# Orange Grove (Wall)/Chapter 17

"It was an evening bright and still As ever blushed on wave or bower, Smiling from heaven, as if nought ill Could happen in so sweet an hour."
Six weeks passed away without bringing any consolation to Rosalind. She had not seen Ernest, nor heard anything of him since that eventful morning. There could be no doubt then that she had banished him forever from her presence, and perhaps also broken the friendship existing between him and Walter, the thought of which alone oppressed her. There was just as much reason to fear that the bond of affection between herself and her father would be dissolved as the link that bound together those two loving souls.
There is a peculiar sacredness in the term friendship, a something essentially holy in its character which belongs to no other human love. Family ties have their own particular sancity, and the marriage relation, its omnipotent, heaven-inspiring, all-embracing love; but friendship, independent of family ties, recognizing no external bond of union,—the spontaneous out-gushing of kindred spirits towards each other, breathes in an atmosphere peculiarly its own.
Rosalind had often dwelt in thought upon the beautiful intimacy that had sprung up between Ernest ​and Walter, and the congeniality which had drawn them into such close companionship that the most trifling minutiæ of the daily life of each was unfolded to the other, in their discussions always assimilating in the end, though they might reach it by different opinions on the way. Often had she watched them from her chamber window as they strolled down the avenue, breaking a twig from the trees, or so engrossed in conversation they turned neither to the right nor left; or sitting on the greensward in front of the house watching the play of the fountain where she occasionally joined them—Ponto lazily stretched upon the grass drowzily opening his eyes when Mademoiselle Tabby marched up in a warlike attitude and then contented herself with performing a dress parade around his tail—had she heard them discourse of men and things with the sageness of philosophers, and indulge in anecdotes that sent their merry peals of laughter through the air. She could endure this suspense no longer, and resolved to tell Walter the whole, if she could find a way to begin, but that was a puzzle. Innumerable obstacles beset her. She would not in any case betray any other feeling for Ernest than as his friend, which she hadn't! therefore, what need of precaution? She was entangled in a web, not so easily brushed away as spun.
Of course he had no particular regard for her except as his friend's sister. Certainly not. Then it was not such a serious affair after all, he merely invited her to ride, and she refused, not so courteously as she ought, and the reason? That included ​the whole affair, and was not to be gainsaid or evaded, especially by her outspoken self.
Finally she turned philosopher, and reasoned wisely and well, if life could be reasoned out instead of lived. It was altogether best she should never be married, since it was so hard for her to submit to the trials she must be prepared to meet in assuming the responsibilities of such a relation. But what had that to do with Ernest, or what she wished to say to Walter? Ah! instinct was more powerful than reason. Her whole soul's being was stirred and no incidental phrase could meet it's demands in such a crisis.
Then she decided to put all scruples aside and ask him simply if he knew what had become of Ernest that he did not come to see them as formerly. Here arose a choking in her throat as if that were an imposition not to be thought of, for of course she knew. Then she thought of a picture he had given her which might be laid carelessly on the table to attract Walter's notice, when she could remark naturally enough that he had not been here lately. How could she be so heartless as to treat lightly what had cost her so much agony? No, she would do no such thing, and tolerate no disguises, but manage the point some way to get information of him which did not, of necessity, demand an explanation. The ice once broken, possibly she might proceed without embarrassment.
The day was very warm and sultry, and she felt languid and depressed. Walter was going to be at home that afternoon, and she was determined to ask ​him the first time they met alone if he knew anything of Ernest. Soon after dinner there came a violent thunder shower, accompanied with hail, which did a great deal of damage. The hailstones were very large, coming with such force as to shiver into atoms a window in the dining-room whore the blinds had just been opened to admit the light. The family had collected in the front hall, and Kate was the first to rush in to see what had happened.
"Good heavens!" said she, "if the day o' judgment's come won't we have a merry time kickin' all this glass about, and peltin' each other with stones 'fore we take our leave? A merry dance we'll have, and go up in the clouds."
The storm abated, and Walter was obliged to go to the glazier's as soon as it was over. He did not return until tea-time when he brought an invitation for them all to spend the evening out, about three miles distant.
He was very much surprised and disappointed when Rosalind resolutely refused to go. She generally acceded to his wishes in such things, and he was almost impatient with her for so wilfully persisting in denying herself the pleasure a ride must afford when every thing was so bright and smiling, as if all earth's sorrows, like the summer's noontide heat, must vanish before the invigorating breezes and inspiring emotions of such an evening.
Tears came into her eyes as Walter said, "Well, Rosa, I hope you will have a good time here all alone."
Of course she could not reproach him for it, but ​reproached herself for being so selfish as to be unwilling to gratify him in so trifling a matter. She watched the carriage as it rolled slowly down the avenue. The slight motion of the horse's mane, as he set up a gentle trot, reminded her of other days when a little girl her father lifted her in childish glee to put her hands upon it, and seated her upon his back. A dear old creature he was, always so docile a child might drive him, yet full of energy which he still retained, although he had lost some of the fire of his youth.
It seemed as if an age had passed since those days, an age that had transformed this world into a different sphere from what it was then, yet in outward aspect the same. This led her into a close investigation of the causes that had produced the change and a rapid retrospect of her own experience for the last three years. No very flattering picture she drew of herself, the background of which was of too sombre a hue to admit much of the sunlight necessary for an agreeable impression, and the finishing touch was not of a character to redeem it of its ugliness. She felt the utter sinfulness of wasting these golden years of her life in worse than useless repinings, shutting out of her soul those genial influences which God gives us to beautify and ennoble it and refusing the enjoyment of the blessings which home and friends were so ready to lavish upon her. She did not pursue this train of thought long. Her mind soon wandered back into the old channel which had engaged it that day, how to introduce Walter into the secret of her present troubles. Her last conclu​sion was to enquire about Ernest, as her suspense in that respect began to overpower her own personal relations in the matter. This was a course comparatively easy, but now the opportunity was wanting. The next day he was going away, and it seemed almost impossible to rest another night. Then in a few weeks he was to leave home, and how could sho live without him under these circumstances.
After restlessly diverting herself by going from one thing to another to no purpose, she sat down by her chamber window which overlooked the front yard. It was already twilight, that hour so deeply suggestive of past pleasures and future hopes, so full of vague yearnings to the restless wanderer, whose day dreams assume a spectral shape as the visionary hour of hight approaches. She beguiled the weary moments by gazing into the dim distance which returned no answering smile of cheer or consolation. All along the unbroken stillness seemed to come an irresistible impetus to her ardent desire for questioning Walter, until she tortured herself into the belief that something had really happened to Ernest, something for which her conscience told her she would be responsible. There was still a faint hope of an opportunity that night on Walter's return. A habit had existed between them from childhood which he had been particularly careful to observe for the last six weeks, a good night kiss. If he staid out until she had retired to her chamber he sought entrance there, and would he not do it now if she failed to meet them at the door on their return. Then recollecting how earnestly he had plead with her to ​accompany them, would not his patience be exhausted by this time, and thus this last anchor of hope float by. As all visible objects began to grow indistinct she could just perceive the little frolicksome kitten performing her wild antics in the flower circle. She rested her head on her hand to shut out, if possible, these unpleasant associations.
In another chamber sat Milly and Kate discussing their old topic, the novel, which Kate broached by an unceremonious entrance, singing at the top of her voice.
The sun was shining brightly Over the fields and the clover, The grasshoppers chirped, The bobolinks winked, And the little pigs squealed right merrily.
"There's some poetry for you to put at the head of the second chapter, and no play of the fancy neither, but a real farm scene out in the country. That's what I call a five-legged metre."
Milly felt unusually languid that day, and scarcely noticed Kate's merriment. For the last few moments she had been watching Rosalind who went to a white rose-bush as if to pluck a rose, then suddenly changing her mind, returned to the house. She was now pondering why she did not go to ride with her mother and Walter. Half mentally she said in a low voice, which Kate's quick ear readily caught. "So true it is that the lips may be wreathed in smiles while the heart is torn with anguish. One would think Rosalind might be perfectly happy."
"And its her own fault that she ain't. If she likes to be at cross pints, she must, that's all."
​"You judge her too harshly. She used to be the light of the house."
"I should call her the spite of the house from the way she acts sometimes, but then she has always treated me well."
"She is walking through the shadows now."
"I should think she was walkin' through shadders, and has a mighty likin' for 'em too. I should think she'd be afraid of ghosts in the way she treats Mr. Livingston. Give her as much to do as I have and she wouldn't have no time to be huntin' up shadders."
"Why, how does she treat him? I've wondered why he doesn't come here now."
"I guess he won't come here again, behave as she did when he asked her to go to ride. I'd a sent her 'tother side the moon chasin' after the stars."
"I can't believe that. He will come to see Walter. Did he really invite her to ride?"
"Sartain. He had the handsomest hoss and shay you ever see, and he looked so happy and smilin' I could 'a rid to heaven on his smile, and lived on the light of his eyes when I got there. You see I mistrusted what was a foot when I went to the door and see how spruce he looked, and see the hoss and team out at the gate. So thinks I to myself I'm goin' to see how this affair comes out. Well, so I went up to call Miss Rosalind, and bless my stars, how she looked! I thought she must be dressed up to go out washin'. It was easy enough to change her frock you know, but her hair was in the same plight, and it would take longer to smooth out her curls. ​Think, says I, I hope his patience will hold out till she gets fixed up. If you believe me, she went down just as she was! What do you 'spose he thought? But that wan't the worst of it. You see my curiosity was pretty well pricked up by that time and I thought I'd listen right behind the screen there. He spoke so soft and low I couldn't hear what he said, but she snarled out somethin' as crabbed as sour vinegar, and then went off and left him standin' there."
"Is that so?"
"I'm ready to swear to it by all the saints and holy virgins."
"You needn't go so far as that Kate, but that is incomprehensible anyhow."
"Don't go to usin' any such long heavy word as that; come right to the pint, and say she ought to have her nose put out o' jint for cuttin' such a shine with him. She might live a spinster and spin street yarn for amusement all the days of her life afore I'd stand between her and the sun again."
"What is the reason you never told of it before, if you knew it?"
"You don't 'spose I'm such a fool as to tell all I know, do you?"
"I don't think Rosa ever cared about marrying, but that needn't have prevented her from going to ride."
"Oh, don't you believe that. All these young girls mean to be married, only they like to flirt a little first. I expect 'twas somethin' she heard about Miss Blanche that nettled her up so. I'll warrant you she gets some of Mr. Livingston's visits now."
​"If he really loves Rosalind he won't give her up so. The more faults he sees the more pity he'll have for her, and love her all the more."
"Gracious Peter! If that ain't the essence of love extracted out of a moon-struck sunbeam! The more hateful a person acts, the better folks will like 'em. That beats good folks bein' no better 'n bad ones."
"I mean when a person sincerely loves another, his or her faults will not diminish that love because it is so strong as to overlook them in the excellence of other qualities which first drew it out."
"Nonsense! But look at my hair, what if the bell should ring? It looks as if Moll' Pitcher's young ones had quarreled over it and left it in a fright. There's somebody comin' up now, looks like Mr. Livingston's ghost," and she made her exit as quick as she had made her entrance.
It was not Mr. Livingston, but Mrs. Frizzlewit, who was now on a begging mission for a poor emigrant family just arrived, and wished to see Mrs. Claremont and Walter. Learning that they were not at home, she made no stop, but immediately sought Miss Blanche, to consult her upon the most feasible plan of rendering them assistance. "If you will ask Mr. Livingston to contribute," said she, "you will do me a great favor, and besides, I think he will be more likely to give to you than to me."
"No, never," replied Grace Blanche with much spirit, "I should not ask him if there were an opportunity, and I do not know that I shall ever see him again."
Mrs. Frizzlewit inherited the natural propensity of ​liking to gather news, especially concerning young people, and she was confident by the tone and manner in which her friend spoke, that something had happened which would be exceedingly interesting to know. No persuasion, however, could extort anything more, and she was obliged to content herself with the suspicion that a misunderstanding had occurred between them. "A most unaccountable thing though," she kept soliloquizing, and what was more unaccountable still, became so engrossed by it as to forget the farther prosecution of her mission for that night. The bell rung nine before she was aware, and never allowing herself to be absent from her family later than that hour unless some uncommon occasion demanded it, she hurried away.
It was quite a relief to Miss Blanche, who was already beginning to regret the betrayal of her own feelings in that unguarded remark. She also, in common with Rosalind, was lost in reverie at the time Mrs. Frizzlewit made her appearance.
Mr. Livingston had deeply wounded her feelings by passing her unrecognized on the morning of his unfortunate adventure at Orange Grove. Pre-occupied as his mind then was, the air might have been full of Grace Blanches and he would not have seen them. Only one image was present to his mind. No matter if it was unseemly, it was capable of transformation, and in that light was constantly reappearing.
For all this however, the shock to his sensitive nature was greater than he was willing to acknowledge, which rebounded in another shock to Miss ​Blanche's equal sensitiveness at this particular time. He had not imagined that any thing could so disturb his equanimity and self-possession, as he was obliged to confess by many instances of absence of mind which occurred that day. He came near ruining the picture upon which he was at work, by an involuntary suggestion that the eyes did not sufficiently resemble Rosalind's to be of any worth, forgetful that hers was closely veiled and put away out of sight until—he knew not what. The contrast between that morning and the other was too painful to be banished.
Miss Blanche, however, knew nothing of this, and experienced an equally painful sensation in contrasting his friendliness towards her only two evenings before and his coldness now. Every one knows the chilling effect produced by meeting unrecognized one whom we have learned to respect or even a casual acquaintance, as if the sympathetic vein of human nature was robbed of some of its vitality thereby. Yet it is a very common experience, towards which we unconsciously contribute our own share when engrossed with care, or burdened with anxiety.
Mr. Livingston was seldom, if ever, guilty before of such a breach of courtesy, being one of those persons the sight of whom rejoices one like the sunshine after a shower; so much of the kindliness of the heart welled up into the look of recognition which no ordinary care or anxiety could repress, and whose respectful bearing flowed equally towards all, whether friend or foe, if he had any; the lady in foreign laces, or the beggar in homespun.