Clara said not a word, but ran out of the summer-house below the bank into a little thicket that hid her entirely from view. Here she caught at the white trunk of a birch, and leaning her forehead against it, wept passionately for some time. Vance sat wondering at her disappearance. Ten minutes passed, and she did not return. He rose to seek her, when suddenly he saw her climbing leisurely up the bank, a few wild-flowers in her hand. There was no vestige of emotion in her face.
“You wondered at my quitting you so abruptly,” she said. “I thought of some fringed gentians in bloom below there, and I ran to gather them for you. Are they not of a lovely blue?”
“Thank you,” said Vance, not wholly deceived by her calm, assured manner.
“So you really mean to leave us?” she said, smiling and looking him full in the face. “I’m very sorry for it.”
“So am I, Clara, for it would be very delightful to settle down amid scenes like these and lead a life of meditative leisure. But not yet can I hope for my discharge. My country needs every able-bodied son. I must do what I best can to serve her. But first let me give you a few words of advice. Your Trustees tell me you have been spending money at such a fearful rate, that they have been compelled to refuse your calls. To this you object. Let me beg you to asquiesce with cheerfulness. They are gentlemen, liberal and patriotic. They have consented to your giving your aunt this splendid estate and the means of supporting it. They have allowed you to bestow portentous sums in charity, and for the relief of sick and wounded soldiers. I hear, too, that Miss Tremaine has sent to you for aid.”
“Yes; her mother is dead, and her father has failed. They are quite poor.”
“So you’ve sent her a couple of thousand dollars. The first pauper you shall meet will have as much claim on you as she. Would I check that divine propensity of your nature,—the desire to bestow? O never, never! Far from it! Cherish it, my dear child. Believe in it. Find your constant delight in it. But be reasonable. Consider your own future. A little computation will show you that, at the present rate, it will not take you ten years to get rid of all your money. You will soon have suitors in plenty. Indeed, I hear that some very formidable ones are already making reconnoissances, although they find to their despair that the porter forbids them entrance unless they come on crutches; and I hear you send word to your serenaders, to take their music to the banks of the Potomac. But your time will soon come, Clara. You will be married. (Please not pull that fringed gentian to pieces in that barbarous way!) You will have your own tasteful, munificent, and hospitable home. Reserve to yourself the power to make it all that, and do not be wise too late.”
“And is there nothing I can do, Mr. Vance, to let you see I have some little gratitude for all that you have done for me?”
“Ah! I shall quote Rochefoucault against you, if you say that. ‘Too great eagerness to requite an obligation is a species of ingratitude.’ All that I’ve done is but a partial repayment of the debt I owed your mother’s father; for I owed him my life. Besides, you pay me every time you help the brave fellow whose wound or whose malady was got in risking all for country and for justice.”
“We must think of each other often,” sighed Clara.