[CHAPTER XVIII.]
"A month ago, and I was happy! No,
Not happy—yet encircled by deep joy,
Which, though 'twas all around, I could not touch.
But it was ever thus with Happiness:
It is the gay to-morrow of the mind,
That never comes."
BARRY CORNWALL.
Sleep, which proverbially forsakes the wretched, paid but little court to me that first night in my new home; my swollen eyelids were sullied with too many tears, in truth, to win his favorable regard; but toward morning, exhaustion and unconsciousness came compassionately to relieve the misery and wakefulness that had guarded my pillow all night; and the dull light of a winter morning, struggling in through the half-drawn curtains, was the next summons that I had to consciousness again. I started up, aroused more fully by a sharp pain in my arm, that had momentarily been growing harder, till it had succeeded, with the aid of the advancing daylight, in waking me thoroughly. It was some seconds before I knew what it was caused by; the bracelet on the arm that had been under my head had been pushed up from the wrist, and in that way, had grown tighter and tighter, till, indeed, the pain had been unendurable. It brought Mr. Rutledge's words to my mind strangely enough; with a blush of shame and pleasure, I bent over the souvenir; "I will never doubt again," I whispered, sincerely repentant. Heaviness had endured, bitterly, for the night, but joy, or a faint and tiny promise of it, had as surely come in the morning; and with energy and something like happiness, I set myself to make the best of my little room, and my new position. No Kitty to braid my hair, no Kitty to unpack my trunk; so the sooner I got used to performing those little offices for myself, the better, decidedly.
"Something to do" was the kindest boon that could have been given me, and as such, I received it, and before the house was astir at all, I had unpacked my trunk, arranged my books upon the table, my dresses in the wardrobe, and the little knick-knacks that were regarded as decorative, on the mantelpiece and under the dressing-glass. The crayon-sketch never saw the daylight in Gramercy Square. A stolen look at it, now and then, under the half-raised lid of my trunk, was all I ever ventured on.
Mine was not a very cheerful or attractive room, certainly; but I should soon be used to it, I reflected, and it would seem nice enough. Then I drew up the shades, and looked out with much interest upon my first daylight-view of the great metropolis. Certainly, the wrong side of city houses is no more advantageous a view of them than is the wrong side of other fabrics; and in proportion as the velvet is rich and gorgeous, so is the reverse dull and plain. My room being in the rear of the house, I of course had the benefit of the wrong side of the neighboring houses; which, I will do them the justice to say, were as dismal and unpretending as houses need be. They had all of them, with one consent, put their best foot foremost; the gorgeous foot presented to the street, was of brown stone, plate glass, and carving; the slip-shod foot left in the background, was dingy for want of paint, unsightly with clothes-lines and ash-barrels, neglected and forlorn. However, I thought cheerfully, some strange comfort attends even so exalted a state as "two pair back;" there was an unlimited view of the sky, much greater than the lower rooms could command. Indeed, when there was anything but lead-color overhead, I concluded that these windows must be very cheerful. The spire of a church, however, not far off (which, I was happy to observe, had no wrong side), was the one grace of the prospect. It would not do to think of the way in which the mists were rolling up from the lake, this grey, hazy morning, nor how the pines on its bank were reflected in its still surface; nor, indeed, at all of the scene, bold and picturesque even in its wintry desolation, that had met my waking vision for the last few happy weeks.
Late breakfasts were apparently the order of the day in this establishment; the hands of my watch were creeping around toward nine o'clock, and still no indication of the approach of that meal. Beyond the occasional smothered sound of a broom or duster in the hall, there had been nothing to suggest that any one was awake throughout the house, except a fretful little voice that I had heard at intervals since dawn, in the room next mine. Listening very attentively, I found that it proceeded from the young troublesome, whose picture had been so feelingly drawn for me last night by Grace. She was evidently importuning Félicie to get up and dress her; and the tone, peevish and whining as it was, had a sort of pathos for me, remembering, as I too distinctly did, the cruel punishment that it is to a child to lie in bed after being once thoroughly awake. For two hours, little Esther had been tossing about, and crying to get up, and the only response she had received from her nurse, had been now and then a sleepy growl or an impatient threat. Injustice always irritated me; besides, I had a curiosity to see this child, who evidently met with so little favor, and time was hanging rather heavy on my hands just then, so I went to the door that communicated with the nursery, and opening it softly, looked in. The shutters being darkened, it was still not many removes from dawn, and I could but dimly make out the dimensions of the large, scantily furnished room; but there was light enough for me to see the figure of the child, sitting up in her little bed, crying piteously, "Lève-toi, Félicie, j'ai si froid."
She stopped suddenly on seeing me, and looked up in my face as I approached her.
"Is this my little cousin Essie?" I said, sitting down on the bed and taking one of her icy little hands in mine. Cold she certainly was; the fire had gone out entirely, and she had been sitting up undressed so long, that her teeth were chattering and her lips fairly blue. I kissed her wet cheeks, and giving her to understand that this was her new cousin, asked if she was not going to be very fond of me? She looked more amazed than before, but beyond a cessation of her tears, she made no attempt at a rejoinder. I rubbed her hands, and tried to warm her cold little feet, talking to her kindly all the time.
"Is this your dressing-gown, Essie?" I asked, taking up a little blue flannel garment from the foot of the bed. She nodded an assent, and I put it around her.
"Now," I continued, taking her up in my arms, "will you go into my room and get warm by my fire?"