"They are docile to the flower-wreathed wand of moral suasion, Miss Ross, but may betray obduration if sterner means are employed. Of corporeal punishment we will not speak; the rod would fall barbless, from the lily digits of gentle woman."
"You will come to school, Monday week;" Ida was saying to Laura: "but do not wait until then to pay me a visit. I must have a long talk with you. Good bye."
Tears stood in Laura's eyes. Already she regarded her benefactress with feelings bordering upon devotion. Ida, in her sober ride, turning over the degradation and misery whose alleviation seemed impracticable, had no suspicion of the leaven she had hidden in the heavy lump.
[CHAPTER XXIX.]
Anna Talbot's sketch of Emma's privations was not over-drawn. If her condition had been tolerable, an offer from Ida Ross, as she recollected her,—proud and unsociable,—would not have tempted her to change it. But Ida was honorable and liberal, despite her haughtiness; and in her uncle's family, she was an ill-paid under-servant. Ida sent her carriage and servants for her; and this regard for her comfort, while it called forth the contumely of her employers, raised her hopes of a friendly reception.
"There's my mistis in the porch," said Will, leaning down from his perch, to speak to his fair passenger. They were driving up an avenue, closed by a house, which, to Emma's modest eyes, was an imposing architectural pile. A haze dimmed her vision; in her agitation, she saw nothing of the awful figure Will pointed out, but the flutter of white drapery. The great yard-gates were open, and the carriage rolled over the gravelled circle which swept by the main entrance. She did not recognise the frank, sweet face that appeared at the carriage-door, but the voice was not to be forgotten. "I am very glad you are come!" it said, and the kiss and the embrace verified the welcome. "How changed!" was the thought of each. Emma was thin, and when the glow of the meeting faded—dejected. She looked, to Ida, like one who had been subjected to a constant weight, bending body and heart, almost to breaking,—as if the one feather more would end the torture. And her own spirit, gaining buoyancy day by day, under its discipline, gathered force from the necessity of restoring the lost elasticity to another's. She conducted her school-fellow to a chamber, once hers, and adjoining that she now occupied; divested her of her heavy hat and shawl, and commanded her imperatively to "lie down." Emma reposed her weary limbs upon a luxurious mattress; the breeze waving the spotless curtains, and whispering of green hills, and cool forests and violet banks; her hostess, after vainly attempting to persuade her that she required sleep—bathing her head with fragrant waters, and talking in inspiriting, affectionate tones, which were more than manna to her hungry heart. Mrs. Dana had gone the preceding day, and Emma was soon convinced that she had done a charitable—most meritorious deed, in arriving when she did; but she smiled, as she heard the lively voice dilate upon the "horrors" and "azure imps," that had infested the house while she was sole occupant—"always excepting my chaperon and soi-disant housekeeper, good Miss Betsey—soi-disant as I am, in point of fact, housekeeper myself. I have a great fancy to see to everything with my own eyes. We are retired here—I wrote this, you know—but there are some agreeable families within visiting distance. I am delighted at having a helper in the labor of receiving and returning visits; and my rides and walks will be doubly pleasant. Are you fond of out-door exercise?"
"Very—but I have neglected the duty for a year or two past."
"You shall not be so remiss here. I intend to be exacting. A gallop before breakfast, and a walk—not a promenade—before tea, will plant bright roses in these white cheeks. When you are rested, we will unlock our budget of news. Having been apart for so long, each will have a week's steady talk."