On the last day Caroline, although she had got up with a violent headache, would not remain at home for fear of exciting suspicion or remark; but her illness was so apparent, that Mrs. Garrison had insisted upon her leaving the school.
Cleaveland had not seemed nearly as much occupied with herself, as usual, ever since his departure had been determined upon. She was in no state to solve the problem of this change by an argumentative process, and she began to think she had deceived herself—that she had been merely an agreeable and exciting circumstance in the present scene of his residence—no longer valued when he was so soon to exchange it for another. When she went home, therefore, she threw herself upon her bed, and burst into a flood of tears.
Meanwhile her lover with difficulty possessed his soul, until the hour of emancipation came, and he felt at liberty to throw himself at her feet. He then went in pursuit of her, in the sweet hope that by a few magic words—the lover’s sesame—he should unlock her carefully guarded heart, and find its wealth all his own. No one was at home but Mrs. Rutherford.
“Where is Miss Caroline?”
“She has gone to walk—”
“Gone?—which way?”
There was something in his manner which revealed, or, at least, led Mrs. Rutherford to suspect the nature of his errand. She believed that the crisis had come, and that now, if ever, was the moment for interference.
To his questions she only replied, evidently somewhat embarrassed, “Mr. Cleaveland, I want to speak a word with you.”
He was already on his way out, and turned most reluctantly.
“Walk into the parlor a moment, Mr. Cleaveland. I don’t know how Mr. Rutherford feels about this business, but I think that, as a mother, I have a better right than any one else to decide about it.”