Life at Poplar-grove was much as it had been, the previous summer; still and bright. The mornings were spent in Carry's pleasant sewing-room, from which male visitors were rigorously excluded; in the afternoon, were the siesta, and ride or walk; at night, music and social chat. Carry feared that this monotony, while it suited her wishes and employments, might be less agreeable to her friend; that she would miss the gay whirl, the intoxicating incense of her city career. But Ida was contented, even happy. Beloved and caressed by the whole household, in the home of kindred tastes and feeling; and above all, with the firm hope that her life-long search was at last ended; her wild cravings laid to rest beneath the waves, which welling from the unsealed fountain, had risen higher and higher, until her soul was overflowing with love and rapture;—she revelled in the quiet hours of friendly communion, and the sweeter seasons of witching reverie. Carry knew nothing of the spring of her happiness. She saw that her mind had acquired a more healthy tone;—that her affections had expanded, and attributed it to the influence of friendship;—to a strength of mind, which had determined the world should be what it chose to have it;—to anything but the true cause,—an idolatry that left no room for suspicion or discontent. Once Carry alluded to the twilight promenade, when Ida had told her of her forebodings of the wane of their love, after the nuptials, which were now fast approaching; and was answered by a warm embrace and smile, which said those fears were quelled, and might have betrayed to more prying eyes, the enchantment that had exorcised them. Her evening improvisations entranced, not only the parlor-circle, but drew to the windows a larger audience from without, spellbound by her heart-melodies. All her delight was not in memory. Letters came and went;—from Charley and Mrs. Dana; and gossiping notes from Anna Talbot and other of "the girls." These, Carry enjoyed with her, and asked no questions about those which she did not see. Morton's were what he engaged they should be; sincere and friendly, without a hint that could alarm her delicacy. They were tinctured with a sadness, she did not comprehend, until she noticed his many references to his sister's sufferings, and his anxiety on her account. It was her turn to console; and her most valued treasure was the letter, in which he thanked and blessed her.
Carry was to be married the last of July. The middle of June brought Mrs. Dana and the children, under Charley's protection. For the week of his stay, he was the life of the house. One cloud was upon the spirits of all;—Lynn was missed and mourned, and by none, with more sorrowful tenderness, than by his vivacious friend; but he was unselfish even in this. Ida could win him to speak of their loss; to the others, he never mentioned it of his own accord. She was correct in saying that he had grown more communicative and affectionate. He seemed to have transferred to her the watchful love that had been Lynn's safeguard and solace.
"Nothing changes you, Mars' Charley?" said Uncle Ike, the plantation patriarch, halting at the piazza steps one afternoon, when he had crawled out into the sunshine.
"I should like to say the same for you, Uncle Ike; time and sickness have not treated you as well as you deserve."
"Better'n I desarve, Mars' Charles!—heap better'n I desarve! Time for me to be packed and shoed for my journey. I'se lived in these low-grounds of sorrow, nigh 'pon ninety years, and many' the young folks I've seen step down into the grave before me. When I heard that poor, handsome Mars' Lynn had gone too, 'pears-like I was ready to grumble 'cause 'twant me—but 'twas the Almighty's will, Mars' Charles,—'twas his will. It 'joices me to see you so well and lively—jest like you used to be. You don't take trouble, I reckon, Marster."
"No; it's against my principles;—beside, we'll have a plenty given to us."
"Fact, Marster! You ain't knowed much yet; but 'the evil days will come, when you shall say, I have no pleasure in them!'"
Charley kept his seat upon the step for some time after the old man had gone:—once he sighed heavily. Ida was in the parlor, and longed to go out to him, for she guessed the tenor of his thoughts, but doubted the propriety of intruding upon them. He got up, presently, and began to walk the porch, whistling an opera air. Spying her through the window, he came in. "You are ruining your eyes and health with this eternal stitching;" said he. "As I live, you are boring holes in that piece of cloth, for the pleasure of sewing them up again! No wonder woman's work is never ended! What are you making?"
"A handkerchief." She displayed the corner, in which she was embroidering, "Carry Carleton."