MONDE HEDELQUIVER TO EDITH MANNERS.

Danville, Dec. 15, 1851.

“Rosamonde,” said Aunt Alice one morning, as she sat stitching a wristband; and her voice had an ominous cadence.

“What would you say to me, aunt?”

I looked up from my paper, but she had turned her face from me a little, and bent it low over her work, as if what she was going to say had a certain sort of wickedness in it that made her ashamed. “What would you say, aunt?” I repeated.

“Why it isn’t much; but I was thinking that if Alfred Cullen comes up while you are here—and I have an idea that he will—I hope you will try to like him.”

“Or rather, aunt, you hope I will like him without trying, don’t you?”

By the way, I wonder if you remember that Alfred Cullen was the betrothed of Cousin Alice. He still wears his weeds for her; still comes up here every few months, and sits at her piano playing the airs that she used to play most. Uncle and aunt say that he is very pale and very noble, with the air of one who follows Christ close at his feet; that he is gentle and loving like a child; always forgetful of himself, never forgetful of others. You see he is quite a miracle of goodness. If he comes, I fear I shall have a panic as long as he stays.

“That would be better,” aunt replied; “I didn’t think of that. Yes, I hope you will like him with ease—if poor Alice had lived, he would have been her husband. As it is, I can’t wish him to be single always on her account; and, somehow, when I think of his marrying another, I want it to be one who would be a sort of daughter to me and your uncle as well as a wife to Alfred.”

“Yes, that would be pleasant for you,” answered I, feeling something of a panic beforehand. I feel the more of it, because aunt never sees through things that go on clearly, or understands how they go, or how they had best go. So she is always lending a word here and a word there for their adjustment, according to her idea. I thought this all over—covering a piece of waste paper with dashes, dots, and initials—while she considered what must next be said.

She said next, that Alfred is attentive to every body, especially—as she has sometimes thought—to Paulina Monroe, aunt’s niece, who lives in the neighborhood, who was Cousin Alice’s dearest companion, and who is now, as it were, a daughter in the house. Aunt’s “ideas,” of which she has so much to say, are not clear on this head. She has thought that it would not be strange if Alfred were to transfer his affections to Paulina; but she is sure she don’t know how it will terminate. He certainly sits by her a great deal; and when he is here, in summer, walks with her a great deal in the roads and paths she and Alice used to frequent—such as down the hill, through the back lane and the pasture to the old, deserted Fifield house, by the brook, where, as aunt says, the pinks and the roses still bloom, and the apples ripen, albeit the old couple that used to look on their growth have been mouldering this many a year under a hedge close by.

“If he does come while you are here,” again said aunt. “But you are done thinking about it, Rosamonde, and going on with your writing.” She looked as if she were deprecating some hurt I had given her.

“Oh, well, aunt, I am only writing a letter, and can write and talk at the same time.”

“This is strange; but your uncle can do just so, while I can never think of but one thing at a time. What I was going to say was, that you ought to stay longer than you say. Alfred will surely be up in the spring, if he don’t come this winter; and you ought to see our New England scenery in the summer, now that you are old enough to appreciate it. ‘The Switzerland of America’ you know our state has been called, although your uncle says ‘Poh!’ to this. He and Alfred both seem to think New England as good as Switzerland; or, at any rate, good enough without borrowing names for it.”

“As it certainly is, aunt.”

Finding that this was all I had to say, that I had no remark to make respecting Alfred Cullen, she added, hesitatingly—

“Paulina is, to be sure, my own niece—she and Alice were like twins, almost. She is a good little girl as ever was; but, somehow, it seems to me, ever since you came, that Alfred would like you best.” Again aunt’s voice became a little husky, and again a little panic ran along my nerves. “Still, I do think,” added aunt, “that he grows more particular in his attentions to Paulina every time he comes up. And, lately, they correspond occasionally, although Paulina keeps a close mouth about it, so that neither her mother nor I know what it amounts to. Paulina is reckoned very pretty.”

“She is very pretty, indeed, aunt, with a beautiful complexion.”

“Yes, this is true; but, somehow, her beauty is of a very common kind. Alice’s wasn’t; yours isn’t. You and Alice are alike, or were, only you have a better form for those who like dignity. And you have more courage: you are all Hedelquiver; she was half Monroe.”

“You estimate me very kindly, dear aunt,” said I, grateful for the cordial words and tones.

“Well, I like you, somehow, better and better every day. You are calm and strong, like your uncle. I always like to have such people with me, I suppose because I am so nervous and weak myself. Alfred is nervous, too, I think, although he commands himself perfectly.”

Thus it was Alfred, Alfred, all day, and for, many days, until I was quite tired of it; until I wished that there was no Alfred Cullen in the universe. She said to me this morning, in a way as if she were doubtful whether it would recommend him to me—“Alfred writes beautiful poetry, they say. I saw a piece he wrote on ‘Night,’ and it was very beautiful I thought.”

“Writes poetry, does he!” said I, determined to exorcise him and his praises. “I am sorry! I can never bear a man to be always scribbling poetry, whenever the moon shines, or any thing happens.”

Dismayed now, in her turn, aunt put in numberless disclaimers, which amounted to this—Why, she has heard, to be sure, that he does sometimes write very pretty poetry, and that some of it comes out in the “Tribune;” that, in fact, she has seen one piece with her own eyes—Paulina had it, she cut it out of the Tribune. But, for all that, he has as much energy and manliness as those have who never touch a pen but in keeping their accounts. She wouldn’t have me think, for a thousand worlds, that he is an effeminate, moon-struck young man. She hopes he will come up: she has no doubt he will while I am here, and then I shall see with my own eyes!

Yes, then I shall see, Edith mine, and then you shall hear about it. One thing troubles me—I fear aunt will be bumping our heads together every five minutes, in the way of making us like each other; that is, if he comes, as I presume he will by some device of aunt’s. If she does manoeuvre in a way the least bit gross, I foresee—that I can live through it, to be sure, as one can live through every sort of vexation and grievance if one will. But I shall be very still, and very tall; and, moreover, so repulsive in various ways, that he will be propelled with something of a shock to the far corners of the room, as often as he meditates approach to me.

You should see how I thrive. The hardiest imp out at the red school-house on the corner, who does not once cease to turn sommersets, snow-ball, make pyramids and snow-images, and beat the snow from his iron-like boots, is hardly stronger, browner, hungrier than I am. For you see, I ride out often with uncle and aunt to call on substantial families, where are warm fires in two or three rooms, where great red and green apples and snapped-corn go round, if we can stay no more than fifteen minutes, and where, at any rate, a few lively jokes fly right and left, and a few earnest, friendly things are spoken, and promises of an early “visit” interchanged. We meet other sleighs, we pass them; they pass us, like lightning, with young village gents in them, and I am ready to go over the moon at the sound of the merry bells. Kate and I go up hill and down, let the weather be as it will. Yesterday, as if we were one feature of the storm, we went on and on, chasing the snow-clouds that were trooping over the fields and roads, and the snow-clouds that were trooping, chasing us. This morning it was still and splendid for a feathery hoar-frost clung to every branch and spray, and glittered in the early sun. It was stinging cold, as aunt forwarned me, the air “cut like a knife.” But I liked it—I felt it invigorate me every moment and prepare me for the rest of the day—for the rest of life; for I see it plainer and plainer, that every wholesome pleasure, and every wholesome sorrow, not the less, is such a preparation. Therefore, welcome all experiences, I will accept them as the loving child of Him who metes them out.

I am up early. This is easy for me here, for kitchen, dining-room and back-parlor are warm before six o’clock, and all in the house are moving. So that I write a great deal, and write well, as I believe you will say when you read what I have written. The publishers’ praise me and—pay me. Twenty-five dollars came from Philadelphia yesterday. Every cent of this (for I can have no wants of my own here) I shall send to my dear father. If he has only a few bits of silver in his purse, and no business, twenty-five dollars will go quite a long way in purchasing comforts. I am thine, dearest,

Rosa.

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