And then the change in all Norman's plans, the parting for years instead of the happy meeting.
Mr. Le Moyne was going to France, charged with some quite important and extensive trade matters that he understood thoroughly, and that might lead to advantageous relations. That was sort of sub rosa not to be generally announced. An intelligent secretary might perhaps do the work, but Mr. Le Moyne needed more than this. His eyesight was failing fast with some obscure trouble that did not in the least affect their appearance. He had written to an eminent surgeon at Paris, who held out some hope of help. At New York the leading doctors had said there was no possibility of arresting total blindness. Mr. Le Moyne was still in the prime of middle life, and this verdict was appalling.
And now he really could not do without Norman. They were like father and son. He was an excellent French scholar, and had also taken up Latin. He read to Mr. Le Moyne, wrote his letters, accompanied him everywhere. "I watch all that goes on as well as read the papers daily, and am really eyes to him. He is sensitive on the point and scarcely acknowledges his misfortune, but you can see how very dependent he must be on some one. And he has trained me to his habits and methods. He has the loveliest and most sincere nature, his friendship is the greatest boon a young fellow can have. I should be an ingrate to leave him now when he has pleaded for me to stay. It is not altogether for the advantages, though they are many, but my sympathies go out to him in the strongest manner. I could not refuse, although I longed to fly back to you all. And it is the uncertainty that pains me most. It may be a year—it may be—I dare not think. But he likes America, and expects to return even if the worst happens. I have had a delightful time—it would take weeks to recount the pleasures and satisfactions. If I could only see you for an hour. Are you still a little girl? I cannot think of you as being large, as ever being what people call grown up. Oh, keep little until I come back, which must be in another year or two."
I could not talk it over at first. I was glad when father came in that he was in a great hurry to go to some meeting, where they were considering measures to be put into execution for the benefit of the city as soon as spring opened, of broadening the river to give it a better current, of building new wharves and bridges. Improvement seemed to be the watchword everywhere. I listened with a thankful heart. I was so glad not to have him ask about a letter as he had several times of late. So I brushed his coat and pulled his stock around straight, and found him a clean handkerchief. Then I went to bed with my sorrow, telling Jolette I had a headache, and could see no one. Homer came over—I heard his voice.
I re-read my letter the next morning. It was dull and gray, with now and then little spits of snow, too cold to snow, pedestrians said one to another. Jolette's great comfort was smoking a pipe in the chimney corner. Sometimes I quite longed for M'liss's inconsequent talk, but I was glad to be alone to-day.
About mid-afternoon Mrs. Hayne came over.
"You poor child!" she cried. "Are you ill?"
The tears rushed to my eyes.
"Oh, Ruth, dear, don't take it so hard. I was afeared you would. The people who go away are always more to us than we are to them in their new lives. But this is such a splendid thing that we oughtn't grudge him the chance. It's a thousand pities for Mr. Le Moyne, of course, and dreadful to be blind, but just think of all the advantages. Seeing the President, and actually going to a levee—did he tell you?—and wearing a tail coat—the old fashions coming round. I wonder if they have brass buttons! My gran'ther had. Why, I never s'posed a son of mine would be there or go to Paris! And you can't tell but what one of the boys will be President!"
She laughed gayly at the conceit.