The Old Stone House - Constance Fenimore Woolson (each kindness read aloud txt) 📗

seen explanations given of many popular terms but never of these. After I am gone, though, Bessie, you had better give up slang. It is all very well with me, and to tell the truth, I have taught you all you know, but it would not do with any one else.”

“Just as though I should ever speak a word of it to any one else,” said Bessie indignantly. “With you, it is different; you are like another myself.”

“Alter ego,” said Hugh.

“I don’t know anything about alter ego, but I know I shall miss you dreadfully,” said Bessie, throwing down her brush as the thought of Hugh’s departure came into her mind with vivid distinctness.

“I shall be back again in November, Bessie.”

“Yes; but only for a day or two.”

“Perhaps I shall come home in the spring, also.”

“But it won’t be the same. You will change,—I know you will,” murmured Bessie, with a half sob.

“I shall not change towards any of you here at home, but of course I shall grow older, and I hope I shall improve. You remember all I told you about my plans for the future?”

“Yes, Hugh. But it is such a long way off.”

“It does not seem long to me, Bessie; I have so much to accomplish that the time will be short. I love to look forward,—I love to think of all I shall do, of all the beautiful things I shall buy,—of all the unfortunate people I shall help. I shall succeed,—I know I shall succeed, because I shall work with all my might and main,—and also because I shall try to do so much good with my money.”

“Yes; but all this time where shall we be? Where shall I be?” said Bessie, sadly.

“You shall come down to visit me with Aunt Faith: you have only one more year of school-life, and then you can spend a part of every winter in New York.”

“That will be nice,” said Bessie, slowly, taking up her brush again; but, childlike, the present seemed more to her than the future. Hugh was silent, gazing out through the window ‘over the summer landscape,—the pasture, the grove, and the distant lake. “Aunt Faith will miss you,” said Bessie, after a pause.

“Dear Aunt Faith,” replied Hugh, “she does not know how much I love her! She will miss me, but I shall miss her still more. All my life she has been my guardian angel. And to think how I have deceived her!”

“Oh, Hugh, such little things!”

“The principle is the same. I think, before I go, I will tell her all,—all the numerous escapades we have been engaged in; then I shall have a clear conscience to start with. After I am gone, Bessie, you will not be tempted to transgress in that way, and who knows but that we shall turn out quite well-behaved people in our old age.”

“I have tempted you, not you me, Hugh.”

“Call it even, then. Why! what are you crying about, Brownie?”

“You are going away,—you are going away!” was all that Bessie could say.

Hugh’s eyes softened as he saw his cousin’s grief. “Don’t cry, dear,” he said gently. “We shall not be parted long. And while we are parted, I want to think that you are happy, that you, too, are trying to improve as I am trying. I want to think that my little Bessie is growing into a stately, beautiful Elizabeth. You are part of my future, dear, and you can help me to succeed.”

“How, Hugh?” said Bessie, wiping away her tears.

“By being happy, trying to improve yourself, and writing me all you are doing. Such letters will be very pleasant to me when I am working hard in the great city. We have never, either of us, taken a serious view of life, but for once, to-day, I feel very serious, Bessie; I am going to try to be good,—I am going to try to be a good man. And I want you to try and be good too.”

“I will try, Hugh,” whispered Bessie, affected by his serious tone.

“That is right. And now let us have no more sadness to spoil my last day at home. Whatever the future may bring to me,—and I have full confidence in the future, you know,—all of you here at home will have the first place in my heart. I have a great many plans, and all of them are bright; I have a great many hopes, and all of them are certain; life seems very beautiful to me, and I thank my Creator for my health and strength. I ask nothing better than what lies before me, and I am willing to take the labor for the pleasures it will bring.”

Hugh paused, and an expression of glowing hope lit up his face and shone in his blue eyes. Bessie seized her brush, and, filled with a sudden inspiration, worked intently at her portrait for some time in silence.

“There is the first dinner-bell, Queen Bess,” said Hugh; “I have idled away the whole morning up here. Good-bye, little studio,” he continued, rising as he spoke; “I hope one day to see you altered into a beautiful, luxurious abode of art, filled with striking pictures, the work of America’s greatest artist, Elizabeth Darrell!”

“If I should paint the best pictures in the world, you would not allow my name to be connected with them in public, Hugh. You are so prejudiced.”

“Prejudiced, is it? Well, perhaps it is. I own I do not think that types adorn a woman’s name. A woman ought not to appear ‘in the papers’ but twice; when she marries, and when she dies.”

“So if she don’t marry, she never has a chance of being anybody until she is dead; I don’t call that fair, Hugh.”

“Surely, Elizabeth Darrell, you are not shrieking for suffrage!”

“Never!” said Bessie, “I’m only shrieking for my name.”

“What’s in a name!” replied Hugh, laughing. “Paint away, little artist; I will buy all your pictures, and pay you so well for them that you won’t care for fame. By the way, am I not to ––

[Transcriber’s Note: There is some dialogue missing here, although there are no pages missing in the images.]

“No,” replied Bessie, moving the easel; “but I’ve got your eyes at last!”

“I’m glad of that; good-bye, Brownie,” and Hugh ran off down the stairs to prepare for dinner.

“And my bracket!” said Sibyl, as he came into the dining-room.

“And my poems!” added Aunt Faith, with a smile.

“All in good time, ladies,” replied Hugh. “The first hour after dinner is to be devoted to packing; the second, to Sibyl and her bracket; the third, to Aunt Faith and her book; the fourth I give to the family as a collective whole, and all the rest of the time I reserve for tea, general farewells, and embarkation.”

“Highly systematic! You are practicing business habits already, I see,” said Sibyl.

“The B. B.‘s are all coming to see you off, Hugh,” said Tom.

“What an honor! I am overwhelmed with the attention of the band! What time may I expect them?”

“A little after six. They are going to form on both sides of the front walk, and hurrah like troopers.”

“Oh Hugh, I am real sorry you are going,” said Gem suddenly, dropping her knife and fork as though the idea had only just become a reality to her. “I shall hate to see your empty chair in the morning when I come down to breakfast; I know I shall.”

There was an ominous tremor in Gem’s voice as she spoke.

“Come, little girl, no tears,” said Hugh, bending to kiss his little cousin; “everybody must be cheerful or I shall not like it. And as for the chair, take it out of the room if you like, but be sure and bring it back in November when I come home again.”

“I’ll keep it in my room, and bring it down myself the day you come home,” said Gem eagerly.

A little after three, Hugh tapped at Sibyl’s door. “Is it you, brother? Come in,” said Sibyl, and entering, Hugh sat down by the table and began to work on the half-finished bracket. They talked on many subjects, but principally on Hugh’s New York life, and his plans for the future; then gradually they spoke of November, and the approaching wedding-day. “Before I go, Sibyl, I want to tell you in so many words how pleased I am to give you into Mr. Leslie’s care. If I could have chosen from all the world, I know no one to whom I would more willingly have given my only sister; no one so welcome as a brother-in-law.”

“How glad I am that you feel so, Hugh,” said Sibyl warmly.

“And you yourself Sibyl; you have improved so much. It is not often that brothers and sisters express the affection they feel for each other, but you know I do not believe in such reserve, and I want you to know, dear, how thoroughly I appreciate the change in you. Leaving you, as I must, it is very pleasant to think that my one sister is growing into a noble good woman, such as our mother would have wished to have her.”

Sibyl threw her arms around Hugh’s neck; she was much moved. In her new life and new love, her brother had become doubly dear to her, and perhaps for the first time, she realized how much she loved him.

“No tears, I hope, sister,” said Hugh, gently raising her head. “This is my ‘good-bye’ to you, dear. You know I do not like formal leave-taking. Here is your little bracket all done, but I shall bring you a better present from New York, a set of wedding pearls. You will have to wear them if I give them to you, although you are a clergyman’s wife.”

Aunt Faith was sitting by the window in her room when she heard her nephew’s step outside. “Come in!” she said; and when he entered she pointed to a chair next her own. “My dear boy, I cannot realize that you are going to leave me.”

“Only for a few weeks, Aunt Faith; I shall be back in November.”

“Not to stay, dear. No, I feel that this is our first real separation, although for years you have been absent at school and college many months at a time. You are the first to leave the old stone house,—the first bird to fly away from the nest.”

“I am the oldest, aunt, and therefore naturally the first to go.”

“That is true, but the old bird feels none the less sad.”

“You must not feel sad, Aunt Faith; the future looks very bright to me. Let me tell you all my plans.” Sitting there in the quiet room, the young spirit full of hope, told to the old spirit full of resignation, all its bright dreams and plans.

“I hope they will all come true, dear,” said Aunt Faith, after they had talked long on these subjects.

“I hope,—I think they will, if human energy can bring it about. But now, aunt, to look back on the past, I want to make a confession to you, I want you to hear and forgive me before I go.”

Then Hugh told of all the secret horseback rides, and many other wild adventures of past years, in which he and Bessie had each borne a part. “It has been all my fault, Aunt Faith,” he said, as he concluded. “I was the elder and the stronger, and I led Bessie on. Without me she would have done none of those things. Poor little Bessie! she is very dear to me. You will be kind to her when I am gone?”