AUNT RUTH'S TEMPTATION.
BY MRS. JOHN LILLIE.
Chapter II.
The final morning arrived at last, and as I drove away in papa's gig all the children crowded the gateway, and Winifred, in their midst, strained her eyes to see the last of me, and smile and wave a good-by.
Mrs. Ludlow's brother-in-law was to meet me at the station: he was on his way from Albany to New York, and had agreed to look out for me at C——, as the train passed through our town. The cars had hardly stopped, when a tall young man appeared on the platform, and was soon shaking hands with my father.
"I haven't seen you since you were a boy," my father said; "but I don't see that you have changed much. Now, Mr. Ludlow, will you take charge of my little girl?"
Mr. Ludlow declared himself well pleased to do so, and he was so genial and good-humored that I quickly got over the sudden shyness which had taken possession of me, and in half an hour I felt as if I had known him all my life. He seemed a little old, it is true; he was twenty-eight, and he had a dark, handsome face, with bright eyes and a merry laugh. I was perfectly astonished when I heard he was preparing to be a clergyman. I was soon chatting comfortably with him, and had told him all about our home and the boys, and Winny and my father, and how delighted I was to go to New York.
"And is Winny the housekeeper?" Mr. Ludlow asked. He knew that mamma was dead.
I started and laughed. "Why, she is our sister," I said. "But then," I added, "she does everything for us."
How well I remember our arrival! It was nearly dark, and the city confused me with its many sights and sounds, the endless streets, and lamps, and throngs of people. A carriage was waiting for us at the dépôt, and we drove through a great many streets, stopping finally before a big brick house with a low doorway, near Washington Square.
I had never been in New York before, and could not remember my one visit to Albany, so the fine town house, the long beautiful hall we entered, seemed to me like something I had read of or dreamed about. There was a great staircase winding away to the left, and down this Cousin Mary came hurrying, and I remembered having seen her at my mother's funeral—a sweet, gray-haired lady, with a faded pretty face, a great deal of old lace about her dress, and a quiet, friendly voice. Other voices sounded in a room near by; young voices laughing and talking; and Cousin Mary took me into a large beautiful room with fire-light dancing on the walls, and where half a dozen gay people were playing some merry game: they all stopped short as we entered.
"This is Ruth Grahame," said Cousin Mary; "your cousin from C——, Milly."
Upon this, Milly Ludlow came forward and welcomed me kindly. She was a tall girl about my own age; not so fashionably dressed as I had expected a New York cousin to be, but very lady-like and gentle in her manners. She soon introduced the others—Gray Roberts, Nelly and Jessie Price, and Jack Ludlow; they were all cousins, and all seemed delighted to see Mr. Ludlow, who was soon discussing the game with them, and entering into all the fun like a school-boy. What an evening that was! I was soon thoroughly at home, and very talkative, I assure you, for in our own house I had been encouraged to talk a great deal too much. I was to sleep with the Prices in a big room up stairs, and I was very much struck by their fine clothes and city-bred manners when we were dressing for the late dinner at which we were all to be present. The Prices were rather silly girls, but good-natured, and they seemed interested in all I had to say, though they criticised me very freely, and one said I must "friz" my hair, and the other asked if I wore French heels, and openly lamented the fact that I did not.
After dinner there was a most fascinating hour. Mr. Ludlow whispered to Milly, and then she came up to me in the parlor, saying that we were all to slip up to the attic, where they were rehearsing a little play intended for a surprise to Cousin Mary and Cousin Henry on their wedding anniversary. The elder sisters, Kate and Mary, were in it as well, and we found them in the attic, lighting it up, and putting away some of the costumes. That attic seemed to me a wonderful place: it extended over the entire house, and the roof was higher than in most attics, for it had been built with a view to being a play-room, long ago, when Kate and Mary Ludlow were small. At one end a temporary stage was erected, and preparations made for the curtains at either side and in front. All the final work was to be done the day before the performance. As soon as we were in the attic, Mr. Ludlow suggested that some part should be found for me. Kate Ludlow had written the play, and there was a part adapted specially for each person; but she very good-naturedly told her uncle (young as he was, he was her uncle) that she would insert something for me. I was fluttered with delight, and had sufficient confidence in myself to feel sure it would be an easy matter to perform with credit to all concerned. The story of the play was a domestic one. Kate introduced a part for me with Jessie Price—a dialogue between two friends of the heroine, rather artfully contrived to give me something to do, and at the same time work out the plot. Jessie acted very badly, so that my awkwardness showed the less, and I was rather well satisfied with the prospect, and wildly delighted by the idea of wearing one of Kate's longest silk gowns, and a white bonnet with a yellow bird in it.
We spent a merry enough hour in the attic, and were summoned there the next morning and evening. All this time the novelty of town life, the fascination of the theatricals, the talks with girls like the Prices, filled me with a sort of intoxication of delight. Sometimes I used to find Mr. Ludlow watching me very closely; sometimes I half fancied he looked disapprovingly at some of my manners and my remarks; but I was too full of self-conceit to think he could really find fault with anything about me. It was all so delightful: the little councils in the attic, sometimes about the acting, sometimes about the dresses; then, as the day approached, the innumerable suggestions for "stage effects." We were always scampering up there for this and that, and the fact of concealing our purpose from Cousin Mary lent a new zest to our delight. Now all this time I could not help feeling what a strong influence Mr. Ludlow was in the little circle: with all his fun and good-humor, he had a certain dignity which made people turn to him with a peculiar respect. If ever I felt abashed, it was when I met his grave kindly glance; if ever I stopped for an instant's criticism of my silly selfish self, it was when I thought of what he would think of me. The secret of it was that with all his love of honest fun and pleasure, he had higher lights: he was seeking something of which I had never thought; he had a purpose in his life which dignified it, so that in his lightest moments I felt that his influence was a strong and serious one. At times he encouraged me to talk to him, and I was startled one day by overhearing him say to Kate, "I think you don't do Ruth justice; I believe there is more in her than that."
I fancied directly that this referred to my acting, and the only result was an increase of effort when it came my turn to appear at the rehearsals.
The morning of the eventful day arrived. It had been agreed that we were to marshal our forces at ten o'clock in the attic, and all help in the adjustment of curtains, seats, lights, etc. It was a time of intense fascination. We girls talked and laughed gayly, enjoying everything; and I can hear now the sound of the hammer as Mr. Ludlow nailed up this and that; the creaking of the boards as we ran across them before the druggeting was tacked down; the voices of one and another asking questions, offering advice, expostulating, criticising: it was a most enjoyable morning. We had a luncheon sent up to us in the attic, and I think that was the best of all; it was like a picnic, except that there were hot dishes, and a servant to run up and down. There was to be a dance after the play, and a supper; but that luncheon seemed to me a far more delightful banquet than the one to be spread that evening in the beautiful dining-room down stairs. Yet in my mind I kept anticipating the glories of the evening, the dress I was to wear, my speeches, the whole effect, finally the dance, with a real band of musicians, and the supper, at which we young people were to have a table all to ourselves. By three o'clock our luncheon was over, and Kate, who was arranging the stage for the first scene, found she needed a book which was in the parlor. She turned to me. "Come, Ruth," she said, a little sharply, "you are doing nothing. Will you run down and get me that big book on the parlor table?"
I assented willingly enough, and ran down the four flights of stairs, scarcely thinking what I was doing, until I reached the parlor. I was just going into the room, my hand was on the handle of the door, when I saw through the glass of the front door the postman's figure outside. Even now I can see the street with its covering of snow, the wide heavy doorway, the dim hall with the winding staircase at the back, and I can picture in fancy my own girlish figure standing there, not knowing that one of the most important moments of my life had come. The postman dropped a big letter into the box. I went forward, and taking it up, was pleased to find on it papa's handwriting addressed to me. No one was about the hall, the parlor into which I hurried was equally desolate, and I sat down to read my letter before going up with the book Kate wanted.
I opened my letter with feverish haste, but the first glance dashed my good spirits. I read the few lines with a sinking heart, and I can almost see them now hurriedly traced across a bit of paper:
"My dear little Girl,—You will know that I feel very sorry to cut short your visit, but Winny is not well, and Joe is ailing, and I am afraid you must come home at once. You will get this letter about three o'clock on Tuesday, and Mr. Barlow is coming up from New York on the six-o'clock train; so if Cousin Mary will see you safely to the dépôt, Mr. B. will look out for you.
"In haste, your loving
Father."
RUTH READING HER LETTER.—Drawn by E. A. Abbey.
For a moment I sat still in the big arm-chair, staring at the letter, not realizing just what it meant. Then I glanced at the clock. Yes, it was only half past three. There was time to say good-by to them all, and get down to the dépôt long before six; and as I said this mechanically to myself, I burst into tears—selfish tears, I regret to say; tears not for Winny and Joe at home, but for my great disappointment. It was while I was crying that I began to think it would not really be necessary for me to go—no one knew of papa's letter; why need I tell them until tomorrow? Surely twenty-four hours more or less could make no difference. Winny would be the last person in the world to wish to spoil my pleasure this way; and then she could not be very ill, or papa would have said so. There was Hester, our old nurse, always ready to come up from the village when she was needed. As the temptation to conceal my letter and disobey papa came upon me, I grew more sharply conscious of everything around me. The fire burned more brightly, the ticking of the clock seemed louder, and the snow-flakes fell against the windows of the long room whiter and softer. Five minutes of selfish reasoning passed, and then I had begun to see in myself only an injured and reasoning person. I would wait until the morning.
With this decision, I crushed the letter into my pocket, seized the book Kate wanted, and hurried out into the hall. But I never shall forget how like a watched and guilty being I felt. The stairs looked shadowy; I almost longed for courage to go into the attic, read them all my letter, and say good-by; but the first sight of the gay little company, the mimic stage, Milly seated on a ladder sewing curtain-rings, Jessie Price trailing up and down the "boards" rehearsing her part, Kate and Mary and Mr. Ludlow arranging candles, dispelled my conscience-pricks; it was too fascinating to be left.
Milly looked up from her sewing. "Well," she exclaimed, "what has kept you down stairs so long, Ruth?"
I felt confused, but tried to answer carelessly: "Oh, I was in the parlor."
Mr. Ludlow turned around suddenly. "Why, was that Ruth's voice?" he exclaimed.
I felt my cheeks flame, but I laughed, a little defiantly.
"Certainly, sir," I answered. And then Mr. Ludlow looked at me gravely for a moment, but said no more.
"Here, Ruthie," Kate said, "go and find that other red curtain, will you, like a dear?"
I was searching for it behind the scenes, when I heard the voices outside discussing some expected letters. Then Mr. Ludlow called out, "Ruth, did the postman come while you were down stairs?"
For an instant my heart beat so wildly that I could not speak; but one idea possessed me: I must not admit to having received papa's letter. All my moral courage fled, and scarcely knowing what it was that I was saying, I answered, "No, sir."
There was a silence which it seemed to me I could not endure. Everything seemed to stand still. I had told my first and last lie, and the words burned my tongue. I had found the curtain, but I had no power to move. Finally I roused myself, and rejoined the others. Their voices rose and fell; they were laughing over some joke of Mr. Ludlow's; but to me everything was changed.