“Or nice young nephews?” added Mr. Hazleton.
“Yes, papa—a cousin would be so delightful!” and here Julia sighed and looked sad. Why she sighed the reader shall know bye and bye.
This careless remark of Julia aroused a train of long banished reflections in the mind of Mr. Hazleton. Early associations came thronging upon him, vividly calling up the image of his only sister, as tearfully and patiently she had turned from his reproaches at their last meeting, to follow the fortunes of him she loved. Ere Mr. Hazleton sought his pillow, the letter to his long neglected sister was written, and not even the possession of the late Mrs. Ketchim had made his heart so light as this simple act of duty and kindness.
Mrs. Hazleton had many weak points, but there were two upon which she was peculiarly sensitive. The first, viz.—her family. The Ninnybrains could trace a pedigree almost as far back as Adam—a sprig of nobility, too, had once engrafted itself upon the family tree, which important item had been handed down from generation to generation, and Mrs. Hazleton never lost an opportunity of proclaiming her noble lineage, while at the same time she indulged an almost slavish fear of deviating from the code of gentility, in her acceptation of the term. Her second tangible weakness was an affectation of juvenility. The idea of growing old gracefully was preposterous. Although she saw the seams and creases of Time’s fingers on other faces, she would not see them on her own, and while all the world were growing old around her, she resolved to set the gray-beard at defiance.
Mrs. Hazleton loved her daughter as much as she was capable of loving, yet she could not forgive her for the very contradictory evidence she brought against her youthfulness—could not pardon her for stepping forth from the nursery a tall, grown up girl, instead of quietly contenting herself with pantalettes and pinafores. The widow felt there must be a rapid race, or her daughter would reach the goal of Hymen before her—hence her conquest of Mr. Hazleton. Her own purpose attained, she then generously resolved to give Julia a chance, who, nothing loth, was summoned from a country boarding-school to catch a husband as quick as possible. To be sure this latter clause was not expressed in so many words—it was the ultimatum of the mother alone. As for Julia, she thought only of escaping from the odious Mrs. Rulem—of new dresses, theatres, and dancing till two o’clock in the morning. For once, then, Mrs. Hazleton concluded to assume maternity gracefully, and to matronize her daughter with all the dignity of the Ninnybrain school.
She was exceedingly annoyed, therefore, when she found her plans might all be defeated by the arrival of Alice Churchill. No way could she reconcile herself to this unavoidable evil. If handsome and engaging, she would only be in the way of her daughter’s advancement—if awkward and ugly, a constant source of mortification. Every device of which she was mistress was put in practice to thwart the expected visit, but that she did not accomplish her object has already been shown.
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CHAPTER III.
THE ARRIVAL.
Alice Churchill was none of those fragile beauties whose step is too light to bend “a hare-bell ’neath its tread”—whose eyes are compared to those of the gazelle, or to violets and dew-drops—with cheeks like the blush rose, and lips vieing with sea-corals, contrasted by teeth of pearls! No such wealth of beauty had Alice, but she was a very sweet girl notwithstanding—just pretty enough to escape being called plain, and yet plain enough to escape being spoiled for her prettiness. Mrs. Churchill was a widow of very moderate fortune, living in a retired village of Pennsylvania, more than fifty miles from any town of note, and which even in the year ’45, (happy little village!) could boast of neither steam-boat nor railroad. It was here she had removed with her husband soon after their marriage, and here for a few brief years their happiness had been unclouded—until the shadow of death resting on that happy home severed all earthly ties. Peaceful now in the quiet grave-yard is the sleep of the husband and father.