Believe me yours sincerely,
T. G. Desmond.
I could find no objection to accepting this kindly offer, so delicately made, but I did not dare to do so before consulting Bessie and her mother, so I stepped into the carriage and had John drive me to the cottage. There was a consultation, and after I had overcome some feeble scruples on Mrs. Pinkerton’s part, which I am afraid were hypocritical, we decided to take advantage of Mr. Desmond’s generosity. I sent a note of thanks back by John, and thenceforth we took our rides behind “old Dives’s” black ponies. Occasionally the old gentleman himself came out in the carriage, and proved himself as trustworthy and careful a driver as John, handling the “ribbons” with the air of an accomplished whip. The rides were very pleasant, those beautiful summer days, and the change from a hired “team” to the sumptuous establishment of Mr. Desmond was extremely grateful.
Mr. Desmond was doubtless very lonely without his niece. She had been the light of his home, and her absence was probably felt by the old gentleman with more keenness than he had anticipated at the outset. His large and beautifully furnished mansion needed the presence of just such a person of vivacious and cheery character as Clara, to prevent it from becoming cheerless in its grandeur. He intimated as much, and appeared unusually restless and low-spirited for him. He sought to make up for the absence of the sunshine and joyousness that “Miss Van” had taken away with her, by applying himself with especial diligence to business; but he really had not much business to engross his attention, beyond collecting his interest and looking out for his agents, and it failed to fill the void. He betook himself to his club, and killed time assiduously, talking with the men-about-town he found there, playing whist, and running through the magazines and reviews in search of wit and wisdom wherewith to divert himself. The dull season had set in; there was little doing, in affairs, commerce, politics, or literature; and direct efforts at killing time always result in making time go more heavily than ever. Mr. Desmond’s attempt was like a curious pas seul, executed by a nimble actor in a certain extravaganza, the peculiarity of which is that at every forward step the dancer slides farther and farther backward, until finally an unseen power appears to drag him back into the flies.
It was during one of our afternoon drives, when Mr. Desmond usurped the office of his coachman, that he confided to us a plan which he had devised to cure his ennui.
“I have made up my mind,” he said, “to go abroad for a good long tour. It will be the best move I could possibly make.”
“I don’t doubt it,” I said. “How soon do you propose to go?” And Bessie sighed, “O dear, how delightful!”
“My plans are not matured,” Mr. Desmond continued, “but I think I shall sail early next month. My favorite steamer leaves on the 6th.”
“I hope you will enjoy a pleasant voyage, and a delightful trip on the other side,” said Mrs. Pinkerton politely.
Mr. Desmond returned thanks. Nothing more was said that day concerning his project. When he left us at the cottage, he remarked,—