and the doctor, resuming his hat and cane, left the room, followed by Mrs. Howe.

"Oh! Charley, Charley!" murmured Rose, pressing her lips to the little hot hand which lay upon the bed, "do not leave me."

But the desolate mother had little time for reflection, for Mrs. Howe returned immediately after having seen the doctor down stairs, and coming up to the bed-side, demanded of Rose "what she meant by bringing that sick child into town to burden her?"

"He was quite well when I started; I am very sorry, very, that I can not go back. I lost a letter here, the only one I ever had from--"

"Your _husband_, I suppose you would say," said Mrs. Howe. "It is astonishing that you will persist in keeping up that humbug; I should think you might have learned by this time that your husband, as you call him, could never have had much love for a woman whom he has neglected so long; and so all this bother has come of a search for a precious piece of his writing? 'Tis all a pretense, and you needn't believe that I don't see through it."

Rose knew it was quite useless to attempt any justification of herself and made no reply.

"I am glad you have sense enough not to deny it," said Mrs. Howe, bent upon irritating her; "I am quite a match for your cunning in every respect, Rose. I suppose you will have to stay here now, till the child gets a little better, but I want you distinctly to understand that you must wait upon yourself; my servants have something else to do, and when you have occasion to go below, see that you go down the back stairs, and do not allow yourself to be seen. You can move into the next room, Bridget's room, if the Doctor cares for that broken window; that is some of Patty's carelessness, I suppose. I shall insist upon your leaving the house at the earliest possible opportunity; when the medicine comes you must attend to it yourself;" and gathering up her flowing skirts, Mrs.

Howe left the room.

CHAPTER XXII.

"It is very curious that Rose does not come back; it is only five miles into the city. I begin to think that something has happened to the poor child," said old Mrs. Bond. "I feel quite uneasy. Mrs. Howe certainly would not keep her any longer than she could help. Something _must_ have happened;" and she walked from one window to the other, put up her spectacles, and took them out, then took a book down from the shelf, and after reading it upside down a few minutes, returned it to its place again.

"I must certainly go into town and see what is the matter," said she. "I never shall rest easy till I know;" and going out to the barn, she called the cow-boy, and by his help, harnessed the old gray horse into the chaise, for a drive into the city.

It was slow work, that ride; for the old, stiff-jointed creature, knowing well the all-enduring patience of his mistress, crawled leisurely up and down the long hills, stopped to pay his respects to every water-trough he came across, and nosed round the sides of the road after the gra.s.s-patches, in the most zig-zag fashion; now and then stopping short, and insisting upon an entire reprieve from locomotion, to be lengthened or shortened, at his own discretion. As to the whip, old Gray stood in no fear of that, because his mistress never used it for any thing but to drive off the flies. It is not astonishing, therefore, that it was well on toward noon before he and Mrs. Bond reached the city. It was as much of an event for old Gray, as for his mistress, to see it. It was many years since either had been there. Its kaleidoscope frivolities had little charm for Mrs. Bond; her necessary wants were easily supplied from the village, and she was so fortunate as to have no artificial ones.

Old Gray stopped short, as the city's din fell upon his unsophisticated ear; and as he moved on and listened to the lashings less favored nags were receiving from merciless drivers, as he saw the enormous loads under which they staggered--stumbled--and oftentimes fell upon the plentifully watered, and slippery pavement, rising (if they rose at all) with strained and excoriated limbs, he probably thought, if horses ever think, that "G.o.d made the country, and man made the town."

"Whip up your old skeleton. Get out of the way there, can't ye?"

muttered one of the progressives. "Drive to the left there, ma'am; drive to the right; halt there, ma'am," and similar other expostulations, coupled with invectives, were thundered in the ears of Mrs. Bond; who, in her benevolence of heart, jerked this way and that, backed, sidled, and went forward, and in the vain attempt to oblige all, displeased every body; still she maintained her placidity, and smiled as sweetly as if every person in the blockaded thoroughfare were not wishing her in the torrid zone.

The old lady's greatest trouble, was her fear of running over some one of the many pedestrians, of all sizes and ages, who traversed so fearlessly that Babel of horses and carriages.

"Dear heart!" she would e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.e, as some little child made his unprotected way through the vehicles. "Dear heart! it will certainly get killed!"

Good old soul! she did not know how miraculously city children live on, in spite of crowded streets, schoolteachers, milk-men, and foolish mammas.

But at length, a stable is reached near Mrs. Howe's; and the jolly hostlers nudge each other in the ribs, as the old ark rattles into the paved yard; and Mrs. Bond climbs carefully out, and resigns old Gray into their hands, with many charges as to his plentiful supply of water and oats. As the nice old lady turns her back, they go into convulsions of merriment over the whole establishment, from harness to hub; interrogating old Gray about his pedigree in a way which they think immensely funny.

Mrs. Bond threads her way along on foot, now good-naturedly picking up a parcel for some person who had unconsciously dropped one, now fumbling from out her pocket a penny for the little vagrants who are tossing mud back and forth over the crossings, with very questionable stubs of brooms, to the imminent risk of pedestrians; and now she slides a newspaper, which the truant wind has displaced, under the door crack for which it was destined.

Now she sees a group of ragged, dirty little children, nestled upon a door-step, upon which they have spread out a dingy cloth, containing old bones, bits of meat, cold potatoes, and crusts of bread, upon which their hungry eyes are gloating. It is too much for the old lady. She points to the gutter, where she wishes their unwholesome meal thrown, and beckoning them toward a baker's window, plentifully supplies the whole party with fresh bread and crackers.

And now she stops short, for she hears a name uttered dear as her hopes of heaven.

"Jesus Christ!"

The speaker's hands are not clasped, his head is not bowed, no prayer followed that dear name; it was not reverently spoken. She turns on the gentleman who uttered it a look, not of reproof but pity--such a look as might have lingered on the Saviour's face when he said, "Father forgive them; they know not what they do."

A crimson blush overspread his face, and his "Pardon me, madam" was answered only by a gathering tear in the old lady's eye as she bowed her head and turned slowly away, her lips moving as if in prayer. _He_ felt it--and the jest died upon his lip as his eyes involuntarily followed her feeble footsteps, and thoughts of a sainted mother's long-forgotten prayers came rushing through his mind with childhood's freshness.

Ah, who shall say into what pits of selfish and unhallowed pleasure that look shall haunt the recipient? What night shall be dark enough to hide it, what day bright enough to absorb its intensity? Who shall say that hallelujahs shall not yet tremble on the lips where erst were curses?

CHAPTER XXIII.

Mrs. Howe was lying on a sofa in her boudoir, in a showy _robe-de-chambre_ of green, with cherry facings, over an elaborately embroidered white petticoat. She had on also toilet slippers, with green and cherry tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs, and a very fanciful breakfast cap.

"Fall fashions open to-day, eh?" said she, laying a nicely printed envelope, scented with "millefleurs," with which Madame Du Pont had announced that important fact to her customers.

"Madame will have loves of things, just as she always does. I shall be so happy in looking them over. I think I must have a lilac hat; madame thinks lilac best suited to my complexion. Mr. Finels likes me in lilac; as to John, he don't appear to know one color from another. I don't think, however, a man ever knows what his wife has on. Madame Du Pont would make very little if we had only our husbands to dress for; yes, I will have a lilac hat, and I will go there before any other woman has a chance to make a selection of the best. I must go in a carriage: Madame Du Pont never pays any attention to a lady who comes on foot; a hackney-coach is terribly vulgar. I must persuade John to set up a carriage. I will contrive the livery myself. I wonder what is our family coat-of-arms? I must go to the heraldry office, I think, and buy one; a bear would be most emblematical of John--how cross he is getting! I never should get along at all without Finels." And Mrs. Howe drew out her gold watch, and then rising, surveyed herself in the long gla.s.s.

"Well, Mary, what is wanted?"

"If you please, ma'am, Mr.---- Mr.----, I forget his name, is below, and wants to speak with you a few minutes."

"You stupid creature, you should have brought up his card. How am I to know who it is? or whether it is worth while to make any change in my dress or not?"

"I guess it is, ma'am," said Polly, with a sly look. "It is--Mr.----, Mr.----Fin--Tin--"

"Finels?" asked Mrs. Howe, innocently.

"That's just the name, ma'am. I never can remember it. It is the gentleman who always says to me if Mr. Howe is busy not to call him; that _Mrs._ Howe will do just as well," and Polly grinned behind her ap.r.o.n corner.

"How tiresome to call so early!" exclaimed Mrs. Howe, with ill-concealed delight. "Well, I suppose you must tell him that I will be down directly. Is the parlor all right, Mary?"

"Yes, ma'am, and Mr. Howe has just gone out."

This last remark, of course, was not heeded by Mrs. Howe, who was playing in a very indifferent manner with her cap strings.

"You must really excuse my _robe-de-chambre_, Mr. Finels," said Mrs.

Howe, making use of the only French phrase she knew, to draw attention to her new _negligee_ which a poor dress-maker had set up all night to finish for the present occasion.

"I could not have excused you had you not worn it," said Finels, quite accustomed to the little transparent trickeries of the s.e.x, "it is in perfect taste, as is every thing you wear; and I feel more particularly flattered by your wearing it on the present occasion, because I consider that when a lady dispenses with etiquette in this way toward a gentleman friend, she pays a silent compliment to the good sense of her visitor,"

and Finels made one of his Chesterfieldian bows, and placed his right hand on his velvet vest. "Beside, my dear madam, one who is so superior as yourself to all the adornments of dress, should at any rate be exempt from the tyranny of custom."

"Oh, thank you," minced Mrs. Howe, playing with her robe ta.s.sels, and trying to improvise a blush.

"Here is a volume of poems which I had the luck to stumble upon yesterday. I have brought them to you, because I like to share such a pleasure with an _appreciative_ spirit," said the wily Finels, who always complimented a woman for some mental, or physical perfection, of which she knew herself to be entirely dest.i.tute. "It is a book I could speak of to but _few_ persons, for I h.o.a.rd such a treasure as a miser does his gold."

Mrs. Howe _really_--blushed with pleasure. The diplomatic Finels was not astonished, he was accustomed to such results.

"You will find some marked pa.s.sages here," said Finels, turning over the leaves. "They are perfect gems; I thought of you when I read them. I risk nothing in hoping that you will admire them equally with myself,"

and he handed her the book. "Is Mr. Howe not yet in?" he asked in a loud tone of voice as he heard that gentleman's footsteps approaching.

"Ah--how d'ye do, Howe? I was beginning to despair of seeing you."