CHAPTER XXXVII.
TEDDY'S PRIVILEGE.
To Mr. Burroughs, smoking his cigar upon the piazza of the Neff
House, came a white-jacketed waiter with a card.
"The gentleman is waiting in the reception-room, sir," said he.
Mr. Burroughs paused to watch an unusually perfect ring of smoke lazily floating above his head; then took the card, and read in pencil,—
"Theodore Ginniss would be glad to see Mr. Burroughs a moment on important business."
"Indeed! Well, it is a republic, and this is the West; but only Jack's bean-stalk parallels such a growth." So said, in his own heart, Teddy Ginniss's former master, as he drew two or three rapid whiffs from the stump of his cigar, and then, throwing it into the grass, strolled leisurely into the reception-room.
"Ah, Ginniss! how are you?" inquired he of the pale and nervous young man, who stood up to receive him, half extending his hand, but dropping it quickly upon perceiving those of Burroughs immovable.
"I am well, sir, thank you."
"Want to see me on business, do you say?" continued the lawyer coolly.
"Yes, sir." And, as his true purpose and position came back to him, Teddy suddenly straightened himself, and grew as cool as the stately gentleman waiting with patient courtesy for his errand.
"I thought, sir, I'd come to you first, as it was to you I first had occasion to speak of my fault in hiding her. 'Toinette is found, sir!"
"What! 'Toinette Legrange found! Teddy, your hand, my boy! Found by you?"
"Yes, sir," said Teddy, suffering his hand to be shaken.
"But what I wanted most was to ask if you think it safe to tell Mrs.
Legrange."
"Oh! I'll see to that. Of course, it must be done very delicately.
But where is the child now? and when did you find her?"
"If you please, Mr. Burroughs, I should like to tell the story first to Mrs. Legrange, and I should like to tell her all myself. It was I that hurt her, or helped to hurt her; and I'd like to be the one to give her the great joy that's waiting for her. Besides, sir," and Teddy's face grew white again, "though I did what was wrong enough, I never deny, I have suffered for it more, maybe, than you can think of; and this is all the amends I could ever want. Mrs. Legrange has been very good to me, sir, and never blamed me, or spoke an unkind word, even at the first."
"And I spoke a good many, you're thinking," said Mr. Burroughs keenly. "Well, Teddy, I am a man, and Mrs. Legrange is a woman; and women look at matters more leniently and less exactly than we do. But you must not be satisfied with pity instead of justice; for that will be to encourage your self-esteem at the expense of your manhood. I do not deny that I never have recovered from my surprise at finding you had so long deceived me; but the news you bring to— day makes amends for much: and, after I have heard the particulars, I may yet be able to forget the past, and feel to you as I used."
But Teddy's bow, though respectful, was not humble; and he only asked in reply,—
"Where shall I find Mrs. Legrange, sir?"
"She walked down to the glen about half an hour ago. You may follow her there, if you please; and, since you insist upon it as a right, I will leave you to break the news to her alone. But you will remember, I hope, that she is very delicate,—very easily startled. You will have to be exceedingly cautious."
"Yes, sir;" and with a ceremonious bow the young man left the room, and the next minute was seen darting along the path to the glen.
Mr. Burroughs looked after him appreciatively, and muttered,—
"A nice-looking fellow, and not without self-respect. I see no reason why, in half a dozen years, he should not enter his name at the Suffolk bar itself, and stand as well as any man on the roll. But my little Sunshine! Confound the boy! why couldn't he have told me where to find her?"
So Mr. Burroughs went back to the piazza, and tried to quiet himself with another cigar, but was too nervous to make any more rings; while Teddy sped away to the glen, and presently found himself in a cool and cavernous retreat, which the sunlight only penetrated by dancing down with the waters that slid laughingly over a rock ledge above, and shook themselves into spray before they reached the pool below, then, after dimpling and sporting there for a moment, danced merrily away. At either hand, high walls of rock, half hid in trailing vines and clinging herbage, shut out the heat of day; and, through a thousand ever-changing peepholes among the swaying foliage, the blue sky looked gayly down, and challenged those who hid in the glen to come forth, and dare the fervor of the mid-day sun.
Under a tree near the foot of the fall sat Mrs. Legrange, her head leaning upon her hand, her book idle upon her lap, watching dreamily the waters that swayed and ebbed, and paused and coquetted with every flower or leaf that bent toward them; and yet in the end went on, always on, as the idlest of us go, until through the merry brook, the heedless fall, the sparkling stream, and stately river, we reach at last the ocean, calm, changeless, and eternal in its unmoved depths.
The lady looked up with a little start as she heard the approaching footsteps, and then rose with extended hand,—
"Theodore!" said she kindly. "I am very glad to see you; and so grown! You are much taller than in the spring."
"Yes, ma'am: I believe so. I don't think I shall grow much more," said Teddy, swallowing a great bunch in his throat that almost suffocated him.
"No? Why, you are not so very old, are you?" asked Mrs. Legrange, smiling a little.
"Nearly eighteen, ma'am."
"Oh, well! time enough for a good deal of growth, bodily and mental, yet. So you have been at the West?"
"Yes, ma'am, and have heard some curious things there,—some things that I think will interest you. Have you ever thought of adopting a little girl, ma'am?"
Mrs. Legrange sadly shook her head.
"No, Theodore: I never wished to do that. She never could be any thing like her to me, and it would seem like giving away her place. I had rather wait."
"I am sorry, ma'am; for I saw a little girl, where I have been, that
I was going to speak of."
"Was she a pretty child?"
"Very pretty, and looked like"—
"Theodore, don't say that, because I shall think either you have forgotten or never learned her face. No child ever looked like her," said the mother positively.
"This little girl was very pretty though," persisted Teddy.
"How did she look?"
"She had great blue eyes (if you'll excuse, me, ma'am), just like yours, with long brown eyelashes, and a great deal of bright hair, not just brown, nor yet just golden, but between the two; and a little mouth very much curved; and pretty teeth; and a delicate color; and little hands with pretty finger-nails."
"Theodore!"
Teddy, for the first time in his description, dared to raise his eyes, but dropped them again. He could not meet the anguish in those other eyes so earnestly fixed upon him.
"She was the adopted child of the people I visited in Iowa," faltered he.
"Theodore!" said Mrs. Legrange again; and then, in a breathless fluttering voice,—
"Do not trifle with me; do not try to prepare my mind; and, oh! For God's sake, if it is a false hope, say so this instant! Is she found?"
"I think it may be so, dear Mrs. Legrange!"
"No, but it is so! you know it! I see it in your eyes, I hear it in your voice! You cannot hide it, you cannot deceive me! O my God! my God!-to thee the first praise, the first thanks!"
She fell upon her knees, her face upraised to heaven; and never mortal artist drew such a picture of ecstatic praise. And though in after-years Theodore Ginniss wandered through the galleries where the world conserves her rarest gems of art, never did he find Madonna or Magdalen or saint to compare with the one picture his memory treasured as the perfection of earthly loveliness, made radiant with the purest heavenly bliss.
"Now come!" exclaimed the mother, springing to her feet, and rapidly leading the way along the narrow path. "You shall tell me all as we go."
And the young man found it hard work to keep pace with the delicate woman, as she flew rather than walked towards her child.
"If you will wait here in your own room, I will bring her to you," said Teddy, as he and Mrs. Legrange approached the hotel again.
"Bring her! Where is she now? asked the mother, looking at him in dismay.
"I left them at the other hotel, thinking, if I brought her directly here, we might meet you before you were told," explained Teddy.
"Who is with her?"
"Dora Darling, the young lady who adopted her,—the one I told you of as living in Iowa."
"Yes, yes; and she has come all the way to bring my child to me! No,
I cannot wait: I will come with you."
So Mr. Burroughs, still sitting upon the piazza, saw his cousin hastening by, and came to join her.
"Yes, come, Tom! come to-oh, to see Sunshine again!" and Mrs. Legrange turned her flushed face away, to hide the hysterical agitation she could not quite suppress.
"Take my arm, Fanny; and do not walk so fast. You will hurt yourself," said Mr. Burroughs kindly.
"No, no: nothing can hurt me now. I must go fast: if I had wings, I should fly!"
"Here is the house. Will you wait in the parlor till I bring her down?" asked Teddy, leading the way up the steps of the principal hotel at Yellow Springs.
"No: take me to the room where they are waiting. I want to see her without preparation," said Mrs. Legrange.
So the whole party followed Teddy up the stairs to a door, where he paused and knocked. A low voice said,—
"Come in!" and the opening door showed Dora seated upon a low chair, with Sunshine clasped in her arms, and fast asleep. She made a motion to rise upon seeing the visitors; but Mrs. Legrange, lifting her finger as imploring silence softly advanced, and bent with clasped hands and eager eyes over the sleeping child. Then, with the graceful instinct of a woman who knows and pities the wound in the heart of her less fortunate rival, she put her arms about Dora and the child, embracing both, and pressed her lips lightly upon Dora's cheek, devouringly upon Sunshine's lips.
Dora started as if she had been stung, and a sudden tremor crossed the rigid calm of her demeanor. She had schooled herself to indifference, to neglect or to civil thanks worse than either: but this unexpected tenderness, this sisterly recognition, went straight through all its defences to her quivering heart; and she looked up piteously into the lovely face bent over her, whispering,—
"I am so glad you have found her! but I have nothing left half so dear."
There was no reply; for Sunshine, without sound or movement, suddenly opened her eyes, and fixed them upon her mother's face, while deep in their blue depths grew a glad smile, breaking at last, like a veritable sungleam, all over her face, as, holding out her arms, she eagerly said,—
"I've come to heaven while I was asleep; and you're the angel that loves me so dearly well. I know you by your eyes."
"The mother clasped her own,—as who shall blame her?-and Dora's arms and Dora's heart were empty, robbed of the nestling they had cherished,—empty, as she said to herself, turning from the sight of that maternal bliss, of the best love she had ever known, or could ever hope."
Mr. Burroughs, who liked character-reading, watched her narrowly; and when, presently, the whole party returned to Mrs. Legrange's hotel, he quietly walked beside Dora, lingering a little, and detaining her out of hearing of Mrs. Legrange and Teddy, who walked on with Sunshine between them.
"Is virtue its own reward, Miss Dora?" asked he abruptly, when almost half the distance between the two hotels was passed.
Dora looked at him a little puzzled; and then, as she read the half-sympathizing, half-mocking expression of his face, answered,—
"You mean I am not happy in bringing Sunshine back to her mother; don't you?"
"Exactly; and you told me once that no one ought to be rewarded for doing what is right, because it is reward enough to know that we are doing right."
"And so it is. I don't want any reward," said Dora rather hastily.
"No: but, if young Ginniss had not discovered the identity of the child, my cousin would not have been unhappier than she has been for two years; and you-would you not be at this moment better content with life?"
Dora's clear eyes looked straight into his as she wonderingly asked,—
"Do you want me to say I am sorry Mrs. Legrange has found her child?"
"If it is true, yes; and I know you will," replied Mr. Burroughs quietly.
"And so I would," said Dora, in the same tone; "but it is not true. I am glad, not happy, but very glad, that Sunshine has come to her mother at last,—her heaven, as she calls it. I do not deny that my own heart is very sore, and that I cannot yet think of her not being my child any more, without"—
She turned away her head, and Mr. Burroughs looked at her yet more attentively than he had been looking.
"But, if you could, you would not go back, and arrange it that Teddy should not come to your house? Word and honor now, Dora."
"Word and honor, Mr. Burroughs, I surely would not. Can you doubt me?"
"No, Dora, I do not; but, in your place, I should doubt myself."
Dora looked at him with a frank smile.
"I would trust you in this place, or any other," said she simply.
"Would you, would you really, Dora?" asked Tom Burroughs eagerly, while a slight color flashed into his handsome face. "Why would you?"
"Because I feel sure you could never do any thing mean or ungenerous, or feel any way but nobly"—
She paused suddenly, and a tide of crimson suffused her face and neck. Mr. Burroughs, with the heroism of perfect breeding, turned away his eyes, and suppressed the enthusiastic answer that had risen to his lips. He would not add to her confusion by accepting as extraordinary the impulsive expression of her feelings. So he simply said, after a moment of silence,—
"Thank you, Dora. I hope you may never have occasion to regret your noble confidence."
Dora did not answer, but hastened her steps, until she walked close behind Mrs. Legrange; nor did her companion speak again, although, could Dora have read his thoughts, she might have found in them matter of more interest than any words he had ever spoken to her.