By the way, I wonder if you remember that Alfred Cullen was the betrothed of Cousin Alice. He still wears his weeds for her; still comes up here every few months, and sits at her piano playing the airs that she used to play most. Uncle and aunt say that he is very pale and very noble, with the air of one who follows Christ close at his feet; that he is gentle and loving like a child; always forgetful of himself, never forgetful of others. You see he is quite a miracle of goodness. If he comes, I fear I shall have a panic as long as he stays.
“That would be better,” aunt replied; “I didn’t think of that. Yes, I hope you will like him with ease—if poor Alice had lived, he would have been her husband. As it is, I can’t wish him to be single always on her account; and, somehow, when I think of his marrying another, I want it to be one who would be a sort of daughter to me and your uncle as well as a wife to Alfred.”
“Yes, that would be pleasant for you,” answered I, feeling something of a panic beforehand. I feel the more of it, because aunt never sees through things that go on clearly, or understands how they go, or how they had best go. So she is always lending a word here and a word there for their adjustment, according to her idea. I thought this all over—covering a piece of waste paper with dashes, dots, and initials—while she considered what must next be said.
She said next, that Alfred is attentive to every body, especially—as she has sometimes thought—to Paulina Monroe, aunt’s niece, who lives in the neighborhood, who was Cousin Alice’s dearest companion, and who is now, as it were, a daughter in the house. Aunt’s “ideas,” of which she has so much to say, are not clear on this head. She has thought that it would not be strange if Alfred were to transfer his affections to Paulina; but she is sure she don’t know how it will terminate. He certainly sits by her a great deal; and when he is here, in summer, walks with her a great deal in the roads and paths she and Alice used to frequent—such as down the hill, through the back lane and the pasture to the old, deserted Fifield house, by the brook, where, as aunt says, the pinks and the roses still bloom, and the apples ripen, albeit the old couple that used to look on their growth have been mouldering this many a year under a hedge close by.
“If he does come while you are here,” again said aunt. “But you are done thinking about it, Rosamonde, and going on with your writing.” She looked as if she were deprecating some hurt I had given her.
“Oh, well, aunt, I am only writing a letter, and can write and talk at the same time.”
“This is strange; but your uncle can do just so, while I can never think of but one thing at a time. What I was going to say was, that you ought to stay longer than you say. Alfred will surely be up in the spring, if he don’t come this winter; and you ought to see our New England scenery in the summer, now that you are old enough to appreciate it. ‘The Switzerland of America’ you know our state has been called, although your uncle says ‘Poh!’ to this. He and Alfred both seem to think New England as good as Switzerland; or, at any rate, good enough without borrowing names for it.”
“As it certainly is, aunt.”
Finding that this was all I had to say, that I had no remark to make respecting Alfred Cullen, she added, hesitatingly—
“Paulina is, to be sure, my own niece—she and Alice were like twins, almost. She is a good little girl as ever was; but, somehow, it seems to me, ever since you came, that Alfred would like you best.” Again aunt’s voice became a little husky, and again a little panic ran along my nerves. “Still, I do think,” added aunt, “that he grows more particular in his attentions to Paulina every time he comes up. And, lately, they correspond occasionally, although Paulina keeps a close mouth about it, so that neither her mother nor I know what it amounts to. Paulina is reckoned very pretty.”