I had never been in New York before, and could not remember my one visit to Albany, so the fine town house, the long beautiful hall we entered, seemed to me like something I had read of or dreamed about. There was a great staircase winding away to the left, and down this Cousin Mary came hurrying, and I remembered having seen her at my mother's funeral—a sweet, gray-haired lady, with a faded pretty face, a great deal of old lace about her dress, and a quiet, friendly voice. Other voices sounded in a room near by; young voices laughing and talking; and Cousin Mary took me into a large beautiful room with fire-light dancing on the walls, and where half a dozen gay people were playing some merry game: they all stopped short as we entered.
"This is Ruth Grahame," said Cousin Mary; "your cousin from C——, Milly."
Upon this, Milly Ludlow came forward and welcomed me kindly. She was a tall girl about my own age; not so fashionably dressed as I had expected a New York cousin to be, but very lady-like and gentle in her manners. She soon introduced the others—Gray Roberts, Nelly and Jessie Price, and Jack Ludlow; they were all cousins, and all seemed delighted to see Mr. Ludlow, who was soon discussing the game with them, and entering into all the fun like a school-boy. What an evening that was! I was soon thoroughly at home, and very talkative, I assure you, for in our own house I had been encouraged to talk a great deal too much. I was to sleep with the Prices in a big room up stairs, and I was very much struck by their fine clothes and city-bred manners when we were dressing for the late dinner at which we were all to be present. The Prices were rather silly girls, but good-natured, and they seemed interested in all I had to say, though they criticised me very freely, and one said I must "friz" my hair, and the other asked if I wore French heels, and openly lamented the fact that I did not.
After dinner there was a most fascinating hour. Mr. Ludlow whispered to Milly, and then she came up to me in the parlor, saying that we were all to slip up to the attic, where they were rehearsing a little play intended for a surprise to Cousin Mary and Cousin Henry on their wedding anniversary. The elder sisters, Kate and Mary, were in it as well, and we found them in the attic, lighting it up, and putting away some of the costumes. That attic seemed to me a wonderful place: it extended over the entire house, and the roof was higher than in most attics, for it had been built with a view to being a play-room, long ago, when Kate and Mary Ludlow were small. At one end a temporary stage was erected, and preparations made for the curtains at either side and in front. All the final work was to be done the day before the performance. As soon as we were in the attic, Mr. Ludlow suggested that some part should be found for me. Kate Ludlow had written the play, and there was a part adapted specially for each person; but she very good-naturedly told her uncle (young as he was, he was her uncle) that she would insert something for me. I was fluttered with delight, and had sufficient confidence in myself to feel sure it would be an easy matter to perform with credit to all concerned. The story of the play was a domestic one. Kate introduced a part for me with Jessie Price—a dialogue between two friends of the heroine, rather artfully contrived to give me something to do, and at the same time work out the plot. Jessie acted very badly, so that my awkwardness showed the less, and I was rather well satisfied with the prospect, and wildly delighted by the idea of wearing one of Kate's longest silk gowns, and a white bonnet with a yellow bird in it.
We spent a merry enough hour in the attic, and were summoned there the next morning and evening. All this time the novelty of town life, the fascination of the theatricals, the talks with girls like the Prices, filled me with a sort of intoxication of delight. Sometimes I used to find Mr. Ludlow watching me very closely; sometimes I half fancied he looked disapprovingly at some of my manners and my remarks; but I was too full of self-conceit to think he could really find fault with anything about me. It was all so delightful: the little councils in the attic, sometimes about the acting, sometimes about the dresses; then, as the day approached, the innumerable suggestions for "stage effects." We were always scampering up there for this and that, and the fact of concealing our purpose from Cousin Mary lent a new zest to our delight. Now all this time I could not help feeling what a strong influence Mr. Ludlow was in the little circle: with all his fun and good-humor, he had a certain dignity which made people turn to him with a peculiar respect. If ever I felt abashed, it was when I met his grave kindly glance; if ever I stopped for an instant's criticism of my silly selfish self, it was when I thought of what he would think of me. The secret of it was that with all his love of honest fun and pleasure, he had higher lights: he was seeking something of which I had never thought; he had a purpose in his life which dignified it, so that in his lightest moments I felt that his influence was a strong and serious one. At times he encouraged me to talk to him, and I was startled one day by overhearing him say to Kate, "I think you don't do Ruth justice; I believe there is more in her than that."
I fancied directly that this referred to my acting, and the only result was an increase of effort when it came my turn to appear at the rehearsals.
The morning of the eventful day arrived. It had been agreed that we were to marshal our forces at ten o'clock in the attic, and all help in the adjustment of curtains, seats, lights, etc. It was a time of intense fascination. We girls talked and laughed gayly, enjoying everything; and I can hear now the sound of the hammer as Mr. Ludlow nailed up this and that; the creaking of the boards as we ran across them before the druggeting was tacked down; the voices of one and another asking questions, offering advice, expostulating, criticising: it was a most enjoyable morning. We had a luncheon sent up to us in the attic, and I think that was the best of all; it was like a picnic, except that there were hot dishes, and a servant to run up and down. There was to be a dance after the play, and a supper; but that luncheon seemed to me a far more delightful banquet than the one to be spread that evening in the beautiful dining-room down stairs. Yet in my mind I kept anticipating the glories of the evening, the dress I was to wear, my speeches, the whole effect, finally the dance, with a real band of musicians, and the supper, at which we young people were to have a table all to ourselves. By three o'clock our luncheon was over, and Kate, who was arranging the stage for the first scene, found she needed a book which was in the parlor. She turned to me. "Come, Ruth," she said, a little sharply, "you are doing nothing. Will you run down and get me that big book on the parlor table?"
I assented willingly enough, and ran down the four flights of stairs, scarcely thinking what I was doing, until I reached the parlor. I was just going into the room, my hand was on the handle of the door, when I saw through the glass of the front door the postman's figure outside. Even now I can see the street with its covering of snow, the wide heavy doorway, the dim hall with the winding staircase at the back, and I can picture in fancy my own girlish figure standing there, not knowing that one of the most important moments of my life had come. The postman dropped a big letter into the box. I went forward, and taking it up, was pleased to find on it papa's handwriting addressed to me. No one was about the hall, the parlor into which I hurried was equally desolate, and I sat down to read my letter before going up with the book Kate wanted.
I opened my letter with feverish haste, but the first glance dashed my good spirits. I read the few lines with a sinking heart, and I can almost see them now hurriedly traced across a bit of paper: