"You ask me to tell you about Jessie's friend, who has come to stay with my old crony, Miss Spelman, and I see that you are curious to know my sentiments regarding her. I also suspect, from the tone of your remarks, that you think it would be a very good thing for a poor doctor like me, etc., etc. That this coincides with Miss Selina's course of reasoning on this matter, I am pretty certain; for before Miss Lester came she was continually praising her to me, and now I can see that every opportunity is improved to bring us together. Would you believe it, Philip?—when the young lady arrived, Miss Spelman manœuvred so as to give me a tête-à-tête drive with her from the station to the house! She was disappointed in her plans, as there were both a maid and a dog to be packed into my chaise besides Miss Lester. But what seems so plain to other people's eyes, I cannot say is so to mine. You want a description of her, and add a hope that I have found the ideal of our college days. I laugh as I recall that ideal, and think of the reality before my mind's eye. Picture to yourself, then, a tall young woman—five feet eight inches, I should say—large in proportion, and a decided brunette. She is called handsome, as you know, but I do not agree to this; though if the adjective were showy, I should have no objection to make. Her style is rather loud, or, as she herself says, 'prononcé.' She has a pair of very brown, inquisitive eyes, which see, I am sure, much more than they have any right to see. She has a good deal of color, but not the changing blush we used to talk of. Her dress? Of course I cannot give you a correct description of that; but the first time I saw her in the house, she wore very deep purple with ornaments of gold, a gold band on her hair, and long, barbarous eardrops. The next time, in the morning, she was dressed (I am not joking) in bright scarlet, worked all over with black; and she went to drive with me in a round fur cap that would have been appropriate to a young swell in New York, but hardly to a lady. But all these objections are, after all, minor, when I come to the great one; my dear fellow, she is an heiress! Now, you know very well my mind on this subject; and I know you will think of my favorite verse,
'Where I want of riches find,
Think what with them I would do,
That without them dare to woo.'"But in this case I feel sure that I should not be a disinterested lover. I could never forget her money. By the way, I suspect that she did not intend me to know she was wealthy; Jessie's note gave the impression that she had, as I wished, enough to secure her own comfort; but Miss Spelman took care to let me understand how very well her niece was provided with 'earthly goods.'
"I see I am allowing myself to find fault with Miss Lester and criticise her, a thing I have resolved I will not do. I will therefore suppress a good deal more of disapproval I was going to write, and see what I can tell you in her praise. In the first place, I think she is good-tempered; I have seen her thoughtful of her maid, and good-natured when she was both cold and hungry. She is entertaining, intelligent, and companionable. I enjoyed her society when I drove her over to Sealing, and she is wonderfully fresh and simple in her tastes for a blase New Yorker, surfeited with gayeties as she has been. She is a good musician, though she does not sing. Her hands are her best feature: large and shapely and well kept; they are also warm, smooth, and womanly.
"Where is my dream, Philip? Would not your gentle Jessie more nearly fulfil it? You will say that dreams 'go by contraries;' true perhaps of those we frame at night, unconsciously; but does that wise maxim hold good of day-dreams and castles in the air also? Now, you have chosen well and wisely for yourself, and my best wish is that you and your loving helpmate may live to enjoy all the bliss you hope for; but I must wait until my wife manifests herself, as I am sure she will, unmistakably, and for that I am content to wait until I am an old man."
It will be seen from this letter that Dr. James had not disclosed, even to his old friend, the secret of Margaret's visit to Shellbeach; neither was Jessie more communicative on the subject; for they were both rather ashamed of the affair. Margaret herself, to tell the truth, was not free from a like embarrassment; there was something manly and unassuming about the doctor, a freedom from all pretension and assertion, that made her feel, when with him, quiet and almost diffident. This, however, she did not acknowledge to herself; and her high spirits determined her to carry out her plan, and brave all the obstacles which her appreciation of the circumstances suggested to her. From one point of view, her coming was a success; Miss Spelman was charmed with her, and spoke of her remaining indefinitely. She made much of and petted her in a way Margaret was not accustomed to, and which was very pleasant to her. She could almost imagine, now, what it would be to have a mother's love and care during these years of her youthful womanhood. True, her aunt was no support, and her advice was not always wise; but Margaret was both by nature and habit self-reliant, and the person was not come, she thought, to whom she could abandon the reins of government, and in whose favor she might abdicate.
CHAPTER VII.
FROM THE LABORING CLASSES.
After a week had passed in her aunt's well-ordered household, Margaret received a few ceremonious calls from the ladies of Shellbeach and Sealing, which, in the course of another week, she returned with due formality with her aunt. The visiting acquaintance of Miss Spelman at Shellbeach consisted of a few elderly ladies, of whom Margaret saw but little during her visit, though they were kind and cordial, and always gave her a pleasant welcome to their houses.
There was one caller, however, of whom Margaret was destined to see a good deal, and who deserves a more particular description. She was a lady who might have been between forty and fifty, who came walking into the house without ringing, one windy evening, in rubber boots, with which she had been making herself a path in the newly fallen snow. She was tall and thin, with heavy eye-brows, and rather masculine bearing and manners, but a very genial smile beamed on her lips and in her eyes. Her voice was loud but cheerful, and she gave Margaret a warm squeeze of the hand and a good, steady look in the eye, that seemed to show she was disposed for friendliness.
"Well now, Martha," said Miss Spelman, helping her guest off with hood and cloak, and wheeling up a comfortable chair for her to the fire, "where have you been all this long time? And how are you and your poor old father? How does the house stand this cold winter, and how are you getting along altogether?"
The visitor seated herself in the chair, tucked up her plain brown gown over her knees, and clasped her rough, strong-looking hands, seeming to enjoy the cheery blaze; then she answered rather slowly,
"We are very well off, thank you, Miss Spelman. Father's about the same as usual; he misses the garden now the snow has come. The house is pretty tight, and I keep the fires going with Norah's help. You know Dr. James got Norah for us, and a more willing, good-natured creature I never wish to see. She really seems to have brought sunshine into the house, and says, 'May the queen of heaven send you good health, sir!' and, 'May the blessed saints look out for you, Miss Martha!' quite in the old-country fashion."
"I don't know about Irish help," said Miss Spelman; "I never can get along with them. I haven't had one these ten years, since my poor old Bridget died; and then they're always so set about getting to church, and dreadfully put out if they are prevented now and then."
"Do you think so? Well, Norah says to me, 'I dearly love to go to holy Mass, and to pay my respects on the saints' days; but the priest tells me to mind my duty in the house first, and I wouldn't feel easy to go and leave that poor lamb (one of her names for my father) with none to look after his dinner.'"