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Other People’s Eyes
by
“We must have something for the windows, Henry,” she said, as she stood, disconsolate, in the parlor, after tea. “It will never do in the world to let cousin Sally find us in this trim.”
“Cousin Sally will find a welcome in our hearts,” replied her husband, in a sober voice, “and that, I am sure, will be more grateful to her than new carpets and window blinds.”
The way in which this was spoken rather surprised Mrs. Cartwright, and she felt just a little rebuked.
“Don’t you think,” she said, after a few moments of silence on both sides, “that we might afford to buy a few yards of lace to put up to the windows, just for decency’s sake?”
“No,” answered the husband, firmly. “We have afforded too much already.”
His manner seemed to Mrs. Cartwright almost ill-natured. It hurt her very much. Both sat down in the parlor, and both remained silent. Mrs. Cartwright thought of the mean appearance everything in that “best room” would have in the eyes of cousin Sally, and Mr. Cartwright thought of his debt to his friend, and of that friend’s anger and alienation. Both felt more uncomfortable than they had been for a long time.
On the next day cousin Sally arrived. She had not come to spy out the nakedness of the land,–not for the purpose of making contrasts between her own condition in life and that of Mr. Cartwright,–but from pure love. She had always been warmly attached to her cousin; and the years during which new life-associations had separated them had increased rather than diminished this attachment. But the gladness of their meeting was soon overshadowed; at least for cousin Sally. She saw by the end of the first day’s visit that her cousin was more concerned to make a good appearance in her eyes,–to have her understand that she and her husband were getting along bravely in the world,–than to open her heart to her as of old, and exchange with her a few pages in the history of their inner lives. What interest had she in the new carpet, or the curtainless window, that seemed to be the most prominent of all things in the mind of her relative? None whatever! If the visit had been from Mary Cartwright to herself, she would never have thought for an instant of making preparations for her coming in the purchase of new furniture, or by any change in the externals of her home. All arrangements for the reception would have been in her heart.
Cousin Sally was disappointed. She did not find the relative, with whom so many years of her life had been spent in sweet intercourse, as she had hoped to find her. The girlish warmth of feelings had given place to a cold worldliness that repelled instead of attracting her. She had loved, and suffered much; had passed through many trials, and entered through many opening doors into new experiences, during the years since their ways parted. And she had come to this old, dear friend, yearning for that heart intercourse,–that reading together of some of the pages of their books of life,–which she felt almost as a necessity. What interest had she for the mere externals of Mary’s life? None! None! And the constant reference thereto, by her cousin, seemed like a desecration. Careful and troubled about the little things of life, she found the dear old friend of her girlish days, to whom she had come hopefully, as to one who could comprehend, as in earlier years, the feelings, thoughts, and aspirations which had grown stronger, deeper, and of wider range.
Alas! Alas! How was the fine gold dimmed in her eyes!
“Dear Mary!” she said to her cousin, on the morning of the day that was, to end her visit,–they were sitting, together in the little parlor, and Mrs. Cartwright had referred, for the fortieth time, to the unshaded windows, and declared herself mortified to death at the appearance of things,–“Dear Mary! It was to see you, not your furniture, that I came. To look into your heart and feel it beating against mine as of old; not to pry, curiously, into your ways of living, nor to compare your house-furnishing with my own. But for your constant reference to these things, I should not have noticed, particularly, how your house was attired; and if asked about them, could only have answered, ‘She’s living very nicely.’ Forgive me for this plain speech, dear cousin. I did not mean to give utterance to such language; but the words are spoken now, and cannot be recalled.”