She did, visiting the University and making inquiries. What she was told there decided her. She took up the course and enjoyed it. It occupied her mind and prevented her brooding over the past. She might have made many friends among the other students, but she was careful to treat them only as acquaintances. Her recent experience with “friends” was too fresh in her mind. She studied hard and applied her knowledge at home. She and Annie made some odd and funny mistakes at first, but they were not made twice, and Captain Elisha noticed a great improvement in the housekeeping. Also, Caroline’s spirits improved, though more slowly.
Most evenings they spent together in the living room. She read aloud to her uncle, who smoked his cigar and listened, commenting on the doings of the story folk with characteristic originality and aptitude. Each night, after the reading was over, he wrote his customary note to Abbie Baker at South Denboro. He made one flying trip to that village: “Just to prove to ’em that I’m still alive,” as he explained it. “Some of those folks down there at the postoffice must have pretty nigh forgot to gossip about me by this time. They’ve had me eloped and married and a millionaire and a pauper long ago, I don’t doubt. And now they’ve probably forgot me altogether. I’ll just run down and stir ’em up. Good subjects for yarns are scurce at that postoffice, and they ought to be thankful.”
On his return he told his niece that he found everything much as usual. “Thoph Kenney’s raised a beard ’cause shavin’s so expensive; and the Come-Outer minister called the place the other denominations are bound for ‘Hades,’ and his congregation are thinkin’ of firin’ him for turnin’ Free-Thinker. That’s about all the sensations,” he said. “I couldn’t get around town much on account of Abbie. She kept me in bed most of the time, while she sewed on buttons and mended. Said she never saw a body’s clothes in such a state in her life.”
A few of the neighbors called occasionally. And there were other callers. Captain Elisha’s unexpected departure from Mrs. Hepton’s boarding house had caused a sensation and much regret to that select establishment. The landlady, aided and abetted by Mrs. Van Winkle Ruggles, would have given a farewell tea in his honor, but he declined. “Don’t you do it,” he said. “I like my tea pretty strong, and farewells are watery sort of things, the best of ’em. And this ain’t a real farewell, anyhow.”
“‘Say au revoir, but not good-by,’” sang Miss Sherborne sentimentally.
“That’s it. Everybody knows what good-by means. We’ll say the other thing—as well as we can—and change it to ‘Hello’ the very first time any of you come out to see us.”
They were curious to know his reason for leaving. He explained that his niece was sort of lonesome and needed country air; he was going to live with her, for the present. Consequently Mrs. Ruggles, on the trail of aristocracy, was the first to call. Hers was a stately and ceremonious visit. They were glad when it was over. Lawton, the bookseller and his wife, came and were persuaded to remain and dine. Caroline liked them at sight. The most impressive call, however, was that of Mr. and Mrs. “C.” Dickens. The great man made it a point to dress in the style of bygone years, and his conversation was a treat. His literary labors were fatiguing and confining, he admitted, and the “little breath of rural ozone” which this trip to Westchester County gave him, was like a tonic—yes, as one might say, a tonic prescribed and administered by Dame Nature herself.
“I formerly resided in the country,” he told Caroline.
“Yes,” put in his wife, “we used to live at Bayonne, New Jersey. We had such a pretty house there, that is, half a house; you see it was a double one, and—”
“Maria,” her husband waved his hand, “why trouble our friends with unnecessary details.”