The Old Stone House by Constance Fenimore Woolson (romantic story to read .TXT) 📖

“It will be rather hot, won’t it, Pussy?”

“Oh, no!” said Gem decisively; “Tom says it will be delightfully cool. We’re going to have a stove, and chairs, and a table, and candles, and things to eat; and then the dogs can stay there too. Grip has never had a regular house, you know, and Tom says it isn’t respectable for him to be loose round the garden at night any more, and so he’s going to let him live in the shanty.”

“Happy Grip!” said Hugh, as he delivered the shovels at the foot of the stairs; “but who are the B. B.‘s, Gem?”

“Oh! the Band of Brothers,—a secret society. Don’t let them see you, please, Hugh, for I promised not to tell, and I’m almost afraid of them, they’ve got such a dreadful motto.”

“What is it, Pussy?”

“Ruin, Riot, and Revenge,” said Gem in a solemn whisper.

“Well done, B. B.‘s!” said Hugh laughing; “truly, a terrific motto! There, take your shovels and run, little one. I won’t betray you.”

So the shovels disappeared, and Hugh, returning to the studio, related the adventure to Bessie with a hearty laugh. “Do you know anything about the B. B.‘s?” he asked, as Bessie resumed her work.

“Oh, yes!” she replied; “I know them to my cost. They are ruin to water-melons, riot on peaches, and revenge to anyone who interferes with them. A few weeks ago, they frightened Mrs. Lane and her sister almost into a fainting-fit. You know that high board fence below here? Well! one evening the B. B.‘s happened to find out that they were over at Mrs. Reed’s, so they waited until the ladies came along, and then they laid themselves down on the ground close behind the fence, and putting their mouths against the boards, groaned out, one by one, ‘seven years ago I was murdered and buried under this fence, oh!—oh!—oh!’—each boy keeping up the groan until the next one took it up as the ladies hurried by.”

Hugh laughed; “What did they do it for?” he asked.

“Oh, I believe Mrs. Lane had ordered them out of her garden, one day, when they were playing there with her Johnny.”

“I am afraid if Aunt Faith knew they were undermining her terrace, she would order them out of her’s, too.”

“I think not, Hugh. Aunt Faith likes boys, and she never seems to see their pranks.”

“Dear Aunt Faith! she is certainly the kindest aunt a graceless nephew ever had,” said Hugh warmly.

“That she is; I love her dearly, and I do mean to try not to vex her any more,” said Bessie earnestly.

“But, the horseback-riding, Bessie!” “But, the horseback-riding, Hugh!”

The two offenders looked at each other a moment in silence, and then burst into a peal of laughter.

“It’s of no use,” said Bessie; “we can’t be good.”

“Do you think Aunt Faith would be very much shocked if we should tell her?” asked Hugh.

“Of course she would. She does not like to see a lady on horseback, because her cousin was killed by a fall from a horse, you know. Still, she might not forbid my going, provided I would ride quietly on a country road; but that is just what I do not want to do. The whole excitement is in the racing, you know.”

“Well, I suppose it would be better not to tell her, then,” said Hugh slowly.

Dinner-time came, and the family assembled in the dining-room, Sibyl attired in a fresh muslin, and Bessie and Hugh somewhat dusty after their morning in the studio. Tom and Gem came in with flushed faces;—the B. B.‘s were to return after dinner and finish the excavation, and the afternoon was to be full of glory.

“Sibyl,” said Aunt Faith, when the others had left the dining-room, “would you like to go with me to see Margaret Brown, about four o’clock? You have been there before, I believe?”

“No, Aunt Faith, I have never been there.”

“I thought Mr. Leslie said so.”

“He did, but he was mistaken,” replied Sibyl calmly. “I will go with you, however, this afternoon, aunt, if you wish.”

“Do not go merely to oblige me, my dear. I thought you seemed to be interested in Mr. Leslie’s description. For my part, I have thought of it ever since.”

A slight flush rose in Sibyl’s fair face. “I was much interested, aunt,” she said quickly, “and I shall be glad to go with you, if you will allow it.”

So Aunt Faith went upstairs for her afternoon siesta, and soon fell asleep on the cool chintz lounge, in her shaded room, where the old-fashioned furniture, high bedstead, spindle-legged chairs, and antique toilet-table, had remained unchanged from her youth, when the oval mirror reflected back a merry, rosy girl-face, instead of the pale, silver-haired woman.

But Sibyl did not sleep. She went into the still parlor, and seated herself by the window with a book; but her thoughts were busy, and only her eyes were fixed upon the page, as her mind wandered far away from the author’s subject. “Shall I or shall I not go to Saratoga?” she mused. “This is more than the mere question of a summer journey; I know that very well. It is, I feel it, a turning-point in my life. Can I deliberately give up my ambition, my hopes, all my prospects for a bright and prosperous future? Is it, after all, wrong to like wealth and ease? Is it wrong to like elegance and refinement, the society of cultivated people, and the charming surroundings which only money can bring? I have an innate horror of misery,—an inability to endure the want of all that is beautiful in life. I think I could be a very good woman in an elegant city home, with all my little wishes gratified, and nothing to offend my taste. But I fear, yes, I know, I should be a miserable, if not a wicked woman, in a poor home, with nothing but rasping, wearing poverty, day after day. Why, the very smell and steam of the wet flannels coming from the kitchens of small houses where I have happened to be on washing-days, has made me uncomfortable for hours. I know I am not heroic, but I am afraid I was not intended for a heroine. I know myself and all my faults thoroughly. I am sure I should be generous with my money if I was rich,—kind to the poor, and regular in the discharge of all my religious duties. People would love me; I should make them happy, and be happy myself. Now the question is, am I right in thinking such a life far better for me, constituted as I am, than any other?

“Let me look at the opposite side, now. It is not likely I should ever be obliged to work at severe manual labor; but the annoyances and privations of a limited income seem to me almost worse than that. I think I would rather be a washerwoman, provided I could acquire the strength, than the wife of a struggling man who has all the refined tastes and sensitive nerves of a gentleman, without a gentleman’s income. I should see him growing more and more careless, more and more haggard, day after day; I should see myself growing old, ugly, ill-tempered, and sick, hour after hour. I have not the moral force of mind, or the physical force of body, to make a cold, half-furnished house seem a haven of rest, a piece of corned-beef and potatoes continued indefinitely through the week seem a delicious repast, or an old-fashioned cloak and dowdy bonnet seem like my present pretty fresh attire. Well! this being the case, I am afraid I am but a worldly woman, and, as such, would I not wrong a poor man if I consented to be his wife? Would he not be sure to repent when it was too late,—when he had discovered the selfishness and love of luxury which are in me? I know he would. I will not put myself in such a position. I will do the best I can; but, as I cannot make myself over, I will select the life which is best suited to me.”

Here Sibyl sighed, and tried to bring her mind back upon her book. In vain; her thoughts would wander. “There is poor Aunt Faith. I can easily see how anxious she is about me, and how her heart aches over my worldliness. I do love her dearly; all the good in me I owe to her, and if I ever do anything right, it will be the result of her loving guidance. Sometimes I am tempted to tell her all that is in my heart,—all I have been thinking this afternoon, for instance. I believe I will write it down now, and give it to her. She will understand me better, then; and, if I request it, she will never allude to the paper in words. Yes, I think I will do it.” So Sibyl took a sheet of paper from the drawer, and, in her clear handwriting, wrote out her thoughts of the afternoon, adding a request that the subject might not be brought into discussion, and also, that the paper should be destroyed. “I will not take any false steps,” she thought; “I will be true to my determination, and therefore I will not go to see Margaret Brown this afternoon; there would be a double motive in the visit, I fear.” Rising, she went slowly up the stairs to Aunt Faith’s room; the door was partly open, and she could hear the rustle of book-leaves. “Aunt Faith!” she said, standing outside in the hall, “I have decided not to go with you this afternoon, if you will excuse me. I shall go over to the cottage to see Rose Saxon. And I have written down some ideas of mine on this paper; perhaps you may be interested in reading them.”

She did not wait for a reply, but laying down the folded paper on a chair by the door, she went down the stairs, took her little straw round hat, and walked over to the cottage, the residence of Mrs. Marr, whose niece, Rose Saxon, had been one of her schoolmates. Aunt Faith laid aside her book and read Sibyl’s paper several times over; then she arranged her dress, and went alone to see Margaret Brown, leaving an order for some work, and inviting the children to come and play in the large garden at the old stone house. Her voice was gentle, her words cordial, and Margaret felt cheered by the visit; but the visitor’s heart was sad, and when, on her way home, she met Mr. Leslie, she merely bowed, without stopping as usual to exchange a pleasant greeting. But the young clergyman joined his old friend in spite of her constrained manner, and began talking: “You have been to see Margaret Brown, I presume, Mrs. Sheldon. I am very glad. I am sure she will interest you, and she has so few friends to help her, that I feel anxious to gain for her your good will. Miss Warrington has also visited her, I believe?”

“No, Mr. Leslie,” replied Aunt Faith; “Sibyl has never been to see Margaret, and she did not care to accompany me this afternoon.”

A shade came over the young clergyman’s face, but he made no comment.

“Westerton is very dull for Sibyl; she is better fitted for the gay society of the busy city,” pursued Aunt Faith, determined at any cost to prevent Mr. Leslie from looking at her niece with blinded eyes.

“Miss Warrington is fitted for any life,” replied the young clergyman gravely; “if you please, Mrs. Sheldon, I will accompany you home. I would like to see Miss Warrington.”

Poor