“He can be persuaded, without doubt.”
After we had left the table, Mary came to me, with much animation, to whisper her ideas about the proposed visit; she thought the sight of an agreeable, lovely child about the house might interest Eleanor more than any thing else possibly could, and would, at least, delight her father, who was drooping under the silence and mourning in his home. I quite agreed with her in her opinions, deciding to write that evening a pressing plea to Mr. Burton, promising the most careful attention to his frail little household blossom which a trusty housekeeper and loving friends could extend. I would come down to the city for her, and attend her dutifully on her little journey, if his consent was given, and Miss Lenore herself approved the action.
The next day I had an answer. Mr. Burton wrote that Lenore was delighted with the invitation, and that he accepted it the more willingly, as he was called unexpectedly to Boston, where he should be absent a week or ten days, and that he had not liked leaving his daughter so lonely during the holidays. He added that he was obliged to leave that morning; but I might come for Lenore at any time; I would find her ready; and that, upon his return from Boston, he would come up to Blankville after her; closing his note with polite thanks for our friendly interest in his little girl, etc. Thus every thing was satisfactory. The third day after Christmas I went down, in the morning, to New York, returning in the afternoon with my little treasure, who was brimful of happiness, enjoying the ride with the zest of childhood, and confiding herself to my guardianship with a joyful content, which awakened my tenderest care in response. This artless faith of the child in the providence of the grown-up man it is which brings out the least selfish part of his character, bowing his haughty, hardened nature to minister to the humblest of its confiding wants.
The sisters both came into the hall to receive their little visitor. They took her into the parlors, bright with chandelier and firelight, unhooding and uncloaking her before the grate. I was anxious to witness the impression she made, for I had been so lavish of my praises, as to run the risk of creating a disappointment.
It was impossible to be disappointed in Lenore. She made conquest of the whole family in the half-hour before tea. It was not her exquisite beauty alone, but her sweet expression, her modest self-possession amid her stranger-friends, enhancing its effect. Mr. Argyll brightened as I had not lately seen him; every other minute Mary would repeat the welcome of her little guest with another kiss, declaring, in her pretty, willful way, that Mr. Richard was not going to monopolize Miss Lenore because he was the oldest acquaintance—Lenore having chosen her seat by my side, with her hand nestled in mine.
James was not in the house; he did not come home until some time after we had taken our tea—drank his alone in the dining-room—and joined our circle quite late in the evening. As he came in we were sitting about the fire. Lenore had gone, of her own inclination, to Miss Argyll’s side, where she sat on a low stool, with her head against the lady’s lap. She made a gay picture as she sat there, framed around with the black of Eleanor’s garments. Her traveling-dress was of crimson merino, and her cheeks—what with the ride in the cold air, and the glow of the present fire, were almost as red as her dress; while her golden curls streamed in shining strands over the sable habiliments against which she rested. She was replying archly to some teasing remark of Mr. Argyll’s, and I was thinking what a brightness she would give to the dull house, when James came forward, holding out his hand, with one of his pleasantest smiles, saying,
“This is the little lady, is it, whom we have been so anxiously waiting to see? Can I be introduced, cousin Mary, or does not the Queen of fairies allow herself to make the acquaintance of ordinary mortals?”
You have noticed, reader, how some little cloud, floating in the west at sunset, will be flushed through with rosy light, and how, instantly, while you gaze, it will turn gray, losing every particle of radiance. So the child changed when he approached and spoke to her. Her cheeks faded to a gray whiteness; her eyes were riveted on his, but she could not smile; she seemed to struggle with some inward repugnance and her sense of what courtesy demanded; finally she laid her little cold hand in his, without a word, suffered him to kiss her, and, clinging close to Eleanor, remained pale and quiet—her gayety and bloom were alike gone. Mr. Argyll could not rally her—she shrunk like a sensitive plant.
“If that pallid, stupid little creature is the marvelous child Richard promised us, I must say, he has shown his usual good taste,” commented James in an aside to Mary. He was not flattered by the reception he had met.
“Something is the matter with her, James. She is wearied with her journey. I am afraid we are keeping her up too late. She was gay enough a little while since.”