Cooke, John Esten, 1830-1886 [1859], Out at elbows: gifts of genius. (C. A. Davenport, New York) [word count] [eaf509T].
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Front matter
Covers, Edges and Spine
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Preliminaries
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Hic Fructus Virtutis; Clifton Waller Barrett
[figure description] Paste-Down Endpaper with Bookplate: heraldry figure with a green tree on top and shield below. There is a small gray shield hanging from the branches of the tree, with three blue figures on that small shield. The tree stands on a base of gray and black intertwined bars, referred to as a wreath in heraldic terms. Below the tree is a larger shield, with a black background, and with three gray, diagonal stripes across it; these diagonal stripes are referred to as bends in heraldic terms. There are three gold leaves in line, end-to-end, down the middle of the center stripe (or bend), with green veins in the leaves. Note that the colors to which this description refers appear in some renderings of this bookplate; however, some renderings may appear instead in black, white and gray tones.[end figure description]
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To
John Ward Dean
from his friend
Evert H Duyekinsky
New York May, 1865.
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GIFTS OF GENIUS.
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Preliminaries
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Title Page
GIFTS OF GENIUS:
A Miscellany
OF
PROSE AND POETRY,
BY
AMERICAN AUTHORS.
NEW YORK:
PRINTED FOR C. A. DAVENPORT.
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Estered according to Act of Congress in the year 1859, by
C. A. DAVENPORT,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern
District of New York.
Main text
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I.
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BY JOHN ESTEN COOKE, OF VIRGINIA.
How good a thing it is to live! The morn is full
of music; and Annie is singing in the hall!
The sun falls with a tranquil glory on the fields
and forests, burning with the golden splendors of
the autumn—the variegated leaves of the mighty
oaks are draped about the ancient gables, like a
trophy of banners. The landscape sleeps; all the
world smiles—shall not I?
I sat up late last night at my accounts; to-day I
will take a holiday. The squire has bidden me
good morning in his courteous, good-humored way,
and gone in his carriage to attend a meeting of his
brother magistrates:—I am away for the time
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from my noisy courts—the domain is mine—all
the world is still!
No;—Annie is singing in the hall.
She sings to herself, I think, this autumn morning,
and would not like to be interrupted. I will
therefore take a ramble—and you shall accompany
me, O friend of my youth, far away in distant
lands, but beside me still! Whither shall we go?
It is hard to decide, for all the world is lovely.
Shall we go to my favorite woodland? It skirts the
river, and I love the river; so we pass into the
forest.
How regal is the time of the fall of the leaves!
A thousand brilliant colors charm the eyes—the
eyes of their faithful lovers. How the mighty oaks
reach out their knotty, muscular arms to welcome
us!—how their ponderous shoulders bear aloft the
imperial trappings—trappings of silk and velvet,
all orange, blue, and purple! The haughty pines
stand up like warriors—or call them spears of
nordland heroes, holding on their summits emerald
banners! The tulip-trees are lovely queens with
flowers in their hair, who bend and welcome you
with gracious murmurs; the slender elms sway to
and fro, like fairest maidens of the royal blood; and
sigh, and smile, and whisper, full of the charming
grace of youth, and tenderness, and beauty.
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I salute my noblemen, and queens, and princesses;
they bow in return to me, their king. Let
us wander on.
— Ah! that is well; my river view! Of all
my broad domain, I think I like this part the best.
Is it not beautiful? That clump of dogwood, however,
obstructs the view somewhat; I must cut it
down. Let us move a little to the right. Ah!
there it is! See my lovely river; surely you must
admire my swan-like ships, flying, with snowy canvass
spread, before the fresh breeze. And see that
schooner breaking the little waves into foam. Is
that a telescope which the captain of my vessel
points toward us? He salutes me, does he not?
But I fear the distance is too great; he could
hardly recognize me. Still I shall bow—let us not
neglect the laws of courtesy.
My ship is sailing onward. In earlier days I
had many barks which sailed from shore; they
were freighted with the richest goods, and made
me very anxious. So my argosies went sailing, but
they never came again. One bore my poem, which
I thought would make me very celebrated, but the
ship was lost. Another was to bring me back a
cargo of such beautiful things—things which make
life delightful to so many!—pearls, and silks, and
wines, and gold-laced suits—garters, rosettes, and
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slips of ribbon to be worn at the button-hole.
This, too, was lost, and yet it did not grieve me
much. The third caused me more regret; I do not
think I have yet wholly recovered from its loss.
It bore a maiden with sunny hair, and the tenderest,
sweetest eyes! She said she loved me—yes
a thousand times! and I—I loved her long and
dearly. But the ship in which she sailed went
down—the strong, good ship, as I regarded it.
She died thus,—did she not?—or is it true that she
was married to a richer suitor far away from me in
foreign lands?..... These are foolish tears—let
me not think of her with want of charity; she was
only a woman, and we men are often very weak.
One over all, is alone great and good. So, beautiful
ship!—I say—that sailed across my path in
youth, sail on in peace and happiness! A lonely
bark; lonely but not unhappy, sees you, on the distant,
happy seas, and the pennon floats from the
peak in amicable greeting and salute. Hail and
farewell! Heaven send the ship a happy voyage,
and a welcome home!
This little soliloquy perhaps wearies you; it is
ended. Let us sail for an hour or so on the silver
wave; my new pleasure-boat is rocking here beneath
in the shadow of the oak. She is built for
speed. See how gracefully she falls and rises, like
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a variegated leaf upon the waves—how the slender
prow curves upward—how the gaily-colored sides
are mirrored in the limpid surface of the joyous
stream! Come, let us step into the little craft, and
unfurl the snowy sail.... How provoking! I
have left my boat key at the hall; another day we
will sail. Let us stroll back to the good old house
again.
Are not my fields pleasant to behold? They are
bringing in my wheat, which stretches, you perceive,
throughout the low-grounds there, in neatly
arranged shocks. My crops this year are excellent—
my servants enjoy this season, and its occupations.
They will soon sing their echoing “harvest home”—
and over them at their joyous labor will shine the
“harvest-moon,” lighting up field and forest, hill
and dale—the whole “broad domain and the hall.”
The affection of my servants is grateful to me.
Here comes Cato, with his team of patient oxen,
and there goes Cæsar, leading my favorite racehorse
down to water. Cato, Cæsar, and I, respectively
salute each other in the kindest way. I
think they are attached to me. Faithful fellows!
I shall never part with them. I think I will give
this coat to Cæsar; but, looking again, I perceive
that his own is better. Besides, I must not be
extravagant. The little money I make is required
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by another, and it would not be generous to buy a
new coat for myself. This one which I wear will
do well enough, will it not? I ask you with some
diffidence, for 'tis sadly out at elbows, and the idea
has occurred to me that the coolness and neglect
of certain visitors to the hall, has been caused by
my coat being shabby. Even Annie —, but
I'll not speak of that this morning. 'Twas the
hasty word which we all utter at times—'tis forgotten.
Still, I think, I will give you the incident
some day, when we ramble, as now, in the fields.
From the fields we approach the honest old mansion,
across the emerald-carpeted lawn. The birds
are singing, around the sleepy-looking gables, and
the toothless old hound comes wagging his tail, in
sign of welcome.
'Tis plain that Milo has an honest heart. I think
he's smiling.
II.
My ancestors were gentlemen of considerable
taste. I am glad they built me that wing for my
books; my numerous children cannot disturb me
when I am composing, either my speech to be delivered
in the Senate, or my work which is destined
to refute Sir William Hamilton.
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Let us stroll in. A strain of tender music comes
from the sitting-room, and I recognize the exquisite
air of “Katharine Ogie” which Annie is singing.
Let us look, nevertheless, at the pictures as we
pass.
What a stately head my old grandfather had!
He was president of the King's Council, a hundred
years ago—a man of decided mark. He wears a
long peruke descending in curls upon his shoulders—
a gold-laced waistcoat—and snowy ruffles. His
white hand is nearly covered with lace, and rests
on a scroll of parchment. It looks like a Vandyke.
He must have been a resolute old gentleman.
How serene and calm is his look!—how firm are
the finely chiselled lips! How proud and full of
collected intelligence the erect head, and the broad
white brow! He was a famous “macaroni,” as
they called it, in his youth—and cultivated an
enormous crop of wild oats. But this all disappeared,
and he became one of the sturdiest patriots
of the Revolution, and fought clear through the
contest. Is it wrong to feel satisfaction at being
descended from a worthy race of men—from a
family of brave, truthful gentlemen? I think not.
I trust I'm no absurd aristocrat—but I would
rather be the grandson of a faithful common soldier
than of General Benedict Arnold, the traitor. I
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would rather trace my lineage to the Chevalier
Bayàrd, simple knight though he was, than to
France's great Constable de Bourbon, the renegade.
So I am glad my stout grandfather was a brave
and truthful gentleman—that grandma yonder, smiling
opposite, was worthy to be his wife. I do not
remember her, but she must have been a beauty.
Her head is bent over one shoulder, and she has an
exquisitely coquettish air. Her eyes are blue—her
arms round, and as white as snow—and what lips!
They are like carnations, and pout with a pretty
smiling air, which must have made her dangerous.
She rejected many wealthy offers to marry grandpa,
who was then poor. As I gaze, it seems scarcely
courteous to remain thus covered in presence of a
lady so lovely. I take off my hat, and make my
best bow, saluting my little grandmamma of “sweet
seventeen,” who smiles and seems graciously to bow
in return.
All around me I see my family. There is my
uncle, the captain in Colonel Washington's troop.
I do not now mean the Colonel Washington of the
French wars, who afterward became General
Washington of the American Revolution—though
my uncle, the captain, knew him very well, I am
told, and often visited him at Mount Vernon, the
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colonel's estate, where they hunted foxes together,
along the Potomac. I mean the brave Colonel
Washington who fought so nobly in North Carolina.
My uncle died there. His company was
much thinned at every step by the horrible hailstorm
of balls. He was riding in front with his
drawn sword, shouting as the column fell, man by
man, “Steady, boys, steady!—close up!”—when
a ball struck him. His last words were “A good
death, boys! a good death! Close up!” So, you
see, he ended nobly.
Beside my uncle and the rest of his kith and
kin of the wars, you see, yonder, a row of beauties,
all smiling and gay, or pensive and tender—interspersed
with bright-faced children, blooming like
so many flowers along the old walls of the hall.
How they please and interest me! True, there are
other portraits in our little house at home—not my
hall here—which, perhaps, I should love with a
warmer regard; but let me not cramp my sympathies,
or indulge any early preferences. I must
not be partial. So I admire these here before me—
and bow to them, one and all. I fancy that they
bow in return—that the stalwart warriors stretch
vigorous hands toward me—that the delicate beauties
bend down their little heads, all covered with
powder, and return my homage with a smile.
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Why not? Can my shabby coat make the
lovely or proud faces ashamed of me? Do they turn
from me coldly because I'm the last of a ruined
line? Do they sneer at my napless hat, and laugh
at my tattered elbows? I do not think of them so
poorly and unkindly. My coat is very shabby, but
I think, at least I hope, that it covers an honest
heart.
So I bow to the noble and beautiful faces, and
again they smile in return. I seem to have wandered
away into the past and dreamed in a realm
of silence. And yet—it is strange I did not hear
her—Annie is still singing through the hall.
III.
I promised to tell you of the incident of the coat,
the unfortunate coat which I sometimes think
makes the rich folks visiting the hall look sidewise
at me. It is strange! Am I not myself, whether
clad in velvet or in fustian—in homespun fabric, or
in cloth of gold? People say I am simple—wholly
ignorant of the world; I must be so in truth.
But about the coat. I hinted that Annie even
saw, and alluded to it; it was not long after my
arrival at the hall, and a young lady from the
neighborhood was paying a visit to Annie.
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They were standing on the portico, and I was
leaning against the trunk of the old oak beneath,
admiring the sunset which was magnificent that
evening. All at once I heard whispers, and turning
round toward the young ladies, saw them
laughing. Annie's finger was extended toward the
hole in my elbow, and I could not fail to understand
that she was laughing at my miserable coat.
I was not offended, though perhaps I may have
been slightly wounded; but Annie was a young
girl and I could not get angry; I was not at all
ashamed—why should I have been?
“I am sorry, but I cannot help the hole in my
elbow,” I said, calmly and quietly, with a bow and
a smile; “I tore it by accident, yesterday.”
Annie blushed, and looked very proud and
offended, and it pained me to see that she suffered
for her harmless and careless speech. I begged
her not to think that my feelings were wounded,
and bowing again, went up to my room. I looked
at my coat, it was terribly shabby, and I revolved
the propriety of purchasing another, but I gave up
the idea with a sigh. She needs all my money, and
my mind is made up; she shall have the black silk,
and very soon.
I very nearly forgot to relate what followed the
little scene on the portico. During all that
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evening, and the whole of the next day, Annie scarcely
looked at me, and retained her angry and offended
expression. I was pained, but could add nothing
more to my former assurance that I was not
offended.
Toward evening, I was sitting with a book upon
the portico, when Annie came out of the parlor.
She paused on the threshold, evidently hesitated,
but seemed to resolve all at once, what to do. She
came quickly to my side, and holding out her hand
said frankly and kindly, with a little tremor in her
voice, and a faint rose-tint in the delicate cheeks:
“I did not mean to hurt your feelings, Mr.
Cleave, indeed I did not, sir; my speech was the
thoughtless rudeness of a child. I am sorry, very
sorry that I was ever so ill-bred and unkind; will
you pardon me, sir?”
I rose from my seat, and bowed low above the
white little hand which lay in my own, slightly
agitated,—
“I have nothing to pardon, Miss Annie,” I said,
“if you will let me call you by your household
name. I think it very fortunate that my coat was
shabby; had it been a new one, you would never
have observed it, and I should have lost these
sweet and friendly accents.”
And that is the “incident of the coat.”
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IV.
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The week that has just passed has been a
pleasant one. I have thought, a hundred times,
“how good a thing it is to live!”
I must have been a good deal cramped and
confined in the city; but I enjoy the fair landscapes
here all the more. The family are very friendly
and kind—except Mrs. Barrington, who does not
seem to like me. She scarcely treats me with anything
more than scrupulous courtesy. The squire
and Annie, however, make up for this coldness.
They are both extremely cordial. It was friendly
in the squire to give me this mass of executorial
accounts to arrange. So far it has been done to his
entire satisfaction; and the payment for my services
is very liberal. How I long for money!
There was a spendid party at the hall on Tuesday.
It reminded me of old times, when we,
too, — but that is idle to remember. I do not
sigh for the past. I know all is for the best. Still,
I could not help thinking, as I looked on the brilliant
spectacle, that the world was full of changes
and vicissitudes. Well, the party was a gay and
delightful one; the dancing quite extravagant.
Annie was the beauty of the assemblage the belle
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of the ball—and she gave me a new proof of the
regret which she felt for the speech about my coat.
At the end of a cotillon she refused the arms of
half a dozen eager gallants to take mine, and
promenade out on the portico.
“Do you ever dance?” she said.
“Oh, yes,” I replied; “that is, I did dance once;
but of late years I have been too much occupied.
We live quietly.”
“You say `we.”'
“I mean my mother and I; I should have said
`poorly,' perhaps, instead of `quietly.' And I am
busy.”
She bowed her head kindly, and said, smiling:
“But you are not busy to-night; and if you'll
not think me forward, I will reverse the etiquette,
and ask you to dance with me.”
“Indeed I will do so with very great pleasure.”
“Are you sure?”
“Could you doubt it?”
“I was so very rude to you!”
And she hung her head. That, then, was the
secret of her choice of my arm. I could only
assure her that I did not think her rude, and I
hoped she would forget the whole incident. I was
pleased in spite of all—for I like to think well of
women. The cynical writers say they are all
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mean, and mercenary, and cowardly. Was Annie?
She had left many finely-dressed gentlemen, faultlessly
appointed, to dance with a poor stranger,
quite out at elbows.
I saw many cold looks directed at myself; and
when Annie took my arm to go into supper, the
gloom in the faces of some gentlemen who had been
refused, made me smile. When the party was
over, Annie gave me her hand at the foot of the
staircase. I saw a triumphant light in her mischievous
eyes, as she glanced at the departing
gallants; her rosy cheeks dimpled, and she flitted
up, humming a gay tune.
It is singular how beautiful she is when she
laughs—as when she sighs. Am I falling in love
with her? I shall be guilty of no such folly. I
think that my pride and self-respect will keep me
rational. Pshaw! why did I dream of such
nonsense!
V.
So—a month has passed.
My coat, it seems, is to be the constant topic of
attention.
A day or two since, I was sitting in my chamber,
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reflecting upon a variety of things. My thoughts,
at last, centred on the deficiencies of my wardrobe,
and I muttered, “I must certainly have my
coat mended soon;” and I looked down, sighing, at
the hole in my elbow........ It
had disappeared! There was no longer any rent.
The torn cloth had been mended in the neatest
manner; so neatly, indeed, that the orifice was
almost invisible. Who could have done it, and
how? I have one coat only, and— yes! it must
have been! I saw, in a moment, the whole secret:
that noise, and the voice of Sarah, the old chambermaid.
I rose and went out on the staircase; I met the
good crone.
“How did you find my coat in the dark?” I said,
smiling; “and now you must let me make you, a
present for mending it, Sarah.”
Sarah hesitated, plainly; but honesty conquered.
She refused the money, which, nevertheless, I gave
her; and, from her careless replies, I soon discovered
the real truth.
The coat had been mended by Annie!
I descended to the drawing-room, and finding her
alone, thanked her with simplicity and sincerity.
She blushed and ponted.
“Who told you?” she asked.
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“No one; but I discovered it from Sarah; she
was unguarded.”
“Well, sir,” said Annie, blushing still, but laughing,
“there is no reason for your being so grateful.
I thought I would mend it, as I formerly laughed
at it—and I hope it is neatly done.”
“It is scarcely visible,” I said, with a smile and
a bow; “I shall keep this coat always to remind
me of your delicate kindness.”
“Pshaw! 'twas nothing.”
And running to the piano, the young girl commenced
a merry song, which rang through the old
hall like the carol of a bird. Her voice was so
inexpressibly sweet that it made my pulses throb and
and my heart ache. I did not know the expression
of my countenance, as I looked at her, until turning
toward me, I saw her suddenly color to the roots of
her hair.
I felt, all at once, that I had fixed upon her one of
those looks which say as plainly as words could
utter: “I love you with all the powers of my
nature, all the faculties of my being—you are dearer
to me than the whole wide world beside!”
Upon my word of honor as a gentleman, I did
not know that I loved Annie—I was not conscious
that I was gazing at her with that look of inexpressible
tenderness. Her sudden blush cleared up
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everything like a flash of lightning—I rose, set my
lips together, and bowed. I could scarcely speak—
I muttered “pray excuse me,” and left the apartment.
On the next morning I begged the squire to
release me from the completion of my task—I had a
friend who could perform the duties as well as
myself, and who would come to the hall for that
purpose, inasmuch as the account books could not
be removed—I must go.
The formal and ceremonious old gentleman did
not ask my reasons for this sudden act—he simply
inclined his head—and said that he would always
be glad to serve me. With a momentary pressure
of Annie's cold hand, and a low bow to the frigid
Mrs. Barrington, I departed.
VI.
Five years have passed away. They have been
eventful ones to me—not for the unhoped for success
which I have had in my profession, so much as
for the long suffering which drove me, violently as
it were, to seek relief in unceasing toil.
The thought of Annie has been ever with me—
my pain, though such a term is slight, was caused
by my leaving her. I never knew how much I
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loved her until all those weary miles were thrown
between us. My days have been most unhappy,
my nights drearier still; for a long time now, I have
not thought or said “how good a thing it is to live!”
But I acted wisely, and honorably; did I not? I
did my duty, when the temptation to neglect it
was exceeding hard to resist. I went away from
the woman whom I loved, because I loved her, and
respected my own name and honor, too much to
remain. It was better to break my heart, I said,
than take advantage of my position at the hall, to
engage a young girl's heart, and drag her down, in
case she loved me, to the poor low sphere in which
I moved. If her father had said to me, “You have
abused the trust I placed in you, and acted with
duplicity,” I think it would have ruined me, forever,
in my own esteem. And would he not have
had the right to say it?
So I came away from the temptation while I
could, and plunged into my proper work on earth,
and found relief; but I loved her still.
Shall I speak of the correspondence which ensued
between the squire and myself? 'Twas a somewhat
singular one, and revealed to me something which
I was before quite ignorant of. It is here beneath
my hand; let us look at it. It passed soon after
my departure:
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“Barrington Hall, Nov. 20, 18—.
“My dear young Friend:
“Since your somewhat abrupt departure, I have considered
that event with some attention, and fear that it was occasioned
by a want of kindness in myself, or some member of my family.
I saw with regret that Mrs. Barrington did not seem to look upon
you with as much favor as I hoped. If any word or action of mine
has wounded you, I pray you to forget and pardon it.
“Your friend,
“C. Barrington.
“P. S. Pray present my best regards to your mother, who was
many long years ago, a very dear friend of mine.”
My reply was in the following words:
“My dear Mr. Barrington:
“Pray set your mind at rest upon the subject of my somewhat
hasty departure: 'twas caused by no want of courtesy in any member
of the household at the hall, but by unavoidable circumstances. You
will not think me wanting in candor or sincerity when I add that I
think these circumstances were better not alluded to at present.
“Truly and faithfully,
“St. George Cleave.”
Thus ended then our correspondence. Three
years afterward I received another letter, in a
handwriting somewhat tremulous and broken. It
contained simply the words:
“I am very ill; if your convenience will permit, may I ask you
to come and see me, my young friend?
“C. Barrington.”
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I need not say that I went at once. As I
approached the old manor house a thousand memories
knocked at the door of my heart. There were
the fields over which I had rambled; there was
the emerald lawn where so often I had wandered
in the long-gone days of earlier years. The great
oak against which I had leaned on that evening to
watch the sun in his setting, and where Annie had
whispered and pointed to my torn elbow, still
raised its head proudly, and embowered the old
gables in the bright-tinted foliage of autumn.
I entered. The old portraits I had loved seemed
to smile; they saluted me sweetly, as in other
hours; the old mansion appeared to welcome me—
I saw no change, but Annie was not singing in the
hall.
All at once I heard a light tinkling footstep;
my heart beat violently, and I felt a blush rise to
my cheeks. Was the queenly woman who came to
meet and greet me, indeed the Annie of old days?
I held the small hand, and looked into the deep eyes
for some moments without uttering a word. She
was taller, more slender, but her carriage possessed
a grace and elegance a thousand times finer than
before. Her eyes were filled with the strangest
sweetness, and swam with tears as she gazed
at me.
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“Papa has been waiting impatiently for you,
Mr. Cleave,” she said, in a low, sad voice; “will
you come up and see him at once? he is very ill.”
And turning away her head, the fair girl burst
into uncontrollable sobs, every one of which went
to my heart. I begged her earnestly not to yield
to her distress, and she soon dried her eyes, and led
the way into the parlor, where I was received by
Mrs. Barrington, still cold and stiff, but much more
subdued and courteous. Annie went to announce
my arrival to har father, and soon I was alone with
the old man.
I was grieved and shocked at his appearance.
He seemed twenty years older. I scarcely recognized
in the pale, thin, invalid, the portly country
gentleman whom I had known.
The motive for his letter was soon explained.
The executorial accounts, whose terrible disarrangement
I had aided, five years before, in remedying,
still hung over the dying man's head, like a nightmare.
He could not die, he said, with the thought
in his mind, that any one might attribute this
disorder to intentional maladministration — “to
fraud, it might be.”
And at the word “fraud,” his wan cheek became
crimson.
“My own affairs, Mr. Cleave,” he continued,
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“are, I find, in a most unhappy condition. I have
been far too negligent; and now, on my death-bed,
for such it will prove, I discover, for the first time,
that I am well-nigh a ruined man!”
He spoke with wild energy as he went on. I, in
vain, attempted to impress upon him, the danger
of exciting himself.
“I must explain everything, and in my own
way,” he said, with burning cheeks, “for I look to
you to extricate me. I have appointed you, Mr.
Cleave, my chief executor; but, above all, I rely
upon you, I adjure you, to protect my good name
in those horrible accounts, which you once helped
to arrange, but which haunt me day and night like
the ghost of a murdered man!”
The insane agitation of the speaker increased, in
spite of all which I could say. It led him to make
me a singular revelation—to speak upon a subject
which I had never even dreamed of. His pride
and caution seemed wholly to have deserted him;
and he continued as follows:
“You are surprised, Sir, that I should thus call
upon you. You are young. But I know very well
what I am doing. Your rank in your profession is
sufficient guaranty that you are competent to
perform the trust—my knowledge of your character
is correct enough to induce me not to hesitate.
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There is another tie between us. Do you suspect
its nature? I loved and would have married your
mother. She was poor—I was equally poor—I
was dazzled by wealth, and was miserably happy
when your mother's pride made her refuse my suit.
I married—I have not been happy. But enough.
I should never have spoken of this—never—but I
am dying! As you are faithful and true, St. George
Cleave, let my good name and Annie's be untarnished!”
There the interview ended. The doctor came in,
and I retired to reflect upon the singular communication
which had been made to me. On the same
evening, I accepted all the trusts confided to me.
In a week the sick gentleman was sleeping with his
fathers. I held his hand when he died.
I shall not describe the grief and suffering of
every one. I shall not trust myself, especially, to
speak of Annie. Her agony was almost destructive
to her health—and every throb which shook
her frame, shook mine as well. The sight of her
face had revived, in an instant, all the love of the
past, if indeed it had ever slept. I loved her now,
passionately, profoundly. As I thought that I might
win her love in return, I thrilled with a vague
delight.
Well, let me not spin out my story. The result
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of my examination of Mr. Barrington's affairs, was
saddening in the extreme. He was quite ruined.
Neglect and extravagant living, with security debts,
had mortgaged his entire property. When it was
settled, and the hall was sold, his widow and
daughter had just enough to live upon comfortably—
scarcely so much. They gladly embraced
my suggestion to remove to a small cottage near
our own, in town, and there they now live—you
may see the low roof through the window.
I am glad to say that my reëxamination of the
executorial accounts, which had so troubled the
poor dying gentleman, proved his fears quite unfounded.
There was mere disorder—no grounds for
“exception.” I told as much to Annie, who alone
knew all; and her smile, inexpressibly sweet and
filled with thanks, was my sole executorial “commission.”
VII.
I have just been discarded by Annie.
Let me endeavor to collect my thoughts and
recall what she said to me. My head is troubled
to-day—it is strange what a want of self-control I
have! I thought I was strong—and I am weaker
than a child.
I told her that I loved her—had loved her for
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years—that she was dearer, far, to me than all on
earth beside my mother. And she answered me—
agitated, but perfectly resolved:
“I cannot marry you, Mr. Cleave.”
A long pause followed, in which she evidently
labored with great distress—then she continued:
“I will frankly and faithfully say why I cannot.
I know all—I know your feelings for me once.
You went away because you were poor, and you
thought I was rich. Shall I be less strong than
yourself? I am poor now; I do not regret it,
except—pardon me, sir, I am confused—I meant to
say, that you are now the richer. It humbles me
to speak of this—why did you not”—
There she stopped, blushing and trembling.
“Why did I not? Oh! do not stop there, I pray
you.”
She replied to my words in a broken and agitated
voice:
“I cannot finish. I was thinking of—of—the
day when I mended your coat!”
And a smile broke through the tears in her eyes,
as she gazed timidly at me. I shall not prolong
the account of our interview. She soon left me,
resolute to the last; and I came away, perfectly
miserable.
What shall I do? I cannot live without her.
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My life would be a miserable mockery. To see her
there near me, at the window, in the street; to see
her tresses in the sunlight, her little slipper as it
flits through the flower-enveloped gate; to feel that
she is near me, but lost to me! Never could I
endure it! But what can I do? Is there anything
that can move her?
— Ah! that may! Let me try it. Oh, fortunate
accident. To-morrow, or very soon—very
soon!
VIII.
A week after my rejection, I went up to my
chamber, and drew from the depths of my wardrobe,
the old coat which Annie had mended. I
had promised her to preserve it. I had kept my
promise. Yes, there it was, just as I had worn it
at the hall—my shabby old coat of five years ago!
I put it on, smiling, and surveyed myself in a
mirror. It was strangely old-fashioned; but I
did not think of that. I seemed to have returned,
all at once, to the past; its atmosphere
embraced me; all its flowers bloomed gaily before
my eyes.
I looked at the hole in the elbow. There were
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Annie's stitches—her fingers had clasped the worn,
decayed cloth—the old garment had rested on her
arm!
I think I must have gazed at the coat for an
hour, motionless in the sunlight, and thinking of
old days. Then I aroused myself, suddenly, put on
my hat, and, with a beating heart, went to ask if
Annie remembered.
I shall not relate the details of our interview.
She remembered! Oh, word so sweet or so filled
with sadness! with a world of sorrow or delight in
its sound! She remembered—and her heart could
resist no longer. She remembered the poor youth
who had loved her so dearly—whom she, too, had
loved in the far away past. She remembered the
days when her father was well and happy—
when his kind voice greeted me, and his smile
gave me friendly welcome. She remembered the
old days, with their flowers and sunshine—the
old hall, and the lawn, and the singing birds.
Can you wonder that her soft, tender bosom
throbbed, that her heart was “melted in her
breast?”
So she plighted me her troth—the dream and
joy of my youth. We shall very soon be married.
The ship which I sent from the shore long
ago has come again to port, with a grander
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treasure than the earth holds beside—it is the
precious, young head which reclined upon my
heart!
— And again I can say, as I said long ago:
“how good a thing it is to live!”
Back matter
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Cooke, John Esten, 1830-1886 [1859], Out at elbows: gifts of genius. (C. A. Davenport, New York) [word count] [eaf509T].
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