“Every morning, my bright boy, I get up and say to myself, ‘Well! I reckon it’s about time to take the route for London;’ and every morning, if you’ll believe me, I put it off till next day. Whether it’s in the good feeding (expensive, I admit; but when your cook helps you to digest instead of hindering you, a man of my dyspeptic nation is too grateful to complain)—or whether it’s in the air, which reminds me, I do assure you, of our native atmosphere at Coolspring, Mass., is more than I can tell, with a hard steel pen on a leaf of flimsy paper. You have heard the saying, ‘When a good American dies, he goes to Paris’. Maybe, sometimes, he’s smart enough to discount his own death, and rationally enjoy the future time in the present. This you see is a poetic light. But, mercy be praised, the moral of my residence in Paris is plain:—If I can’t go to Amelius, Amelius must come to me. Note the address Grand Hotel; and pack up, like a good boy, on receipt of this. Memorandum: The brown Miss is here. I saw her taking the air in a carriage, and raised my hat. She looked the other way.
“British—eminently British! But, there, I bear no malice; I am her most obedient servant, and yours affectionately, RUFUS.—Postscript: I want you to see some of our girls at this hotel. The genuine American material, sir, perfected by Worth.”
Another morning brought with it a few sad lines from Phoebe. “After what had happened, she was quite unable to face her friends; she had no heart to seek employment in her own country—her present life was too dreary and too hopeless to be endured. A benevolent lady had made her an offer to accompany a party of emigrants to New Zealand; and she had accepted the proposal. Perhaps, among the new people, she might recover her self-respect and her spirits, and live to be a better woman. Meanwhile, she bade Mr. Goldenheart farewell; and asked his pardon for taking the liberty of wishing him happy with Miss Regina.”
Amelius wrote a few kind lines to Phoebe, and a cordial reply to Rufus, making the pursuit of his studies his excuse for remaining in London. After this, there was no further correspondence. The mornings succeeded each other, and the postman brought no more news from the world outside.
But the lessons went on; and the teacher and pupil were as inconsiderately happy as ever in each other’s society. Observing with inexhaustible interest the progress of the mental development of Sally, Amelius was slow to perceive the physical development which was unobtrusively keeping pace with it. He was absolutely ignorant of the part which his own influence was taking in the gradual and delicate process of change. Ere long, the first forewarnings of the coming disturbance in their harmless relations towards each other, began to show themselves. Ere long, there were signs of a troubled mind in Sally, which were mysteries to Amelius, and subjects of wonderment, sometimes even trials of temper, to the girl herself.
One day, she looked in from the door of her room, in her white dressing-gown, and asked to be forgiven if she kept the lessons of the morning waiting for a little while.
“Come in,” said Amelius, “and tell me why.”
She hesitated. “You won’t think me lazy, if you see me in my dressing-gown?”
“Of course not! Your dressing-gown, my dear, is as good as any other gown. A young girl like you looks best in white.”
She came in with her work-basket, and her indoor dress over her arm.