sing again, like a bird that some great storm has silenced for a time. The old lady smiled on all this, but at times she would fix her eyes, with strange anxiety, on the young man’s face, as if her thoughts were afar off, and troubled with bitter memories.

As for Miss Eliza, it was very difficult to sweep an illusion from her brain. Intense vanity like hers is not easily warned.