CHAPTER XIV

CRUEL TO BE KIND

When I had seen this hot love on the wing, As I perceived it first, I tell you that, If I had played the desk, or table book, Or given my heart a winking mute and dumb, Or looked upon this love with idle sight— What might you think? No, I went round to work, And my young mistress thus did I bespeak: “This must not be”; and then I precepts gave her, That she should keep herself from his resort, Admit no messengers, receive no tokens, Which done, she took the fruits of my advice, And him repulsed. SHAKESPEARE.

Em. was sitting alone in Mrs. Bruce’s room, her hands busily engaged with needlework and her thought with something else, when the little maid, Liza, entered and said: “Miss Em., ole Marse Commodore sent me to ax yer how he want to see yer in the study.”

The young girl, who thought that Commodore Bruce only wanted her to read to him, promptly laid aside her work and arose, saying:

“Very well. I will go at once; and, Liza, will you please to tell Mrs. Bruce that the commodore has sent for me, so that she may know why I am absent?”

“Yes, miss, I’ll tell her; but, la! marse is marse and missus bofe here! Nobody ain’t no call to make no ’scuses to any missus when ole marse wants ’em, I tell you that,” replied Liza as she followed the seamstress from the room.

Em. went down to the study.

She found the old man still in his dressing-gown and skull-cap, seated in his leathern arm-chair beside the table.

The chair just vacated by Ronald Bruce still stood before him.

As Em. entered he leaned back wearily and sighed.

“You sent for me, sir,” said the girl as she drew near.

“Yes, child. Take this seat in front of me. I wish to talk to you,” he answered gently.

Em. sat down, feeling somewhat embarrassed to be so near and so directly under the eyes of Commodore Bruce.

But the old man gazed kindly down on her drooping face and thought how much it looked like that of his poor lost boy, Lonny, when the latter was a lad and was under rebuke for some childish fault.

“Do not be afraid of me, my dear,” he said gently, as he observed her confusion.

“I am not afraid, only——” Em. began and stopped.

“You are not afraid, only you are _afraid_. You think I am going to talk to you of Ronald. Is it not so?”

Em. could not speak; she bowed and caught her breath.

“You are right, my child,” answered the commodore, and then he dropped his head upon his chest until his long gray beard swept to his waist, and he fell into silent thought.

It had been hard to open the subject with the young man; it was very much harder to do so with the young girl.

At length he raised his head, and looking at her very kindly, said:

“Little Em., I do not know that I can give you a wiser lesson or do you a greater service than by telling you two little incidents in my life’s experience as examples. Will you listen?”

“Yes, sir,” breathed the girl in tones so low that the words scarcely reached his ears.

“When I was a young man I fell desperately in love. You smile, Em.; but fifty years ago I _was_ a young man of twenty years, and, as I said, desperately in love with a pretty, amiable but illiterate and humbly-born girl. I wished to marry her, but my father and mother were bitterly opposed to the match. The controversy ran high. It almost estranged me from my parents. At length there was a compromise. I agreed to wait a year until I should be of age before proposing to my love. And they agreed, in the event of my continuing to desire the marriage at the end of that time, to withdraw their opposition. I was soon after ordered to sea for a three years’ voyage. The end of that time found me at the antipodes—at the port of Canton—more interested in the manners and customs of the Chinese than in the image of ‘the girl I left behind me.’ Even if it had been practical for me to do so, I know that I should not then have claimed my parents’ promise of their consent to my proposal of marriage to her. I had got over my ‘puppy’ love, as they probably anticipated that I would when they enticed me into that compromise which was our salvation.”

As the old man uttered these words he looked wistfully at Em.

She had been rosy red under his scrutiny before, but now she was marble white; her eyes were fixed upon the floor, and her fingers were clasped tightly together on her lap.

He gazed at her pityingly for a moment, then sighed and took up the thread of discourse.

“I say ‘ours’ child, for when I returned from my three years’ voyage I found my fair one the happy wife of a handsome young workman and the proud mother of a bouncing boy. It was a shock to my vanity, but it was a relief to my heart. I was all right; but I felt a little anxious to know whether she was. I called to see her as an old friend. She received me with frank cordiality, and showed me her baby and made me stay to tea to see her husband. When he came home she met him and hurried him upstairs ‘to clean himself,’ as she told me. And when at length he joined us at the tea-table, she took my breath away by introducing me as ‘an old beau’ of hers, who had been ‘awful spoony’ on her at one time, adding, with more frankness than delicacy:

“‘And, you know, I’d married you _then_ if the old man and old woman hadn’t raised such an awful row and kept you from asking me! But, Lord! ain’t I glad they did! For soon after that I met my Charley here at a picnic, and we were married three weeks afterwards. And every day, when I think of it, I feel so awful glad, for I wouldn’t give my Charley for a Secretary of the Navy, let alone a little middy, who would be rushing off to sea every whipstitch and leaving me alone nearly all the time. One better be a widow at once than sich a wife!’ she concluded with a loud laugh.

“Well, Em., I was, at the same time, and by the same means, humbled and relieved. Two years after that I met the woman who became my wife. Our marriage was so happy that one of my brightest anticipations of the next life is that of meeting her, with whom I hope to spend eternity. As for the well united young couple who are the subjects of my story, they lived and prospered. In the course of years the young workman rose to be a partner in the firm in whose service he had commenced as porter. They are still living, though both over seventy, and—a curious coincidence, Em.—their son, the Honorable —— ——, is now Secretary of the Navy and my superior officer. Now, what do you think of my first love, Em.?” cheerfully inquired the commodore.

“I think—I hope—I _pray_,” faltered the girl, keeping her eyes fixed upon the floor and twisting and untwisting her clasped fingers, “that _all_ first love is not so fickle as yours and hers.”

“Ah, humph! humph! I might have expected that answer, of course. But now, my dear, as I began by saying that I had _two_ incidents in my experience to relate to you for your instruction, and as I have told you the first story, which does not seem to have edified you much, I will now tell you the second. Will you listen?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” sighed Em.

“Well! At the very time that I was so insane on the subject of my first and most ill-placed love, I had a schoolmate, a young medical student, who was madder than I was. He loved to frenzy the beautiful daughter of a poor, ignorant workingman. She _was_ beautiful, but beauty was her only attraction. Her intelligence was very low and her temper unhappy. But notwithstanding this, my young friend, ensnared by her beauty and his own eyes, and in defiance of all his family and friends, married her. I do not know how much or how little of happiness they enjoyed in the first years of their marriage, for I was at sea, and our paths lay apart. But in after time, when they had a growing family around them, they had gone so far apart that they were completely estranged. They hated each other with a deep and grievous hatred. They often reproached each other with great bitterness and venom. She was a ‘millstone around his neck,’ pulling him down and keeping him down in the social scale. She could not, perhaps, help being so. But he blamed and despised her for this, and she hated and upbraided him because he blamed and despised her. The children of that wretched household were both in temperament and in position very unhappy. They left home as soon as through marriage or employment they could escape from it. Not one of them has succeeded in life. Much of this family misery might have been hidden from the world, for the man, in _this_ respect, was wise and reticent, but the woman was silly and blatant, and flaunted her domestic troubles in the face of every friend who came near her. The worst was——”

“Oh, please, _please_ tell me no more!” exclaimed Em., instinctively putting her hands to her ears.

The commodore looked at her and smiled.

“Oh, I beg pardon, sir; but it was so dreadful,” said the girl apologetically, as she took down her hands.

“My child, if this state of things is so dreadful to _hear_, what must it be to _bear_? inquired the old man with incisive earnestness.

“Oh, why do you tell me these sad stories?” said Em., almost on the verge of tears.

“For an example and a warning, my child. Listen, little girl. My nephew, Ronald, loves you, or fancies that he does.”

Em.’s complexion, that had been marble white before, now suddenly flushed scarlet all over face, neck and bosom. The old man noticed it, but continued ruthlessly:

“Ronald is of age, is his own master, and has a profession that will enable him to support a wife in decent competency. He can therefore marry whom he will, and in open defiance of his family and friends, if he pleases. He will probably ask you to marry him, Em. If so, what will be your reply?”

“I will wait until he does ask me, sir, and then I will give _him_ my reply,” said Em. with gentle dignity.

“Humph! humph! humph! I hope it will be a proper one, Miss Palmer. If you consent to marry Ronald Bruce, I will tell you what then will be your fate. It will be that of the woman I have just described to you. Ronald loves you _now_, or thinks he does. He will marry you if he can; but his love, such as it is, will not last—cannot last. He will tire of you in a few weeks or months at longest; he will then dislike you—perhaps hate you—because, by having accepted his first offer of marriage, you will come between him and his inheritance, as indeed you will have done; for I will never leave this place to my nephew except on the condition that he marries my niece; for those two are my only heirs, and I will not have the property divided. Should Ronald marry any other than Hermia I shall leave the estate to her. So you see, my dear girl, into what depths of ruin you will cast both Ronald and yourself by accepting him. He will be an impoverished, disappointed and regretful husband. You will be that most miserable of all women—a despised wife.”

Em. uttered a little impulsive, half-suppressed cry and hid her face in her hands.

But after a few moments she recovered herself, and with something of gentle dignity arose and stood before the old man.

Resting one hand on the table, she raised her eyes to his, looked him steadily but modestly in the face and said:

“I do not think that this would be the result of our marriage should Mr. Bruce renew his offer and I accept it. If I should ever marry, my husband should never despise me. Be sure of that. But, Commodore Bruce, have no fears of me. Set your heart at rest. I would never enter any family who were opposed to receiving me; nor, were I inclined to do so, would my father and mother consent; nor, finally, could I take any course against their will. To-morrow my father will come for me to go home and spend Sunday. I shall take leave of you and then depart, not to return.”

She ceased to speak, and was about to go away when the words of the commodore arrested her steps.

“Now I have hurt you, my child. I did not mean to do so. I beg your pardon, Em. Ah! it was very cruel to wound you.”

“No—yes—no,” said the girl in some distress. Then raising her eyes to his, and seeing the pale, old, anxious face, her heart melted towards him. She lifted his withered hand and pressed it to her lips, turned and left the room.

“She has the spring of a fine spirit under all her downy softness. I don’t wonder at poor Ronald. Upon my sacred word and honor I don’t! _What a pity!_” sighed the old commodore to himself.

Meanwhile Em. fled to her attic chamber. And not until she had locked herself in did she give way to the storm of emotion that overwhelmed her.

She threw herself, weeping, on the bed and wept long and bitterly.

The summer gust of tears refreshed her, as a thunder gust refreshes nature. With a healthful reaction she felt better after it had passed.

She arose and rearranged her disordered dress, and went downstairs to Mrs. Bruce’s room and resumed her needlework and sewed diligently until luncheon time.

There were two vigilant eavesdroppers in that house, and all the walls had ears. So it had already become known in the family that Em. was going away the next day, not to return, and so throughout the hour of lunch they all, with two exceptions, treated her with distinguished kindness. The exceptions were Commodore Bruce, who always had used her well, and now made no change, and Ronald Bruce, who spoke to no one if he could help it, but sat and sulked through the whole meal.

After lunch Em. hurried up to Mrs. Bruce’s room and took her work, being desirous of doing her whole duty by her employer.

And for the short remainder of her stay the girl worked very diligently, confining herself all day long to Mrs. Bruce’s room, and even taking her work to the attic and stitching half the night.

She never saw Ronald Bruce except at meal times, and then never spoke with him beyond the conventional greeting.

Before Saturday evening at six o’clock she had completed her last piece of work and handed it over to Mrs. Bruce.

Then she packed her trunk and her handbag, dressed herself for her journey home, and sat down before the portrait of Lonny Bruce to gaze at it and enjoy it while waiting for the arrival of her father.

At a few minutes after six o’clock Liza entered the attic chamber and said:

“If you please, Miss Em., your father has come for you. And my missus sent you dis, and ax you will you send her a deceit for it. And Mose is outside de door, waitin’ to carry down your trunk to de wagon.”

“Very well, Liza, tell Mose to come in,” said Em.

Then, while the man was carrying down her trunk, she opened the blank envelope that had been handed to her by Liza and found in it three dollars—her week’s wages.

Now Em. could never have told why, at the sight of that money, the blood rushed to her head and flooded all her face and neck with fiery flushes. But certainly she quickly replaced the notes in the envelope, dampened the gummed edges with her lips and sealed it, and then took a pencil from her pocket, turned the envelope face up on the mantel-shelf, and standing there, directed it to Mrs. Bruce.

“Here, Liza, take this to your mistress,” she said, handing it to the girl.

“Is this the deceit?” inquired Liza.

“It is the best sort of receipt,” replied Em.

Then she gave Liza a belt and buckle for a keepsake and sent by her a woolen neck-scarf to Mose.

“Now I’ll go down,” she said to herself, and take leave of the dear old man, for somehow I love him, though he breaks my heart.

She ran nimbly down the stairs and into the study, but, instead of the commodore, there sat Ronald Bruce in the big leathern chair.

“Oh, Ronald! I expected to find your uncle to bid him good-by!” exclaimed Em., glad but frightened at this unexpected meeting with her lover at the last moment.

“Oh, Em.! Do you grudge me these few minutes? My uncle went out to speak to your father to try to prevail on him to come in. I knew you would come here to take leave of him, and so I just slipped in to receive you. Ah, Em., are you indeed going for good?”

“Yes, Ronald, in every sense of the word, I am going for _good_. It is _not_ good for either of us that I should remain here. Good-by, Ronald! I know my father is waiting for me.”

“Good-afternoon, but not good-by! I will see you to-morrow, Em., and see your father also! What! not one parting kiss?” he complained, as she firmly repulsed his offered salute. “Then I will see you to your carriage, ‘whether or no,’” he added with a rueful smile, as he followed her out of the house.