Seventeen summers of Alice’s life had passed away—not all cloudless, but happily—for she was kind and affectionate—in making others happy she was herself so—indeed, as I said before, although she had no wealth of beauty, Alice was rich in goodness and purity of heart. Mrs. Churchill had offended her family by marrying a poor man, and there had been little or no intercourse since that period. When, therefore, she received a letter from her brother, not only affectionate, but accompanied also by a kind invitation for her daughter Alice to pass a few months in Philadelphia, it is difficult to say whether joy or surprise preponderated. Anxious alone to promote the happiness of Alice, Mrs. Churchill, sacrificing her own feelings at parting with her child, hesitated not to accept the offer. Little did Alice know of the world, except from books. Books had been her only companions, and, under her mother’s judicious selection, these best of friends had wrought a silent influence over her mind, preparing her to meet the realities of life, its pleasures and its trials also, with rationality.
Such, then, was Alice Churchill, the innocent cause of the matrimonial fracas illustrated in a preceding chapter.
The boat touched the wharf, and the motley crowd which had been watching her approach, noisily sprang on her deck. “Have a cab, miss?” “Cab, sir?” “Take your baggage, ma’am?” “Have a carriage?” Poor Alice shrank back into the farthest corner of the ladies’ cabin, perfectly bewildered with the noise and confusion. At length she heard her own name called, and, stepping forward, she was the next moment in the arms of her uncle. Mr. Hazleton embraced her affectionately, and then, gazing long and earnestly upon her, exclaimed, as he wiped a tear from his eye—
“Yes, you do look like your dear mother!”
But this was no time for sentiment, especially as the stewardess, anxious herself to be on shore, already began to bustle about preparatory to the next trip—so, after attending to the baggage, they left the boat, and were soon rattling through the streets at the mercy of an independent cabman who “had another job.”
Who that has passed through the streets of a great city for the first time cannot imagine the feelings of our simple country-girl, as she found herself thus borne amid the busy throng—the side-walks crowded with people hurrying to and from their business—the gaily ornamented windows—elegantly dressed ladies—beggars—squeaking hand-organs—dancing monkeys—the cry of the fish-man, mingling with the noisy bell of the charcoal-vender—carriages clashing rapidly past—omnibuses rattling heavily along—dust, din, smoke—no wonder the poor girl rejoiced when the cab stopped at her uncle’s dwelling, and she found herself safe within its walls.
“My dear love, let me have the pleasure of introducing you to my niece,” said Mr. Hazleton, advancing with the blushing Alice on his arm.
Mrs. Hazleton coldly raised her eyes from the book on which they had been pertinaciously fixed, and with a slight bow and a formal “How do you do, Miss Churchill!” as coldly dropped them again.
Not so Julia, who, in spite of the lessons her ma’ma had been teaching her for the last half hour, could not see this young, blushing stranger so repulsed—she therefore rushed forward, exclaiming—
“O papa, do stand away, and let me greet my new cousin.”