Malbone: An Oldport RomanceHigginson, Thomas Wentworth
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Malbone: An Oldport Romance
Higginson, Thomas Wentworth
Newport (R.I.) -- Fiction
But what was most irresistible about Emilia,--that which we all noticed
in this interview, and which haunted us all thenceforward,--was a
certain wild, entangled look she wore, as of some untamed out-door
thing, and a kind of pathetic lost sweetness in her voice, which made
her at once and forever a heroine of romance with the children. Yet
she scarcely seemed to heed their existence, and only submitted to the
kisses of Hope and Kate as if that were a part of the price of coming
home, and she must pay it.
Had she been alone, there might have been an awkward pause; for if you
expect a cousin, and there alights a butterfly of the tropics, what
hospitality can you offer? But no sense of embarrassment ever came near
Malbone, especially with the children to swarm over him and claim him
for their own. Moreover, little Helen got in the first remark in the way
of serious conversation.
“Let me tell him something!” said the child. “Philip! that doll of mine
that you used to know, only think! she was sick and died last summer,
and went into the rag-bag. And the other split down the back, so there
was an end of her.”
Polar ice would have been thawed by this reopening of communication.
Philip soon had the little maid on his shoulder,--the natural throne of
all children,--and they went in together to greet Aunt Jane.
Aunt Jane was the head of the house,--a lady who had spent more than
fifty years in educating her brains and battling with her ailments. She
had received from her parents a considerable inheritance in the way of
whims, and had nursed it up into a handsome fortune. Being one of
the most impulsive of human beings, she was naturally one of the most
entertaining; and behind all her eccentricities there was a fund of the
soundest sense and the tenderest affection. She had seen much and varied
society, had been greatly admired in her youth, but had chosen to remain
unmarried. Obliged by her physical condition to make herself the first
object, she was saved from utter selfishness by sympathies as democratic
as her personal habits were exclusive. Unexpected and commonly fantastic
in her doings, often dismayed by small difficulties, but never by large
ones, she sagaciously administered the affairs of all those around
her,--planned their dinners and their marriages, fought out their
bargains and their feuds.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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