I. THE MOUTH OF WILD RIVER.
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In the kitchen door of an old, weather-worn farm-house stood
Mr. Abimelech Jackwood, filling his pipe for an after-dinner
smoke, and looking up at the sky with an air of contemplative
wisdom.
“Is it go'n' to rain, think?” asked Abimelech the younger, —
commonly called Bim, — holding out his hand to see if he could
catch a sprinkle. “Say, father — Confound your pictur'!”
The anathema was addressed, not to the parent Jackwood, by
any means but to the dog Rover, who, seeing the boy's hand
extended in a manner which appeared provocative of sport, leaped
up from the door-stone, where he had been lying, with his chin on
his paws, snapping at the flies, and pounced upon the shoulder of
the younger Abimelech.
Mr. Jackwood preserved a circumspect silence, while his sagacious
eye seemed to explore every square yard of sky visible
between the two ranges of the Green Mountains that bounded
the valley.
“I never knowed the sign to fail,” he observed, after mature
deliberation, crowding the tobacco into his pipe-bowl with his
thumb, “that when you see a light mist, like the smoke of a
chimbly, movin' acrost the face of the Eagle Rocks, 'arly in
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mornin', — like what there was this mornin', — there 'll be rain
within four-'n-twenty hours. Them 'ere clouds is jest what I
expected; but mebby they 'll hold off all the arternoon. I don't
see no crows on the dead ellum yit.”
“I wish you 'd go a-fishin',” said Abimelech. “It 's Sat'day,
and we shan't do much work if we stay to hum.”
“I ben thinkin' a little about tryin' a hand at the fish, myself,”
responded Mr. Jackwood, lighting his pipe at the kitchen stove.
“But I guess, Bim'lech,” — puff, puff, — “we 'll finish hoein' that
little patch o' 'taters fust,” — puff, puff, puff, — “then see how
the weather looks. How 're ye on 't for hooks an' lines?”
Abimelech made haste to find the fishing-tackle, and submit it
to his father's inspection.
“How spry you be, Bim!” cried his sister Phœbe, — a brigt-eyed,
rosy-cheeked girl of sixteen, — over the dinner-dishes. “If
you 'd been asked to bring a pail of water, 't would have taken
you twice as long to start.”
“Tell her you don't go a-fishin' every day,” said Mr. Jackwood,
good-naturedly. “Where 's your sinkers, boy?”
Bim entered into a long and complicate history of the manner
in which, by various mischances, the sinkers had become lost or
destroyed.
“I can tell a straighter story than that,” laughed Phœbe, flirting
the table-cloth at the chickens. “He took the sinkers, and
all the other lead he could find, to run a cannon to shoot Independence
with. The top of the pewter tea-pot went the same
way.”
Bim looked troubled under his father's reproof.
“I don't care, for all that, though,” he whispered, winking at
his sister, “if he 'll only le' me go a-fishin'!”
“I don't know what we shall do for sinkers,” — and Mr. Jackwood
fumbled in the nail-box. “There an't a bit o' lead in the
house, 't I know on.”
“There is that 'ere Ticonderoga bullet,” suggested Abimelech,
meekly.
“Yes; and it 's lucky you did n't git holt o' that, when you
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run your pesky cannon! But I kinder hate to use that. It 's a
relic I 've ben lottin' on handin' down to futur' generations.”
Notwithstanding the patriotic desire, Mr. Jackwood, retiring
to the bed-room, opened the till of his chest, and produced the
famous bullet.
“I expect that 'ere ball killed a man, Bim'lech,” he remarked,
impressively, balancing the relic on the palm of his hand. “Your
Uncle Dani'l picked it out of a skull, to Ticonderoga. The heft
on 't can't be much short of a ounce; an' what a story it could
tell, children, if it could only talk!”
Mrs. Jackwood earnestly counselled her husband against sacrificing
so precious a memento of Revolutionary times. But, having
duly weighed it in his hand, and found it lighter than the present
necessity, he submitted it to the hammer, pounded it out flat on
the door-stone, and proceeded to the manufacture of sinkers.
Abimelech's industry that afternoon excited the surprise and
admiration of all who witnessed it. He hoed potatoes — to use
his father's expression — “like a major.” The anticipation of
piscatory sport inspired him; the stint was speedily accomplished;
and just as the noisy old kitchen clock was striking
three, father and son might have been seen passing through the
door-yard gate, with their fish-poles on their shoulders.
Huntersford Creek, a broad, clear-running stream, swept through
the valley within a stone's throw of Mr. Jackwood's house; and
far to the north the fringing willows on its banks, and graceful
elm-trees stationed here and there, marked its winding course.
One mile below, Wild River, dashing down from the mountains
like a savage bridegroom, hastened to the embrace of the more
gentle stream. But the coy creek eluded the approach of her
impetuous wooer, in a hundred coquettish curves, — now advancing
softly to meet him, or moving on serenely by his side, soothing
and taming him with song; then, when almost within his
reach, turning suddenly aside, and leading him a long and tortuous
chase through the green meadows; until, driven to the verge of
the interval, beneath the brow of a mountain that stood like a
solemn priest, blessing the union, the fair fugitive yielded, and
they twain became one stream.
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Mr. Jackwood professed an acquaintance with the geography
of this region, which he proposed to explore. Abimelech, elated
with the idea, trotted along by his father's side, carrying his fish-pole
jauntily, and chattering incessantly.
“Here is a lesson for ye, Bim'lech,” said his father, as they
reached the vicinity of the river, pointing to an old-fashioned,
dilapidated house, in a wild-looking yard by the road-side.
“This used to be the fust best farm on the interval; an' the man
't lives here bid fair to be the richest man in the county. Fifteen
year' ago, where you see all them beds o' gravel an' rocks,
there was about the han'somest field of corn 't I ever set eyes on.
Wal, it got along to'ards the last of August, and the corn promised
to turn out nobly; everybody was praisin' on 't, an' Mr.
Hoodlett made his brags on 't, tellin' about the great crop he was
goin' to have, till it seemed to me su'thin' must happen to that
corn. So, one day, when I was passin' by, I spoke to Hoodlett.
Says I, `Hoodlett,' says I, `what if your corn should turn out
poor, arter all?' says I. `'T an't possible,' says he; `I know I
shall have the biggest crop ever raised on the crick, jes 's well 's
if I 'd seen it harvested.' `Don't be too sure,' says I. `Man
ap'ints, and God disap'ints.' `I tell ye what,' says he, `neighbor
Jackwood,' says he, `I would n't ask God Almighty to insure
me seventy-five bushels to the acre, any way,' says he; `I shall
have it, an' there 's no gittin' away from 't.' Wal, it was rainin'
a little that day; but it rained harder that night; an' all the
next day, an' the next night, it come down like forty-'leven Dutch
pedlers; an' the next mornin', when Hoodlett looked out o' the
winder, there wan't a stalk o' corn, nor a square foot o' corn-field,
to cure sore eyes with.”
“What had 'come on 't?”
“'T wan't insured, an' 't was gone. Wild River 's a terrible
fractious stream, time of freshets, but it never done noth'n' like
that 'fore nor sence. It come down through the Narrers with a
roar 't could be heerd miles away. It overflowed the hull
country 'bout here, an' brought down a grist o' trees an' rocks
from the mountains, with more gravel 'n a man could cart away
in a life-time. The corn-field took the wust on 't, an' got sarved
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so bad, 't a stranger would n't a b'lieved, the day arter, that there
was ever so much as a road through the tanglements of trees,
roots, an' tops, that lay half buried and piled on to each other, all
up an' down the river. That was the ruination of Hoodlett. The
best part of his land was sp'ilt; an' it looked so much like a judgment
from Heav'm, 't he got discouraged, an' has ben runnin' down
hill ever sence.”
The adventurers had by this time reached the bank of the river,
which foamed and flashed, and plunged and bubbled, and shot in
swift, green currents amid the great round bowlders that lay scattered
up and down its bed, while the music of its plashing filled
the air.
Here they turned aside from the road, passing through a waste
and barren field; climbed a high bank lifted upon a perpendicular
wall of rock from the bed of the stream, and entered a thick grove
of young trees. Mr. Jackwood went forward with the poles, following
a path that led along the brink of the precipice. Abimelech
kept behind, sometimes stopping to pick from the young
spruces bits of gum, which stuck provokingly in his teeth; or
chewing leaves of the bitter hemlock; or peeling thin ribbons of
the silver birch.
“Is hemlock p'ison?” asked the boy, spitting out some leaves.
“P'ison? — no. What makes you ask that?”
“'Cause I jest happened to think my history-book says Socrates
drinked hemlock to kill himself.”
“O, wal,” replied Mr. Jackwood, “I 've no doubt 't would kill
a man, if he should take enough on 't; so would a good many
other things.”
“Socrates must a' took a perty good swig,” suggested Bim.
“Or perhaps 't was the ground hemlock; that 's p'ison. But
keep still now; you 'll scare all the fish.”
They reached a ledge which overhung a deep, narrow basin of
rock. Beneath them lay the water, clear and calm. Stones, and
pebbles, and fishes, could be seen in its transparent depths. Here
they threw in their hooks, with tempting baits; they tried alter
nately worms and flies; from the shallow falls, where the singing
water came rushing down from above, to the stony shelves at the
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mouth of the basin, where the crystal sheet burst once more into
bubbles and sparkles of foam, they left no spot unvisited by their
lines. But neither perch, nor pickerel, nor trout, could be
allured.
“What fools they be!” cried the indignant Bim. “I put my
hook right up to their mouths, and they don't know enough to
swaller it. I don't believe but that we can ketch some of these
big fellers with a snare.”
It seemed possible. Accordingly, a few minutes later, in place
of hooks, wide round loops of copper wire went down into the still
basin. But now the fish grew suddenly very shy. Through the
snares and around them they darted, in a most tantalizing manner;
sometimes remaining quiet and watchful until the wire approached
within too dangerous proximity of their noses, then
shooting away in schools. Not one could be taken; and after
another half-hour's unsuccessful sport, Mr. Jackwood's patience
failing him, he reluctantly wound up his lines.
“I tell ye what, Bim'lech, there 's no use wastin' time in this
'ere wretched hole. We 'll be sure o' ketchin' suthin' at the
mouth of the river.”
Below the bridge, they undertook to follow the bed of the
stream. For some distance they experienced no difficulty; they
enjoyed excellent advantages for fishing, as they proceeded, with
the exception of the simple fact that no fish would bite; but at
length the narrow channel to which the stream had shrunk during
the dry weather began to widen and shift its course, and it
became necessary either to leave the river-bed altogether, or
cross over to the white fields of dry stones that now made their
appearance on the other side. First they tried the banks; but
the tall grass and the strong willows were found serious obstacles
in the way of comfortable fishing. Then they attempted to cross
the stream on the stones, selecting a shallow place for the execution
of the enterprise. But the round bowlders, covered with the
scum of dried slime, proved treacherous footholds, rolling and
turning on the slippery stones beneath them, and perilling the balance
even of the careful and sagacious Mr. Jackwood. Abimelech
followed his adventurous parent; when suddenly the latter
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heard a great splashing behind him, and looked around. The boy
was floundering in the water, and endeavoring, in a great panic,
to regain a footing on the stones.
“Careless!” exclaimed Mr. Jackwood. “There, there, stan'
still! The water won't drownd ye; 't an't up to your knees.
Now, what need was there o' gittin' in all over?”
He was still speaking, when the bowlder on which he imagined
himself firmly planted began to revolve. To preserve his balance,
he stepped carefully forward; but the boy had spattered all that
side of the rock, and, Mr. Jackwood's foot resting on a spot as
slippery as glass, he slid, with a great splash, into the water, bringing
down the rattling fish-poles, in rather dangerous style, on the
crown of Abimelech's head.
“O, O, O!” screamed the boy, pitching about once more in
the water.
“Ketch holt o' my hand!” cried the elder Jackwood. “This
all comes o' your wantin' to go a-fishin'!”
Bim cried desolately; and, having reached the dry stones,
stood with distended hands and feet, dripping like a newly-washed
sheep.
“D' I hurt your head?” asked his father, touched with
remorse.
“Ye-e-s! You mos' broke it!” snuffled Bim. “O, you
h-u-r-t!” — as Mr. Jackwood, with paternal solicitude, examined
his crown. “It 's bad enough, I should think, to kill a feller,
'thout scoldin' him for 't afterwards.”
“Don't talk so!” said his father, sternly. “Ye an't hurt much,
I guess, arter all the fuss.”
“Yes I be, too!” whined Abimelech, holding his head in his
hands. “You 'd think so, if you 'd ben knocked over with a
couple o' thunderin' great poles.”
“There, don't swear! I guess now we 'll go hum; we 've had
about sport enough for one day.”
The injured Bim became suddenly pacified.
“I don't want ter go hum,” — giving his crown a final rub,
and putting on his straw hat. “I can get dry in a little while.
My head feels better now.”
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Mr. Jackwood sat down and emptied the water out of his boots.
His hopeful heir followed his example; and afterwards divested
himself of his trousers, in order to wring them out and hang them
on the bushes to dry. Then, in a light and picturesque costume,
he went hopping about on the stones, with his fishing apparatus,
and caught a fine brace of trout during the ensuing half-hour.
“I declare,” said his father, “if you don't beat the Dutch! I
han't had a nibble yit.”
“O, my!” cried the excited boy, leaping recklessly upon an
unstable stone, “there is a smashin' big feller!”
Mr. Jackwood thought it must be indeed a “smashin' big feller,”
from the great commotion of waters. He looked up, and
saw an object flouncing in the river like a young whale. It was
Abimelech, however, not the fish.
“So you thought you 'd jump in arter him, did you? You 're
a smart boy!”
Abimelech's second ducking had been more thorough and extensive
than the first; so that, by the time his trousers were dry
enough to put on, his shirt was in a capital condition to go upon
the bushes in their place. But the charm was now broken; no
more luck had he; so he hastened to tie his freshly-washed garment
to his fish-pole, and, waving it in the air like a banner, followed
his father down the river.
In consequence of recent freshets, the river had changed its bed
a dozen times; the valley appeared ploughed up with ravines,
which branched out in every direction. The dry fields of stones
had disappeared; the stream became sluggish and dark, creeping
over the black ooze of the interval; and the grass on the banks
now grew so thick, and rank, and high, that the boy became
disheartened.
“I can't go no fu'ther!” he complained. “There 's brakes,
an' nettles, an' everything to bother a feller. I 'm afraid o'
snakes.”
“Keep up good pluck!” cried his father. “Here 's the crick,
close by.”
What was taken for the creek proved to be an old bed, with a
black and shining pool of dead water fast asleep in it, between
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crumbling banks. To go around it was a labor replete with pain
and difficulty. It led over flats full of dangerous sloughs; then
other such pools appeared, in the midst of which our adventurers
became confused. Sometimes they mistook the river for the
creek; more than once they mistook the creek for the river; and
finally there appeared to be numberless rivers and creeks winding
in every direction.
“There!” cried Mr. Jackwood, at length, “there 's the creek,
this time, 't any rate. We 'll find it nuff easier goin' on t' other
side to pay for crossin' over; then we can go up to Dunbery's old
bridge, an' so hum. It 's go'n' to rain; an' I don't see any gre't
chance for fishin' here, arter all.”
“But we can't cross here!” whined the disappointed Abimelech;
“the water 's a mile deep.”
It was a broad channel, filled with clear, still water, in the
depths of which could be seen great shining logs, lying tangled
and crossed on the black mud of the interval.
“What a boy you be to stretch a story!” exclaimed Mr. Jackwood.
“Here is a good place to ford.”
He rolled up his trousers above his knees, and carried Abimelech
over on his back; when, reaching the opposite bank, he sat
down to pull on his boots, which the boy had brought over in his
hands.
“Where 's my stockin's?” — thrusting his hand down one of
the legs.
“I d'n' know; I han't seen 'em,” replied the boy.
“You don' know! Why don't you know? I told you to take
care on 'em.”
“I guess you laid 'em down on t' other side.”
“An' I got to go back arter 'em! I wish you 'd larn to keep
your wits about ye!”
Mr. Jackwood arose, and, rolling up his trousers again, although
the water-mark was some inches above their utmost elevation, returned
to the opposite bank. But no socks were to be found.
“You let 'em drop in the water, sartin as the world!” he
exclaimed, giving up the search. Abimelech protested against
the injustice of this charge. “O, you 're a terrible innocent
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boy!”—sitting down and straining at the straps of one of his boots.
“Now, what 's to pay, I wonder? What ye ben puttin' in this
boot?”
Mr. Jackwood withdrew his foot, put in his hand, and extracted
a stocking.
“If it don't beat all! I remember, now. I did tuck 'em in
my boots; an' they 're so wet they dropped clean down into the
toes.”
“Blame me, will ye, next time!” muttered Bim. “O, 'f course
I lost 'em in the river!”
“Is that the way to talk to your father?” asked Mr. Jackwood,
solemnly. “You better be careful!”
Abimelech continued to mutter; but, his father suggesting significantly
that he 'd do well to wait till he got his boots on, he
hushed, and contented himself with looking sullen. Resuming
their tramp, they had not proceeded far, when he began to grumble
again, very faintly.
“What 's that?” cried his father, sharply, looking around.
“I could a' ketched 'nough fish, if you 'd le' me staid where I
was. Might a' know'd we could n't do nothin' down here.”
“Where 's the fish you did ketch?”
“I d'n' know! — I guess I — I left 'em on the ground where
you put your boots on!” — beginning to cry.
“Wal, wal, never mind,” said Mr. Jackwood; “'t won't take
long to go back arter 'em. Cheer up, an' I 'll go on an' see what
them bushes look like, ahead here.”
Ten minutes later, Mr. Jackwood shouted.
“Hurrah, Bim'lech! where be ye?”
“I can't find my fish!” cried the boy; “somebody 's come an'
stole 'em!”
At that moment there was a vivid flash of lightning, which lit
up the entire canopy of the sky, and a heavy drop plashed upon
Abimelech's hand. He had explored the bank in vain; while all
the time the little willow bough, on which the fish were strung,
peeped out of the trampled grass before his eyes. Agitated and
blind with tears, he could not see it; and now, in a panic of fear,
abandoning the search, he attempted to return to his father.
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“Here!” shouted Mr. Jackwood, sending up his hat on the end
of a pole as a signal, “do ye see this?”
Thrusting the pole into the ground, he was on the point of going
in pursuit of the boy, when his attention was attracted by a cry in
another direction. He paused and hallooed. The cry was repeated.
It sounded like that of some person in distress. Leaving Abimelech,
therefore, to make the best of his way out of the grass, Mr.
Jackwood advanced upon the rotting timber of a bridge thrown
across the creek.
Beyond was an old barn, that stood half hidden by the willows
and young elms, festooned with vines, that grew by the stream;
and as the voice sounded in that direction, he kept on, until there
arose suddenly before him out of the grass what seemed the bent
form of an old woman, leaning upon a staff.
“It 's some plaguy old witch or 'nother!” he muttered to himself.
She attempted to approach him, whereupon he made a deferential
step backwards towards the bridge. Mr. Jackwood had his
own opinions about witches.
“O, sir, if you will be so kind as to help me!” she faltered,
sinking down again in the tangled grass.
“Wal, I an't a man to pass by on t' other side when there 's
suff'rin' in the way,” said Mr. Jackwood, approaching; “though
I 'm a little grain skittish about stragglers. What 'pears to be
the matter, hey?”
“I have lost my way,” answered the woman, faintly, resting
her head upon her hand, “and I can go no further.”
“Tuckered out, hey? Wal, that 's bad! But you can manage
to git up to the road, can't ye?”
The woman replied that she was too much exhausted to walk.
“Hoity-toity!” cried Mr. Jackwood, cheerily. “This 'll never
do. Where there 's life there 's hope. Only think you can, and
you can, you know. B'sides, mebby I can help. You won't
be sorry; you 'll find a warm supper an' a good comf'table shelter
some'eres, I promise ye.”
He extended his hand: the woman clasped it convulsively.
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“You will be my friend!” she articulated, with strange vehemence—
“something tells me that I can trust you!”
“My name 's Jackwood; I live on the crick, jest above here.
Everybody knows Bim'lech Jackwood,” replied the farmer.
“You are my only hope,” said the woman, “and I will have
faith that you have been sent to me.”
“I like that; that 'ere sounds han'some an' pious. But seems
to me you don't 'pear quite so old as I took you to be at fust.”
“I am not old. I have been obliged to appear so for safety.
You will not betray me!”
“Don't be afeared,” exclaimed Mr. Jackwood, with hearty
sympathy.
“Let me appear to you as I am, then.” And the stranger
removed a pair of spectacles that concealed her eyes; took off the
bonnet that almost covered her face; put back from her forehead
the old-woman's cap, with its wig of gray hair attached, and discovered
thick masses of dark hair loosened and falling down her
neck.
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II. THE STRANGER AND THE STORM.
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Mr. Jackwood stood astonished. Such eyes — such wonderfully
soft and lustrous eyes — he had never seen before.
“Why, do tell, now! I never had anything come over me so,
in all my born days! Then them 'ere marks on your face t' look
like wrinkles an't nat'ral, hey?”
“I will go to the water and wash them off,” replied the stranger.
“But do not question me, nor ever speak of this.”
At that juncture Abimelech was heard screaming frantically.
“I shall haf to go for that boy, sartin 's the world!” exclaimed
the farmer. “How do ye feel now? Think you can walk a
hunderd rods or so?”
“You have given me hope,” said the wanderer; “and hope
gives life and strength!”
“That 's more like it! that 's the way to talk! I should n't
wonder if we git home now 'fore it rains, to speak of. Only, when
you 've washed, if you 'll make an effort and creep along slow, —
this 'ere 's the track, ye know; keep where the grass is thin, —
it 'll give Bim'lech an' me a chance, an' we 'll overtake you 'fore
you git fur.”
And so, with a parting word of cheer, Mr. Jackwood disappeared
behind the elms. Left alone, the girl made haste to wash
her hands and face; then, having thrown away her staff, and carefully
concealed the wig, cap, and spectacles, about her person, she
resumed the old bonnet, which corresponded well with the rest of
her attire, and set out to walk slowly along the track indicated by
Mr. Jackwood.
Abimelech's voice meanwhile grew fainter and fainter; and,
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after a baffling search, his father found him sunk to his knees in
the black mud of a slough. Taking him by the arm, he dragged
him out, shouldered him, and carried him off bodily.
“Hush up! hush up! You an't dead, arter all. You can't
guess what I have found, out here. It 's suthin' better 'n two
little mis'ble trout.”
“Is 't a otter?” asked the boy, with a sudden lull in his lamentations.
“You 'll see, you 'll see. Don't say nothin', but laugh.”
Reaching the bridge, Mr. Jackwood set him on his feet, shouldered
the fish-poles in his place, and, walking on, pointed out the
stranger.
“That 's the way you alluz fool me! I thought you 'd got
suthin'! Heugh! a woman! an' a beggar woman, too!”
“Stop that!” cried Mr. Jackwood. “You talk like a young
heathen. An't we commanded to help the needy? What 's the
use o' your goin' to Sunday-school, I 'd like to know?”
“Who is she, any way?”
“Hush!” with a significant motion of the hand. “Hem!”
coughed the farmer, preparatory to addressing the stranger. —
“Keep a little back, Bim'lech! — Hem! you 'pear to be doin'
perty well; feel better, don't ye? If you should take my arm,
now, I guess we 'll be able to git along finely.”
With a word of thanks, feebly spoken, the stranger accepted
the offer, — and need enough there seemed that he should assist
her weary footsteps. She turned upon him, as she did so, the
light of those wonderful eyes, and smiled a grateful smile, which
seemed to struggle against embarrassment and fatigue.
“Did you come from the north?”
“Yes, sir,” she faltered, — “I mean no, sir. I came, I think,
from that direction,” — pointing directly at the old Bear Back,
the highest and most rugged of the western range of mountains,
that bounded the valley. “I followed a road till I lost it in the
woods, then I tried to cross the valley.”
“You follered that 'ere road? You was travellin' north,
then?”
“I am a little confused; I hardly know what I tell you.”
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“Turned 'round, be ye? Wal, I don't wonder at that. So I
shan't ax you no questions. I 'd like to inquire, though, if
your parents live down north, here.”
“My parents?” said the girl, with an effort; “I — I have
lost them!”
“O, they 're dead, then! I an't none o' the pryin' sort, but
I should like to know if their names was Carter. P'rhaps I
know'd 'em. That was n't the name, hey? Wal, I an't goin' to
ax questions; but seems to me I 've seen you som'eres. Is your
name Burbank?”
“No, sir; and I was never in this part of the country before.”
“You 're a native o' York State, then, I conclude? No?
Mebby, then, you 've ben to work in the factories, down to Lowell
an' Lawrence. I 've got a darter 't 's talked some o' tryin' her
hand at that business; she would, in a minute, if I 'd let her.
No? Wal, never mind, — I an't one o' the pryin' sort. I forgit,
though, what you said your name was.”
“Say, father,” interrupted Abimelech, at this important crisis,
“the rain 's comin' like great guns! You can't see the old Bear
Back!”
“I guess we 'll hurry on a leetle grain faster, if you an't too
tired, Miss — I don't remember your name,” said Mr. Jackwood.
“I never heerd the mountain roar so in all my life!” cried the
excited Bim. “Do look, father! how the trees thrash about!
See 'em! see 'em! all over the mountain! How dark it grows!”
“We shall have it here in a minute,” said Mr. Jackwood. “A
leetle grain faster, if you can 's well 's not, Miss — Did I
understand you to say your name was —”
At that moment, a swift squad of the storm, charging down
from the mountain with volleys of arrowy rain, swept over our
little party. The elm-trees trembled, and reeled, and tossed their
long green hair, while the tall grass of the interval rose and fell,
and whirled in eddies, like a sea.
“There goes my hat!” screamed Abimelech.
It lodged in the grass, and his father caught it with his fish-pole.
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The boy sprang to seize it, and pulled it on his head with such
desperation as to tear away the rim, and leave a liberal rent for
his hair to flutter through; and thus, with the appearance of holding
himself down by the ears, he scudded on before the gale. His
companions followed more slowly; the stranger, in fluttering
attire, clinging to her friend, and Mr. Jackwood, looking solid and
responsible under his burden, snuffing the squall complacently, and
dragging the fish-poles after.
-- -- p732-026
III. THE FARM-HOUSE.
[figure description] Page 023.[end figure description]
Thoroughly drenched, the little party arrived at the farm-house.
“Why! my sakes!” cried Mrs. Jackwood, as the kitchen door
flew open, and they came in with the lashing rain, — “I never
see! Do shet the door quick, Bim'lech! Is this 'Tildy Fosdick?”
In the gloom, she mistook her husband's companion for one of
the neighbors. Mr. Jackwood corrected the error.
“La, wal! I s'pose we can keep her one night, 't any rate,”
said his wife. “Soppin' wet, an't ye? Be ye 'fraid o' ketchin'
cold?”
“No, I don't think of that,” answered the girl, shiveringly.
“Wal, come to the stove, an' warm ye;” and Mrs. Jackwood
drew up the high-backed rocking-chair. “Set here. — Phœbe,
put in some more wood. I s'pose I might let you have one o' my
ol' gowns to put on: I guess I better. You don't look very
tough. I 'll take your wet bunnit.”
Mrs. Jackwood hung the drenched article upon a peg; then,
having lighted a candle with a coal she took from the fire, she
turned once more to the stranger.
“Dear me!” — betraying a lively emotion, — “you an't stubbid,
be ye? You don't look fit to be trav'lin' in this way!
Whereabouts is yer home?”
The girl appeared to make an effort to speak.
“Don't be axin' questions, mother!” spoke up Mr. Jackwood.
“You see,” he added, considerately, in an under tone, “it hurts her
feelin's. — I shall have to git ye to speak yer name once more,
if ye please.”
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[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]
“Charlotte Woods,” articulated the stranger.
“Cha'lotte Woods,” repeated the farmer, with an air of
thoughtful interest. — “Go 'way, Phœbe,” — in a whisper; “don't
stan' starin' at her! — There 's a Woods under the mountain; is
he any relation?”
The girl shook her head. She was apparently seventeen or
eighteen years of age; but her features, of delicate mould,
and of a soft, brunette complexion, bordering upon the olive,
showed traces of passion and suffering rarely seen in one so young.
Her eyes were tremulously downcast, and her slender hands
clasped across her lap in an attitude of intense emotion. The
contrast of her humble drenched attire and the yellow lamp-light
that fell upon it served to heighten the effect of the scene. It
was at once picturesque and touching. Not even the uncultivated
inmates of the Jackwood dwelling were insensible to it; and a
respectful hush followed the farmer's last question, all eyes appearing
to regard the unknown guest with mingled solicitude and
deference.
Mrs. Jackwood broke the silence. “Shall I give you that dry
gown to put on?”
“Thank you,” said the stranger, “I am quite comfortable.”
“Give her a drop o' that 'ere currant wine,” whispered the
farmer.
“Where 's all yer fish?” Mrs. Jackwood at last thought to
inquire. “The cat 'll eat 'em up, if they 're under the stoop.”
“I guess all we brought home won't hurt her, if she eats bones
an' all,” said Mr. Jackwood.
“Why, did n't ye ketch none?”
“I ketched two trout, real nice ones, an' lost 'em,” snivelled
Bim, in the corner.
“What ye cryin' about?”
“I tore my knee all open! I was runnin' on ahead, an' fell
down, right on to a great rock.”
“Wal, wal, you 'll feel better arter supper,” said his father.
“You need n't help about the chores to-night. You 've had a
perty hard time on 't, this arternoon, that 's a fact. You won't
want to go a-fishin' agin very soon, will ye?”
-- 025 --
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“I don't want to go to Wild River!” mumbled the aggrieved
Bim. “They 're the meanest fish! My fust two nibbles was
bites, then all my other bites was nibbles.”
Meanwhile supper was waiting, only the tea was to be drawn;
and Mr. Jackwood proposed that they should “set right down.”
But the stranger felt too faint to think of food.
“Wal,” said Mr. Jackwood, after a moment's reflection, “I
guess I 'll go an' milk, then, an' have the chores done up 'fore
supper. If you git ready to se' down, don't wait for me.”
He took the rattling milk-pails from the pantry, and went out
in the darkness and storm, to finish the labors of the day. He
fed the squealing pigs, and stopped their noise; gave the bleating
calves their suppers; drove the sheep out of the door-yard; and
returned, at length, to the kitchen, bearing two brimming pails of
milk — and rain-water.
He found his guest still sitting by the stove, reposing languidly
in the high-backed chair; having, in the mean time, however, put
on dry apparel, for which she was indebted to Mrs. Jackwood's
kindness.
“Wal, how d' ye find yourself arter your shower-bath?” he
inquired, cheerily. “Think ye can eat a little supper, now?
Can, hey? That 's right; turn right 'round here. Come, Phœbe,—
Bim'lech, what ye waitin' fur? Where 'll she set, mother?”
“She can set in Bim'lech's place; he 's had his supper. He
was so hungry, he could n't wait; so he took a bowl o' bread-an'-milk
in his hand.”
“I did n't eat enough! That was nothin' but a luncheon.”
“What! that great bowl o' bread-an'-milk? I wonder what
your stomach is made of!”
“Never mind; let him come to the table, if he wants to,” said
Mr. Jackwood, whose heart grew big and warm in the glow of
the homely old kitchen. “There 's plenty o' room. Fix him a
place, Phœbe. I don't see the need of anybody 's starvin' in my
house.”
Mrs. Jackwood, getting a plate: “It 's all foolishness eat'n' two
suppers, — one jest 'fore goin' to bed, too; that 's all I care
about it.”
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“Bim thinks he deserves two suppers, for bringing home so
many fish!” said Phœbe.
Abimelech, exasperated: “Make her stop, father I should
think she 'd said enough about that!”
“There, there, there, children, don't quarrel! What makes ye
want to pester him so, Phœbe? You should n't mind it, my son;
you should be above sich things. There 's a plate for ye; bring
yer chair along. Hush, now.”
The farmer said grace in the stereotype phrase of years; but
an allusion to the wanderer beneath his roof, and the wind and
the rain without, — awkwardly interpolated, it is true, yet spoken
with simple earnestness, — rendered the prayer vital and touching.
“Bim kept making faces at me all the time you was asking the
blessing!” said Phœbe.
“Bim'lech, did you do that 'ere?” asked Mr. Jackwood,
solemnly.
Abimelech, with an air of innocence: “No, I did n't! There
was a 'skeeter buzzin' 'round my face, an' I squinted to scare him
away, that 's all. If she had n't ben lookin' she would n't 'a
seen me.”
Phœbe: “What a story! There an't a mosquito in the
house!”
“That 'll do! Don't le' me hear no more complaints. We 've
got plain fare,” — the farmer turned to his guest, — “but it 's
hulsome. Here 's good ho'-made bread, an' sweet butter, an'
fresh milk; some dried beef, too, if ye like; an' mother 'll give
ye a good stiff cup o' tea, to raise yer sperrits. Then there 's a
pie I 'll ventur' to recommend, bime-by.”
“Mother! I — want — a — piece — of — pie!”
“You need n't whine so like a great baby, if you do! You may
give him a piece, Phœbe.”
“Phœb' need n't be so p'tic'lar to pick out the smallest
piece! I 'll have two pieces, now, see if I don't! May n't
I, father?”
“Eat that fust, then we 'll see.”
“I want some cheese with it! Come, you need n't help me,
-- 027 --
[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]
Phœb'! Jest pass the plate, an' le' me help myself. How darned
generous you be!”
“Bim'lech!”
“What!”
Mr. Jackwood, severely: “Le' me hear any more sich talk, an'
you 'll go right away from the table, — mind now!”
The boy muttered something in self-defence, with his mouth
full; but his father's attention was at that moment drawn to his
guest. For some time she had been vainly endeavoring to eat.
The bounty spread before her, the kindness of her new friends,
and the thought of rest and shelter while the storm raged without,
filled her heart to suffocating fulness; and, too weak to control her
emotions, but instinctively seeking to conceal them, she attempted
to rise from the table. The pallor and distress of her features,
and the strangeness of her movements, alarmed the farmer; but,
before he could speak, a sudden dizziness seized her, and she sank
insensible upon the floor.
“Marcy!” exclaimed Mrs. Jackwood, starting from the table.
“I believe she 's fainted! Hold her, father, while I bring the
camfire!”
In her agitation, mistaking the loaf of bread for the lamp, she
rushed with it into the pantry, and began to search in the dark
for the camphor, — knocking over two or three bottles in the
operation, and laying her hand on the right one at the precise
moment when it was no longer needed.
At the same time, Phœbe hastened to pour some hot water out
of the tea-kettle, with what object in view, she was never very
well able to explain. She poured it into the cullender, which
happened to be the first utensil in her reach; and the cullender,
acting like a sieve, sprinkled it in a plentiful shower upon her
foot. In consequence of this catastrophe, she was nervously occupied
in ascertaining the extent of her burns, while Mr. Jackwood
was thus left alone to support the form of the fainting girl.
“A cup o' water!” he cried, lifting her to the chair. “Don't
be scart, boy. She 'll come to, arter a little sprinklin'. Be
quick!”
Abimelech heard only “cup, sprinkle, quick,” and, actuated by
-- 028 --
[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]
the same benevolence of impulse which had set his mother rattling
the bottles, and his sister pouring hot water, he seized the milk-cup
from the tea-tray, and spilled its contents partly in the stranger's
hair, partly in her left ear.
“Not that!” ejaculated his father. “Don't you know nothin'?
Water!”
Thereupon the boy caught up one of the empty milk-pails, and,
hastening to the sink-room, commenced pumping violently.
By this time the swooning girl began to revive. Indeed, her
consciousness had at no time been entirely lost. Her soul had
seemed sinking, sinking, like a candle let down into the dark of a
deep well; and in a still place, gleaming with a faint ray, just above
the waters of oblivion, it had waited, as it were, to be drawn up.
Mr. Jackwood's care was now to wipe away the milk which
streaked her hair, and cheek, and neck. Accidentally disarranging
her dress in the operation, he started back with an involuntary
exclamation of pain and pity. Her full throat was exposed, and
just below it, in startling contrast with her soft and gentle beauty,
appeared a sharp cut, as of a pointed blade. The wound was
evidently not so new but it might have been partially healed;
some recent hurt, however, — perhaps the fall from the chair, —
had opened it afresh, and now a fine crimson stream was traced
upon her breast.
With a quick, instinctive movement, she covered the wound
from sight.
“It 's nothing; a little hurt,” — clasping her hand over her
breast.
Mr. Jackwood was speechless with embarrassment; but the cry
which had escaped his lips, alarming the family, brought them
simultaneously to his relief. Mrs. Jackwood appeared with her
camphor-bottle, shaking it up, with her hand over the nose; Phœbe
ran up, with a shoe in one hand and the cullender in the other;
while Abimelech staggered in from the sink-room, swinging a full
pail of milky water.
“There, there, mother!” cried Mr. Jackwood, as his wife began
to bathe the patient's forehead; “that 'll do; it 'll only be unpleasant
to her.”
-- 029 --
[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]
“'T won't do no harm,” replied the good woman, applying the
camphor to the sufferer's nose. “How do you feel now?”
“Better, — quite well,” gasped the poor girl, pushing the bottle
feebly away.
“Look at Bim!” exclaimed the excited Phœbe. “What are
you going to do with that water?”
“Father told me to!” cried Bim. “What you goin' to do with
the cullender? You need n't say nothin'!”
“Open yer eyes, if it 's as convenient as not,” suggested Mr.
Jackwood; “I want to see how you look.”
The stranger's eyes partly opened, but closed again heavily.
“My eyelids are stiff,” she said, with an expression of pain.
“Put some butter on to 'em — that 'll limber 'em,” whispered
the boy, hoarsely, in his father's ear. “Say, shall I?”
“Git away with yer nonsense!” said Mr. Jackwood, with a
threatening gesture.
Abimelech recoiled, and sat down, with a startling splash, in the
pail of water he had left standing on the floor.
“Now what?” said Mrs. Jackwood, sharply.
“Good enough for him!” exclaimed Phœbe. “He need n't
have left the water standing right there in the way. Now bellow,
great baby!”
Mr. Jackwood commanded silence. “She 's got a dre'ful bad
hurt on her breast!” he whispered to his wife; “an' I think he 'd
better have suthin' done for 't.”
“It 's not much,” said the guest. “If I can be a little while
alone —”
“Take her into your room, mother.”
Still holding her hand upon her breast, the sufferer arose, and,
with Mrs. Jackwood's assistance, reached the adjoining room.
Becoming faint again, she sat down, and, after some hesitation,
suffered the good woman to look at her wound.
“Marcy me, if 't an't a cut! It bleeds a stream! Poor thing!—
how did you git hurt so?”
“I — I — it was — an accident.”
“It looks as though you had been stabbed with a knife! Phœbe,
bring me a basin o' water, an' be quick!”
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[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]
“Cold water?” cried Phœbe.
“Pour in out o' the tea-kittle jest enough to take off the chill,”
said her mother. “Don't be all night about it!”
Mrs. Jackwood hastened to a tall bureau in the corner, and took
from it some linen for the wound.
“What did ye ever have done for 't?” she asked, getting down
again beside the guest.
“I can't tell, — not much.”
“Did n't you never have no healin' plaster on 't, nor nothin?”
She moved her head feebly, with a negative sign.
“I want to know! Why did n't ye? Poor child! you must
a' suffered from it. How long sence 't was hurt?”
“O dear!” exclaimed Phœbe, in dolorous accents, approaching
behind her mother. “What is it? Don't it most kill you?” —
The basin began to tip in her hands. “It makes me dizzy to look
at it!”
“What are ye doin'?” cried her mother, looking suddenly
around, in her kneeling posture. “I never! if you an't spillin'
that water all down my back!”
“I could n't help it. I come perty near faintin'!”
“Se' down the basin, and go out and shet the door. Do ye
hear?”
Phœbe placed the basin upon a chair, and reluctantly withdrew
Having dressed the wound according to her own ideas of such
things, Mrs. Jackwood returned to the kitchen.
“How is she?” asked Phœbe.
“She 's jest lopped down on my bed for a little while. Finish
yer suppers, children; I 'll 'tend to her. I 'm goin' to have her
drink a strong cup o' tea, as soon as she gits over her faint spell.
Poor girl! she 's ever so much to be pitied!”
“She 's a downright perty-spoken girl!” said Mr. Jackwood.
“I don' know where I 've seen sich han'some manners, anywheres.
You better tell her, mother, 't seein' to-morrer 's Sunday, she might
as well make up her mind to stop over with us till Monday, if not
longer.”
The door was closed, but not latched. Charlotte Woods,
-- 031 --
[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]
lay upon the bed, in the darkened room, could hear all that was
said; and a ray of almost heavenly rapture stole, thrilling and
soothing, into the troubled depths of her soul. All this time the
elements raged without, — the rain lashed the panes, the wind
whistled, the lightning winked its fiery eye ever and anon, glaring
into the chamber, — and the contrast of the storm with the peace
and comfort she had found with her new friends served to intensify
all the pure and sweet emotions that arose in her grateful heart.
When Mrs. Jackwood returned to her she found her weeping;
but her face was illumined, and her eyes glistened with a tender
light.
Mr. Jackwood and the children had, in the mean time, returned
to the table; and Phœbe amused herself by laughing at Abimelech's
pail of water. At first the boy retorted; then he became
unaccountably silent, pouting over his pie; and finally, yielding
to an irresistible fit of drowsiness, he began to nod assent to all
that was said. The unfinished pie-crust had fallen from his hand,
and his lips were still distended with the last mouthful, when his
deep breathing, growing deeper still, verged upon a snore.
“What ye doin', Phœbe?” demanded Mr. Jackwood.
“Only tickling his nose a little,” laughed Phœbe, mischievously.
At that moment Abimelech sneezed, blowing a full charge of
pie-crumbs into his bosom. Partially awakened, he half opened
his eyes, but, closing them again immediately, with a deep sigh,
he rolled over, comfortably, into his father's lap.
“Why could n't ye let the boy alone?” said Mr. Jackwood.
“You 're always up to some nonsense!”
“It does me good to plague him. That sneeze came perty
nigh taking his head off! I don't suppose he 'd have woke up if
it had.”
“I guess he 'd better be put to bed.”
“I beg of ye, father,” exclaimed Mrs. Jackwood, “don't carry
that gre't sleepy-head up-stairs in your arms! He should be
made to walk.”
“What 's the use o' wakin' him when he's fast asleep?” said
the farmer.
-- 032 --
[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]
“I 'll carry the lamp,” said Mrs. Jackwood, — “if you will be
so foolish! I 've got to go up and fix a bed for that girl.”
Half an hour later, having drank the tea prepared for her, and
eaten a few morsels of food, Charlotte Woods took leave of the
parents, who bade her a kind and cheerful “good-night,” and
retired, with Phœbe, to her chamber.
The young girl was in a sociable mood, and wished to talk;
but the wanderer was too weary to take part in the conversation.
Her head had scarce touched the pillow, before she was asleep.
But she started strangely, and moaned, and sometimes cried aloud,
in the trouble of her dreams. Phœbe was frightened, and awoke
her.
“Where am I?”
The storm was raging again; the wind blew, the rain pattered
on the roof, the thunder rolled in the sky.
“You are with me, — don't you know?”
“O, yes!” said the wanderer, fervently.
“I was scart, and woke you up,” rejoined Phœbe. “You
was talking in your sleep.”
“Was I? — Did you hear?” cried the other, quickly. “What
did I say?”
At that moment a vivid flash, illumining the chamber, showed
her starting up with pallid looks, one arm sunk in the pillow, and
the other flung across the covering of the bed.
“I could n't make out much,” replied Phœbe. “I heard you
say, `Don't! it will kill me!' and that 's all I can remember.”
“Are you sure? — Tell me all I said!”
Phœbe could recall nothing more; and the stranger guest,
recovering from her alarm, sank again upon the pillow, and
listened to the rain on the roof until she was once more asleep.
-- -- p732-036
IV. THE SABBATH MORNING.
[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]
It was day when the wanderer awoke. Through the window-curtain,
which looked like a white cotton apron tied by its strings
across the sash, the light of a new morning streamed into the
room.
How calm and cool it seemed! At first she felt that she could
always lie there, in such sweet peace and languor, and gaze upon
that light. But the past rushed with great waves upon her heart,
and, becoming restless with anxious thoughts, she arose silently
from the bed.
She resumed the faded calico gown Mrs. Jackwood's kindness
had furnished; it was an awkward fit, but it could not altogether
conceal the symmetry of her form. Then, standing before a little
looking-glass, she combed out her thick, black hair, and, curling it
on her fingers, looped it up in luxuriant masses, over her temples.
This done, she bathed her face in a tin basin, with water from a
broken-nosed pitcher, and, slipping the cotton curtain aside upon
its string, sat down by the window.
The storm was over; the clouds had cleared away; it was a
beautiful Sabbath morning. The low valley, through which
wound the stream, lay white-robed in silvery mists; but all the
western range of mountains was flooded with the sunrise.
When Phœbe awoke, and saw her companion sitting there with
troubled looks, she felt that she ought to console her.
“I don't believe you like it here very well; I guess you 're
homesick.”
“O, I do like it! It is so quiet, so peaceful, here!”
“I think it is a real mean old house,” responded Phœbe. “If
-- 034 --
[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]
father 'd build a new one, and fit it up in style, I don't know, —
but, as it is, I 'm unhappy as I can be!”
“O,” said her companion, “if you could only know what it is
to be without a home —”
“Father tells me I don't know how to appreciate a home. But
I can't help it; I can't be contented here.”
“I suppose, then,” said Charlotte, with a tender smile, “you
will soon think of changing both your name and abode.”
“I won't marry a farmer, any way!” cried Phœbe. “I 've
always said that, and I 'll stick to it, if I live an old maid!”
Her pretty face and bright eyes sparkled with animation; and,
arising, the first thing she did was to look in the glass, and read
once more the charming tale of her own beauty.
“Father says he bets I 'll go through the woods and take up
with a crooked stick,” she continued, with amusing frankness.
“I don't care, — I could have my pick of 'most any of the
young fellows about here. But they an't much; they are 'most all
farmers' boys; and I 'll have a merchant or a lawyer, if anybody.”
“Phœbe,” called Mrs. Jackwood at the foot of the chamber-stairs, —
“an't you 'most ready to come down? You need n't
stay up there all day, if it is Sunday. Let her lie and sleep, if she
wants to; it 'll do her good to rest.”
So kind an allusion to herself brought the tenderest tearful
light to the wanderer's eyes.
“You need n't come down till noon, if you don't want to,” said
the lively Phœbe. “You won't care to go to meeting, I suppose.”
“Hardly,” said Charlotte, with a sad smile. “Shall you go?”
“O, yes; I would n't stay away such a day as this, I tell you!
I like to see folks when I 'm dressed up; it is silly, perhaps, but
I can't help it. I don't care for the preaching; we 've got a real
stupid minister — I don't ought to say so, though, I suppose. Are
you pious? Do you care for what I say?”
Charlotte knew not how to reply to such queer questions.
“Perhaps you belong to the church,” added Phœbe, blushing
rosy red; “I would n't like to hurt your feelings, though I must
say I 'm glad I don't belong to it! Mother has urged me and
-- 035 --
[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
urged me to join; she 's had the minister here to talk to me hours
at a stretch. But the truth of it is, I like to carry on too well;
and I an't going to settle down and put on a long face, and be
pious, yet a while! I thought I experienced religion, one time;
but I guess it did n't amount to much; there 's more fun in me
than ever. Well, I wish I was good,” — more seriously. “I
know I ought to be pious, — but it an't in me.”
Charlotte's limbs felt weak and sore; but she thought it would
be better for her to make an effort to move, and she descended the
stairs with Phœbe. They reached the kitchen just as Mr. Jackwood
was going out, with the milk-pails on his arm. He paused
to bid her good-morning; and she thanked him for his kindness
with so much tender feeling that his eyes began to glisten.
“Wal,” said he, winking, “make yourself to home; that 'll
suit me best of anything. — Come, Bim'lech,” turning to his son,
“d' ye expect I 'm goin' to do all the milkin' in futur', 'cause I
let ye off last night?”
“I 'm stiff as I can be,” muttered the boy, limping from the
corner. “I can't straighten out.”
“This comes o' goin' a-fishin'. Come, I 'll limber ye up!”
Charlotte was anxious to render Mrs. Jackwood some assistance
in her work. At the same time she confessed her ignorance of
kitchen affairs.
“Wal, I guess you 'd be about as much bother as you 're
wuth,” said Mrs. Jackwood.
“I might soon learn to do something, if you would show me.”
“La, sus, I can let ye try, if that 's all! But you 'd larn
more to look on, I should think. There 's so many little chores,
Sunday morning, I can't tell myself what 's to be done till I come
to 't.”
Charlotte proved unusually intelligent and apt.
“There 's some sense in tryin' to larn you somethin',” said
Mrs. Jackwood, encouragingly. “I 'm so partic'lar, 't gener'ly
I can't bear to have any one lift a finger in my kitchen, without
it 's Phœbe; and she sometimes tries my patience a'most to death!
As for them gre't awk'rd Irish girls, — the slouchin' critturs! — I
won't so much as have 'em 'round!”
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Thus encouraged, Charlotte emptied the sour milk Mrs. Jackwood
was skimming; helped scald the pans; turned the pork
that was frying in the spider; and assisted Phœbe to set the
table.
“Wal, you 're about the handiest girl 't ever I see. I can't say
less 'n that, any way. I wonder you never did house-work before.
You take to 't nat'ral as ducks to the water! Some folks never
can see into 't, somehow; they can't so much as wipe the dishes,
say nothin' 'bout washin' 'em, without you stand over 'em every
minute o' the time, an' tell 'em how. You 've no idee how narvous
it makes me feel!”
“I 'm afraid I should draw pretty severely on your patience,
sometimes,” said Charlotte.
“ 'T would n't be to be wondered at, if you did. The best miss
it, now an' then, you know. And I have n't all the patience I
should have, or might have, I 'm sorry to say. You could put
up with a little frettin', though, I guess; it 's my natur' to fret.”
“Take my word for that!” laughed Phœbe.
“You need 't say that, now!” cried her mother. “I don't think
I 'm any gre't of a fretter, I 'm sure. I consider I 'm perty toler'ble
patient, now! You won't find many women that 'll put up
with what I have to put up with, depend upon 't. Don't say
agin I 'm a gre't fretter, if you know what 's good for yourself!”
Presently, Mr. Jackwood and Abimelech coming in, the family
sat down to breakfast.
“You don't live by eatin', I see,” the farmer said to his guest.
“You never 'll do for a farmer's darter, till you can eat pork and
johnny-cake.”
After breakfast Mr. Jackwood took down the big family Bible
from the mantel-piece, and, having adjusted a pair of blackened
steel-bowed spectacles, opened it on his knee. At the same time
Phœbe and Abimelech brought out their Testaments from the bed-room,
and, after a little dispute about “the place,” obeyed their
father, who enjoined silence. Mrs. Jackwood took her seat by the
open door, where she could keep an eye on the poultry before the
stoop, and flirt her apron at them occasionally, as they attempted
to invade the kitchen.
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Scarce had the farmer begun to read, when a gallant young
turkey, taking advantage of Mrs. Jackwood's contemplative mood,
charged past her apron, and made a bold dash at the crumbs
under the table.
“Bim'lech! do help me git this critter out! We must have a
whip, and keep it for these nasty turkeys!”
Bim, with warlike resolution: “Clear the track!”
Mrs. Jackwood: “Don't be ha'sh, my son! Don't throw yer
book!”
She spoke too late. The boy's Testament whizzed by the corner
of the table, and, glancing on the back of Phœbe's chair, fluttered
down into a dish of grease on the stove-hearth.
“Now you 've done it!” cried Phœbe.
Mrs. Jackwood, quivering: “I 've as good a mind to box your
ears as ever I had t' eat!”
“'T an't hurt much,” said Abimelech, grinning, as he held the
Testament up by the leaves, to let the grease drip off.
“Every Sunday mornin',” began Mrs. Jackwood, “reg'lar as
the day comes 'round, that 'ere grease-dish has to come out o' the
suller-way, an' set smutcherin' on the stove, till the shoes are all
blacked for meetin'! For my part, I 'm heartily sick on 't; an' if
I could had my way, this never 'd a' happened.”
“Come, come! don't be unreason'ble mother,” said Mr. Jackwood.
“Accidents will happen.”
“Unreasonable? If you 'd make a bizness on 't, you could set
down and warm the dish, an' grease yer shoes, an' done with 't, all
in five minutes' time. An' here that thing 's ben 'round a hull
hour, if 't has a minute! Then Bim'lech had to fling his book!
An' now he 's lettin' the grease drop all over the floor! I never
see the beat! There!”
Mrs. Jackwood gave vent to her feelings in a sharp cuff bestowed
on Abimelech's ear.
Bim, howling: “Ow — w — w — w! Quit!”
“Quit, quit!” echoed the turkey, darting behind the stove.
“Don't tell me to quit!” exclaimed Mrs. Jackwood, addressing
Bim more particularly, “you sauce-box!”
-- 038 --
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In terror of another blow, Bim dropped the book and dodged
behind Charlotte's chair.
“Come, let 's have peace, this holy Sabbath mornin'!” said Mr.
Jackwood. “Bim'lech, take yer seat, and look over with Phœbe!”
Mrs. Jackwood, endeavoring to control her feelings, but still
quivering with excitement, stooped to pick up the book.
“Grease an' all on this clean floor, mopped only yist'day!
It 's no more use moppin' an' scourin' in this house than — Gi' me
a knife, Phœbe!”
“I — gracious!” cried Bim, with a wild look, throwing up his
hands in a protective attitude about his ears.
“We 're waitin' mother,” observed Mr. Jackwood, quietly.
“You 'll have to wait till I scrape up a little of this grease,
'fore it 's trod all over the house. — Where 's that turkey?”
“He 's out o' the house,” snarled Bim, “an' I wish I was!”
“Don't talk so,” said Mr. Jackwood. “Remember, there 's a
stranger present. Now, if you 're all ready, we 'll read.”
Mrs. Jackwood resumed her station in the door-way, and, setting
the broom as a trap to be sprung upon the poultry, composed
herself to listen.
“Commence, Bim'lech,” said the farmer.
Bim'lech, sullenly: “Han't got no book!”
“I told ye to look over with Phœbe. Third varse.”
Bim mumbled over his task, as if merit consisted in the most
rapid and indistinct utterance that could be called reading.
“Bim'lech, read that 'ere last varse over ag'in, an' try to take
the sense on 't.”
“Phœbe won't le' me look on! She holds the book 'way off!”
“Anybody 'd think you wanted to eat the book up!” — and
Phœbe mischievously thrust her Testament under the boy's nose.
“Now can ye see?”
“Come! — stop! I swanny, I won't read another word!”
“Take holt o' that book, my son, an' don't le 's have any more
o' yer nonsense. This is perty work for Sunday mornin'!”
Phœbe giggling; Abimelech pouting; Mr. Jackwood looking
sternly over his glasses at the offenders; Charlotte trying to be
serious, but laughing, with her sunny eyes, in spite of herself.
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Mrs. Jackwood: “Shoo! shoo!” — flirting her apron at the
turkeys. “Git away with ye!”
At length, peace restored, the reading was concluded, — an
entire chapter of the Acts having been dispensed for the edification
of the household circle. Half a chapter was the usual allowance;
but a double portion was adjudged appropriate for Sunday,
which seemed to afford more time for such devotions than weekdays
are supposed to do.
Having made a few remarks on the text, Mr. Jackwood, kneeling
over the Bible in his chair, prayed with a certain earnestness,
which bore up Charlotte's soul on wings of devotion. But the
children's hearts were untouched; it was a threadbare prayer to
them: although kneeling reverently, they occupied themselves in
whispering, pinching, and making faces at each other, all in a
quiet way, until it was concluded. Mrs. Jackwood was sufficiently
serious for the occasion; yet she could not keep her eyes
off the turkeys, nor refrain from shaking her skirts at them when
they approached the door.
The morning devotions ended, Mr. Jackwood got out his shaving
apparatus; raised a lather which made his face look like a
mighty ice-cream; honed his razor; and, perching the kitchen
looking-glass on the window-frame, stood before it, with his feet
well braced for the operation, and proceeded to take off his
“baird.” Mrs. Jackwood washed the dishes, and Charlotte
wiped them, while Phœbe and Abimelech quarrelled over their
Sunday-school lesson, which they were pretending to study together
in the bed-room.
Employment diverted Charlotte's mind; but when there was
nothing more for her to do, she became despondent. In vain she
endeavored to repay the kindness of her friends with cheerful
looks and words. The tears would start, the sighs would swell up
from the deep well of trouble in her breast.
Mr. Jackwood felt that he ought to say something to comfort
her. “You an't growin' impatient, an' thinkin' o' leavin' on us,
be ye?” he cried, coming out of the bed-room, with his Sunday
shirt on. “Of course you would n't wish to be travellin' on the
Sabbath? — Here, mother,” turning to look for his wife, — “you 'll
have to button my rizbuns, arter all. Where be ye?”
-- 040 --
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“Let me button them, if you please,” said Charlotte.
“Them don't look like farmers' wives' hands,” observed Mr.
Jackwood, submitting the wristbands; “they 're nimble enough,
though; I guess they might be made useful, don't you?”
“I should be glad to make them so, indeed!”
“Would ye, though? There 's chances enough for that, I
should think. You 'd want some lady-like occupation, though, I
s'pose.”
“I would not care much what it was,” said the girl, “if I
could see, now and then, a kind face!”
“Wal, wal!” — cheeringly, — “suthin' 'll turn up, if you put
your trust in Providence, — that 's sartin. At all events, we 'll
agree to keep ye till there does.”
“Now, father!” remonstrated Mrs. Jackwood, entering at that
moment, “don't make no rash promises, I beseech!”
“O,” said their guest, quickly, “I could not accept your kindness,
if I would! I ought,” — a heavy shade of trouble darkened
her face, — “I know I ought to go — perhaps to-day!”
“Tut, tut! that 's nonsense!” returned the hospitable farmer.
“We can keep ye for a few days, jes' 's well 's not.”
“Why do you, father?” said Mrs. Jackwood, aside. “I 've
nothin' agin the girl; an' I mus' confess she 's about the handiest
person, for one t han't ben thoroughly drilled in housework, 't ever
I see. But we don' know nothin' who she is, nor where she come
from, nor nothin' 't all about her; so it stan's us in hand to be
careful.”
Mr. Jackwood was struck with the force of the observation.
But, turning to Charlotte, and looking into those deep, earnest
eyes, his wife's argument melted before them like frost in the sun
“Wal, we 'll talk it over to-morrow. But, take my word
for 't,” — with a cheering glance at his guest, — “'t 'll all turn
out right in the end.”
In a little while Mr. Jackwood and the children went off to
meeting in the one-horse wagon, driving the old white mare — an
establishment of which Phœbe, to use her own expression, was
“ashamed as she could be.” Charlotte watched until they were
out of sight, and still sat gazing anxiously from the window, while
Mrs. Jackwood finished the Sunday morning chores.
-- 041 --
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“I 'm tired,” at length said the farmer's wife, “an' I 'm goin'
to lop down a few minutes on the bed. You can come in an' set
by me, if ye like.”
The truth is, Mrs. Jackwood wished to keep an eye on Charlotte.
“Appearances are desaitful,” she reasoned, “an' there 's
no knowin' what may happen!” With this view, she took a
newspaper, to keep herself awake when conversation failed.
“I declare!” she exclaimed, suddenly, as she read, “what a
strange thing that was happened the other day! Have you heard
about it?”
She read a few paragraphs, while the other listened breathlessly.
“There 's more about it, in fine print; but that 'pears to be the
substance. Had n't you heard nothin' of it?”
“I — I believe I heard some men talking about it, yesterday,”
faltered Charlotte; “but I did n't know where it happened. How
far is the place from here?”
“I don't know; it 's out in York State somewheres.”
Charlotte breathed again, passing her hand across her pallid
face. At the same time Mrs. Jackwood, although fully determined
not to fall asleep, closed her eyes, letting the newspaper
sink gradually upon the bed. Having favored the first advances
of an insidious temptation, and turned her face towards the sweet
garden of sleep, she ended, as mortals are prone to do, by yielding
a second step, and then a third, until, with the very best resolutions
in the world, she passed the gate of slumber, and sank down
upon a deep poppy-bed, where a troop of mischievous sprites,
called dreams, seized her, and transported her into the inmost
recesses of the enchanted garden.
Then Charlotte, with stealthy hand, took up the paper, and
glanced hurriedly over the columns. Finding the place where
Mrs. Jackwood had been reading, she went over, with burning
interest, the portions that had been omitted; then laying down
the paper, without awakening the good woman, she glided
noiselessly from the room.
-- -- p732-045
V. HECTOR.
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
The evening was soft and warm. The sky spread calm and
starry above the sultry city. The houses were thrown open to
catch the breath of a light south wind that blew gently up the
bay. Many of the inhabitants were in the streets, sitting before
their doors, or strolling up and down; while upon the river the
negro bargemen sang their wild and plaintive melodies, in the
moonlight that shone over the water.
At ten o'clock, two young men landed from a pleasure-boat,
and walked arm-in-arm into the town.
“Here we are again,” said one, pointing with his cane. “It is
on this corner we met. Well, we have had a pleasant sail, and I
have you to thank for it.”
“I stifle,” returned the other, “in these close streets. When I
look up at the stars, I would fly! How cool, how far-off, how
pure, they are!”
“You are homesick, Hector.”
“No, Joseph, — but a little heart-sick! Life seems so rotten
here, my hands feel slimy with it, and I reach up instinctively,
as if to wash them in the light of the stars. What is the great
end of existence, Joseph?”
“Upon my word,” cried Joseph, “I don't know!”
“You have lived too long in this contagious atmosphere of
vice!” rejoined Hector. “There is danger here of forgetting
what the word existence means. Do you not often start, and cry
out, `Is this humanity? am I a part of it? who are we? what
are we? why do we exist?'”
“When I dwell upon such things,” answered Joseph, “I have
the blue devils horridly!”
-- 043 --
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“The thought haunts me continually. It tyrannizes over me
like conscience. Night and day, wherever I go, whatever I
see or do, the inexorable voice whispers, `To what end is it
all?'”
“Will you tell me what you live for?”
“I live for LOVE!” exclaimed Hector.
“You!” laughed his companion. “Do you know that, with
all the ladies of my acquaintance, you have the reputation of
being the coldest and most indifferent mortal in the world?”
“With the ladies of your acquaintance!” repeated the other,
significantly. “I like the compliment! But, let me tell you,
there is an ocean of love palpitating and throbbing in that heart
they find so cold. It waits for a possessor.”
“Which you will never find!”
“In truth, I do not expect it. I take leave of southern society
in a few days; I go home to my native Vermont, to spend a solitary
summer among the mountains. There is nothing for me there
but thought and study. And as for Mobile, I have had strange
experiences here; I have learned something of woman's heart, in
spite of my coldness; but it is all in the past, thank heaven! and
nothing will ever allure me here again.”
“You are right!” said Joseph, thoughtfully. “I wish I was
going with you. Rob Greenwich is up that way somewhere, is
he not?”
“Where Rob Greenwich is, it 's not easy to say. He goes
where passion leads him, — not like you and me, dear Joseph!”
said Hector, ironically. “But, if you ask where his home is, I
can tell you. It 's in the village of Huntersford, about a mile
and a half from my father's house. I will show it you when you
come to visit me this summer.”
“I? — That 's out of the question, unless I marry a rich wife,
and go north for a wedding tour.”
“Well, do that, and you shall have a double welcome.”
“If I had your opportunities,” said Joseph, “perhaps I might.
My friendship will never forgive you for not marrying Helen.
She is rich, beautiful, and charming; more than all, she loves
you —”
-- 044 --
[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
“A woman,” cried Hector, “who holds human property; who
must have her slaves to wait upon her; who would not give them
up even for me! Judge how well she loves me! But we will
not discuss that question. Take her, if you can get her, black
servants and all. And now good-night. You have an engagement,
and are anxious to get rid of me.”
“True,” said Joseph, “I have a call to make; but —”
“No compliments. We part here. Joseph, be worthy of the
name!”
Leaving his friend to proceed alone, Hector turned a corner,
and walked, with folded arms, along a street brilliant with lighted
saloons. The doors of these places were thrown open, pouring
floods of yellow light upon the street, and exposing all the allurements
of dissipation within, from the well-furnished bar to the gay
and voluptuous pictures that adorned the walls.
Into one of these, led by the same habit of observing human
nature which had prompted his visit to the south, Hector Dunbury
strolled abstractedly. It was a celebrated saloon, called the
“Revolver,” either in honor of the weapon so named, or in consequence
of a certain rotary motion with which the brains of its
patrons were apt to become familiar. The sign above the door
favored both these ideas, — showing on one side the device of a
huge six-shooting pistol, and on the other that of a jolly gentleman
reeling under the weight of one glass of liquor in his hand,
and several more in his head.
Within, conversation, music, and dancing, together with the fine
arts, or rather the coarse arts, added their charms to the attraction
of the bar. The music was by an itinerant performer, who
exercised a feeble violin, with an accompaniment of bells which
he jingled with one foot, a triangle which he sounded from time
to time with the other, and a pair of cymbals played between his
knees. The dancing was by two artists, a male and a female.
The one, a cotton-dealer, of “respectable” standing in southern
society, carried away by the enthusiasm of over-strong potations,
had volunteered a double pigeon-wing, in a style that would have
somewhat astonished his mercantile connections in New York and
Boston. The female was no other than a learned duck, had in
-- 045 --
[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
charge by a ragged urchin, the fiddler's companion, who excited
her to a noble emulation of the cotton-dealer's extraordinary
performance.
At the bar, Hector called for a glass of lemonade.
“No fire in it for me!” he exclaimed, as the bar-tender was
about to dash some brandy into the tumbler.
“Lemonade?” echoed a dark, bearded individual, on his
left, inclining over the bar. “The same for me — with a
good deal of the extra. In short, make it a punch. And you,
Dickson?”
“Yes, doctor, if you please,” said a third customer, thickly.
“If I please?” cried the doctor. “What 's the matter?”
“Nothing,” replied Dickson, “only I 'm conside'bly 'fected by
the music.”
“Do ye call that music?” cried his companion. “I 'll make
better with a saw-file and a pair of tongs!”
“Recollect,” said the bar-tender, “that, six weeks ago, that man
had never seen a fiddle.”
“He plays well, for six weeks!” observed Dickson, with drunken
gravity.
“You swallow such a story as that in your liquor!” retorted
the doctor. “I 'm ashamed of you!”
And he playfully thrust his friend's hat over his features, like
an extinguisher.
“I said,” gasped Dickson, struggling out of his hat, and
looking up with a ludicrous expression of bewilderment, “I
said — where is what I said? I dropped it as a candid remark,” —
and he looked about him as if expecting to find it
on the counter, or on the floor. “Who knocked my hat over
my eyes?”
“'T was the lemonade gentleman, I reckon,” replied the doctor.
“He appears anxious to apologize. As for your marvellous fiddler,” —
and he turned his back, while Dickson staggered fiercely
upon Hector.
“O, as for him,” said the bar-tender, “I can prove that he had
never seen a fiddle six weeks ago. Perhaps you 'd like to take
a bet.”
-- 046 --
[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
“Well, I reckon!” cried the doctor. “I 'll go the drinks for
the company.”
“All right!” returned the other. “The man is blind!”
“Sold, by Jove!” shouted the doctor, flinging his hat across
the room.
At that moment a thickly-articulated cry for help was heard;
the doctor recognized his own name, and the voice of a friend. It
was Dickson, whose drunken attack upon Hector had proved something
of a failure, and who now, in consequence, lay in a disagreeable
heap under the table, where he was trying to open the wall,
mistaking it for the door.
Meanwhile, Hector had taken his seat in the corner, with his
lemonade before him. Declining the doctor's invitation to the
bar, he sat looking on, with a listless expression, while the rest
of the company celebrated the bet. The blind man was led up
by the ragged urchin, who grinned over his gin-and-sugar with
the men at the bar, and smacked his lips afterwards, as if he
loved it.
The company then, becoming hilarious, formed a ring to observe
the duck dance. Among other amusing feats the wonderful biped
performed, was that of recognizing the medical faculty, and saluting
them in the crowd. Her sagacity in that respect was fairly
tested, the betting doctor being the subject. Stopping before
him, in her waddling rounds, she uttered the characteristic
cry, —
“Quack! quack!”
A shout of exultation from the spectators. The doctor, excited,
offered to wager that the experiment would not succeed a second
time. The bet taken, he changed his position; and once more
the duck, waddling about the floor to the blind fiddler's music,
stopped suddenly, and, bobbing her head up and down, politely
saluted the doctor.
“Quack! quack! quack!”
The applause was tremendous. Some drunken fellows fell
down upon the floor, and rolled and roared. The doctor's eyes
flashed.
“Who says that 's true?”
-- 047 --
[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
Dickson, who had by this time crept from under the table, muttering
revenge, indicated Hector with his tipsy fist. The doctor
marched up to the young man, in a blustering way, and demanded
an apology.
Hector sipped his lemonade coolly, but made no reply.
“Do you know who I am?” hissed the doctor.
“No,” replied Hector, “unless I am to take the duck's word.”
“You are a liar!” articulated the doctor, with choking
passion.
The next instant, the contents of Hector's glass were streaming
from his brows, and eyes, and beard; and Hector stood upon his
feet, pale, but firm, grasping the empty tumbler in his hand.
As the doctor staggered back from the shock, his hand instinctively
found its way to his bosom, where it came in contact with
the handle of a pistol. He drew it, and levelled it at Hector.
But quick as thought it flew to the ceiling, struck up by a swift
blow from his adversary's hand.
At this juncture, the courageous Dickson made a sally in favor
of his ally, with a chair upon his head. Hector leaped aside, and
the blow intended for him fell upon the crown of the dancing
cotton-dealer. At the same time, the doctor rushed forward with
a brandished knife.
“Take care!” cried Hector, stepping back.
There was something in his tone and look which betokened a
roused and dangerous spirit. The doctor might have been warned;
but his passion blinded him, and, with an oath, showing his firmset,
glittering teeth, under his curled moustache, he aimed a blow
at the young man's breast. On the instant, the empty glass,
which was Hector's only weapon, was shivered in the face of his
antagonist; who, stunned and gashed, dropped upon one knee,
letting fall his weapon, and supporting himself with his hand upon
the floor.
Hector was unhurt; and, the moment he saw his adversary
down, he sprang to raise him up, and helped him to a chair.
“Dickson!” cried out the doctor, in accents of pain and rage,
endeavoring to wipe the blood from his eyes; “by —! Dickson!”
-- 048 --
[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
A violent tumult had arisen in the saloon. Dickson was in the
midst of it, and unable to render his friend any assistance.
“O, — furies!” articulated the doctor. “Lives shall pay
for this!”
“We will talk of that,” said Hector. “But first let me look
to your wound. I sought no quarrel; but it is my way to defend
myself.”
The doctor was not dangerously hurt. His brow was cut, and
the blinding blood that streamed down into his eyes rendered him
incapable of offering any opposition. Hector removed the fragments
of glass from the wound, and tied his own handkerchief
about it, to staunch the blood.
By this time, the police having been alarmed, five or six drunken
officials, with badges upon their hats and bricks in them, reeled
into the saloon, swaggering and swearing.
The ragged urchin, the duck, and the blind fiddler, were the
first offenders seized. This was natural, they being not only
quite innocent, but incapable of resistance. The police next laid
hands upon the cotton-dealer, who, discomfited, sat in Turkish
fashion upon his supple legs, in a corner, looking hazily about
him, as if vainly endeavoring to comprehend what was going on.
After him, the pugnacious Dickson, laid away once more under
his favorite table, and fighting heavily with his enemies, disguised
as table-legs, was dragged out by the heels, and placed
under arrest.
The police, however, took good care to avoid meddling with
such persons as swore terribly and flourished weapons. With
them discretion was not only the better part of valor, but the
whole of justice. Hector, therefore, who exercised neither pistols
nor profanity, bid fair to become the next victim. He stood,
with calm dignity, confronting the officers, when a demonstration
on the part of the doctor caused a diversion in another
direction.
The latter had been some moments on his feet, looking about
him savagely from beneath his bandaged brows, for his bowie-knife,
which Hector had kicked under the chair; and, now perceiving
it, he clutched it fiercely, and rushed upon his late
-- 049 --
[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
antagonist. Hector's back was towards him; and the armed hand was
already raised to smite him, when a policeman, seizing the opportunity,
stepped behind the assailant, and felled him to the floor.
Hector was untouched; and while the officers rushed upon the
doctor to secure his weapons and bind his hands, the young man,
taking quite an unceremonious leave of the company, walked
quietly and quickly out at the door.
“O, corruption! O, death!” he exclaimed, in accents of
loathing, as he fled from the spot. He shook the dust from his
feet; and, perceiving a fountain running in the street, stooped
instinctively to wash his hands. When he would have wiped
them, he remembered that he had bound his handkerchief upon
his adversary's head.
“It is well!” said he. “I have left my garment with
them!”
The tumult in the saloon partially subsiding, the bar-tender
managed, by shouting, to make himself heard. The officers
showed a liberal disposition to listen to the man, whose liquor
they drank much oftener than they paid for it; and on his representations,
the cotton-dealer — a valuable customer — was set
at liberty before he had become fully conscious of his arrest.
Dickson and the other prisoners were released at the same
time; excepting the doctor alone, reserved as a sacrifice to
public justice.
“Do what ye please with me,” muttered the latter, as one of
the officers put on his hat for him over his bandaged brows.
“I 've only one suggestion to make. Le 's liquor!”
The police sympathizing with this generous sentiment, their
feelings were so much softened, that they at once proceeded to
undo his hands, to afford him the gratification of paying for the
treat out of his own pocket. This done, he swallowed a potent
comforter for his griefs, in the form of a glass of fiery spirits,
and set out to accompany an officer to the watch-house.
Stopping occasionally to refresh themselves by the way, always
at the doctor's expense, officer and prisoner alike forgot their
relative positions and their original destination. The doctor
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talked desperately of revenge; and so far enlisted the sympathies
of his guide, that the latter not only promised to assist
him in ascertaining Hector's name and address, but, arrived at
a street-corner, he restored his weapons, and shook hands with
him, swearing an eternal friendship, and bidding him an affecting
good-night.
Then, while the faithful guardian of the town moved off unsteadily,
bent on still further exploits in behalf of the public peace, the
doctor, examining his pistol and muttering by the way, sought
the calm precincts of domestic peace, where his affectionate wife
awaited his return.
-- -- p732-054
VI. GRANDMOTHER RIGGLESTY.
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A rheumatic old lady, in a brown bonnet and a faded bombazine
dress, with a fussy shawl about her neck, arrived at the
Excelsior House in the afternoon stage. Alighting with difficulty,
with her arms full of bundles, she gathered herself up on the step,
sneezed twice, and scrutinized the crowd of loungers with an
inquisitive scowl.
“Is anybody here knows Bim'lech Jackwood?” she inquired,
wrapping the fussy shawl more closely about her neck. “An' has
anybody seen him, this arternoon?”
Everybody appeared to know Mr. Abimelech Jackwood, but
nobody appeared to have seen him that afternoon.
“It 's the strangest thing! Here I wrote to Bim'lech's folks
more 'n a week ago — There, Mister — you driver! I knowed
that ban'box would git jammed, an' I telled ye so. It 's so
strange, folks can't be a little mite keerful! Don't tear that
trunk all to, pieces now, gitt'n on 't down! I wish you 'd hand
me that pa'cel I dropped 'fore it gits trod on. — That 's the wust
stage! I shan't git over it in my j'ints — I do'no' when!”
“Supper, ma'am?”
“No, I guess not; I 've got some lunch in my bag. I s'pose,”—
the old lady smiled persuasively, — “if Bim'lech's folks don't
come perty soon, you can jest gi' me a cup o' tea in my hand, can't
ye, without much charge? I don't keer for milk an' sugar.”
She sat down on her baggage, while, at her request, the landlord
sent across the way, and ascertained that a letter, post-marked
Sawney Hook, and addressed to Abimelech Jackwood, had
lain in the post-office several days.
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“And it 's there yit!” exclaimed the old lady. “Did ever
anything in this world happen jest like that! Send a letter to say
you 're comin' — pay the postage on 't, too — I 'm provoked! You
don' know nobody 't 's goin' right by Bim'lech's, do ye, 't I can
ride with 's well 's not? I don't re'ly feel 's tho' 't I could
afford to hire a wagon a-puppus.”
It chanced that one of Mr. Jackwood's neighbors was about
starting for home, and could carry her directly to his house.
But, on being introduced, the neighbor said, evasively, that he had
come to the village on a “buck-board,” and could not, conveniently,
carry so much baggage.
“I 'll leave the bulk on 't for Bim'lech, then, an' take jest these
'ere bundles in my lap. I wonder who it was invented buck-boards, —
spring-boards, they call 'em to Sawney Hook. I never
could like 'em. Jest a long teeterin' board, from the fore ex to
the hind ex, with nothin' but a seat in the middle, — not a bit of
a box, nor no nothin' but the fills an' wheels!”
Unsocial neighbor: “You 're not obliged to ride on one.”
“O, I don't find no fault, no way! I look upon 't as a lucky
chance!” — in a conciliatory tone. “Bim'lech Jackwood is a
son-in-law of mine. His wife, Betsy Rigglesty that was, is my
darter. Don't ye think I can take this ban'box along, an' hold it
'tween our feet? I 'm 'most afraid to leave it. — O, wait a minute,
sir! my umbrel'! I shall want it to keep the wind off 'm my neck,
ridin'. Landlord,” whispering mysteriously, “see here a minute!
Is that 'ere a drinkin' man? He 's very red-faced, an' I am sartin
I smelt his breath.”
“He 's an Englishman,” said the landlord, “but a perfect
gentleman, you 'll find him.”
“It can't be Mr. Dunbury, can it? Laws sakes! I should n't
'a knowed him, — tho', to tell the truth, I never see him more 'n
two times 't I know on. I wish you 'd jest tuck my shawl up
around my bunnit a little, so the wind shan't strike to my back.
Now, if you 'll hand me this 'ere bag arter I git into that hateful
spring-board —”
A minute later, with her bundles in her lap, and her faded blue
cotton umbrella, of huge dimensions, spread over her left shoulder,
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the old lady might have been seen riding along the village road
with the unsocial neighbor.
“This is Mr. Dunbury, I believe?” — talking loud, to make
herself heard under the umbrella.
The unsocial neighbor heartily wished, just then, that it was n't
Mr. Dunbury. Although a man of fallen fortunes, much of the
haughty Englishman's pride — now grown sensitive and sore —
adhered to him in his depressed condition; and he experienced a
sort of inward fury at the thought that he, a Dunbury, should
ever be placed in so ridiculous a position. He acknowledged his
identity, however, in a forbidding growl.
“Mebby ye don't remember me?” shouted the old lady under
her fortification. “I ben up here to visit my relations three
times in my life; an' I recollect the Dunburys. How 's Mis'
Dunbury? Does she have the spine now? or was it Mis' Wing
had a spine in her back? I 'most forgit. There! I declare
for 't!”
The old lady, struggling to arrange her umbrella, so as to defend
herself at all points from the fresh air, sadly to the annoyance
of the irritable Englishman, whose face and eyes were endangered,
had brought affairs to a pleasant crisis, by quietly knocking off his
hat.
“Le' me git off 'n git it,” she proposed. “Shan't I? If
you 'll jest hold my umbrel' an' bundles —”
“Sit still!” muttered her companion, jumping to the ground.
There were plenty of spectators to witness his discomfiture; and,
to make matters as bad as possible, the old lady raised her voice
to a shrill pitch, as he went back to recover his property.
“You see, if 't had been anything but a spring-board, — if
there 'd been any sort or kind of a box to the wagon, — your hat
would 'a fell into it, an' you would n't had to git out.”
The neighbor made no reply, but, taking his property out of the
dirt, with flushed dignity, put it upon his head, stalked back to the
vehicle, and drove on in silent rage. As he did not speak again,
until, arrived at Mr. Jackwood's house, he made haste to set her
down at the gate, she considered herself shamefully treated.
“I much obleeged for your very kind politeness!” she remarked,
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with grisly sarcasm. “Had 't I better pay ye suthin' for yer
trouble?”
The Englishman's sense of the humorous getting the better of his
mortification, he told her gravely that he would consider fourpence
a fair compensation.
“I declare,” she stammered, looking blank and perplexed, “I
hardly expected ye 'd make a charge on 't — but I 'm sure,” — she
fumbled in her purse, — “if three cents would be an object. — Git
out! you nasty thing!” — to Rover, who ran out, barking, and
leaped upon her dress. — “Strange to me people will keep a
yelpin' cur!”
Mr. Dunbury drove away whilst she was still fumbling for the
change.
“Good riddance!” she muttered; “I should have begrudged
him the fust cent; for he 's a drinkin' man, and I 'd know 't would
go straight for liquor. Is this Phœbe?”
“You 're my gran'mother Rigglesty, an't you?” cried the
delighted Phœbe, springing to kiss her venerable relation.
“My sakes! how you have growed, child!” A smile thawed
the old lady's hard visage a little on the surface, like spring sunshine
on frozen ground. “How 's mother an' Bim'lech? — Git
out, you sir!” — to Rover, with a kick, — “tearin' that 'ere
ban'box to pieces! There!”
“Ki-yi! ki-yi!” yelped the dog.
“Pups is the hatefulest critturs! an' I detest a yaller pup
above all! Take in that 'ere ban'box, dear. That grouty Englishman
had to throw it right down by the gate, as if 't wan't
nothin' more 'n a chunk. He 's the sourest, disagreeable-est man!
Phaugh!” — with a gesture of disgust, — “how his breath
smelt!”
“Why did n't ye write to let us know you was comin'?” cried
Mrs. Jackwood. “You thought you 'd take us by surprise, hey?”
“Why did n't I write?” echoed the old lady. “Don't none o'
your folks ever go to the post-office, I wonder? Bim'lech was
allus jes so slack, and allus will be, to the day of his death, fu 's
I know! I wrote you a week ago yis'day, an' the letter 's in the
office up here now.”
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“Mother, let Bim go right down and get it,” cried the mortified
Phœbe.
“It 'll do a sight o' good to send for 't now! Bim'lech may
tackle up an' go for my things, though, as soon as ye please. Do
shet the door arter ye!” to Phœbe, who ran out to call her father.
“I 'm in a perty state to set in a draft of air! You 'll have to
larn to shet doors arter ye, if I stay here.”
Seated in the rocking-chair, in the kitchen, the old lady took an
unfinished stocking from her bag, and began to knit industriously.
Presently she paused, ceased rocking, closed her eyes and opened
her mouth, scowling and drawing in her breath, as if to provoke a
sneeze. Having succeeded in getting off a powerful double sternutation,
she hastened to huddle herself into the corner, looking
peevishly about the room.
“I 'm ketchin' cold, sure as this world! I ben feelin' a draft
on my neck ever sence I sot down; but I could n't tell, for the
life o' me, where 't come from. I allus telled Bim'lech this was
the wust, wind-leakiest house 't could possibly be contrived; but
there 's never ben the fust thought o' repairs done on 't, I warrant,
sence I was here: Bim'lech 's so shif'liss!”
Mrs. Jackwood: “O, wal, mother, we have to git along the
best we can, ye know. We can't afford extravagance.”
Old lady: “But you might be decent and comf'table, 't all
events. Bim'lech was allus fussin' 'bout suthin' 't wan't o' no
arthly kind o' use, while things 't ought to be 'tended to all went
to loose ends. If you was right smart, and had your say 'bout
things as you 'd ought to have, things 'u'd look a little different
round here, I tell ye!”
These remarks were interrupted by Phœbe and Bim, who came
running a race to the house, followed, more soberly, by their father.
“Dear me! how rude ye be, childern!” cried the old lady,
with a painful contortion of face. “You 're enough to take one's
head off!”
“Pheeb tickled my back, through the hole in my shirt, with a
darned old pigweed!” cried Bim; “and I 'm goin' to pay her!”
“O! what a voice!” ejaculated the old lady, with a tortured
expression. “It goes through me jest like a knife!”
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“Bim'lech, this is your gran'mother,” said Mrs. Jackwood.
“I know it,” replied Bim, showing his teeth with a good-natured
grin.
“Why don't you speak to her, an' not be so boisterous?”
“I d'n' know what to say,” said the boy, lowering his voice,
and looking sheepish.
“Can't ye gi' me a sweet kiss, now?” asked the old lady, laying
her knitting on her lap; “Phœbe did.”
Abimelech, giggling: “I do' wanter!”
Old lady: “You d'n' know what I got for ye in my chist!
Mebby it 's a jack-knife, now, — who knows?”
The boy was almost persuaded; but, somehow, he could not
discover anywhere on the old lady's face a spot smooth enough to
kiss, except the tip of her nose; so he concluded not to indulge.
He afterwards had no occasion to regret his self-denial, the reputed
jack-knife in the old lady's chest turning out to be a
complete hoax.
Old lady, resentfully: “Wal, you 're a notty boy, — an' notty
boys don't git no presents. — How do you do, Bim'lech?” reaching
out her hand to Mr. Jackwood.
Mr. Jackwood greeted her heartily; and how was she herself?
“O, I an't a bit well,” — releasing his hand immediately, and
resuming her knitting. “An' more 'n all that I never expect to
be. My constitution 's all broke to pieces. I 've a dre'ful
rheumatiz. An' what 's wus 'n all, there 's nobody in this
world 't has the least mite o' charity for me, or pity on my sufferin's.”
Taking from her bag a cotton handkerchief, embellished with a
print of the Good Samaritan, she wiped her eyes on it, and put it
back again. Then, observing that everybody was very much distressed,
she assumed an air of grim satisfaction over her knitting.
“Wal, wal, gran'mother,” said Mr. Jackwood, sympathetically,
“you 'll have your reward; if not here, herearter.”
“I 've giv' up expectin' anything in this life,” she whimpered,
pulling out the Good Samaritan again. “Here I 've slaved an'
slaved, all my days, an' brought up a large family of children, an'
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edicated 'em well as children ever need to be edicated, an' gin
'em all a good settin' out when they got married — an' that 's all
the thanks I git for 't!”
“O, no, no, mother!” cried Mr. Jackwood, cheerily.
The old lady pursued her knitting, while the tears ran ostentatiously
down her cheeks.
“I han't a child in the world, but that wishes me out o' the
way, — for I an't nothin' but a burden now to nobody!”
Mrs. Jackwood: “Don't, mother, talk so, an' give way to your
feelin's!”
Old lady: “O, wal, if I distress people, I s'pose I mus' n't.
It 's the duty of ol' people to give up, when they 've wore themselves
out in doin' for their children; it 's a sin to speak on 't, or
complain. O, wal,” — drying her eyes on the Good Samaritan, —
“I 'll be more keerful in futur'.”
Finding the scene too painful, Mr. Jackwood went out to harness
the horse, in order to go for the old lady's baggage.
“I 'm real sorry she 's come here to stop,” said Bim. “We
can't have no fun while she 's around.”
Mr. Jackwood: “Hush up! You mus' n't talk so. It 's your
duty to love her, an' make things pleasant for her.”
Abimelech: “How can a feller? — Say, Pheeb!” — to his
sister, who ran out to speak for some “best green tea” from the
grocery, for the old lady's use — “how do you like her?”
Phœbe, in a disappointed tone: “I was in hopes she 'd be real
good and cosey! I could done anything for her, if she was like
Bertha Wing's gran'mother — but I don't like her a bit; so,
there!”
“Tut, tut!” said Mr. Jackwood.
The old lady had by this time discovered a strange face through
the half-open door of the adjoining room.
“Who is that crittur?” she demanded. “What 's her name?
What 's she here for?”
“Her name is Charlotte Woods,” whispered Mrs. Jackwood,
closing the door. “She was travellin', an' lost her way, somehow,
when father found her and brought her home.”
“Fiddle-stick's eend! That 's jest like you 'n' Bim'lech, now,
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to take in every straggler comes along! Do you know anything
about her?”
Mrs. Jackwood only knew that Charlotte had proved herself
honest, and “willin' to do.” Besides, she appeared to have undergone
so many trials and hardships, that they — the Jackwoods,
not the trials and hardships — were “re'ly gittin' quite attached
to her.”
“Hum-drum!” ejaculated grandmother Rigglesty. “Them 's
your notions! Bring the crittur' out here, and le' me look at her!”
Charlotte had been found to possess a skill in ornamental needle-work;
and she was now busily engaged on some nice sewing
for Phœbe, which, in her ardor to do something to gratify her
friends, she was unwilling to leave until finished; but, on being
informed of the old lady's desire for an introduction, she put her
work aside, and arose to accompany Mrs. Jackwood.
“You must be prepared to put up with her odd notions. You 'll
do that for my sake.”
“What would I not do for your sake?” said Charlotte. “You
have been so kind to me!”
“O, wal, I mean to do as I 'd be done by,” replied Mrs. Jackwood,
with suffused features. “The best miss it sometimes; I
know I do; — an' we must have charity one for another. I hope
you 'll have charity for her; she 's got well along in years, an'
there 's no denyin' but she 's had a many things to try her. Le'
me take your work along: that 'll please her.”
Charlotte herself, one would have thought, must please the
most fastidious of grandmothers. Mrs. Rigglesty, however, regarded
her only with a scrutinizing scowl. The girl's countenance
fell: a phenomenon the old lady construed at once into a
demonstration of guilt. Then she asked a number of sharp, hard
questions, which Charlotte could not answer without embarrassment:
another indication that she was a deceitful character.
Phœbe thought to give matters a pleasant turn, by calling attention
to the needle-work.
“Heugh!” grunted the old lady; “that 's a fine way to waste
one's time! Time 's money; did ye know it, child? Say! did
ye know it?” — with a disagreeable look at Charlotte.
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“It is sometimes better than money, I think,” replied Charlotte.
“Better 'n money?” echoed grandmother Rigglesty. You
would have thought her some amazed and indignant female inquisitor,
examining a fair heretic. “Better 'n money? What
on 'arth d' ye mean by that?”
The timid girl shrank from making any reply; but, being
pressed, she drew herself up, with a grace and dignity which delighted
Phœbe, and answered, modestly, that, while she thought
time should not be wasted, she deemed it too precious to be coined
up, every hour and minute, into gold.
“And what would ye do with 't? Le' me look!” The old
lady snatched the collar from Phœbe's hand. “O, I see!” — sarcastically.
“This is very fancical! But what does the Scriptur's
say 'bout vanities? You 'd better 'nough on 't be to work on
suthin' useful.”
Charlotte had no word to offer; but, with a swelling heart and
quivering lip, she took her work, and quietly withdrew.
“You may depend on 't,” exclaimed the old lady, “she 's a
dangerous person to have round. I should a' had my suspicions
on her, see her where I would. That guilty look — that guilty
look!” — with a grimace. “Don't tell me 'bout that gal's honesty!”
“I think she 's a perfect beauty!” cried Phœbe.
“Beauty, skin deep!” sneered grandmother Rigglesty. “Gals
of her character gene'lly have 'nough o' that. But, if your mother
knows what is good for you, miss, she 'll send the crittur' away
from here, mighty quick!”
“Mother won't send her away — I don't believe!” said Phœbe,
in an under-tone.
“What 's that?” demanded the old lady. “Don't handle
them dishes so keerliss; you 'll break 'em, next you know! —
What 's that you 're mutterin'?”
“I 'll handle the dishes just as carelessly as I please!” declared
Phœbe, in the same indistinct utterance.
“You want me to train ye a little while, miss! I 'd larn ye
to mutter when you 're spoke to!”
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Mrs. Jackwood: “Phœbe!”
Phœbe, pouting: “I don't care! I 'd take Charlotte's part,
if all the world was ag'inst her!”
Old lady, whimpering: “Wal, wal! I expect sich treatment,
an' I must put up with 't! I see I an't wanted here!” — more
tears, and the Good Samaritan again; — “my own darter's darter
sasses me to my face! Wal, wal! I 'm an ol' woman, an'
't an't no matter!”
Mrs. Jackwood reproved Phœbe severely; and the girl herself,
touched with compunctions, declared that she did not intend to
hurt anybody's feelings, and asked to be forgiven. This was a
triumph, upon the strength of which the old lady and the Good
Samaritan enjoyed a most confidential and tearful season, until
Mr. Jackwood and Bim entered with the baggage, and the family
sat down to supper.
At the table, Mrs. Rigglesty manifested a healthful resentment
of insults, by refusing to accept any food at the hands of the
unforgiven Phœbe, and waiting, with an injured expression, to be
served by either Mr. Jackwood or Betsy. To add still further to
the general comfort, she significantly hitched her chair away from
Charlotte's, and gathered up the skirts of her bombazine with virtuous
care, as if to avoid all contact or compromise with so questionable
a person.
It was the first time Charlotte had been present at an unsocial
meal in Mr. Jackwood's house. Her heart was full; she could
not eat; for already she saw that her evil genius — if such things
are — had reäppeared, after a brief respite, in the form of a grim
old grandmother, who would not rest until she was once more
driven forth into the shelterless and stormy wastes of life.
“What a queer dream I had!” said Phœbe, as she awoke, on
the following morning. “I thought gran'mother was an elephant,
with a long stocking over her nose for a trunk, and Bim
rode into meeting on her back! Was n't it funny?”
Charlotte smiled wearily.
“Why, what 's the matter? How pale you look! Are you
sick?”
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“No,” replied Charlotte; “but I have not slept well.”
“It 's all owing to granny — I don't care if I do call her
granny!” exclaimed Phœbe. “But you need n't let her worry
you a bit. What if she did say she was going to stay here all
summer? I 'll fix it so 'st she won't want to stop a week. I 'll
do everything I can to plague her!”
“No, no, Phœbe,” answered Charlotte. “Be kind to her, —
and I will endeavor to be patient, — and perhaps all will be
well.”
Even while she spoke, that vague presentiment of coming
trouble, which had gathered like a cloud over her heart, darkened
more and more, and she could see no light beyond.
They had grandmother Rigglesty again for breakfast.
“O dear!” sighed the old lady, declining into the rocking-chair,
“I don't think I shall burden anybody much longer!
Them that 's so anxious to git red o' me 'll have their wish soon
enough, at this rate. Jest look at my tongue, Betsy; did ye ever
see sich a tongue, in all your life? I had a dreadful nightmare,
last night. Did n't anybody hear me groan? Wal, it 's a blessin'
to sleep sound, 'specially when an ol' person like me, that an't o'
no arthly 'count to nobody, is in distress. 'T would n't be wuth
while to disturb young folks, though it might save my life jest to
pull my little finger, when I have them horrid nightmares. Wal,
it is to be expected 't every smooth-spoken crittur 't comes along,”—
turning her back to Charlotte, — “will have attention paid
'em, while a poor ol' body, that 's slaved the life out of her for her
children, — wal, no matter!”
Observing that her complaints had produced their legitimate
effect, in making all around her unhappy, Mrs. Rigglesty found it
necessary to send to the spare bed-room for the Good Samaritan,
whom she had left rolled up under her pillow. That ancient
comforter being brought, she communed with him over her plate,
until everybody's appetite appeared reduced to the same low condition
with her own. Rallying a little at this, she made a feeble
attempt upon the breakfast, but declared that even the tea had a
disagreeable taste.
“O, wal, I may as well give up eatin' entirely. Folks don't
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have sich hulsome victuals, now-days, as they use' to. Everything
turns my stomach.”
As she sat back in her chair, sighing, and stirring her tea with
a desolate expression, Phœbe left the table, and stood pouting at
the kitchen door.
“I can't have that air blowin' on to me!” cried Mrs. Rigglesty.
“My shawl is off my shoulders, too! I 'm all over
aches, a' ready, from the sole o' my head to the crown o' my foot!
Sich a pain all through the back o' my neck as I woke up with this
mornin'! nobody can never know nothin' 't all 'bout it! I can
twist my head so,” — she turned it towards her right shoulder, —
“but,” — turning it in the same way towards her left, — “I can't
twist it so, for the life o' me. An' every time I move it I have to
scream right out, as if you 'd cut me with a knife! Ou!”
Thereupon Bim laughed till he choked, and rushed headlong
from the table, with the milk he had been drinking running out
of his nose.
Thus a change comes over Mr. Jackwood's house.
Charlotte is not the only sufferer, though the greatest. From
the elder Jackwood down to the hopeful Bim, all are subject to
the sway of the despotic grandmother. With the Good Samaritan
for her prime minister, she reigns supreme, — her knitting-work
her sceptre, the rocking-chair her throne. Phœbe dares
but whisper sedition, while not even Bim has courage openly to
rebel.
Grandmother Rigglesty has early declared her intention to
revolutionize things a little. The first article in her code is —
work. She cannot endure aught that savors of idleness. Even
the senior Jackwood she spurs to a more rigid economy of time.
The long noonings he so much enjoys fill her with amazement
and distress. So much precious time wasted! such carelessness
of worldly gain! 't would be enough, she says, to try the
patience of Job. She cannot, it is true, order Mr. Jackwood to
go about his business in so many words; but she can whip the
father over the convenient shoulders of the son. So, after dinner,
Bim — to use his own expression — “has to take it.”
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“Sonny,” calls grandmother Rigglesty from her throne.
“What?” snarls Bim, who hates to be called sonny.
“W-h-a-t? Is that the way to answer? You han't had me
to larn ye manners, or ye would n't speak so! What! — Come
here, an' you 'll know what!”
Bim, who is engaged in putting together the frame of a
small wagon, under the stoop, kicks off one of the wheels vindictively,
and comes forward, with fiery looks, to learn his sentence.
Old lady, coaxingly: “Don't ye want to hold this yarn for me
to wind? — that 's a good boy!”
Abimelech, scowling fiercely: “I knowed there 'd be suthin'
for me to do!”
“Wal, you be an abused child, I must say for 't! You wan't
born to work, was ye?”
“No, by darn, I wan't! And I an't goin' to work every
minute o' the time, if I haf to run away!”
“Does your father hear that?”
Mr. Jackwood, tipped back in his chair by the door, enjoying
a comfortable smoke, perceives that he is expected to interfere.
“Bim'lech!” — in a warning tone, — “don't le' me hear no
more o' that!”
Old lady: “It does a great deal o' good to correct a child that
way! A child o' mine would n't a' got off so easy!”
Mr. Jackwood, with a transparent frown: “Be a good boy,
now, or I shall take ye in hand.”
The old lady, sneezing, adjusts the yarn to the boy's hand.
Abimelech, submitting with a bad grace: “Wind fast, any way!”
Old lady: “You need n't be so uppish 'bout it! 'T won't hurt
ye to hold yarn a little while.”
“Father takes a noonin', and why can't I?”
“If he does, I don't! I never think of sich a thing. I never
brought up my children to sich lazy habits, nuther.” — Mr. Jackwood
winces. — “Han't your father nothin' in the world for you
to do?”
“I should think so! There an't a boy nowheres round here
has to tug it so hard as I do. I 'm gittin' round-shouldered
a'ready.”
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“What 'll ye be when you 've done as much work as I have?—
There! you've held the yarn, an' it han't quite killed ye, arter
all the fuss! Don't go to putterin' with that waggin now!
You 'd better go 'n' finish the fence you was to work on this forenoon.”
Abimelech, drawing Rover's tail through the centre of a
wagon-wheel: “I can't do nothin' to the fence without father.”
Old lady, losing patience: “Do see that boy! I wish the
dog 'u'd bit him! — I should think your father — How I do
detest shif'lissness! Go 'n' split some wood!”
Abimelech, grumbling: “The axe 's out in the lot, an' I an't
goin' to split wood for a noonin' for nobody!”
Old lady, exasperated: “O, dear! was ever so ugly a young-one!”
Mr. Jackwood, sitting uneasily in his chair: “Bim'lech! what
ye 'bout?”
Abimelech, sharply: “Nothin'!”
Phœbe: “He 's trying to make an axletree of Rover's tail; —
that 's all. Tie a knot in it, Bim, then the wheel won't come
off.”
Old lady: “Do hold yer tongue, an' tend to them dishes!
Sich children! If I was in yer mother's place, I 'd cuff yer
ears, both on ye! Now, what 's the matter with you, I 'd like to
know!” — to Charlotte. “If yer mind was in yer work, as
it ought to be, you would n't set there drawin' long breaths! I
wish I could have my way in this family! Things 'u'd go a little
different, I guess!”
Mr. Jackwood, knocking the ashes out of his pipe: “Come,
Bim'lech, are ye ready?”
Bim, furiously: “What?”
Mr. Jackwood: “It 's time to go to work. I guess we 'll take
some fire out in the lot, an' see if that 'ere stump 'll burn this
arternoon.”
Abimelech: “That 's jest the way! Con—demn it all!” bashing
the wagon against the cheese-press. “There! I 've broken it!
and I 'm glad on 't. I can 't have a minute to myself!”
Such scenes are of daily occurrence. The old lady displays a
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rare ingenuity in discovering occasions for the exercise of her
reformatory spirit. The sink-pump is so noisy that it “jumps
right through her bones,” when any one goes to it for water. The
pig-pen is too far from the house, the stables too near. The
stove-oven is the “wust thing” to bake short-cake in ever
invented. Then, there are those “plaguy turkeys and chickens,”
dodging into the kitchen a hundred times a day! A still greater
annoyance is the dog Rover. Him she neglects no opportunity
to cuff or kick. When he is lying quietly under the stove, she
puncheth him with the broom-handle, she pincheth him with the
tongs. And when all these subjects of complaint are exhausted
for the day, she falls back upon her lame shoulder, pities herself
to tears, and has recourse to the Good Samaritan.
By some subtle logic of her own, not demonstrable to common
minds, the old lady connects all these afflicting circumstances
with Charlotte, as their centre and source. “Things would go
very different, if 't want for that upstart!” says grandmother
Rigglesty. Whatever the evil complained of, — the poultry, the
pump, the dog, or the laziness of Bim and the elder Jackwood, —
her suspicious glances single out Charlotte as somehow guilty and
responsible. Even her rheumatism, of twenty years' standing,
seems mysteriously related to the same sinister cause.
This treatment is insufferable. It leaves Charlotte no moment
of peace. She feels impelled to leave her kind friends, to whom
she perceives that her presence brings only discomfort and distress.
But Phœbe clings to her with all the vehemence of a
girlish attachment; and Mr. and Mrs. Jackwood, out of the
sympathy of their hearts, afford her what consolation and encouragement
they can.
Thus a week goes by; when one day there comes a crisis. Under
pretence of making a critical investigation of Betsy's cheeses,
the old lady muffles herself in her shawl, ascends the chamber
stairs with painful steps, and, having taken care to divert suspicion
from her real purpose by sneezing loudly five or six times,
and rattling the empty boards on the shelves, in the cheese-room,
glides softly and stealthily into the girls' bed-chamber.
Grandmother Rigglesty is possessed of an inquiring turn of
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mind. She taketh delight in all those little discoveries and surprises
incidental to rummaging other people's boxes and drawers;
and it is this praiseworthy interest in her neighbors' affairs that
attracts her eager fingers to Phœbe's letter-box, then to the
bureau and closet. With what vivid enjoyment she scrutinizes
every garment, trinket, and silly school-girl note! But, like all
earthly pleasures, this of ransacking is transient and unsatisfactory.
Arrived at the furthest obscure corner of the clothes-room,
she is ready to weep like Alexander when he had no more
worlds to conquer. She turns, and in the dark hits her head
against the low roof. Incensed, she peers around, as if to see
what audacious rafter inflicted the knock. Ha! what 's this?
Something carefully folded and put away over the beam. She
drags it out; she holds it up to the light; she turns it over, and
around, and inside out.
“Sakes alive!” grumbles grandmother Rigglesty, “what 's
here? An ol' merino, sure 's I live! Betsy never had sich a
gown!” Turning it again. “It can't be Phœbe's.” Still
another turn. “It” — the old lady's features contract — “it 's
that crittur's!”
With renewed curiosity, sharpened by malice, she searches for
pockets; and, finding one, explores it eagerly.
“What on 'arth!” — drawing forth her hand. A small package
is brought to the light, and she makes haste to undo it. — “An
ol' woman's cap!” splutters grandmother Rigglesty; “gray
hair!” — still greater astonishment, — “and spectacles! —
Marcy on me! It all comes to me as clear as day! cap, spectacles,
an' all!”
Without pausing to reflect that she is about to expose her own
dishonest intermeddling, down stairs she hurries, and, bursting
into the kitchen, displays her trophies.
Mrs. Jackwood, taking a custard-pie from the oven, drops it
upon the nearest chair, and regards her mother with amazement.
The latter, in her excitement, has placed the spectacles on her
own nose, where they tremble with the agitation which shakes her
unstrung nerves.
“W-w-w-where is that hussy?” — brandishing the cap and
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wig. “Now, Betsy, I guess you 'll believe what I say! Did n't
I t-t-t-tell ye!”
“What 's the matter?” cries Mrs. Jackwood.
Charlotte sits dreamily plying her needle by the window, when,
aroused by the sudden burst of the storm, she looks up, and perceives
at a glance what has occurred. The color leaves her cheek,
but, without a word, she bows her head over her work, and waits
patiently for the commotion to pass.
“Matter!” echoes grandmother Rigglesty. “Look at this
'ere gown!”
“I 've seen it before,” observed Mrs. Jackwood, — “han't I?
Why, it 's Charlotte's.”
“I seen it 'fore you ever did!” cries grandmother Rigglesty.
“A stragglin' woman stopped to Jacob's, down to Sawney Hook;
an' she wore this very same gown, an' spectacles, an' false hair,
I can take my oath! I was sick a-bed, or she would n't a' got
off as she did. I knowed she was an impostor, the minute I set
eyes on her; but Jacob would n't hear to 't; an' now it all turns
out jest as I said. 'T was this crittur! Look up, here; how
green ye look!” — as if the phenomenon were Charlotte's fault,
and not that of the colored glasses. “What ye got to say for
yerself, hey?”
Slowly Charlotte raises her head, and puts back her dark hair
from her face. All pale, and cold, and self-subdued, with a thrilling
beauty in her aspect, she fixes her eyes upon the angry dame.
“I can make no explanations,” — she speaks gently, but there
is a quick quiver of passion in her lip, — “only to those who have
trusted me,” tears rush to her eyes as she turns to Phœbe
and her mother, “I would say this, from a true and grateful
heart — that I have not willingly deceived; but it is my misfortunes
that have brought me here, and made me what I am.”
Phœbe, vehemently: “I believe you; I believe every word
you say!” throwing her arms about Charlotte's neck. “And I
wish folks would let you alone, and mind their own business!”
Mrs. Jackwood, agitated: “Phœbe! Phœbe!”
Grandmother Rigglesty: “You — you — you sassy thing!”
Phœbe: “I don't care! I 'll stand up for Charlotte with my
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last breath. I only wish some folks who treat her so, and pretend
to be Christians, were half as good as she is!”
The old lady infuriate; Mrs. Jackwood, fluttering, tries to make
peace; while Charlotte, touched by Phœbe's devotion, clasps her
in her arms, and weeps upon her shoulder.
The arrival of Mr. Jackwood, with Bim and the dog, is opportune.
He is just in time to support the old lady, who totters
backward in a fit, the moment she perceives somebody near to
catch her. The fit is generally supposed to be feigned. At all
events, either from habit or otherwise, that remarkable woman
finds it in her way to bestow a kick upon Rover, who, forgetting
his usual precaution, in the general excitement, approaches his
enemy just as the elder Abimelech eases her down upon a chair.
Younger Abimelech, through his teeth: “Bite her, Rove!”
Rover, holding up one foot: “Ki-yi! ki-yi!”
Mrs. Jackwood, running for the camphor, and stumbling over
the dog: “Git out! I never!”
Grandmother Rigglesty, starting up wildly: “What am I settin'
on? Marcy sakes! if 't an't that bilin' custard!”
Mr. Jackwood, astounded: “If that don't beat all!”
Mrs. Jackwood: “Strange you could n't see that pie, father!”
The old lady totters towards the bed-room, dripping custard by
the way.
Mrs. Jackwood: “Don't se' down, mother! I 'll bring a towel.”
Bim, doubling up with mirth: “Goodie, goodie!” — possibly
alluding to the pie.
Mr. Jackwood folds his hands behind him, and regards the consequences
of the disaster with a look of consternation. Rover
licks the spatters of custard from the floor and chair, and, timidly
approaching the mass which was a pie, — now a crushed and smoking
ruin, — snuffs and dodges as it burns his nose. Bim sprawls
upon the floor, screaming with excessive laughter.
Phœbe, excited: “I 'm glad of it! She might let Charlotte
alone!”
Mr. Jackwood: “Don't speak so!”
Phœbe: “I don't care, she 's no business to! If she had n't
been meddling with what did n't belong to her, she would n't have
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found Charlotte's dress. What right has she got in our closet,
I 'd like to know?”
“Never mind,” says Mr. Jackwood, approaching Charlotte;
“I 'll make it all right; I 'll stand by ye!”
“Good Mr. Jackwood! But I have brought you trouble
enough already. Let me go now; — I cannot stay here any
longer.”
Mr. Jackwood, remonstrating, is interrupted by a knock at the
front door. Rover growls. Bim runs to admit the visitor. Phœbe
bustles about to destroy all traces of the custard catastrophe.
Charlotte dries her eyes. Enter Mr. Dunbury.
Mr. Jackwood, cordially: “Good-arternoon, neighbor. Take
a cheer. Git out, dog!”
Rover, leaping good-naturedly upon the proud Englishman's
trousers, prints them with custard.
Phœbe, flurried: “Put him out doors, Bim!” — meaning
Rover, not Mr. Dunbury. “He 's had his feet in the pie.”
Mr. Dunbury, very red: “Don't mind; no damage done.”
His eyes rest upon Charlotte, bending over her work. Phœbe,
who likes to introduce people, introduces her friend. The Englishman
regards the fair stranger with surprise. Something in
her face or manner commands his respect. He rises politely, yet
not without some embarrassment at meeting one of her appearance
so unexpectedly, and, resuming his seat, instinctively places his
hat over a hole in his left knee.
At this juncture, grandmother Rigglesty, curious to learn who
has come, enters and stands with her back towards the stove. Recognizing
an old acquaintance, she says “How de do?” with an
air of resentment, designed to impress him with the fact that she
possesses a memory of wrongs.
Mrs. Jackwood, anxious to divert attention from the old lady:
“How is Mrs. Dunbury to-day?”
Mr. Dunbury: “She 's very low, again. She will be better
soon, however, I hope, for we expect Hector —”
Phœbe, with a start and a blush: “Hector! Is he coming
home?”
Mr. Dunbury: “He has written that he will be here to-night.
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I called in,” — turning to Mr. Jackwood, — “to see if I could
borrow your wagon to bring him down from the village.”
Mr. Jackwood: “Sartin, neighbor Dunbury; anything I 've
got, you 're welcome to.”
Charlotte, suffering greatly, and feeling ill at ease in the Englishman's
presence, escapes to her chamber, followed by Phœbe.
“Only think, Charlotte!” cries the young girl, animated,
“Hector Dunbury is coming to-night! He will go right by here.
We 'll be on the look-out, and see him.”
Charlotte, tenderly: “I would like to see your hero; — yet,”—
with a sad intonation, — “he is nothing to me. Nobody is
anything to me now, but you, Phœbe. And you, dear Phœbe!—
I must leave you soon!”
Phœbe, with a frightened air: “What do you mean? You
an't going!”
“Yes, dear child, I shall go! You must not oppose me,
now!”
Phœbe, frantically, at the head of the stairs: “Mother! mother!—
You shan't, you shan't stir out of this house to-night! We
won't let you!”
“Phœbe, dear Phœbe!”
Mrs. Jackwood, appearing presently, finds the two locked in a
close embrace.
“Mother, she says she is going! Shall she? Tell father! —
He won't let her, I know.”
Mrs. Jackwood offers sober counsel to dissuade Charlotte from
her purpose. Meanwhile, the excited Phœbe runs out, alarms
the elder Abimelech, and brings him to the chamber.
For once in his life, Mr. Jackwood's quiet spirit is roused. He
declares that, before he will see Charlotte leave his roof, he will
give the old lady her “walking-ticket,” and ship her off to Sawney
Hook by the morning stage, without any remorse whatever.
“We 've had enough of her pesky notions!” cries Mr. Abimelech
Jackwood; and puts his foot down.
Charlotte is more and more distressed. No, no! he must not
do that, she insists; and, to pacify her friends, she promises to
reconsider her resolution, and remain with them until morning.
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But reflection only confirms her in the thought that it is her
duty to go. Let what will betide, she cannot, — she, who has no
claim upon her too kind friends, — she cannot be the cause of
sending away from her own daughter's house even so unworthy
and unwelcome a guest as grandmother Rigglesty.
No, she herself must go, — and quietly, too, to make the pain
of parting all her own. Accordingly, after passing a sleepless
night, she rises in the still of the morning, dresses herself by the
moonlight that lies so calmly in the chamber, imprints a kiss on
Phœbe's lips, and drops a tear upon her cheek, without awaking
her, and goes forth noiselessly from the house. She wears the
garments given her by her friends, carrying her own in a small
bundle; and, thus equipped to battle with the world, she sets out
upon her journey amid a silence so solemn that there is something
strange and awful in the sound of her own light tread upon
the soft dust of the road.
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VII. THE DUNBURYS.
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A faint whisper, and the feeble fluttering of a white hand on
the pillow, called Bertha Wing to the bedside of her friend.
“I thought I heard a wagon, — there, is not that my son's
voice?”
Miss Wing had heard nothing; and the invalid sunk at once
into despondency. At her request, — and mayhap to relieve her
own anxious feelings, — Bertha resorted to the porch, and listened
under the vines. Hearing no sound of wheels, she walked out
beneath the trees, and looked up the road. Still no Hector.
It was now dusk. The evening was calm and clear. Over the
western range of mountains the star of Love burned with a pale
flame in the silvery sky, while in the east the yellow moon, half-risen,
shone like a wide, luminous tent pitched behind the hills.
Bertha saw the star, and the moon, and the shadows in the
valley all around, and the fair vault of over-arching blue; and
she gazed on all this beauty, until, no longer able to control her
woman's heart, which had been disciplined to suffer and be still
through long years, she leaned her forehead against one of the
maples by the fence, and wept.
But she hastened to check her tears. She looked up and smiled,
and said, “I will be strong!” At that instant, beneath the heaped-up
foliage that towered above her, a bat flitted in zig-zag course
athwart the gloom. It startled her, for she was looking for some
fair omen whence to gather hope; and her eyes followed it with
a sort of fascination, when, as it disappeared in the dusk, she
beheld, in the direction of its angular flight, the figure of a
man.
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Her first impulse was to escape; but, on reaching the porch, she
turned again, and met the visitor at the gate. It was Mr. Rukely,
the minister. He greeted her with marked tenderness of manner,
and inquired for Mrs. Dunbury.
“Nothing but the hope of seeing Hector seems to sustain her,”
answered Bertha, with a slight tremor in her tone.
“Is Hector coming?” asked the visitor, surprised.
“Yes; he wrote that he would be here to-night,” — Miss Wing
dropped her eyes. “I think it will be well for his mother; she
pines for him, as if he were her life.”
Mr. Rukely looked troubled; but she invited him to go in,
and, passing under the porch, with her hand in his, the cloud
cleared from his brow; — yet could he not perceive that she
shrank from him instinctively; that while her understanding and
her will were the two open arms that welcomed him, there was
something deeper and stronger in her nature, that repelled him?
Bertha took shame to herself that it was so. She sat by and
heard him talk to her invalid friend, and each noble word that
fell from his lips dropped like fire upon her rebellious heart.
When he went away, she accompanied him to the porch, and
pressed his hand with strange earnestness at parting.
“Forgive me! forgive me!” she said, in deep humility.
“Forgive?” repeated Mr. Rukely, with a benevolent smile.
“For what?”
Bertha: “Why is it that I could never appreciate you?
Surely, surely, if I loved only the good and the true, my natural
heart would never have rebelled, when reason said, `Love!'”
Mr. Rukely, with hopeful interest: “Does it rebel now?”
Bertha, very faintly: “No, not now.”
But Bertha could not look up, to return his cordial “good-night;”
and when she raised her eyes, he had passed the gate.
Then again, as before, the ominous bat flitted athwart the gloom,
and disappeared, flapping around the minister's black hat.
Bertha returned to the bedside of her friend, and buried her
face in the pillows.
“What is it, my poor girl?” asked Mrs. Dunbury. “Let me
know all your grief.”
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Bertha sobbed. — “Has God forsaken me? Can He withhold
His light and strength from one whose only prayer is to serve
Him aright? I sometimes think so; else why, in all my struggles—”
She checked herself. She had spoken wildly; she was afraid
she had blasphemed. Unwilling to impose her burdens on her
friend, she arose, and endeavored to forget her sorrows in offices of
charity.
Mrs. Dunbury had been sustained by an interest in the girl's
sufferings; but now, when the conversation turned upon her own
condition, she sank at once. Hector would not come; all hope
of recovering was past; and she assured Miss Wing, with pathetic
earnestness, that she had but a few minutes to live.
Bertha was not much alarmed; yet, pencil in hand, she sat
down, with a serious face, to receive the mother's dying words to
her son.
Mrs. Dunbury was an English woman, of strong natural intelligence
and fine sensibilities, ripened by culture in early life; and
misfortune and ill-health had not so far impaired her intellect, but
her dying message evinced all the richness and grace of expression
of her happiest days. Unfortunately, it was never completed.
Not that her spirit departed, but that Hector arrived.
Bertha Wing dropped her pencil, and stood up, pale, and trembling
in every nerve, as if she had seen an apparition; while Mrs.
Dunbury, who had just composed herself to die comfortably, started
up in bed, and cried out with joy. How different that cry from
the late dying whisper!
“Well, mother, you are glad to see the prodigal!” said Hector,
in a voice full of tenderness and cheer, when she had clung
spasmodically to his neck for some seconds. “Ah, Bertha! is
that you?”
Bertha's conscious face became suddenly very red, and there
was a slight trill of agitation in her voice, as she returned the
greeting.
“If mother would let go my hand, I would kiss you, Bertha!
But, upon my word, I can't get away! — How strong you are,
mother! Sick? — I don't believe it! Your pulse — as good a
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pulse as anybody's! Your eye — I wish mine was half as bright!
All you need is a little stimulus.”
Mrs. Dunbury, shaking her head: “O, but I have tried tonics
faithfully!”
Hector snapped his fingers: “So much for your tonics! This
is what I mean,” — pressing her hand to his heart, — “sympathy,
sympathy! Confess to me that this is what you have wanted.”
“I know it is — I know it! You make me a different being!
Dear boy! how my heart has yearned for you! You are my
only hope and stay! Your father — your father!” — the invalid's
voice faltered, — “he needs you, too, my son. Promise me
now — this night — that you will not leave us again.”
At mention of his father, Hector's head sank upon his breast;
but, recovering himself, he looked up, pressing the invalid's hand.
“O, I shall not leave you in a hurry, mother! I am glad to
feel once more the peaceful influences of my old home. The
woods, and streams, and mountains, and all the haunts of this
most beautiful and tranquil of green valleys, will inspire me; and
it seems as though I could spend years of happy quiet beneath
this dear old roof: but the good Divinity that shapes our ends
leads me by such unexpected paths, and flings open before me so
many golden gates of surprise, that I dare make no definite plans
for the future. I can promise nothing.”
Hector turned his fine eyes up with a look of aspiration, which
thrilled his mother. At that moment, the shrill old clock rang in
the adjoining room. Hector started.
“The same venerable time-piece, my boy! How many hours
I have counted by that clock, in your absence, when every stroke
has rolled an almost insupportable burden on my soul! — But I
must not forget my drops. Bertha ran into the other room: will
you speak to her?”
“Perhaps I can administer to you myself. Where are your
drops?” — Hector turned to the vials and cups on the table. —
“Merciful — mother! what 's all this?”
“Those are my medicines. I have been obliged to resort to
quite a variety.”
Hector looked horrified: “Medicines! variety! death and destruction!”
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“You frighten me, Hector. Don't, my son! Why do you
look so strangely?”
“Because I am exceeding wroth! O, what a native power you
must have, to admit so many deadly enemies into the citadel of
your constitution, and hold out against them all! Look you,
dear mother, — I aspire to be your medical adviser for a few
days. Will you accept me?”
Such was Mrs. Dunbury's confidence in Hector, that she acceded
at once to his proposal.
“And you engage to follow my directions?”
“Willingly, — for I am sure my wise and generous son can do
no wrong.”
At that moment, there was a crash.
Hector, with a queer expression: “Cannot, eh? Look there!”
“Why, what have you done?”
“Nothing, — only upset the table a little.”
“And the vials?”
“Are smashed, mother! I 'll tell you how it happened. I
thought I would give you a tune in place of a powder; and, seeing
the flute on the book-case, I reached up — the table was in
the way — I placed my knee gently and adroitly on the leaf, and—
the result!”
Hector's good-nature was irresistible.
“He was careful to put the lamp on the mantel-piece!” said
his mother to the dismayed Bertha. “So, we won't weep over the
catastrophe. Call Bridget; she will clear away the ruins.”
Bridget, getting on her knees: “It 's ahl on the ile-cloth,
Mrs. Dunbury. It did n't go a speck on the carpet.”
Hector, going: “I see the table is waiting, out there; and I
have the appetite of a lion! The stage broke down under the
mountain, we were delayed three hours in a supperless wilderness,
and I 've been the ill-tempered man you see me ever
since. Nothing but toast and tea will cure me. Come, Bertha.”
After supper, Mrs. Dunbury called Miss Wing to her side, and
astonished her.
“I believe,” said she, “I will sit up a little while, and have my
bed made.”
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Bertha, doubting her senses: “Sit up!”
Hector, advancing: “Why not?”
Bertha: “She has not sat in a chair for five days!”
Hector, dogmatically: “Can't help it! Let her sit up half an
hour.”
And she, who was so lately engaged in dictating dying messages,
was straightway assisted to a chair.
Meantime Hector, retiring to the sitting-room, and seating himself
at his mother's seraphine, near the open door, played “Sweet
Home” with exquisite tenderness of expression.
Bertha ran to him in haste: “She is crying! I am afraid” —
in a hurried whisper — “the music will weaken and depress her.”
Hector, striking up a plaintive Scotch air: “Have you no confidence
in the new physician? Look you, Bertha! if our patient
asks for medicine, tell her Dr. Hector has not prescribed any.
And if you know of any drugs, fluid, herb, or powder, — allopathic,
homœopathic, botanic, — harbored or concealed in this
house, gather them up with affectionate care, and place them
on the table convenient for being tipped over. Some accidents
can happen as well as others!”
With Hector's eyes upon her, with his lips so near her face, a
strange trouble held poor Bertha as by a spell.
“I am afraid,” she answered, mechanically, “that your treatment
will kill her.”
“Then let us take care that she dies a happy death!”
Hector struck into an inspiring melody, full of laughter and
tears, which ran somehow into the grand movement of a spirited
march. He had not ended when, at a cry of alarm from Bertha,
he looked up, and saw his mother, dressed all in white, approaching,
with uplifted hand, like a somnambule. Nothing disconcerted,
he fixed his eyes upon her bright, dilating orbs, and poured
all the fire and energy of his soul into the concluding strains.
The invalid's hand sank slowly, a smile flitted over her pale
face, and she tottered forward. Hector caught her in his arms.
A few minutes later, Bertha Wing, in the bed-chamber, heard
a well-known touch: it was not Hector's: yet she could scarce
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credit her senses, until she looked, and, behold! the invalid playing
with all the grace and softness of her better days!
“Here, Bertha!” cried the joyous Hector, when his mother
had finished; “you may take our patient now, and put her to bed.”
Late that night, when all was still in the house, Hector left his
chamber, and went forth into the open air. The full moon was
shining through the door-yard trees. In her calm light the
dusky mountain slept, like a monster, with vast head and lofty
shoulder traced upon the back-ground of the sky. The valley
was still and cool. Willow clumps and shaggy elm-trees, dimly
seen, marked the winding course of the creek. Towards this he
wandered away in the silent night.
But the old path, by which he used to stray, was overgrown.
And the sloping turf beneath the butternut-tree, whereon he used
to lie in the hot midsummer noons, and listen to the purling water
and the humming bees, — the dear old turf was gone; the freshet
floods had lapped it away; and in its place appeared an abrupt
bank, covered with high grass.
The water that night sang the same old tune, but with a sadder,
deeper meaning than of yore. Hector wept as he listened; for in
that plaintive ripple what voices spoke to him out of the past!
Rousing himself from these dreams, he was returning to his
chamber, when, as he approached the porch, he heard a fluttering
among the leaves, and saw a figure start up from the bench.
“Don't be afraid, Bertha; it is I.”
“How you frightened me! I thought you asleep and dreaming,
by this time.”
“I have been dreaming, but not asleep, Bertha. O, dreams,
dreams! what would life be without them?”
“It would be better and happier,” said Miss Wing.
“That was spoken with a sigh, Bertha. Your dreams have
been false, then, and you regret them?”
“I do not regret them, for they have taught me useful lessons.
But I am awake now, and shall dream no more.”
“Shake off this illusion of existence, then, for all who live are
dreamers. Come, Bertha, sit down, and tell me your heart's
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history. Ah, how your hand trembles! Are you afraid of
me?”
Bertha, confusedly: “Yes, I am.”
“Once there was a flower, and it was afraid of the rain. Do
you dislike me? I think you did not in old times, — did you?”
“O, no! But you have been so long away —”
“I have become as a stranger! But it should not be so. I
have always cherished a tender remembrance of you. When I
was a boy, you recollect, I fancied myself in love with little Bertha
Wing. People laughed at me, because you were older than
I! Well, that is all past; and I have outgrown I don't know
how many loves since! I 'm a fickle wretch, Bertha! — How you
shiver! Are you cold?”
Bertha, in a strange tone: “The air is chill. Let me go in.”
Hector, kindly: “Go in, good Bertha. But give me that kiss
you owe me. My mother held me, you know, and I could not
claim the right of an old friend. — What! so shy?”
Bertha, escaping: “Another time. Not now, — don't, Hector!”
He loosed his hold, and the next moment stood alone under the
porch.
“I declare,” thought he, as he bit his lip, — perhaps it itched
a little, — “that girl is in love! Some rogue has been trifling
with her. Poor Bertha!”
Hector sighed; retired to his room; went to bed; remained as
broad awake as an owl for three mortal hours; then, lapsing
lightly into oblivion, slept till the crowing of the cock. Unable
to close his eyes again, he turned his face to the window, and lay
watching the brightening of the east through a notch in the mountains.
First a few gray streaks; then a ruddy glow; and at
last up came the sun, like a great fiery spider, on his web of
beams.
Up got Hector, also, pulled on his clothes, and, stepping out
upon the balcony over the porch, inflated his lungs in the fresh
morning air. Then he went down stairs, and, learning from Bertha
that his mother was awake, hastened to her chamber. He
found her shedding tears.
“What now?” he cried. “I just met Bertha, with a pair of
red eyes, in the hall.”
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“She thinks her services are no longer required here, and she
is going away. I am better, she says, — and you are here now
to comfort me —”
“But this is absurd! Ho, Bertha Wing! Come here, you
trembling culprit! Do you think you are going to leave us so?”
Bertha: “I should be glad to stay, — but — it will be better—”
She hesitated, blushed, and dropped her eyes before Hector's
piercing look. Yet she was firm. Neither his persuasive eloquence
nor Mrs. Dunbury's tears could move her.
It was a sudden and unaccountable resolution on her part. Ah,
nobody knew what pain, what prayers and tears, it had cost her!
Had Hector guessed her secret, would he have opposed her?
After breakfast, Bertha, looking unusually pale, but with a
small hectic spot on either cheek, quietly withdrew, put her
things carefully together, and took leave of her friends.
“Who would have thought so quiet a body as you could have
such an iron will?” cried Hector.
“When my duty is clear,” said Bertha, — “but even then I
am too easily influenced.”
“By those who can command you, — not by me, at all! — Well,
good-by, mother! Expect me back in an hour or two, and Bertha
with me. I shall learn if she is wanted at home; and, if it 's
as I suppose, we 'll only take a pleasant ride up the hill, and
return to dinner.”
Bertha's home was high up on the mountain side. It was a
beautiful drive up there, that bright summer morning. A little
beyond Wild River, the mountain road branched out from the
highway, crossed the valley, and wound its snake-like course up
the steep terraces and slopes of the western hills. The day was
warm; the sunshine painted road and field; and often, toiling up
the difficult ascent, the young man stopped his panting horse in
some quiet dell, to let him breathe under the cool shade of road-side
trees.
The glory of the morning, and the beauty of the scenery, inspired
Hector; a full joy flowed out of his soul, rippling and
sparkling in words, and bathing his fine face.
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Bertha all the while held strongly upon the reins of her will;
she made herself outwardly cold and stony; but, in spite of all, a
sweet intoxication stole over her. She was glad when the pain of
separation came, and Hector helped her down at her father's house.
It was a small wooden house, with a garden on the lower side,
an orchard in the rear, with fields beyond, and the thick billowy
foliage of green woods further up the mountain. A little gate
opened upon a little path which led through a neat little yard to
the door. Bertha and her friend were half-way in the enclosure,
when an old lady came out to greet them.
“Why, Bertha, is that you?” she cried, shading her eyes with
her fore-arm. “And if there an't Hector Dunbury! Who ever
expected to see you! Did you jest rain down?”
“I just reined up,” replied Hector, shaking hands with the
delighted old lady.
Bertha led the way to her grandmother's room, — a small, comfortable
apartment, plainly furnished, with a bed on one side.
Perceiving some one on the bed, she looked inquiringly at the
old lady.
“Don't speak loud,” said the latter; “'t would be a pity to
wake her, — she seemed so tired and troubled, when she laid
down!”
“Who is it?”
“A poor gal, that 'pears to be travellin' a-foot an' alone, poor
thing! She was goin' over the mountain, an' stopped for a drink
o' water; but she looked so pitiful, 't I went right to work an'
made her a cup o' tea, an' some toast, an' gin her my bed to lay
down on an' rest her, arter she 'd e't a mouthful. Poor thing!
She dropped asleep, jest like a child. She must a' had a hard
ja'nt this mornin'!”
Hector sat down in the door, and broached the subject of Bertha's
return; Bertha, meanwhile, laying off her bonnet and shawl
with an air of gentle firmness, which sufficiently expressed her
intention to remain where she was.
“I tell ye what,” said the old lady, “I 'm dre'ful lonesome,
days, when she 's away, — Susan an't so good as a pair o' tongs
for comp'ny, — an' I guess you can git one o' Sam Fosdick's
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darters; there 's three on 'em to hum now, doin' nothin'. 'T any
rate, you drive up on the hill; an' if they an't willin' to go, n'ary
one on 'em, pr'aps Bertha will. We 'll talk it over an' see, time
you come along back.”
This was certainly a fair proposition; and Hector, jumping into
the buggy, drove up to the dilapidated old house where Sam Fos
dick's daughters lived. He found them all at home, — three tall,
strong girls, yawning away the morning over a little work. They
were slovenly dressed, not expecting company; and his sudden
appearance created a decided sensation. Without much ceremony
he made known his errand.
“I don' know,” whined Mrs. Fosdick, a shrivelled, sourfaced,
discontented woman, who sat picking over a dish of wormy
peas, in the corner. “We an't so poor 't our gals are obleeged to
go out to work; but it 's jest as they can agree. What do you
say, 'Livia?”
Olivia, with a toss of her frizzled head: “I don't think I should
be able to go. 'Patra can, if she 's a mind to.”
Cleopatra, hiding her naked feet under her chair: “I 've no
disposition, thank you, Miss Olivia! 'Tildy may, if she likes.”
Matilda, simpering: “I have n't 'tended two terms at Kiltney,
jest to learn that housework is my sphere!”
Hector, retreating: “Certainly not! You will pardon my
presumption. Bridget does the housework, and the most mother
wants is a companion —”
Olivia, condescending: “O, if that is the case —”
Cleopatra, interrupting her: “You an't going to change your
mind, I hope, jest as I 've concluded to go.”
Matilda: “You both refused once; and now, if anybody goes,
I think it ought to be me, — had n't it, ma?”
Mrs. Fosdick: “'Tildy is very accomplished, and if it 's a companion
your mother wants —”
Matilda, unpinning her curl-papers: “'T won't take me ten
minutes to git ready! Why can't you help me, 'Patra?”
Cleopatra, independently, with several toes peeping from under
her dress: “I 'm nobody's waiter, I 'd have you know, miss!”
Matilda: “I don't care, 'Livia will!”
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Olivia, mockingly: “I don't care, 'Livia won't!”
Hector, with exemplary self-denial: “Excuse me, Miss Matilda,
but I am really afraid you are making too great a sacrifice of
feeling, and I am unwilling to remove you out of your sphere.”
He took leave politely. 'Tilda looked blank, 'Patra chuckled,
'Livia tossed her frizzled head again; and during the remainder
of the forenoon, the three poor-and-proud sisters quarrelled sharply
about the nice little apple of discord which had been dropped
among them, and snatched away again before either could seize it.
Diverted by the adventure, Hector returned to the other house.
He was met by old Mrs. Wing at the gate.
“I did n't much think you 'd git one on 'em,” said she, “for
they are pesky proud critturs, always for everlastin' settin' up for
ladies!”
“Whose horse is that under the shed?” asked Hector.
“It 's Mr. Rukely's; he called at your father's, jest arter you
left, and follered right along up the hill.”
“Mr. Rukely,” — Hector scratched his ear, — “Mr. Rukely,
Mr. Rukely! Are he and Bertha pretty good friends?”
“Dear me!” whispered the old lady, all smiles; “did n't you
know it? They 're engaged. They 're in the parlor now.”
“Phew-ew!” whistled Hector. “But who is that in your
room?”
“It 's the gal 't you seen lyin' on the bed. An' I was goin' to
tell ye, if your mother wants a nice, perty body to wait on her,
she can't do better, I think, than to take her. She turns out to
be a gal that 's ben livin' to Mr. Jackwood's.”
“I wonder if she 's the person father saw there last evening!”
exclaimed Hector.
He paused at the door, struck with sudden surprise. Notwithstanding
his father's favorable report of Charlotte, he was altogether
unprepared to see so peculiar and striking a countenance.
The subdued passion and spiritual beauty of her face told her
heart's history. The intuitive Hector felt a strange influence steal
over him; and all her sorrows, the depth, the sweetness of her
spirit, seemed revealed to him.
On her part, she did not venture to return his earnest gaze.
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But something in the tones of his voice startled her. It seemed
to reöpen suddenly, at her very feet, the dizzy gulf from which
she had fled. She stole an anxious glance at his face; and instantly
the blood rushed suffocatingly upon her heart, the room
grew misty, and her head sank upon the bed near which she sat.
“You are so tired, poor child!” cried Mrs. Wing. “Le' me
give you a little currant wine.”
She brought a bottle from her closet, poured a few spoonfuls of
the liquid into a tumbler, and supported Charlotte's head while
she drank.
“You are very kind!” said the girl. “I am better now, —
thank you.”
Hector, with instinctive delicacy of feeling, had walked to the
open door, and now stood with folded arms, gazing out upon the
fair mountain scenery. This was a relief to Charlotte; she made
a strong effort to control herself, and appear calm; yet when he
turned again, her spirit was all weak and tremulous, like a reed
bending under the weight of a bird.
Hector, however, betrayed no sign of recognition. Hoping, but
trembling still, Charlotte breathed an inward prayer that the
old lady's proposal in her favor might be at once rejected. Hector
was but too eager to accept it. Then she endeavored, falteringly,
to excuse herself; but he would not consent to release her,
and she saw no way left but to accompany him.
Meanwhile, in the parlor, the conscientious Bertha confessed
herself, in deep contrition of heart, to her indulgent friend.
Mr. Rukely was somewhat disturbed. But he was none of your
wild and capricious lovers. His passion lay tamely at the feet of
his understanding, like an obedient spaniel, that never snapped or
snarled. He pressed Bertha in his arms, and for the first time in
his life, affianced though they were, kissed her — on the forehead.
A cold revulsion of feeling made the unhappy girl shudder in
his embrace. O, how wicked she thought herself, because her
heart was stronger than her will! But down she crushed that
heart again, resolved anew to love what her judgment pronounced
worthy.
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“It is a great relief,” she said, “to have told you this; and
you are so kind! I thought it would separate us forever!”
“No, Bertha,” repeated the other, “it makes me love you the
more. I respect your truth. You have fled from temptation; you
have shut your eyes and your ears against it; it is the only way.”
“The worst is passed,” she said. “I conquered my love for
him once; why it returned upon me with such power, I cannot
tell; but I have shut it out again, and forever.”
She walked mechanically to the window. Hector was helping
Charlotte into the buggy. He seemed to hold her hand with a
lingering pressure; his features beamed with satisfaction; he
looked the very picture of manly grace. A quick, sharp pain
shot through Bertha's heart as she gazed, and she turned away,
stifling a cry of anguish, and shutting out the sight with her
hands.
-- -- p732-089
VIII. DOWN THE MOUNTAIN.
[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]
The morning continued fine. The rays of the sun beat down
hotly; but cool breezes played upon the mountain side, shaking
the green foliage of the woods, dancing over the meadows, and
tossing the fields of grain into fantastic waves.
A prospect of Alpine loveliness opened before Hector and Charlotte,
as they emerged from a shady dingle not far from Mr.
Wing's house. The road wound along the brow of a lofty spur,
from which the valley, out-spread below, looked like a vast and
magnificent map. The miniature fences, the spotted farms, the
slender and winding streams, the houses so distant and so small,
formed a picture of exceeding beauty. Still and grand rose the
woody mountains beyond, the forests on their backs appearing like
thick growths of weeds a mower might cut with his scythe. Here
and there, amid clearings, along a dark chasm in the hills, gleamed
the foam and silver of Wild River, rushing to the plain.
Hector pointed out to his companion his father's house, Mr.
Jackwood's, and two or three little villages nestled in green spots
up and down the creek. But, somehow, he could not talk to her
as he had talked to Bertha. He could neither be frivolous nor
sentimental. Something in her character seemed to demand a
tone of remark which a gentleman (Hector considered himself one)
could not, consistently with the views of society, freely address to
a stranger in her position. Thus conscious of awkwardness, he
contented himself with a few commonplace observations, and
remained silent.
Charlotte, on her part, feared to speak, lest her voice should
betray what he had failed to discover in her face; and she feared
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[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]
to look towards him, lest something in her expression, not before
revealed, should give form and substance to any vague shadow of
recognition that might be flitting through his mind. Thus she
was chiding and torturing herself for having consented to accompany
him, when a catastrophe occurred, which in a moment swept
away every barrier of restraint that divided them.
Mr. Dunbury kept a farm-boy, named Cornelius Boughton. His
familiar appellation was Corny. He was seventeen years of age,
and was distinguished for a meditative disposition, and a stoical
indifference to the ordinary cares of life; qualities which, it must
be confessed, superficial observers were apt, indiscriminately, to
term obtuseness and stupidity. Well, Corny had that morning
harnessed the horse for Hector, and placed him before the buggy.
He had also discovered that the spring which secured the eye of
one of the traces in its hook was loose, and might drop off. It did
not, however, occur to him that a few seasonable strokes of the
hammer might be of service in preventing the dislocation of
necks; nor did he mention the circumstance to Hector.
Hector, accordingly, knew nothing of the danger, until, as he
was driving down a gentle slope, he heard something rattle on the
ground. It was the shafts, which had slid out of their stays, and
fallen down, in consequence of the unhooking of that fatal trace.
The horse jumped; one trace still held; the buggy was brought
violently against his gambrels; a kick — a spring — and in an
instant of time the frightened brute was making wild, irregular
leaps down the declivity.
Hector prided himself on his management of horses. Never,
with the reins in his own hands, had he met with an accident.
He did not lose his presence of mind; yet clear-headed, resolute,
vigilant as he was, he could devise no way of averting a catastrophe.
If he held hard on the reins, he but drew the vehicle
more closely upon the horse's heels; and to attempt to drive into
the fence with the shafts on the ground, would have been certain
destruction. He might, at the outset, have jumped out, and, by
the exercise of superior agility, stopped both horse and wagon;
but Charlotte clung to his arm, and held him fast.
Hector had no fear for himself. His only care was for his
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[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]
companion. But for the tight clasp on his arm, he would have
known nothing of the terror that froze at her heart. She did
not scream, nor speak one word, from first to last; and when, in a
clear, firm voice, he told her what to do, it seemed the only way,
and the right way, and she obeyed at once.
The feat was difficult and dangerous. Hector could not
assist her; it required all his skill to manage the horse, and keep
the shafts in the track. Not until he had given her ample time
to save herself, did he venture to look around. She had climbed
over the seat, and dropped down behind; and he had a momentary
glimpse of her lying upon her face in the road, quite still, as she
had fallen.
All this happened in scarce more than a minute's time from
the dropping of the shafts. Hector was now travelling at a speed
that could not last long. He approached a curve in the road,
and the track, which had offered little impediment to the shafts thus
far, grew rough and stony. The buggy began to bound and reel;
and, expecting momently to go over, he prepared to throw the reins
clear of everything, and fall in as compact a shape as possible, when
the crisis arrived. Suddenly, looking before, to calculate his ground,
he saw a man, scarce five rods distant, driving lazily up the mountain.
He seemed asleep; his head was sunk upon his breast,
the reins hung loosely in his hands. Hector rose up, bareheaded,
his hair flying, and shouted the alarm. To the man, who started
bewildered from his nap, and saw swift ruin dashing down upon
him in such a form, he looked more like a fiend than anything
human. The poor fellow was horror-struck. It was too late for
him to clear the track, but, with the instinct of terror, he screamed
and shook the reins wildly up and down, and finally threw his
hat, to turn aside the danger. The frantic animal sheered to the
bank; the shafts struck, and flew to splinters; and the buggy,
hurled into the air, doubled together like paste-board, and came
down with a crash, a mass of fragments, throwing up dirt and
turf into the very face of the spectator.
The horse had cleared himself at a spring; but the driver lay
among the ruins. How still everything was! The man sat
shivering in his wagon, and gazing with dumb amazement at the
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wreck, when he saw something move. Over went the broken
seat, and up got Hector from under it.
He was a frightful-looking object, covered from head to foot
with dirt, his hair all over his face, and one sleeve of his coat
rent away from the shoulder. At first he looked vacantly around,
knowing not at all where he was or what had happened; but
presently, spitting out a mouthful of earth, and putting his hair
from his eyes, he stared at the heap which had been a buggy, and
began to remember.
“My — everlasting!” said the ghastly countryman, without stirring
from his wagon, “I never thought o' seein' you git up ag'in,
I vow!”
“I 'm not hurt!” cried Hector, still a little wild. “Where is
she?”— meaning Charlotte.
“She 's over the crick, by this time! Lightning! how she
sprung! — She jest grazed my wheels! Lucky you smashed up
jest as you did, or you 'd a' tore me to flinders. What a narrer
'scape I had!”
Hector hastened up the road to find Charlotte. The man sat
a few minutes longer in the wagon, contemplating the catastrophe
and his own “narrer 'scape,” when the unaccountable
whim took him to get out. He walked around the wreck;
touched it with his foot; lifted a cushion with his shaking hand;
dropped it; drew a long breath, and said, “My jingoes!” with a
depth of expression which seemed to afford him great relief.
Stunned by the fall, Charlotte lay for some seconds in the
road; then got upon her feet and began to walk very fast up the
hill, in pursuit of Hector's hat. Reflecting, suddenly, however,
that she ought rather to look after the head it belonged to, she
turned, and, now fully awake, ran, in great trepidation, to learn
what had become of Hector. She met him coming up the road.
“You are hurt!” she cried out, at sight of him.
“Not a bit!” Hector declared, stoutly. “I fell like a football,
and up again at a bound!”
“But your face is covered with blood!”
“Indeed? I 've been wiping my mouth for something — I
did n't know what!”
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Charlotte stanched the blood with her handkerchief.
“You 're a brave girl! I feared you were hurt! It is worth
a kingdom to see you on your feet again! There, that will do,—
thank you!”
“Your lip is cut!”
“That 's nothing! If you are safe, it 's all I care for. I tell
you,” said Hector, “after running such a rig, it 's rather exhilarating
to think there 's no damage done which money and a little
salve won't repair!”
“Where is your buggy?”
“It lies just below here, around those bushes. It looks like an
Irishman's shanty run into by a locomotive.”
“And the horse?”
“Gone down the mountain! Poor fellow! I hope he won't
kill himself! But see, the people in that house are staring at
us. How some people will stare, and keep at a safe distance,
when others are in trouble! These are priests and Levites, with
a spice of curiosity added to their composition. Let 's make
Good Samaritans of them, against their will, and levy contributions
of brushes, water, and towels.”
Hector misjudged the people in question, and afterwards asked
their forgiveness in his heart. They were poor women, very
much frightened, but willing enough to do, when they knew what
to do. Hector washed himself, combed his hair, and brushed
his clothes, while one of them pinned up his sleeve, and prepared
a plaster for his lip. Then, leaving Charlotte in their care, he
returned to the wreck.
“I swanny!” said the countryman, rubbing his hands, “I
never see anything chawed up like that 'ere buggy! Both exes,
springs, fils, box, seat — everything smashed! The wheels, I
guess, are sound, and that 's all.”
“And our necks,” suggested Hector.
“Did n't I have a narrer 'scape? I can't help thinkin' on 't.”
And the man walked about the wreck again, chuckling nervously,
and looking very pale.
“Is n't your name Crumlett?”
“That 's my name — ya-a-s!” — Mr. Crumlett stared. —
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[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]
“Wal! I did n't know ye before! You begin to look like,
washed up! How d'e dew? When d' ye come to town?”
Answering these questions briefly, Hector proposed to Mr.
Crumlett to carry him home.
“I declare,” said that individual, regretfully, “I don't see
how I can, any way in the world! I 'm in a desprit hurry!”
“O,” replied Hector with a quiet smile, “you are in a hurry?
But I should expect, of course, to pay you for your trouble.”
Mr. Crumlett, on reflection: “Wal, I d' know — an old
acquaintance, so — p'r'aps I might.”
Accordingly Mr. Crumlett took on board the buggy-cushions,
with a few other fragments of the wreck; assisted his “old
acquaintance” to make a compact heap of the remainder on the
road-side; and, finally, with Hector and Charlotte as passengers,
turned his horses' heads down the mountain.
Mr. Crumlett, as it proved, not only had time to carry them
to their destination, but to drive tediously slow, at that. Gloating
over the accident, and chuckling repeatedly at his own
“narrer 'scape,” he seemed entirely to have forgotten that he
was in a hurry. Occasionally, at Hector's instigation, he flourished
his whip, and clucked a little to his horses; but those grave
animals were not to be urged out of their comfortable pace by
any such gentle means. Meanwhile, anxious to learn the fate
of his own horse, Hector inquired for him on the way. He had
been seen by several persons, who described him as going very
fast, with the reins streaming from his back, and “one tug whipping
his side to make him go faster.” But presently there came
a pedler, who had passed by Mr. Dunbury's house.
“I have n't seen any horse running,” said the itinerant tradesman;
“but I saw a woman unharnessing a horse, in a yard, back
here.”
Hector's spirits rose. The woman was Bridget, and the horse
was the runaway.
“Blessed pedler,” said he in his heart, “go thy way, and be
happy. — Drive on, friend Crumlett!”
Mr. Crumlett cracked his whip and clucked again, but to
little purpose. In the course of time, however, the party came
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in sight of Mr. Dunbury's house. Bridget stood in the road,
her broad, red face turned with an expression of wonder towards
Mr. Crumlett's establishment. Hector swung his hat.
“It 's him!” screamed Bridget, dancing and clapping her
hands, — “Mrs. Dunbury! it 's him, with a good head yit to wear
a hat on!”
Then straightway out ran Mrs. Dunbury, her face white and
wild, hair dishevelled, cape falling from her shoulders, and threw
herself upon Hector's neck, as he jumped from the wagon. A
few stifled words, a few choking sobs and tears, and, her excited
strength relaxing, she sank fainting in his arms.
With Charlotte's ready assistance Hector bore her into the
house. Presently her eyes opened languidly, and her grateful
look wandered from Hector to his companion.
Danger, like death, is a leveller. It brings king and beggar
upon the same human ground. From the moment of peril, when
Hector felt Charlotte's womanly clasp upon his arm, they had
ceased to be strangers; and, still glowing with the generous heat
with which her sympathy inspired him, he introduced her to his
mother. The latter extended her feeble hand, with a smile of
welcome. A tender chord was touched in Charlotte's breast, and
she knelt humble and happy at the invalid's feet.
“God bless you, my child!” said Mrs. Dunbury, fervently.
Hector inquired for his father.
“I blowed the harn fur 'im,” cried Bridget, “but he did n't
coom yet! It 's over the creek I 'll go an' cahl 'im!”
She ran out, and met Mr. Dunbury in the yard, who presently
entered, with Corny at his heels. He was an excitable and
impetuous man, and the girl had told him just enough of the
catastrophe to make him fume. Hector hastened to explain.
“I might told ye how 't would be!” said Corny, notching a
stick with his knife.
Mr. Dunbury, gruffly: “What do you mean?”
Corny, drawling his words: “Wal, the spring was loose that
held the tug in — and I know'd 't would be all the time unhookin'
if ye did n't look out.”
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Mr. Dunbury: “Did you know no better than to leave such a
trap for breaking people's necks?”
Corny, phlegmatic: “'T wan't my trap! You told me to
harness Jerry to the buggy.”
Hector: “Why did n't you tell me the spring was loose?”
Corny: “'Cause I did n't think on 't, I s'pose.”
Bridget: “That 's jist one o' Carny's tricks! He 'd know
nothin' at ahl, if 't wan't knocked out of 'im.” — Punching him
with the broom. “Out o' the house wid yer whittlin's, noo!”
Corny, pugnaciously: “Come, stop!”
Mr. Dunbury: “What are you here for? Why don't you go
and take care of that horse?”
Corny: “You did n't tell me to!”
Mr. Dunbury, recognizing Charlotte, uttered a sort of half apology,
and welcomed her with high good-breeding. But a consciousness
of being somewhat carelessly dressed appeared to
trouble him just at this time, and, the moment her attention was
withdrawn, he took occasion to pull up his limp dickey, and
smooth down his rumpled shirt under the worn lapels of his faded
plush waistcoat.
“Where are you going?” asked the invalid, clinging to Hector's
hand.
“I am reminded that I have left our friend Crumlett waiting,—
and he is in a terrific hurry!”
“But you must not let him go till after dinner. How kind it
was in him to bring you down!”
Hector found Mr. Crumlett sitting patiently in his wagon,
whipping the gate-post.
“How much do I owe you for your trouble, sir?”
“Wal, I d'n' know, — guess fifty cents 'll be 'bout right, —
won't it, hey?”
Hector paid him, and asked if he would stop to dinner.
“Wal, — it 's unexpected, naow,” replied Mr. Crumlett, pocketing
the change, — “like enough I will! You can give my team a
bite, I s'pose?”
“Put your horses in the barn, and cut as much grass for them
as you choose,” said Hector. “There 's the barn; there 's the
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grass; and there 's the scythe, hanging in the apple-tree. You
have plenty of time: Bridget's dinner will be ready in half an
hour.”
“Wal, I don't mind waitin' — only git the team a chawin' on to
suthin'! Guess I 'll back 'em round a little, and feed 'em here in
the shade, — may as well.”
Mr. Crumlett accordingly staid to dinner; ate prodigiously;
told all about the way that buggy went to pieces; recurred some
twenty times to his own “narrer 'scape;” and, on going away,
asked permission to throw that “little han'ful o' grass” into his
wagon, — having cut considerably more than his team had had
time to eat. The permission granted, he set out, well satisfied
with his fortunes generally, and his dinner in particular, and drove
leisurely up the mountain, rehearsing to himself a new and more
startling version of his adventures, designed to astonish his friends
at home.
-- -- p732-098
IX. HECTOR AND CHARLOTTE.
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The light of a new morning has dawned upon Charlotte's life.
The past lies behind her like a night of troubled dreams. A few
clouds of doubt and fear still chase each other across her sky; but
the thick darkness is gone, and the young day is fresh and calm,
and full of promise.
Not only has the catastrophe of the buggy served to throw
open at once a wide door of sympathy between her and her new
friends, but it furnishes a fruitful and exhilarating theme for familiar
discussion. Hector makes epigrams upon a certain leadenhued
contusion under Charlotte's eye; upon his own lameness, and
the cut in his lip; and upon other pleasing results of the disaster.
Then, to enliven a dull company of evening visitors, who have
called in honor of his return to Huntersford, he announces that he
will deliver an entertaining and instructive lecture on the subject,
accompanied with music by his mother, and illustrated by original
pen-and-ink sketches. The lecture proves a capital burlesque, and
elicits tremendous applause. The eloquence of the speaker is
equalled only by the originality of the diagrams. The first of
these represents “Corny whittling;” received with roars of
laughter. Next, “Corny brings Jerry to the door.” Then, various
stages of the catastrophe are portrayed, until “Mr. Crumlett”
is introduced to the audience. At this point, Mr. Dunbury, who
has preserved his gravity all along, forgets his dignity, and shakes
with democratic fun. Mrs. Dunbury joins in the general merriment, —
more quietly than any of the rest; but her pride in
Hector makes her very happy. Charlotte's soft eyes glisten; and
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Phœbe Jackwood, throwing herself upon her friend's shoulder in
a paroxysm of mirth, declares that she “shall die!”
Hector limps three weeks with his bruises; and Charlotte carries
the dark-colored mark under her eye for nearly the same
length of time. They condole with each other, and laugh at each
other, until one would judge them to be friends of years' standing.
The invalid's health gradually improves. Hector is a good
physician, Charlotte a capital companion and nurse. But, notwithstanding
all their care, Mrs. Dunbury's mind frequently
relapses into despondency, and she believes death inevitable,
unless the discarded doctor is recalled.
It is scarcely possible for her to abandon the stimulus of drugs.
She would be true to her promise, and abide by Hector's treatment;
but daily, by mere infirmity of will, she finds herself transgressing
his commandments. She carries magnesia in her pocket,
and eats it by stealth. She chews rhubarb-root, and calls it sweetflag.
She swallows pills in her apple-sauce. She entertains salts
and a teaspoon in a drawer, concealed beneath numerous strata of
folded apparel, and indulges in furtive doses of the same, ever and
anon.
Hector perceived something of this, and, going to his mother,
by the very force of his simple and earnest dealing, compelled a
confession. One by one she abandoned all her hidden drugs to his
mercy, reserving only a modest lump of rhubarb, and a couple of
favorite pills.
“But what can I do?” she cried.
“When you think medicine absolutely required, call on me.”
That morning she ate the last of the rhubarb; the next, she
swallowed one of the pills, and in the afternoon sent the other to
keep that company; and, on the third day, in great extremity,
she had recourse to Hector.
Hector cruelly ordered a pitcher of warm water; and, from
that time, emetics of that simple nature were the sole consolation
he would afford her, when she hungered and thirsted after drugs.
But nothing could be more effective than this treatment; she
recovered her appetite, and soon her greatest anxiety was to have
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something delicate and nice for dinner. This, indeed, became, for
a time, the chief care and study of her life.
“Fie, mother!” cried Hector, one fine morning, at the breakfast-table, —
“these trifles are unworthy of us. We are too much
like a celebrated old woman —
`Victuals and drink were her chief diet,
And yet the old woman could never be quiet.'
For my part, I believe we should live upon something besides
victuals and drink, notwithstanding so venerable an example.”
“Hunger,” said Mr. Dunbury, “knows no philosophy.”
“Nor is genuine hunger troubled about many things. It receives
its daily bread, and is thankful. In this artificial life, we
have no conception what simple and humble fare is all-sufficient to
the natural man. What if I should tell you I know a family that
eats worms?”
Mrs. Dunbury, with a beseeching look: “Don't, I pray — at
the breakfast-table, Hector!”
Corny, grinning over his muffin: “A family 't eats worms!”
Charlotte: “I think I know the same family.”
Mrs. Dunbury: “Not in this region — not among civilized
people!”
Hector, gravely: “Our nearest neighbors, mother. In faith, it
is a family of young robins in the tree before my window. You
should see them once! It really looks quite human — the beautiful
care the old ones take of their young. The best of us might
learn a lesson of them. The love, and joy, and gratitude, they
manifest, seem to say, much more plainly than our hollow words,—
especially when our faithless lives belie them, — `Give us each
day our daily bread.'”
Mrs. Dunbury: “Do you ever hear of young birds repaying
the care of their parents, by feeding them, in return, when they
become too old and infirm to feed themselves?”
“That 's a simple duty, mother, which I think no well-bred and
affectionate robins would shrink from performing.”
“Will you be so good, then, as to imagine some pretty example
of the kind, and, drawing your lesson from it, go down the meadow,
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this morning, and catch the famous pickerel your father saw in
the river, yesterday? I would like fish for dinner.”
“I don't know, mother. The last time I went a-fishing, I
hooked a cruel hook through the backs of little fish, and let them
swim around in the water, in untold anguish, to bait their big
brothers who came to eat them. In the excitement of the sport,—
I believe men call it sport, — I had not one merciful thought
to bestow upon the innocent little folk that had been so unfortunate
as to be caught out of their native brook in my basket.”
Corny, stoically: “I don't mind it 's hurtin' 'em. I like to
see 'em wiggle!”
Hector: “That 's all very nice, without doubt; but how do
you suppose you and I would feel with great iron hooks through
our backs, — let down into a city of hungry lawyers, for instance, —
with some big giant swinging us from the end of a
long pole?”
Corny, incredulously: “They c-a-n-'t!”
Mrs. Dunbury: “You can catch the pickerel with a snare.
That will be no greater cruelty than that practised upon the
worms by the worthy family you speak of, and which you thought
so pretty and commendable.”
Hector: “I 've no answer to make. I 'm going out to show
the men how to mow, this forenoon; and, if I think of it, I will
catch your pickerel.”
At nine o'clock, Mrs. Dunbury looked out of her window, and
saw the mowers in the meadow, with Hector at their head, cutting
into the tall grass with uniform strokes, and laying the swaths in
even lines behind them.
“He has quite forgotten the pickerel,” she said to Charlotte.
“If you should go to the meadow, and carry him his fishing-pole,
I am sure he would ask no better excuse to throw down that
dreadful scythe.”
Charlotte set out with a light heart to do the errand, — imagining
herself a native-born country-girl, rustic, happy, and free
from care, and singing snatches of merry songs as she went.
She crossed the rotting timbers of the bridge, and approached
the mowers under cover of the willows that grew around a bend
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in the stream. Birds fluttered and chattered in the bushes; the
waters rippled and gleamed, and leaped, with low, gurgling laughter,
over their pebbly bed; and the summer wind swept gently across
the grass, playing among the leaves, and blowing with grateful
coolness on her brow and in her hair. O, she was made for such
happiness; she felt that the good God loved her then, and that
birds, and stream, and breeze, and even the soft haze that brooded
over the valley, and lay in translucent purple banks all around
upon the mountain heights, sympathized in the pure joy that overflowed
her heart.
Charlotte trod quickly along the shaven turf, until she could see
the mowers carrying back their scythes along the level swaths.
Hector marched at their head, singing a negro melody. Corny
brought up the rear, whittling his snath with a jacknife. Mr.
Dunbury and two day-laborers formed the body of the force. Not
far off was Bridget, shaking out the new-mown grass with a fork,
tossing it wildly about her ears, or flinging it in great wads, here
and there, over the meadow.
Arrived at the edge of the field, the men rested their scythes
upon the ground, and began to whet them, having first wiped
them with wisps of grass. The cheerful ring of the stone upon
the metal beat a measured accompaniment to Hector's singing, —
only Corny striking occasionally a little out of time. Charlotte
paused involuntarily. What trouble came up out of the past, at
that happy hour, to tyrannize over her spirit? She stood hesitating
in the meadow, when Hector ceased singing, and called out
to her with a cheery welcome, as he threw down his scythe.
“Le' me go'n ketch the pickiril, if you do' wanter,” drawled
Corny.
Hector: “Would you quite as lief do that as mow?”
Corny, earnestly: “I druther!”
“I have no doubt of it; how refreshing it is to hear you speak
the truth!”
And Hector coolly walked off with the fishing-pole, leaving the
chagrined Corny to stare at him, with perplexed and disappointed
looks, over his scythe.
“You shall go with me, Charlotte.” Hector stepped to the
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young girl's side, as she was returning towards the stream. “The
fields are so sweet and beautiful to-day, how can you shut yourself
up in the house?”
The glance of his eye and the gentle tones of his voice stirred
a strange and happy emotion in her heart; and she had no power
to resist the influence that drew her to his side.
“Your pickerel,” said Hector, “is the very attorney of fishes.
He locates his office in some eligible spot, often among the brown
river-grass, at the mouth of some little brook; and I have no
doubt but, if we understood the fishes' language, or rather their
signs, we should be able to read over his door, `Pike Pickerel,
Attorney and Counsellor at Law.' There, day after day, he
awaits his clients, who, never suspecting what a scaly fellow he is,
run into the very jaws of danger, and are taken in by him, before
they know it. Some of the little brook-people are too cunning
and quick even for his sharp practice, and escape in spite of his
teeth; but generally, when he darts into a school, he seizes at
least one out of it, and, to make a long tail short, finishes him at
a bite. Those that run away may be called flying-fishes, while
those that are taken become swallows. And so our lawyer flourishes,
until his line of business is interrupted by a line of a different
nature, and some avenging power, by hook or by crook,
puts a stop to his proceedings with an attachment, — such as I
am about to try, in the case of our neighbor under the bushes,
here.”
Hector entertained his companion with this sage dissertation
upon the character and habits of the pickerel, as they walked
along by the willows and crossed the bridge together. On the
other bank of the creek, they followed the old wagon track up
stream, until they arrived at the confluence of a brook that came
down from the eastern hills. Here, in a quiet nook, overhung
with bushes, the attorney of fishes was found. Hector's eyes
sparkled, as he arranged the fatal snare.
“A royal pickerel, upon my word! Not so large as a shark,
but he 'll do. Look, Charlotte, how neatly and comfortably I
slip the noose —”
“I see!” laughed Charlotte, as the fish deliberately took his
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nose out of the wire loop, and with one stroke of his tail propelled
himself into a knot of grass.
“The snare is a vulgar and inartistic contrivance!” exclaimed
Hector. “But I am bound to see fins out of water, at some rate!
He 's a little shy, a little conservative, — quite a prosperous and
cautious fish; but — there 's his nose, and there swings the wire
under it.”
At this crisis, Charlotte could not help reminding him of what
he had preached, that morning, to Corny.
“How would you like it yourself, if some superior power should
make a man-snare of the north-pole and the equinoctial line —”
“Don't speak of such disagreeable things just at this time!”
interrupted Hector. “In three seconds you may laugh, then we
will talk about cruelty to fishes; but now; — look out for your
head!”
A sudden pull, — snap went the pole, — and away darted the
pickerel up stream, with the wire jerked tightly under his gills,
and the line streaming after him through the water. He was out
of sight in an instant; but the tip of the spruce pole, to which the
line was attached, swimming on the surface, served as a buoy to
mark his course.
“So much for a short line and a brittle pole!” exclaimed
Hector.
“Your mother thought that line might not answer, and gave
me another, — I had quite forgotten it,” said Charlotte. “Here
it is.”
“But my snare is gone.”
“I can give you a wire out of my bonnet.”
The new snare was scarcely rigged, when the pickerel, having
got clear of his encumbrance, reäppeared in his favorite haunt,
looking very impudent, as if he had returned in a spirit of litigation,
to learn what it was all about. Hector, accordingly, proceeded
to demonstrate the matter, by adroitly slipping a second
noose over his gills.
“What an expression of countenance! It says plain as talking,
`Do that again, and I 'll prosecute!' And, I presume, if
he could speak, or if we understood the Finnish dialect, which
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pickerels may be supposed to use, he would be laying down points
of law to us.”
Another pull, — and his pickerelship, leaping with a sudden
splash out of the water, slipped from the snare and fell flouncing
in Charlotte's lap, as she was sitting on the grass. She flung him
off, with a scream; and the next moment he was threshing the
shallow water in a small stone basin below, when Hector seized
him, and cast him upon dry land.
“Have ye cotcht him? have ye cotcht him?” cried the
excited Bridget, rushing into the bushes on the opposite bank.
“Kape 'im! hould 'im! and I 'll be afther wading acrost to
yez!”
Nobody observed her until, taking her shoes under her arm,
and carefully holding her dress, she stepped down into the water
and commenced fording.
“Go back, you ridiculous creature!” cried Hector. “What
are you going to do? What do you want?”
“It 's the big floppin' fish I 'd be havin'!” said Bridget. “An'
it 's br'il 'im for dinner I will.”
“Come around by the bridge, then, and be respectable,” said
Hector. “You 're a fright, Bridget! You look like a Gothic
cottage!”
“An' where 's the harm, sure? Nobody tould ye to be lookin'.
Ye might be kapin' yer eyes to home, jist!”
“But you 'll be drowned, Bridget! You are not amphibious;
you 're not a duck, dear; I can take my oath you 're not web-footed!”
At that moment Corny's grinning red face made its appearance
among the willows behind her.
“Go it,” he cried; “'t an't deep!”
“Dape?” echoed Bridget. “No more it is n't! I 've waded
this creek a dozen o' times, an' niver a bit did I get drownded,
yit!”
“But you never waded in this spot,” said Hector. “There 's a
deep place right before you.”
Bridget, doubtingly: “Miss Charlit, is it the truth he 's tellin',
noo?”
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Charlotte: “Can't you see?”
Bridget: “Faith, an' how should I be seein', wid the sun in
the wather dazzlin' the eyes of me out o' me head inthirely?”
Corny, vociferously: “Water-snakes, Bridget!”
“Och, be jabbers, where?”
“Right behind ye, here, streakin' it arter ye like blazes!”
Bridget, in a fluster: “It 's lyin' ye are, noo!”
Corny: “I hope to die! There 's one big enough to swaller
ye! He 's got teeth like a pitchfork!”
Bridget, dropping skirts and shoes: “S'int Pathrick, hilp! Is
there a snake, Misther Hector?”
Corny, throwing a slab of flood-wood into the creek: “There
he is! he 'll have ye by the heels in no time! Scooter,
Bridget!”
The panic-stricken Bridget plunged forward, — and downward,—
and under. For a moment nothing of her was visible but a
whirlpool of skirts and a floating sun-bonnet; then up rose her
face like a sea-nymph's, covered with weeds and hair, and dripping
profusely.
Corny, yelling and clapping his hands: “Swim! Put in!
He 's arter ye!”
Bridget: “O, bloody murther!” — blowing water out of her
mouth, and struggling for sight and breath. “It 's drownded I 'll
be! I 'se kilt intirely!”
Hector, extending his fish-pole: “Catch this!”
She grasped it eagerly, and Hector drew her to the bank. After
a deal of struggling and stumbling, she got up, with the heavy
water pouring from her clothes, and looked around.
“Faix,” said she, “who is it that 's kilt? Quit yer laughin',
wid ye, ye botherin', lyin' spalpeen of a Carny! There 's niver
such a baste as a wather-snake anywheres in the crick; and
d' ye s'pose I did n't know that? It 's makin' belave skeert I was,
ahl the time!”
Hector: “And making believe dive, too, Bridget!”
Bridget, indignantly: “An' is 't that knocks such sights o' fun
out o' yez? D' ye think I care for a thrifle of a wet foot?”
“But you have lost your shoes!”
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[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]
“Jist as if 't was n't an ould pair 't I have cast away twice this
marnin', an' picked up again out o' pity, jist! So I tha'ht I 'd be
afther lavin' 'em in the crick, an' that would be the last of 'em, bad
luck to 'em! Give us yer pole, an' I be fishin' up my bunnit,
noo!”
Hector: “I 'll get it for you.”
Charlotte, with tears in her eyes: “Don't wait for it, Bridget!
Run to the house! You should always exercise after a cold bath!”
Bridget: “I 'd be exercisin' that Carny, if I had hould of 'im
wonst! Ye 'll be gettin' yer pay, one day, ol' fello'!”
Hector, raising a drenched rag on the end of his fishing-pole:
“Here 's your bonnet!”
“An' is that my bunnit? Bad luck to it! it might bether 'ave
ghane doon strame! — Laugh, thin, ye owl of a Carny! — Where 's
yer pickerel, noo?”
“Here, take him and run.”
“Ouch! but he 'll be afther bitin' me with that floppin' tail of
his!”
“Put him in your bonnet.”
“An' do ye think I 'd be disgracin' an illigant arthicle, like this
same, wid his slippery carkiss? Here 's the thing that 'll do
beautifully. Wrap 'im up in it, Misther Hector.”
Corny, from over the creek: “Here! that 's my jacket!”
Having rolled the fish in the garment, — which was one of
several, belonging to Corny, left lying in the fields that summer, —
Bridget set out for the house, muttering to herself, and shaking
her head defiantly, her wet clothes clinging and flapping, and her
drenched, uncombed hair streaming down her back. Meanwhile
Mr. Dunbury was calling, impatiently, to Corny. Hector asked
the latter if he heard.
“Wal, I s'pose I do,” said that indifferent youth, seating himself
under the willows.
“Why don't you answer, then?”
“'Cos'; I s'pose I did n't think on 't. I was lookin' at her.”
Mr. Dunbury called again at the top of his lungs.
“W-a-a-a-l!” bellowed Corny, “I 'm comin'!” and, taking
out his knife, he began to whittle a dry stick.
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[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]
Hector, severely: “Is that what you mean by coming?”
Corny: “What 's the thunderin' hurry, I 'd like to know?
Time enough! Say, why don't ye go up to Jackwood's bridge,
an' ketch some o' them suckers? I see a hull slew o' lunkin' big
fellers, up there, t' other day.”
Mr. Dunbury was calling again; and, with extreme reluctance,
young Master Boughton got up from the bushes, put his knife out
of sight, and returned, lazily, to his work.
“Come, Charlotte,” said Hector, “let us get away from the
hearing of this. It makes my soul sick. — Let us stroll up the
creek, and see about Corny's suckers. Will you come?”
The fields lay fragrant and fair before her; and to go out there,
alone with him, into the beauty and calm of the valley, seemed an
almost intoxicating happiness. Charlotte hesitated; but he said
“Come!” again, so winningly and kindly, that she could not
refuse.
“You must be responsible to your mother for taking me away.”
“Yes, yes,” returned Hector, with a strange fervor in his
tones, “I 'll be responsible, I 'll be anything for the sake of
your company.”
“My company?” repeated Charlotte, doubtingly.
Hector turned upon her a look so radiant and tender that it
thrilled her through and through.
“Aside from my mother,” said he, “you are the only person I
see in whose society I take any satisfaction; and you know it.”
“I know,” — Charlotte's heart fluttered, — “I know that you
are often dissatisfied and lonely. Your mother has observed it,
and it troubles her.”
“O, my mother does not understand me! And you do not,
Charlotte.”
“I know I do not: that is not for me.”
“Not for you, Charlotte?”
“No, — I feel so like a little child beside you, always! I am
glad when you are happy; I am sorry when you are sad; and
that is all: I never think of understanding you.”
“My heart craves to be understood, Charlotte; and you might
understand it, if you would!”
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“I?” cried Charlotte, startled.
“You, better than any one. I could throw open all doors to
you, but you will not even look into the inner chambers.”
“It is because I have no right!”
Charlotte's voice was low and tremulous. Hector looked at her
inquiringly, then, walking near her side, took her hand; but she
withdrew it gently.
“Who and what are you?” he cried out, impulsively.
“A child — to you.”
“But children do not do so: children do not keep us at arm's
length: children are trusting and simple.”
“I cease to be a child when you would make me more than
that to you.”
“And why not more?”
“I am not worthy.”
“Not worthy!” Hector seized her hand again, and held it
clasped in his, in spite of her. “Not worthy! O, Charlotte, do
I not know your heart?”
“But you do not know my past!”
“That has been dark, I know. Although you have never told
me of it, I see something of what you have suffered. But think
of my past, Charlotte! 'T is I who am not worthy! O, the
rank weeds of passion I have trampled through! They lie rotting
behind me now, and memory is the wind that brings their
pestilent exhalations to my nostrils. It is this which makes me
sick of life.”
“It is that which is purifying your life: I have seen so much.”
“Perhaps, — for remorse is very busy, ploughing over those
weeds.”
“And perhaps the soil of your nature will be all the richer for
them,” added Charlotte, timidly.
“If they are ever subdued,” said Hector. “You have spoken
wise words, and they comfort me — a little. I try to believe that
my experience has been necessary and useful; but since I have
known you, I have seen myself so soiled and stained, that I have
thought there was not rain enough in the sweet heavens to wash
me clean.”
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“If you had not aspirations above other men, you would not be
dissatisfied with yourself,” replied Charlotte.
“Your mantle of charity is broad, and very grateful to the back
of my offences! But why do I talk to you in this way? to you,
who, above all, I am anxious should think well of me! Is it not
because I want you to know me, — my weakness as well as my
strength, my dark side no less than my bright side, — in order
that I may have your sympathy?”
“Remember — reflect,” said Charlotte, troubled, — “I am but
your servant.”
“Servant! I hate the word! It sounds too much like slave!
There is no servitude to the soul but ignorance and passion; and
the soul in you is all I have to deal with. Had I found you in
the meanest capacity, in absolute bondage even, it would have
made no shade of difference; still something in your soul would
have spoken to something in mine, — would have called me
brother, and I would have recognized my sister!”
Hector spoke with a vehemence that appeared to alarm his
companion. Her cheek paled, and her hand quivered with agitation.
“So let me have no more of that!” he went on, smiling gently.
“We will put our feet upon the false partition between us. You
understand me, — I have no thought of falling in love with you;
that is as far from my heart as Jupiter from the sun.”
Charlotte laughed a sad and tearful laugh, and said there was
no need of telling her that.
“Of course not; you are a girl of sense. It is because I can
put this confidence in you, and know that you will not misinterpret
me, that I esteem you — that I choose you for a friend.”
“But you have so many old friends here, — friends so much
worthier than I!”
“I have not one such, Charlotte. I cherish but a shrivelled
respect for the best of them, — that you know.”
“And I know that they complain of you for that. They were
once your intimates; but now you are indifferent to them. And
it is you who have changed, they say, — they never change.”
“True: I have changed, I do change, I hope always to change.
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And it is because they never change, that the grass has grown
between our paths. There is Charles Hart, for instance: he was
the companion of my boyhood; there was sympathy and confidence
between us; and, in all my journeyings, I never forgot
him. On coming home, I anticipated scarce a greater pleasure
than that of meeting him. We would measure experiences, compare
philosophies, and learn so much of each other, I thought.
Well, I saw him. He was a withered bough; he bore no fruit
for me. His talk was of oxen. He delighted in reminiscences
of good horse-trades. He told all about Jim Weston's fat hogs.
Great stories he recounted of riding fractious colts, of breaking
stubborn steers, of running tilt against pugnacious rams. Conversation
agreeable enough in its way, but unsatisfactory on the
whole. In principles and truths that were the life of my spirit,
he confessed a total lack of interest. I spoke of my poetical
studies — he had had things of greater importance to attend
to. I advanced ideas on spiritual culture — he thought them
dangerous: he had done up his faith in the shroud of his creed,
folded his arms, and was waiting for a resurrection. When I
wished to lead his mind towards the miracles of life and growth,
he branched out on the subject of onions, and told what beds of
'em `me and father' raised, last year. He is but a sample of the
rest. I am not sorry that they find me changed.”
“But the young ladies,” said Charlotte; “they are not like the
men.”
“I hold not a very plump opinion of them, either. Some of
them are pretty and intelligent, I allow. I find real piety and
goodness in a few. But see how they have been educated! I
do not complain of what they have not learned, so much as of
what they have learned amiss. Conventionality and expediency
are their two hands. The principal use of their ears seems to be
to catch the answer to the important question `What will the
world say?' But the worst of all is, they have been taught by
their wise mothers to subordinate all their motives and aspirations
to a low matrimonial ambition. This is, in fact, the nose they
follow, — with one eye on convenience, the other on respectability.
They are so sharp in this practice, that it is dangerous for an
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unmarried man to approach them. I have known brave exceptions,
but the rule applies pretty generally. What wonder, then,
that I neglect them for you? It is refreshing to find one sensible
girl, who has no thought of being fallen in love with!”
“That would be insane in me, indeed!” said Charlotte, smiling,
but with a strange emotion in her face.
“And yet,” cried Hector, “the idea is not so absurd as you
imagine! But do not fear! My days of fancy are passed.
Had I seen you no longer ago than when I was in the south,
there might have been danger; but there is none now.”
Charlotte drew a long breath. Her countenance was downcast
and troubled.
“That offends you, I see! It should not. Come, look up, —
smile.”
Charlotte raised her eyes. They were filled with tears.
“How have I grieved you?”
“You have not — it was nothing you said —”
“And yet,” insisted Hector, “I touched some chord that suffering
has made sensitive. How you distrust me!”
“I do not distrust you,” said Charlotte.
“If you did not, you would tell me of your sufferings. You
would lift that dark curtain which hides your heart.”
They had stopped; they were standing by a little runnel in the
meadow. Hector held her wrist and looked down earnestly in her
face. For a moment she struggled with herself; then spoke out,
hurriedly.
“Hector, you have been true to me, and I cannot deceive you.
Let me tell you this, then, once for all. If you knew my history,
you would put me from you. It is the consciousness of this that
shoots me through with pain, when I remember myself — you —
and the gulf between us!”
Hector became pale with apprehension.
“Show me that gulf,” he said, with an incredulous smile.
“No, — no, — I have warned you of the truth, — the fact I
can never speak.”
Hector's brow was overcast; but, seeing how strangely sad and
fair she looked, with her large eyes drooping under his searching
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gaze, he placed his finger, playfully, under her chin, and met her
upward glance with a generous smile.
“Pardon me,” he said, in a low, musical tone. “I 'll try not
to ask again for what does not belong to me. Forget it all; and
we will see now what can be done for Corny's suckers, — for here
we are, close by the bridge, and the squirrels on the fence are
chattering at us.”
But Hector's heart was no longer in his sport. There were no
fish at the bridge worth catching, he said.
“Then let us go home,” Charlotte proposed.
He could not think of that; the charm of leading her through
those sweet solitudes was too pleasant to be broken.
“Do not be faint-hearted,” said he. “If we go a little further
we can pass by Mr. Jackwood's house, and, perhaps, get a glimpse
of Phœbe's bright face, on our way home.”
And Charlotte still had power to do only what he asked, and
follow where he led.
-- -- p732-114
X. MRS. RIGGLESTY'S ADVENTURE.
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The grandmother of the Jackwood family, like the greatest
great-grandmother of us all, was tempted by an apple. It came
floating down Huntersford Creek, and was discerned by the modern
Eve, as she walked upon the shore, filling her apron — not a figleaf—
with floodwood fagots for the kitchen fire.
“A good nice June-eatin', true as I live!” said grandmother
Rigglesty, sneezing at the sun in the water. “It 's a pity to have
it wasted.” She looked about for a long stick. “I never see!
Time an' ag'in 't I 've stumbled over sticks in this 'ere shif'liss
pastur', now I can't, for the life o' me, lay my hand on
one!”
The best she could find was a heavy, crooked branch, which
proved to be some less than an inch too short.
“It 's jest the way alluz!” she burst forth, getting up from her
bent posture. “Everything is so hateful! I 've broke my back,
and wet my foot, into the bargain! Sich an awk'ard stick!”
All this time the apple, tossing in the bright waves by the
shore, was progressing still further from her own mouth, towards
the mouth of the creek. She followed, until, her eye resting upon
Mr. Jackwood's old flat-bottomed boat, she hastened to get aboard,
deposited her apron of fagots in the stern, which lay upon the
shore, and placed the dry seat for a bridge over the bilge-water
that had settled in the bow. Upon this she ventured, armed with
her crooked branch; paddling patiently to divert the apple towards
her, until at length she was able to tickle it with the tips
of her fingers. Then, after stretching and straining until she
became purple in the face, she grasped it in her hand. At the
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same time she dropped the stick. Recovering the stick, she
dropped the apple. Then she dropped them both. Regaining the
fruit, she placed it on the bow of the boat; but, not feeling at
home on a bow of that description, it quietly fell off, whilst she
was recapturing the stick, and danced laughingly away in the sunshine.
“Hold on! dear me!” she cried, making a desperate effort to
recover it.
The attempt proved literally fruitless; and, in her vexation, she
threw the stick at it spitefully. Having bespattered herself profusely,
and lost both the apple and the branch, she crept back
upon her bridge, with her features all knotted up in a snarl, and
looked around for her apron of fagots. To her dismay, she found
them afloat in the bilge-water, rushing back into the stern.
The boat was unfastened, and, her operations serving to work it
off the shore, she now saw herself sailing slowly and smoothly out
into the stream.
“Whoa! whoa!” cried grandmother Rigglesty, as if the boat
had been a horse or an ox; “whoa, you sir! — Bim'lech! Betsy!
My sakes! can't nobody hear?”
Somebody did hear. It was the dog Rover, who came capering
along the bank, yelping furiously.
“Here, Rover!” she cried, — “that 's a good doggie! Help
me, quick!”
Perhaps, anticipating the sinking of the boat, she looked for
salvation in his bark. But the dog took quite an erroneous view
of the case, regarding the call as of an entirely sportive nature.
Considering his gallantry challenged to assist in some wild fun
projected by the picturesque old lady, he leaped into the water,
and commenced a furious attack upon the boat, with teeth and
paws.
“Git out!” ejaculated grandmother Rigglesty — (he had not
yet got in). “You 'll have me tipped over, sure 's this world!”
The more she was in earnest, the more Rover thought she was
in fun, and persisted in jumping aboard in spite of her. The boat
tipped frightfully, and grandmother Rigglesty screamed. Then
Rover shook himself, showering her with spray as she sat perched
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upon her plank; and she screamed again. Thinking it very
funny, he sat down good-naturedly in the bottom, and looked up
wistfully in her face, winking, and churning in the water with his
tail. In her exasperation, she began to kick his chops; upon
which he showed a disposition to take everything in good part, by
playfully masticating her foot.
Meanwhile the boat was filling rapidly, and threatening to go
down, with all her crew on board. By some good fortune, however,
an island appeared, in the shape of a round bowlder, in mid-channel;
and as the bow struck the rock, the old lady scrambled
upon it, leaving her apron and fagots to float down stream in the
abandoned wreck. Rover appeared to consider this phase of the
adventure as the funniest of all, and endeavored to enhance the
sport by crowding her off the rock, and by growling and snapping
at her toes when she refused to jump into the water.
At this pleasant juncture, a voice hailed from below; and Hector
and Charlotte appeared, coming around a clump of bushes
that grew upon the point of a knoll. Thereupon Rover, swimming
to the bank, ran joyfully to his old acquaintance, and
attempted to leap into her face, with intent to lick.
“Go away!” cried Charlotte. “I can't love you when you
are so wet!”
So Rover shook himself again, and set out to rub himself dry
on Hector's trousers. But, being caught up suddenly by the legs,
he described in the air, first a half-circle, then a tangent, then a
gentle curve, — and afterwards came up, snuffing and paddling, in
mid-channel, before he appeared to understand at all the nature
of the phenomenon that had surprised him.
Hector, to the old lady: “What have you got there, grandmother?”
Old lady, crossly: “I 'm in a strait — that 's what I 've got!
Don't stop to parley; but help me, if you 're ever goin' to! I
jest went to git an apple out o' the crick, when that hateful boat
had to go off with me!”
“And did you get the apple?”
“No, I did n't! and that 's what makes me so provoked!”
Hector, gravely: “It might have been expected. I once
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saw a juggler take an apple out of an orange; but I never yet
heard of any person taking one out of a current.”
“I 'm sure I don't know a word you 're a talkin' about!”
spluttered the old lady. “I 'm ketchin' my death-cold here, —
both feet soppin' wet, — I 'd have ye know!”
At this point, finding it difficult to restrain her emotions at
sight of her old friend, Charlotte set out to make the Jackwoods
a visit, leaving Hector to get the cast-away off the rock.
“The trollop!” muttered grandmother Rigglesty. “I declare,
if she wan't la'fin' right to my face!”
“What do you say?” demanded Hector. “Take it back, or
I 'll not help you out of the creek!”
“She 'd no bizniss to la'ft!”
“If she is human she could n't help it; you are a pleasing
and picturesque spectacle, grandmother! But you must be better-natured;
you must be kind, and patient, and charitable, my dear
friend.”
“I s'pose I was hasty,” the old lady confessed, reluctantly.
“But you need n't a' snapped me up on 't so short! I did n't
mean no harm!”
“That 'll do pretty well for a beginning. If you keep on, you
will get to have quite a Christian temper,” said Hector, “by the
time you are old.”
The boat had gone aground upon a sand-bar near the bank, and
Hector, reaching it with his fishing-pole, drew it towards him, and
dragged it upon the shore.
“Cultivate patience, grandmother!” he cried; “the craft
stands in need of repairs.”
Having emptied the water, fagots and all, into the creek, he
deliberately set about calking the boat with the old lady's apron.
“Marcy on me!” gasped grandmother Rigglesty; “I shall
fly!”
“Do so,” said Hector; “and you will save me this trouble. Be
careful, though, when you alight; you will frighten people.”
As she gave no decided indication of going up, he went on with
his calking, sparing no expense of time or calico in stopping the
leaks. Having accomplished his work to his satisfaction, he
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launched the boat, jumped aboard with his fishing-pole, shoved out
to the rock, and brought the old lady safe to land.
Strange as it may appear, she felt anything but emotions of
benevolence and gratitude. Nothing could soothe her soreness of
heart, and the rheumatic pains in her neck and back, like the
balm of some sweet revenge. Accordingly, while Hector was
picking the seams of her apron out of the seams of the boat, she
commenced a similar operation upon Charlotte's character.
“She 's a gal 't means well, — I can say that for her,” she
began, her fear of Hector preventing her from approaching the
subject too openly, — “and when that 's the case, I 'm sure we 'd
oughter kinder lend a helpin' hand to anybody, no matter 'f
they 've ben the wust critturs 't ever lived.”
Hector was interested; but, pretending indifference, he continued
to pick away at the old lady's apron. She at the same time
picked away at Charlotte. She told the whole history of the disguise,
and of the young girl's exposure, the day before she left
Mr. Jackwood's. As it was the first intelligence of the kind
Hector had received, it troubled him, his mind naturally reverting
to what Charlotte had that morning said of her past life.
Mrs. Rigglesty perceived her advantage, and pursued it venomously.
She said she had known Charlotte for more than twelve
years; and that, on a visit to her son Enoch, in North Nincum.
where she belonged, she had learned all about her recent proceedings.
These had led to the disgrace of her family, and to her
own flight. The story was one that the old lady could not have
invented; and the confident manner in which she identified Miss
Woods with the girl at North Nincum produced an overwhelming
effect upon Hector.
Meanwhile, in company with the bitter old lady, he arrived at
the house. Phœbe being absent, Charlotte was found in conversation
with Mrs. Jackwood, who was busy preparing dinner.
Grandmother Rigglesty moved by them like a muttering cloud,
dropping rain from her wet apron, which she gave a final twist,
before hanging it upon the oven-door to dry.
“O! O!” — starting and clapping her hand behind her, —
“my poor back!”
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Mrs. Jackwood ran to her assistance: “I 'll take care o' that,
mother!” — spreading out the apron. — “Sed down, Hector, — I
can't make it come handy to call you Mr. Dunbury. — Le' me take
off your wet shoes an' stockin's,” — to the old lady.
“No, never mind! I can do it, I guess, — if I can't, it 's jest
as well. I wish that door could be kep' shet once! There 's a
draft of air comes right on to my shoulders and neck!”
Charlotte arose and closed the door. Hector's eyes followed
her with a searching look, which startled her, as she turned and
caught his eye.
“O, don't trouble yourself, I beg!” said the old lady, as Mrs.
Jackwood insisted on removing her wet stockings. “'T need n't
make a mite o' difference, jes' cause there 's visitors here; they
won't mind the looks, though you should n't think I 'm wuth
makin' a fuss over, — for I 'm sensible I an't, myself: I 've had
that lesson to larn perty thoroughly in my old age!”
And, with a disconsolate air, grandmother Rigglesty fumbled in
her bag for the Good Samaritan, and consulted him in her trouble,
as of old. Having dried her eyes, she looked down and saw
Rover wagging his tail, and regarding her with an expression that
seemed to say, “Did n't we have capital fun?” — upon which she
converted the handkerchief into a whip, and made a sudden and
spiteful cut with it at the good-natured cur.
“There! I wish to goodness somebody 'd take that dog and
chop his head off!”
“Why, what has the dog done?” cried Mrs. Jackwood.
As she spoke, Rover rallied, and, making a pounce at the Good
Samaritan, seized him with his teeth and paws, and began to
shake and tear him, in a prodigious sham fury.
“You see what he 's done!” ejaculated the old lady. “Gi' me
them tongs!”
Forgetting her rheumatism and wet feet, she started from the
chair, and, with one stocking off, and one stocking on, like “my
son John,” of high-diddle-dumpling memory, commenced an animated
pursuit of Rover around the room. The poor dog was at
last fairly cornered, and the forked thunderbolt was about to fall
prone upon the head and front of his offending, when the door
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was opportunely opened, and Bim made his appearance, blustering.
“Here, Rover!” he cried, — “cut!”
At the word, with craven head, and tail depressed, Rover
darted between the legs of his young master, and whisked out of
the house, while the tongs came down upon the floor behind him
with a jar which filled the old lady's arm with stings, from the
fingers to the elbow.
“There! That 's all for you, you good-for-nothing! I 've
broke my arm — perty nigh!”
Bim, undaunted: “You might let the dog alone!”
Mrs. Jackwood: “Bim'lech! Bim'lech!”
Bim, stoutly: “She begun it!”
Old lady: “O, I would n't interfere! Let him sass me all
he wants to; that 's what I was made for, I s'pose! It 's all
owin' to him, 't I got my feet wet. He left the boat right where
he know'd 't would go off with anybody if they jest stepped into
it. I never see sich ugliness!”
After that, there was a lull, — Mrs. Rigglesty heating her feet
at the stove, with now and then a deep, prolonged sigh of ostentatious
suffering; Bim looking sheepish, and drumming on the
window, as Charlotte inquired about his health and spirits;
Hector twirling his hat; and Mrs. Jackwood apologizing.
“Sakes alive!” suddenly burst forth the old lady; “look at
that shoe! I declare if 't an't comin' to pieces! Them new pair
't I bought o' that plaguy pedler o' yourn, only 't other day, an'
paid ten cents more for 'n I ever pay for shoes, on account o' the
extry soles, an' now, the fust time they git a little grain wet,—
only look at 'em!”
“When you have come to my years,” said Hector, “you
will have learned to beware of extra pretensions. As with
people, so with shoes. — Give me a glass of water, Mrs. Jackwood,
and we will go home. We are promised fish for dinner,
and I have a foreshadowing of thirst.”
“Our well 's give out, this summer,” said Mrs. Jackwood.
“Phœbe 's gone to the spring for water, an' I 'm expectin' her
back every minute.”
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“She 's off readin' that nasty novil, somewheres!” spoke up
grandmother Rigglesty. “She 's at it every chance she can git.
I 'd burn it up, if she was a child o' mine!”
“If she was a child of mine” — said Hector.
Old lady, sharply: “Wal, what if she was?”
“Then you would be my mother! — Good-by. — We 'll not
wait for Phœbe.”
Old lady, muttering: “I wish that door could be kep' shet!
There, they 're gone, arter so long a time! That Hector 's jes'
like his father, for all the world, — only more so, if anything!”
Bim, following the visitors to the gate, gave vent to his feelings
in breathing defiance against the old lady.
“What are you going to do with that pipe?” asked Charlotte.
Bim, desperately: “It 's hern; and I 'm goin' to put some
powder in it, an' blow her up, to pay her!”
Hector: “I take it, then, she blows you up, sometimes.”
“I don't care for her!” — Bim swung his head, with a swaggering
expression. — “I put thistles in her han'kerchief, t' other
day! Golly! did n't she scream!”
Charlotte, taking the boy's hand: “I 'm afraid you are not so
good to her as you might be.”
Bim, earnestly: “Who could? — Here, Rove,” — pulling the
dog's ears, — “say good-by!”
“Yahowawoooiiii!” said Rover, compromising a howl with a
yawn.
On the way home, Charlotte felt a cloud resting upon her
spirit. It was heaviest and chillest when Hector was nearest.
Through it his smiles looked cold, and his laugh sounded hard
and hollow to her ear.
He appeared to notice her but little, but went bowling large
stones along the road; sometimes throwing them high in the air,
and catching them dexterously as they came down.
“This is life! How we poor mortals toil and sweat over our
serious games! And what is the result of it all? A little dust,
like that this cobble raises in the road!”
The missile, bounding from the path, leaped through the fence
into a clump of bushes, growing on the other side.
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“O dear! O! O! O!” screamed a shrill voice; and straightway
out ran a wild-looking creature into the field, bareheaded,
with hair flying, and hands clasped over her ears.
“Ha!” said Hector, “there 's unexpected game!”
“I am afraid she is hurt!” cried Charlotte.
“Not she; else she would scream less, according to the rule of
shams. If a man is frightened, he blusters; if hurt, he says little;
if killed, he maintains a wise silence. This holds good, as a
general rule; but perhaps Phœbe Jackwood is an exception. —
Are you hurt, Phœbe?”
Phœbe: “I guess so! I 'm so scar't I don't know a word I
do, or anything I say! What was that?”
“A hailstone, Phœbe! Come here, and let me look at the
hole in your head.”
Phœbe, quickly putting up her hand: “Is there one? Where?
tell me!”
“Give me your hand, and I 'll show you.”
She ran up to the fence, and Hector reached over to her. “It
opens every time you speak. There!” And, placing her finger
in her mouth, he closed her teeth upon it.
“That 's just like you, Hector Dunbury! If 't was anybody
else, I never 'd speak to you again!”
Pouting a little, and blushing a good deal, Phœbe ran behind
the sumachs, confusedly putting up her hair by the way.
“Is that what you call a hailstone?” she cried, tossing the
cobble over the fence. “You threw it!”
“To be sure; and it was a friendly hail, Phœbe. You should
have hailed me pleasantly in return, instead of going off in a
fright.”
“I guess you 'd 'ave been frightened to have a great rock
come thrashing through the bushes on to your head, when you
was asleep! Would n't he, Charlotte?”
“If anything could frighten him,” said Charlotte. “What
book have you?”
“Alonzo and Melissa. Did you ever read it? I wish I
had n't begun it, for I don't like it a bit, — but I can 't let it
alone till it 's finished, any way. I set up till two o'clock last
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night, and got so excited over it that when I went to bed I
could n't sleep a wink, but see balls of fire, and heard doors slam,
and felt cold hands on my arm, all the rest of the night; and I 've
been so sleepy all day I can't hardly keep my eyes open.”
Phœbe handed the book to Charlotte through the rails; then,
having passed her pail of water over to Hector, and asked him
to turn around, and not look, she began to climb the fence.
Hector made a cup of a basswood-leaf, and, having filled it for
Charlotte to drink, and afterwards drank out of it himself, shook
the water from it into Phœbe's face.
“You are a dull girl to fall asleep over Alonzo and Melissa!
Good-by. Your mother is waiting for you.”
“Dont hurry off so! I would n't have got over the fence, only
I thought you 'd stop and talk a minute.”
“I 've no minute to spare. Time is precious, Phœbe, and I
hear Bridget blowing the dinner-horn. Go, and take that fatal
stone with you, as a keepsake. It has waked you from one
dream of romance; and it may save you from many another, if
you will treasure it as a type of man's heart, and look at it
whenever you think of falling in love.”
“If that is a type of man's heart, what is a type of woman's?”
asked Charlotte.
“Still a stone, but it should be hollow. And yet not every
heart is so — not every heart!” added Hector, in a changed
tone.
He walked away with Charlotte in silence, leaving the gay
Phœbe to roll the cobble carefully in her apron, and carry it to
the house with her pail of water.
Scarce another word was spoken by either Hector or his companion,
until they reached home. Then, as they were passing
under the porch, Charlotte, whose heart was full, could restrain
herself no longer.
“How dissatisfied you are with me to-day!” she said, in a low,
tremulous tone.
“With all the world, and with myself most of all!” rejoined
Hector.
Charlotte would have asked “Why?”
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“Because,” said Hector, perceiving her thoughts, “I have
made a discovery.”
Discovery! The word fell upon her heart with stunning
power; for a moment nerve and breath and strength were taken
away, and she wished that she might fall down at Hector's feet,
and never rise up more.
“It is,” he added, smiling bitterly, —“I have left my fishing-pole
at Mr. Jackwood's!”
He strode through the hall; while Charlotte, following, and
finding her way to her room, sank, almost lifelessly, upon her bed,
and lay there in trance-like despair, until the harsh voice of
Bridget came to announce that the pickerel was on the table, and
the dinner waiting.
-- -- p732-125
XI. DANGEROUS SYMPTOMS.
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From that day Hector's conduct towards Charlotte was marked
by strange inconsistencies. Sometimes, spontaneously, from his
lips the tenderest words fell like warm rain upon the flowers of her
heart; then the lightning of his wit flashed out upon her, sharp
and sudden, from the cloud of his bitter melancholy; or the cold
breath of his assumed indifference chilled her like the north wind.
One day, when she had suffered extremely from his fitful
treatment, Mrs. Dunbury called her to her side. The good
woman was reposing in her easy-chair, and her countenance
beamed with a broken and sorrowful smile as Charlotte drew near,
and seated herself at her feet.
“My dear child,” — and the invalid laid her hand with a
gentle touch upon the young girl's head, — “my heart compels
me to speak to you on a subject which we have both avoided too
long. Let us be true, let us be friends indeed, Charlotte, if
not for my sake or yours, then for my son's — for Hector's.” —
There was a pause. Charlotte's very soul stood still, and the
silence seemed to ring as she listened. — “You will tell me if I
am wrong, but I think — I am sure — Hector loves you!”
Charlotte started, and gazed with a questioning look into her
friend's benignant face.
“If it is so,” said Mrs. Dunbury, “I shall not be displeased.
Only tell me true.”
“But it is not so!” exclaimed Charlotte, with singular vehemence.
“He dislikes me! — you know he does!”
“If you say so, my child, I will believe at least that you think
so. But I imagined he had made advances to you —”
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“Never! never!”
“You will pardon me, then, for troubling you,” said the invalid;
“but, O,” — with starting tears, — “if you but knew how much his
destiny depends upon the affections of his heart! I will tell you a
secret, Charlotte. There is — it is better that you should know —
a taint in our family of — hereditary insanity.”
A thrill of horror shot through Charlotte.
“I am a mother,” the invalid said, “and I am, perhaps, weak
and foolish. But this concerns you, and I need your aid and
sympathy.”
“What have I done? What can I do?” demanded Charlotte.
“Be quiet, my good child, and hear me. I see no safety for my
son but in a happy marriage; nor can I be at rest until I behold his
tempest-tossed passion anchored in some pure and loving bosom,
like your own. A misplaced affection is the most I have to fear.
There, dear Charlotte,” — the invalid dropped a tear on her companion's
hand, — “I have laid open to you the most sacred apartment
of my heart: you will not profane the trust, I know.”
For the moment, Charlotte was overpowered with conflicting
emotions. Amazement and distress, not unaccompanied by a certain
vague, fearful joy, sent the swift crimson and pallor chasing
each other in her face. Twice she attempted to speak; then, sinking
upon her knees before her friend, she hid her face in that
maternal lap, and wept. Embracing her, and soothing her with
sympathetic words, Mrs. Dunbury lifted her up. Then, with a
firm but gentle dignity, Charlotte spoke.
“I am grateful, I cannot tell you how grateful, for your kind
thoughts of me, and your good will! I would lay down my life
for you, and count it as nothing. But I can never be Hector's —
he can never be mine!”
“One word,” said Mrs. Dunbury, in a faint voice; “could you
love him?”
“That is a thought which even in my dreams I have not
dared to entertain.”
“Ah, Charlotte! I think I read in your heart what you dare
not read yourself. Cover it up, — cover it, by all means, from
him, — until he calls for it.”
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“He will never call for it! And if he should,” exclaimed
Charlotte, “I could not give it him! I will go; I will leave
your house this day! It will be better for me, — better for you
and him.”
Mrs. Dunbury strained her to her bosom. Charlotte struggled
to free herself.
“You know not whom you take to your heart!” she said, with
increased passion. “And your son, if he has a thought of love
for me, he knows not how worse than thrown away it is! We
are divided by a destiny sharper than swords! Do not question
me, for I can tell you nothing. Because I cannot, — because, if
I stay, I must conceal and deceive; because I would not repay
your kindness and trust by such ingratitude, — I will go, and go
at once.”
“No, Charlotte, you shall stay! Keep your secret,” said the
invalid, “if you will; but stay, dear Charlotte, and you will not
only confer a blessing on me, but perhaps save another from the
worst fate that can befall.”
Charlotte was deeply moved.
“No, no! I must not, I cannot! Your love burns me like
fire!”
“Hush!” said Mrs. Dunbury. “I hear his step.”
Scarcely had Charlotte time to regain her feet, when the door
opened. Hector entered, and threw himself upon a chair, while
the curtains of the recess, behind which she had hastily taken
refuge, were still rustling.
“Where have you been, my son?”
“Upon the mountain, to free my lungs, mother. I should
stifle if I did not climb occasionally above the reek of human
breaths. I fell asleep under a tree, and waked to find a woodchuck
smelling of my boot. The mantle-hem of civilization lies
so thin and ravelled on that altitude, that the wild beasts have
not yet become corrupted by the acquaintance of man.”
“How pale you look! Are you ill?”
“No, mother. I have been fighting.”
“Fighting, my son! With whom?”
“With my worst enemy, dear mother.”
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“O, why do you have these terrible struggles with yourself?”
“Because I find in myself that rebellion which is to be
crushed!”
“I would you were a Christian!” breathed the pious woman.
“I would I were, indeed; for if I had that grace, I might
convert another, — then the world could boast of two.”
Mrs. Dunbury changed her tactics: “You should be married,
Hector.”
“Why, so I should; and so should every man. But how much
easier it is said than done!”
“You vex me when you talk so. You might have been married
five years ago.”
“After a fashion, mother; but I thank my stars that my neck
escaped the yoke; for I have learned to prize in woman high
qualities never dreamed of in the heat and passion of my youth.
What if I were united to such a one as I should then have
chosen?” Hector shuddered. “God be praised for the institution
of old maids and bachelors, say I!”
He took up a book. But, having commenced to sound him on
a subject near to her heart, his mother pursued it still.
“You must not look for perfection, my son.”
“I look for nothing, — only for the heart that can command the
full power of mine.”
“Need you go far for that? If you do not require wealth, or
position, there are certainly women of soul —”
“Name one, mother!”
“To speak at random,” said Mrs. Dunbury, carelessly, — “or,
rather, to commence nearest home, there is —”
“Charlotte!” added Hector, with a smile, glancing towards
the recess.
“Perhaps she would not have you,” said the invalid, with an
affected laugh; “but you might make the attempt.”
“Mother,” said Hector, severely, “if you jest, your wit is unseasonable.
If you are in earnest, your speech lacks discretion.
Charlotte may be all a fond mother could wish for her darling son,
but certainly you would not expect me to marry her unless I
loved her.”
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Mrs. Dunbury's eyes glistened. “How can you help loving
her?”
“How can you help loving — pickles?”
“That 's a foolish question, Hector.”
“Or an answer to a foolish question, dear mother!”
Hector threw down the book, and left the room.
“Charlotte!” whispered Mrs. Dunbury.
Very pale, but with a fair, calm dignity of mien, Charlotte
came forth.
“Did you hear what was said?”
“I have heard all!”
“And you are not offended?”
“O, no, I am glad!” said Charlotte, smiling.
“And — you will not leave us?”
“Not unless you wish it. I am stronger now, and I will stay.”
She spoke with her graceful form drawn up to its full height,
with the roused spirit of pride shining through her face, and flashing
in her eyes.
At that moment Hector returned for his hat. Taking it from
the table, he passed on, and opened the curtains before the recess
where the girl had stood.
“What are you looking for?” asked his mother.
“Excuse me, — but I am trying to discover what has made
Charlotte grow so tall, and given her so fine a color, within the
last five minutes.”
-- -- p732-130
XII. THE WEDDING.
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There was to be a wedding in the village, to which the Dunburys
were invited; and it devolved upon Hector to represent the
family. To his mother's surprise and gratification, he engaged to
undertake the responsibility, upon one condition. “Charlotte,”
said he, “shall go with me.”
Charlotte shrank from the thought of seeing society; but she
had no good excuse to offer — not even on the score of dress; for
since her residence with the Dunburys she had been liberally provided
for, in that respect. Notwithstanding, therefore, certain
forebodings she had, she suffered herself to be overcome by solicitation,
and gave her promise to accompany Hector.
The ceremony was to take place in the evening; and in due
season Corny brought the horse and buggy to the door.
“It is a brave wedding we are going to!” said Hector, as
he drove away. “The fair young bride is in her thirty-fifth summer, —
a little gray and faded, but for the virtues of a judicious
hair-wash, and the excellent care taken of her complexion. When
I was a school-boy, aged ten, she was the belle of the village, and
had as many lovers as she could count on her fingers and toes.
Old men renewed their age to become her suitors, and boys were
as sure to fall in love with her as they were to have down on
their chins. It was expected of them, just as we look for measles
in children. I was one of the predestinated, and at sixteen experienced
two days of excessive melancholy in consequence of a
rejection. Well, having suffered the first and second generation
of her admirers to pass away, she has chosen one out of a third
thin brood of weaklings, who have managed to get up a feeble
show of the ancient custom, in these latter days.”
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Charlotte hoped the bridegroom was worthy.
“O, he is worthy enough, — although, to speak truth, she
would not have lowered even her haughty glance to his level, five
years ago.”
“Why will she now, then?”
“Because he stands to her in the interesting position of a last
chance for a husband. And it is so very horrible to live an old
maid, you know!”
“But,” said Charlotte, “it is dreadful — such a union!”
“O, it will do, it will do, as matches average!”
Arrived at the bride's house, Hector and Charlotte were ushered
into the presence of a large company in a crowded apartment, —
some silent, some conversing in subdued voices, and all very
solemn.
“If I had never been to a wedding before,” whispered Hector,
“I should think we had made a mistake, and got into a funeral.”
Suddenly there was a hush, and the happy pair, appearing with
the bridesmaids and groomsmen, marched to the place assigned
them in the light of the wax candles. The centre of observation
was of course the bride. She was of such commanding presence,
that the pretty Mr. Creston, with his weak face and slender shoulders,
seemed scarce noticeable at her side.
“How pale she looks!” said Bertha Wing, who sat with Mr.
Rukely, at Charlotte's left hand. “What a strange brightness in
her eye!”
Hector turned with a smile which sent the blood tingling to
her cheeks.
“She is taking her last look at her bright ideal, Bertha. Or
perhaps the phantoms of a thousand old-time lovers are flitting
between her and the light.”
Bertha, troubled: “She will be happier when it is all over.”
Hector: “So you may say of a drowning man!”
Mr. Rukely, mildly: “Let us have charity!”
Hector: “Amen, with all my heart! Yet it stirs the gall
within me, to see a woman, capable of loving, desecrate the sanctity
of her soul by mumbling vows with one utterly powerless to
call her passion out!”
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Bertha, becoming suddenly pale as the bride, looked hastily
around, to see if the remark had been overheard. Mr. Rukely
smiled benignly, and, making a sign for silence, directed attention
to the ceremony.
This was performed by a staid old clergyman of the village,
who married the happy couple fast and strong, and blessed the
union. Congratulations and kisses followed; and at length
refreshments were introduced, — jellies, nuts, coffee, and several
kinds of costly cake, all very fine and very indigestible, together
with a feast of reason, to which the company was invited by the
bridegroom's uncle. He was a wrinkle-browed, snuff-taking, old-fashioned
individual, with a wise grimace, spectacles, and stiff
iron-gray hair stuck up all over his head.
“My daughter Etty,” said he, enunciating with slow precision,
“has prepared a poetical address, appropriate to the occasion,
which she will proceed to deliver. — Etty!”
A girl of thirteen, with a large forehead and great eyes, supposed
to be a genius, stepped forward promptly.
“It 's all her own composition,” remarked the child's mother,
by way of prologue. “She wrote it without any assistance.”
“Mrs. Greenwich,” interrupted her husband, with lofty disapprobation,
“I am talking now! Daughter!” — raising his hand,—
“one, two, three, — begin!”
At the word, Etty rattled away, like a militia company firing at
command, with a volley of blank verses levelled at the newly-married
pair.
Mother, parenthetically: “Not quite so fast, daughter.”
Father, severely: “I 'll dictate, if you please, Mrs. Greenwich!”
The lady nodded deferentially. Etty went on, holding her
hands stiffly folded across her lap, and looking down, as if reciting
to the carpet. The substance of the poem was, that the happy
pair were a strong oak and a graceful vine yoked together in the
car of matrimony, and sailing over a sapphire ocean, in a little Eden
of their own, full of flowery fountains, rainbows, the prodigal son,
and the wise virgins with the oil in their lamps. Quite a round
of applause greeted the conclusion.
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“I want you all to understand,” said the mother of the genius,
“that the poem was composed in one hour and forty minutes —”
“Mrs. Greenwich! I was about to speak!”
Mrs. G., meekly: “O, certainly!”
Mr. G.: “Daughter!”
Young genius, prettily: “What, father?”
“I want you to recite the last part again, commencing at the
line, `There Flora spreads,' and let your voice rise at `spangled
groves.' Slowly and distinctly.”
Encouraged by the praises already bestowed, Etty repeated the
concluding lines with improved confidence, and won additional
applause. The bride, who had borne up under the infliction with
smiling patience, thanked the little prodigy for her compliments
and good wishes, and asked for a copy of the verses.
“A copy for me, too, Etty,” said the bridegroom.
Blushing bridesmaid: “I speak for a copy!”
Two or three, in a breath: “Me, too, Etty!”
Chorus of voices: “Wonderful genius!” — “Be-e-e-eautiful!”—
“Sweet pretty!” — “Ought to be printed!”
Mr. Greenwich: “Daughter, what have you got to say?”
Young genius, ready with a speech: “I thank you all very
kindly for your good opinion —”
Mrs. Greenwich, in a whisper: “Go on, — what is it about
talents?”
“If God has seen fit to endow me with talents, I ought not to
take any credit to myself, but show my gratitude by trying to
make a good use of them. At the same time, I trust my friends
will be less ready to praise than to tell me of my faults.”
More applause. Little prodigy's head quite turned. Mrs. G.
excited and silly. Mr. G. prosy on the subject of his daughter's
talents.
Bertha, holding Etty's hand: “Come and see me, and I 'll give
you a pretty subject for a poem.”
Hector: “Come and see me, and I 'll give you something
better.”
Young genius, with a curtsey: “Thank you! May I ask
what it would be?”
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Hector: “Some good advice.”
Young genius: “I suppose you do not like my poetry, then.”
“My child,” said Hector, kindly, drawing her towards him, “I
like you” — he dropped his voice — “much better than I like
your verses. You can afford to let me say so much, can't you,
since everybody else is praising them? You said your friends
were to tell you of your faults; and if you would like to have me
mention one little one, to begin with —”
The genius repulsed him peevishly, and went pouting to her
mother.
Mrs. G., resentfully: “What have you been saying to her?”
Hector smiled: “The truth, simply. Is she so unaccustomed
to the taste of that article, that it bites her tongue?”
There was a good deal of disapprobation expressed, in an indirect
way, against Hector's proceeding, generally by those who
experienced a secret joy at the young prodigy's discomfiture.
“And you, Charlotte, — you blame me with the rest?”
“Were you not a little cruel?” answered Charlotte.
“Charlotte,” — a deep emotion struggled in Hector's voice, —
“I could endure that every person here to-night should misjudge
me, malign me, think me ill-natured and egotistical, except you!”
The young girl felt a joyous thrill. Why was it? Had she
not believed and preached to her poor heart, night and day, that
there was, there could be, no one single slenderest tie of sympathy
between her and Hector?
“I was cruel,” said he, “because I would be kind. And,
believe me, to wound the poor child's feelings as I did, was the
hardest thing I have had to do for weeks, — except when I have
so often wounded yours!”
“You thought it necessary to give me pain!”
“Yes, — and no. I cannot explain now. I have wronged you!
Not so much in my acts as in my thoughts. I have so much to
say to you!”
Charlotte could not speak one word. She could not raise her
eyes. The sound of Mr. Rukely's voice recalled her to herself.
He had taken Hector's place at her side. But his words rustled
merely, and fell away from her like husks. He left her to give
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room to others. Already her rare graces had made her the centre
of an admiring circle, and frivolous young men brought compliments
to purchase her smiles. Their commonplace prattle wearied
her; it cost an effort to treat them with civility; and she was
glad when the arrival of an unexpected guest occasioned a whirl
of interest, which left her, for a moment, free to follow her own
thoughts.
Her mind was with Hector. Amid all the throng and buzz, she
saw his form and heard the music of his voice alone. Until ONE
came between her and him. It was the new guest. She saw the
two shake hands with a certain freedom which betokened old
familiar acquaintance. She saw the new face, she heard the new
voice, she felt the new presence, with a sudden overwhelming
shock. What followed she knew not, until she found herself, all
unnerved and shaken, clinging to the door of the dressing-room,
whither she had instinctively fled.
It was a small apartment, with a bed at one side, covered with
bonnets and shawls, and a bureau opposite, on which there was a
lamp burning dimly in the gloom. In utter helplessness, she sank
upon a chair. But a rustling of the bed-curtains warned her that
she was not alone. Among the garments thrown upon the side
of the bed, an object moved, arose, and turned upon her a child's
face, with eyes that shone large, and red, and swollen, in the dull
light of the lamp. It was Etty, the genius.
“Have you seen him?” she asked, timidly.
Charlotte controlled as well as she could the agitation of her
heart, and said, kindly, “Have I seen whom?”
“My brother Robert. I had been crying; and he always
used to dislike me when I cried, — so I ran in here. He has
been away a year; and I have wanted him to come home so
much! But he won't care to see me, — do you think he will?”
The child seemed to cling to Charlotte for sympathy and
help. She was a child indeed then. The genius and the prodigy
had disappeared. The hard shell of affectation, in which
her young nature was cased, was burst by the swelling of her
heart.
“Yes,” — Charlotte scarce knowing what she said, — “I am
sure he will be glad to see you, — if he is your brother.”
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“But he never answered my letters, and I wrote him such long
ones, and took so much pains with them! I wish you would go
out with me to see him!”
“O, no, — that would do no good! All your friends are out
there; and I — I am a stranger to all of you, you know.”
“I don't care; you don't seem so. I 'd rather you would go
with me, than mother, or father, or any of them. I can't tell
why, but you make me feel so.”
Charlotte took the child in her arms, and pressed her close.
“You are a good girl,” said she, “and I 'm sure your brother
can't help loving you, if you are always simple and true.”
“He says I am so odd!”
“Perhaps that is because you try too hard to be a lady, and
are not enough a child. But no matter now. Go out and see
him. And — would you be afraid to speak to Mr. Dunbury?”
“He did n't like my poetry!” said the child, quickly.
“Perhaps the fault was as much in your poetry as in him,”
suggested Charlotte.
“I know it was! They were silly lines, and I never will write
any more as long as I live!”
“O, yes, you will write more, — and write a great deal better
for what he told you. I know he meant it kindly.”
“I will speak to him, if you wish me to,” said Etty, thoughtfully.
“And say that I am here, and would like to see him.”
The child was glad to do anything to oblige her new friend;
and, having dried her eyes, and made Charlotte tell her again
that her brother would be glad to see her, she went timidly forth.
Left to her own thoughts, Charlotte endeavored to be calm.
She felt a powerful impulse to tell Hector everything, throw herself
upon his mercy, and then, if he cast her from him — Cast her
from him! The thought chilled her; and when, at length, she
heard a hand on the latch, she shrank within herself, and would,
if possible, have fled even from his sight.
But the comer was not Hector. It was Etty again.
“I dropped my handkerchief,” said the child, getting down to
look for it on the floor.
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“Here it is, by my feet.” Charlotte took it up, and gave it
her.
Etty, wiping her eyes: “Thank you. I told Mr. Dunbury, and
he said he would come. I saw Robert, too; but he only just
looked at me, and went on talking and laughing with the rest, as
if I was nobody! I don't care now! He hates me, and I might
have known he would.”
At that moment Hector entered. Etty tried to escape, but he
caught her in his arms.
“Do you dislike me very much for what I said?”
She hid her face; and Hector kissed her forehead.
“I believed that you had a true heart, and a real desire to do
well,” he said, kindly; “so I thought it best to tell you of your
faults, in order that you might correct them. You must be
patient and humble, and aim at something more excellent than
indiscriminate praise, if you would have your wings grow out
beautiful and strong. You have wings; but, O, you only flutter
with them a little now, instead of flying into the very dome of
heaven, as your flatterers would have you think. This is what I
wanted to say to you; now, if you dislike me for it, I am very
sorry.”
Hector kissed her again, and told her that she might go. How
noble and good he seemed to Charlotte then! Etty felt comforted.
He had touched a chord that had never been touched before.
As he was about to speak again, the door opened. A qualm
smote Charlotte's heart, as she heard once more the tones of that
dreaded voice.
“Ah! here is the fugitive!” The speaker paused at the door.
Charlotte felt cold from head to foot. But she did not stir, nor
raise her eyes, nor betray any sign of emotion, save in the pallor
of her face. — “I beg pardon!” — smiling and bowing. “Is that
you, Hector? Who would have thought of stumbling upon
you here? I suppose I ought to know that lady, too — but —
such a dim, religious light — excuse me, — I was looking for
that choice sister of mine.”
He patted Etty's cheek, — at the same time, his keen eyes
glancing at Charlotte.
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“We have just been getting a little acquainted,” said Hector,
giving Etty into her brother's arms. “She is too good a heart to
be a sister of yours.”
“So our beloved mother says! She thought I hurt your feelings,
just now, sis, and sent me to ask your forgiveness.”
“O, no — you did not —”
“She has scolded me, too, for not answering your letters. You
did n't mind that, though, — for you knew I never liked school-girl
compositions. Come, don't pout! I was in hopes you had
outgrown your odd ways. Is this lady your friend, too?”
Etty, struggling from him, reached the door and escaped. He
followed her, pausing, as he went, to apologize once more for his
intrusion. Then Hector, impatient, closed the door, and returned
to Charlotte's side.
“What is this? Why are you so pale?” He gave her his
hand; but, rising up, she tottered to the window. “Charlotte,
what can I do for you?”
“Take me home — let me see no one — say that I am ill.
When I am calm, I will tell you. Be my friend — until then!”
“Till then — and forever!” exclaimed Hector. “Trust in me;
lean upon my arm; and the world shall wrench my life out, before
I will let you go. Sit here till I come back. Courage, dear
heart, courage!”
She made haste to find her things and put them on; and by
the time he returned, she was ready to accompany him. They
went out together unobserved. His buggy was at the door; he
helped her in; then, seated by his side, with the darkness of the
road before them, the lighted windows behind, and the silence and
the starlight all around, the excitement which had nerved her
flight subsided, and she sank helpless as an infant on his arm.
At length, putting his arm gently away: “How inconsistent I
must appear to you! Still you have patience with me!”
“Patience, Charlotte? For weeks I have studied you with
jealous eyes. If ever soul read soul, mine has read yours, — and
I am satisfied. I wronged you once, as I told you. You had
slandered yourself in my ear; and it was my fortune to hear an
evil report, that I construed into an interpretation of what
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remained unexplained in your words. I will not repeat what was
told me; I am ashamed to confess the source from which it came;—
but, Charlotte, it was by the very strength of my interest in
you that I became so weak.”
“Perhaps you were not weak — perhaps you saw me better
then than you do now.”
“Stop!” said Hector. “No more self-slander. I know you,
Charlotte. By treating you harshly,— by appearing cruel, bitter,
disdainful, — I have discovered the depth and sweetness of your
nature. What inward conflicts have heaved and torn me, the
while! O, Charlotte, if you knew! But no more of this. I see
you crushed to-night beneath a burden; let me first take that
away, — then we can talk.”
“Not now — my tongue is numb! — To-morrow —”
“To-morrow we may have no opportunity. I expect company.”
“Company?”
“After I left you in the dressing-room, Robert Greenwich got
me by the button, and told me he should try to call to-morrow
afternoon: he will probably be with us at tea.”
Hector went on talking, but Charlotte heard no more. She did
not answer when he spoke to her. At length she repeated, vacantly,
“At tea? Did you say, to-morrow?”
“Your mind is on some other subject. Let Robert Greenwich
go. He is nothing to you or me, to-night.”
“Did he — did he speak — of me?”
“He apologized again for intruding upon us, and said he hoped
to meet you to-morrow.”
That she had been recognized by the man she dreaded, Charlotte
could no longer doubt. She tried to tell Hector all her fear
and despair; but misgivings chilled her heart, and sealed her lips,
and sent her to her lonely room, that night, with the heavy secret
of her life still pent up in her soul.
-- -- p732-140
XIII. THE VISIT AND THE EXCURSION.
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The next morning, Abimelech Jackwood the younger made
an early call at Mr. Dunbury's house. He found the family at
breakfast.
“Good-morning, sir!” cried Hector. “Corny, give the young
gentleman a seat.”
“Can't stop!” said Bim, standing bashfully in the door. “I
come over to see — git out, Rover! — if Charlotte don't wanter
go up on the hill to-day, with Pheeb.”
A gleam of hope shone upon Charlotte's heart.
“To see Bertha Wing?”
“Yes, I b'lieve so. — Here, Rove! lay down! — Pheeb 's ben
lottin' on an all-day visit up there, 's ever s' long, and she said you
'greed to go with her.”
“But you are so poorly this morning, Charlotte!” said Mrs.
Dunbury. “Conscientiously as you have endeavored to eat, you
have scarce tasted a morsel.”
Hector: “And we are to have company, you remember.”
“But I,” said Charlotte, quickly, — “I would prefer not to
meet strangers. I would enjoy the ride, and a quiet visit with
Phœbe and Bertha —”
Mrs. Dunbury: “Do as you please, then.”
Charlotte glanced at Hector. His countenance was overcast,
but he raised no further objection to the plan; and accordingly
word was sent back that she would accompany Phœbe.
Miss Jackwood made her appearance in the one-horse wagon,
at about nine o'clock. She drove old Dan, — quite a conservative
and phlegmatic nag, — whom she found it necessary
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continually to urge forward, by means of a little, stumpy whip. Arrived
within speaking distance of Mr. Dunbury's gate, the sober animal
came to a dead halt. “Go 'long!” ejaculated Phœbe.
Dan did not stir. Mortified at the awkwardness of the circumstance,
occurring at a moment when she so much desired to make
a smart appearance, she wielded the whip vigorously.
The first blow fell short; the second raised a dust on the
horse's rump, and the third made him whisk his tail a little.
After that, she bent forward, and laid on and spared not, until,
starting on with a groan, he stopped before the gate.
The delay had given Charlotte time to put on her bonnet, and
she now came out, ready for the ride.
“I was afraid you would n't go,” said Phœbe; “but I was
feeling so vexed about the wedding, last night, I meant to make a
visit somewhere, to-day, any way. Bim said you expected company.
Who 's coming?”
“Mr. Greenwich, I think.”
“Not Robert? Has he got home? I should think you 'd like
to stay! I 'll stay with you, and make you a visit, to-day, if you
want me to. Or, I 'll tell you what! have Robert and Hector
come up and take tea with us! — You tell 'em, Mrs. Dunbury! —
I bet they will! Won't it be grand?”
How pale Charlotte looked!
“Don't forget, Mrs. Dunbury! — Go 'long, ol' Dan! — I 'm
ashamed of my driving! The calves chawed the whip to pieces,
t' other night, and this is all there is left of it; and Dan 's the
laziest horse! — Come, do step! — If Mr. and Mrs. Charles Creston
git invited to my wedding, I guess they 'll know it! I 'll let
'em understand one thing — I don't care if I was n't asked: it
han't hurt me a bit; for I don't consider it anything worth minding
at all!”
Phœbe seemed so desirous of enforcing this fact upon her companion's
mind, that she never ceased to chatter about it, until
they had made the ascent of the hill, and arrived at Mr. Wing's
house. Charlotte liked that topic as well as any; all she wished
was, that Phœbe should do the talking, and leave her to her own
thoughts.
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Bertha received her visitors cordially; grandmother Wing
joining to give them a hearty welcome.
“Why, how you have altered!” said the old lady, with smiling
good-nature, to Charlotte. “You 've smarted up amazin', I
do declare! I knowed 't was in ye to do it, when I spoke for
you to Hector; but, re'ly, I 'm the least mite took back to see you
lookin' so very nice an' handsome!”
Phœbe had brought her knitting; Charlotte had some sewing;
and all settled quietly down, to work, and talk, and visit, until
near dinner-time, when Bertha went out to assist the kitchen-girl,
and to give the finishing touch to the table.
Just as they were sitting down to the noon-day meal, Mr.
Rukely called, and sat down with them. Mr. Wing was also
present, — a man of solemn aspect and stiff opinions, of whom
Bertha stood very much in awe.
The dinner was a prim and formal affair; everybody silent or
restrained, as was to be expected; only the old lady indulging in
a little geniality, while Phœbe now and then burst forth with
some refreshingly spontaneous remark.
“O dear!” exclaimed the young girl, after dinner, “I 'm so
tired of behaving well! Do le's have some fun! Mr. Rukely
will excuse us.”
Mr. Rukely, turning over the leaves of an annual: “O, certainly.”
Bertha: “What do you want to do?”
Phœbe, throwing down her knitting: “I don't care what; but
I shall die if I don't do something! Come, le's make cheeses!”
Bertha, blushing and shaking her head: “'Sh! Not before
him!”
Charlotte: “If we take a walk, perhaps Mr. Rukely will accompany
us.”
Mr. Rukely: “With pleasure.”
Phœbe: “Hurra!”
Bertha: “We 'll want our bonnets, girls.”
Phœbe: “I 'm glad you spoke, for I don't know half what I
am about! May we be wild, Mr. Rukely?”
Mr. Rukely, indulgently: “As wild as you please.”
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Phœbe: “That 's good! When we get out of sight and hearing
once, if I don't scream! Which way are you going?”
Mr. Rukely: “Shall we take the road?”
Charlotte: “The woods will be pleasanter; the road is too
tame.”
Phœbe: “O, yes! we can chase and romp in the woods, and
have such a slick time! Mr. Rukely will let down the bars for
us. What do you say, Bertha?”
Bertha: “Any way will suit me. Only don't be too rude,” —
aside to Phœbe, — “for I don't know just what he will think.”
Phœbe, recklessly: “Come on! I 'll be cap'n! How good it
feels ou' doors! I want to fly! Let 's go 'way off on the mountain,
and look down towards our house. I wish Hector and Rob
Greenwich was here! don't you, girls? If we had a spying-glass
we might see 'em! It 's so mean I wan't invited to the wedding!
but I 'm glad of it! Don't let 's go through the briers.”
Bertha: “There 's a path somewhere. O, here it is! 'T will
take us right to the cedar woods.”
Phœbe ran on before, talking gayly. Suddenly she flew back,
with terrified cries.
Bertha: “Why, what — what is it?”
Phœbe, shudderingly: “Ugh-h-h-h! A gr-e-a-t bi-i-ig sna-a-ake!”
Mr. Rukely, smiling: “You should learn to overcome the
serpent.” Taking up a stick: “Where is he?”
Phœbe: “It was crawling off from the log. I should think it
was forty or fifty feet long!”
Bertha: “Don't go near it!”
Mr. Rukely: “The serpent is the only living thing I feel in
duty bound to hate, abhor, and kill!”
He advanced resolutely. Charlotte turned and looked off on
the mountain side. Bertha watched her lover tremblingly, while
Phœbe stood ready to run and scream.
Mr. Rukely paused, lowering his stick; the sternness of his
features relaxed into a somewhat pallid smile, and he called his
companions to advance.
Phœbe: “Is it gone?”
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Bertha: “Have you killed it?”
Mr. Rukely lifted something with his stick. Bertha and Phœbe
shrieked simultaneously. Charlotte still looked away.
Mr. Rukely: “I did not know before that log-chains were so
formidable!” He dropped the clinking links upon the ground.
Bertha drew a long breath, and tried to laugh.
Phœbe, excited: “But there was a snake; I declare I saw
one! I 'm as sure it moved as I am that I stand here? O,
dear!” she added, as the party proceeded further into the woods,
“what did we come in here for? These cedars are such hateful
things!”
Charlotte: “I think they are beautiful. I love the gloom.”
Bertha: “I hope you don't love the mosquitos! I am eaten
up by them!”
Mr. Rukely: “It seems to me we are going into a swamp.
The air is close and sultry. Shall we turn about?”
Bertha: “There 's an ox-path, somewhere, that branches off
towards the fields. I believe this is it, though it looks dreadfully
wild and lonely!”
Phœbe: “It seems like Sunday, in here! Let 's get out of it!
Mercy! how I am bitten! O, what noise was that? Seeing
that horrid snake makes me nervous as I can be! Every stick is
a snake, now; and I have heard a dozen wild-cats since we came
in here. You go ahead, Mr. Rukely. We 'll follow, if it is to
the jumping-off place!”
The party came out upon a high pasture-land. Further on was
a deep gulf, defended by impenetrable thick growths of bristling
poplars and young spruces, and overhung by a precipitous crag.
Phœbe: “Hurra for a climb, I say! We can see all over
creation from up there. Who 'll be at the top first?”
Mr. Rukely and Bertha recoiled from the enterprise; but Charlotte,
eager to lose herself in any excitement, seconded Phœbe,
and the party made the ascent of the crag.
Bertha: “All this part of the mountain was overrun by fire, a
few years ago. These rocks were singed, as if for our especial
benefit. Look off in the valley now.”
Charlotte: “Wonderful!”
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Phœbe: “I can see our house; and there 's Bim driving the
cows to water! They look like so many black ants, and he like a
little red one!”
Mr. Rukely: “The season has been so dry that the country has
lost half its beauty. How dead the forests down there appear!
Besides, there is too much smoke in the air to-day.”
Charlotte: “The smoke has a beauty of its own. It gives
such a soft blue tint to everything! How still and sweet the valley
lies, in the dim sunshine! The smoke is the soul of the landscape
to-day.”
Bertha: “What a ghastly sky! The sun is blood-red. Was
that thunder?”
Mr. Rukely: “I see no clouds. Perhaps the money-diggers
are blasting again on the Eagle Rocks.”
Phœbe: “I thought I saw Rob Greenwich and Hector; but it
is only a couple of horses fighting flies by the fence. Let 's roll
down rocks. Here goes one!” The missile dropped from ledge
to ledge, and leaped among the crackling thickets below. “Did
you hear it? O, Mr. Rukely, help me tumble off this big one!
Where 's a pry?” picking up a charred sapling. “There, I 've
got my hands all black! Never mind. Give me a lift!”
Mr. Rukely condescended, and a minute later the loosened rock,
toppling on the verge of the cliff, turned lazily at first, then rolled,
then bounded, then thundered and plunged, snapping and trampling
the brittle poplars, until the noise of its crashing died away
in the depths of the gulf.
There was something startling in this invasion of Nature's
solitudes with violence and unusual sounds. Phœbe, excited by
the sport, detained Mr. Rukely, to set off another flying rock,
while Charlotte and Bertha found an easy place of descent, and
went down from the crag.
“I hear the trickling of water,” said Charlotte; “but we can
neither reach it nor see it, for the thickets. I am thirsty, and my
forehead and hands are parching.”
“The gulf opens below here,” replied Bertha, “and a brook
runs out into the maple grove, down yonder. Hark! There goes
another stone!”
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“Happy Phœbe! see her clap her hands, on the ledge!”
“But, while she laughs, you only sigh, Charlotte. And I sympathize
most with you. How I have wanted to be your friend,
and to have you mine! Let us go down into the ravine, here, and
be true and free with each other once.”
“They are coming!”
“We will hide away from them. O, see where the brook drips
over the rocks! How cool it is down there! If we can get
through the bushes —”
“We can,” said Charlotte. “Here is an opening.”
“You will fall!” cried Bertha. “Let me hold your hand
until you get your foot firmly upon the rock. I 've torn my
dress; but we are through the worst of it now. What delicious
beds of moss! The brook is almost dry, and we can go down
these rocky steps until we come to the grove.”
“Let us sit here, and rest, and bathe our foreheads,” replied
Charlotte.
“Let me bathe yours for you! But it is not bathing that will
cure the pain. There is a fever which only tears can cool. I
know from experience.”
“You, Bertha? You, so fortunate and happy!”
“O, Charlotte, you do not know me! Fortunate and happy —
with this weak, inconsistent heart of mine! Dear, dear, dear!”
“Hark! Phœbe is calling us,” said Charlotte.
“Do not answer. It is a relief to get away from them for a
little while. I want to talk with you.”
“My head feels better. How kind you are, Bertha! There is
a magnetism in your hand, that removes the pain.”
“It is your tears,” said Bertha. “O, if I could be your
friend!”
“Bertha, good Bertha — I have not a friend in this wide, wide
world! I know not one, not one whom I can trust.”
“Not even me!” said Bertha.
Her sympathy wrought powerfully upon Charlotte, who opened
her heart to her more and more, and appeared almost ready to
pour out to her the whole history of her life.
Mr. Rukely, from above: “You are pretty truants! We have
called and hunted for you everywhere. It is going to rain.”
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Bertha: “Will you share our shelter with us?”
Phœbe: “O le's! I want to wash the crock off my hands.”
Mr. Rukely: “You are responsible if we get wet.”
Bertha: “We can go down through the maple grove, then
return home by the lower pasture, and avoid the swamp.”
Phœbe: “And the mosquitos and snakes! So le's!”
“Another time,” whispered Bertha, pressing Charlotte's hand.
The party descended through the ravine, stepping upon decayed
logs, mossy banks and stones, and rocks encrusted with dry slime.
At length the bushes and saplings gave place to the tall trunks of
maples and beeches, and, in a convenient spot, they climbed up into
the grove.
“Why, how dark it is!” cried Phœbe. “O, come here! see
through the trees! What a frightful cloud! Don't it look awful
through the smoke! I 'm glad I an't a Millerite! Did you hear
that gun?”
Mr. Rukely: “There 's somebody hunting, just over the hill.”
Phœbe: “I should n't wonder if 't was Robert and Hector.
Wait, while I screech!”
Charlotte, eagerly: “Don't, don't, Phœbe! Keep still!”
“Why?”
“Because, we 'll spoil their sport. Besides, I — I don't think
it can be Hector. He never shoots.”
“He used to, and I bet he would n't object, if Rob Greenwich
should coax him! Rob used to be crazy about hunting, and the
squirrels are thick now.”
Bertha: “It will do no harm to shout.”
“No, no, Bertha! Let us go back. The darkness frightens
me.” And Charlotte set out to fly from the grove.
Phœbe: “Here! where are you going? That an't the way.”
“Tell me, then. Let us hasten! The storm will be upon us!”
Mr. Rukely: “We shall get wet, most certainly. What is
that? A shantee?”
Bertha: “It is a shelter for the men when they work in the
sugar-bush. There 's the great through, and the arch for boiling.
Shall we go in and wait till the shower passes?”
The proposition was favorably received by all except Charlotte.
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She would have hastened from the woods. But already the big
rain-drops began to fall, rattling and hissing among the leaves.
Phœbe ran screaming to the shantee, swinging her bonnet in her
hand.
“Come, Charlotte,” said Bertha. “Why are you afraid? The
shower will soon pass; then we will go home together.”
“Well, as you please.”
“I know now what troubles you, Charlotte. It is what I
feared for you. It was almost inevitable. Everybody loves him.”
“What do you mean?”
“His voice, his manner, the clear splendor of his face,” said
Bertha, with a swelling heart; “everything about him fascinates!
I pity you!”
“I do not understand — you are speaking of —”
“Hector!”
“From your own experience?” said Charlotte, with feverish
interest.
“O, no, — not much! I have known him all my life. I do
not think he is a flirt, but he is peculiar; he loves to exert his
power, and it is his way to say, and do, and look, the most winning
things, without really meaning them. That 's the danger.
Then, he is so fitful! He keeps one always in suspense. Let me
warn you in season.”
“There is no need. He is nothing to me, nor ever can be,
Bertha. But I thank you for your kind advice, the same.”
“There was another gun,” cried Bertha, “nearer than before!
Let us run. See! Mr. Rukely and Phœbe are already in the
cabin.”
Charlotte glanced wildly in the direction of the report. At
that moment a sudden lightning-flash filled all the woods with an
instantaneous fearful glare, and the bursting thunder followed,
crashing down the sky, and tumbling from height to height along
the mountain range.
-- -- p732-149
XIV. THE HUNTERS.
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Trembling and breathless, Charlotte, following her companions,
reached the shelter just as the descending rain began to rush and
rattle among the trees.
“Stand here,” cried Phœbe, “and look out when it lightens!
How wild and dark the woods are! I 'm about three quarters
scart!”
Mr. Rukely: “Here are plenty of sap-buckets to sit down upon,
if you like. Be careful — the roof slants.”
Phœbe: “I give my head an awful tunk, in there! Then I
walked backwards and set down in that big iron kittle. I guess
my dress will look pretty! Did n't you hear me yell?”
Charlotte: “I 'm afraid of scorpions.”
Bertha: “Who ever heard of such a thing?”
Phœbe: “O-o-o! did you see that flash? There come the
hunters! It 's Hector and Robert, just as I told you. They 've
got a lot of squirrels!”
“O, Bertha!” whispered Charlotte, “tell me what to do! I
cannot meet them! Why did I come in here?”
“Shall I conceal you?”
“O, can you?”
“Get back into the corner. I will sit before you.”
“No, I will not be so weak! It must come, — I will meet it
now!”
The shantee was dark; and Hector and Robert, entering, did
not readily recognize the inmates.
Robert, pulling somebody's bonnet from her face: “This is
Phœbe Jackwood. I knew your scream when we were over
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the hill. Hello! if you bite, you shall have your teeth taken
out.”
“You shan't kiss me, Rob Greenwich! If you do —”
“I was n't going to. But I see you 'll be disappointed, now, if
I don't!”
“Hector! Hector! help!”
Hector: “Fight your own battles. Who is here? Bertha and
Charlotte! This is an unlooked-for good fortune.”
Mr. Rukely: “You have met with eminent success gunning, I
see. You should be proud of those trophies.”
Hector threw down his game. “O, to be sure! How glorious
are the faculties of man! What divine recreations enchant us!
Proud? — I am as proud as poor Tray was, when whipped for
keeping bad company.”
Robert: “I am the bad company, I suppose. I led poor Tray
into wickedness. But, once in, he beat me at my own game. He
is two squirrels my superior in cruelty.”
Hector: “I did not think that I should ever again take delight
in shooting these pretty fan-tails. I had learned to love them in
my rambles. They run up the great trunks; they jump from
branch to branch; they chatter; they curve their fine tails; they
sit and nibble nuts on the high limbs. Is there nothing to win
us in all that? Up goes the deadly gun, and this wonderful slender
casket, which holds the divine secret of existence, instinct, happiness,
falls broken at your feet. There it is; look at it! It is
in form the same as ever, but all the ingenuity of murderous man
cannot restore the plundered jewel.”
Robert: “O, brave and eloquent harangue!”
Hector turned over his game: “Two, four, six, — I killed
them all! It is a trifle, perhaps; but such a trifle teaches me
that I am no more proof against temptation, than powder is proof
against fire; that I am made of the very same stuff with thieves,
robbers, and all sorts of ill-doers; and that only circumstance and
provocation have been wanting to develop me into as complete a
villain as the world knows.”
“And what of all this?”
“What of all this? Charity, sir, charity! Give me your
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hand, Robert. I can grasp it more heartily than I have been
able to do of late. Is there another chief of sinners present? I
will embrace him!”
“I declare, Hector Dunbury!” exclaimed Phœbe, “one would
think you was crazy!”
“You may think so; but Bertha does not, and Charlotte does
not! Excuse me, Robert. I should have introduced you to our
friend.”
And, with affected formality, Hector went through with the
neglected ceremony. Robert bowed with easy politeness. Pale
and cold, but outwardly composed, Charlotte acknowledged the
salutation.
“This is a romantic spot to make an acquaintance,” said he;
“but we might have met under stranger circumstances; so let us
not stand upon etiquette, but be friends at once. Shall I occupy
this bucket by your side?”
Holding her heart with all her might, Charlotte bowed again;
and Robert sat down.
“Do not be alarmed,” said he, in a significant tone. “Hector
insinuates that I am quite a formidable sinner; but we all know
him.”
“No, you don't!” cried Hector. “And you never will, Robert
Greenwich, until we some day quarrel royally, and thenceforward
stand to each other for precisely what we are.”
“Quarrel! you and I? O, Damon and Pythias!” said Robert,
“what do you mean?”
Hector turned to Mr. Rukely. “Explain, if you can, my relation
to that good-natured Beelzebub.”
Robert, gayly: “This is his peculiar style of joking. He is
marvellously funny, if you but understand him. `Beelzebub' is
good!”
“I have no sympathy whatever with his politics, religion, or
morals; our spirits are entirely antagonistic; still he holds me,
or I him, by a power I cannot comprehend.”
Robert laughed immoderately.
“The truth is this: I was with him in days of temptation; I
watched over him with a shepherd's care, and brought him every
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[figure description] Page 149.[end figure description]
night, like a tender lamb, into the fold of virtue. Hence the
tie between us.”
And he turned aside to Charlotte.
“What is he whispering to you?” demanded Hector.
Robert laid his fingers upon Charlotte's arm. “Keep my secret,
and I will keep yours!”
Charlotte, with an effort: “You see, my lips are sealed.”
Hector regarded her with a questioning look, and turned his
head slowly away.
Robert laughed again. “That 's another of his jokes, — in his
best style! What a glance that was; as much as to say, `I have
warned you; look out for him.'”
Phœbe, impatiently: “Come, do say something sensible! I
am sure I can't see any fun in such talk. It don't rain now;
le's go out.”
Mr. Rukely: “The storm has passed around to the north.”
Robert smiled significantly, bending slightly towards Charlotte.
“It has been the way of storms, this season, I am told. They
have a northerly tendency; they are attracted by the higher latitudes.
Don't you think the Green Mountains delightful, Miss
Woods?”
Charlotte's features contracted; she bit her lip, shrinking involuntarily
from her tormentor. His keen eye watched her face, while
his tongue repeated the question.
“I might think so, if it were not for the snakes!” she answered,
in a low tone.
Robert, with an unconscious air: “But our Vermont snakes
are quite harmless, if you treat them well.”
Bertha: “Harmless as log-chains, Phœbe! Come, the sky is
brightening; shall we go? Hector and Robert are expected to
be of our party, and take tea with us.”
Hector: “We have our squirrels and guns to carry.”
Mr. Rukely: “You can send them home in Phœbe's wagon.”
Robert: “That will be capital! Shall I have the pleasure of
your company, Miss Woods?”
Phœbe, elated: “It all happens just right! Le' me carry a
gun!”
-- 150 --
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Hector: “You 'll be shooting some one. If you have any
regard for human life, Robert, keep your rifle in your hand.”
Robert, carelessly: “I 'll risk her. Here, my young Amazon,
my aspiring Diana! carry your weapon thus. Shoot whom you
please, but do not point the muzzle at me. Hector and Miss Wing
will lead the way.”
Hector consented reluctantly, and went forward with Bertha.
Then followed Mr. Rukely and Phœbe. Robert walked behind,
keeping close to Charlotte's side.
“How little did I expect this happiness! My life! what good
fortune has brought us again together?”
Charlotte trembled; but there was something besides fear in
the restless down-glance of her eye, and the quivering curve of
her lip.
“You were wrong to deceive me as you did,” said Robert. “It
was like a death-blow, when I lost you. For I had been disinterested
and true; I was your best friend; I did not merit such
ingratitude.”
Charlotte turned upon her companion a look of acutest pain.
She opened her lips to speak.
“Not that I blamed you; I did not, in the least,” he hastened
to say. “You had learned, by bitter experience, to distrust all
men. Only I thought you should have known me better. I could
not give you up so; I have spent the summer in search of you;
I have a length and breadth of enduring love, deep in my nature,
which nothing can tire or exhaust. It has centred in you, it
holds you, it will not let you go!”
Hard and fast breathed Charlotte. She pressed her hand upon
her heart. At length, with forced calmness, she spoke.
“It is useless to remind me that I am in your power. I know
it. But I do not care much now, — I am ready to meet any
shame or disaster. I once thought you noble and generous —”
“But you fled from me!”
“And I would have fled again and again; but when I saw you
last night, a dead despair fell on me. Something has held me. I
seem to have been brought here to-day only to meet you!”
“Your better angel overrules your will!”
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“Call it what you please,” replied Charlotte, in bitter anguish.
“I am in your power. I expect no mercy at your hands!”
“Be calm; listen to reason. When I swore to be your friend
and protector, I took an oath that I shall keep. All I ask is,
that you will consent to see me again, hear my explanation, and
try to know me better. I dare not talk now. Hector is suspicious.
Promise me that, and you are safe.”
Charlotte was about to reply, when the sharp report of a rifle
rang through the woods, and some person was seen to fall forward
upon the ground.
“It is Mr. Rukely!” cried Robert. “Phœbe has shot him!”
Phœbe stood petrified with consternation. Bertha screamed
faintly, and ran to lift her lover up. Hector and Robert reached
the spot simultaneously. But Mr. Rukely was too quick for
them all.
“That was awfully careless, Phœbe!” he exclaimed, looking
very pale and severe.
“I — hoo — hoo — was only seeing if there was a cap on!”
stammered Phœbe.
“I heard the lock click,” said Mr. Rukely, “and looked to see
what the child was doing, when, providentially, I tripped my foot.
If I had not stumbled just as I did, I should certainly have been
shot through the head. It was a wonderful preservation.”
“How could you, Phœbe!” said Bertha.
“You have wasted a charge of powder for me!” exclaimed
Robert.
Mr. Rukely, magnanimously: “I forgive her!”
Phœbe, weeping: “I only just pulled up that thing a little,—
I thought there was n't any cap on, — and my finger slipped
off —”
Mr. Rukely: “Well, well, there 's no harm done. Be more
careful in future.”
Hector flung a sharp reprimand at Robert, for trusting Phœbe
with the gun.
“Very good!” laughed the latter. “How many of you heard
the bullet?”
Bertha had heard the whistle; so had Hector. On reflection.
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everybody had heard it whistle and cut the leaves, except Mr.
Rukely and Phœbe.
“Now, the joke of the thing is,” said Robert, “there was no
bullet in the gun! So much for imagination!”
This avowal failed to give general satisfaction, although he was
ready to swear to it, and went so far as to explain how it happened
that, on the coming up of the shower, he had rammed down
a hard wad, in place of a ball. Phœbe's conscience was comforted
a good deal, and she declared that she was sure, if there had been
a bullet in the gun, she would not have meddled with the lock!
So the party proceeded, Charlotte walking the remainder of the
way with Mr. Rukely, while Robert chatted with Phœbe.
Arrived at the house, a lively excitement prevailed, and there
arose a clamor of indignation against Robert, on the discovery
that Mr. Rukely's hat had two holes in it: one where a bullet
had gone in, and another where it had gone out.
“I told you so!” cried Bertha.
Mr. Rukely, with a grim smile: “I though there was no bullet
in the gun, Mr. Greenwich!”
Phœbe looked blank. But Robert threw himself upon a chair,
and laughed with open throat, declaring that this last was the
best joke of all.
“He has no more heart or conscience than a stone,” said Hector.
“How were you pleased with his conversation,” — to Charlotte,
aside, — “as you came through the woods together?”
Charlotte changed color: “Why do you ask?”
Hector, regarding her darkly: “Man is a deceiver; woman's
heart is soft; and flattery is the snare of souls. Trust not one
of us!”
-- -- p732-156
XV. THE LIFTING OF THE VEIL.
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Thenceforward Robert Greenwich frequented Mrs. Dunbury's
house with untiring zeal. Hunting, fishing, or riding, he was
never without some pleasant excuse for resorting that way. He
always inquired for Hector, and feigned disappointment if he did
not find him; but it was only when Charlotte was absent that
he was ever once known to be in a hurry.
One day, calling as usual, he found Charlotte and Hector sitting
together; both silent; the former busy with her needle, the
latter engaged in reading random passages in a volume of Shakspeare.
“Under the circumstances,” said the visitor, smiling, “I presume
you are not very glad to see me.”
“If you refer to me,” replied Hector, “I am not. I never
am. But I suppose that makes no difference. Sit down.”
“Thank you for your frankness. I find it quite refreshing.
Don't let me interrupt anything, I pray.”
“You certainly shall not,” — and Hector went on with his
reading.
Robert smiled as he placed his hat on the table, and drew his
chair to Charlotte's side. For half an hour they conversed in
whispers, with long intervals of silence; and at his departure, she
accompanied him to the porch, and talked some minutes with him
there.
Returning then to the sitting-room, and finding Hector's book
on the floor, she stooped to take it up. He caught her wrist, and
held her back. She looked up. The suppressed passion in his
face frightened her.
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“I thought you had dropped it by accident,” she faltered.
“I flung it there in a rage! Therefore leave it for my shame
and contrition to take it up again.” — He pushed it under the
table with his foot. — “Lie there,” said he, “until I am once
more a man!”
All this time he held Charlotte's wrist. Rigid and pale with
suffering, she made but a feeble effort to escape.
“Are you an angel or a fiend?” he demanded, searching her
face with his determined eye.
“Neither,” said she, with tearful pathos; “I am a woman.”
“True; I had forgotten,” replied Hector. “That name accounts
for every inconsistency that entangles our poor human
nature! A woman! — Go!”
He dropped her hand. The look he gave her carried a more
terrible meaning than his words. He took a number of quick
strides across the room; then came and looked upon her. She
had not yet spoken; she had sunk down by a chair; her silence
and meekness under the blow he had struck burned into his soul
like fire.
“Charlotte,” said he, after a long pause. He spoke more tenderly,
and she began to weep. “Charlotte —” and he stooped
to raise her up.
She only bowed more humbly still, until at last her forehead
touched his foot.
“Well, if that is your place, this is mine!”
And he threw himself prone upon his face at her side.
“No, no! not there!” she cried, starting quickly up.
He caught the hem of her dress to his lips, and kissed it; but
she snatched it from him.
“What are you?” she cried out.
“O God! what am I?” he groaned, burying his face in his
hands.
“How have I offended you?”
“You have not offended me. I have offended myself! O,
what a fine blusterer am I!”
“But I have given you some cause — I know I have!”
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“Have you? I gather hope from that! Tell me what —
afford me an excuse for my rage — and unhorse this imp of conscience
that rides me! Come, sit here upon this chair, and we
will talk.”
“I have not been open and free with you,” Charlotte confessed.
“True; but what of that? I have had no claim upon your
confidence whatever!”
“Indeed, indeed, you have, sir! No outward claim, perhaps,—
and yet a claim — I have felt it, and you have felt it!”
“And so I have! But I thought that was all my egotism!
You recognize it? O, Charlotte! if a desperate and all-controlling
love can merit anything, I have a claim! Sit still — for
now my tongue is loosed, and you must hear me! In spite of
myself, in spite of reason and will, I am drawn irrevocably to
you. As you are to me, so is all the world. To doubt you is to
doubt humanity. The light of the universe shines upon me
through your eyes; and if they are turned from me, my soul is
dark. Are you frightened, or are you glad, that you tremble so,
and hide your face?”
No reply. Hector went on.
“I thought — I believed — I knew — that I was to you all
that you were to me. So, I had a claim. And after a long struggle
within myself, there came a period of calm and peace. My
soul opened its doors to you. But, just then, Robert Greenwich
appeared. He cast his shadow between us; and the doors
were clashed together as by a whirlwind. Had he been worthy,
could I have seen that you belonged to him by the Divine law,—
but you know my feeling of that man! Imagine, then, what a
burning was lighted within me, when I saw him, with a cool, audacious
smile, step in, and gain from you in an hour what is withheld
from me to this day!”
“Gain from me — what?”
“That you know, better than I! But I am not blind; I am
not deaf. Would that I were! Not once has that fine hypocrite
gone out of his selfish track for me. All his visits to this house
are visits to you. That first day of your meeting in the woods,
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[figure description] Page 156.[end figure description]
he insinuated himself into your confidence; I saw it at the time;
since then there have been manifold secrets between you. I have
marked his assumption, which you have endured, if not encouraged.
I have marked your blushes, your pallor, your faltering
speech, when he has come suddenly upon you, or given you meaning
looks, or whispered in your ear. With the interest I feel in
you, and the scorn I have for him, can you wonder at the fury
stirred in my blood? To-day, the tiger was roused, and would
have sprung at his throat.”
“I do not wonder; I am to blame!” uttered Charlotte.
“O, woman! woman! I loved you, and tried to hate you. I
believed you worthy, and believed you not worthy. To my understanding
you appeared false and erring; but ever in my heart
you were fair, white-robed, pure, angelic! O, how I loved you,
when I was most unkind! Charlotte, did I deserve your trust?”
“You did — you did! But your friendship was too precious
to me; I could not bear to lose it: my fear kept me dumb: so, I
left you to misjudge me.”
“Show me how I misjudged you.”
“Let me sit by the window; I cannot breathe here,” said
Charlotte. “I will tell you everything to-day. This agony
must have an end. I know you will cast me from you — but it
will be better so. Be patient; I must collect my thoughts a
little.”
Hector trembled with suspense. He led her to a seat by the
window, and, placing himself beside her, took her cold hands in
his.
“Speak boldly!” said he, in quivering tones. “If I am true,
no misfortune, no fault, no dark spot in the past, can stain you in
my sight. Your soul is what I love. It matters little what garments
it has worn, if it be clothed in white to-day. The true
man looks through every external circumstance, to the spiritual
substance under all. Only the weak and ignorant regard birth,
fortune, family, reputation —”
At that moment, the door opened. Mrs. Dunbury entered,
smiling benignly.
“Do I intrude?” she asked, hesitating.
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“You do,” said Hector, gently, but with something like a
frown. “Leave us alone a few minutes — if you please.”
“Certainly,” replied Mrs. Dunbury. “I am afraid you will
take cold by that window, Charlotte. There is quite a chill air
to-day.”
She stooped to take up Hector's book; he followed her with
an impatient eye; when, having turned again, to smile her satisfaction
at the aspect of affairs, she deliberately withdrew.
Then Hector moved impulsively to the door, and turned the key
in the lock.
-- -- p732-161
XVI. FIGHTING FIRE.
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It was a new thing for Hector to be closeted with Charlotte.
His mother augured favorably from the circumstance, and waited
with hopeful interest for the termination of the interview.
The hour seemed long: but at length, with a thrill of motherly
solicitude, she heard the sitting-room door open, and Hector come
forth. He was passing through the hall, when she hastened to
intercept him.
“Hector!” — she started with alarm — “are you ill?”
There was a desperate trouble in his pale face; he did not
glance aside, or turn his head, but, putting her off with a feeble
gesture, as she followed him, hurried from the house. Excited
with fresh fears, Mrs. Dunbury made haste to find Charlotte.
She entered the sitting-room. All was still; she saw no one; but
presently a low moan directed her attention to a large arm-chair,
before which lay Charlotte like one dead, with her face upon the
floor, hidden in the scattered masses of her hair.
“My child! what is this?” She lifted her up; she put back
the curls from her temples; she kissed her, and called her endearing
names. But the poor girl only moaned, and strove to prostrate
herself again upon the floor. Then, more than ever alarmed, but
fearing more for Hector than for her, Mrs. Dunbury threw on
hastily her bonnet and shawl, and walked out in the direction he
had been observed to take.
It was another smoky day. The drouth had continued; Autumn
had crept unawares in the dry path of Summer; the hills
were prematurely brown, the forests sere and dead, and the sun
looked like blood in the sky.
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A few days before, in the anticipation of rain, Mr. Dunbury
had ventured to set fire to some obstinate stumps on the borders
of a swamp, west of the creek. Again, as usual that summer, all
signs had failed; the rain came not; the earth was dried to tinder;
and the fire spread in every direction. The men fought
against its inroads, with water and spades; drenched it, quenched
it, smothered it in dirt; killed it, cried victory, and left it for
dead a dozen times. But it had the blind mole's instinct for digging
in the earth. It ate off the roots of trees, and brought them
down crashing in the dry swamp. It devoured the soil itself; it
ran in the grass like snakes; and was continually watching its
opportunity to dodge into the fences, or to insinuate itself into the
balsam pump-logs, piled up on the edge of the swamp.
It had shown itself again that afternoon, leaping up, flushed
and exultant, in a spot where least expected. Its fantastic dancing
and clapping of hands had of course been speedily checked,
and it now lay humbled in dust and ashes; but columns of smoke,
arising from the burnt ground, marked the scene of the conflict.
Mrs. Dunbury thought she discerned Hector working with his
father, in the midst of the smoke. In her uncertainty, she spoke
to Corny, who was filling barrels with water, at the creek.
“Yis, that 's him,” drawled Corny. “I d'n' know what we
should done without him; for he beats all creation to work, when
he gits a little grain riled.”
“What do you mean by riled?”
“Wal, he was goin' by, when me an' Mist' Dunbury was runnin'
to put out the fire; and Mist' Dunbury told him to go an'
help, — kinder cross, I thought, an' I guess he thought so too, for
he did n't say nothin'; but the way he put in when he got to the
fire was a caution, you may as well believe! Darned if I could
do anything but stan' an' look on!”
“Well, fill the barrels; they will want the water.”
“I am fillin' 'em. — There! what in thunder was I thinkin'
on? They tumbled off 'm the sled, when I turned the hoss
'round, and I 've been 'n' filled one 'ithout puttin' it on agin!”
“Place the other on the sled, and dip the water from this one
into it,” said Mrs. Dunbury.
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“Wal, I did n't think o' that. It 'll take a good while, b'sides.
If Bridget 'u'd come and help, we could lift it on.”
At this moment Mr. Dunbury shouted, “Make haste!”
“An't I makin' haste all I kin!” muttered Corny. — “He 'll
be mad as thunder, now, if he sees me pourin' water from one
barrel into t' other.”
He accordingly exercised his ingenuity in the matter, and
turned the horse partly around, to place him as a screen between
him and his two barrels and Mr. Dunbury and his two eyes.
After that he emptied barrel number one into barrel number two;
and, discovering that the contents of barrel number one did
not much more than half fill barrel number two, paused to philosophize
on the subject; when Mrs. Dunbury advanced the
hypothesis that there was an outlet somewhere. In fact, barrel
number two leaked like a sieve. By this time Mr. Dunbury was
shouting again. “Hurry with what you 've got!”
“Wa-a-al! I won't fuss no longer,” said Corny, taking the
reins. “There an't much of it, so I can ride.”
He jumped upon the sled, and, to save the wasting contents of
the barrel, struck the horse with the reins. The animal failed,
however, to keep pace with the leak: while he only walked, the
water was running: and by the time the scene of excitement was
reached, barrel number two was empty.
“I done jest as ye told me to!” screamed Corny.
Out of respect for Mr. Dunbury's length of arm, he dodged
behind the barrel, which was overturned between them, and
stepped back into a bed of hot ashes, up to his knees.
Made aware of her husband's excitement by the united witness
of her eyes and ears, but feeling it still more in her wounded
spirit, Mrs. Dunbury's heart failed her, and, giving a last anxious
look at Hector, as he disappeared in the smoke, she returned
slowly to the house.
An hour later, Bridget blew the horn, and Mr. Dunbury and
Corny came up to supper. They were covered with sweat and
soot; and the brow of the farmer was dark and angry.
“Where is Hector?” asked the invalid, anxiously.
“He is in the swamp.”
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“Is n't he coming to supper?”
“It was necessary for some one to watch the fire.”
“I offered to,” said Corny, blacking a towel with his half-washed
face, “but he said he 'd stay; so I tho't I 'd let him, if he
could see any fun in 't.”
After supper, Corny was sent to take Hector's place; but he
returned, not long after, and made his appearance, whittling.
“Where is Hector?” asked Mrs. Dunbury again.
“He 's out there.”
“But you were told to watch the fire!”
“Wal, he said he 'd watch it. B'sides, the fire 's all under now,
and he could leave it 's well as not, if he was a mind to.”
Mrs. Dunbury then went to the garden where her husband
was at work, and expressed to him something of her fears for
Hector. “Would it not be well to speak to him yourself?” she
ventured to say.
“And go down on my knees to him?” added her husband,
with a lurid look.
“O, no, not that, but you know his spirit; he cannot forget a
wrong; an unjust or unworthy word corrodes his very heart.”
Mr. Dunbury made no reply, but kept on husking the garden
corn, and throwing the ears into the basket. His face was red and
angry; and, with her knowledge of his moods, she judged it wise
to leave him. It was now fast growing dark, and as a last resort
she sent Bridget with a message to her son.
But the evening dragged on, and still Hector did not appear.
Under the wide canopy of smoke that burdened the night air and
hid the stars, he sat upon a fallen trunk, in the midst of the black
field. The subtle element was “under,” as Corny had declared;
but, though crushed, it was not killed: angry eyes starting out now
and then, and winking redly in the dark, betrayed its lurking
life. No other object was visible on any side, far or near, save
the darker shadows of the swamp, contrasting dimly with the
misty gloom of the fields.
There was something deeply solemn in the scene. To Hector,
it seemed typical of his own soul.
In the night of despair by which he was encompassed, he
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saw no light, no glimmer anywhere, save in the quivering embers
of a deep-burning passion, which he had trampled beneath his
feet. Nor was the correspondence destroyed, when, looking to the
eastward, he beheld a startling apparition in the sky. It was of
two blood-red spectres, flickering and glowing like fragments of
the moon in flames. He knew that the phenomenon was caused
by fires on the high mountain-top; but his distempered fancy
could see only two grotesque and awful eyes gazing upon him out
of heaven, and symbolizing the still more awful eyes of conscience
in his soul.
The night wore on. The giant eyes blinked sleepily. The
embers in the ground twinkled, and shifted from place to place,
like electric sparks. The leaves rustled in the swamp, the nightwind
moaned in the trees. Then came a snapping and crackling
of roots, a stir in the air, a murmur and a whisper overhead, followed
by a deep, hoarse whistle, swelling to a roar, and a resounding
crash in the blind woods. The earth shuddered, and dull
echoes smote the hills. A tree had fallen. Still Hector sat and
watched; and now, while his limbs became chilled with the cold,
his thoughts grew wild and hideous. He imagined himself surrounded
by vast pits of smouldering fire. Then it seemed that
the world had been destroyed, and that he was the sole survivor
of his race, brooding upon the ruins. All the people he had ever
known moved past him in grimacing and solemn procession.
They were but as phantoms, that had never had a real existence.
The life he had lately lived was something vague and visionary,
and far-off in the past; his own bodily form seemed strange to
him; and he wondered at the gigantic proportions of the being
that seemed himself. Suddenly, all this passed, and he saw one
sole, clear image, as of purest amber, exquisitely soft and glorious,
falling, falling forever, in a chaotic sky. It was the image
of Charlotte.
He knew not whether these fancies ended in sleep; but when
his mind aroused to consciousness again, the mountain fires had
faded, and the dawn was faintly struggling through the dim smoke
that shrouded the world.
-- -- p732-166
XVII. THE MORNING AFTER.
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All night long Mrs. Dunbury listened for Hector's footsteps
in the hall; and it was not until after she had heard him enter at
day-break, and go up to his chamber, that slumber overtook the
thronging troubles of her brain.
She was awakened by a knock at her door.
“Who is there?”
Hector entered. He was pale and haggard.
“O, my son!” said she, reaching out her hands from her pillow,
“come here! What a night I have passed!”
“What a night I have passed, mother!”
“What have you been doing?”
“Fighting fire.”
“But they told me there was no fire to fight.”
“Ah, but there was fire to fight!” — and Hector laid his hand
upon his breast. “Where is father?”
“I think he has gone in search of you. He was awake all
night; and as soon as it was beginning to grow light, he arose
and went out.”
“That is well. When he returns, please inform him that I
leave town to-day.”
“Leave town!”
“Temper your surprise, mother, and listen to me a moment.”
“But you must not think of it!” and Mrs. Dunbury held
her son's hand with spasmodic energy. “It will kill me to have
you go!”
“It will kill me to stay, mother!”
“But reflect —”
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[figure description] Page 164.[end figure description]
“I have had all night to reflect; and I must go. Life here can
be but one prolonged distress. O, mother, what stuff mortality
is made of! But a little time ago, the golden summer was all
before me; now it is all behind me. What was happiness is
dust; what was hope is ashes! My brain is unsettled, and I
need solitude.”
“I pity you, my son!”
“None of your pity! Rise up rather, like a Spartan mother,
and charge me to be a man! My destiny is not yet fulfilled.
Have no fears for my welfare. There is no danger for me, except
in resting here, to shrivel and wither up before my time.”
“But Charlotte —”
Hector pressed his forehead in his hand, as if to hold it from
bursting.
“Think of her!”
“O, God! were it possible not to think of her!” A sigh
shook his whole frame, and his voice was torn with anguish, like
his heart. “But I will not be weak. Let me make one last
request, mother. Do you know her whom we call Charlotte?”
“I think I do; I think she is a pure and good girl —”
“Think? O, mother!” — and there was a bright earnestness
in Hector's eyes, — “I could tell you a story! — To pass through
what she has passed through! — O, we have never known her!”
“I felt that, — I felt it all!”
“Then you should be ashamed to have said `I think.' For
my sake, cherish her with the tenderest care; comfort her in suffering,
be her friend at all times, and, happen what will, never
forsake her!”
“But you — why do you desert her? why leave her at all?”
“Let that rest where it does — between her and me alone.
If you knew all, then you would understand; then you would
say, `You do well to go.' — Destiny is strange — strange!”
The entrance of Mr. Dunbury interrupted the conference.
“It is a surprise to see you, sir,” he said, with a somewhat
surly look at Hector.
“If that surprise could have been postponed some minutes
longer, I should not be sorry. But, since you are here, I may as
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well deliver the message I was about to leave for you.” And
Hector named his proposed journey.
“Very well,” said Mr. Dunbury, doggedly. “I suppose that
what I said yesterday has decided you.”
“What you said nettled me; for I was sore from head to heel,
when you hit me so rudely with your speech. But that is passed
with me, — I hope it is passed with you. I am grieved, not that
you addressed me as you did, but that you, my father, could find
it in your heart to address any one in such terms. I say this in
all kindness, and with due respect; but I have of late fallen into
the habit of plain speaking.”
Mr. Dunbury looked fiery; but whether from self-conviction or
resentment, Hector did not know.
“I leave to-day; and only Heaven knows when I shall return,—
if ever! I have spent a happy summer with you here. You
have been at most times a father to me; you, mother, have
been always more than a mother. I thank you both! That I
have not been worthy, I know too well, — too well! I am by
nature imperious and self-willed, fitful and rash, and I have too
often given rein to this wild horse of temper. You, dear mother,
can forgive all that, and a thousand times more! I hope you,
my father, will forgive so much. Let me kneel here until I hear
you say so.”
Hector got down by the bed, and hid his face. The invalid
pressed his noble head, and kissed his fair, flowing locks, sobbing
audibly. For more than a minute, Mr. Dunbury looked on in
rigid silence. Then his chest began to heave, and his lips to
quiver, and a glistening moisture quenched the flame of his eyes.
After two or three attempts, which pride appeared to foil, he
stooped and took Hector by the arm.
“Arise up now,” — his voice and manner betrayed emotion
struggling still with pride. “I — I do not like to see you so.
You know I forgive you. Then let us be men, and talk and act
like men.”
“Except we be first as little children, we can never be true
men,” said Hector, kneeling still.
There was love, and suffering, and an indescribable softness in
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his tones, which troubled the parent's rugged spirit more and
more. Mrs. Dunbury wept aloud. Then Hector reached forth
instinctively, and took his father's hand. For a moment, there
was a terrible boiling and swelling of the restrained waters; then
the ice gave away, and they gushed forth. The strong man was
broken; he sank down by the bed; he threw himself on Hector's
neck; he cried out, in agony,
“I am the only offender; I am not fit to live!”
“O, my father!” said Hector, “my father! my father!”
The invalid wept still; but a deep happiness stirred under all
her grief, and sweetened her bitterest tears.
On leaving his mother's room, Hector passed an hour in his
own chamber, making preparations for his journey. Then returning
and finding her alone, and busily engaged in preparing some
little comforts to remind him of her in his absence, he bent over
her tenderly, and took her hand.
“Put away those trifles,” said he, with a sad smile. “It
pains me to see you strain your eyes, working for an ungrateful
son!”
“Anything I can do for you is a solace to my pain,” replied his
mother, blinded once more by her tears.
“But there is something of deeper importance, and of dearer
interest, that you can do for me now. I find I cannot go without
saying one last word to Charlotte. I wish to feel that she understands
me, and forgives me.”
“O, why did you not tell me this before?”
“Why before, and why not now?”
“Charlotte! Charlotte!” — a fresh distress choked the invalid's
voice, — “she is gone!”
Blank disappointment sent the color from Hector's face. He
repeated — “Gone!”
“Half an hour since. I could not detain her longer. O,
how she loves you! how she suffers, Hector! She would have
gone out wildly into the world last night, — anywhere, to
meet any fate, to die; but my entreaties prevailed, and she
remained. But this morning I could not move her. She
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believed that it was her presence here that drove you from
your home —”
“Which way did she go?”
“To Mr. Jackwood's; it was by my advice; I sent Cornelius
with her.”
“It is well!” said Hector. “After I am gone, send for her,—
she cannot but come back to you. Perhaps it is better that I
should not see her again. Tell her — tell her — to think kindly
of me; and — that 's all.”
His mother sobbed. He stooped and kissed her. “Bless you,
bless you, mother!” Then, returning to his chamber, he hastened
to make final preparations for his journey.
-- -- p732-171
XVIII. PARTINGS.
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Strange sensations crowded Charlotte's heart, as Corny set her
down at Mr. Jackwood's gate. The hens cackled as of old;
Rover ran out, barking, and leaped upon her dress; and the rising
generation of turkeys saluted her with a clamor of comically
juvenile voices. Then Bim cried hello, with a good-natured grin;
and Phœbe appeared, clapping her hands delightedly.
“You 've come to stop a week, I know, have n't you?” cried
the young girl. “And, only think, gran'ma is going back to
Sawney Hook, to-day, and we are all tickled to death! But
don't you tell her you 're going to stay; for it 'll make her so
mad, I don't know but she 'd give up going, just to bother us;
she 's so everlasting ugly — if I do say it!”
Mrs. Jackwood dropped her “flat” upon the kitchen table,
where she was ironing a Rigglesty cap, and met Charlotte smilingly
at the door; while the elder Abimelech, who was engaged
in tinkering the old lady's trunk on the inside (her travelling
trunk, of course), put his head out and reached over, — after
rubbing his fingers on his trousers, — to shake hands with the
visitor.
“Here 's our Cha'lotte, gran'mother!”
The old lady, bending painfully over a basin at the stove, occupied
in washing out the Good Samaritan in a little dab of suds,
looked up with a faint simper of recognition.
“O, how d'e do?” — she pulled her shawl about her neck, with
the tips of her wet fingers, as if she felt a draft of air from somewhere
in the direction of Charlotte. “Ye ben well?”
Charlotte had been quite well; and how was Mrs. Rigglesty?
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“O, 't an't o' much consequence about me! Still, it 's perlite
to ask, I s'pose. I an't a bit well. I never be, late years.
Slavin' for my childern 's wore my constitution all down to nothin'.
An' sence the day I got my feet wet in that 'ere plaguy
boat, I 've ben wus 'n ever. I 've the terrible-est crickin' pain
from my left ear all the way down my shoulder to the small o'
my back; nobody knows nothin' 't all what I suffer with 't, an'
more 'n all that, I don't suppose nobody cares.”
And, dropping a silent tear in the dish of suds, she went on
squeezing the Good Samaritan, snuffing and sighing audibly.
“Gran'mother 's goin' to quit us to-day,” said Mr. Jackwood,
“an' I 'm sure I don' know how we 're goin' to git along without
her!”
“O, I shan't be missed! I 'm nothin' but a burden, seems, in
some places! I got a darter down to Sawny Hook, — that 's one
comfort, — an' if she 's half as glad to see me as other folks be to
git red on me, I shall be thankful. I got this 'ere han'some han'kerchi'f,” —
wringing out the Good Samaritan, — “to make a
present on 't to one o' the childern; but there han't neither on 'em
desarved it, an' I don't see but I shall haf to carry it back to give
to some o' Dolly's folks, arter all.”
Phœbe, in an under tone: “They 're welcome to the old
thing, for all me! For my part, I shall be glad to see the
last on 't.”
Old lady: “What 's that gal mutterin'? Come, empty out
these suds, an' gi me some rensin' water, can't ye? I want to
git the han'kerchi'f to dryin', so 's 't we won't haf to put off ironin'
on 't till the very last thing. I 'm afeard I shan't be able to
git away to-day, arter all.”
At this alarming suggestion, Phœbe sprang, with alacrity, to do
the old lady's bidding. In her haste, she bespattered Abimelech
and Corny, who were approaching the kitchen door.
“Here!” cried Bim; “that 's smart! Guess ye better look!
Firin' yer darned old suds all over a feller!”
“Bim'lech!” said Mr. Jackwood; “what 's that?”
“Wal, she might ta' care! I 'll git a hull dipper full, and fire
back, next time!”
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Mr. Jackwood: “There, there, you 're a terrible injured boy!
What does Corny want?”
Corny, soberly: “I come perty nigh fergittin' my errant, arter
all. I 'd got started for hum 'fore I thought Mr. Dunbury said I
might leave the buggy, an' hitch on to your one-hoss wagin, if you
can spare 't 's well 's not. Hector 's goin' away, an' we want to
take his trunks over to town.”
“Hector going!” echoed Phœbe. “Not to stay, is he?”
“I don't s'pose he 'd take his trunks if he was comin' right back.
Mabby Charlotte knows.”
“Why, you never spoke of it, Charlotte!”
Old lady: “I should n't think community 'd mourn much!
He 's the sa'ciest young man, — an' so disagreeable! jest like his
daddy, for all the world, tho' I don't know 't he drinks.”
Mr. Jackwood: “He 's dre'ful smart, though. I alluz got
along with Hector. 'Bout the wagon, Corny, — I dono'. We
got to go over with gran'mother, some time this forenoon.”
Bim, brightly: “She might ride with Mr. Dunbury's folks.”
“I guess 't won't be wuth while for me to go at all, if it 's
goin' to make so much fuss. As for ridin' with them 'ere
Dunburys —”
And, giving the Good Samaritan a revengeful twist and shake,
the old lady hung him before the stove to dry, with an air which
sufficiently expressed her sentiments on that subject.
Mrs. Jackwood, whose wits were sharpened by the bare thought
of the old lady's being detained, proposed that Mr. Dunbury
should have the wagon, and take aboard her big trunk, in passing;
and that the old lady herself should be transported, with
her lesser baggage, in the buggy. Corny thought this arrangement
would suit “fust-rate,” and accordingly took his departure.
“I 'm real glad!” said Phœbe; “for Hector 'll have to stop,
and we can bid him good-by, can't we, Charlotte?”
The Jackwood family worked industriously. Mrs. Jackwood
assisted in packing the trunk and doing up bundles, while Phœbe
flat-ironed the Good Samaritan with a vengeance. For the first
time in his life, Bim showed a disposition to do something for the
old lady; and Rover, impressed with the spirit of the household,
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took it into his head to facilitate business by running away with
her shoe.
At length all was ready; and Mrs. Rigglesty, in her black
bombazine, with her bonnet and cloak on, and her shawl about
her neck, sat cooking her feet in the stove-oven, and sipping a
cup of boiling-hot tea. A quiet glee inspired Phœbe, and Bim
manifested a naughty inclination to dance a hornpipe under the
stoop.
“I believe I 've got everything aboard,” observed Mr. Jackwood,
looking serious as possible.
“I suppose you 're in a hurry to git me off!” sighed the old
lady. “Wal, you won't be troubled with me agin very soon. Is
my luncheon in the bag? I wish there 'd ben a bit of cold ham
to go long with it; but never mind. Take this hot brick, Bim'lech.”
“Bim'lech!” said Mr. Jackwood, in a suppressed voice, “quit
your laughin'!”
“I was in hopes that lyin' pedler 'd be this way agin, 'fore I
went. If he ever does show his face here, I hope you 'll give him
a sound blessin', among ye, and git back the money he swindled
me out of, for them shoes. — There, if you han't dropped that
brick!”
Abimelech, chagrined: “I could n't help it, it 's so tarnal hot!”
Old lady: “And you 've broke it, I do declare! I might
knowed you would! You are the carelessest child —”
Mr. Jackwood: “Never mind. We 'll make this answer till
we git to the village, and take along another to heat at the
tavern.”
Old lady, moving: “O, dear, I 'm down sick! I 'm no more
fit to be trav'lin' 'n I be to fly; but I s'pose I must go. Tuck my
shawl up around my neck a little, Betsy.”
Mr. Jackwood, cheerily: “Step right up in the chair, gran'mother!
Hold the hoss, Bim'lech.”
Old lady, very desponding: “I don't, for the life of me, see
how I 'm ever goin' to git 'way up in that high buggy! O, ho,
hum! Don't le' me slip! Hold the chair, somebody! Here,
Betsy, gi' me your shoulder. Who ever see sich an awk'ard
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thing to git into! O!” — with a sudden scream, — “that crick
in my back! it 's killed me! O, dear!”
Mr. Jackwood: “There you be, mother! You 'll find that an
easy seat to ride on. How 's your back now?”
“O, wal, — 't won't trouble nobody much longer, that 's some
consolation! If I only live to git to Sawney Hook, I shall have
reason to be thankful. My umbrel', Phœbe! I thought everything
was ready.”
The umbrella was at hand. Phœbe passed it up with her
good-by.
“I s'pose that means good riddance!” muttered grandmother
Rigglesty. “There han't none on ye kissed me.”
Mrs. Jackwood, to facilitate matters, gave the example; Phœbe
following with an expeditious smack.
Bim, aside to Charlotte: “I 'm darned glad I an't no taller!”
Old lady: “Come, sonny! Ye han't ben a bit good boy sence
I ben here; but I 'll kiss ye.”
Bim, reluctantly: “Can't reach up!”
Mr. Jackwood: “Come, boy, we 're waitin' for ye; git up in
the chair. Kiss your gran'mother.”
Bim stepped up; made a wry face; received a kiss; and, getting
down, with a violent scowl, scoured his lips on his sleeve as
he went to open the gate.
So the modern Eve rode out of Paradise in Mr. Dunbury's
buggy. Like our first parents, on a like occasion,
“Some natural tears she shed, but wiped them soon;”
the Good Samaritan being brought freshly into service after
Phœbe's ironing.
“Sick 'em, Rove!” said Bim, recklessly, as the fussy shawl
and hated bombazine passed through the gate, with the faded cotton
umbrella spread against the wind.
Rover barked; Phœbe skipped and sang; and Mrs. Jackwood's
genial face looked smiling as a landscape after a long rain. But
it was all a weary pantomime to Charlotte, whose sad eyes beheld
the departure from the kitchen window.
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Scarce had the gloomy umbrella disappeared, when Mr. Dunbury
drove by with Hector.
“Why, if they han't gone and forgot gran'mother's trunk!”
And Phœbe ran out, bareheaded, screaming at the top of her
voice. This was the first intimation Mr. Dunbury had received
with regard to extra baggage, Corny having naturally forgotten
to do his errand.
“You was going without bidding anybody good-by, too!” cried
Phœbe. “Did n't ye know Charlotte was here? Wait; I 'll tell
her, — she 'll come out.”
Ah! there were two hearts that throbbed strangely, at those
words! Happy Phœbe, who knew nothing of the agony of either!
Charlotte had fled to Mrs. Jackwood's room. Her face was
bowed and hidden.
“Why!” cried Phœbe; “why don't you come? He 's waiting.”
“Say good-by for me, Phœbe. It will be the same to him.”
“How you act, Charlotte! You han't been a bit like yourself
to-day! What ails you?”
“Do leave me, good Phœbe!” pleaded Charlotte.
Phœbe complied reluctantly. By this time Mr. Dunbury, with
Bim's powerful assistance, had loaded up the old lady's trunk, and
made all ready for a start.
“She won't come,” said Phœbe. “I guess she thinks you don't
want to see her. I wish you 'd go in a minute; but I s'pose you
won't. What shall I tell her for you?”
A swelling grief in Hector's heart choked back the little message
he would have sent. Yet he shook hands with Phœbe, and smiled
upon her April tears, and expressed a kindly wish at parting; and
so rode off, outwardly calm, but with the insupportable thought
burning and aching in his soul, that the tragic curtain had fallen,
to darken henceforth between him and her he loved, forever.
-- -- p732-177
XIX. THE DOVE AND THE SERPENT.
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In its better moments, the soul looks with clear vision upon the
confused drama of life, and sees use and meaning everywhere.
Wisdom and beauty shift the scenes. The tragic and comic unite
in holy marriage, bringing alternate laughter and tears, joy and
trial, and love, and mighty sorrow, to the development and expansion
of man's entire nature.
But there are times when, from the shock of some terrible experience,
we grope, stunned and blinded, amid the ruins of happiness,
and believe ourselves the mere playthings of chance. It was
so with Charlotte now. What this last great trial was for, she
could not divine. How like a dream it all appeared! Here she
was again in Mr. Jackwood's house: life then was the same as it
had been a few short months before: but, in the interim, what an
existence had she lived!
Mrs. Dunbury sent early for Charlotte to return to the shelter
of her abode. But she could not go back there. Hector's home
could not be her home. Where he had lived, she could not be at
rest. Nor could her spirit find peace with her old friends.
“Do you recollect,” said Phœbe, “the day when Mr. Dunbury
called to borry our wagon, and told us Hector was coming home?
How long ago it seems! Does it to you? Everybody thought,
one time, he was paying attention to you; and I expected, much
as could be, you 'd be married. O, do you remember the stone he
give me for a keepsake, the day you ketched me asleep by the
fence?” And Phœbe, running to her closet, and taking out the
cobble, rolled it upon the floor. “It 's like men's hearts, he said,
and told me to look at it whenever I was in danger of falling in
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love. An't he the queerest mortal you ever see? But I think
he 's splendid! — don't you? There 's Bertha Wing, and I don't
know how many others, would give their eyes to git him. I know
I would,” said Phœbe, frankly. “But this summer he never
appeared to care for anybody but you. Maybe you might 'a got
him, — don't you suppose you might, if you had tried?”
One afternoon, Phœbe came running to Charlotte, in high
glee.
“You can't think who 's come! My heart almost hopped out
of my mouth when I saw him ride up.”
Charlotte started, as Hector's image flashed momentarily before
her.
“How does my hair look?” cried Phœbe. “Come up stairs;
I 'll put on my de-laine dress. Mother! ask him into the settingroom.
There 's his knock!”
Ah! too well poor Charlotte knew that knock; and it was
needless now for the excited Phœbe to whisper, “It 's Robert
Greenwich!”
“I wonder if he knows you are here!” said Miss Jackwood,
closing the chamber door. “Though I 'm sure he 's come to see
me! You would n't be surprised, if you knew half the things he
said to me the other day. Will you hook my dress? How nervous
I be! Don't you like Robert? What a splendid moustache
he wears!”
Charlotte assisted her friend to arrange her dress; and, in
return, Phœbe generously invited her to go down and share the
visitor with her.
“No, I thank you,” said Charlotte. “If he has called to see
you, I should be an intruder.”
The idea flattered Phœbe; and she had no wish to urge the
point. Having taken a last critical glance at her beauty in the
glass, and given her “beau-catchers” a final polish, she descended
alone, simpering and blushing, to charm the smitten Robert.
The visitor staid nearly an hour; during which time, at his
suggestion, Charlotte was twice invited to the sitting-room. But
she persisted in her determination, and at length the foiled hypocrite
took his leave.
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“O, I had such a nice chat!” exclaimed Phœbe, running up
stairs. “Say, he 's coming again! Have I got pretty eyes?”
“Did he tell you so?”
The elated child smiled at herself in the glass, and put on self-complacent
airs.
“O, I an't going to tell! If he did, I suppose it was in fun.
He talked ever so much about you, and asked how long you are
going to stay here, and whether you correspond with Hector. He
said I need n't mention it to you; but I did n't promise. Would
you care if he thought I was handsomer than you?”
Charlotte smiled. “I should not be at all displeased, my dear
Phœbe!”
Phœbe, affectedly: “I don't say he does, you know. If he said
so, he probably did n't mean it. His moustache is perfectly
bewitching, any way!”
Charlotte ventured to utter a few gentle words of warning
against the fascinations of that gay moustache. But Phœbe would
not listen to reason.
“Hector was jealous of Robert, and prejudiced you against
him, or else you would n't speak so. How old should you think
he was? Not over twenty-four, is he? I shall be seventeen
next July.”
So Phœbe chatted, on the same delicious theme, all that day,
the next, and the day after. On the third day, Robert came
again. This time he brought his sister Etty, the genius; by
which stratagem he managed to compel Charlotte's presence, engage
her in conversation, and make Phœbe jealous. The latter
showed a good deal of spite towards her innocent friend; but
when the visitors had gone, Charlotte talked with her so unselfishly
and kindly, showing her what a little fool she was, that she
gave vent to her vexation in a shower of tears, embraced her companion,
asked her forgiveness, and felt better.
On the following day, Robert took the girls by surprise, as they
were walking together by the creek.
“Who would have thought I should be here again so soon?”
he cried, gayly. “Is an excuse necessary?”
“O, no!” said Phœbe.
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“Then I wish my excuse would keep until another time. But
the truth is, I left a pair of gloves here yesterday.”
Phœbe: “I have n't seen any. What kind of gloves?”
Robert entered upon a grave and minute description of the
articles in question, expressing his conviction that they were on
the mantel-piece, under the clock; and it was expected of Phœbe
to go and find them.
“You 'll wait for me here?”
“Certainly. Go quick! If you don't find them under the
clock, look under the bureau; if they are n't there, hunt for 'em
in the barn. — The goose!” laughed Robert; “see her run!”
Charlotte, indignantly: “It 's wicked to deceive her so!”
“Then love will have many sins to answer for. Every artifice
seems right by which I get near you.”
“But you have made her believe you love her!”
“The ninny! did she tell you so? But why so angry? I
wish I could think 't was jealousy; then I should have some
hopes. But we have no time to quarrel. The simpleton will be
back presently, — unless she breaks her neck, as I devoutly pray
she may! Have you heard from Hector?”
A shadow swept over Charlotte's face.
“How should I hear from him? Why do you ask?”
“Because — I have heard from him!”
Charlotte started. The villain smiled, showing the edge of his
white teeth under his moustache.
“I had a letter this morning. It was written on board the
ship Excelsior, bound for California. Would you like to see it?”
She did not speak; she kept her large, intense eyes fixed upon
a willow-twig she turned swiftly round and round in her fingers.
“Indifferent, are you?” Again Robert's teeth showed their
white points beneath his moustache. “He mentions your name,—
shall I tell you what he says?”
Faster still beat Charlotte's heart; faster still she twirled the
willow-twig. Robert opened a letter, and read.
“`I had a queer experience with that girl, Rob. But it is all
over now. The spell is broken. I was a great fool, where you
would have been a great villain!' Complimentary to me, as ever,
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you see! Still, he can't do without me. He invites me to meet
him in San Francisco.”
The light of Robert's eye, and the glitter of his teeth, became
lynx-like, as he watched her. Her restless fingers dropped the
twig. He stooped to pick it up; but she put her foot upon it.
“Show me that letter!”
“So, you have changed your mind? Here it is. But, since
you declined it before, you shall give me a kiss for it now.”
“Give me the letter!” and down went Charlotte's little foot
upon the grass.
Robert laughed impudently, but she kept her eyes on his, and
held out her commanding hand.
“The kiss!” said Robert.
“I would not give you that for fifty letters, with fifty fortunes,
each with fifty slaves like you!”
“I like your temper! Here, — take the letter!” But Robert
knew she would not have it then. She had turned her back
upon him scornfully. “At least, tell me if you have any message
to send to Hector,” — and he held her arm.
“Let me go!” she cried, with haughty mien. “Your touch
makes me shudder! Is not that enough?”
“You speak very plainly!” said Robert.
“So I can afford to speak. I have feared to offend you heretofore,
because it has been in your power to crush me.”
“Has been?” repeated Robert, significantly.
“Has been, — and is; but I do not care much now. Come
what will, I am ready to meet it.”
The impure flame in Robert's eyes could not endure the light
of her clear orbs. He shivered from head to foot.
“You are a noble girl,” he muttered, stifling the rage that
stung him. “But you wrong me; and it is my fault, perhaps.
I have not said to you what I would say, because you would
never hear me. It is from no mean motive that I follow you; I
am true and sincere; I would make you my wife.”
As Charlotte looked upon him, her whole form seemed to undulate
and expand with emotions that swelled up from the depths
of her injured soul.
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“A generous offer! What more you could have said, I do not
know! I thank you! Still, suffer me to be true. My entire
nature shrinks at the thought of giving myself to one I do not
love. By no law, human or divine, can I ever, ever be yours.
So I have the same answer for you I had before. You may be
vindictive, or you may be generous: I have been true: I have
no more to say.”
Robert was astounded.
“Stop!” he aspirated, — “Charlotte!”
Impassioned, quivering, flushed, he strove to clasp her; but she
escaped his arm. He caught her cape; and, tearing it from her
throat, she left it in his grasp. With a quick, desperate step, he
followed her in the meadow, but stopped suddenly, with a curse
muttered through his teeth, at sight of Phœbe. She was approaching,
out of breath, to tell him that no gloves were to be found.
“Why! what is the matter with Charlotte?”
“We have had a terrible quarrel!”
Phœbe, with great eyes: “About what?”
“About you, darling! She is jealous. Watch her, Phœbe. I
shall walk by the corner of the orchard this evening at nine;
meet me there, and I will tell you more.”
And, leaving Phœbe flattered and excited by the important
charge, Robert retreated across the field.
That night Charlotte conferred with Mr. Jackwood, whom she
found the same prompt and hearty friend as of old. His earnest
sympathy, and his ready promise of secrecy and aid, brought tears
of gratitude to her eyes.
“How shall I ever repay you?”
“Don't speak o' that! I only wish I could do suthin' hansum
by ye,” said the farmer. — “Hark! who 's there?”
Phœbe entered, with a shawl over her head.
“I thought ye was abed long ago! Where ye ben?”
Phœbe, very innocently: “Nowheres — only setting under the
stoop a little.”
“And here it is 'most ten o'clock! Be ye crazy? I hope ye
han't ketched yer death-o'-cold, in the night-air. Go to bed!
Cha'lotte an' me 's havin' a talk 't an't necessary you should hear.”
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Phœbe, pretending obedience, lighted a candle, and withdrew.
But the young girl had impressed Charlotte strangely; and, having
vainly attempted to pursue the subject on which she had been
conversing with Mr. Jackwood, she bade him good-night, and
opened the entry-door just in time to hear a step and the rustling
of a dress, and catch a glimpse of Phœbe's candle vanishing up
the stairs.
On the following day, Phœbe gave her father no peace, in her
persistent efforts to draw from him the secret of his talk with
Charlotte.
“What a botheration you be!” exclaimed the indulgent Jackwood.
“Will ye keep it to yourself, if I tell ye?”
“Of course I will — if it 's anything I don't ought to tell,”
added Phœbe, securing that loop-hole for her conscience.
“Wal, I 'xpect we 're goin' to lose Cha'lotte. Spite of all I
can say, she thinks she must be goin' away to-morrow.”
“Going?” echoed Phœbe, startled. “Where?”
“That I don' know myself; only I 'm to carry her over to the
railroad in time for the train 't goes north.”
Phœbe was touched; Phœbe was softened; Phœbe was no longer
jealous. She ran to Charlotte, and threw her arms around
her neck.
“I knew something was the matter!” she stammered forth.
“You 're going off, and it 's me that 's made you so unhappy you
can't stay! And you won't never forgive me, — I don't see how
you can!”
“My dear child!” said Charlotte, very tenderly, “you have
been a little unjust to me, but you have a good heart; and I do
forgive you, most sincerely.”
“I 'm ashamed of myself!” exclaimed Miss Jackwood. “I
never knew anybody half so good as you be, nor anybody that I
ever loved half so well. And I won't ever see you again!”
“Perhaps not, dear child!”
Then Phœbe threw herself wildly upon a chair, and indulged in
spasms, and refused to be comforted on any account.
“Why, Phœbe!” said her mother; “you shan't act so!
You 'll break a blood-vessel!”
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Still Phœbe tortured herself; nor would she suffer anything to
come between her and her grief, until Bim appeared, driving Rover
in harness. The pleasing novelty had a singularly quieting
effect upon her nerves; and, five minutes later, she might have
been seen busily engaged in sewing together strips of cloth for
traces, with the understanding that when the silly-looking cur was
properly attached to the wagon, she should be allowed to drive.
Still her grief returned at intervals, and was very violent indeed.
It did not, however, prevent her from keeping an appointment she
had made to meet Mr. Greenwich that night; and afterward,
going late to bed, she slept so soundly, that, when called to breakfast,
next morning, she dreamed that her mother was chasing her
and Robert around the orchard with a broom, and crying to her
to stop.
It was a chill, cloudy day, and, as Mr. Jackwood drove
through the gate with Charlotte, he felt a rain-drop strike his
hand.
“Hold on!” said he; “we did n't put in the umbrel', arter
all! Fetch it 'long, Bim'lech! — Looks kind o' bad to see you
start off on your ja'nt sich a day as this, Cha'lotte. Had n't ye
better put it off till fair weather, think?”
But Charlotte told him no. The time had come; and, dreary
as the future seemed, she must go forth to meet it.
“Come, come!” cried Mr. Jackwood, “what 's that boy
about?”
“He 's trying to make Rover draw the umbrella on the wagon,”
said Phœbe.
Bim, appearing around the corner: “Git up, Rove! He'p!
clear the track! The big team 's comin'!”
Mr. Jackwood: “Quit yer nonsense, boy, an' bring along that
umbrel'!”
Bim, stoutly: “An't I bringin' it? — Whoa, — back!”
The wagon had struck a post, and lodged. While Bim was
disengaging the vehicle, Rover took advantage of a slack rein,
and, attempting to leap through a favorite hole in the fence, progressed
in the undertaking as far as his hind-quarters, when the
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wagon held him fast. A terrific yelping ensued, as Bim helped
him out of the difficulty by the legs.
“There!” said Mr. Jackwood, “don't le' me see that dog harnessed
up agin to-day!”
He spread the umbrella, which Phœbe handed up to him, and,
having once more earnestly counselled Charlotte to postpone her
expedition, touched the horse with the whip, and drove away.
Somehow, Charlotte could not utter her “good-by.” Yet, as
the animal trotted slowly along the dusty road, amid the pattering
rain, she looked back. Mrs. Jackwood watched her from the front
door, with a countenance full of regretful and tender interest.
Phœbe stood at the gate, waving her handkerchief in the air,
and wiping her eyes with it, alternately. Even Bim, although
ostensibly engaged in training Rover to hold up his foolish head
in harness, and keep his tail from between his legs, showed
unmistakable signs of unmanly weakness, in passing the corner
of his sleeve across his eyes. Then there was a repetition of farewells;
and Phœbe and her mother went in, out of the rain;
and Charlotte was once more a homeless wanderer in the gloomy
world.
Patter, patter, went the dull rain, drumming upon the umbrella,
checkering the dusty bed of the road, and rattling among the dry
leaves. The sky grew darker still, and a long line of showers
swept along the misty mountain side. Then a peculiar smell of
mould, exhaling from the earth, loaded the atmosphere. The
weather was chill, too, and Charlotte found it necessary to wrap
her shawl closely about her, to keep warm.
They rode past Mr. Dunbury's house, and Charlotte's sad eyes
looked their last upon the spot that had been more than a home
to her, in the summer that was gone. The house stood silent and
gloomy in the rain; the windows of Hector's chamber were closed
and curtained; and the little portico, under which he used to sit,
was desolate and deserted. The only living object in view was
Corny, who sat upon the fence, under the shelter of the door-yard
trees, whittling. Recognizing the half-concealed face that peered
from the sombre background of the umbrella, he poised his knife
and stick, nodded, and grinned. Mr. Jackwood drew rein a
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moment, to inquire after Mrs. Dunbury's health, and to receive a
letter, which Bridget brought out for Charlotte, — then drove on,
stopping not again until the railway-station was reached.
“By jingoes!” said Mr. Jackwood, who never indulged in profanity
except on exciting occasions, “we 're jest in time! There
comes the cars! Not many minutes to lose, nuther; for they 'll
be off agin in a jiffy.”
Bell ringing, steam whizzing, wheels clanging and clashing,
the engine, with the long train behind, rolled past the platform of
the little country station, and came to a halt. During the excitement
of getting aboard, Charlotte happily forgot everything else.
She was safely seated, and Mr. Jackwood had barely time to give
her the check for her baggage, and bid her good-by, when the
bell rang again, the engine panted and gasped, and the train was
once more in motion. She returned the hasty pressure of his
hand, but she had no words either of farewell or of thanks. The
next moment, he was gone; only strangers surrounded her; and
the terrible engine thundered on with the train that bore her
swiftly to an unknown destiny, over a dark and rainy land.
At first Charlotte gave little heed to external objects. Her
spirit dwelt deeply within itself. And now, notwithstanding the
gloom and mist that shrouded the future, she experienced a sense
of relief, amounting almost to happiness, in the thought that thus
the past, with all its errors, with all its troubles and alarms, was
swept behind her, as it were, into a gulf.
Swiftly, more swiftly still, sped the train, — on, on, on, through
woods and vales, over streams and chasms, under the mountain's
rocky ribs, with echoing clang and roar. Charlotte felt a wondrous
joy swell in her heart at this wild speed. “Faster, faster — further,
further — on, on, on!” said her soul. When the train
stopped at way-stations, she became impatient; she could scarce
keep her seat; she wished to fly.
Ah! she did not see the crested snake that glided out of the
abyss from which she fled, and followed in her track, and kept its
glittering eyes upon her still!
But once, when the cars had stopped, she looked out of the
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window, and glanced her eye up and down the length of the
train.
There, upon the platform, stood the man who, of all men, she
feared and abhorred. Her impulse was to withdraw instantly
from view; but already she was observed; and the detested face
approached, wreathed in smiles of hypocritical surprise.
“By what singular chance — where in the wide world are you
going?”
The shock and revulsion of the moment had turned Charlotte's
heart to ice.
“The train is off again!” said Robert. “Since there is room
in your car, I will take a seat beside you. How singular that
we should both be travelling the same way!”
She gave neither word nor look in reply, nor did she stir when
he entered and placed himself by her side, but sat faint, and cold,
and still, while once more the rushing and thundering wheels bore
her on and away.
-- -- p732-188
XX. “TWO NEGATIVES DESTROY EACH OTHER. ”
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“If you please, sir,” said the girl behind the counter, “you
have not paid for the cakes and coffee.”
“If — you — please, sir,” repeated the customer, “you have
not paid! — Simplicity or cunning? You 're a wonderful raven!”
He was a tall, meagre personage, with sunken cheeks, a cadaverous
complexion, a restless, glaring eye, locks thin and long, and
a fine, light beard flowing like a stream of flax upon his breast.
His hat was bruised; his coat soiled with the rain, and buttoned
tight to his throat; no linen visible; boots and trousers bespattered
with mud.
“Ravens fed the prophet!” His voice had a sepulchral sound,
and in speaking he started nervously, glancing with his quick,
bright eyes from side to side, with an alert expression. “You
presented the cakes; you prevailed upon me to accept coffee; and
I said Cherith — the brook that is before Jordan.”
“The raven presents her bill,” suggested a glossy moustache,
near the counter.
As the speaker touched the meagre stranger's sleeve, the latter
turned, with a shudder, and, flirting his arm violently, glanced
at the ground with an expression of such loathing, that the spectators
looked to see what crawling horror had occasioned the disturbance.
“What was it?” cried a bustling little lady, running to the
spot.
The stranger rubbed his arm, a smile of triumph flitting across
his pallid face.
“It 's only a shilling,” insisted the girl at the counter.
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“Only a shilling,” ejaculated the bustling little lady. “Dear
me! I thought something had bit him!” looking along the floor,
as if to find the money.
“He shook him off into the fire, and he felt no harm!” The
stranger turned indulgently to the girl at the counter. “Hear
Plato! Think you that he who possesses magnificent intellectual
conceptions, and can contemplate all time and all being, can
possibly consider — what do you call it? — cakes and coffee, as
things of any great importance? The same of shillings. Had
he one, or two, or twenty — dust! he would wash his hands of
them! But, with nothing that is Cæsar's, what shall he render
unto Cæsar?”
At this juncture, the proprietor of the stall, interposing, remarked,
in a decided tone, that he was not Cæsar, and knew
nothing about Cæsar's affairs; but that, if cakes and coffee had
been consumed, cakes and coffee were to be paid for.
“If it 's only a shilling,” said a gentle voice; and a veiled
female, opening a modest little purse, drew forth the required
change.
“Temptation — avaunt!” said the delinquent philosopher.
“The vulgar pay; but great souls are exempt. True,” bowing
graciously, “he has been scoffed at, cast into prison, beaten with
stripes; the fate of greatness. But what is martyrdom? Principles
are at stake. Choose you to satisfy these publicans? For
your soul's sake, if you have money, cast it from you! And, a
word of counsel!” — with a glance at the glossy moustache —
“beware of the grinning alligator! There are evets in his company,
and a brood of saucy young vipers. They ride on his
back, and wink with their blood-red eyes!”
“Dear me!” said the bustling little lady, “I don't see anything!
Where is it?”
The stranger recoiled to let the moustache pass, but, stepping
quickly after, detained the veiled female by the fringe
of her shawl.
“His home is in the mud! There let him crunch turtles;
but keep him away from the birds' nests. He is of the grinning
species, and his breath is poisonous. Beware of the shaggy
jaws!”
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With gentle force she disengaged her shawl, and, passing on,
traversed a wet wharf at the foot of the rainy town. Beyond lay
a steamboat, in waiting for passengers proceeding northward by
the lake; and, in company with a crowd of umbrellas, carpetbags,
band-boxes, and hat-boxes, she went hurriedly aboard. The
glossy moustache kept by her side; and the bustling little lady,
accompanied by a short, swaggering gentleman, followed after.
The stranger stood holding aloft the hand that had come in
contact with the shawl-fringe, bowing and smiling fantastically.
Presently he seemed to fall into conversation with it; when, suddenly
appearing struck with some forcible remark from his
imaginary interlocutor, he kissed it worshipfully, and skipped
along the wharf to the boat. At the door of the ladies' cabin, he
encountered the glossy moustache, whose wearer happened at
that moment to be engaged in biting it somewhat savagely.
“Creep, you creature! There 's your element,” pointing at
the lake. “You are out of your place above-board.”
As Robert Greenwich did not stir, the other moved cautiously
by the door, stepping high, as if walking over some disagreeable
object, and passed triumphantly into the cabin.
“Woman!” — the stranger, advancing to the veiled female,
bent his tall form before her — “I beg your salutation!”
And straightway down he went upon one knee; but, quick as
thought, Charlotte had changed her place, leaving him in that
rather singular posture before the vacant seat. Not the least
disconcerted, regarding the movement simply as an invitation to
be seated, he arose, and, settling softly and reverently in the
place she had occupied, maintained a dignified deportment in
view of his imaginary honors.
“Incognito!” he said, significantly. “But I saw through the
veil. The south wind came to my nostrils; it breathed your
name in my ear!”
Charlotte started with alarm; upon which a jubilant light
danced in the stranger's restless eyes.
“What if I whisper it?” — and his unshaven lips approached
her trembling cheek. “The new Queen of Sheba, in search of a
prime minister!”
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If there was any mirthful element in this grave and formal
announcement, Charlotte's poor, startled heart could not see it.
“All was foreshadowed, your majesty! A queen was to come
out of the south, and she was to be known by her magnanimity
and beauty. And the voice said unto me, `Thou shalt be chief
in the New Jerusalem!' — that is, your majesty's prime minister.
Hail to the glorious dispensation! No pollution of money; no
intemperance; no poverty; no labor, except that to which each
is impelled by the affinity of his genius. The Seven Wise Men
have the credit. They are always with me, — except in potatotime;
then bad spirits haunt me.”
Charlotte's sad eye sought in vain among the people moving
through the cabin for some friendly face, to which she might
look for relief; when, perceiving Robert's sinister visage peering
in at the door, the thought came to her that these two negatives
to her happiness, like two negatives in a grammatical construction,
might be made to counteract each other.
“Do you not observe that we are watched?” indicating negative
number one.
“Alligator's eyes!” exclaimed negative number two. “He
is amphibious; send him to sea on a chip!”
“But, consider — we must not speak together when he is
near.”
“His hide is thick; but there 's a sword to pierce 'twixt his
scales! A warrior for the truth — the queen's prime minister
shall be commander-in-chief of her forces. There 's danger threatened
from the Low Countries. I 'll make him my chariot, and
ride him home from victory. Ha!”
Negative number two pointed, triumphantly, at the door.
Negative number one had disappeared. Upon which Charlotte
entreated negative number two to follow the example.
“There 's slime on the threshold,” said number two, rising.
“I'll spread down my coat, when your majesty steps over. My
armor shall be painted red, to cheat the enemy with the thought
't is blood. But I 'll ride a black steed, and have a mantle of
darkness, that night and I may be of the same color! Adieu,
your majesty! When sent for, I 'll appear.”
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No sooner was Charlotte left alone, than a chubby, smiling
face, with gold spectacles and a squint, moved over to her from
the opposite side of the cabin. It was the bustling little lady
from the wharf.
“Do tell me what strange being is that! Is n't he insane?”
“I think so; but I never saw him until this hour.”
And Charlotte, eager for sympathy and protection, proceeded
to relate the adventure.
“Dear me! how queer!” exclaimed the chubby little lady.
“An't you afraid of him?”
“O, no!” Chariotte smiled sadly. “The boat will start presently;
he will lose me and forget me, and perhaps go about finding
other princesses.”
“But if he should go with the boat?”
“O, he has no money!”
“He won't stop to think of that! — Are you travelling
alone?”
“I have no person on whom I can depend.”
“I 'll tell my husband,” said the chubby lady, “and have him
speak to the cap'n; that 'll fix it! You better keep with us,
had n't ye?”
Charlotte gladly accepted the proposal; then, the chubby lady
calling her husband, the chubby lady's husband consulted an officer
of the boat, and the officer of the boat addressed the self-styled
prime minister. This individual had not only remained
on board, but he manifested a decided disinclination to going
ashore; and, to save him from violent handling, Charlotte, at the
chubby lady's suggestion, and in the chubby lady's company, left
the saloon, to speak to him.
“Salutation, your majesty! The alligator is gone, and I keep
guard. But here are conspirators! They exact money, and
propose removing me from the boat. If they do, the boat shall go
with me. I have Chilo's word for it, in the voice of the sacred
titmouse.”
Chubby lady, pressing forward: “Let 'em do it; then have the
law of 'em!”
Prime minister: “One of your majesty's suite?”
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Charlotte: “She is a companion.”
“Ah! the Duchess of Dingledom! I knew a duchess once.
`As I was going to St. Ives,' as they say in the arithmetic. She
had the crooked back of a witch, and a crooked nose and chin;
and in her mouth she had a twitch, and in her gait she had a
hitch, and in her hand she carried a switch, to aid her work of
sin. She had fifty imps for children. Go not too near her,
your majesty; she has handled crawling things. What she
observed of law savors of the profane. There shall be no litigation
in our kingdom.”
Charlotte: “Nor resistance. Go peaceably from the boat,
will you not?”
Prime minister: “That 's good calculation! Euclid came,
in the form of a black humming-bird with six wings, and taught
me the new method in three easy lessons. No offence, Dingledom?
You 're an excellent creature; but you need washing. If I fall
in with the alligator, there 'll be teeth broken. Once more —
adieu, your majesty! Good-by, your grace! What shall be the
signal?”
Charlotte placed her finger on her lips. The prime minister
looked intelligent; bowed profoundly, and, glancing from side to
side, with quick starts, as if fearing surprise, marched over the
plank to the wharf.
“To think!” exclaimed the chubby lady, delighted, “he
called me a duchess! How nicely we have got rid of him!”
Ah, but there was another who could not be got rid of so
easily! Charlotte's mind reverted to Robert, and her eye wandered
up the street to watch his coming.
“Do look at him!” exclaimed the duchess, alluding to negative
number two. “Where d' he get that pitchfork?”
“A lance to spear alligators!” cried the prime minister. “The
Seven Wise Men sent it by an invisible messenger.”
And, shouldering the implement, he marched to and fro across
the wharf, with stately pace, like a sentinel. He had scarce
commenced a second turn, when the invisible messenger became
suddenly visible, appearing in the form of a juvenile hostler,
in ragged trousers and a dirty shirt, who, standing agape to see
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the steamboat off, had placed the fork temporarily against a
post.
“Here!” whined the young Mercury, running after him, “give
it up! They did n't send it to ye! It 's mine! Pa wants it to
pitch hay in the shed! Come!”
The prime minister chose, however, to consider him still invisible,
and continued his stately march, with strides magnificent,
regardless of the clamor at his heels.
“Le's stay out and watch him,” said the duchess. “It don't
rain, now; and my husband says the boat 's going to start in a
few minutes.”
The bell began to ring, and the passengers from the wharf
hurried aboard. Still no Robert Greenwich; and Charlotte conceived
a trembling hope that he might not appear.
“I shall die, laughing at that crazy man!” exclaimed the
duchess. “How funny the boy looks, with his smutty face! He
is beginning to cry. I wonder why don't we start!”
The bell continued to ring; the steam escaped with a loud
noise; then came three or four sailors, bearing a long box. How
slow they were, thought Charlotte. Too slow, alas! for while they
were still upon the plank Robert Greenwich appeared, walking
at a rapid pace towards the boat. Charlotte's heart sickened.
How vain her hope seemed, then! She should have known that
one so remorseless and so resolute as he would not be left behind.
“Why, what 's the crazy man about?” cried the excited
duchess. “Do look at him!”
Charlotte looked with amazement. Negative number two,
springing upon negative number one, had dexterously thrust the
fork-handle between his feet, in a manner to trip and send him
headlong to the ground. Then, instantly, the implement turning
in the air, the two broad tines lighted astride the neck of the
fallen man, as he attempted to rise, and pinned him to the wharf.
He struggled and cried out; but the warrior for the truth thrust
valorously; and, with face in the sand, eyes starting from their
sockets, knees and elbows braced desperately, and one hand
grasping the fork with a furious endeavor to unfix its yoke-like
embrace, Robert bore not a slight resemblance, perhaps, to a
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writhing and twisting reptile, of the species to which he was
supposed to belong.
“Victory!” shouted negative number one, “at the sign of St.
George and the dragon!”
“All aboard!” cried a voice of command. “Cast off there!”
The plank was secured, the cables plashed in the water, the
buzz of the steam ceased, the engineer's bell tinkled, the rushing
wheels revolved.
Bystanders, meanwhile, ran to Robert's rescue. The overthrower
was overthrown; the fork fell from his grasp; the ragged
urchin seized it; and while negative number one, rising impetuous,
sprang to catch the boat, negative number two took discreetly
to his heels, and fled with light and airy bounds up the
street.
Shouting, furious, swinging his bruised and muddied hat, Robert
flew to the edge of the wharf. The steamer was just beyond; but
a boiling chasm whirled between. He dared not leap; he stood,
a picture of baffled rage, his fiery eye glaring upon Charlotte,
from the landing. Just then the sun broke through a
cloud, and poured a flood of golden light upon the scene. The
foam sparkled, the waves danced, the shore receded, and the vessel's
prow dashed gayly through the glittering waters of Lake
Champlain.
-- -- p732-196
XXI. BIM'S DISCOVERIES.
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“Come, Phœbe,” said Mrs. Jackwood, “empty the water out
of the p'taters; your father 's come, and he 'll want his dinner.
How absent-minded you be!”
Phœbe stood looking vacantly out of the window, towards the
village.
“I 'd like to know whether I 'm lazy, or what 's the matter with
me! Ever since Charlotte went, I can't do anything,— not even
pare apples.”
“It 's a little more Robert Greenwich than Charlotte, I guess!”
“I don't care — he 's treated me real mean! He has n't been
near the house since Charlotte went; and I bet he 's followed her,
wherever she 's gone!”
“Let Robert Greenwich go, and 'tend to what you 're doin'!”
Phœbe was on the point of pouring the potato-water into the
churn.
“What on arth has got into the child?” cried Mr. Jackwood,
scraping his feet at the door.
“I don't know; she does everything wrong-eend foremost. Jest
now, she come within an inch of emptyin' the cream-pot into the
swill-tub! If I had n't screamed, 't would a' gone, sure as the
world! Put on that churn-cover, now, 'fore you forgit it! You
took it, and what you done with 't, I don't know.”
“I 'm sure I don't,” replied Phœbe, thoughtfully, holding the
potato-kettle. “I remember putting something on the pump, and
it must be that.”
“There 's nothing here but the butcher-knife,” said Mr. Jackwood,
from the pump-room.
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“Do tell if that 's there! and here I 've been huntin' for 't
this quarter of an hour! I never see! Be you crazy, child?”
Phœbe, chagrined: “I don't know but I be! for, here, I 've
been emptying potatoes and all into the sink! — What 's that
Rover 's got to play with?”
Mr. Jackwood: “I warrant, if Rover 's in the question, your
eyes 'll be sharp enough! I declare, — what is it, mother? It 's
suthin' 't must a' got lost off the line last washin'-day! Strange,
folks can be so careless! Here, you pesky pup!”
“That 's nothin' from the line,” retorted Mrs. Jackwood; “we
an't so careless as all that comes to. It 's some of Phœbe's work,
if anybody's.”
“Everything will be laid to Phœbe now, I suppose! Well, I
can stand it! — Why don't you git it away, father?”
The dog having paid no attention to his first summons, Mr.
Jackwood made an onset upon him with a short switch. But
Rover, if he did not actually think it was a sham-fight, meant to
make it one, and began to whisk and caper about the yard; sometimes
stopping to shake the garment playfully, or lying upon it
with his paws, and growling valorously, until Mr. Jackwood came
within reach; then, seizing it in his teeth, darting away just in
time to avoid a capture.
“I declare!” cried Phœbe, “it looks like Charlotte's white
cape!”
“Can't be!” said Mr. Jackwood, “for Charlotte 's miles away.”
“May be she is, and may be she an't!” replied Phœbe, significantly.
“But that 's her cape, true 's the world! Now you
can get it!”
Rover had dropped the article beside the path, and gone to roll
himself in the dust, as if nothing had happened. But this was
only a ruse; and as Mr. Jackwood approached, he snuffed, shook
the dirt from his ears, and lay, with his nose upon the ground,
ready for a spring. Mr. Jackwood frowned; Rover winked and
looked knowing.
“Rover! behave!”
“G-r-r-r-r-r-r!” said Rover.
Mr. Jackwood measured his distance, and rushed suddenly upon
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the disputed property. But Rover, at a pounce, was there before
him. He caught the cape in his teeth; as it happened, however,
somebody's foot was on one corner of it; and the next moment
somebody's hand clutched the loose hide about his neck. Rover
pleaded; Rover whined; but the hand held fast.
“Come here, sir!” said Mr. Jackwood. “If you can't tell
when folks are in arnest, an' when they 're in play, I 'll larn ye,
so 's 't you 'll know, in futur'!”
“I 'll try! I 'll try! I 'll try!” yelped Rover, plainly as
talking.
“It 's Bim 's to blame!” interposed Phœbe. “He 's always
fooling with him!”
Mr. Jackwood appeared to consider that Phœbe was not far
from right; and, having bestowed a few light cuts across Rover's
back, dismissed him, with a grave admonition. The dog ran off,
rubbing his left ear with his paw, and lay down, dejectedly, under
the wagon.
Meanwhile Phœbe had possessed herself of the garment, and
taken it to the house. Had it been a common article of apparel,
it would have attracted very little attention; but it was a light
and graceful cape of Charlotte's own manufacture, and the fair
figures her needle had wrought, together with its original delicate
white color, rendered its recent cuts and stains all the more striking
by contrast. What surprised the family most was the discovery
that some of the stains were of blood.
“Le' me see it!” said Mr. Jackwood, taking the article in his
hand, for the twentieth time. “Suthin' here!” with a profound
expression. “Mother, look an' see if that wan't cut with a
knife!”
Mother looked; Phœbe looked; and Mr. Jackwood looked
again.
“What do you think, father?” asked the excited Phœbe.
“The dog never tore that in this world! It 's been cut; an'
this blood on 't an't four-'n-twenty hours old, or I miss my
guess! Where in the world could the dog git holt on 't? Where 's
Bim'lech? Does anybody know?”
“O, I 'm real frightened!” stammered Phœbe. “I — I 'm
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afraid I 've been to blame, some way. But — I 'm sure — I
did n't think I was doing any wrong.”
“What do you mean? What have you done?”
“I told Robert when Charlotte was going away, — I don't
know what I did it for, — but he made me think —”
Mr. Jackwood: “He made ye think the moon was made o'
green cheese, if he tried to, I 've no doubt! Did n't I tell ye
Cha'lotte wanted it kep' from everybody? — But what has that to
do with the cape?”
“If anything has happened to her, it 's all owing to me!” said
the remorseful Phœbe. “She was afraid of him, an' one day they
had a dreadful quarrel down by the crick. He said 't was because
she was jealous of me.”
Mrs. Jackwood: “Jealous of you! That 's an idee! For my
part, I never imagined Robert cared a snap of his finger for
you!”
“Where 's Bim'lech, I wonder?” said Mr. Jackwood. “That
boy never 's in sight when he 's wanted!”
“What boy never 's in sight when he 's wanted?” cried a
blustering voice at the door.
Phœbe: “Here he is!”
Abimelech, stoutly: “Yes, here he is! An' he 'd like to find
out who 's ben lickin' Rove'?”
Mr. Jackwood: “S'posin' I have? What then?”
“Wal!” — began the younger Jackwood, with a belligerent
shake of the head.
“Wal, what?”
“I 'd — like to know what he 'd ben doin', — that 's all!”
“He was tearin' this 'ere cape; an' what I want of you is, to
tell how he come by it.”
Bim looked ignorant: “What cape?”
“Charlotte's cape,” cried Phœbe. “It 's been cut, and tore,
and there 's blood on it! Where did you find it?”
“Jes' if I found it! What you talkin' 'bout?”
Mr. Jackwood, sternly: “Look a' here, Bim'lech!”
“An't I lookin' hard 's I can?”
“Don't speak so! I 'll have that dog killed, if you 're goin'
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to be so pudgicky when he 's whipped for gitt'n' into mischief;
mind, I tell ye! Now, speak the truth, and tell us what you know
about this 'ere cape!”
Bim: “What should I know about it?”
Phœbe: “He does know! I can tell.”
Bim: “You can tell, a sight! Rove found it down in the
meadow.”
Mr. Jackwood: “Bim'lech, 'tend to me! Tell me how it come
cut?”
“Rove tore it; I was goin' to lick him for 't, if I could ketched
him.”
“But that was done with a knife!”
“'T was jes' so when I found it, — perty nigh.”
Phœbe: “You said Rove found it!”
“Wal, — what if I did? Wan't Rove an' me together? And
an't Rove my dog? — say!”
“That 'll do, Phœbe! Bim'lech, do you know anything about
this blood?”
Bim, interested: “What blood? O! that! You make a
great fuss about an old rag, I should think! An't we goin' to
have no dinner to-day? Where 's the wash-basin?”
“Bim'lech,” said Mrs. Jackwood, “come here!”
Bim, scowling: “What ye want?”
Mrs. Jackwood held the young gentleman by the collar, and,
wetting the corner of her handkerchief with her tongue, rubbed it
on his cheek.
“Come!” exclaimed Bim, jerking away; “what 's that for?”
“Hold still! what 's on your face?”
“I d'n' know! what? — O, Pheeb! you can't guess what I
got!” and Bim pulled something from his pocket.
“A letter! Where did you git it?”
Bim, triumphantly: “I found it with the cape!”
Phœbe: “It 's Robert Greenwich's name on the back! And
there 's blood on the letter! Are you sure you found them
together?”
“Of course I be! Wan't the letter under the cape? And
did n't it drop out when I picked it up?”
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“I guess I can tell somethin' 'bout the blood,” said Mrs. Jackwood.
“Hold here agin, Bim'lech. — Han't you ben havin' the
nose-bleed?”
“Yes, — I had the nose-bleed a little! What of it?”
“An' you got blood on the cape!”
“Mebby I got a little on.”
“Bim'lech!” said Mr. Jackwood, solemnly, “step this way!
Look me in the eye! Now le's have the truth, the hull truth,
and nothin' but the truth.”
“Wal, don't I?”
“I wan't goin' to punish ye; we only wanted to know the truth
of the matter; for we was afraid suthin' had happened to Charlotte.
Now, was there, or was there not, blood on the cape when
you found it?”
Bim, hesitating: “The rain, or suthin', had spotted it, any
way.”
“And you cut it with your knife a little, did n't ye?” in a
coaxing tone.
Bim, doubtfully: “Le' me think! Yes, now I remember! I
did cut it a little; but 't was an old thing!”
Phœbe: “O, what stories!”
“Phœbe! I 'm dealin' with him! What 'd ye cut it for?”
“Wal,” — Bim scratched his head, — “I cut it! — 't wan't
good for nothin'!”
Mr. Jackwood, tapping the floor with his foot: “Answer my
question!”
“I d'no, — I thought —” Bim began to grin — “'t would
make a good jacket for Rove, — like that the little monkey had
on to the caravan.”
“Boy! Then you made these holes?”
Bim looked foolish: “Wal, — I had to make some holes for
his legs, or it would n't stay on to him.”
“That 's right!” said Mr. Jackwood, approvingly; “always
tell the truth, my son; for liars never prosper.”
Phœbe: “I should n't think he 'd prosper, then!”
“'Sh! never mind! he 's done perty well. — How did you git
the nose-bleed, my son?”
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“He did n't like the jacket; an' when I held him to put his
legs in the holes, he jumped, an' kicked, — till by 'n' by he hit my
nose the awfullest tunk with the back of his head! I hung on,
though, till I see the blood runnin'; then he cut for the house,
with the cape hangin' by his neck an' one leg.”
“Why could n't ye a' told this in the fust place?”
Bim, giggling: “'Cause you was all makin' sich a fuss about
the ol' rag, an' I did n't know how hard I 'd have to take it! I
meant to tell, all the time; but I thought 't would n't do no hurt
to let on a little to once.”
“That don't explain how the cape come in the meader, arter
all. And Green'ich's letter with it, too! — I don't s'pose 't 'll do
no harm to open it, sence the wafer 's broke, an' find out who
wrote it. — What name 's that 'ere, Phœbe? Your eyes are better
'n mine.”
“Why, it 's Hector Dunbury's!”
“Hector Dunb'ry's, hey? Wal, I guess we 'll set up to the
table, now; and arter dinner, Bim'lech, you can go 'n' carry the
letter over to Mr. Dunb'ry's folks. If it 's from Hector, they 've
a better right to it than we have. Don't be readin' it, Phœbe!”
Phœbe: “I an't, — but, — how strange! Hector 's gone to
Californy!”
Mr. Jackwood: “Here, here! you shan't read it! Give it to
me. Can't be he 's gone to Californy! His folks 'u'd know
suthin' 'bout it, if he had.”
Phœbe: “Just let me make out this sentence. It 's something
about Charlotte.”
Mrs. Jackwood: “Come, Bim'lech, take off your cap, an' wash
your face, if you 're goin' to Mr. Dunbury's. Don't throw your
cap! I declare for 't!”
Bim, flinging his cap at the sink-shelf, had missed his aim, and
sent it plump into the churn. A tumult ensued, as Mrs. Jackwood,
in great trepidation, fished it out, and hastened to hold it,
with the dripping cream, over a milk-pan.
Bim, with bravado: “You might keep the churn covered up!”
Mrs. Jackwood: “How many times did I tell you, Phœbe! —
It 's well for both of ye 't I 've got my hands full!”
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“I don't know what I did with the cover,” said Phœbe, still
clinging to the letter.
“Come, come!” exclaimed Mr. Jackwood. “Have I got to
take it away from you by main force?”
Phœbe, relinquishing her hold: “I don't think Hector speaks
very well of Charlotte, anyhow! That 's the way with men,
though; and I suppose Robert will write to him the same about
me!”
Mrs. Jackwood: “Father, do set that child to doin' suthin'!
If you can't think of anything else, take the pie out of the oven.
Then hunt for that churn-cover till you find it.”
Phœbe opened the oven-door. There was no pie there; but in
its place she found the missing churn-cover, baked brown, and so
hot that she dropped it on the floor with a scream.
-- -- p732-204
XXII. TWO SKELETONS IN ONE HOUSE.
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An old gentleman, in a loose suit of drab, with a white cravat,
a white whisker, and a thin fleece of white hair frizzled all over
his head, took off his hat (a white one) to the clerk of a secondclass
hotel, in Montreal.
“I wish to see a — a Miss — a Miss —” The white gentleman
hesitated, and fumbled in his breast-pocket. “I 've forgotten
the name, and left the letter at home. I 'll glance at your books,
if you please.”
“Presently,” said the clerk; “as soon as this gentleman is done
with them.”
The gentleman referred to was a gay young fellow, with a moustache;
precisely such a moustache, by the way, as Phœbe Jackwood
so much admired, and pined to behold once more, on Huntersford
Creek. The wearer looked up, with a questioning air, at
the clerk.
“Mr. Sperkley's party arrived here the twelfth?”
“Ay,” said the clerk, “night before last.”
“Is Mr. Sperkley in?”
“Mr. Sperkley is out, this morning?”
“Thank you; I will call again,” — and the moustache retired.
“Sperkley, — Sperkley,” repeated the white gentleman, referring
to the register. “That is the name I was to inquire for, I
think. `Mr. Sperkley, lady, and friend,' — and it 's the friend I
desire to see. Is she in?”
“A young lady; ay,— I think so. Shall I send up your name?”
The white gentleman's card being despatched to Mrs. Sperkley's
apartment, answer was promptly returned that the ladies would
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meet him in the public parlor. He had not long to wait. Scarce
had he taken his seat, when a bustling, chubby little woman entered,
bright and smiling as the sun, and breathless with running
down stairs. She was dressed in stiff, rustling silks, and wore
heavy jewels in her ears and on her fingers; gold-bowed spectacles
on her nose, a massive chain of gold about her neck, and a watch
and pencil in her belt.
“How do you do?” she cried, with a hearty demonstration of
friendship. “Have you seen my husband?”
“Your husband? — Is this Mrs. Sperkley?”
“Yes, this is Mrs. Sperkley,” — with an air which seemed to
say, don't you think it 's a pretty nice Mrs. Sperkley, after all? —
“And you are Mr. Holyland?”
“Longman was the name on my card.”
“Longman? Dear me! how could I make that mistake, and
read it Holyland?”
“I wish to see a young lady who is, I think, in your company.”
“O, the person we got acquainted with aboard the boat! She
has been expecting some one to call. I 'll run and speak to her.”
She rushed, rustling, from the parlor. The white gentleman
looked dissatisfied, and walked the room as if he was more than
half inclined to walk out of it, and out of the hotel, and out of the
society of Mr. Sperkley, lady, and friend, forever. His expression
brightened, however, when the door again opened.
“Miss Woods —” Charlotte smiled assent, and he gave her
his hand. “I received your note accompanying Mrs. Dunbury's
letter last night, but at too late an hour —”
“Do not apologize,” said Charlotte, embarrassed. “You are
but too kind to come to me at all. On Mrs. Dunbury's recommendation,
I ventured to apply to you, — I am here, a stranger,—
and what I desire is, to find some situation —”
“Leave that to the future,” replied the white gentleman.
“How are you situated here at the hotel?”
“Comfortably as could be expected, I suppose.”
“And your friends?”
“Friends? — I have none.”
“I mean, the Sperkley family.”
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“O!” said Charlotte, with a smile, “I may, perhaps, call
them friends, for they have been kind, and helped me through
difficulties in travelling that I could hardly have surmounted
alone. But they are mere chance acquaintances.”
“So much the better! Now, I 'll tell you what; without any
ceremony, and with as little delay as possible, you shall leave
this house, and go home with me. So much accomplished, we 'll
see what else can be done. One thing at a time, is my motto.”
It had been so far from Charlotte's expectation or design to
intrude upon anybody's hospitality, that the offer appeared all the
richer and more welcome to her homelessness. With a full heart
she accepted it. This settled, the white gentleman, having a small
business matter to attend to in the same street, took leave, but
returned promptly, in half an hour, as he had promised. Charlotte
was ready for a departure, and had nothing to do but exchange
“good-bys” with Mrs. Sperkley.
“Our acquaintance has been very pleasant,” said the duchess,
making an affecting demonstration with her handkerchief. “I am
very sorry to lose you so soon; and, re'ly, I shall have a good
cry over it, when you are gone!”
The little woman exhibited something of the genuine ore of
human feeling, as well as a good deal of the dross; and Charlotte,
in whom the faintest show of kindly sympathy on the part
of others never failed to awaken grateful emotions, returned her
boisterous kiss with a quiet touch of her pure lips, accompanied
with an earnest inward prayer for her happiness. At parting,
the duchess wished her to accept a gold ring, which she drew
from her finger, as a memento; but Charlotte with gentle dignity
declined it, and it went back to its place on the chubby red hand.
A few minutes' ride brought Charlotte and her companion to a
plain, sober little house, pleasantly located, in the upper part of
of the town. This proved the residence of the white gentleman;
and here, disembarking with her baggage, she was welcomed to
her new home by one of the sunniest faces she had ever met.
“My daughter, Mrs. Lawrence Longman,” said the white gentleman.
She was not beautiful; she was pale and faded: but there was
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something exceedingly tender in her expression, which drew Charlotte
to her at once.
“I was sure father would bring you home with him,” said Mrs.
Lawrence. “Your room is all ready for you.”
It was a cosey little chamber, the windows of which looked out
upon a garden and a country road. On entering it, Charlotte was
thrilled with happiness and surprise. She glanced around her;
she gazed from the window; she turned her suffused eyes upon the
smiling, tender face of the gentle woman who had given her so
rich a welcome. She attempted to speak; she put out her hand,
but a flood of tears overtook her.
“You see what a foolish creature I am!” said she, with a
smile of living love brightening through her tears. “But I cannot
help it! such good things happening to me, when I deserve
them so little!”
The gentle woman whispered a word of cheer, and glided from
the room. It was an hour of deep and holy emotion to Charlotte.
Her gratitude to God, and to the friends he had given her, arose
to rapture; feeling, as she did, that her feet were now led into
sweet pastures for a season, and that here she might lie down and
rest by the cool waters.
When next she met Mrs. Longman, her appearance had undergone
a surprising change. She was attired with a simplicity
amounting almost to homeliness; but the charm of her figure, and
the spirit of beauty and grace that breathed about her, amply
compensated for the lack of external adornments. She had
dressed her hair carefully, however; and to that, perhaps, she
owed no small part of her personal attractions. In the luxuriant
arrangement of its rich, soft masses, she had displayed all the
natural exultation and exuberance of her spirits. No jewel on
her head or about her person, save a simple golden cross upon her
neck. It was a trifle Hector had given her, — the only gift of
his she had consented to retain, — and this was the first occasion
on which she had worn it, since they parted. Her countenance
was tranquil and happy, yet there was a softening sadness
in it still, which rendered it all the more winning. Her eyes were
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wonderfully bright and melting. Mrs. Longman regarded her with
quiet admiration.
“And how did you leave Mrs. Dunbury?” that lady asked.
“I am sorry Hector has gone again. He appears to have a roving
disposition. Is his mind as changeable as his habits? I am
not much acquainted with him; I never saw him but twice, and
that was years ago. He was then a handsome, high-spirited boy,—
adventurous, but very fond of his mother.”
Poor Charlotte managed to say, —
“He is your cousin?”
“A sort of second cousin, — and that only by marriage. Mr.
Longman is Mrs. Dunbury's uncle; and I am Mr. Longman's
daughter-in-law. I wish I knew the family better. Ah, Mrs.
Dunbury says such blessed things of you in her letters!”
“Her letters!” said Charlotte.
“You did not know, then, that we received one from her by
mail only a few hours before the one you brought arrived? Indeed,
how should you know? Perhaps it would have been as well
not to mention it; but it appears she could not express herself
sufficiently in the note she had sent by you; so she afterwards,
on her sick bed, took occasion to tell us more about you.”
“She is too kind; you must not believe half she says.”
“One half will be enough! But, come, I want my mother to
see you. She is aged, and a little capricious; she has grown quite
impatient about you.”
The mother — or rather the mother-in-law — was an emaciated
old lady, with an ear-trumpet, a snuff-box, and an extremely feeble,
small voice. She proved to be very deaf, and very peevish. She
made Charlotte sit up close to her chair, and, giving her the mouth-piece
of the trumpet, while she held the other extremity of the
tube to her ear, conversed with her from the depths of the pillows
in which her attenuated frame was almost hidden from view.
Charlotte had been nearly a week with her new friends, when,
one day, as she was keeping the old lady company, she was aroused
by an occurrence in the adjoining room. The door was unclosed;
and she heard Mrs. Longman exclaim,
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“Edward, where did you come from?”
“From Paradise, by the back door,” replied a voice which
made Charlotte start, and strain her ear to catch the faintest
intonation. “Do you know what that means? It means quibblequabble.
The world is all a fleeting show. Give me a glass of
water.”
“Sit down, Edward,” said the widow, kindly. “Will you take
some wine? You look weary.”
“I have been in the wilderness, tempted of the devil. I would
not care, if I had not torn my trousers. When this old hat was
new, — sing me that hymn; I think it is something melancholy,
tending to reflection. And I was young and gay, — we are older
now, Sal! And wiser; did you know it?”
“And wiser,” repeated Mrs. Longman.
“I like you, Sal!” said Edward, affectionately. “But there
is a deal of milk-and-water in your composition.”
“Drink the wine, Edward.”
“The milk of human kindness, and the water that delights
thirsty souls! That 's better than wine. Good Sal! you are
one in ten thousand. I would kiss you, but for my oath.” The
speaker's eye glittered, and his voice sank to a whisper. “I stood
on the shore, and saw the ship, rich-freighted with my happiness,
sail out of sight in the distance. The Princess of Sheba's ship, —
did I tell you?”
Edward seated himself in an attitude of deep thoughtfulness,
holding his dilapidated hat in one hand, and the glass in the other.
His long, flaxen beard streamed down and touched the wine, as he
bent forward, resting his elbow on his knee. The widow stood
by, sad and patient, waiting for him to drink.
“Prophecy is a fearful gift.” He raised his head, and shook
the wine-drops from his beard. “She shall reign; but one is to
be sacrificed. Broken ice and water.” He seemed to be gazing
at some picture, far away, and his finger waved softly in the air.
“The river that flows through Sheba; 't is perilous crossing!
Sal!” — starting with exultation, — “they 've shown me my
epitaph! 'T is to be written in fire, on a monument high as the
moon!”
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The widow came softly, and closed the door.
“What is there?” cried the old lady, agitating her pillows.
“Tell me; no secrecy! Why is the door closed? Quick!”
And the feeble hand extended the mouth-piece, with an impatient
jesture. Charlotte replied, through the tube, that some person
was talking with Sarah.
“Who? Don't keep me in suspense! I shall die! O, dear!
why don't you speak?”
“I don't know who it is.”
“Don't know? You must know! You are deceiving me!
Sarah has no right —”
“She calls his name Edward.”
“Edward! is he here? Why don't he come at once to his
mamma? Why does she keep him?”
Charlotte, rising: “I will speak to her.”
“No!” whistled the feeble voice; “don't leave me! I shall
know nothing, if you do. They take advantage of my infirmities;
they impose upon me in all sorts of ways. Poor Edward! he has
been out of his mind. O, it 's now five years or more! A disappointment.
That was the beginning of it. So, he is home again,
is he? It runs in the family, — hereditary, you know. Sarah's
husband, Lawrence, — he was my oldest, — committed suicide. I
went to the garret, one day, and found him hanging from a rafter.
I never got over the shock. It all came of his meeting an old
flame. They 'd been engaged, I can't remember how many years.
He had married a new fancy; and when he saw the other again,
they had a desperate time. It almost killed Sarah. It 's in the
Longman family, not in mine. Mr. Longman had a nephew who
went the same way. A brother of Mrs. Dunbury, you know;
Hector's uncle. We used to think Hector would be like him, —
how is it?”
Charlotte shuddered; the picture the invalid once had drawn
of her son's possible fate recurring with startling vividness to
her mind. At this juncture, the widow entered the room; and
Charlotte gave a rapid account of her meeting with Edward, in
her northward journey.
“What are you talking?” cried the old lady. “Here!” —
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giving Sarah the tube, — “tell me all about it. Don't omit a
word.”
“Presently,” said Sarah. “Edward is coming.”
Charlotte glided out, by another door, as he entered. At sight
of his haggard face and tattered clothes, the old lady began to
weep. He regarded her compassionately.
“The creature they used to call my mother! How long has
she been a weasel? If she is hungry, give her some mice. There
shall be no hunger in our kingdom, not even among the insignificant
races. And no tears either, except liar's tears!” — through
his teeth — “and they shall weep, weep, weep! Could a princess
tell a lie?”
“What does he say?” squeaked the old lady.
“When sent for, I shall appear; and so I told her majesty.
Ha!” — his countenance lighted up, as he glanced from the
western window, — “the sun sets red; there is danger brooding
for to-morrow!”
“Tell me, quick! Here!” — the old lady agitated her tube,—
“Edward, speak to your poor mamma!”
“I strode that sun once, and rode him through the heavens till
I bumped my head against the darkness! Sal!” — pointing
eagerly at the sky, — “do you mark the phantom horseman? He
gallops through a sea of fire!”
“Kiss me, my boy!” whimpered the old lady.
“Since Christmas, I have seen five, — brave riders all! One
swims the wave on a dolphin; that 's Cupid. One scours through
the bowels of the earth; that 's Avarice. And one careers on the
mountains; that 's Ambition. This one is nameless; but where
he rides men's wits are troubled.”
Already a domestic had been despatched for Mr. Longman.
He was not far from home; he returned speedily; and finding
his son in so unusual a state, he sent in haste for the family
physician.
Sleep, said the doctor, was chiefly necessary to restore Edward's
mind and body to their ordinary condition. But he could not be
prevailed upon to take any repose.
“I kicked Morpheus out of bed nine days ago; since then, we
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have been strangers. What if her majesty sends, and finds me
napping?”
Neither reason nor entreaty could influence him. He walked
the room restless, talking wildly. At length Sarah suggested that
Charlotte should be invited to exert her power. The others consented;
and presently the “princess” appeared.
Was it his imagination only, or something in the magnetism of
her gentle spirit, that wrought so wonderful a change in his entire
demeanor? His countenance grew placid; his movements less
sharp and abrupt; his eye less wild and glaring; he became obedient
and tractable as a child. The same extreme sensitiveness to
personal influences, that caused him to start and shudder at the
approach of impure spheres, seemed also to have revealed to him
some innate excellence in Charlotte, to which he owed allegiance.
At her request, he consented first to take a warm bath, then to be
put to bed; and, having exacted her promise that she would have
him waked, without fail, before the ship sailed, he closed his eyes,
and soon sank into a profound, perspiring sleep.
“A visitor to see Miss Woods,” said the widow, in the forenoon
of the next day, showing her benign countenance in Charlotte's
chamber.
“Me!” echoed Charlotte, turning pale.
A rapid train of thought passed through her mind. Robert
Greenwich, returning to Huntersford, and learning the address of
Mrs. Dunbury's relatives in Canada, had hastened to trace her to
her last place of refuge. It was what she had feared. But Mrs.
Longman relieved her with the welcome intelligence that the visitor
was a lady.
“O, Mrs. Sperkley!” said Charlotte.
“What a time I have had finding you!” exclaimed the little
woman. “It 's curious, as I said to my husband, that I never
thought to ask your address. I 'd forgotten Mr. Longman's name,
too; and, just think! the very next day after you had gone, a
young gentleman, who says he has something of great importance
for you, came to inquire about you.”
“A young gentleman! Who?”
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“I declare, I can't speak his name! Strange, for him and my
husband got very intimate, and played billiards together, and I
don't know what all.”
“Does he wear a moustache?”
“O, yes, a very handsome one!”
“Is n't he the same person who was detained from the steamboat
by the insane man?”
“O, yes!” cried the duchess; “and I thought I had seen his
face somewhere. But, then, I should think he 'd have spoken of
it. The way he found us was queer. He could n't see your
name on any of the hotel books; so, when he saw our arrival registered
as Mr. Sperkley, lady, and friend, he thought you must be
the friend.”
“And — where is he now?”
“O,” said the duchess, “him and my husband has gone down
to Quebec together, on some kind of a speculation. My husband
is a great speculator; he trades in watches, and di'monds, and
all sorts of things. Well, when I was left all alone, and did n't
know what else to do with myself, what should I find in my workbox
but the very card Mr. Longman sent up to us the day he came
to the hotel. And what did I do, but give it to the landlord, and
tell him to find out where such a man lived. That was easy; and
here I am. I knew you would be glad to see me; for I said to
myself, says I, though may be she won't care much about me,
she 'll be pleased to hear from the young gentleman. O, I remember
his name, now! It 's Sandwich, or Wolwich, or something
of the kind. It 's some sort of a wich, any way. You may
depend upon seeing him just as soon as he gets back with my husband.
You know what he has for you a great deal better than
I do.”
“Whatever it is,” said Charlotte, with sparkling eyes, “I do
not wish to receive it!”
“You don't say!” cried the astonished duchess.
“It was expressly to prevent his finding me that I requested
your husband not to register my arrival on the books of the hotel.
And I hope,” added Charlotte, almost weeping with vexation,
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“that you will not do me so unwelcome a kindness as to send me
any such friends.”
“Why, I am sure, I can't understand that!”
“No, I do not expect you to. Do not try to; do not think of
it any more; do not think of me. I have felt very grateful for
your kindness to me; but I beg you will not give yourself any
more trouble on my account.”
In a little while the duchess took her leave. Charlotte did
not invite her to call again; and, as she saw her ride smilingly
away in the cab, she devoutly hoped that the light of that beaming
face might never shine upon her pathway again.
-- -- p732-215
XXIII. PROSPECTS.
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Thus Charlotte had found not only two skeletons in Mr. Longman's
house, but there was a fine promise of another coming; for
in truth she placed so little confidence in Mrs. Sperkley's discretion,
that she expected nothing more than to see Mr. Robert
Greenwich, immediately on his return from Quebec with the travelling
watch-trader.
In the mean time, her friends had succeeded in finding a position
for her as a companion to a wealthy dowager. The news
was imparted to her immediately after the departure of the
duchess. It only remained for her to see the lady, and, if they
were mutually pleased with each other, to accept the situation.
The following day was fixed for the interview.
Mrs. De Rohan was a person of benevolent aspect and mild
address. Charlotte entered her presence with fear and trembling;
but a smile reässured her; she was delighted with the
thought of attending upon so kind a lady; and her only apprehension
now was, that her services might not be accepted.
“I see but one difficulty in the way,” observed the dowager.
“You say the more quiet and retired your life, the better. Now,
I intend soon to commence a series of journeys, which will terminate
in the good Old Country, in the course of a year or two; and
I shall expect you to accompany me.”
Charlotte's pulse leaped with joy. With nothing to bind
her to the past but ties that her spirit longed to sever, it is no
wonder that she reached out the eager hand of welcome to
the future smiling from the cloud which had darkened before
her so long.
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Yet the joy was tempered with deep and saddening thoughts;
and may we not guess that the image of one she loved rose tremulously
before her then?
That night Charlotte dreamed of Hector. She went with Mrs.
De Rohan to San Francisco, where she found him waiting for her
under some door-yard trees, which bore a remarkable resemblance
to those in front of his father's house. His voice and
smile were real; and all things glowed with a happy blue-and-golden
light, — except the weather, which Charlotte found very
cold. It was so cold that she awoke; when she discovered the
fresh morning air blowing upon her bed. She had left her
window partly open, on retiring, and the wind had changed during
the night.
So much for her dream; but all that morning Hector's image
haunted her; and she chided herself, not only for thinking of
him, but for entertaining such fancies even in a dream.
Mr. Longman sent for her to visit his unfortunate son.
“He has somehow conceived the notion that you are going to
desert him,” said the old gentleman, in his subdued voice. “You
alone have any influence with him; and I have faith to think
that, if you would consent to remain with us, his reason might be
restored. I know what a sacrifice it will be for you; but, if gratitude
can repay you —”
Tears blurred Mr. Longman's vision; his white eyelashes
winked them away, but he had forgotten just what he was saying,
and failed to complete the sentence. His words troubled Charlotte;
and, having paid Edward a visit, and rendered him quiet
and obedient to the wishes of his friends, she withdrew to her
chamber to consider what it was her duty to do.
The engagement with Mrs. De Rohan seemed too advantageous
to be abandoned. It promised freedom and a new life. On the
other hand, if she could work a vital benefit to any fellow unfortunate,
was the opportunity to be neglected?
She determined to dismiss the subject from her thoughts until
the following day, and sat down to write a letter to Mrs. Dunbury.
She had not finished the sheet, when a servant appeared,
to inform her that there was a gentleman below, waiting to see
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her. She could scarce refrain from uttering a cry of distress;
but instantly her mind was made up; she determined not to go
down.
“He did not give his name,” said the servant.
“It was unnecessary,” replied Charlotte. “No gentleman
would call on me whom I wish to see to-day. Say to him, I am
engaged.”
She was incensed against herself because Robert Greenwich
still had power to unstring her nerves, and quicken the movements
of her timid heart. She did not know how agitated she was
until the servant had disappeared, and she once more took up
her pen to write. In a moment, the subject she had been
weighing in her mind that morning was decided. “I will go with
Mrs. De Rohan. Then let him follow me to the ends of the
earth, if he will!”
The servant reäppeared. “The gentleman's compliments;
and if Miss Woods is engaged, he will wait in the parlor until
she is ready to see him.”
“What effrontery! Let him wait, then! — No!” she exclaimed,
calling the servant back; “I will go down!”
Five minutes later, she entered the parlor. Her color was
heightened; an expression of pain and dread was written upon
her brow; but her large eyes beamed with a clear and steady
light, and her step, her carriage, and the curving of her mouth,
were queenly.
She turned to the corner where the visitor stood. He had
been pacing the floor, and on her entrance had halted where she
found him; but, after a moment's hesitation, he advanced and sank
upon his knee at her feet.
“Charlotte!” breathed a voice whose tones thrilled in every
fibre of her frame.
“Hector!” she cried out, in wild and eager surprise; then
turning with a gesture of despair, she fell forward upon the sofa,
hiding her face from his sight.
He went and stood by her side. He bent over her, putting
aside the curls from her cheek. He knelt again and kissed the
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hand that hung over the arm of the sofa. His very touch
betrayed the tumult in his breast.
“Speak to me! look at me! Why do you turn from me so?”
“I thought,” she said, in a stifled and broken voice, “I
thought you were — another!”
“Perhaps, then, had you known, you would not have deigned
to see me!”
“Yes; I will be plain and true with you. I would, but I
should have been prepared; I should not have been surprised by
this weakness.”
“You had no presentiment, ever so shadowy and vague, that
I would come?”
“None!” exclaimed Charlotte; “or, if I had, I dismissed it
as the vainest dream of my life.”
Hector seated himself, and laid his hand upon her arm with a
touch that thrilled her still. “Tell me, Charlotte, are you not
conscious of an influence that chains you to me, and me to you,
inevitably? Go down into the deepest and purest waters of your
heart, and find the response!”
“If ever I thought so,” answered Charlotte, “then I was
deceived.”
“I believe in one only great and overmastering love!” said
Hector. “By its magnetism soul is bound with soul, as sphere
to sphere in the heavens. It has an astrology of its own, that
reveals heart to heart at any distances. If in my wanderings
from you I have not felt your spirit following me, and drawing
me back, — if when furthest from you I have not been with you,
and you with me, continually, — then there is no wisdom or virtue
in me!”
“O, but when I told you my history, your love was not proof
against that! You said it placed life and death between us.
You left me with those words. I did not blame you: but, if you
felt so once, you will again. I should not dare, I should not
dare, after that —”
“I am not here,” responded Hector's deep and earnest tones,
“to make weak excuses for weak conduct. I acted then only as
he whom you knew as Hector could act. Trial and absence were
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necessary to self-knowledge. The moment you were shut from
my sight, I saw the stupendous folly, the guilt, of sacrificing all
that could make true happiness for me on earth, to the paltry
considerations of expediency. I had sold my birthright for a mess
of pottage. I had given love, the life of my life, to fatten an
unworthy pride. One day I visited a public show, and saw
living doves put into the cages of serpents. I recognized the
image of my own sin. I had been feeding my doves to serpents!
For days the picture was before me; it haunted my sleep; I
awoke in groans of agony from the horror of the dream. I had
no respite, until I had slain the serpents. I rescued the doves — I
opened the cage, — and all with one accord flew joyously through
the clear heaven of my soul to you! Now, call me changeable,
if you will; reproach me for the wrong I did you; but here I am,
obedient, not to any caprice, not to inclination or passion merely,
but to the deepest convictions and holiest promptings of my
nature!”
Charlotte looked in his eyes. They were pure as the unclouded
heavens. They filled her with such strange and perilous sensations,
that, alarmed at herself, she turned away.
“But the serpents — I will never give them cause to turn their
rage against me!”
“If they had not been killed, I should not be here,” said Hector.
“What pledge can I give you? I know of none but that
of a life devoted henceforth to you!”
“And that I cannot, you know I cannot accept! Do not
torture me more! Think of what I am; think of yourself!
Remember your mother, too, she who is so proud of you!”
“If her pride is a true pride,” said Hector, with noble enthusiasm,
“she will rejoice that her son had the courage to set his
heel upon prejudice and conventionality, and stand by your side,
in the face of the world.”
“Your heart is too generous!” replied Charlotte, in a calm,
low voice. “Such sentiments cannot be taken into the world
and live. An impassable gulf divides us; I feel it, if you do
not; and I shudder when you draw me to the brink.”
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Hector had expected opposition, but nothing like this. She
spoke in fearful earnest; and he knew it.
“If you tell me this because you do not love me, I am satisfied.
I will not plead one moment. But it is you, now, who
are untrue, both to yourself and me.”
She faltered, and her tears fell. He took her in his arms, and
she sobbed aloud. It was a moment of intense suffering, suffused
with an indefinable happiness, which his mere presence shed
about her like dew. But she hastened to recover herself, and
put him gently from her.
“If you did not know your power over me, at least you know
it now!” she said, with touching pathos. “But, if you are generous,
you will not use it. Whatever weakness I may show, my
resolution is unmoved. My future is already planned.”
She spoke of her engagement with Mrs. De Rohan. The
reviving joyousness with which she expressed her anticipations of
crossing the ocean, and of thus embracing a destiny in which he
had no share, filled Hector with insupportable pain. But when
she added that she had not forgotten that England was his fatherland,
and that when there she should think of him often, he
sprang impetuously to his feet.
“Often! indeed! I have no more to say! I might be satisfied
with often! Henceforth my lips are sealed! O, Charlotte —”
He paused; the younger Mrs. Longman was at the door.
Hector explained to his relative, with his customary frankness,
that he had not come to Montreal on a visit.
“On arriving home, two nights ago, I learned that Miss Woods
had deserted my mother. She was languishing, in her absence;
said I, `I will follow, and bring her back.' But she has made
different arrangements, and all that remains for me is to return
alone.”
At this crisis, a note was handed in “for Miss Woods.” The
eagerness with which she opened and read it did not escape
Hector's jealous eye. He judged it to be from Mrs. De Rohan.
He was not mistaken; it was a request for Charlotte to call upon
her that morning.
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“How long will you be gone?” asked Mrs. Longman.
“Possibly a greater part of the day. I can walk,” said Charlotte;
“it is not far, and I need the exercise.”
“It is too far,” said the widow. “Hector shall carry you in
the chaise.”
Charlotte left the room. She was absent near half an hour,
when, returning, with her bonnet and shawl, she placed a letter
in Hector's hand.
“If you will give that to your mother —” Her voice was
tremulous, her eyes fell, and Hector saw that in her hand she
held another letter, which she hesitated to give him.
“I am going with you,” he said. “If you prefer to walk, we
will walk; but the chaise is at the door.”
“As you please,” responded Charlotte.
“Do you remember our first ride together,” he asked, as he
helped her into the chaise. “And the catastrophe, Charlotte?—
when you clung to my arm, and our souls knew each other, in
the hour of danger? O, what a life-time 'twixt then and now!
Then and now!” he repeated, as they rode away. “O, strange,
strange experience! And you — you—”
A passion of grief seemed bursting in his voice; but he checked
it, and fixed his features firm, and drove on in silence.
“We are close by Mrs. De Rohan's house,” said Charlotte, at
length. “Speak to me one last kind word, which it will be
pleasant to remember, if I should not see you again, will you
not?”
“Charlotte!” exclaimed Hector, “we do not part so! You do
not know in what an abyss I feel myself sinking at the thought
of it. All my bitter-and-sweet experience up to this hour serves
but to make a separation unendurable. And now — now — to
have your own choice decide against me, to see you depart free
and joyous in the pathway of a new existence, in which I have no
part; it makes my brain whirl, and my heart burst! Charlotte!
it cannot be!”
“You misunderstand me!” said Charlotte; “but I cannot
answer you now. I must stop here. This is the house.”
“The house will wait for us half an hour.”
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“No; I will stop now. If you wish to see me again, come,
and I will ride back with you.”
“Give me that letter you have for me, and I will.”
“I wrote it when I did not expect to see you again; but, since
you are to call for me —”
“The letter!” exclaimed Hector. She gave it to him. He
accompanied her to the door; she entered, and, returning to the
chaise, he hid himself in the corner of the seat, and read the
letter.
It was the sweetest and yet bitterest morsel his eyes had ever
devoured. In the first half Charlotte had expressed a depth, a
purity, and intensity of love, in words which came all alive and
glowing from her soul. But in the concluding portion she
expressed an irrevocable decision to fulfil her engagement with
Mrs. De Rohan, and stated peremptory reasons that forbade the
very thought of a union with Hector. One page he kissed with
passionate fervor; the other he struck and crushed, in the torture
which it inflicted. He was still tormenting himself in this manner,
when Charlotte reäppeared. They rode on for some distance
in silence.
“Well,” said Hector, at length, “tell me!”
“I cannot tell you what you want me to,” replied Charlotte.
“You still hold to the decision expressed in this letter?”
A tremulous “Yes” was the response. “Will you give it back
to me?” added Charlotte.
Hector took the letter, and, tearing off the last page, scattered
it in fragments upon Charlotte's lap.
“That part is unworthy of you! The rest is dear to me, and
I shall keep it.”
Another silence. Charlotte gathered up the fragments, and
destroyed them.
“Hector,” she said, at length, “I am not going with Mrs. De
Rohan.” Joy leaped in Hector's heart. “Because I cannot,”
added Charlotte. “Even Providence seems working against me!
She has received letters which have decided her to go south, and
spend the winter with a brother in Mobile.”
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At dinner, that day, Hector appeared in his best mood. His
cheerfulness, his simple and sweet wisdom, his flashing wit, and
the soft splendor of his eye, charmed his relatives. The welcome
intelligence that Charlotte would probably remain in the family
had rendered them susceptible to the influence; and their appreciation
drew Hector on. Their sympathy filled the cup that overflowed
again to them. And the fact that Charlotte was herself a
listener was to his mind as morning to the lark. For her it sang
its loftiest strain, and beat with its joyous wings the golden lattice
of heaven. No matter what the conversation was: the topics
were various, but every theme he touched, however lowly, — like
troughs and swine in the landscape of the artist, — received a
ray of the Supreme Beauty. All this without any pedantry or
display; but his imagination shed its radiance as it passed, as
naturally as the sun. Charlotte never spoke; but, troubled, trembling,
happy, her spirit drew near and sat at his feet to listen.
After dinner she could not refrain from thanking him for teaching
her so much.
“I never heard even you,” she said, “talk like that before.”
“Because,” replied Hector, “when you knew me before, I had
not lived the life I have lived since. If we would utter a truth,
we must first make it ours by deed and experience.”
Charlotte pondered. Hector was indeed changed. Surely he
had set his feet upon chains that fettered him before. A sweet
voice within her whispered that here was truth to be trusted, —
that here was indeed a noble and heroic love. Had she done
justice to herself and him? Was it right that the words he had
uttered that morning, thrilling her so, should be turned away, like
singing children, from the door of her heart, because she was
fearful of thieves? O, too delicious thought, that they might be
entertained in the innermost chamber of love's fond belief!
-- -- p732-224
XXIV. THE JUDGMENT.
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That evening, Hector and Charlotte sat conversing in the
parlor; Mrs. Longman had withdrawn, and they were left alone.
The clock struck nine.
“How the hours fly!” said Hector. “The door-bell takes up
the echo, — unwelcome sound! — but, as there can be no persons
for us, we will forestall an interruption.”
He led the way to a small side-room communicating with the
parlor. Scarce had they passed the door, when a servant
announced “A gentleman to see Miss Woods.” Both started,
and murmured, simultaneously, a hated name.
“Shall I see him?” asked Charlotte.
“As well now as ever,” replied Hector.
A brief delay was necessary for Charlotte to collect her
thoughts, and summon strength for the interview. Then, calm,
composed, filled with a deep, unruffled happiness, which she had
drawn from Hector's presence and sympathy, she entered the parlor
and stood before the visitor, waiting for him to speak.
“You will not take my hand?”
No word or motion in reply; but she looked down upon him
from her serene height, as if he had been a worm.
“Nor speak to me?” added the visitor, with a struggling desperation
in his tone.
The recoiling disgust, the unutterable scorn and pride, with
which she regarded him, was her sole response.
“My God!” groaned Robert, in a burst of passion, “I am the
most wretched of men! If you would do me a kindness, strike
that into my heart!”
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He threw himself upon his knees, and, springing open the long,
bright blade of a dirk-knife, placed its handle in her hand. A
wild impulse seized Charlotte; she grasped the weapon. Robert
saw the fire kindle in her eye. Her features darkened and contracted;
and the next moment, the point was at his breast.
“Do not hesitate! It is the least cruel thing you have done to
me, — strike!”
Charlotte flung the weapon behind her, on the floor.
“Arise!” she commanded; “I pity you!”
Robert fell upon his face, and ground his teeth. Suddenly he
started up, and, with looks of fury, rushed to clutch the knife.
But it had disappeared.
“Give it me! — I will end myself!”
“Poor wretch!” said Charlotte, “you know not what you do!—
Why are you here?”
“Because it is my destiny! because I am condemned, and
driven, lashed and chained, to this torment! Mrs. Sperkley
told me of you, and made me promise not to come; you see how
easily I broke my word! It is not because I am apt at perjury;
but my love is overwhelming, I am no more my own master. I
knew you would scorn me. You have seen in me — you see in
me — only the villain; and villain enough I was, and am, God
knows! But my love for you has been my greatest fault. It has
prompted me to seize you, to hold you, to make you mine forever,
at all hazards! Had Hector's possessed half the intensity of
mine, he could never have deserted you; he would be now at your
feet.”
“O — shameful!” exclaimed Charlotte, — “to call your baseness
love, to compare yourself with him! — a reptile to an eagle! —
when no one act of yours, in all your dealings with me, has been
prompted by aught but the most utter and eager selfishness! And
now, to speak of LOVE!”
Robert's frame shook. “The conviction that I have brought
all this upon myself fills me with red-hot rage! I might have
made you my wife, — but a cursed pride restrained me; — and so
I appeared all unworthy, as indeed I was! But, since I would
now repair that error —”
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[figure description] Page 223.[end figure description]
“Speak not of what you might have done, or of what you would
do now! If ever I felt gratitude towards you, I now feel only
abhorrence and pity! If this is what you came to hear, it is said,—
I can say no more. — Go!”
Robert's face was tortured and dark, his teeth and lips were
closed, and his impure eyes burned redly, as he turned and looked
around him. Half-stunned, struggling with some inward fury, he
seemed to know not what to do. Charlotte left him so, and
returned towards the side-room; but, seeing her form about to
disappear, he sprang after her, and clasped her hand. With an
exclamation of loathing, she flung him off, in the strength of her
roused spirit, as if he had been a viper.
“No! no!” he muttered, with fierce determination, pressing
towards her again. “I will sooner kill you, and die myself, than
leave you so!”
But his arm suddenly fell from her, as if it had been paralyzed.
His face grew white.
“Here is your silly toy,” said Hector, displaying the dirk;
“and thus do I defeat your villany!” snapping the blade in twain.
“But that I shrink from soiling my hands, I could not resist the
impulse to hurl you from the window.”
Charlotte trembled with a sort of fearful pride in Hector's power.
His address was princely; calm and gracious, yet in its meaning
terrible. Still Robert shrank; even his characteristic audacity
failed him then.
“Your prophecy has come true,” he said, with a pallid smile.
“We have met.”
“But we have not parted!” answered Hector. “We have an
account together, which may as well be settled now.”
“The sooner the better!” said Robert, doggedly.
“A dark and heavy score is marked against your name, Robert
Greenwich! 'T would take too long to read you every item, but
the sum total is — Villany!”
“How have I wronged you?”
“How have you wronged me? O, outrage against reason!
How have you wronged right and truth? How have you wronged
her?” — and Hector brought Charlotte face to face with him,
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[figure description] Page 224.[end figure description]
and looked at both. It was like an angel standing before a fiend,
and accusing him only by the brightness of purity shining in her
face. A lurid vengeance gathered in Robert's visage.
“But that I disdain excuses, I could, by one word, acquit
myself towards her!”
Hector smiled: “By all means, speak that word; for, by the
same, we may restore lustre to the blackened characters of St. Judas
and St. Herod!”
“You are duped!” said Robert. “She has been careful not
to tell you what she was — and what I did for her. I will tell
you!” — and a devilish exultation gleamed in his eyes. “She
was — she is —”
A swift buffet from Hector's palm shattered the word upon his
lips. He reeled back against the marble chimney. Charlotte
grew pale; but Hector stood calm and smiling before his quivering
antagonist.
“Nay, do not clinch your fist, and bite your teeth! I could
trample you in the dust! O, villain! dolt! if, in your ignorance
of her and me, you imagined I had not heard, from her own
true lips, all you would have told me, and more, you rested your
purpose of revenge upon foundations false and rotten as your own
heart!”
“This blow,” uttered Robert, in accents thick and hoarse, the
slow blood trickling from his lips, — “'t will be revenged!”
“Revenge it now: I stand before you! But beware! there is
a mine of danger in my soul! Take heed how your rash feet
approach!”
Robert fumed and choked. “O, you can bluster! you can
boast! but —” he smiled a ghastly smile — “we shall meet
again!”
“If you desire the happiness, after we part, this night,” said
Hector, “amen! but we shall see.”
“Yes — we shall see! You know me!” said Robert. “I do
not forget; I do not sleep upon an injury. Indeed, we shall
see!”
He moved towards the door. Hector stepped before him.
“Not yet! — Charlotte, go out and lock us in! We can settle
this business best alone.”
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“There is no key,” said Charlotte, pale with apprehension, —
“and there are persons in the hall!”
“You mean to stop me?” cried Robert.
“Touch but your hand to me, if you would know how well I
mean it! — Charlotte, stay! One word while we are together.
There was an affair of a letter. It was somewhat mysterious, and
Mr. Greenwich shall explain.”
“Stand from the door,” said Robert, “or I will not speak one
word.”
Smiling, and with folded arms, Hector stepped aside. But his
eye was alert, and fixed like an eagle's on Robert.
“If it is the letter troubles you so much,” faltered the latter,
“I pretended to have received one, it is true. She will tell you
that she gave me no opportunity to set her right upon that point;
else I should have done so.”
“Before her, then, you confess there was no letter?”
“I took an old one, by chance, from my pocket. It was the
caprice of a moment, — to try its effect, — not to deceive her.”
“An old one you took by chance from your pocket!” repeated
Hector. “A momentary caprice! The artifice was not preconceived!
Do I understand?”
“Is not my word enough?”
“No! Falsehood can go no further! Look you here!”
And the evidence of Robert's guilt was displayed, in faithful
black-and-white, before his astonished eyes. Hector struck the
paper.
“A momentary caprice! an unpremeditated artifice! an old
chance letter! There is my name, attached to an infamous slander!
To debase me in her sight, to drive her to despair, you
invented this device. Shift and turn now as you will, — you are
in my power, and at my mercy!”
Robert's face was of a cowardly hue; but a stubborn pride sustained
him, and he answered, sullenly,
“Well, sir, make the most of it!”
“For the truth's sake, I will! Now, go, if you wish; but I
shall go with you. In this house I am a visitor; I do not care
to make it the scene of further disturbance, and I know not what
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may arrive. There is your hat, which you had forgotten, in your
recent haste.”
Hector stepped to the side-room. Charlotte followed him,
alarmed.
“Do not go out with him!” she pleaded.
“Where is your faith?” said Hector. “I have a solemn lesson
for that man, which can be taught only beneath the stars.
Fear nothing.”
It was easy to say, have faith, and do not fear! But when
Charlotte saw the despair and mortal hate in Robert's face, as he
went forth, she trembled. Hector pressed her hand at the door,
which she held open, and, flinging his cloak about him, walked on
by Robert's side. It was a dreary street. The night was dark,
and the wind whistled; they had soon passed from sight, and the
echo of their footsteps died away.
-- -- p732-230
XXV. TOWARDS MIDNIGHT.
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Charlotte remained some minutes at the door. The old trees
before the house groaned, and creaked, and tossed their desolate,
naked arms, in the blast. The thin, white moon was setting;
phantom clouds careered in the sky; the startled stars seemed
flying from their spheres. The apparition of a dim, gliding figure,
skulking away as she gazed, served to heighten Charlotte's apprehensions.
It disappeared in the direction Hector and Robert had
taken. Could it be an accomplice of the latter? She ventured
out upon the steps; but she strained her eyes in vain to penetrate
the darkness, and she shrank back breathless into the hall.
How fearful, at such times, it is to sit alone and wait! How
the ear throbs to catch every sound; how awful the silence; how
dreary the moan of the wind! Charlotte, alone in the parlor,
listened till the air seemed all alive with invisible intelligences,
that hovered to and fro, that groaned in the chimney, that sighed
beneath the tables, that ticked in the wall, that clattered at the
casement, and tapped, with elfish laughter, on the panes. Twice
she thought she heard distant pistol-shots. An hour dragged by,
each moment heaping its weight upon her anxious mind. Two
hours elapsed. Surely, surely, some evil had arrived to Hector;
else he would return. She divided the time 'twixt gazing from
the window, listening at the door, walking nervously up and
down, and lying upon the sofa, with her face buried in her hands.
She was on the point of seeking the family, to inform them of
the cause of her alarm, when she heard an approaching tread.
She flew to the window; she recognized the welcome cloak and
hat. She was at the door in an instant.
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“O, Hector! I was never glad” — till now, she would have
added; but her voice died in her throat. What new suspense was
this? With the sombre cloak thrown across his chest, muffling
his face, he stood motionless upon the threshold.
“Hector! why is this? Come in!”
Still muffled in the cloak, he entered without speaking, and
moved slowly towards the room in which the lamp was burning.
Charlotte uttered a cry.
“You are not Hector!”
The figure turned, and stood regarding her from beneath the
shadow of the hat. The hat was certainly Hector's; likewise the
cloak; but the form, the step, the manner — how changed! Charlotte
waited for a word or look of explanation. A solemn obeisance;
then the hat was slowly raised, and the folds of the cloak
fell from the hidden face.
“Edward!”
Another stately bow from the hat and cloak.
“Your majesty!”
“Where is Hector?”
“Five fathoms deep, where the salamanders sleep! — I inquired
for the Duchess of Dingledom, and they said she had gone to the
moon. With rings on her fingers, and bells on her toes, that she
may have music wherever she goes. Quippe!”
And the prime minister, pirouetting on his left foot, whirled
three times, and stood before Charlotte, solemn and stately as
ever.
“Edward! Edward! do not do so!”
“The other way?” — And, pirouetting on his right foot, he
turned thrice in the opposite direction, and stood facing her, as
before. “There shall be dancers in our kingdom. Dancers,
prancers, and the light fantastic toe. As a religious exercise,
only. I am the centre of the universe: when I turn, all creation
whirls!”
“O! tell me, Edward! where is Hector?”
“There are some in rags, and some in shags, and some in velvet
gowns!” Edward distended the wings of the mantle. “This
is princely costume. When the warrior falls, his pockets are
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plundered. And nobody knows that he lies there, but his hawk,
and his hound, and his ladye-fair.”
“He has been hurt!” cried Charlotte.
“The new moon was just over the old church steeple. It
looked like a rind of cheese on a toasting-fork. We 'll have three
moons in our kingdom, — one yellow, one white, and one peagreen.
Since the duchess has gone to the moon, the man in the
moon will be henpecked. The sparrow's cap was in the trap, the
cat came creeping after, — pounce! they 'll tell you the remainder
of the history, when they bring in the feathers.”
“Edward!” articulated Charlotte; “dear Edward! —”
“The deer is a superb creature; and to all such we 'll give encouragement.
We 'll set a premium on fair women, too; and
Sheba shall swarm with them. But, if there be any more beautiful
than your majesty, they shall wear veils. 'T would peril man's
salvation. I have had experience, and can testify for the race. —
Who comes there? — Stand and deliver!”
It was Mrs. Longman, whom Charlotte had summoned by the
bell. She regarded Edward with astonishment, having all this
time believed him asleep in his chamber. She looked to Charlotte
for an explanation, and imbibed her fears, with quick sympathy,
when the terrified girl spoke of Hector.
“Hector was a Trojan,” said Edward. “He was chased three
times around the walls, when — chuck! Achilles cracked him
over! Achilles' wrath, to grace the direful spring of woes unnumbered—
Andromache was a widow.”
“How did you leave the house?”
“Not by the front threshold. A slimy thing had crept over!”
“Why did you go out?”
“To look after the prince. He lacks attendants, and his state
is beggarly. — Solemn times, — when alligators walk on two feet,
and carry murder in their bosoms!”
“Was there a quarrel?”
“The cat will play, and after slay!” Edward made a horridly
suggestive gesture, by drawing his hand, with a gurgling sound,
across his throat. “Beards shall grow long in our kingdom:
razors being dangerous!”
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“Edward,” said Mrs. Longman, kindly, but seriously, “this
will not do. See! you distress Charlotte, who has been so good
to you!”
“Hark to the story!” — Charlotte and the widow listened. —
“'T is short and sweet:
Robin's wife twelve jewels did wear, —
Three on her bosom, and nine in her hair;
But the jewel more precious than any, said I,
Not all Robin's riches are equal to buy.
She lacked virtue. Hence the elopement; and Robin lost her
and her jewels. I know she is called a duchess; but the man is
not her husband. The ten commandments are ten-pins, which
Satan bowls down with the ball of temptation. Since one has been
broken so often, there now exist but nine. When one falls, the
others topple. Set 'em up, Reverend! In our kingdom there
shall be a new system of virtue; which will come through the
exaltation of our lives, and our devotion to old cheese. Green
cheese, innocence; old cheese, virtue; curd is simplicity, — and
development is exhibited under the form of a cheese-press.
There 's whey, — that 's weakness; mould, — excessive morality;
and bigotry breeds maggots.”
Charlotte knew not what to do. Perhaps it was her own excitement
that provoked Edward's wildness; but, whatever the
cause, she appeared to have lost all influence over him. Evading
her questions, he continued to declaim on all sorts of odd subjects,
disconnected, yet not without some subtle ratiocination of his own,
jumbling together fragments of sense and nonsense, with occasionally
a bright gleam of wisdom, shown momentarily, like rays of
diamond flashing from heaps of rubbish. His mind seemed like
some excellent book, with its pages disarranged and torn, and its
index lost. In vain Charlotte attempted to restore order among
the leaves. The widow's attempts to assist but rendered matters
worse, and the young girl was ready to weep in utter despair,
when the sound of wheels at the door sent a thrill to her heart.
She flew to open it.
There was a rustling, a fluttering, a few stifled and hurried
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words; and the new comer, with a handkerchief bound upon his
head, and with Charlotte, trembling, laughing, weeping, upon his
arm, marched into the room.
“Ho! Prince of Egypt!” cried Edward, sitting grave and immovable
in the borrowed hat and cloak. “Was it thou in the
carriage? Carriages are of the earth, earthy. Railroads are
intellectual; but when spiritual laws are understood, men will
navigate the air. Meanwhile, majesty creeps.”
“'T was a pretty trick you played me!” exclaimed Hector.
“Her majesty's faith was tested, and she proved herself worthy.
The Seven Wise Men have been discoursing.”
“The Seven Wise Men are dead,” said Hector; “and dead
men, to be consistent, should speak only the dead languages. Reconcile
that!”
“There 's a wisdom that disdains logic; and we know more than
we understand. My feet are ice; but my head is thawed; for
the moon came down and kissed me with her fiery lips. — If ever
I marry,” — Edward's manner changed to airy lightness, — “'t is
the moon shall be my bride! for she is lovely and lonely; and so
she has told me many a night; and I reach out my hand, and pat
her cheek. She smiles! I love the moon, and she loves me!
For nine days, I was Lord Bacon; since then, I am Shakspeare,
and my moods are poetical. What do you think?”
“I think,” said Hector, “you are no great Shaks.”
“The stars shall come to the wedding. One bright-eyed little fellow
winked at me to-night, — he knows! — But —” in a hoarse
whisper — “I 'll be married in HELL! No cold feet there! and
your majesty shall grace the nuptials. Satan reigns; but he 's on
a visit to the grogshops, and we 'll use his imps for camp-stools.”
“When may we expect the ceremony?”
“When the world is righted. At present, it 's upside down.
The coachman is harnessed, and the horses ride and drive. Necessity
has got the whip, and even Genius must skip. The
soul is servant to a trade, and worships what his hands have
made. The mastiff gravely sits at table; the farmer watches
barn and stable. The mule is mounted on the man. The miserable
African is tyrant o'er the Southern master. The proud flock
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leads the abject pastor; the wily shepherd cheats the sheep. Many
sow who never reap, many reap who never sow; the devil laughs;
and so we go! Heigh-ho!”
“Be calm,” Hector said to Charlotte and Mrs. Longman, “and
in a little while he will become so. That 's a bad state of affairs
you describe.”
“Good is at the heart of all things; evil is the shuck. The
true commandment is not, `Shun evil,' but `Love the good;' then
evil shall go from you by the law of magnetic repulsion. Evil
with good hath close connection, and vice is virtue's imperfection;
desire is the root of love; and sinning, piety's germinal beginning!
In Sheba, all philosophy shall be promulgated by the
prime minister; and it shall be taught in rhymes, Shakspeare
inspiring. If there is any problem to solve, propose it.”
“One thing,” observed Hector: “with so many people to sleep
for, I don't see how you can afford to sit up so late. I 've no
objection to your stealing my beaver; but don't rob Shakspeare
of his nap. The wise men grow drowsy; and it 's my opinion
you 'd better go to bed.”
“The counsel is salutary; though I yield,” said Edward, graciously,
“not to the man, but to the prince.”
“Will you come, then?” asked Mrs. Longman.
“Sweet Sal, you are irresistible!” Edward adjusted the cloak
to the shoulders of a plaster Byron in the corner, placing the hat
upon the summit. “I was naked, and you clothed me,” turning
to Hector; “therefore, you shall hold high rank in our kingdom.
But do not flatter her majesty, for that puts coldness between us.
Your coming has brought trouble; and we are not what we were.
Heigh-ho! and I can't but grieve, the good old days of Adam and
of Eve! The words may seem puerile, but there 's meaning concealed.
Adam was the first man, Eve was the t' other; Cain was
a wicked man, 'ca'se he killed his brother! Crack the nut, and
the meat is palpable.”
“Well, good-night!”
“Bear witness!” said Edward, solemnly. “You are three, —
tit, tat, to, three in a row! And I do here declare and affirm
before you, that, all envy aside, I bid her majesty a fair
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good-night, and peaceful dreams and slumbers light! I make my
bow, as the oak said; I take leave of you, answered the wind,
with a whisk; and so the centre of the universe withdraws.”
With a profound reverence, he went backwards out of the room;
but, appearing to consider something still required to render his
exit impressive, he returned, and, putting his head in at the door,
said, “Peep-bo!” with a cunning leer, designed, undoubtedly, as
the most effective diplomatic stroke of the evening.
“What a fright I have had!” said Charlotte. “How did he
get your hat and cloak?”
“I loaned them to him. He came after us, bareheaded, and
thinly clad; I was afraid that, in his feeble state, he would suffer
from the cold; and, as my blood was up, I could very well dispense
with the extra clothing. I advised him to keep near me; but the
temptation to play fantastic tricks in my garments was, it seems,
too great to be resisted.”
“And Robert?”
“O, humanity!” exclaimed Hector; “thou art a riddle!”
“You did not quarrel?”
“No; he acknowledged his wrongs, and made the most solemn
promises for the future.”
“O, Hector! how could you bring him to that point?”
“It was not I, but the truth. But do not count too much upon
his promises. The evil spirit in him, though humbled, is not
killed. He will not trouble us soon, however, I think; he knows
whom he has to deal with. He is engaging in speculations with
Mr. Sperkley, and has pledged himself not to go back to Huntersford.
So there remains nothing to hinder your return with me
to-morrow.”
“But the danger, — should he choose to take revenge! Here,
I am safe —”
“And there you will be safe; for a time, at least. My mother
is dying for you; I will leave you with her, and go at once to
forestall all danger, by striking at the very root of his power.”
“O, that will be too much to do for me!”
“I cannot do too much for you, Charlotte. Your peace and happiness
are the jewels of my life. If money and time can purchase
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them, I will account them cheap. Were it not for my mother, I
would not ask you to return. But we must go to her; and while
she lives, there we must live, before the world, free from all apprehension
of evil, and in the face of prejudice.”
An almost fearful sense of happiness suffused Charlotte's entire
being. Could it be real? Would she not soon awake, and weep
for her vanished dreams?
“But, even if this should be, could not the affair be accomplished
without a journey?”
“Possibly. But I should tremble to intrust so sacred a business
to any indifferent person.”
“And your mother,” said Charlotte, — “we owe it to her, —
to seek her sympathy and counsel. Go to her; tell her all;
keep nothing back; then, if she permits it, if she desires it, I will
return!”
-- -- p732-238
XXVI. MOTHER AND SON.
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Hector's absence, the loss of Charlotte, and manifold minor
troubles of a domestic nature, had produced their effect upon Mrs.
Dunbury. Her old physician had been recalled; solemn medical
attendance filled the place of the spiritual stimulus for which her
spirit famished; and prescriptions became the order of the day —
and night.
It was difficult to have a “girl.” Bridget's strong arms could
embrace the head and front of the household work, but a gentler
hand and lighter foot than hers were required in the invalid's
chamber. Bertha Wing was recently married, and had a household
of her own to engage her cares. Mr. Fosdick's daughters
might possibly have been had, but Mrs. Dunbury preferred any
other attendance. As a last resort, Phœbe Jackwood was sent
for, who could come over “for a few days,” she said, “just for
accommodation.” Phœbe came accordingly. It was a day or
two before Hector's unexpected return; and his sudden departure
for Canada had left her once more alone with his mother.
The novelty and importance of the mission pleased Phœbe's
girlish heart, and she exerted herself to fulfil it to the invalid's
comfort and satisfaction. Her efforts were well appreciated;
Mrs. Dunbury was grateful; but Phœbe's touch, Phœbe's step,
Phœbe's voice, were not the touch, the step, the voice, she loved.
She pined for Charlotte. Hector had become almost a secondary
consideration. Her experience with friends of her own sex had
all her life been unsatisfactory. Never until the past summer
had she known a woman's heart that drew out all her sympathies.
Perhaps she loved Charlotte through her son; but, whatever the
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influence, she had found in her a charm which she had found in
no other, and which now arose fragrant in her memory, until to
sense it, breathe it again, became the desire and longing of
her life.
Hector had been two days absent. On the afternoon of the third
day, Corny put his head in at the door.
“There 's someb'dy comin' up the road, Mrs. Dunb'ry. I guess
it 's Hector.”
“O, Phœbe, run and see!”
Phœbe ran; Phœbe returned, joyous.
“It is Hector! I know his cloak!”
“Is she with him?”
“There 's somebody with him. If it 's Charlotte, she 's got a
new bonnet. They 're in Mr. Simpkins's wagon; he 's brought
'em over from the railroad. It is Charlotte!” cried Phœbe, at
the window. “No, it an't, either! It may be, though, — she 's
behind the driver, and I can't see.”
A minute later, Hector's foot was on the floor; Hector's arms
supported the invalid, as she arose from her pillow.
“And Charlotte?”
“Charlotte is safe and well.”
“The new bonnet was Ann Carter!” exclaimed Phœbe, disappointed.
“Good Phœbe,” said Hector, “I want to talk with my mother
a little while; will you let me?”
“The doctor says she is to be kept very quiet,” replied the wise
Phœbe.
“O, I 'll look to that! And will you be so kind as to take
away, for a few minutes, the charm of your presence, which will
be all the fresher and sweeter, when you again favor us with
it?”
Phœbe, with exquisite simplicity: “Do you mean you would
like to have me leave the room? O, I 'll do that! Why did n't
you say so? Mrs. Dunbury is to take two table-spoonfuls of that
in the bottle —”
I 'll attend to the bottle;” and, following Phœbe to the door,
Hector locked it after her.
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“Ah, mother!” then said he, seating himself by the bed, “this
bridge of life we tread upon is a bridge of sighs! But it is worth
the crossing, is it not? It is through suffering that the depths of
our nature are stirred, and existence made great and glorious.”
“O, yes, yes!” responded the invalid. “But why do you tell
me this?”
“By way of preamble, mother. A confession and a history
follow.”
“And — Charlotte?”
“Be patient; you shall hear of her; for I cannot show you my
heart, without revealing her image.”
“I am glad!”
“Before I have finished, perhaps you will be sorry!”
He scarce knew how to proceed. His mother was too feeble to
endure a sudden shock. He told of the love and happiness which
he thought might be his; and when all her sympathies were stirred,
and joy and faith made her strong, he turned and denounced
those false estimates of society, by which love and happiness are
so often frustrated. She assented to all he said.
“But, consider!” he cried; “of two persons who love thus
deeply, one may be descended from princes, from Jove himself,
while the other is the child of misery and shame!”
“We must not forget that Christ was born in a manger,”
breathed the invalid.
“Glorious thought! Dear mother, when you speak that sacred
name, my whole being is infused with ineffable emotion! One
night, in my absence from you and Charlotte, one strange, memorable
night, when I lay thinking of the world, of life, a great power
came upon me; an overshadowing, an agony, and a light; then to
my inner sense a universe was opened, in the midst of which I saw
humanity transfigured, — the image of the Father shining through
the Son, and the dove of the Spirit flying to mankind from his
bosom of love. In the light that dawned upon me then, I have
seen all the circumstances of birth, of wealth, of station, as utterly
insignificant to the true being and majesty of the soul. O, yes,
Christ, whom now all the enlightened world adores, in costly temples,
was born in a manger; and the instrument of his
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ignominious death has become the universal symbol of the world's salvation!
If we believe in him, how can we at the same time rest our
faith upon the externals of society? Yet let us not forget that we
are considering vital truths, and that we have nothing to do with
fine theories, that cannot be woven into our lives.”
“I know, my son, we are uttering social heresies, but let the
truth be spoken; then, if we have strength and courage, let us
live it!”
“Mother, for one born and bred in English society, where the
prejudice of clan and caste is as potent as in India, you talk marvellously!
It is well for you to have suffered from change of
fortune, from privation and humiliation, from mental and bodily
anguish, since every tear your eyes have shed has fallen a pearl
of wisdom into your lap! Imagine, now, that I have a dear, sweet
flower; I bring it to you; shall we stop to consider in what soil it
sprung, before enjoying its fragrance and beauty?”
“O, no; but love it for its own sake, for what it is!”
“Nobly answered!” exclaimed Hector. “It may be found
among wretched weeds; it may have drank poisonous dews; its
stalk may have been broken, and its leaves trodden under rude
and swinish feet. Am I to cast it from me? Or am I to cherish
it all the more choicely, for that innate purity, which none of those
influences could destroy?”
“You are to cherish it, my son, with all your heart and soul!”
Hector bent down, and as he kissed his mother she felt a warm
tear fall upon her cheek.
“But, if the possession of this flower brings upon me the shame
of the world, and the hatred and persecution of those who broke
its stalk and bruised its leaves, — tell me, what then?”
“O, my son, I tremble! — but be you brave, and noble, and
strong!”
“And if that flower were — Charlotte?”
No response; but the invalid wept, and, straining Hector to her
bosom, responded, fervently,
“Then God help you and her!”
-- -- p732-242
XXVII. THE FOREST ROAD.
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On the edge of the town of Huntersford was a railway-station,
consisting simply of a platform of hemlock-boards, erected upon
a sand-hill, in a lonely and barren spot, which the corporation had
not seen fit to decorate with a “dépôt.”
One cold and windy afternoon, late in November, a long, dark
train of cars flew smoking and whizzing to the foot of the platform,
and stopped. Two passengers were landed, with their baggage,
and, once more the mighty monster of steam twanging his terrible
cross-bow, the arrowy train sped on, thundering with faint and
fainter echoes among the hills. The two passengers looked around
in astonishment. A moment since they were in the midst of a
little, crowded world of human life. Now they stood upon a
solitary hill, alone; the train out of sight; not a human being
visible; no habitation near; but all around the earth looked
desolate and cold, under its crust of snow.
“This rather takes one's breath away! Four miles from home,
and no vehicle at hand! It is a cold welcome I have prepared
for you, my poor girl — is it not?”
“I am content as long as you are with me,” — and a smile of
trustful affection played, like sunshine, over the speaker's face.
“But isn't there some mistake? Have we stopped at the right
place?”
“It 's the right place, — but there is a blunder somewhere. I
think Corny must have been sent for us; and if he were told to
come to this station, he would be sure to find some other. What
shall we do? — wait here, or walk?”
Hector looked all around. The prospect was discouraging. No
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shelter, no means of conveyance, and no path in the direction they
were to travel, but a rough wagon-track cut through the crusty
snow. Added to this, night was setting in, and the place was
disagreeably suggestive of wolves.
“I must confess myself, for once in my life, completely puzzled!
If we wait here, there is a fine prospect of freezing. If we walk
on, we may miss the wagon, should it come by the other road. I
was never more fully persuaded that it is my duty to be vexed!”
“That will be a good plan,” replied Charlotte, “if it will bring
the wagon.”
“It is growing dark very fast,” said Hector. “I think, before
it is too late, I will make an excursion into the hollow, and see
what I can discover.”
“Let me go with you!”
“Are you afraid to stay alone?”
“No, not afraid; but let me go with you.”
“Dear child, the road will be rough for these tender feet of
yours; but I will not leave you for a moment. We will stay or
go together.”
Until now Charlotte had managed to wear a cheerful aspect;
but when Hector, talking to her so kindly and affectionately, made
her sit down upon a piece of baggage, and warmed her cold feet
in his hands, she could no longer repress her tears.
“Forgive me!”
“Forgive you, indeed! You have a right to cry,” said Hector,
looking up into her face.
“It is as much for happiness as for anything else,” replied
Charlotte, through her tears. “You are so good to me!”
“So good! when I have brought you out here in the wilderness,
as if to perish! This, too, at a time when your path should
be all strewn with flowers!”
“It is nothing, since you are with me! But, O, Hector! I
have all along seen a dark shadow before me, in the direction of
Huntersford.”
“A shadow? how?”
“A foreboding of something to happen to us both. O, it is
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not this, — but this seems a forerunner of disappointments sent to
warn us. You think me weak, I know.”
“Not weak, brave girl! if, when the disappointments come, you
are strong to bear them.”
“With you to assure me of this, how can I be unhappy?”
responded Charlotte, with a beaming look.
They left the baggage on the platform, and walked to the foot
of the acclivity. Beyond was the bed of Wild River, which flowed
through chasms and gorges among the hills. The road they were
to follow led along its banks, on the borders of an old forest, whose
deep silence was broken only by the voice of the pouring waters.
Wagons had passed when the earth was soft; it was now frozen,
and the way appeared toothed with irregular, sharp clods of ice.
It was painful for Charlotte to proceed; but, fortunately, the
distance was not long through the the woods, and on the other
side was a small village, where a conveyance could be procured.
Hector cheered his companion with this prospect; but before they
had gone far they heard the sound of a wagon. Then somebody
cracked a whip in the woods, and said, “Go 'long!” The voice
was unmistakable.
“Mr. Jackwood!”
“Hello!” cried the farmer, pulling up his horse. “That you,
Hector Dunbury? Ye got Cha'lotte Woods with ye, too, han't
ye? How d'e du, Cha'lotte?”
Charlotte submitted her hand to the hearty grasp of the farmer,
who got out of his wagon to greet her.
“I 'm glad enough to see ye agin! Got tired o' waitin',
did n't ye? I was jes' goin' over to the railroad arter ye. I ca'-c'lated
I was goin' to be a leetle late.”
“Where is father?” asked Hector.
“O! your father — he 's met with a bit of an accident to-day,
I 'm sorry to say.”
“An accident!”
“P'raps you 'd better not git in till I turn about,” suggested
Mr. Jackwood. “'T an't a very comf'table place to turn in; I
shall haf to cramp and back.”
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He stepped to the horse's head, and, holding the bridle with
both hands, commenced turning very slowly and carefully.
“What has happened at home?” demanded Hector.
“Look an' see if I 'm backin' aginst that 'ere stump,” cried
the farmer. “I thought I should jes' graze it. If it 's in the
way, sing out.”
“You are all right. Start up a little now,” said Hector.
“Hold! Come, Charlotte.”
They got up into the wagon; and Mr. Jackwood, placing a
board, with a woolly sheep-skin upon it, across the box before
them, as a seat for himself, gathered up his reins and whip, and
drove back through the woods.
“That 's a terrible awk'ard place to stop at, where you come,”—
turning his head so as to throw his voice behind him, and at the
same time to keep an eye on his horse. “Unless ye have a
team to meet ye, ye might as well be set down in Egypt. I 'll
git ye home quick as I can, then go back arter yer baggage.”
Hector interrupted him, to ask again about the accident.
“Wal,” said Mr. Jackwood. “I thought best to let your
narves git settled a leetle mite, 'fore I told ye. It 's as well as
any way to take sich things easy-like, ye know. Yer father was
goin' over to East Huntersford with a load o' grain; I guess
't was 'bout 'leven o'clock when he drove by my house; me and
Bim'lech was haulin' a leetle jag o' wood to the door, an' I should
judge it could n't ben much arter 'leven, if 't was at all. I ruther
thought Mr. Dunbury was takin' his produce over to the East, so
I hailed him; for I 'd heerd him say a man there had offered
some three cents on a bushel more 'n they give in the village, to
have it delivered at the railroad. He stopped to talk a little
while, an' it struck me he had on too much of a load. Says I,
`An't you 'fraid you 've got more 'n your team 'll git along 'ith comf't'bly?
' says I. He said no, he guessed not; he had jes' so
much grain to spare, an' he thought 't was better to take it all one
load, than make two bites to a cherry. `Of course,' said I, `you
know a good deal the best about it,' says I; `but, if 't was mine,
I should feel jest the least mite ticklish 'bout that 'ere off hoss.
When Wing owned him,' says I, `he had a bad trick of frettin',
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when a load troubled him; p'tic'larly when he started with 't; an'
sometimes,' says I, `he 'd git spunky, and would n't draw at all.'
Your father said he 'd broke him o' that trick, he guessed. `If
so,' says I, `I should n't be 'fraid of a middlin' kind o' load, like
that 'ere. My team would n't think nothin' on 't.' But I noticed,
when he started, the off hoss acted kind o' ugly; he jerked, an'
flinched, as though the collar hurt his breast, — jes' 's he use' to,
when Wing owned him, for all the world. But I thought I
would n't say nothin' more, though I 'm sorry now I did n't; for
it 'pears Mist' Dunbury had n't more 'n got to the railroad crossin',
when the pesky beast made a fuss agin, an' balked, with the load
right acrost the track. I never 'd let a team stop that way; I 'd
git 'em off the track, somehow; if they would n't go ahead, I 'd
made 'em back, if there was any back to 'em! But prob'bly Mr.
Dunbury did n't think o' that. Wal, sir,” said Mr. Jackwood,
turning almost entirely around, and demonstrating to his listeners
with his hands, “there he was when the cars come. The man 't
told me the story see 'em, an' yelled out; but your father was
prob'bly doin' his best, an' could n't do no more, to save the
nation. I asked the man, says I, `Why did n't you help,' says I,
`instid o' standin' there an' hollerin', when hollerin' could n't do
no good?' says I. But he said he had a skittish hoss to hold,
an' he did n't dare to leave him a minit, when the ingine was
in sight. I thought it a kind o' milk-an'-water excuse, but I
did n't say nothin'; the hoss was stole, an' there wan't no use
lockin' the barn-door. Wal, sir,” repeated Mr. Jackwood, warming
as he approached the catastrophe, “the cars come! My —
informer” — he appeared to hesitate a little about making use of
so elegant a word — “told me 't was the awfulest sight he ever see.
He no more expected to find Mist' Dunbury alive than — Wal,
he 'd no idee on 't! But the cars did n't hit him, mind ye. He
was jest untacklin' the team, to git 'em out o' the way, when the
ingine struck. He was insenseless when they took him up, but
he turned out to be not half so much hurt as everybody thought
for. They brought him home, this arternoon, an' I guess he 's
doin' as well as could be expected. What was queer, the cars
wan't thrown off the track; they ripped right through the wagon,
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like a streak! The horses wan't hurt, nuther, — strange to say!
Mist' Dunbury had got 'em unhitched jes' 't the minute the ingine
struck. They was too mad to be scart, I imagine, or else they 'd
a' started 'ith the wagon when the whistle blowed; but they
did n't, an' when the cars come up, they run right agin the nearest
fence, an' stopped. If 't had been my team, they 'd stripped
their harnesses and gone to Jericho. On the hull, it seems a
providential escape, an' we 've every reason to feel thankful
't wan't no wus,” he added, by way of moral; “though, I mus'
say, 't was a hard rub for the wagon, an' it made dre'ful bad work
with the grain!”
-- -- p732-248
XXVIII. THE FACE AT THE WINDOW.
[figure description] Page 245.[end figure description]
Charlotte could not have returned to her old home under more
disheartening circumstances. It was like entering a hospital.
Mr. Dunbury lay groaning with his injuries, and the shock of the
accident had thrown his feeble and fast-failing wife into a low and
perilous state.
But Charlotte bore up bravely, and her cheerful demeanor
carried an energizing influence to the spirit of her old friend.
“My dear child,” said the invalid to her, one day, with grateful
emotion, “how shall I ever repay you for all your sacrifices?”
“O! if you could only know how richly I feel repaid! These
are the sweetest and happiest days of my whole life!”
The invalid could not doubt it. Hector was at Charlotte's side;
and day and night, with enduring love and patience, hand in hand
they administered to the wants of the sufferers. It mattered not
how severe their duties were; the exchange of a look or word, as
they met for an instant, in passing from room to room, or at the
bedside of either of the patients, compensated for all.
“O, Charlotte!” Hector would say, with a smile of ineffable
meaning; and no answer so cheering and sweet as the glance of
her lustrous eyes. Then there were the watches of the night,
when sleep and quiet reigned, and they could steal away from
their almost incessant cares, and sit together undisturbed, conversing
low, or keeping hallowed silence, in the still hours.
One of these memorable nights found them in Mrs. Dunbury's
room. She was sleeping in the mild shade of the bed-curtains,
while a profound and measured breathing, issuing through the
open door of the adjoining sick chamber, marked Mr. Dunbury's
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heavy slumbers. All was quiet; Charlotte, wearied with the toils
of the day, reclined upon the lounge; and Hector sat near, shading
her eyes from the light. Suddenly he observed a slight start,
and a cessation of her breath.
“You were dreaming,” he said, leaning over her.
It was some seconds before she spoke. — “Did you see that
face?”
“A face? Where?”
“At the window. Do not stir; it may come again.”
They waited several minutes. Both watched, but saw nothing.
“Are you sure there was a face?”
“I saw it plainly! It peered in between the curtains. But
it vanished.”
“Do not be alarmed,” said Hector; for Charlotte trembled.
“I am not; but it gave me a start! There is scarcely anything
more frightful than such an apparition at a window by
night. The darkness and mystery —” Another tremor, and
Charlotte's hand pressed Hector's arm.
“Again?” he whispered.
“It passed by the casement!”
“I was looking, but saw nothing.”
“The lamp shines in your eyes,” said Charlotte. “I saw the
outline distinctly.”
“Sit still,” — and Hector arose softly. “I will try what discoveries
I can make.”
“You will not leave the house?”
“I do not know.”
He left his lamp in the kitchen, and, muffling himself in his
cloak, went silently from the house. The heavens were starless;
but the snow upon the ground gave a faint glimmer to the night.
Hector moved cautiously towards the front yard, watching and
listening. He heard nothing, saw no living object. He advanced
to the trees, and, passing through the open gate, looked up and
down the road. No discovery. After some minutes, he gave up
the search; but, as he turned to retrace his steps, he perceived a
movement by the trunk of one of the large trees. He rushed to
the spot, and a man stepped out before him. Hector was no
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[figure description] Page 247.[end figure description]
coward; but, it must be confessed, the promptness with which he was
met gave his blood a start.
“Good-evening, sir,” said he. The figure stood silent and motionless.
“I said good-evening. It is politeness to return a salutation.
What is your business here?”
The same silence and mystery. A deep determination swelled
in Hector's tones. “Though you have no tongue, you have, at
least, a face! If I cannot hear the one, I 'll see the other!”
Still no answer; and Hector laid his hand upon the figure's arm.
“Will you speak? If not — there is the house, and you shall
march into it! You 'll find it is no jest!”
His grasp tightened; but at the instant he was shaken off, and
the man sprang upon him. He was not unprepared, but the
suddenness of the onset caused him to recoil. As he did so,
with a dexterous movement he cast off his cloak, and flung it,
outspread, full into the face of his antagonist; then, while the
latter was beating it off, he seized him by the middle, lifted him
clear from his feet, and hurled him with all his might upon the
ground.
The snow was not deep; yet it was sufficient to break the
force of the fall. And now the cloak, which had previously embarrassed
the assailant, did him excellent service. While he fell
upon one part of it, he managed to twist the opposite corner
about Hector's face and chest. The struggle was violent. Both
regained their feet together; and the assailant, literally tearing
himself from Hector's embrace, fled with all speed down the road.
Hector did not pursue, but, gathering up his cloak, returned to
the house. At the door he was met by the alarmed and eager
Charlotte. She suppressed a cry of pain. His face was streaked
with blood.
“I cannot be much hurt,” said he, “since I did not know it. I
received a slight brush in carrying away this trophy.”
“What is it?”
“It hath the appearance of a coat-button, with a strip of cloth
attached, like unto a comet with a tail. It belongs to the face
you saw at the window. You look frightened; but there 's no
occasion.”
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[figure description] Page 248.[end figure description]
“Who was it?”
“You can guess as well as I. Not a word could I force from
the villain; and his intention evidently was, to knock me down,
then make his escape. I know of but one man who could have
any possible motive for prowling around our windows. I imagine
how a jealous rage might prompt him to the act, even with no
definite purpose in view.”
“But his promises —”
“They would not be the first he has broken. However sincere
he may have been in making them, he is a slave to passion,
and there is no faith to be placed in him. O,” said Hector,
“had it not been for my father's accident, all danger from him
would be by this time at an end, and you should stand by my
side before the world! — But don't be troubled. I will know
to-morrow.”
On the following day, Hector made an errand to the village,
but sought in vain for any clue of intelligence which might lead
to a solution of the mystery. On his way home, however, stopping
to make some purchases at the store, he encountered a poor
tailor, who had his shop in an obscure street of the town.
“How do you do, Peter?”
“O, how do you do?” said Peter, obsequiously. “You are
ever so much a stranger!”
“How is business, this winter?”
“O, not over 'n above bright! Give me a call. I don't do a
very smashing business, but my work is done well.”
“So I have heard,” replied Hector; “and the first I have to be
done in town shall be given to you.”
“Thank you!” said Peter.
“You are looking at some buttons. Let me help you choose
them. What sort of a button do you want?”
“A good over-coat button,” said Peter. “Something about
this size and quality,” — showing an exact mate to the trophy
Hector had brought off the night before.
“That 's a handsome button!”
“It 's a good and durable article,” answered Peter, professionally.
“I 've an assortment of these; but I 'm doing a job for a
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[figure description] Page 249.[end figure description]
fanciful customer,—he wants something different; and, in consequence
of one being lost from his coat, I 'm to change the whole set.”
“If I knew your customer,” said Hector, “I might tell you
just what article he would fancy.”
“Of course,” returned Peter, softly, “there 'll be no harm in
mentioning it, though he appeared a little sensitive about having
it known 't he 'd come back to town, or 't I was doing his work.
It 's Robert Greenwich.”
“Indeed!” said Hector. “Then here is just the button.
Give him a set of these, by all means!”
He chose the device of a serpent biting its own coils. Peter
admired the selection, and declared that he should abide by it.
“He shall wear serpentine buttons, and have me to thank for
it!” said Hector to himself. “Meanwhile, I must take out his
fangs.”
He visited a banking office, where he had money deposited,
and procured a draft upon New York; then hastened home to
Charlotte. “It is as I feared. Robert is in town. But don't be
disturbed. My resolution is formed.”
“You will go?” said Charlotte, pale with anxiety.
“Yes — at once. I have delayed too long. Be brave, Charlotte! —
I must speak with father.”
Mr. Dunbury was sitting up, with his feet upon a chair, and
his unfortunate shoulder in a sling, when Hector entered the
room. “What orders have you for me to-day, father?”
“None, that I know of.” Mr. Dunbury's voice sounded like a
growl. Hector was not surprised; for he had not heard him
speak pleasantly since his accident.
“Is there nothing I can do for you?”
“No. I am better. I can wait upon myself. It is time I
was doing something. I have been here long enough.”
“You could not have chosen a better time,” said Hector, “for
there is little to be done on the farm; scarce enough to keep
Corny in motion. It is as much as you ought to do to oversee
things, where you think there is need. Could you confine yourself
to this, in case I should leave you for a few days?”
“At all events, I can dispense with your services, if that is
what you wish.”
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[figure description] Page 250.[end figure description]
“You misunderstand me, father. I never did anything more
cheerfully than what I have had to do for you. Has it appeared
otherwise?”
There was a thrill of emotion in Hector's voice, which softened
his parent. “I acknowledge you have shown me all the kindness
I have deserved. More, perhaps; for I have not been patient;
I have given you cause to abandon me.”
“I have had no thought of abandoning you — no wish to leave
you for a day. But I have other duties to perform. I should
have gone about them within three days of my return from Canada,
with Charlotte, had it not been for your accident. It has
not been without misgivings that I have neglected them; and now
circumstances render it imperative that they should be attended
to, at once.”
“You do not see fit to impart your business to me.”
“I cannot very well do so until my return; because it is not
altogether my own.”
“Whose, then?”
“So much I can tell you, but let it be in confidence; it is Charlotte's!”
“Charlotte's, — hem!” muttered Mr. Dunbury, with a clouded
brow. “I do not understand Charlotte. She came here a servant.
One would think now she was mistress of the house.”
“Father,” replied Hector, “this is a subject we will not argue.
You know that my mother's welfare required that she should be
here; and it was by your consent, if not by your desire, that I
went for her. She yielded to our entreaties; but it was at a
sacrifice of peculiar advantages her Canadian home afforded;
and, in return, I promised to transact the personal business of
hers to which I have alluded. I have now to fulfil my promise.
On my return you shall know everything.”
“When do you leave?”
“To-morrow; and I may be absent two or three weeks.”
“Very well,” muttered Mr. Dunbury.
His countenance showed a sullen discontent; but he gave the
subject no more words; and it only remained for Hector to make
preparations for his journey.
-- -- p732-254
XXIX. THE GREENWICH FAMILY.
[figure description] Page 251.[end figure description]
In a small, old-fashioned apartment, with a tall chest of drawers,
with brass handles, on one side, a suspended book-case on the other,
and an ancient clock, with weights and pendulum swinging almost
to the floor, in the corner, the Greenwich family might have been
found assembled, early one winter's evening. Near the centre of
the room was a table, at which sat the squire, with spectacles on
his nose, a worn and venerable volume open before him, and his
snuff-box at his left hand. Behind him, in an obscure position,
sat the meek Mrs. Greenwich, knitting. At the end of the table
was Etty, the genius, engaged upon a poetical composition, her
large, high forehead shining like marble, as she leaned over her
paper in the light. Last, not least, was Robert, in the corner
opposite the clock, with his head on his breast, his arms folded,
and his legs stretched out towards the stove.
“How many varses have you composed, my child?” whispered
Mrs. Greenwich, behind her husband's back.
“Five,” replied Etty, with a perplexed look. “I 'm trying to
find a rhyme to crystal; then I shall have six.”
“Pistol,” suggested Mrs. Greenwich.
“Mrs. Greenwich!” said the squire, in a grave tone, “are
you aware that I am reading?”
“O!” exclaimed the lady, obsequiously.
Silence again. The old gentleman reading; Etty puzzling her
unhappy brain over her composition; Robert chewing the cud of
meditation in the corner. Presently Mrs. Greenwich moved her
chair carefully back, with a smile of maternal encouragement
brightening in her face.
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[figure description] Page 252.[end figure description]
“Can you make pistol do?”
“Mrs. Greenwich!” said the squire's precise accents, “how
many times must I request not to be disturbed when that I am
reading?” He pushed his book across the table, shoved back his
chair, raised his spectacles above his eyebrows, and rapped the lid
of his snuff-box. Mrs. Greenwich trembled; Etty sighed; Robert
crossed his legs and scowled. A family lecture was expected.
Whilst the old gentleman was clearing his throat, and pursing up
his mouth into a patriarchal grimace, his wife hazarded an explanation.
“Etty could n't find a rhyme to crystal, and I thought it would
do no harm to help her a little. Poor child! she does n't receive
any too much encouragement —”
Mr. Greenwich raised his hand. That hand meant silence; and
silence ensued.
“Daughter?”
“What!”
“Daughter?”
Etty, more lady-like: “What, sir?”
“Why did you not respond, when that I addressed you
before?”
“I did, sir.”
“What did you say, daughter?”
Etty, hesitating: “I said — what.”
“Was that a response, daughter?”
“No, sir.”
“That is all. Remember. Now, what is the rhyme?”
“A rhyme to crystal.”
“I thought pistol was good,” Mrs. Greenwich ventured to
interpose.
“There 's a rhyme for you, Etty, ready cocked and primed,”
said Robert, with gloomy humor, from the corner.
“Mrs. Greenwich! Robert! I am speaking. Respect the
paternal head! Daughter?”
“What, father?”
“Name the subject of your composition.”
“`The Fair Nun's Complaint,'” said Etty, readily.
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“It is absurd,” returned the paternal head, with a look at Mrs.
Greenwich, which expressed his opinion of her capacity, “to suggest
a rhyme, without regard to the subject of the composition.
What has the `Fair Nun's Complaint' to do with pistols?”
Mrs. Greenwich, simpering: “I thought Etty could work it in,
she 's so ingenious!”
Mr. Greenwich, with a significant nod: “That will do, Mrs.
Greenwich! Now to the poem.” — The genius read a stanza. —
“Very creditable, my daughter. Subject, Fair Nun's Complaint;
quatrains; octosyllabic measure, with redundant syllable at the
end of first and third lines; rhyme required to crystal. Now for
our rules. What is the body of the word?”
That was found to be ystal; and the application of rules consisted
in finding among consonant sounds another head to match
the decapitated word. Father and daughter went through with
the alphabet together, but without success. Heads were plenty
enough, but, as Robert moodily suggested from his corner, the
difficulty was to find one that had sense in it. An endless variety
of such combinations as bystal, cystal, dystal, down to zystal, were
manufactured, not one of which existed in any known dictionary.
There was a solitary exception. It was the word pystal, or
pistol.
“Pistol,” said Mr. Greenwich, “appears, then, to be our only
perfect rhyme.”
“What did I tell you, Etty?” spoke up the mother, with a
gleam of triumph.
“Mrs. Greenwich,” observed the paternal head, with stern precision,
“your assistance is NOT required.”
“O!” — and Mrs. Greenwich settled down again, with an annihilated
expression.
“What do we do in the case, daughter?” said the squire.
Etty replied that where no perfect rhymes would answer, imperfect
ones might be used.
“Then,” said Robert, “what do you say to whistle? If your
nun, with the tears of crystal, only knew how to whistle, you would
be provided for; you could bring it in finely. Or gristle, or sizzle,—
you have plenty of such rhymes. How would drizzle do?”
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“Son Robert, you amaze me!” uttered the paternal head, with
a look of solemn displeasure. Then turning to Etty: “Daughter,
I have the required rhyme. It is a felicitous word, inasmuch as
that it is in perfect keeping with your subject. It is vestal. A
nun may be called a vestal. I trust to your happy talent to make
fitting use of it in the structure of the lines.”
But Robert's ridicule was too much for the sensitive child; and
the discovery of a fine rhyme was no consolation for his sarcasm.
She was crying.
“Hem!” coughed the paternal head, moving in his chair. He
drew up his book, and shoved it from him again; wiped his spectacles,
and saddled them once more on his eyebrows; then took
another pinch of snuff. “You may put aside your varses for the
present, daughter. Mrs. Greenwich, will you oblige me by dispensing
with your knitting-work, and bestowing attention upon
my remarks? Son Robert, a more respectful attitude will be
quite as becoming in listening to what your father has to say.
When that all appear prepared to hear, I will proceed.”
Robert changed his position by crossing his legs in a contrary
direction, and clasping his hands over his head, instead of behind
his chair. A deep silence followed, broken only by the purring
of the cat, as she rubbed her neck affectionately against the old
lady's dress, and by the slow ticking of the old clock in the
corner.
Mr. Greenwich, impressively: “We are waiting for Robert.”
“O, waiting for me? What can I do for you, sir?”
“If you do not perceive, we will wait until that you do.”
Whether Robert knew from experience that his father would
keep his word, and wait all night, if necessary, in the same fearful
silence, or whether he reflected that it was injudicious to
provoke the paternal displeasure too openly, he yielded the point,
and assumed a more decorous attitude.
“Son Robert,” then said the old gentleman, placing the book
on his knees, and laying his spectacles upon it, “your conduct has
failed of pleasing me of late, and I have treasured a few words
for your edification. A fit occasion to deliver them hath arrived.”
Then followed a tedious discourse, of half an hour's duration, on
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[figure description] Page 255.[end figure description]
the subject of family discipline, reverence to the paternal head,
and kindred topics, with a particular application to Robert's case.
“But this is not all. The report is, son Robert, that you indulge
in dram-drinking; and you have carried your disregard for my
wishes so far as to smoke cigars even in my own house.” Thereupon
the paternal head took a violent pinch of snuff. “You may
reply that you are of an age to regulate your own conduct in this
respect. I will forestall the remark, by saying that no child of
mine is of an age to transgress my commands beneath my own
roof. Your other irregularities have not escaped public censure,
and I have more than once taken occasion to remind you of your
derelictions. Your instability of character has become notorious.
When that you returned from Mobile, where you had an excellent,
lucrative situation, you gave as an excuse, that you had taken a
summer vacation, to avoid the extreme heat of the climate. But,
the summer over, you must be posting off to the north, in search
of new employment. Now, there is another change; and you have
some mysterious business on your hands, which you will communicate
to nobody. You go and come, as the whim takes you;
appearing to make my house a sort of den to hide in, and acting
more like a culprit than a son of respectable 'Squire Greenwich.
Your disposition, moreover, exhibits the effect of idle habits, inasmuch
as that you are morose and sullen, and that your principal
pleasure appears to consist in ridiculing your sister's noble aims.
I need not again remind you that all this is to be reformed. You
will now please withdraw, and ponder what has been said. Daughter,
I have a few remarks for you.”
Without a word, Robert rose, and went to his chamber. Half
an hour later, his door was pushed open, and Etty looked timidly
in. He sat before his desk, leaning his face upon his clenched
hands, with an unfinished letter lying before him in the lamp-light.
The child's eyes were red with weeping, but she had dried
her tears, which her brother so much hated, and she was trying
very hard to look cheerful, as she approached the desk.
“What do you want?” What she wanted was but a simple
and easy thing to grant. The poor child could not sleep that
night without telling him how sorry she was to have displeased
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him, and to ask his forgiveness. But his tone and manner frightened
her. “Come here,” said he, as she stood shrinking before
him. “Did you want to see what I was writing? Read it!”
He extended the manuscript, and, as she bent forward, confused
and trembling, to obey, struck her with it upon the cheek.
“Is it interesting?” said he, with a malicious laugh.
“O, Robert! I did not mean —”
“That will do, my dear. Thank you for your interest in my
affairs. In return, I 'll give you another rhyme for your crystal.
It is mizzle. In familiar colloquy, it signifies vamose; cut stick;
make yourself scarce; evaporate; in short, go away. Do you
understand?”
With a bursting heart, holding her hand to her face, Etty hastened
to relieve him of her hated presence, and, retreating to her
room, threw herself upon her pillow in convulsions of girlish
grief.
-- -- p732-260
XXX. AN UNWELCOME GUEST.
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Hector's preparations were made. Then came the parting.
O, Charlotte! be brave! be strong! What is life, what is death,
what are the pangs and fears of a day, if thou hast faith in the
immortality of love?
Charlotte was brave and strong; she looked beyond all the
clouds that hung over her path, into the light of a clear, deep
heaven, to which Hector pointed her, and which love and truth
made theirs, whatever might be their fortunes for a time. She
gave him only words and looks of encouragement at their parting,
and waved her handkerchief to him from her window, until he
was shut from her view. Then what tears she shed in the
secrecy of her chamber, no one knew. When she entered Mrs.
Dunbury's room, it was she who had strength and cheer to impart
to the desponding mother.
Mr. Dunbury, still suffering from his hurts, grew more moody
than before. In the unoccupied hours of his indisposition, his
morbid mind dwelt upon the past. He remembered the golden
prospects of his youth, his proud family connections, the elegance
and ease that graced his early life. From that bright beginning,
his star had waned and sunk, until now he could look upon himself
only as a coarse and vulgar old man. He was conscious that
all the finer feelings of his youth were deadened. Life had
become a desert, with not one oasis in the dreary waste of common
toils and trials, on which to feed a hope. And it was his own
wretched folly which alone he had to accuse. Conviviality,
extravagance, wild dissipation, ruin; such was his history. Two
pictures, in tragical contrast, hung forever before his eyes, — what
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he might have been — what he was! Thus, memory became
remorse, and gnawed his heart. Or if at any time his better
angel whispered that by a true life he might still atone for his
errors, his thousand resolutions in the past, made only to be
broken, arose like ghosts before him, grinning and mocking.
All this Charlotte perceived. She knew, too, that he regarded
her with jealous eyes. He was proud still; he remembered that
Hector was the son of a gentleman, and that Charlotte was a
servant. He had observed their intimacy; and now Hector was
abroad on her business. “The next thing will be a marriage!”
He expressed his thoughts to his wife; he did not conceal them
from Charlotte. Still, she had no condemnation for him, but
much compassion. She sought his good-will; she exerted herself
to please him; and often there was a charm about her which not
even he could resist.
One day, having dressed his wound as usual, she asked permission
to comb his hair. He answered that he could never endure
any person to touch it; but her tone, her smile, and the winning
assurance with which she brought the brush and comb, quite disarmed
his ill-nature. Never was experiment more successful.
There was certainly a magnetism in her touch; for, so far from
being irritated, he felt only a soothing influence. The invalid
looked on in mild delight, to see Charlotte do, with such perfect
ease and grace, what had never before been accomplished.
Unfortunately, Corny's ever-recurring head was put in at the
door.
“'S a man out here. Do'no' what he wants; guess he 'd like
to hire out. Said he 'd saw for me, if I 'd come in an' tell ye.”
“Tell me what?”
“Do'no'; did n't say,” drawled Corny.
The boy was sent about his business, with an injunction to
enter the house with no more such meaningless errands. But in
five minutes the indefatigable head reäppeared.
“Tol' me to come in an' tell ye!”
“To tell us what?”
“Did n't say; I can't git nothin' out on him. Guess it 's
Charlotte he wants; for he said 't wan't you nor Mis' Dunbury,
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nor Bridget, nuther; an' when I axed if 't was Charlotte, his eyes
looked — I can't tell how, but real funny, an' he called me Telescope.
That 's all; an' he made me come in an' tell ye.”
Mr. Dunbury answered with a look, which Corny understood,
and he withdrew muttering. Charlotte continued her task. But
the charm was broken. Her hand had grown nervous, and Mr.
Dunbury's equanimity was destroyed. Another reäppearance of
Corny. Charlotte looked pale. Mr. Dunbury looked very red.
“I do'no' what to do. I can't git red on him. He keeps
makin' me come an' tell ye. I never see sich a man. He can't
saw wood more 'n a hen; and he 's mos' broke the saw a'ready.”
With a fiery expression Mr. Dunbury arose.
“Let me go!” cried Charlotte. In the wood-shed she found
the incomprehensible visitor. He was making violent efforts to
extricate the saw, which had become pinched in the stick he was
cutting, notwithstanding the handfuls of snow he had put in to
facilitate the movement.
“Edward!”
He looked up, took off his hat, and, drawing up his meagre
figure with great dignity, made a profound obeisance.
“Salutation, your majesty! I abdicate the saw-horse! I
hope my appearance is not premature. I am unused to state
occasions.”
“You 've e'en-a-jest broke the saw!” muttered Corny.
“Verification!” whispered Edward, with a keen glance. “If
dissatisfied, you can appeal. But say no more, and here 's a butternut
for you.”
“I do' want none o' yer butt'nuts! I s'pose I shall be
blamed for these 'ere teeth bein' broke; that 's all I care fur.”
“Broken teeth — so shall truth be delivered! Acts have
their meaning. I surprise your majesty?”
“I little suspected to see you again so soon,” said Charlotte.
“Where are you from to-day?”
“From Siberia, the land of exile!” answered the prime minister.
“To bring your majesty an offering. Will you receive it
now?”
“What is it, Edward?”
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“A head, your majesty; that of a subject who had the misfortune
to offend you!” and Edward's eyes gleamed.
“What do you mean?” cried Charlotte.
“Will you have it in a sack, or on a charger? It awaits
your bidding!”
“Where, Edward?”
“On these shoulders, your majesty!” and the prime minister
bowed gravely. “If convenient, I 'd have pickled it, and brought
it you in a jar. But it can be presently taken off, at your command.
Behold the executioner with his axe!” indicating Corny
with his wood-saw.
“Edward,” said Charlotte, “these things are unworthy of you.
Come in, and tell us of your journey.”
“Though worn, and shorn, and tattered, and torn, he was
onward borne! There were wolves and bald-eagles, but the
Seven Wise Men carried him through. Over the snow, now high,
now low, now fast, now slow, on, on we go! whoo-ip! whoo-oa!
That 's the ginger!”
“Edward, do you hear me? You are among relatives now,
who will not appreciate your flights of intellect. You must be
like other people, if you would please me.”
“What! since that morning? You thought to deceive; but,
glory to the sacred titmouse! it was all whispered in my ear.
You rode off grandly with Prince Hector; but I was at the
church before you. I covered myself with a blanket, and hid
behind the organ.”
“Dear Edward,” pleaded Charlotte, “if you have any regard
for me, forget all that; speak of it to no one here! Consider me
as I was before!”
“Prince Hector looked royal; but the hypocrite in the robes
turned pale as his shirt. I groaned three times for the echo.
Wo! wo! wo! — how it sounded in the roof! I laughed like a
handsome young widow at the funeral of a rich old husband!
'T was solemn fun!”
“Edward, you do not please me, and I shall leave you. In
that room you will find your relatives.”
“Siberia!” exclaimed the prime minister. “If my wits
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wander, it 's owing to the frost: u-g-h-h! how I shivered! I
lamented the marriage; but I did not envy the prince. So — or
call in the executioner. Ho! what functionary?”
The sitting-room door was opened, and Mr. Dunbury appeared.
“Edward Longman! how came you here?”
“What shall I say?” asked the prime minister, aside. “Can I
mention the Seven Wise Men?”
“No, Edward. Tell him you walked, if you did walk.”
“I walked, if I did walk, your honor!” — and, bowing profoundly,
Edward looked to Charlotte for her approbation.
A shadowy scowl passed over the wintry landscape of Mr.
Dunbury's face, as he made a motion for the wanderer to go in.
“Welcome is the honey of souls,” remarked Edward, “but
dark looks are gall. Thank your honor. In our kingdom there
shall be schools of the virtues, and hospitality shall be taught
before ciphering. I engage you as a professor. There 's a
smiling face,” scrutinizing Mrs. Dunbury, who held out her hand
to him from her easy-chair; “but we are not what we seem.
Experience is the mother of caution.”
“Have you forgotten me, cousin?”
“I should do ill to forget so venerable a lady! And here 's a
shake for you!”
Mrs. Dunbury invited him to be seated, and inquired about his
family.
“They are well, for a family of sinners. The old lady has
experienced a miraculous cure.”
“Your mother?”
“Whom they called my mother. Disease has vanished, and
she enjoys rest; bless her dear old soul!”
“How do you mean?”
“O, death is your only doctor! She put off mortality nine
days ago. Let fools weep at funerals; the wise will take holiday.
It 's a weary world; and all who live sin, and all who sin
suffer. I could name an exception; for one soul is exempt. Or if
ever he suffers,” — the prime minister laid his hand upon his breast,
bowing graciously, — “it is from spare diet, thin clothes, and the
sins of others! But he bears up, thanks to a sound mind in a sound
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body, and to the Seven Wise Men. I 've eaten nothing since yesterday,
and I 've tramped through snow and through water.”
He glanced downwards to his boots, which were thin, red, and
saturated; and the expression of his face was wild, and weary,
and haggard. Mrs. Dunbury questioned him concerning his
mother; but he shook his head thoughtfully, still gazing at his
feet.
“Give him some dry socks,” muttered Mr. Dunbury, “and let
Bridget set out a luncheon. I 'd rather have seen the cholera enter
the house; but while he remains he must be cared for.”
“Thank you, professor!” Edward looked up, with a bright
expression. “When I go, the cholera shall come. The cramps
are jolly! Then you 'll think of me!”
And he laughed a light, airy, hollow laugh, which chilled the
blood to hear. His eyes followed Charlotte, as she passed from
the room; then, moving over to Mrs. Dunbury, he put his hand to
his mouth, and whispered, mysteriously,
“She 's a queenly figure! But where 's the bridegroom? I
am to omit all titles, or I would call him Prince Hector. 'T was
an illustrious marriage, but there was an attempt at secrecy.”
“What are you talking about?” demanded Mr. Dunbury.
“State policy! I suspected his second visit; and they could
not deceive me! She had been two weeks preparing. They
knew my opinions of marriage, and feared my opposition. But I
was at the church before them. Ha! you look troubled!”
“Dismiss Charlotte from your mind, and dry your feet by the
fire,” said Mrs. Dunbury.
“Evasion! You are the queen-mother; and you fear treason.
I have no griefs; but I liked not that the ceremony should be
mean and obscure. I would have had it grand and imposing.
The guests are met, the feast is set, mayst hear the merry din!
So I cried wo! three times, and heard it echo in the roof. You
are the bridegroom's father.”
Mr. Dunbury turned upon his wife. Her looks betrayed
her. The shadow on his face became that of a thunder-cloud.
“This means something! And you are not ignorant! What
is it? What of Hector and Charlotte?”
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Edward laughed. “Excellent artifice! But no deception.
They had two witnesses at the church; and I made a third. I
was the guest that had not on a wedding garment.”
His wild words were cut short by the appearance of Charlotte.
“What is this, I say?” roared Mr. Dunbury. “Have I been
duped? Has my son married my servant?”
Charlotte reeled and clung to the door for support.
“Mr. Dunbury! — husband! — father! — in the name of
mercy,” pleaded the invalid, “be gentle with the child! If fault
there be, it is not hers, — it is Hector's — mine! Do not kill
her!”
The prayer was unheeded. The purple rage in Mr. Dunbury's
face, and the bursting fury of his speech, struck Charlotte down,
as at a blow. With a faint cry of anguish, she loosed her hold,
and fell to the floor. The invalid, tottering forward, essayed to
raise her in her arms. Edward set up a shout.
“Ha! ha! ha! The world is topsy-turvy! They would
cheat me of my wit; but artifice, avaunt! 'T was I that hid in
the church, and groaned behind the organ!”
-- -- p732-267
XXXI. BROTHER AND SISTER.
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The “Fair Nun's Complaint” remained a poetical fragment.
The young authoress felt no more inspiration for the subject,
from the memorable evening of the rhymes; and after several
unsuccessful attempts to complete the sixth stanza, she tore the
manuscript.
“Why!” exclaimed Mrs. Greenwich, “what makes you do so?
How sorry I am! They were very pretty varses, I am sure.”
“I never wrote anything so dull in my life!” exclaimed Etty.
“O, now! You need n't think so! You should have patience.
Can't you remember the varses, and write them off?”
“If I could, I would n't!”
“Why, my child, I am surprised! How can you be so
unladylike? What would your father say? Here, give me that
other piece; these go together, don't they? What word is that
torn off? I can make out all of one varse but that; and it 's
very touching, seems to me. I don't know when I 've seen such
good poetry anywhere. `The moonbeams 'neath the convent
dashing, my tears are glittering on the roof,' — those are very
beautiful words!”
“It is n't so!” cried Etty, attempting to snatch the paper.
“O!” said her mother, “I have n't matched the pieces right!
It 's the moonbeams that glitter, and the waves that dash; but I
am sure it reads well either way. Now, do you sit down and
finish it for the Green Mountain Herald; everybody will admire
it in print, and then your father will praise you.”
But Etty only took the fragments to put them into the fire.
Etty was human, although a genius. Perhaps she was all the
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more human on that account. From her infancy her heart had
felt a hungering for love; and her hopes and affections had
centred in her brother, unworthy as he was. His indifference
gave her pain, without lessening her attachment; and when he
was unkind to her, she was more ready to accuse herself than
him. But the most cruel test to which her love had ever been
put was the blow with which he sent her from him that night.
When the bitter memory swelled in her heart, it seemed almost
bursting with anguish. Unfortunately, she was kept from school,
to be under her father's immediate instruction; and she had no
companions. Indeed, there was but one person whose sympathy
she much desired. That person was Charlotte Woods, whose
kindness she so gratefully remembered. But she did not know
that Robert ever went to Mr. Dunbury's now; and if he did,
there was no hope that he would take her with him. So her only
consolation was to brood silently over her grief by day, and by
night to sigh and weep upon her wretched pillow.
In this state of mind, Etty naturally preferred solitude to the
company of the family. But it was winter, and her mother would
not suffer her to sit in the cold rooms. Generally, however, there
was a fire in Robert's chamber; and, when he was absent, she used
to get permission to sit up there alone, pretending to take advantage
of the quiet, to study her lessons. She was careful that
Robert should not find her there; listening for his footsteps, and
gliding softly away at his approach. One evening, however,
having ensconced herself in a favorite position by the window,
where she could gaze at the moon, and drawn the curtains about
her in a manner completely to exclude the light of the lamp, she
gave such free rein to her fancy, that, wandering far off into the
regions of ideal hopes and sorrows, it somehow lost itself, and
passed, unconsciously, into the realm of dreams. Nature had
long been cheated of her proper repose by the young girl's melancholy;
and now she took ample revenge. Etty's head had sunk
upon her arm, and her sleep was profound. She dreamed that
Robert and Charlotte were married, and that she went to live
with them, and was very happy; the only trouble being that
their house was discovered to be a convent, and that her new
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sister turned out to be a nun, who was in great distress because
she was to be printed, for general circulation, in the Green Mountain
Herald. It was Robert who had condemned her to that
punishment, for wearing his white satin waistcoat to a sewingcircle
in the village; an offence nuns had a passion for committing,
notwithstanding the fatal consequences. Etty went to him
to plead Charlotte's cause; when he struck her so violent a blow
with the warrant he was signing, that — she awoke.
She started in terror; for the place seemed strange to her, and
she heard voices in the room. Then came the shock of consciousness:
she remembered where she was: she had been asleep, and
Robert had returned! He was not alone; he had one or two
companions; Etty could not tell at first how many. The lamp
found burning on his table did not surprise him; for often, when
he was out, Etty had left a light for him, on going to bed. But
it was now late, the oil was low, and the dim flame cast but a
feeble ray in the chamber. Added to this, was the fact that the
window where the child sat was partly concealed by the bed. In
her first tremor of affright, Etty had not the courage to discover
herself: she waited to still the fluttering of her heart, and to
gather breath and strength; and the longer she waited the more
terrible her situation became. She heard words which she knew
she ought not to hear. Robert had introduced his companion
into his chamber, at that secret hour, that even the circumstance
of their conferring together might be hidden from all the world.
And there sat the young girl, an unwilling listener to all that was
said! A glimpse she had of some great danger that hung over
one she loved added intensity to her fears. What the danger
was, she could not fully comprehend; but it appeared none the
less awful for the mystery in which it was veiled. Then the
child remembered the dream from which she awaked but now, so
seemingly absurd, yet so seemingly prophetic; and felt cold shudders
of dread creep over her, as she thought of — Charlotte!
How long the interview lasted, Etty had no means of judging.
It would have been difficult for her to believe that so much suffering
as she experienced could be compressed within the brief space
of an hour. It seemed prolonged through the whole of a long
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winter's night. At last Robert conducted his companion from
the room; she heard them go softly down stairs, heard a door
open and close, heard her father cry out from his bed-chamber
“Who is there?” and heard Robert answer, “I am after a glass
of water.” But by this time the child stood trembling in her
own chamber: she had arrived there without knowing how: she
had never any recollection of passing from room to room. She
waited until she saw the shimmer of Robert's lamp on the landing,
and heard his door close after him; then shrank away in her
dreary room to her bed, and covered her head, shivering with
terror and cold.
Etty thought it must now be near morning. But she had long
hours yet to wait. How often she looked from beneath the clothes,
to see the glimmer of gray light on the walls! — At last, at last,
it came: the slow, reluctant dawn peeped in at the window. Her
room was on the opposite side of the house from her brother's,
looking towards the north; and, as soon as it was light enough
to see, she got up and gazed anxiously down the valley. It was
a mild winter's morning; the eaves dripped with the melting snow.
Yet the earth was white, and the road leading towards Mr. Dunbury's
house looked desolate and forbidding. How was she to
traverse it, to get to Charlotte? She dared not tell her mother
where she wished to go, lest Robert should learn of it, and guess
her purpose; and the only way seemed to be, to plan an escape
from the house, and then, on foot and alone, to travel that lonely
track to save her friend.
A plan was easily invented. Her newly-married cousins, the
Crestons, lived a little out of the village, although in an opposite
direction from that she wished to go. For some time she had
been planning to make them a visit, and she would ask permission
of the mother to go that day.
The permission was asked, and granted. But her father's sanction
was necessary to render it valid. His decision was, that,
provided she would have her lessons to recite when he came home
to dinner, she might go to her cousin's in the afternoon. Etty was
in despair; for the afternoon would be too late; and her father's
decisions were unalterable. Fortunately, her pale looks, discolored
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eyes, and want of appetite, attracted his attention at the breakfast-table.
“Daughter, are you in your usual health this morning?”
“Yes, father.” Etty's voice faltered, and her eyes fell; for
Robert had appeared, and it seemed to her that he could read her
burning secret.
“How late did you study, last night?”
“Not — very late.”
“You should n't study a minute after eight o'clock, my child,”
said the mother. “You have n't been well, these three weeks;
and I believe it 's nothing in the world but —”
“Mrs. Greenwich,” interrupted the paternal head, “I was
speaking!”
Mrs. G., with alacrity: “I hear you, Mr. Greenwich.”
The paternal head nodded approvingly, and turned to Etty.
“Daughter, when that you requested permission to visit your
cousins, it would have been your desire to go this forenoon; but,
upon hearing the paternal decision, you maintained a respectful
silence, as was befitting. Your dutiful behavior merits indulgence;
and, in consideration of your application to your books, I
have weighed the matter, and resolved to reward you with a day's
recreation.”
Etty, tremulously: “Thank you, father.”
“If Robert has nothing to do —” began the mother.
“Mrs. Greenwich,” said the paternal head, with severe deliberation,
“if it is your design to usurp the conversation, I will hold
my peace.”
“O, by no means! Go on, Mr. Greenwich! I was only going
to make the remark — never mind!”
“Son Robert,” then said the 'Squire, “you will oblige me by
carrying your sister over to your cousins' in the cutter.”
“If my sister will accept my escort,” replied Robert, bowing
deferentially, “nothing will afford me greater pleasure.”
Etty dared not raise her eyes. “I can walk, as well —”
“Daughter, since the paternal head has decided, is it fitting
that you should make remarks?”
Poor Etty could not say one word. Nothing was left her, but
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to await Robert's motions, and trust to some kind chance, for
which she tremblingly prayed, to favor her escape to Charlotte.
It was an hour before he was ready to accompany her. The snow
was thawing fast; in many places the road was broken by hoofs;
and he drove very slowly. Arrived in sight of their cousins', she
besought him to go no further, but to set her down, and leave her
to walk the remaining distance.
“Bless your dear heart!” he said, sarcastically, “how extremely
anxious you are to get rid of me, this morning!”
“I make you so much trouble —”
“Trouble? On the contrary, in the fond hope of giving you
pleasure,” — with a vein of mockery in his tones, — “I had concluded
to make a visit with you, and have a game of chess with
Charley's wife, after dinner.”
Etty hoped he did but jest; but when he ordered his horse to
the stable, and, entering the house with her, declared gayly that he
had come over to read Tom Moore, and to beat his fair cousin at
a game of chess, the child's heart sank, and she almost cried out
with despair, as she thought of Charlotte.
-- -- p732-273
XXXII. FLIGHT.
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Recovering from her swoon, Charlotte put her friend gently
from her, and, holding her hand upon her heart with an expression
of unutterable suffering, withdrew quietly to her chamber.
“The gentleman's victuals is ready,” said Bridget at the door.
“Truth is eternal; but cooking is a necessary evil;” and
Edward arose with alacrity. “When the state of innocence is
reached, men will winter upon acorns and dried snails. Meanwhile
greatness must crunch! Lead the way, Elephant's-foot! —
If I fast too long, the hungry tiger haunts me; but after the lunch,
Solon will shine out.”
The invalid lay, pallid, and sighing at long intervals, upon the
lounge.
“You, then,” burst forth her husband, “you have encouraged
the imposition, you have helped to make me a dupe, you have
countenanced your son's folly!”
“O, sir,” cried the invalid, rising slowly upon her arm, and
answering his furious look with a sad and earnest glance, “it was
in fear of a worse folly, of which you are not ignorant, that I consented
to the marriage. Look at Edward! — then think of Hector,
who inherits the same blood, the same dangerous temperament,
from our ancestors! O, what is family pride, compared with the
welfare of a heart and mind like his? — And think of Charlotte!
consider how tender, and lovable, and true, she is; and that Hector's
feelings, with all their depth and intensity, have centred in
her; then, for his sake, if not for her sake, be merciful!”
“What does talk amount to? Go on till dooms-day; make
Hector a saint, make Charlotte an angel, make me a brute! then
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show one tangible excuse, — the shadow of reason, — why I
should have been duped!”
“O, would I could explain! But when Hector went to bring
Charlotte back, and when we both longed to tell you their history
up to that hour, he could not approach you — I could not!”
“Was I so terrible a monster?”
“You force me to say what I would leave unsaid! When you
are yourself, you are to me a husband, — to him, a father. But
there are times when you are not yourself, as you know!”
The quiet tone in which the invalid uttered the notorious truth
of her husband's inebriety for a moment staggered him, and
left him quivering with inarticulate rage.
“No one wished to deceive you; but, considering your state,
we deemed it advisable to wait until Charlotte's affairs were
settled. — But of this I cannot speak; you would not hear me,
you would not understand; and I must leave the rest to Hector,
on his return. Would he were here to-day!”
“So say I!” and the inebriate stamped the floor with his
infuriate heel.
“You forget,” said Mrs. Dunbury, “that he is of an age to act
for himself.”
“And let him! Had he chosen a negress or a squaw, he might
have married in spite of me. But when he thinks to harbor his
baggage under my roof, — he shall see!”
“He will be quite ready, sir, to remove his wife to another and
pleasanter home, let me assure you; and, no doubt, Charlotte will
be as ready to go. Why did they come back here at all? Was it
not for my sake, and for your sake? because you needed him, and
I needed both? Had they acted only for themselves, your house
would never have been insulted by their presence, as you complain!
Young, strong, courageous, they can spare us very well; it remains
to be seen how well we can spare them.”
“It 's Miss Charlotte I 'd be findin',” said Bridget at the door.
“There 's a visitor for her,” — scratching her elbow, and glancing
about the room. Having seized the opportunity to look in upon
an interesting family scene, she was in no hurry to retire. Mr.
Dunbury breathed hard.
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“A visitor?” said the invalid.
Bridget scratched the other elbow, grinning with conscious impertinence.
“Yes 'm — it 's the little janus — what ye cahl her—
Mr. Robert's sister.”
“Etty! who is with her?”
“It 's nobody at ahl wid her, but her own silf jist! It 's alone
an' a cryin' she is; an' her fate 's as soppin' wet as iver they can
be, wid the thahin' snow. I 've got her by the stove, an' the
quair gintleman 's tellin' her the crackin'est stories! But she 's
ahl in the fidgets to see Miss Charlotte; an' she 'll not be thinkin'
of her soakin' fate, nor nothin' at ahl, a bit!”
Etty's large forehead and pale face emerged from the eclipse of
Bridget's shoulder. Mrs. Dunbury called her, and she came
eagerly into the room. “I want to see Miss Woods! Is she in
her chamber? Can I go and find her?”
“Sit down, my dear child, and Bridget will speak to her for
you. How wet your dress is!”
“Yes — and I must go right back!” Etty began to cry. “I
would n't care, but I don't know what my mother will say! I
was at my cousins' — I had something to tell Miss Woods — O,
if you will let me go and find her! I know her room!”
The invalid gave her consent, and the child hastened to climb
the chamber-stairs, and knock with her trembling hand at Charlotte's
door. Then, having thrust Bridget from the room, Mr.
Dunbury stood fuming before the invalid's lounge.
“I 'll know the rest! Who are my son's connections? Who
is this adventuress? Is she so much worse than a beggar, that
you dare not speak? Is she some creature who has first brought
shame upon her own family, then upon mine? Has Hector gone
to appease the anger of an outraged parent, or the vengeance of a
dishonored husband? Has the name of Dunbury come to this?”
“It is well for you, sir, to speak of the name of Dunbury! —
you, who have done so much for it!”
The words pierced and stung. The proud Englishman writhed
a moment, then burst forth with redoubled fury. In the very
hurricane of his speech, the door was again opened. Charlotte
entered. She was very pale, her lips were colorless, her eyes
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looked wild and strange. She had on her bonnet and shawl, as if
for a journey.
“Charlotte!” the invalid cried out.
“Will you let Cornelius carry me over Wild River in the
sleigh?”
“My child! where are you going?”
“I could walk,” said Charlotte, — “but there is water around
the bridge: beyond that, I shall need no assistance.”
The invalid saw Etty's frightened face behind the door. Something
like the truth flashed upon her. She glanced despairingly
from Charlotte to her husband.
“Cornelius can go — can he not — to the river —”
“To the river, — to the end of creation!”
Charlotte spoke a hasty word of thanks, which died in her
throat, and hurried from the room. Mrs. Dunbury followed to
the hall. A few incoherent and terrified words passed between
them; and Charlotte, bursting from the other's trembling embrace,
went swiftly from the house. Bridget was calling Corny, but
no Corny appeared.
“O, Bridget, I cannot wait! — I will walk!”
“He 's gahn ahf wid the quair gintleman,” scolded Bridget.
“But I can be tacklin' the hoss for ye, — if that 's ahl, — an'
dhrive ye ahf, into the bargain.”
“O!” said Charlotte, “if you will!”
“Let me help!” cried Etty.
“No, child! — stay with Mrs. Dunbury. And may God bless
you, my dear, dear Etty!”
Bridget preceded Charlotte to the barn. This was a species
of stable and wagon-house combined, with two doors on the
side of the street, and with light and space within to harness a
team.
“Wat n'ise was that?” asked Bridget, standing agape at the
entrance of the smaller door.
“Bridget,” said Charlotte, with singular earnestness, “I believe
you love me!”
“Ye may well say that same, Miss Charlotte! Ye 's the very
fust Yankee woman iver I —”
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“Good, Bridget! I knew it was so! And now that I have
only you to depend upon, you will — you will help me, I am sure!”
Bridget pledged herself with true Hibernian enthusiasm. “But
what shall I be afther doin' for a beginnin'?”
“Get out the horse! Do not waste a minute!”
“Howly Mither! there 's that n'ise again! It 's somebody
that 's been murthered!” It was a muffled cry, that appeared to
proceed from the direction of the granary.
“It is Cornelius,” said Charlotte.
“The owl!” cried Bridget; “he 's been lockin' himself up, wid
the kay on the outside!”
“Open for him! O, be quick!”
“But what if he should n't be Carny? What if he 's only purtendin'
to be there, an' it 's a robber afther ahl? 'T would be jist
one o' Carny's thricks!”
The cries increased. Corny began to kick and pound. There
could be no doubt concerning his identity. Still, Bridget was
cautious, and Charlotte unlocked the door. Corny came out,
rubbing his eyes, and winking at the light.
“Ye 're a pooty feller, to be alluz lockin' yerself up when ye 're
wanted!” exclaimed the indignant Bridget. “Coom an' be afther
helpin' wid the harness.”
“I did n't lock myself up! I went in arter some oats for ol'
Maj., when that con—founded —” The speech was interrupted,
Corny stumbling over a measure, and sprawling upon the floor.
“I swan!” — gathering himself up, slowly, — “if there an't that
'ere half-bushel, 't I was lookin' fur, when that chap that broke the
saw come an' shet the door on to me, an' locked me in! I 'd like
to find him once, — arter I git the oats!”
Charlotte entreated Corny to leave the oats, and assist in putting
the horse before the cutter.
“Which hoss did Mist' Dunbury tell ye to take?”
“Ould Maj., av coorse,” replied Bridget. “D' ye think I 'd
be drivin' the brute that rips up the wagons?”
“You! a good 'eal you 'll drive! B'sides, Maj. had n't oughter
go till he 's had his oats.”
The delay was torturing to Charlotte. The close air of the barn
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stifled her; all things grew dark around her, and she groped her
way to the door. Supporting herself by the beam, she breathed
the open air, and felt the cold dashing of the eaves upon her
neck. A sound of hoofs and runners startled her. She looked
up. Three men in a sleigh were driving into the yard. They
stopped; two of them jumped out, and entered the house by the
front door; the third remained without.
One of those men Charlotte knew. The sight of him sent a
chill through her veins. Cold drops started upon her brow, as
she shrank back, trembling, into the obscurity of the barn. Just
then there was a shout of laughter; and some person, who had
lain concealed in the cutter, leaped up, shaking the buffalo-robes
with frantic glee. Bridget ran shrieking to the door.
“Edward — Bridget —” gasped Charlotte.
“Faix,” cried Bridget, “I was spreadin' up the skin in the cutter,
when out he jumps from under it, like the divil he is intirely!”
“O! be still!” said Charlotte, “or I am lost!”
“Ha! conspirators!” ejaculated Edward, bounding from the
sleigh. “There shall be one capital crime: that of high treason.
The punishment shall be strangling, and here are the clutches!”—
showing his hooked fingers, as he sprang towards the door.
“Let the tiger tickle them!”
Charlotte stopped him; she clung to him; she breathed out her
fears; she implored him to hear her, to aid her. He struck his
forehead with his hand.
“Stratagem! Your majesty shall be saved! After that, the
execution. Leave all to the prime minister!”
“But — Edward — what will you do?”
His reply was clear and rapid. It showed a sharp, shrewd wit,
which gleamed like a lightning-flash on Charlotte's bewildered
brain. His plan was a wild one; but in it lay her only hope;
and, adopting it desperately, she entreated Corny and Bridget to
obey and assist him.
“Darned if I know the fust thing —” began Corny.
“Be valiant,” cried Edward, “and it shall be revealed. Go to
the gate, and the instant we pass, shut it after! — Lady Bridget,—
this way!”
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Etty glided into the barn. “They have come!” she uttered, —
“the same man who was in the room last night — I knew his
voice! O, make haste!”
The traces were hooked; Corny was at the gate; the large
door was thrown open; then Edward, leaping into the sleigh by
his companion's side, threw the buffalo-robe over her, and drove
headlong out of the barn. Shaking the reins, and lashing the
horse with the whip, he passed the sleigh in the yard, went
through the gate, grazing the post with the runner, and plied,
with furious speed, towards Wild River.
The man left in charge of the sleigh shouted the alarm, and
sprang to his seat. Fortunately the span was headed the wrong
way, and, before he could turn their faces towards the road, Corny
had had time, in his moderate manner, to close the gate. The
obstacle brought the sleigh to a sudden halt.
“Open, there!” cried the driver.
“Who said so?” muttered Corny.
“Open the gate!” thundered the man, shaking his whip.
“Tell me agin, then mabby I 'll hear,” said Corny, in an under
tone, taking care to get beyond reach of the lash. The man
jumped out, making a cut at Corny as he passed. The whistling
of the whip started the horses; and, springing forward, they ran
the neap against the gate. “So much for snappin' yer whip!”
said Corny, with a grin. “You 'll have to back up now, or you
can't git the gate open.”
“Smash through it!” exclaimed a terrible voice, so near Corny's
ear, that he jumped as if he had been struck. It was one of
the men from the house. He leaped into the sleigh, and gathered
up the reins. “Cl'ar the track, Jones! I 'll go over that gate
as if it was shingles!”
“Hold on, Dicks'n!” cried the other. 'T will be cheaper to
open it!”
“Out o' the way!” shouted Dickson. “No time for fool'n'!
Give us the whip — jump on!”
He struck the horses smartly. With a bound they brought the
neap once more against the gate. The frame splintered, and they
went over with a crash. The off-horse, however, unused to such
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business, shied in passing, and forced the point of the runner
against the post. Another dead halt; the men cursing, the
horses trembling and cringing, Corny grinning at a safe distance.
As it was out of the question to think of serving the gate-post as
they had served the gate, the men found themselves obliged to
follow Corny's original advice, and “back up.” This was no easy
matter, with the horses' legs entangled in the wreck. They kicked
and flung, threatening to tear both harness and sleigh to pieces.
But at last the fragments of the gate were either trodden down or
thrown out of the way; the sleigh was cleared; and Dickson and
his companion, jumping aboard, described a swift circle into the
road, making the watery snow fly from the runners as they swept
around, and dashed away in pursuit of the fugitives.
Old Maj. was no racer; but Edward exerted himself so well to
develop his latent speed, that the cutter had already passed from
sight over the hill. Arrived at the summit, Dickson and his companion
beheld the fugitives splashing through the sluggish currents
of water that crept around the bridge of Wild River; and a minute
later old Maj. was seen making vigorous leaps up the steep
road that led into the woods. By the time the pursuers had
reached the bridge, Edward and his companion had once more
disappeared.
Through the water and slush dashed the horses and sleigh.
Dickson and his friend were bespattered from head to foot. Often
the horses slumped through the hard-packed bed of the road, and
threw up heavy clods, endangering their own limbs, and the eyes
and features of the men. But Dickson held the reins and wielded
the whip; Dickson cared neither for the horses, his friend, nor himself;
his only thought was to overtake the fugitives, at every risk.
Old Maj. was no match for the strong, spirited span; and by
the time the pursuers came again in sight, he was beginning to
flag, notwithstanding Edward's efforts to keep up his courage with
the whip. Escape by direct means became hopeless. As a last
resort, the fugitives turned aside into a rough lumber-track, that
wound through the woods. But a worse route could scarce have
been chosen. Mounting a snow-covered acclivity, they reached an
impassable chasm, filled with huge, heaped, massive rocks, around
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the icy bed of Wild River. Seeing retreat thus cut off, Edward
abandoned the track, and struck out among the trees on the bank.
But the snow still lay heavy in those gloomy regions. The runners
cut deep; it was no easy matter to avoid the roots and trunks, and
little progress had been made, when the horses of the pursuers came
bounding up the acclivity, and, wheeling among the trees, dashed
alongside the cutter, just at a moment when it was arrested by the
bristling tops of a fallen cedar. Dickson jumped into the snow,
and scrambled to seize his prey.
“Destiny in a tree-top!” ejaculated Edward. “Let the vultures
rage! I put my faith in the humming-bird. Come on!”
“We 'll come on fast enough!” cried Jones. “And jest you
keep quiet, or you 'll git pitch-bowled down them 'ar rocks, like a
cobble-stone! Make sure of her, Dicks'n!”
“Wal, I reck'n!” muttered Dickson, with gloating deliberation.
“When I once get my eyes on a gal, it 's as good as a bear-hug!
Here ye be, my perty!”
“Hang on!” exclaimed Jones. “If she 'd been spunky as some
gals be, she 'd made a desprit push over them 'ar rocks; it 's what
I was 'fraid of. I 'm much obleeged to her, for my part.”
“We 'll have a general thanksgiving!” said Dickson, with
brutal satisfaction. “One live gal is worth a gang of dead ones.
O, you 're safe; don't squirm; 't an't no use! Show us yer face,
my honey!”
He pulled down the buffalo-robe, and pulled up the bonnet;
then attempted to lift the head of his struggling captive.
“The Wise Men triumphant!” exclaimed Edward. “The dove
was a jackdaw, and the cat pounced upon her own paws! Look
to the feathers!”
“What 's the row?” cried Jones, rushing to the spot.
Edward danced, and, flinging his hat into a tree, made the woods
ring with his maniacal laugh.
Dickson dropped the bonnet; loosed his hold of the buffalo;
stood, stared, — his face a picture of mingled stupefaction and
fury, — as, struggling through a large quantity of tangled hair,
giggling and gasping, appeared the round, red, ludicrous features
of — Bridget!
-- -- p732-282
XXXIII. HOUSELESS.
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“The law, Mrs. Dunbury,” said Oliver Dole, with the grimace
of authority, “the LAW must be put in force. It is a painful
duty we have to perform, — but, then, you know, the LAW!”
He was a gaunt, bony individual, with a hooked nose, and a
massive nether jaw. He was the third person of Dickson's party,
being an officer resident in the county, who had been selected to
give character and dignity to the enterprise. A fitter choice could
hardly have been made. The man was sunk in the officer; the
waters of human feeling were in him congealed into the fixed, unswerving
ice of public conscience. But Mrs. Dunbury was a mere
woman. She fondly believed that the elements of love and mercy
enthroned in the heart were a law above all laws. When Dickson
and his companion rushed in pursuit of the cutter, she clung
to Oliver Dole. With clasped hands, with sobs and tears, she
pleaded for Charlotte.
“She is a being like one of us! She has all human attributes
and feelings! She is a woman — a wife — my son's wife; my
own beloved child! Do not subject her to the ignominy, the
horror, the death, of such an ordeal. If money can satisfy the
claims upon her, they shall be satisfied. Even now my son has
gone to treat for her. Spare her, spare him, spare us, this terrible
exposure! You are a man, a citizen; it is in your power to
save her!”
“Mrs. Dunbury,” responded Oliver Dole, with an official smack
of his lips, “nothing is in my power that is not the law. I cannot
be detained from my duty; and I charge you, Mrs. Dunbury,
not to resist the law!”
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Still she clung to him. She seemed endowed with a strength
above her own. She would not loose her hold.
“Mr. Dunbury!” cried Oliver Dole, “I appeal to you!”
Mr. Dunbury stood by, a picture of apoplectic rage. His face
was purple, his eyes blood-shot, the muscles of his mouth and
throat moved convulsively. He heeded the officer no more than
the eaves that dripped. The latter wrenched away the invalid's
hands, and she fell upon the floor.
“Mr. Dunbury,” then said Oliver Dole, “I anticipated nothing
of this; and now I call upon you for support in the performance
of my duty. If the girl escapes, this resistance may cost you
dear. If you have a horse in your stable, I will take it, and
follow on.”
No word from Mr. Dunbury; but, with a look of strangulation,—
clutching his breast as if to free his lungs, — he strode over his
wife's prostrate form, and followed the officer from the room. At
the entrance to the barn stood Etty, white and trembling. It was
well the stanch Oliver did not observe the look she gave him, as
he stepped into the stall of the remaining horse. A gleam of hope
and joy broke through the pale anxiety of her features when she
saw him untie the halter, and lead the animal out. To slip on a
bridle, and leap upon the horse's back, was the work of a moment
for Oliver Dole; and an instant after, riding over the broken gate,
he joined in the noble chase. Etty clasped her hands, and ran
to Mr. Dunbury.
“Here she is!” she uttered, hurriedly. “It was Bridget that
went in the cutter! Be quick, and hide her somewhere!”
As she spoke, from beneath the manger crept a pitiful human
figure, slender, bent, and trembling with excessive fear. It was
Charlotte. She tottered forward, and fell down at Mr. Dunbury's
feet. As she covered her face from his sight, one might have seen
that her hand was wounded and bloody. Oliver Dole had crushed
it with his iron heel, in leading the horse from the stall. It was
doubtful if she had felt the pain at the time. Certainly she was
insensible to it now; but Etty cried out with pity at the sight.
“O, Mr. Dunbury!” said the child, “what can she do? Don't
let them take her away!”
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No word yet from Mr. Dunbury; none from Charlotte; but
shrinkingly she knelt there, as if it was his wrath alone she feared,
and only his forgiveness she implored.
“O, Charlotte!” cried Etty, trying to lift her up; “there is
some place where they cannot find you! Come! O, sir, why do
you let her be here?”
Mr. Dunbury raised his remorseless arm. “Begone!” — his
words flamed and hissed with fury, — “lose yourself, drown yourself,
I care not, — but BEGONE!”
Charlotte arose and fled.
There was a cow-path trodden through the snow, leading across
the meadows, over the bridge and along the banks of the stream.
This path Charlotte took; passing in her flight scenes which she
had first visited in company with Hector, and which had become
linked in her memory with warm and dear associations. But now
how changed, how cold, how desolate, were they all! The snow
lay heavy and deep on the interval; the willows were naked and
dark; the stream was blocked with ice. Beyond, frowned the
inhospitable forest on the mountain side. The heavens above
were leaden, with grayish streaks; and now the slow, dull, wintry
rain began to fall.
Beyond the bridge, the track threw out branches in several
directions; for here, all winter long, Mr. Dunbury's cattle and
sheep had been foddered from the stacks in the valley. But the
main path led along the banks of the creek; this Charlotte chose,
perhaps because among the willows her flight would be concealed,
or it may be that she cherished some half-formed design of reaching
Mr. Jackwood's house.
But the way was rude and difficult for her unaccustomed feet.
Since the thaw, the track had been broken through by sharp hoofs;
water had settled in the low places; and often, slipping upon the
icy cakes, she fell, hurting her naked hands, bruising her limbs,
and saturating her garments in the pools. Then, palpitating and
breathless from the shock, she would pause, and glance up and
down the wide, white valley, with fearful looks, as if expecting
momently to see her pursuers appear.
A glimpse she caught of Mr. Jackwood's house in the distance
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inspired her with courage to keep on. She saw the red-painted
kitchen dimly defined upon the field of snow; the trees and fences
speckling the ground; the heavy plume of smoke from the chimney,
trailing low across the plain; and a vision of hope, and
help, and rest, in that humble home, flitted before her mind. But
the path by the willows had now dwindled to a scarcely-trodden
track. At each step, her feet sank down in the soft, wet snow.
Her efforts to proceed cost all her remaining strength. Only the
desperate extremity in which she was sustained her. But hope
and fear alike failed her at last; and, having climbed the tangled
brush of a valley fence, she fell powerless in the snow, upon the
other side.
The short winter's day was drawing to a close. The shades of
the solemn hills shut in the plain. A dreary silence reigned,
broken only by the lowing of cattle, and the faint, sad bleating
of sheep in the distance, the sighing of the wind among the willows,
and the melancholy drip of the rain. Having got a little
rest, Charlotte summoned her energies for a fresh attempt to
traverse the snowy track. But now formidable doubts stood in her
way. She had faith in her old friends; but would Mr. Jackwood's
house, which had twice received her in its hospitable retreat, be
overlooked by her pursuers? Perhaps already they were there,
before her; and to proceed might be to fall at once into their
hands. In her deep perplexity, she crept under the fence, with
a wild thought of passing the night in that wretched place. But
the rain beat upon her still; her bruised hands ached from contact
with the snow; and her feet were drenched and cold.
The approach of footsteps startled her; but she dared not look
around, nor move; she lay still as death in her retreat. The
sounds drew near, and presently a dog began to bark, plunging
into the snow, close by where she lay.
“Come here, Rove!” cried an authoritative voice.
It was the voice of Abimelech Jackwood, the younger. The
dog ran back, with excited yelps, and jumped upon his arm; then
rushed to the attack again, bristling up, and barking furiously at
the object by the fence. Charlotte spoke, “Rover!” Instantly
he sprang towards her, with a joyous demonstration; hesitated at
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half way, and ran back again to his master; whisked about in the
snow; and finally, having fulfilled all the requirements of canine
etiquette on the occasion, leaped upon her lap, wagging his tail
violently, caressing her with his feet, and licking her wounded
hand.
Abimelech stood at a discreet distance, and cried to Rover to
come there. Charlotte arose to her feet, and called his name.
“Hello!” cried Bim; “that you?”
She tottered forward. The boy, not so easily satisfied as the
dog, showed a disposition to retire. But, in a few hurried words;
she gave him to understand that she was no apparition, — that it
was indeed Charlotte who spoke to him, — and that he was not to
fear, but to aid her.
“Be ye goin' up to the house?” asked the boy.
“Abimelech, some men are hunting for me! I would rather
die than have them find me! And I don't know where to
go!”
“Who be they?” demanded Bim, with forced courage, looking
around. “I 'll set Rover on to 'em! Here!”
“Where is your father?”
“Up to the house, I guess,” replied Bim.
“Will you go for him,” said Charlotte; “and tell him I am
here, and tell no one else?”
“Yes, I 'll go!” cried Bim. “But,” — hesitatingly, — “had n't
you better go up to the stack, and wait there? I 'd ruther ye
would; I come down here to fodder the steers and lambs, and
father told me not to go and look at my muskrat-trap, 'cause 't was
goin' to rain. It 's righ' down here; an' if he knows where I found
ye, he 'll s'pect I was goin' there.”
Charlotte accepted the boy's guidance; and immediately around
the bend in the creek, they came in sight of the stack. It was a
low, gloomy mass, in the midst of a dark, trodden space, around
the edges of which appeared Abimelech's steers and lambs, feeding
on wisps of hay he had scattered over the snow. The stack
was defended by a fence, on one side of which was a temporary
shelter, formed of rails and boards, thatched with straw.
“If you 'd like to hide,” observed Bim, “I know a place, —
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only I don't want father to find it out, for he tells me not to be
makin' holes in the stack.”
“Is it here?”
“I 'll show ye!” and Bim, slipping a couple of rails from their
place, crept through the fence, and began to pull away the hay
from the stack. A dark cavity was exposed. “It 's a den I
made for me an' Rove! Once I had a notion o' runnin' away,
an' I was goin' to live here, and have him bring me my victuals!
It 's real slick an' warm in there!”
The opening was extremely narrow, and the cavity itself was
small. But it was all Charlotte wished for then. She could not
have entered a palace with more grateful emotions.
“Shall I leave ye a breathin'-place?” asked Abimelech, putting
back the hay. “Hello! what 's that Rover 's barkin' at?”
He crept around the stack, leaving Charlotte listening breathlessly
in her hiding-place. In a moment he returned, and whispered
hoarsely in the hay, “There 's a man a comin' with a big
hoss-whip! Say! is he one of 'em?”
Charlotte knew not what she said, if indeed she uttered any
reply. She heard the boy hastily smoothing the hay at the
entrance of her cell; then all was still, only the dog barked; and
as she strained her ear to listen, the straw beneath her rustled
with every throb of her heart.
Having climbed the stack, and thrown down a quantity of hay
before the mouth of the cavity, Bim began to arrange some
boards in a manner to shed rain.
“Git out!” growled the man with the whip, making a cut at
the dog.
“He won't bite ye,” cried Bim. “Here, Rove!”
“Say, boy! have ye seen anybody pass this way, within half an
hour or so?”
“Pass which way?”
“Any way — along by the crick.”
“What crick?”
“Answer my question!”
“I han't ben here half an hour, I should n't think,” said
Bim.
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“Look a' here!” thundered Dickson, “none o' yer trash with
me! I cut a boy's trouse's-legs right off with this black snake,
t' other day! He was a boy about your size, and his trouse's was
stouter stuff than yours, too, I reck'n! Which way did that gal
go?”
“What gal?” said Bim, stepping cautiously back upon the
stack.
“Let me reach you with this lash, and I 'll tickle your recollections!
You 'll look paler than that, when I draw about a
quart of blood out of ye! I mean that gal that come along about
twenty minutes ago.”
“If there was any,” — Bim looked very candid, but very pale,—
“she must a' come along when I was off arter my traps; or
else I should think I 'd seen her.”
“That won't do, boy!” Dickson cracked his whip savagely.
“I 'll give ye jest about a minute 'n' a ha'f to think about it;
then, if ye don't walk straight up to the scratch, and spit out
what ye know, you may expect to have your clo's cut right off 'm
your back, and your hide with 'm!”
Then Charlotte heard a sound as of some one climbing the
stack-yard fence, and a heavy body jumped down upon the
ground at the very entrance to her retreat. There was a shaking
in the hay which Bim had thrown before it; Dickson was kicking
it open with his foot; he trod it down by the stack.
Bim looked anxious, but his wits did not desert him. “If
ye 'll help me with these 'ere boards, I 'll go up to the house with
ye, an' see if she 's been by there.”
“Where do you live?”
“In that house, up yender.”
“What 's yer name?”
“Bim!”
“What 's yer whole name?”
“Bim'lech!”
“What 's yer father's name?”
“His name 's Bim'lech, too!”
“Bim'lech what?”
“Bim'lech Jackwood, of course!”
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“Jackwood, hey? she used to live to your house, did n't she?”
“Yes, I guess not! Who used to?”
“We 'll see!” said Dickson. Having, during the dialogue,
struck a match under his coat and lighted a cigar, he inserted the
latter between his teeth, and, once more measuring out his whip,
cracked it at the boy's ears. “Time 's up! now, what ye got to
say?”
“If you 're goin' to smoke,” said Bim, from a safe position,
“you better git over the fence; you 'll set the stack afire. Ow!”
as the whip-lash whistled by his face, “you had n't better hit me
with that! There 's father, an' I 'm darned glad!”
Dickson changed his tactics; perhaps because he found threats
of no avail; perhaps because the boy had an adroit way of dodging
over the stack beyond reach of his whip; or in consequence,
it may be, of misgivings with regard to the parent Jackwood.
He therefore opened a parley, and offered Bim half a dollar to
tell him which way Charlotte went.
“I guess so!” said Bim. “You want me to come down an
git it, then you 'll ketch me, an' gi' me a lickin', I know!” And
he made preparations to slide off the opposite side, in case Dickson
attempted to climb the stack.
But Dickson had a more important matter to attend to.
Either the match he had thrown down after lighting his cigar,
or cinders falling in the hay, had set fire to the heap. The flame,
shooting up with a sudden crackling and glare, was the first
warning he received of the danger. He had left the spot, and
was standing by the cattle-shed, when the blaze caught his eye.
He rushed to extinguish it, stamping, and trampling, and calling
to the boy to bring snow.
“There an't no fire!” cried Bim, who thought it a ruse to
bring him down.
“By —!” said Dickson, “you 'll find out whether there 's a
fire!”
Already Charlotte had smelt the burning straw. Then, through
chinks in the opening of her cell, she caught fearful glimpses of
the struggling flame and smoke. She heard the alarm, the oaths,
the trample of feet. The stack was burning!
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Her first impulse was to cry out, and rush from her retreat.
But the certainty of falling into the hands of Dickson paralyzed
her tongue, and chained her limbs. Death was nothing; a
moment since, she would have risked a hundred deaths sooner
than be taken; but to be burned, to perish in a slowly consuming
mass, to die by torment in a tomb of fire! the thought was maddening;
it filled her with an insensate fear, that caused her for
the instant to forget all other danger. With frantic hands
she tore the hay that blocked the opening. But a volume of
smoke, pouring in upon her, changed her purpose. She thrust
back the hay, while at the same time it was trampled and packed
from without. She heard the simmer of snow upon the flames; she
thought the fire was being extinguished. She hoped, she prayed,
that she might yet be preserved.
But now the trampling feet, and snow packed down upon the
burning hay, drove the smoke into the cell. Charlotte was suffocating.
The torture almost forced her to cry out. O, that she
might have power to endure yet a little while! She thought of
Hector. For his sake she conquered her agony. Writhing in
torment, she clasped her hands upon her face to stifle her own
cries. Yet a little while! yet a little while! O, yet one moment
more!
It could not be. She fought with death itself. It seemed that
almost the last struggle, the last mortal throe, had come. Still
Hector filled her soul. She might have endured and died; but,
no! for him she would risk all things; for him she would suffer
on; for him she would live! Again she tore the hay from the
opening of the cell. But the act was forestalled. A hand, thrust
in, met hers.
“Keep still!” whispered Bim, at the entrance. “Can ye
breathe?”
She breathed, she lived, she hoped. The fire was extinguished.
Dickson, enraged at the delay, had departed in haste, and the
boy was left alone to trample out the smouldering sparks with
snow.
“Hello, boy!” suddenly shouted Dickson, turning back, “fling
me my whip!”
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There was no service Bim would more gladly have performed.
Anything rather than that Dickson should return to the stack.
He looked for the whip, but could not find it. The man had
thrown it down whilst extinguishing the fire, and thought it must
have become trodden in the hay. He returned; they looked for
it together, — Bim keeping at a respectful distance, and holding
himself ready to run the instant the whip appeared, — Dickson
growling and swearing. Suddenly, the end of the lash was discovered
hanging off the cattle-shed, close by the stack. Dickson
seized it; Abimelech fled; Charlotte, who had listened all the
time with a fluttering heart, began to breathe again. But at the
moment there was a movement at the mouth of the cell. The hay
was opening; some object forced its way into her retreat. She
was shrinking away in terror, when Rover, scrambling through,
leaped into her face, and expressed his delight by barking playfully,
licking her hands, and thumping the sides of the niche with
his animated tail.
Fortunately Dickson had turned again to go, and was at that
moment making long strides across the field. Bim returned to
Charlotte just in time to bump noses with Rover, who, not
liking the smoke, was leaping out of the hay.
“He 's gone!” whispered the boy. “Darn his old whip, I
say! Did ye know he set the stack afire?”
“Did I know it!” murmured Charlotte.
“I 'm all of a tremble yit!” said Bim. “I was a little bit
scart; but, confound his pictur'! he did n't find ye, after all, did he?
That 's all I care for!”
“And it 's all I care for, now! I feel faint! Will you give
me a handful of snow?”
The boy brought the snow: she pressed it on her forehead, as
she lay panting upon the hay.
“Shall I go up an' tell father, now?”
“If you will; but be careful, let no one else know —”
“I 'll keep it from Pheeb, anyway! She always tells everything.
Say! shall I leave Rover for company?”
A faint “no” was the response; and the excited boy, having
thrown the superfluous hay over the fence, and reärranged that at
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the mouth of the cell, leaving only a breathing-place, as he called
it, went off whistling, to appear unconcerned. She listened in
her retreat; the sounds grew faint and fainter, ceasing at last;
and she was left alone, in darkness and silence, hemmed in by the
low roof and prickly walls of her cell.
For some minutes she lay still, and prayed. In that simple and
childlike act new strength was given her, and she was enabled to
think calmly of her state. She took care of her feet, removing
their wet covering, and drying them in the warm hay. Then,
finding that Abimelech had shut her in too closely, and that the
air of the cell was still poisoned with smoke, she moved the hay
from the opening, and lay down upon it, where she could look out
upon the thickening darkness, and listen to the sighing wind and
pattering rain.
-- -- p732-293
XXXIV. THE NIGHT.
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The night set in, wild and stormy. The rain increased, the
gale blew fitfully, the far-off forest roared. With her hands
clasped upon her breast, Charlotte lay gazing out into the dark,
and listening to the storm, until the night, the wind, and the rain,
seemed no longer anything of themselves, but a part of herself,
and all within her own soul.
“O, heaven! O, grief! O, love!” were the thoughts that filled
her universe.
The last glimmer of day had faded, and darkness lay like a
thick substance on the earth, when the footsteps she had long
expected came plashing through the snow.
“Cha'lotte!” said the voice of Mr. Jackwood.
“I am here!” breathed Charlotte, with a joyous thrill.
“I 've brought ye some supper, and some dry stockin's,”
returned the farmer. “Where be ye?”
“Here!” and Charlotte reached out her hand. “O, Mr.
Jackwood!”
“It 's a dre'ful tejus night!” observed the farmer, getting
down by the stack. “I wish you was safe to the house, once.”
“I wish I was safe somewhere! But it is all well, good Mr.
Jackwood. If I can be kept concealed here —”
“Sence Bim'lech told me o' the hole, I ben thinkin',” said
the farmer, “'t would be as well. The men have ben to my
house, — two come by the road, an' t' other acrost the meader;
an' they 'll be there agin, prob'bly, for they 've got the notion
that we know where you be. Oliver Dole was there, an'
they made a s'arch in the barn, an' wood-shed, an' all over
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the house; we could n't hender 'em, an' I thought it 'bout as
well to let 'em have a good time on 't, long as you wan't there.
Take your choice, though,” added Mr. Jackwood; “if ye don't
fancy stoppin' here, I 'll git ye up to the house some way, and do
my best to take care on ye, while ye 're there.”
“Let me stay here; I would rather.”
“How much room ye got? Dear me! it 's quite a house, an't
it? — I never see the beat o' that boy's mischief! I 've told him,
time an' agin, not to be makin' holes in the stacks; but I guess
I 'll let him off easy, seein' it 's turned out so well for you!”
“You know,” faltered Charlotte, “why I am here?”
“I kind o' ketched a little on 't, from what was said. But
never mind about that. I 'd as soon think of givin' up my own
darter to 'em as you!”
Charlotte held the farmer's hard and knotty hand, and kissed it
fervently.
“You need n't have no fears 'bout me,” he continued, with
hearty sympathy. “I guess Bim'lech Jackwood 'll turn out a perty
sound kind o' wood, at heart. I told ye so, perhaps you recollect,
the fust time 't ever I see ye: 't was in one o' these very meaders,
but a leetle furder down. I han't forgot it, if you have. Shall
I send word to Mist' Dunb'ry's folks 't you are here?”
“O, no! — unless — unless Hector comes home!”
“Wal, we 'll talk o' that to-morrow. Mist' Dunb'ry 'll be
harder 'n ever on our country, now. He 's English; and I don't
know 't I ever talked with him in the world, 't he had n't some
flaw to pick in our institutions. I 've kep' up my eend o' the
argument perty well, so fur; but I guess he 'll git the start o' me
now. I should think he 'd move heaven an' 'arth to git you clear
What did he say about it?”
Charlotte's bosom heaved, and the farmer felt her tears fall
upon his hand.
“Wal, never mind to-night. O! did I tell ye little Etty
Grinnich stopped to our house, on her way hum? That was a
good joke, sendin' the kidnabbers arter Bridget, while you got
away! Wal, I don't know as there's anything more, 'less
you 'd like to have me stay with ye a little while, for company.”
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“O, no!” replied Charlotte. “The rain is dripping on you.”
“I don't mind the rain a mite. Besides, if you 'd like to have
me, I 'll git a board off 'm the stack, an' put it down here; then
I 'll set an' talk, while you 're eatin' your supper.”
Mr. Jackwood was going for the board, but Charlotte entreated
him to give himself no more trouble and discomfort on her account.
“Wal, good-night, then. You may depend on seein' some
of us 'arly in the mornin'. But it 's dre'ful tough,” added the
farmer, with compunctions. “The rain 'll turn to snow, and it 'll
freeze up, tight as a drum, 'bout midnight. I 'm 'fraid you 'll be
cold here; an' I d'n'no but you 'd better go up to the house,
arter all.”
“No,” said Charlotte. “You have done all you can. I wish
I could thank you! — but — good-night!”
“Wal, good-night it is, then!” returned the farmer. “Keep
up good heart — that 's all I got to say. 'T 'll all be right, —
't 'll all be right, — in the eend.”
Mr. Jackwood departed. Charlotte listened, as his footsteps
went away in the dreary dark. Then she was once more alone;
and the storm beat still, and the wind whistled, and the far-off
forest roared.
In a thoughtful mood the farmer tramped on through the rain
and snow. More than once he stopped, and was on the point of
going back for Charlotte. It seemed to him, as he afterwards
confessed, as though “suthin was goin' to happen;” and he could
not feel right about leaving her.
“But I 'll push on up to the house,” said he, “any way; and
then see how the weather acts.”
Arrived, dripping wet, at the kitchen, he was astonished to find
a burly, low-browed man sitting before the stove, in an attitude
and with looks of dogged discontent. It was Dickson, who, after
pretending to depart with his companions, had returned to spend
the night in the suspected house.
“Why, what does ail you, father?” said Mrs. Jackwood, in
the middle of the night. “How narvous you be!”
“I 'm consarned about Cha'lotte!” replied the farmer. “I
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felt sartin the wind 'u'd git round t' the north, and come off cold,
'fore this. If it keeps on rainin', there 'll be a foot o' water on
the interval, by mornin'.”
“You don't think the crick 'll break up, do ye?”
“No; 't an't thawed enough for that, — though the snow has
gone off like smoke the last four-'n'-twenty hours!” Mr. Jackwood
tossed about sleeplessly for an hour or two longer. “I
guess I 'll git up,” said he, at length, “and see how the weather
looks. It don't rain so hard as it did, and seems to me the wind
sounds colder.” He put on his clothes, and went out. “There 's
more rain fell than I thought for,” he said, returning presently.
“I do'no' 'bout the crick. I guess I better go down an' git
Cha'lotte up to the barn, to ventur'. — If 't had n't been for that
plaguy kidnabber! I would n't begrudge a night's lodgin' to the
wust enemy I got, but I could a' turned him ou' doors into the
storm with a good stomach, if there 'd ben any way of gittin' red
of him. I 'll take the hoss an' an umbrel, an' I guess we 'll git
along.”
“What was that?” said Mrs. Jackwood. “I thought I heard
something on the stairs.”
Mr. Jackwood went to examine, and met Dickson coming softly
from the chamber.
“You 're up late,” said the latter, with a sinister smile.
“I should ruther say 't was airly,” retorted the farmer. “D' ye
want anything p'tic'lar?”
“I come down to see if I could git a drink o' water.”
“Wal, sir, that ye can have. The pump 's in here; 't 'll want
primin'. If you 'll wait a minute, I 'll bring ye a glass.”
“It 's a rainy night,” observed Dickson.
“Terrible,” said Mr. Jackwood, plying the wheezy pump.
“I hope that gal an't out nowheres!” returned the other.
“I hope not,” said the farmer.
“Look a' here!” exclaimed Dickson, in an under-tone;
“I 'm bent on findin' that gal; and 't an't no use her tryin' to
git away. Now, I tell ye what: it 's my opinion you know
where she is.”
“I wish I did!”
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“I 've thought so, all along; and I 'm as good as sure now.
You an't up at four in the mornin' for nothin'. Now, be reason'ble,
and own up. It 'll be better for the gal, for the job will be
over with sooner; and it 's got to come, first or last. It 'll be
better for you, too, in more senses than one. I s'pose you know
the consequences o' harborin' or concealin' a fugitive, and resistin'
the execush'n o' the law? Now, look a' here!” Dickson took a
heavy purse from his pocket, and counted out some pieces of
money. “There 's fifty dollars for ye, if you 'd like to earn it.”
“'Arn it? how?”
“By simply sayin' three words that 'll set me on the right
track. Ye don't find fifty dollars in the dirt every day.”
“I should like to find fifty dollars well enough,” replied the
farmer; “but I do'no' 'bout pickin' it out o' jest that kind o'
dirt — even s'posin' I could.”
Dickson felt encouraged. “I 'll make it — le' me see — sixty,
seventy, seventy-five. Now, there 's a chance! Come,” — looking
at his watch, — “'t won't pay to go to bed agin to-night, I
reck'n; so, le's set down and talk it over.”
“You 'll have to wait for me a little while,” said the farmer,
taking down the lantern.
“You goin' out in the rain?”
“Yes; I got to look to my hosses.”
“If that 's all,” cried Dickson, “I 'll go along with ye, and
we 'll be talkin'.”
The farmer, exasperated, felt an impulse to smash the lantern
in the villain's face. Dickson smiled: in that smile there was
low cunning and surly determination, which showed that it was
useless to attempt, either by stratagem or force, to shake him off.
As they stood there, a fresh volley of wind and rain, lashing
the kitchen window, filled Mr. Jackwood with fresh anxiety for
Charlotte's safety. He hurried forth, pulling the door after him;
but Dickson wrenched it open with a powerful hand, and stalked
to his side.
“None o' that!” he growled, taking the farmer's arm. “We
may as well keep together, I reck'n. I don't mind the rain.”
-- -- p732-298
XXXV. HECTOR'S JOURNEY.
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It was a close, wet evening. Rolling vapors filled the sky. A
crowd was gathered by the river, and a line of slaves, ranged
along the wharf, held pitch-pine torches above their heads, to light
a steamer coming up from the bay. Gradually the vessel approached,
her slow wheels beating the water; cries passed from
deck to wharf; the lines were flung out, and made fast to the
shore; then came the rush and bustle of landing — friends greeting
friends, porters shouldering luggage, carriages and wagons in
attendance, and the flare of the torches wavering over all.
There was one passenger, among the first to land, who made
haste to engage a hack, and rode away from this animated and
picturesque scene. As the vehicle rattled through the town, he
gazed listlessly upon the lighted shops, the gay saloons, and the
glistening, muddy walks. Each spot was familiar to his eye; but
how far-off, and cold, and idle, seemed all that life to the world of
thought and feeling in his own breast!
Suddenly the carriage stopped. “What is the trouble?” — and
he put his head out of the window.
“The Strikers!” said the coachman. Other vehicles had
stopped. At the doors and windows of houses, on the steps, on
the walks, appeared throngs of spectators, presenting a variety of
complexions, rather remarkable to an eye unaccustomed to mixed
races. The music of a band approaching floated upon the air;
and Hector, looking in the direction towards which the many-hued
faces were turned, beheld a grotesque procession. Then he remembered
that it was New Year's Eve, the season of masquerades;
and that the Strikers were one of the famous societies which, by
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their fantastic displays upon that anniversary, make Mobile the
rival of Rome and Venice in their gay carnivals.
A double chain of torch-bearers, with dusky faces and bare
arms, like those upon the wharf, marked the line of the procession.
In front burned the cabalistic characters of the order —
“S. I. S.” — upon an ornate and showy standard. Then (wonderful
to behold!) came marching out of the fabulous past, out of
the realms of fiction, out of the covers of books, the heroes of
Romance: Amadis of Gaul, the Cid, and Arthur, with knights of the
round table, in gorgeous panoply; Pantagruel, Rabelais' creation,
of vast and laughable dimensions; and Don Quixote, grim with
courage, mounted on the boniest of steeds, and accompanied by his
doughty squire, striding a grave animal of a long-eared race.
Ivanhoe, Robin Hood, and the fantastic Wamba, came after.
Then might have been witnessed the edifying spectacle of Tom
Jones and Gil Blas, walking arm in arm; Mr. Pickwick and Oliver
Twist; Porthos, Athos, and Aramis, the three guardsmen,
world-renowned; and the Count of Monte Christo in conversation
with the Wandering Jew. Leatherstocking, and some of Cooper's
Indians, appeared conspicuous; and Robinson Crusoe and
his man Friday marched in the midst of the procession. Many
of those that followed were unknown to Hector; but there was
no mistaking Hudibras and Orlando Furioso, who brought up the
rear. Uncle Tom, by a singular oversight, was not represented,
except accidentally, perhaps, in the figures of the torch-bearers.
The procession tramped on through the thin and slippery mud,
the glare of the torches growing sombre and misty in the distance;
and Hector, who had dismounted from the coach, was about resuming
his seat, when a hand touched his shoulder.
“I had to put on my glasses to make sure 't was you!” cried a
cordial old gentleman, grasping his hand. “Where did you come
from? Where are you going?”
“I landed ten minutes ago from the steamer, and I am on my
way to the Battle House.”
“The Battle House? I suppose you know the Strikers give a
grand entertainment there to-night! You shall see the last of the
Mohicans dance in his war-paint and feathers, and make havoc
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with the hearts of the ladies. Don Quixote and Sam Weller
may be expected to vie with each other in gallantry, and Rip
Van Winkle shall show himself wide awake after his twenty years'
nap. Meanwhile, why won't you jump into my carriage, and ride
with us to Royal-street?” cried the old gentleman. “You must
see the Cowbellions. And, I 'll tell you what, your baggage shall
be sent to my house, and you shall make us a visit.”
He would listen to no objections; and Hector, who had in fact
no very grave objections to advance, accepted the invitation. The
old gentleman's carriage was close by. It contained two ladies, —
one a fine-looking, middle-aged person, arrayed with considerable
magnificence; the other younger, of a more delicate beauty, and
a more thoughtful and spiritual countenance.
“My sister, Mrs. De Rohan,” said the old gentleman, indicating
the elder of the two, “and my niece. Ladies, Mr. Dunbury.”
“I expected to see Helen,” said Hector.
“She is preparing for a ball. After witnessing the show, we
will try to get home in time to see her off. Drive on, Parchment!” —
to the colored coachman. “Royal-street.”
“Yes, massa,” said Parchment, proudly drawing up the reins.
Royal-street was found impassable; and Parchment, consulting
his master, brought the span to a halt upon an eligible corner.
Another procession was approaching; and the crowds were dense.
First came the band, in dashing uniforms; then followed, amid a
throng of servitors, the colossal effigy of a milk-white cow, with
extraordinary horns, a wondrous length of tail, and luminous eyes,—
all hung with festoons of ribbons, and with silver bells.
“These are the Cowbellions, I suppose, Mr. Copliff?” said
Hector.
“Yes, that is the venerable name of the society,” replied the
old gentleman.
“What a whimsical caprice!” exclaimed the elder of the two
ladies.
“A caprice, Mrs. De Rohan,” said her brother, “which has
grown in power and popularity for some twenty years. I was
once a Cowbellion myself,” he added, with self-complacency.
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“You!” cried Mrs. De Rohan. “Dear me! what is the meaning
of those outlandish costumes?”
“I should think the entire mineral kingdom had marched out
of the bowels of the earth, to parade in Royal-street!” said Hector.
“Observe, upon that coal-black steed, that coal-black rider,
with a block of sea-coal for a head.”
“Old King Cole himself!” ejaculated Mr. Copliff.
“Precious Stones sparkles superbly in contrast,” said Hector.
“To his knees he is all garnets; his breast is of onyx, his arms
of ruby, his things sapphire, and his head of pure diamonds!
How ludicrous Chalk looks, coming after! He is as white as ten
millers. There is Iron, and Silver, and Gold; and, look! there
comes the vegetable kingdom, — animated melons, colossal cauliflowers,
and beets on horse-back!”
“A repetition, a plagiarism!” cried Mr. Copliff. “We had
the vegetable kingdom thirteen years ago, when I was a Cowbellion.
I was a cabbage-head. You never saw anything so green.
My leaves covered me to my waist; I think a hungry ox might
have eaten me, without discovering the difference. I was constructed
of pasteboard and green silk. Observe Sir Carrot!”
“Where?” asked Mrs. De Rohan, raising her eye-glass.
“Yonder, travelling in company with a friendly potato,” said
Hector. “He is the magnified image of a little fellow I pulled
out of my father's garden last summer. His yellow limbs are the
forked roots, and his head branches out naturally into a luxuriant
adornment of tops. How do you like it, Parchment?”
Parchment, showing his magnificent teeth: “Aw — I — massa—
it 's mos' superfluous!” — meaning superb. “De Strikers is n't
a suckumstance, dis year, my 'pinion!”
Mrs. De Rohan: “Is not there the animal kingdom,
behind?”
Hector: “I hope not; for we have seen enough. But there it
comes, truly! It looks as if three menageries and the inhabitants
of several cedar swamps had been picturesquely mixed, and
marched into Mobile.”
Parchment, shaking: “Look a' dat ar great big alligator, on
his hind legs! Dems what ye call jaws!”
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Mr. Copliff: “Look out for the span, Parchment; they may
take fright. What 's the matter?”
“I declar', massa,” articulated the coachman, “I 's laughed till
I 's powerful weak!”
Hector had become suddenly thoughtful. Dragons, serpents,
monstrous frogs, men with lion's heads, men with tusks and trunks,
men with beaks and wings, and men with tails, moved by him unobserved,
in the torches' smoky light.
“Are you tired of it, Dunbury?”
“O, no!” Hector started. “But my mind was elsewhere.
I did wrong to accept your invitation; I 'm not in a social mood
to-night.”
“You will find a sympathizing companion in my niece,” said
the old gentleman. “I believe she has not spoken since you joined
us. Ah! there is Adam and Eve, the last of the animal creation,
and the end of the show. Have we seen enough, ladies? Drive
home, Parchment! By the way, Lucy, tell Dunbury about —
what was the name? Your favorite. He is from the north, and
may give you some information and advice.”
“That is not probable. But,” said the niece, after some hesitation,
“it is easy to state the facts. I had a favorite, as my
uncle rightly calls her —”
“I remember the name now!” cried Mr. Copliff: “Camille.”
How the shock of that word smote Hector's heart!
“She was by nature a rare character; and during the few
years she lived with me,” said Lucy, “she developed wonderfully.
Although my servant, she was more like a younger sister; and I
treated her as such.”
Mr. Copliff: “There you were wrong,” — dogmatically, —
“totally wrong, Lucy. But you know my principles; and we
will not argue that point. A person, born of a slave mother,
should not, on any condition —”
“You did not know Camille, uncle, or you would never repeat
your celebrated axiom,” said the other, with a smile.
Mr. Copliff, indulgently: “Well, well, my dear, go on.”
“Circumstances, which I need not explain,” — the speaker's
voice faltered, — “removed Camille from me at a critical and
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dangerous period. It was not in my power to intercede, and she
was sold. Are you interested?”
“Much,” spoke Hector, betwixt the beatings of his heart.
“I think it was horrible!” exclaimed Mrs. De Rohan. “I
have not come south to interfere with your blessed institutions,
brother,” — with sarcasm, — “but you must allow me now and
then to express a meek opinion. I think the idea of a young girl,
like Camille, being sold —”
Mr. Copliff, wincing: “Go on, Lucy.”
“Until very recently, I was not free to make any efforts in her
behalf,” said his niece. “But Camille had been brought to this
city, from New Orleans; and on my arrival here, three days ago,
I went personally to search her out. I applied to the man who
purchased her; when, imagine my astonishment to learn that she
had made her escape to freedom!”
Hector could scarce refrain from clasping the speaker's hand, in
the sympathy and exultation of his spirit.
“This interests you, I see. But hear the rest. I thought it
natural that the man would dispose of his claim upon the poor
girl for a mere trifle; and I resolved that, if within the limit of
my means, I would secure it; for I had hopes that she would
communicate with me at no distant day, and then I could have
the gratification of giving her her liberty, and insuring her safety
should she choose to return to me.”
“And you bought the claim?” breathed Hector.
“I did not; I will tell you why. `Had you proposed the thing
a month ago,' said the man, `you should have had her for a song.
Now it is different.' `How different?' I asked. `Because then
I had no hopes of ever hearing from her again.' `But now —'
`Now I have hopes,' said he, with a confidence that stunned me.”
“Here we are at home!” cried Mr. Copliff. “Wait and finish
your story, Lucy, after we get in. We will indulge in a little
refreshment; then, if you like, Dunbury, we will ride around to
the Battle House, and call on the Strikers. Keep the carriage
up, Parchment.”
Hector could not speak. Mechanically he helped the ladies
down, and accompanied them into the house.
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“I have but a word to add,” said the younger of the two.
“There was a stubbornness and independence in the man, upon
which I could make no impression. He declared that, as matters
stood, he would sooner risk an entire loss, including the expense
he had incurred in the hope of recovering Camille, than sell his
claim for less than eight hundred dollars.”
“That is exorbitant!” exclaimed Mr. Copliff. “I would never
give that.”
“But if she is brought back, it would require a much larger
sum to purchase her. Consider, she is a beautiful —”
“But fugitives are not brought back so easy, my dear woman;
so don't be alarmed. Ah! there comes Helen, for our criticisms
on her ball-dress!”
A beautiful girl, of rather petite figure, but voluptuously formed,
made her appearance in a superb white attire, with jewels glittering
on her arms and in her hair.
“Well done!” cried her father. “There, Dunbury,” — turning
with a smile of pride to Hector, — “what do you think of
that?”
Helen started back, with a blush, at sight of her father's guest;
but, recovering herself presently, she advanced, self-possessed, with
a smile of welcome, to lay her delicate white-gloved hand in Hector's.
He took it coldly, and with a few formal and commonplace
words, uttered with effort, bowed stiffly, like an automaton.
“Is that New England gallantry?” cried Mr. Copliff, in a
rallying tone. “Come to me, darling; I will teach our cool
friend southern etiquette.” He bent down and kissed her tenderly
upon both cheeks. “There, go, my pet! You have a great
deal of snow and ice in Vermont, have you not?” turning again
to Hector.
“In their season,” said the young man, without a smile. “We
have fiery skies, too, in their turn. There is a time for everything
under the sun.”
Mr. Copliff perceived the pale anxiety of his face, and changed
his tone. “Well,” pressing his hand heartily, “we will not
quarrel about sectional differences. Let me show you to your
quarters. You will find your baggage there before you.”
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“Mr. Dunbury has something to say to me,” interposed his
niece, gently, “if my impressions do not deceive me.”
“They do not!” exclaimed Hector; “I have something to say
to you.”
Mr. Copliff looked from one to the other, in astonishment.
“You are two incomprehensibles! You have progressed, for a
short acquaintance. Come, Mrs. De!” And, giving his sister
his arm, he led her with lofty politeness from the room.
Then Hector turned to Mrs. Graves.
“You knew I wished to speak with you!” he said, eagerly.
“I felt it!” exclaimed Mrs. Graves. “About Camille.”
“You are right. I know her. And, through her, I know
you!”
“I thought so. Tell me of her! Where is she?”
“In my father's house. I have come to make terms with —
the man who calls himself her owner! I supposed he would dispose
of his claim for any trifle. I hope I have not arrived too
late! If she has been discovered (that is what I fear), she must
be saved; she must be bought.”
“O, truly she must! I am not rich —”
“Nor I! But what I have I count but as straw in the balance
with her happiness! In my pocket-book is a draft for five hundred
dollars. By some means, — I do not yet know what, — I
must raise the remainder by to-morrow morning.”
“Depend upon me for that,” cried Mrs. Graves. “I claim the
privilege of doing at least so much —”
“Generous heart! — as if you had done nothing for her yet!
O,” said Hector, “you should hear her speak of you; it is always
with such gratitude, such love! For her sake, I accept your contribution.
Some day I shall be able to repay it, with interest!
Then I will thank you! Pardon my abruptness now, — excuse
me to Helen —”
“You are going?”
“I shall try to send a telegraphic despatch this evening. When
I return, you shall know all about Camille.”
Hector was intercepted in the hall by Mr. Copliff.
“What now?” cried the old gentleman.
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“I was about to demonstrate the coolness of my Vermont temper,
by taking an unceremonious leave. I shall return in half
an hour. I have thought of a little matter of business — a telegraphic
despatch —”
“Is it so important? Then let Parchment drive you to the
office. Make haste to return, for supper will be waiting.”
“Thank you a thousand times!” and Hector mounted the
carriage, and rode away.
“What success?” asked Mrs. Graves, half an hour later,
meeting him in the hall.
“Dubious! I cannot learn until to-morrow whether the
despatch will go through to its destination.”
“We must be patient, and have faith till then!”
“Faith!” answered Hector. “O, to-morrow! to-morrow!”
“Wish yer happy new year, massa!” said old Juno, the cook,
looking up, and showing her good-natured face and broken teeth,
as her master came muttering down the stairs.
“I wish you a hundred thousand!” growled Dr. Tanwood,
tying his cravat, “and as many children!”
“Laws bless us! what 'u'd a' ol' 'oman do with so many newyears
as dat, say not'n' bout de chil'n?”
“Plague your masters with your everlasting clatter! There 's
no use trying to get any sleep in this house!”
“Laws, Massa! han't ye no idee what time o' day 't is? Clock
struck ten 'mos' 'n hour ago. Been a gen'l'man waitin' for ye, dis
half-hour!”
Buttoning his waistcoat, and sweeping his fingers across his hair,
Dr. Tanwood crossed the hall-floor, and entered his office.
Hector was in waiting.
“I hope I have not disturbed you —”
“O, not at all! I 've overslept myself a little this morning.”
The doctor looked in the glass which hung opposite the door, and
brushed his hair over his forehead. “What can I do for you,
sir?”
Hector was pale; his heart beat strong and fast. “I come to
you from Mrs. Graves.” The doctor fixed his searching glance
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on Hector. “Touching the affair she spoke with you about, the
other day —”
“I remember,” — and the doctor nodded, with a peculiar smile.
“She is desirous to know if any circumstances have occurred
to alter your decision.”
“And if there have?”
“In that case, I am authorized to treat with you.”
The doctor sat silent for near a minute, his dark eyes studying
Hector, from beneath their gathered brows.
“Yes,” he exclaimed, “circumstances have occurred to alter
my decision.”
“Well?”
“For eight hundred dollars, I think it was, I engaged to make
over to Mrs. Graves my claim upon the girl Camille.”
“The sum she named,” assented Hector.
“She thought it too much.” The doctor leaned over, and
tapped the table significantly. “But, as matters now stand, it is
not enough. Prospects have risen; and my terms have gone up
in proportion.”
“Sir,” said Hector, “I do not understand. Your terms —”
“A thousand dollars, cash in hand,” said the doctor; and, with
an indifferent air, he smoothed down the lock of hair that lay
low upon his forehead.
“You must, then, be extremely confident —”
“Confident?” The doctor laughed. “Sir, I 'll wager the
price of her, that in a week, at the furthest, she 'll be seen in
Mobile! Then no money will buy her.”
A dizzy blur darkened Hector's vision. He leaned his head
upon his hand. He saw the danger that threatened Charlotte
clothed in all its terrors; and money seemed but as water to be
poured out for the security of her peace. Unfortunately, he had
but little more than eight hundred dollars at his command, and to
make a final offer of that was all that he could do.
“Not qu-i-t-e enough!” said the doctor.
“Then,” said Hector, “I must confer with Mrs. Graves.”
“Very good sir!” And, with a sinister smile, the doctor
arose to bow his visitor to the door.
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Tortured with doubts, Hector hurried from the office. He
hastened to find an old friend, his former employer, of whom he
hoped for aid: he was absent from the city. Though stunned
momentarily by the news, he lost no time in idle regret, but,
mounting a coach, rode to the house of an eminent physician,
whom he knew. He was engaged at a consultation, and none
could tell when he would be home. Again in the coach, Hector
held his impatient spirit, until the slow vehicle brought him to
the door of a benevolent citizen, of whom he had formerly
received so many kindnesses that he had reason to hope for
more. The bell was muffled, and a colored servant opened the
door noiselessly. The master was dangerously ill, and could see
no one.
Foiled again in his purpose, Hector thought of Mr. Fobbles,
a merchant, to whom he had once rendered an important
service, and who had ever since been loud in his protestations
of friendship. In less than a quarter of an hour, the two
were standing face to face. Mr. Fobbles was delighted, and
invited the visitor to walk home with him to dinner. Unceremoniously,
Hector named the object of his visit. Mr. Fobbles
would have been rejoiced to accommodate him; “but, indeed, sir,
and indeed, sir! nothing could have happened so awkwardly!”
At any other time he could have taken so small a sum out of his
pocket, and given him; “but losses, sir, payments, perplexities —”
Hector broke impetuously away. Mr. Copliff was now his
last hope. He had dreaded to call on him for money, being his
guest. But his fears for Charlotte overcame every other consideration.
He reached the office. Mr. Copliff had just gone.
“Where?”
“To New Orleans, on business; he will be back this evening.”
Ten minutes later, Hector came upon his old friend, Joseph
Spalding, like an apparition.
“Merciful heavens!” exclaimed the young lawyer, “are you
substance or shadow?”
“Substance,” uttered Hector, “since I seek substantial aid.
Give me two hundred dollars!”
“That sounds like flesh and blood,” said Joseph; “but, tell
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me, did you ever know the time when I had two hundred dollars?”
“Spendthrift! — no!” cried Hector. “But you should have
it! My more than life depends upon it!”
“Is it so serious?”
“Joseph, I have no time for words. Can you get me the
money?”
“True,” said Joseph, “I ought to be able to raise so small a
sum, and I will; but I do not see how I can possibly have it for
you before to-morrow.”
“To-morrow! there 's an eternity betwixt now and then!”
Hector returned to Mrs. Graves. She grew pale at the sight
of him. Words were needless to report his ill-success.
“I have nothing at my immediate command,” she said.
“What I gave you this morning, I borrowed of my uncle. Until
he returns —”
“I have a better thought!” cried Hector. “Can I see Mrs.
De Rohan?”
Mrs. Graves left the room, and the other lady entered. She
was a woman of the world; no more like her spiritual companion
than the moon is like the stars; but benevolence beamed in her
face, and beneath the gay externals of her life throbbed a warm
and generous heart. Hector approached her confidently.
“I have a confession to make to you, Mrs. De Rohan. I have
not been quite true with you. I met you last night as a
stranger.”
“And was I not so?”
“Not altogether, madam. The mention of your name startled
me; then, when I heard it remarked that you were from Canada,
I remembered you.”
“You had seen me, then?”
“I had heard of you. You must recollect a young girl who
partly engaged herself as your travelling companion —”
“Indeed! Miss Woods! A charming person! how much I
have thought of her since! And you know her!”
“Mrs. Graves knows her. It was of her she spoke last
night —”
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“Of her — Miss Woods! — Camille?”
“They are the same!” And, without giving the other time to
recover from her astonishment, Hector poured forth the history.
In his manner, his voice, his looks, there was an energy that
swept everything before it. The other hesitated not an instant.
She demanded neither reasons nor explanations. She left the room,
and, returning straightway, placed in his hand a purse of gold.
“Take it!” she said, “and may it serve your purpose!”
Her features were suffused, her voice tremulous, her eyes filled
with tears. In the name of Charlotte, of humanity, of Him
whose mission was to loose the bonds of the oppressed, he uttered
his thanks, and hurried from the house.
Once more he confronted Dr. Tanwood. The doctor smiled,
and, bowing with ironic civility, invited him to a seat.
“Thank you,” said Hector. “I have seen Mrs. Graves.
And if you will please draw up the bill of sale —” The words
sounded strange and awful in his ear. A bill of sale, as of some
property: a horse, or an ox; a bill of sale of a human soul! Of
Charlotte! of his own wife!
The doctor, smiling still: “If I will draw it up —”
“I am prepared to comply with your terms.”
The doctor leaned over the table, and with gloating deliberation
fixed Hector with his hard, vindictive eye.
“But if my terms should not be precisely the same as two
hours ago?”
“Sir?”
“I have had news; and the presumptive value of my property
is increased.”
“Is this, sir, — is this honorable dealing?”
“Call it what you please! If you deal with me, you will take
what terms you can get.”
“Will you, then, be so good, sir,” — Hector spoke calmly, but
with a kindling fury in his look, — “as to name your ultimate
terms, that I may know what to depend upon?”
“Certainly; if it will be any satisfaction. Splice on two hundred
more, and you have it.”
“Twelve hundred?” articulated Hector.
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“Precisely,” smiled the doctor.
“Will you have the kindness to put it in writing?”
“Certainly, when you produce the cash, provided live stock has
not taken another sudden rise.”
At this brutal allusion, Hector felt a dangerous leaping of the
blood. With fixed teeth, and lips compressed, he produced his
pocket-book. Two checks, one of five hundred dollars, the other
of three hundred, he laid upon the table. Then, resorting to
Mrs. De Rohan's purse, he emptied out a heap of British gold.
There was near double the amount he had asked for; and,
making up the requisite sum in small bills, he shoved it towards
the doctor.
“Is that satisfactory?”
“No!” burst forth the doctor, and he smote the table fiercely;
“not for twelve hundred, nor twenty hundred, nor twenty times
twenty hundred, will I quit my claim upon that girl!”
A ghastly pallor chased the flush from Hector's cheek.
“Can I know,” — his voice was forced, but calm, — “can I
know why I have been made the subject of this treatment?”
“By —! you can. I shall delight to show you! Look!” —
he threw back the hair from his forehead, and revealed a rugged
scar, — “do you know that? do you know me? do you know
this?” And, snatching from a drawer a handkerchief stained and
stiff with blood, he thrust it in Hector's face.
Hector stood upon his feet, and with rigid features kept his
firm look fixed upon the doctor's tiger-eyes.
“Are you satisfied? Do you understand me now?”
“At least, I understand you!” answered Hector. “We have
met before. I know you now. Revenge may be just and noble.
But, sir, let it fall on me. Do not make another — an innocent
girl — its victim.
“Your name is here,” — the doctor shook the handkerchief, —
“here, blotted by my blood! and there,” — striking a letter upon
the table, — “I hear of you in connection with your innocent girl!
I put the two together. And, sir, the owner of that name shall
see her make a pleasant journey back to Mobile, and stop her if
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he can. There 'll be sport, I reckon, before the job is over; take
my word for it! And now, sir, allow me the pleasure of wishing
you a good-day.”
“I have a word,” said Hector. “I shall not argue; I shall
leave the business in other hands. But there is something struggling
here,” — his hand was upon his breast, — “and it must
forth! I met you once; you attacked me. I shivered a tumbler
in your face. In self-defence I did it. In self-defence I may do
something more. Be warned! Press not too far! Justice sets
bounds to vengeance. You will but beat your head against the
rocks, and bring them down upon you. As God exists, and heaven,
the day that sees Camille again in your power will be the blackest,
the most tragical, of your life. Remember!”
“We shall see!” said the doctor; but he spoke less jeeringly
than before. “If I live, the girl shall be brought back!”
Hector went forth from the house. In the street he met a
friend. It was Joseph. Hector stared, without appearing to recognize
him.
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Joseph, “how haggard you look!
What has happened? See, I have borrowed the money; I was on
my way to find you.”
“You are kind, Joseph, but there is a trouble which money will
not heal!”
“Who knows? Come to my office. There 's no telling what
money can do. Give me your case, and trust to me for the
result.”
“Ah, Joseph, had I charged you with it in time! But it was
too sacred. And now it is too late! And while I am here, wasting
time and strength, there are those at home dying of despair in
my absence!”
-- -- p732-313
XXXVI. THE INUNDATION.
[figure description] Page 310.[end figure description]
It was about an hour after Mr. Jackwood's departure from the
stack, that Charlotte had observed a change in the storm. The
wind went down, and the rain, which had all the evening kept up
an incessant pelting and dripping, began to pour in torrents.
Every other sound was lost in its wild rush and roar. It fell
in this way for hours; until her spirit, lulled by the solemn
monotony, forgot its pains, and sank into the oblivion of sleep.
She was aroused by startling sounds in the night. She crept
to the opening of her retreat, and looked out. The intense darkness
had given place to a faint grayish glimmer in the sky; but it
was raining still, although less violently than before. The sounds
were repeated.
“Ho, ho! ho, ho!” Two strange, prolonged, inhuman cries!
Then Charlotte heard footsteps plashing in the water which covered
the meadow, and caught a momentary glimpse of a dim,
ghost-like figure moving by the stack. It passed from sight; and
the plashing of footsteps became lost in the spattering and bubbling
of the rain. Then again, at a distance, after a long pause,
the shouts arose, and died away in a long, plaintive, desolate wail.
“Ho, ho! Ho, ho — o — o — o!”
Faint echoes came from the sullen hills; and the rainy silence
followed. Charlotte felt an unaccountable impulse to leave her
retreat, and go wandering up and down in the night and storm,
uttering her soul in cries, like the mysterious being that had
passed. Her sufferings of body and mind had sent the flame of
fever into her blood, and in her sleep a light delirium had surprised
her brain.
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“Ho, ho! Ho, ho — o — o — o!” sounded the cries again,
fainter, and further off, in the night.
She climbed over the wet hay at the mouth of the close and
heated cell, and reached forth her hand towards the ground. It
was plunged to the wrist in an icy pool. The cold storm beat
upon her face and neck. Chilled by the shock, she withdrew
beneath the shelter, and tried once more to sleep. But the
air was stifling; her flesh burned with the fever; her temples
ached with dull, heavy pains. In the anguish and despair of her
state, she threw herself once more upon the wet hay, moaning,
with face and arms and breast exposed to the rain. The bath
revived her. Again raising herself upon her arm, she perceived
that her hair was dripping wet. It had been drenched in the
pool. She put out her hand again, and discovered, to her consternation,
that the water was rising round the stack, and creeping,
creeping, slowly and steadily, into her retreat.
Her consciousness was now fully restored. She held her breath,
listening intently, and gazing out into the darkness. The gale
had risen again; the storm lashed the stack; and all around, the
rain gurgled and murmured. For some time she had been half
conscious of hearing a faint roar in the distance. It approached,
and grew distinct; and now her mind was alert to comprehend the
mysterious noise. It seemed at first like a mighty wind, pouring
through forests of reeling and crashing trees. Sharp and clear
reports, like thunder-claps, were mingled with the roar. But the
noise came from up the valley, where there were no woods; and
the peals cracked and echoed along the ground.
Then it seemed as though an earthquake were driving its plough,
with whirlwind and thunder, through the valley. Nearer and
nearer came the din. Charlotte stood out in the storm, and,
clinging to the fence, she beheld a glimmer and a flash, as of rolling
snow and foam. It came down the valley, in the track of the
riving thunder. And now the sounds resolved themselves into the
splitting and crashing of ice, and the impetuous rush of waters.
The creek was breaking up, and a flood was inundating the valley!
The convulsion passed; the din and detonation echoed down the
stream; but already the stack was surrounded by billows. They
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dashed through the fence, and leaped up, drenching Charlotte's
feet, as she endeavored to climb beyond their reach. The flood
rose rapidly; the fence was low; and, in the extremity of fear,
Charlotte got upon the shed. The sheep were beneath, bleating
piteously, and swimming around the stack. The steers had run
out frantically, at the approach of the inundation; and now, as the
ingulfing waves overtook them, their bellowings of brute terror
sounded dismally above the roar.
All this had passed in a brief space of time; and now Charlotte
found herself alone upon a frail and insecure structure, in
the midst of a wilderness of waters. Masses and fragments of ice
and snow went drifting by in the night. Some of these struck the
posts that supported the shed, and made it tremble and creak beneath
her weight. The fence, meanwhile, went to pieces, the rails
floating off, one by one, in the current.
And now all the stories Charlotte had heard of freshets in the
valley, that came sweeping away bridges, and flocks, and herds,
recurred to her imagination with exaggerated terrors. She remembered
that Mr. Jackwood had related many of these, always
boasting that, thanks to his superior forethought, he had never yet
lost either horse, or horned-beast, or sheep. Why had he, who
was so versed in signs and changes of the weather, forgotten himself
upon that night, of all nights, and left her there to perish?
Up to this hour she had been dumb; but now the fear and delirium
of her soul found expression in a long, piercing cry.
A burst of wild laughter answered from the stream. She gazed
in the direction of the shout, and perceived a dark shape drifting
by upon a cake of ice. With a shudder of horror she remembered
the cries she had previously heard, and leaned forward
eagerly to watch the floating mass.
“Hurra! hurra!” shouted the mysterious being, as if he had
been the demon of the flood.
“Edward!” shrieked Charlotte.
The shape rose up to the stature of a man, dimly discerned in
the darkness, and began to leap, with grotesque gestures, upon
the ice.
“Edward! Edward!” implored Charlotte.
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He reached forth his arms; a cry of recognition, of joy, came
from the flood. But suddenly there was a dull explosion, the ice
went asunder, and the shape disappeared amid the agitated fragments.
Two or three strangled cries, a little bubbling and splashing;
then the waters swept on, and the ice drifted away in the
darkness.
Aroused by the sounds in the valley, Mr. Jackwood rushed out,
Dickson still keeping doggedly by his side. Abimelech followed,
buttoning his jacket by the way.
“Give us a helpin' hand!” shouted the farmer, throwing open
the barn-doors. He seized the boat, that was housed there for the
winter, and dragged it from its place. “To the crick!”
“If it 's for that gal,” cried Dickson, “say the word, and I 'm
yer man!”
“Stand away!” said the farmer, through his teeth; and alone,
by main force, he dragged the boat to the bank. “Bring a pail
or suthin, Bim'lech! Where 's the oars?” The oars were found;
Abimelech came running with a dipper to bail with; Mrs. Jackwood
brought the lantern; and the boat was launched in the
sweeping current. “Git in, Bim'lech!”
“The ol' thing 'll leak like a siv!” said the boy, as he scrambled
aboard.
Mr. Jackwood was about to follow, when Dickson stepped in
before him.
“Git out o' there!” exclaimed the farmer, fiercely.
Dickson possessed himself of the oars. “I reck'n 't 'll be as
well for me to keep you company; I feel an interest in that gal.”
“You 've done enough for her, and for us, too! Will ye git
out? We 're goin' to pick up the drowndin' sheep, an' there won't
be room!”
“I 'll help as much as I 'll hender, I reck'n!” retorted Dickson, —
and the lantern shining upon his face showed it dark and
determined. “Come on. I 'm a powerful hand at the oars.”
Mr. Jackwood glanced around. Had his eye fallen upon any
sort of weapon, the impulse that prompted him to knock the villain
into the water would have led to a struggle. He hesitated
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but a moment, however. Delay might prove fatal to Charlotte.
And the swift thought flashed through his brain, that, in case of
her rescue, it would still be time to deliver her, by desperate
means, from the hands of the kidnapper.
“Gi' me the lantern!” and, taking it from the hands of his
anxious wife, he stepped aboard, and shoved clear of the bank.
“That 's the wisest thing you could do,” growled Dickson.
“It 'll be jest my cussed luck, if that gal 's drownded! I 'm certain
I heard yells off in this direction. But I 'll have the wuth of
her out o' somebody, — you may make sure o' that!”
“She might git on the cattle-shed,” said the frightened Bim.
“Look a' here, boy! was she hid anywheres about that stack?
I 've had that in my mind ever since I quit it; and I 'm mad,
now, that it did n't burn up!”
“Give me an oar!” said Mr. Jackwood.
“You 'tend to your steerin'!” answered Dickson. He plied
the oars vigorously with his powerful arms. Mr. Jackwood sat
in the stern, and steered out upon the dark and whirling flood.
Abimelech, in the bow, held the light. At first the current carried
the boat rapidly down stream; but, having crossed the channel
of the creek, they came upon the comparatively still sheet of
water that overspread the meadows.
“Bim'lech,” said Mr. Jackwood, “hold up the lantern as high
as you can reach!”
The boy placed it on his head, and stood up in the bow; the
light shining round upon the gloomy waves.
“Sit down! you 'll fall!” cried his father.
“No, I won't!” said Bim, grasping the lantern with both
hands. “O-o-o-o! see that big junk o' ice!”
“How fur be we from the stack?” asked Dickson.
“Hold your oars a minute!” cried the farmer. “I don'no
'xac'ly where we be.”
“There 's the old elm!” cried Abimelech. “An' there 's the
knoll beyend!”
“Are you sure on 't?” — Mr. Jackwood strained his eyes in
the darkness. — “I guess you 're right. Go ahead.”
Dickson had taken advantage of the pause, to sound the water
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with his oar. “'T an't over two foot deep!” he declared, in
astonishment.
“It 's high ground here,” said the farmer. “It 's lower where
the stack stands.”
“Your valley, tucked in here 'twixt the mountains,” observed
Dickson, pulling again at the oars, “is like the bottom of an
almighty big tunn'l, with the crick for the spout. Any man
that 's used to the country should 'ave knowed better than to leave
even a dumb beast down here in sech a storm.”
Already Mr. Jackwood was suffering unspeakable trouble of
mind on Charlotte's account; and a reproach from such a source
filled his hot heart to choking fulness.
“Who 'd a' knowed,” cried Bim, “'t was goin' to rain so like
gre't guns? See, father! it 's turnin' round cold, jest as you said
't would! The rain 's more 'n half snow, now!”
“Be still, Bim'lech!” said the farmer, in a hoarse voice.
“Hello!” ejaculated the boy, “there 's the fence. There 's
only jest the top-board and the ends o' the posts out o' the water.
O-o-o-o! a little more, an' you 'd smashed right into it!”
To pass the fence, it was necessary to drop down once more
towards the channel of the creek. They had not proceeded far
when they found the boards torn away, and the posts broken
down. It was at the spot where the crushing mass of ice, arrived
at a bend in the stream, had overswept the banks, and rushed
down towards the stack. As they passed the fence, Dickson
rested on his oars, and shouted. No reply.
“I thought I heard a sheep bl'at,” said Bim. “Father! look
out for them bushes!”
“Pull away!” cried the farmer.
“I heard somethin',” Dickson declared. “The stack can't be
fur off, now.”
“There!” exclaimed Abimelech; “that was a sheep! It
bl'ated agin! I see the stack!”
“Your eyes are better 'n mine,” said Dickson, glancing over his
shoulder. “I see somethin', though, out there in the dark.”
“Why don't she answer, I wonder? If she 's on the shed, I
should think she'd see the light, and call us,” said Bim.
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“Jest my luck!” growled Dickson. “It makes me mad to lose
a gal that way!”
“Keep your light out o' my eyes!” cried Mr. Jackwood, as,
gazing over the bow, he stared in the direction of the gloomy
mass.
“Had n't I better be bailin' a little?” asked Abimelech, frightened.
“The boat 's 'most half full o' water!”
“Hold your lantern!” said his father, sternly. A yellow glimmer
of light touched the stack. The shed was not yet visible.
“We 're on the wrong side!” said Bim. “How did that happen? —
O! see them sheep!”
The boat passed the stack, and came around under its lee. By
the light of the lantern, a number of sheep could now be seen
huddling together in the eddies, and holding their noses above
water against the side of the stack. As the boat approached,
one of them was seen to lose its hold, and, after a struggle to
regain it, fall into the current and disappear. It passed within
reach of Mr. Jackwood's hand, but his eyes were fixed elsewhere.
“Where is your shed, — I 'd like to know?” demanded Dickson.
“O!” exclaimed Abimelech, — “father, see! it 's gone! the
shed is gone!”
Mr. Jackwood sprang up in the boat, thrust his feet in the
notches left by the roof of the shed, and mounted the stack. It
was his last hope. But no Charlotte was there. Only her shawl,
which he found freezing fast to a board, against which it had
blown, remained as a memento of the night of terror she had
passed in that fearful spot.
Dickson was not satisfied with Mr. Jackwood's examination.
“Here, boy!” said he, “give me the lantern, and take this oar.
Hold it so-fash'n, and keep the boat up against the stack.”
Abimelech obeyed, and Dickson mounted the stack, after the
farmer, lantern in hand.
“O!” screamed the boy, “the boat 's goin' off, and I can't
help it! Father! come!”
Mr. Jackwood was gazing around upon the waste of waters, in
a state of stupefaction, when Abimelech's cries aroused him.
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“Reach me the eend o' the oar!” he exclaimed, springing to
the side of the stack.
“O! quick!” cried the boy, “hold the lantern, you man!”
“I 've got ye!” said Mr. Jackwood. “Keep tight holt!”
And he drew the boat alongside.
“Why did n't ye do as I told ye?” growled Dickson. “The
curr'nt pushed the boat against the stack, and all you had to do
was to keep the bow from swinging round. Are ye a fool?”
“Darn that man!” said Bim. “I wish he was drownded!”
“Hush, Bim'lech!” said Mr. Jackwood, stepping into the boat.
“Gi' me the oars.”
“What a' ye 'bout?” demanded Dickson, hastily descending
the stack. “Come back here! Take me aboard!”
“I got to look out for them 'ere lambs,” said Mr. Jackwood,
rowing around the stack. “Hold the lantern over on this
side.”
Dickson perceived that he was in a precarious position, and that
his wisest course would be to comply with the farmer's request.
He accordingly climbed over to the opposite side of the stack, and
held the light, while Mr. Jackwood pulled the sheep, one after
another, over the bow of the boat.
“There 's only five out of 'leven,” said Bim. “But I 'm glad
there an't no more; we should sink. O! the water almost come
over the side, then!”
“Here! an't ye goin' to take me aboard?” asked Dickson,
with increasing alarm.
“Not with this load,” replied the farmer. “I told ye there
would n't be room.”
“Look a' here!” remonstrated Dickson, “there 's room enough
there!”
“I 've got to bail like anything!” exclaimed Bim, plying the
dipper. “Don't ye go back, father! I 'd leave him there, — I
would!”
“'Tend to your bailin', Bim'lech!” said Mr. Jackwood, solemnly.
“An't ye comin'?” cried Dickson. “Don't leave a feller in
this way, now! Han't ye got no human feelin's?”
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Mr. Jackwood made no reply, but rowed steadily and strongly
across the stream. Dickson roared with wrath.
“He 's changed his tune, han't he?” said Abimelech. “He 's
good to hold the lantern; we can see the light, and tell where we
be. Hear him swear!”
“Never mind him,” answered the farmer. “Look ahead, there,
and see if I 'm runnin' into anything.”
“These sheep can't stand on their legs!” said Bim. “They
lay right down in the water, and I han't hardly got room to bail.
Say, father, ye don't think Charlotte 's got drownded, do ye?”
“Are them bushes ahead, there? 'Tend to what I tell ye!”
“We 've passed all the bushes, I guess. I don't see none. —
I bet she got off the interval, somehow; I could. Where do ye
s'pose she 's gone to?”
Mr. Jackwood rowed steadily until the boat struck the ground;
then stepping ashore, with the boy's assistance he drew the bow
up out of water.
“You won't be afraid, will ye, if I leave ye to take care o' the
lambs? You can git 'em up to the barn some way, if you haf to
take one 't a time.”
“Where ye goin'? to bring him from the stack?” asked
Abimelech, timidly.
“Not jest yit,” replied his father.
“I do' wanter stay alone!” exclaimed the boy. “Le' me go
to the house with ye, and git Phœbe or Rove to come and help
with the lambs.”
“Come along, then,” said the farmer. They had emptied the
water out of the boat, leaving the sheep in it; and, having taken
the precaution to drag it a few feet further upon the snow, they
set out for the house.
“Where do you s'pose Charlotte is?” inquired the boy, keeping
close to his father's side.
“All you 've got to do is to git the lambs up; so, don't ax no
more questions,” said the farmer.
Arrived at the barn, he bridled a horse, and took him from the
stable; then, without waiting to say even a parting word to his
family, he mounted at the gate, and rode away in the darkness.
-- -- p732-322
XXXVII. RUMORS.
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“Daughter,” said Squire Greenwich, crossing his legs and saddling
his spectacles upon his knee, “this Sabbath morning appears
a fitting occasion, and we will proceed to a settlement.” The smack
of his precise lips was an awful sound to poor Etty. She came
forward, trembling and weeping.
“The child is down sick, this morning!” interceded the
mother.
“Mrs. Greenwich!” said the paternal head, “your assistance
is not called for. Put down your hands, daughter.” Etty's right
hand dropped by her side. “I said, put down your hands!”
Down went the left, and up went the right. “D-a-u-gh-t-e-r!”
pronounced the squire's warning voice. After a violent struggle
with herself, Etty uncovered her pale face and inflamed eyes.
“Look at me, daughter!”
Etty raised a timid glance to her father's face; but a glimpse
of Robert's threatening visage opposite immediately put her out
of countenance.
“The poor child has such a cold in her head and eyes!” interposed
the mother.
“Mrs. Greenwich! how many times have I to request that you
will not interfere with my discipline? Daughter, innocence is
never afraid to look justice in the face; but guilt is fearful and
downcast. We cannot proceed until that I have your eye.”
A painful scene followed, during which the affrighted child endeavored
to obey. Her father's discipline was strict as mathematics;
and she could no more escape from its laws, than she
could make an equilateral triangle with four sides.
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“That will do,” he said, at length, as, with a powerful effort of
will, she fixed her burning gaze upon the end of his nose. “Now
I will have your motive for visiting Mr. Dunbury's people, without
permission.”
“I was at cousin Charles', — Robert was playing chess with
cousin Josephine, — nobody minded anything about me; and, as I
wanted to see Miss Woods —” Etty looked down again. She
felt Robert's piercing gaze, and forgot to keep her eyes fixed on
the paternal nose.
“Go on, daughter. Your eye!”
“That is all. I am sorry I disobeyed you, but —”
“It remains,” said the paternal head, inhaling a pinch of snuff,
“that you should show sufficient cause for taking so unusual and
unladylike a step. We might imagine circumstances which, by
their apparent necessity, would palliate the offence, and abate
somewhat of the punishment. Have you anything of that sort to
advance?”
Robert looked daggers into the child's very soul, and she was
silent.
“Daughter, hold up your right hand!”
“Don't be too severe, Mr. Greenwich! Consider, the poor
child is down sick —”
“Mrs. Greenwich!”
“I beg pardon!” and Mrs. Greenwich shrank again into appropriate
insignificance.
“The sentence is this: you, daughter Henrietta, for the faults
committed and confessed by you, are condemned to solitary confinement
at home for nine days and an equal number of nights,
commencing from this hour. During this time, you are to partake
of no nutriment but bread and water; and speak to no one person
but the paternal head. For each transgression of these regulations,
one day shall be added to your term of punishment.”
Etty burst into tears. The punishment seemed greater than she
could bear.
“Still, if you can advance any sufficient reason for walking
through the wet snow to Mr. Dunbury's house, and perilling your
health, I shall be gratified to hear it.”
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Etty gave an appealing look to Robert. He knew all; for, on
returning home the night before, and telling where she had been
and what she had seen, he had seized her as an eagle a lamb, and
torn out the heart of her secret. But he was merciless; he held
her with his terrible eye, and opened not his mouth. She would
not have wished him to convict himself, to spare her; she chose
to suffer, rather than see his guilt exposed; but she felt that a
word from him might soften her father's severity, and turn aside
the sharpness of the penalties.
“You 're a brave girl!” he muttered, passing by her; “only
go through with it as you have begun!”
He stepped to the door to admit a visitor. It was cousin
Charles Creston, a chatty little man, who had called to discuss
the occurrences which — to quote his phrase — were agitating the
whole village!
“Etty brought us the news last night,” said Robert, carelessly.
“Bless you!” cried the chatty little man, “then you have n't
heard the tragical termination!” Robert, with evident alarm, said
he had not. “It 's distressing! I dropped into the tavern, just
now,” said the voluble Charles; “the slave-hunters had just come
in, and all the talk was about Charlotte 's being drowned last
night. There can't be any mistake,” he added, eagerly; “for
one of the men passed the night at Mr. Jackwood's. Charlotte
was hid in a stack, when the creek broke up, and the valley was
flooded.”
“O, Robert!” burst forth Etty.
“One day more added to the nine, my daughter,” pronounced
the paternal head.
“Pshaw!” said Robert, with an incredulous air, — but his face
grew deadly pale, — “I don't believe the story! If 't was true,
the men would not be so ready to report it.”
“Why not, since they would wish to give their version first?”
cried Mr. Creston. “They throw all the blame upon Mr. Jackwood;
and they are doing all they can to make themselves popular,
by treating every loafer in the village who will drink with
them. But 't won't do; there 's a tremendous excitement against
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them, and there 's talk that they 'll get tarred and feathered, and
rode out of town on rails. I 'd delight to see it!” chuckled
Charles.
“Son Robert!” called the squire, — Robert had seized his hat,—
“where are you going? If to the tavern, listen to the paternal
counsel, and forbear. Son Robert, do you hear?”
Son Robert gave no heed. “Remember!” he muttered, as he
passed by Etty's chair. He left the house; hastened to the tavern;
moved for a few minutes amid the excited crowd; then,
mounting a horse, galloped down the splashy road, with his fierce
eye fixed upon the lake that spread over the valley.
Throwing himself from the saddle at Mr. Jackwood's door, he
knocked for admittance; but Phœbe and Abimelech were alone,
locked up, as in a fortress. Only Rover's sharp bark answered
from within. Robert walked around to the back door; and
Phœbe, observing him from the window, ran, with a fluttering
heart, to admit him.
“Are you alone, Phœbe?” asked Robert, in a hollow voice.
“The folks have gone to meeting; but Bim is here,” replied
Phœbe, with extreme coldness of manner. “Come in, — if you
like.” It was his first visit since his desertion of her, some months
before; and the memory of her wrongs swelled up within her. He
did not stop to flatter her, or excuse himself; but broke forth at
once with inquiries for Charlotte. Phœbe burst into tears.
“I 'd give my life,” he said, — and remorse and despair were
gnawing at his heart, — “to know that she was safe! She was
an angel, Phœbe; and she was your best friend.”
“I know it now!” sobbed Phœbe. “But you made me believe
she was not! Why did you?” And she went on to tell the tragic
tale. Robert's soul smote him, as he listened; and when it was
finished, without a word he staggered to the door, mounted his
horse, and rode back, gnashing his teeth, to the village.
O, noble heart of woman! how little thou art known to selfish
man! How little, stooping to low ends of worldly advantage or
pleasure, thou, fairest spirit of God's visible universe, knowest the
sovereignty of thine own power! Be thyself! Come up from
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the mist of worldliness that shrouds thee, let the glory of divine
love shine through thy purer image into the heart of man, and
thou shalt see him rise into new being; thou shalt see his soul,
expanding, burst its chains of passion and take wings; thou shalt
see thine own true mission then begun, if not fulfilled.
Hector, baffled and impatient, was waiting in Mobile for the
steamer to sail that was to take him on his homeward journey.
But for the influence of woman soothing and restraining him, his
racked mind could scarce have borne its suffering and suspense.
How could he have lived through those torturing hours (he afterwards
wondered within himself), had it not been for her who encouraged
him to wait, and trust, and to meet all things by heaven
ordained to discipline and teach us, with a calm and patient faith,
believing in the good! Mrs. Graves, who had before been Charlotte's
friend, was now his. On the evening of the day following
that of his transactions with Dr. Tanwood, they sat together in
the parlor of Mr. Copliff's house. In the midst of their conversation,
Helen entered, and, taking an ottoman, seated herself at
their feet.
“I have n't told you about the ball,” she began, in her joyous
tones. “I had the honor of dancing with Robinson Crusoe, Sancho
Panza, and the Wandering Jew. That saucy Count of Monte
Christo had the impudence to offer me his hand! Do you remember” —
her voice changed, and she looked up with glistening eyes
into Hector's face — “how often I used to sit with you so, a
year ago, and make you talk to me? But you do not talk to me
any more now!”
“Ah, Helen! you will know some day what a mountain rests
on my heart!” said Hector.
Helen dropped her face upon her cousin's lap, and sat for a
long time very quiet and still; but at length, sad thoughts stealing
over her, she began to weep, and, ashamed of her emotion,
she sprang to her feet, and hurried from the room.
“Helen is a good girl,” said Mrs. Graves, with thoughtful tenderness.
“Your friend Joseph thinks it the one great mistake of
your life, that you did not marry her.”
“O, Joseph is kind! Had I looked only for beauty, for wealth,
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and honorable connections, even for a gentle and tender heart,
Helen would have been everything I could desire,” said Hector.
“But what are all those attributes, compared with such a soul
as —”
“Speak the name! I love to hear it from your lips.”
“I am very weak,” said Hector.
“No, I think you strong! Your devotion to poor Camille
gives me an inspiration as when I read of heroic deeds. In my
experience in this groping world, I had almost abandoned the hope
of finding a man who could penetrate with the clear glance of truth
the thick walls of prejudice and conventionality, which shut us out
from the realities of existence. This appears all the more glorious
in one who possesses a great power over the human heart, for evil
or for good, — like you.”
“O, could I but feel that I have always used that power for
good!” said Hector.
“Your whole life moves like a panorama before my eye,” resumed
the other, after a pause. “It is pure, compared with the
world's. But you have attained luminous heights, from which,
looking down, the paths you lately trod appear all dark and
soiled. It is well to contemplate them at times; for the sight,
repelling you, gives you a nobler impulse to ascend.”
A sudden spasm convulsed Hector's features. “She calls to
me!” he said, faintly. “Just now her cry of anguish shot through
me, — nothing could be more terribly real!”
The door opened; he looked up, with a start, as Joseph Spalding
entered. “What news?”
“Have you heard from your telegraphic despatch?” asked
Joseph, drawing him aside.
“No; but you have something for me!” cried Hector.
“You are right,” faltered Joseph, with a painfully embarrassed
manner. “I received this evening a request to call on Dr. Tanwood.”
“Speak out!” exclaimed Hector. “What has been done?”
“After our previous interview, you can imagine that a polite
note from the doctor took me by surprise. My suspicions were
aroused, and I went prepared —”
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“For heaven's sake, omit details, and come to the point!”
“I found the doctor extremely civil; he brought out his decanter,
we drank, and came to business,” said Joseph. “On reflection,
he had concluded to accept our offer. `On reflection,' said I,
`we have concluded to withdraw it.'”
“Withdraw it?” echoed Hector.
“Certainly,” said Joseph; “for I was sure that if he would
take any sum, he would take less.”
“What have you there?” demanded Hector. “A letter, —
for me!”
“You shall have it presently,” remonstrated Joseph, more and
more troubled; “but hear my story!”
“Give it me!” cried Hector, alarmed and impatient. There
was a struggle, and he seized it. Mrs. Graves ran to Joseph,
who gave her an appealing look.
“It will kill him!” he said. “There is a telegraphic despatch.”
“From Camille?”
“From the hunters of Camille; it came to Dr. Tanwood. It
is terrible! Hector!” said Joseph.
“Drowned!” gasped Hector, clutching the paper. “They have
killed her!” He tore away from his friends, and rushed out in
the direction of Dr. Tanwood's house, furious to know the truth,
and to confront the author of his calamity. Joseph ran after him;
but neither force nor entreaty could restrain the frenzied man.
Fierce and rapid strides brought him to the doctor's door; Joseph
still clinging to his arm, and urging unheeded words of counsel
and consolation.
The doctor was gone from home.
-- -- p732-329
XXXVIII. MR. RUKELY'S GREAT SERMON.
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Mr. Rukely had been all the week engaged in preparing his
great sermon on the “Duties of Christian Citizens in the Present
Crisis;” a theme adjudged highly appropriate to be considered
on the advent of the New Year. No other discourse he had ever
written had cost him so much labor as this. On Saturday night
it was finished. But the young minister's excited brain would not
let him sleep; and towards morning he lay thinking of what he
had written, and imagining the effect it would produce upon his
congregation, until he felt an irresistible impulse to get up, strike
a light, and read over certain passages, which contained the strong
and eloquent points of the sermon. His movements awakened his
wife. “Don't be disturbed, my dear,” said he. “I am going to
write a little.”
Bertha, languidly: “I thought your sermon was finished.”
Mr. Rukely, rubbing a match: “It is, my dear. But there are
one or two things I want to alter.”
Bertha, rubbing her eyes: “I don't see how you can better it.
What you read to me last night seemed as good as it could be.”
“If I remember rightly, it sent you to sleep, my dear.”
“It was n't the sermon, — 't was the rain. What a storm we
have had! — I am afraid you won't see so large a congregation
to-day as you expected.”
Mr. Rukely, with his fifth match: “The people are looking
for my sermon on the New Year; and I think there will be a
pretty general turn-out to hear it, unless the roads should be too
bad. There is a lively interest in the church to know what view
I take of the subject. It is generally supposed that —”
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“You 'll burn your fingers!” cried Bertha.
“I hope not,” replied Mr. Rukely, with a placid smile, dropping
the match. “Where is the lamp?”
“You must have left it in the other room, where you were
writing.”
In ten minutes Bertha was once more sleeping soundly, while
the young minister corrected and interlined passages in his sermon,
by the sitting-room fire. He read aloud to himself. “The great
danger consists in taking narrow and sectional views of a subject
which should only be regarded in a broad, national light. Let
us remember that the interests and safety of the country are at
stake. If we would preserve intact the noble heritage bequeathed
us by the fathers of American independence, we must
listen to the dictates of an expanded and lofty patriotism, and
suffer no northern or southern prejudices to sully the bright —”
Mr. Rukely thought he heard a voice. — “Did you speak,
my dear?”
“I thought you called me,” said Bertha, half awake.
“I was reading,” replied Mr. Rukely; “I had forgotten that I
was not in the pulpit. If you would like to hear me, I will leave
the door open.”
“Certainly,” said poor Bertha.
“Tell me,” added her husband, “if you observe any expression
that will be liable to misconstruction. It is an extremely delicate
subject, and every statement should be worded with care. Watch
closely.”
Bertha promised, and Mr. Rukely resumed his reading. Having
finished a passage, he called for her criticisms. “To tell the
truth,” said Bertha, arousing herself, “my mind was wandering
again. Do I understand that we are not to protect a fugitive?”
“Is it not just?” cried the minister. “Have we a right to peril
the welfare and happiness of a nation, by espousing the cause of
one man, against the laws made to protect and regulate all?”
“It is clear,” answered Bertha, “we have no such right.” And
she fell again into a light slumber, while her husband went on
with his reading. Having completed another strong passage. “Is
not that argument conclusive?” he asked, triumphantly.
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Bertha, starting: “Entirely so! — But — I am not sure that
I have fully grasped the idea. Will you read the last few sentences
again?”
Mr. Rukely complied readily. But, in the midst of a lofty and
eloquent strain, he was disagreeably interrupted by a noise from
the kitchen. “What 's that?” cried Bertha.
“Some person at the back door. I wonder who can be stirring
at this hour?”
“Sunday morning, too!” said Bertha.
The minister wrapped his morning-gown about him, and, stepping
into the kitchen, pushed back the bolt, and turned the key in
the lock. The day had scarcely dawned. It was snowing fast.
A man stood out in the storm, supporting a human figure upon a
horse.
“Make way, Mr. Rukely!” said the man. “'T an't no time
for words, an' I 'll ax pardon for intrudin' some other time.” As
he spoke, he suffered the figure to sink upon his shoulder; then,
clasping it in his arms, he bore it past the astonished minister, into
the house.
“What is the trouble?” cried Mr. Rukely.
“The fust thing, help me git this 'ere poor gal to a fire!” said
the man.
“This way!” exclaimed the minister, throwing open the sitting-room
door. “Here, sir! — Wait a minute!” He wheeled the sofa
to the fire, and assisted him to place his burden upon it. “What
has happened to her?” putting back the girl's wet hair, and
arranging the cushion beneath her head. “Good heavens! Charlotte
Woods!”
“She 's ben drownded, an' then 'most froze to death!” uttered
the man, in a choked voice. “Where 's your wife?”
“Bertha!” cried Mr. Rukely.
“What is it? Did you say Charlotte?” articulated Bertha,
rushing out from the bed-chamber. “Drowned?”
She flew to Charlotte's side, and bent over her, pressing her
temples with a frightened, eager gaze. “Charlotte! where have
you been? What is the matter, Mr. Jackwood?” she demanded,
wildly.
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“'T would be a long story; we 'd better be gittin' her dry an'
warm fust,” said the farmer, rubbing Charlotte's cold hand.
“Be calm, my dear!” remarked Mr. Rukely. “I will call
Matilda —”
“Who is Matilda?” interrupted Mr. Jackwood.
“Matilda Fosdick, who is living with us,” said Bertha.
“Livin' with you?” echoed the farmer. “That 's bad! But
she can keep a secret, can't she, when a human critter's life
depends on 't?”
“What do you mean?” cried Bertha.
“You han't heard nothin', then, o' what happened up to Mr.
Dunbury's, last night?”
“We have heard nothing!”
“Never mind; you 'll hear quick enough! — If Matilda is a
gal to be trusted, call her up. She 'd haf to know Cha'lotte was
in the house, some time or 'nother, I s'pose. The fust thing to be
thought on is to git dry clo's on to her.”
“Help me roll the sofa into the bed-room,” cried Bertha. “I
can undress her, and put her into my bed.”
“We 'd better call the doctor,” said Mr. Rukely. “He is a
trustworthy man, and if there 's any necessity for concealment —”
“We 'll talk about that,” said Mr. Jackwood, “arterwards.”
He assisted in wheeling the sofa into the bed-room, and, leaving
Charlotte in Bertha's charge, took Mr. Rukely aside. — “You 're
a man,” said he, earnestly, “'t I respect above all others; for
you got talents an' larnin', an', more 'n all that, your heart 's in
the right place. What I should 'a done for Cha'lotte, if 't had n't
ben for you, I do'no'. Her an' your wife 's old friends —”
“For mercy's sake,” interrupted Mr. Rukely, “tell me what
the trouble is!”
“I do'no' over-'n'-above well, myself,” said Mr. Jackwood.
“It 's suthin 't I can't realize nor believe; but, as I understand
it, Cha'lotte 's a fugitive, an' the kidnabbers are arter her.”
“A fugitive!” echoed the astonished minister.
Mr. Jackwood: “I han't heard her say nothin' 'bout it,” —
with a glance towards the bed-room, — “but one thing 's sartin, —
the officers are arter her, — they 've ben to my house, and to
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Mr. Dunbury's, — an' she 's ben out all night in the storm, to keep
away from 'em.”
“A fugitive! Charlotte Woods!” repeated Mr. Rukely,
aghast.
“She was hid in a stack,” added the farmer; “but the crick
broke up, and drownded her out. She got up on the shed; but
that was put there arter the winter set in, and the ground was
froze: the posts wan't set at all, and the thaw left 'em loose, so 's
't when the water come they washed right away. As good luck
would have it, the ruf was made o' rails; they was held together
with cleats; then there was a jag o' straw on top, that had settled,
and kep' 'em solid. So, when the ruf tumbled down, Cha'lotte, it
'pears, stuck to it. I tell ye what! it gi' me a start 't I shan't
git over in a hurry, when we went to the stack in a boat, an' found
her missin'; but her shawl was on the stack, and suthin kinder
said to me, `That never could got there, in this world, 'ithout she
was on the shed!' Then says I, `I made that 'ere ruf myself,
an' I believe it 's held together; an' if 't has, what 's the reason
she can't be swimmin' on 't, like a raft?' I thought it over while
I was gittin' the lambs into the boat; then the idee come to me,
't if I was to take a hoss, an' ride down to Osborne's Flats, I
might hear suthin of her. There 's a place down there, — p'raps
you don' know, — 't makes a big, shaller basin, when the crick rises
up to it; there 's al'ays a kind o' whirlpool there, time o' freshets,
where flood-wood, an' everything o' that kind, settles in, an' swims
round, sometimes, for half a day, 'fore 't goes off down the crick.
I knowed the road, an' could find the flats the darkest night, with
a hoss; but I felt ticklish about vent'rin' in the boat. So I
jumped on ol' Dan, an' started off. I found the goin' dre'ful bad;
but I got along perty well, till I come to the Turnpike Crossin'.
The water was higher 'n I 'd ca'c'lated on, an', to git to the flats,
I 'd haf to cross the crick somehow. The water was clean over
the road, an' Dan did n't like to wade; but I put the whip on to
him, an' we got to the bridge. The deestrict 's built a famous good
high bridge over the crossin'; an' there I stopped to let Dan
breathe, an' to look round. It was jest beginnin' to be daylight,
an' I could see off to'rds the flats; but I could n't make out nothin';
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an' it looked so awful dreary down there, 't I felt sick, an'
thought 't was no use, arter all, huntin' in sich a place for Cha'lotte.
But suthin said, `Don't give up so,' an' I splashed for'ard,
on t' other side o' the bridge; when, as I was cheerin' ol'
Dan, I thought I heerd a noise, an' stopped. `Hello!' says I.
`Ma-a-a-a!' says suthin, over a knoll, jest above me. `Nothin'
but a sheep,' says I; `but I 'm blamed,' says I, `if it did n't sound,
for all the world, like one o' my lambs!' Then I looked sharp,
an' see suthin lodged agin the knoll. Wal, sir, 't was that shed-ruf,
an' Cha'lotte was on to it, holdin' tight to some bushes to keep from
floatin' away! I never had anything come over me like that
'ere! But the danger wan't over with yit; for, if Cha'lotte was
to le' go her hold o' the bushes, there was nothin' to hender her
gittin' into the main current that run 'neath the bridge. 'T was
one o' the maddest currents I ever see; an' 't would ben a mere
chance if the ruf wan't tore to pieces, passin' the 'butments.
`Stick to it, Cha'lotte!' says I; `it 's me!' says I. `Don't be
afraid!' says I. Dan did n't like to leave the turnpike, but he 'd
ben in the water up to his breast a dozen times a'ready. I thought
he need n't mind goin' a little deeper; so I put on the whip, an'
swum him to the knoll. I got hold o' the raft jes as Cha'lotte
gin out; she was nigh-about dead when I lifted her ashore. But,
sir, don't ye think, all this time she had kep' two o' them 'ere
lambs from drowndin'! She 'd helped 'em out o' the water,
on to the ruf, when the shed fell, — for they could n't got on to it
alone, with all their swimmin', — and then she 'd took as much
care on 'em, arterwards, as if there wan't no danger to her, an'
all she had to do was to look out for them! I got 'em on to
the knoll, an' then lifted her on to ol' Dan. Then the thing
on 't was to git back with her to the turnpike. But I was perty
sartin the hoss could touch bottom, an' keep his nose out o'
water, if we both rode; 't want fur, any way; so I mounted behind
Cha'lotte, an' drove in. He is a dre'ful kind hoss, ol' Dan is, an'
he seemed to know jes 's well what he was about as I did; for
he made a bee-line to the turnpike, and went as stiddy as a
steamboat!
“Wal, we got to the bridge; then I did n't know no more
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what to do 'n I did in the fust place. I could n't take Cha'lotte
to my house, nor to Mr. Dunbury's, for the kidnabbers are as
thick over there as nine cats in a corn-basket. When I was considerin'
on 't, I happened to say, `We an't sich a terrible ways
from where Mrs. Rukely lives; she that was Bertha Wing. It 's
in the north village,' says I, `right down opposite the flats.' All
this time I hardly knowed whuther she was alive or dead; she 'd
only said, two or three times, `O, Mr. Jackwood!' an' laid on
this 'ere arm, jes' like a child; but when I said `Bertha Wing,' it
seemed to put new life into her —”
“Mr. Rukely,” whispered Bertha, at the bed-room door, “will
you hand me that blanket?” The minister took a garment that
was heating by the stove, and passed it to his wife.
“Wal,” said Mr. Jackwood, “that 's the long and short on 't;
and now that she 's safe in your house, I feel like a new man.
She 's ben through a dre'ful tough night, an' she may have a
fit o' sickness arter it. If we can keep the kidnabbers away till
she 's well enough to be got off to Canada, that 's all I ask for.
What do ye think?”
“I think — I am in a dream!” exclaimed Mr. Rukely. “Charlotte
Woods! What a history you tell me! Do you think
she 'll be safe in my house?”
“I 've an idee!” said Mr. Jackwood, drying his trousers
by the fire. “It popped into my head as I was comin' over
here from the turnpike. The kidnabbers 'll think she 's
drownded! Don't ye see?” And the farmer proceeded to
relate his experience with Dickson, whom he had left holding
the lantern at the stack. The inference was, that if Charlotte
was supposed to be drowned, the kidnappers would abandon the
search.
“But if the story should get out,” suggested Mr. Rukely, in
his bewilderment.
“Jest make sure o' 'Tildy Fosdick, and I don't see how it
anyways can!” said Mr. Jackwood. “For my part, I shan't
let on to my own family 't Cha'lotte 's found. Then where 's
the danger? You han't no scruples agin keepin' her, of
course!”
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“No scruples, — that is, the laws of the country —”
Mr. Jackwood smote the palm of his hand with his fist with
an energy that made the other start. “I — I tell ye what!”
cried he, in a determined tone. “I respect the laws, an' I don't
think I 'm a bad citizen, gen'ly speakin'! I don't go in for mobs
an' linchin', nuther! But, come case in hand, a human critter 's
o' more account to me than all the laws in Christendom! `As ye
do it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye do it unto
me;' that 's my doctrine. Christ never stopped to ask whuther
't was lawful to do a good deed, but went and done it! But,
excuse me, — you 're a minister, an' you know better about them
things 'n I do.”
Mr. Rukely grasped the farmer's hand. His eyes glistened,
and there was a noble emotion in his face. “You can depend
upon me,” said he, fervently.
“God bless you sir! I knowed it!” cried Mr. Jackwood, the
tears coursing down his weather-stained cheek. “When there 's a
duty to be done to a feller-mortal, you an't the man to stop an'
look arter the consequences.”
“Not in such a case,” said Mr. Rukely. “I find” — wringing
the farmer's hand again — “that there 's a difference between
reasoning from the intellect and acting from the heart.”
“You must have found out that long ago, sence you 've begun
arly to preach from the heart. I heerd one o' yer sarmons once;
't was on the uses o' the Sabbath; an' one thing you said in it has
stuck by me to this day. You said, `Christ is a law unto himself,
and he who has his spirit within him,' you said, `can do no
wrong.' That spirit is love, an't it?” cried Mr. Jackwood;
“'t an't policy; and it han't nothin' to do with compromises.”
“True!” said Mr. Rukely. “It is love, and with it goes
faith; and with faith, earnestness and courage, such as yours!”
Mr. Jackwood brushed away his tears, and held the minister's
hand in both of his. “I han't no more to say; but, if I don't
come down an' hear you preach to-day, 't 'll be because I can't git
over! I must be goin' now; my folks 'll be consarned about me,
an' I ought to git away f'm here 'fore people are stirrin'. I on'y
want to say a cheerin' word to her, then I 'm off!”
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Bertha had packed her friend away in the warmest kind of
a nest; and there the farmer found her, unable to move
hand or foot, for the comforters that enveloped her, but not
unable to smile a faint smile of affection and thanks upon her
preserver. “Mr. Rukely 's all right!” he whispered, bending
over her. “So don't worry; you 're safe!”
Charlotte murmured something; the farmer did not hear the
words, but he felt the thought, for it shone gratefully in his countenance;
and, turning away quickly, to prevent a tear from falling
upon her face, he called Bertha and her husband.
“The best good-by I can say is to leave her in your charge.
I 'll hear from ye all, some time!” The farmer's voice was
stifled. “Wal,” — with an effort, — “remember I 'm comin' over
to hear you preach to-day!” He mounted his horse at the door,
and rode away in the storm. Then Mr. Rukely thought of his
great sermon lying upon the table, and of Charlotte lying there
in the bed-chamber: the one, a creature of his brain, a tissue of
ingenious theories and precepts; the other, a living reality, a child
of the One loving Father; a being of vital breath, affections, aspirations,
and an immortal soul.
“Will you see if that brandy is hot?” asked Bertha, from the
bed-chamber. The brandy was not hot; and Mr. Rukely, glancing
furtively towards the chamber, took his great sermon quietly from
the table, and thrust it into the stove. “What are you doing?”
cried his wife.
“I am heating the brandy,” my dear.
“That was your sermon!” exclaimed the astonished Bertha.
“My sermon?” repeated the minister. “Well, I hope it will
do good! I shall preach an old one, to-day; that one on the
uses of the Sabbath, which you must remember, since Mr. Jackwood
recalls it to my mind, and quotes from it. I shall preach
my sermon for the new year next Sunday.”
Mr. Rukely was ordinarily a man of such cool temper and
calm judgment, that Bertha, who had never known him do so
impulsive a thing in all his life, thought him insane.
“As soon as you have leisure,” said he, “I will give you
reasons for what I have done. They will surprise you more than
the action itself.”
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Bertha administered the hot brandy, and rubbed Charlotte's
limbs until she got them warm; when the patient appearing to
sink into a slumber, she left her, to hear her husband's story.
Ah! if there was a difference between writing a sermon from the
head and living one from the heart, so was there between hearing
one with the ear only, and feeling one in the soul! Bertha was
awake now; Bertha no longer gave a cold and drowsy approval
of what she heard; Bertha, whose thoughtless tongue, like many
another thoughtless tongue, had said yea and amen to plausible
theories a half-hour since, astonished her husband now by the
energy and passion with which she espoused Charlotte's cause.
“I did well, then,” said he, “to burn the sermon!”
“I only know,” replied the excited Bertha, “that a thousand
sermons could not change me with regard to Charlotte! What
shall we do with Matilda?”
Matilda could not be kept in ignorance, if she remained in the
house; neither could her services be well dispensed with at that
time. It was accordingly agreed that the safest way would be to
confide the secret to her, and rely upon her fidelity. She was
called from the chamber; and Mr. Rukely sat by Charlotte while
Bertha, in the other room, awaited the girl's appearance.
Miss Fosdick came down with her hair uncombed, and her
dress unhooked, looking ill-humored and sleepy. “'T an't late,
after all,” she said, looking at the clock. “It 's Sunday morning,
I thought I could lay abed.”
“I had some news to tell you,” replied Bertha.
“O, have you? What is it about?”
“You know Miss Woods, at Mr. Dunbury's?”
“O, I know of her; though I 'm not personally acquainted,”
replied Matilda, simpering. “People say Hector is paying
attention to her. I don't care, I 'm sure; though I might have
been in her place, I suppose. You did n't know, perhaps, that
Hector came for me, the very day he found Miss Woods at your
house? I 'd been two terms to Kiltney; and Mrs. Dunbury
wanted me for a companion. I should have gone, only you
know I an't obleeged to go out for a living; and while we was
talking it over, Livia and Patra made such a fuss, all through
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jealousy, that I concluded to stay to home. Well, Miss Woods
went in my place; but I don't care — she is welcome; though,
if I had taken up with the invitation, who knows what might
have happened? 'T an't as though I was in such a great hurry
to get a husband! But what about her? Are they going to be
married?”
“Matilda, it is very sad news I have to tell you!”
Matilda, brightening: “Is it? I am dying to hear!”
Here Bertha, deeply affected, told the story of Charlotte, yet
concealing the fact that she was at that moment sleeping in the
adjoining chamber. Matilda could not sufficiently express her
wonder and astonishment.
“And what would you do,” asked Bertha, “if she should come
to you, and you could help her escape?”
It is not to be denied that Matilda felt a secret delight in
Charlotte's misfortune. But, aside from the natural envy and
selfishness of her disposition, she was not a bad-hearted girl;
and she gave the answer Bertha desired she would. It was as
much pride, perhaps, as genuine benevolence, that would have
been gratified in rendering assistance to one in Charlotte's position;
but Bertha did not stop to analyze her motives. She
believed her sincere; it was all she asked; and then proceeded to
unfold the remainder of the story.
Charlotte, meanwhile, passed from the sleep or stupor that
had taken possession of her senses into the pain and delirium
of fever. Alarmed by her restlessness and moaning, Mr.
Rukely rapped on the door for Bertha. She entered; Charlotte
appeared to awake, and she spoke to her; but the poor girl,
not recognizing her, called for Hector to give her a glass of
water.
“Here, dear Charlotte!” said Bertha, raising her head, that
she might drink.
“No!” The sufferer put her feebly away. “Hector! where
is he?” She looked wildly about the room. Bertha endeavored
to pacify her; but she no longer knew her friends.
“I dreamed,” said she, “that somebody was drowned in that
horrid place! Tell me, was it Hector?”
-- -- p732-340
XXXIX. HOW DICKSON TOOK LEAVE.
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On his way home, Mr. Jackwood met Corny riding out of Mr.
Dunbury's yard. “You 're stirrin' arly, young man,” said the
farmer.
“Ya-a-s,” drawled Corny; “I got to go for the doctor.”
“Is Mis' Dunbury wus agin?”
“'Pears so; they thought she was dyin' one spell. They an't
nobody to hum, now, but Bridget an' the ol' man. Hector's
gone; an' I s'pose ye heard about Charlotte.”
“If you 're goin' for the doctor,” said the farmer, “I won't
hender. I guess I 'll step in a minute, an' see if my folks can be
of any sarvice.”
The farmer entered at the kitchen door, which was opened by
Bridget. “Faix!” cried the girl, “I was never so glad wid the
sight iv a Yankee face since the day I was barn! They 're havin'
the craziest time here that iver was! Not a wink have I slept,
ahl the whole blissid night, but jist a little this marnin'. I was
woke fifty times 'fore the peep o' day, if I was iver a once. But
it 's not a straw I 'd be carin' for it ahl, if I could only jist cure
my eyes wid seein' the daar, swate face of Miss Charlotte, afther
ahl the throuble an' fuss. I was hopin' ye 'd be tellin' ye 'd seen
her. And Misther Edward, ye 've seen nothin' of him? He 's
the crazy man, that 's been kickin' up ahl the row. It begun wid
his coomin' here yistherday. Och! it was a shabby thrick he
played me up in the woods there, lavin' me to get the hoss around
afther the scoundrels had cotched us. He followed 'em back doon
the river; and there I worked, a'most ahl the night, tryin' to turn
the cutter in the woods, an' backin' the hoss out o' the brush an'
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snow. Faix, it was beginnin' to be dark an' lonesome up there;
an' what should I be afther doin', but lavin' the cutter where
it stuck, an' ridin' home man-fashion, wid the harness for a
saddle!”
“Where is yer crazy-man now?” inquired the farmer.
“I balave the divil has him carryin' him off!” cried Bridget.
“He was up ahl the night, wild as a brindle cat, an' the last I was
hearin' on him, he went out howlin' in the starm. But it 's little
I throuble mesilf about him; only I tha'ht he might be knowin'
what had coom on Miss Charlotte. If he 'd but jist be bringin'
her back, then he might go to Bedlam, where he belongs, — bad
luck to him!”
For four mortal hours Dickson had kept solitary watch upon
the stack. During this time he saw the lantern burn dimly, then
go out, and broad day dawn upon the valley and the flood.
The weather was growing cold. Only a fine hail fell, mixed with
sleet. The straw of the stack froze into brittle glass, and the
boards bound upon it became slippery with ice. Dickson would
have suffered from the cold and discomfort of his situation, but
that his rage kept him warm. At length he saw Mr. Jackwood
walk leisurely across the fields with Abimelech, to the water's
edge, launch the boat, and row out towards the stack.
“I thought per'aps you 'd be impatient to git ashore,” remarked
the farmer.
“Any time!” muttered Dickson, through his teeth.
“If he waited long enough, he could cross on the ice,” cried
Abimelech. “The water 's all scummed over, a'ready, where it
don't run fast.”
“Hush, Bim'lech!” said Mr. Jackwood. “Doin' my pertiest,
I could n't save all them dumb beasts. I 've lost one o' the likeliest
pair o' two-year-olds ever raised in the county. The lambs
I don't care so much about, though they 'd a' ben as han'some
wethers as anybody's, come spring. Sorry to keep you waitin'.”
“It 's all right,” growled Dickson. “I shall have my pay for
this, I reck'n!”
“Wal, you 'd oughter!” exclaimed the farmer. “A man 't
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[figure description] Page 339.[end figure description]
puts his hand to your kind o' business desarves to git his pay.
Don't forgit to hand down that 'ere lantern. Then we 'll go to
breakfast.”
As the wrathful Dickson paid no attention to the request, thinking
only of getting his feet safely planted in the boat, Mr. Jackwood
quietly put out his oar, and shoved off from the stack.
“We can't see to git up to the stack, till he holds the lantern,”
chuckled Bim.
“Hush, Bim'lech!” said his father. “Thank ye,” — as the
man, stifling his wrath, handed down the lantern. “Ye han't seen
them steers nowheres, have ye?”
“I 've had someth'n' else to think of,” replied Dickson,
savagely.
“Glad to hear it,” remarked the farmer. “It 's Sunday mornin',
an' we 'd ought all on us to be thinkin' o' suthin else. But
you had sich a chance to look around, up there, I thought you
might a' seen 'em, if they was in the woods, or anywheres. Per'aps
ye 'd like to take one o' these oars, to warm ye?”
Dickson accepted, without comment, and worked his passage.
After a long silence, he inquired, in a sinister tone, what value the
farmer set upon his real and personal estate.
“D' ye think o' buyin' an' settlin' amongst us?” asked Mr.
Jackwood. “Took with our manners an' customs, I s'pose?”
“I only asked for information,” sneered Dickson.
“Wal, in that case, — though 't is Sunday, — I han't no objection
to sayin' 't the vally I set on my property, live stock, farmin'
utensils, an' everything, is seven thousan' dollars, cash on the
nail. I don't 'spect to git it right away, but I won't part with an
acre for less.”
“And suppos'n' you should wake up, some fine mornin', and
find you had n't no farm, nor no seven thous'n' dollars, neither?”
“Wal, then I should try to git along without 'em, an' be thankful
for what I did have.”
“I 'd advise ye to cultivate that feel'n',” said Dickson, “aginst
the time comes; an' I prophesy 't won't be slow com'n'.”
“That 's perty talk from a man 't I 've invited to breakfast!”
returned the farmer. “What d' ye mean?”
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“I mean that your farm an't any too big to cover this little
business o' yourn, — ye understand?”
“What business?”
“Harborin' that gal, — if ye relish bein' told in so many words.
The wuth of a fine, han'some piece o' property, like her, an't less
than fifteen hundred, in the first place. She 's to be paid for, to
begin with. Then, say nothin' 'bout imprisonment, there 's fines,
I s'pose ye know, that 'll whittle what 's left o' yer farm down to
a mighty small figur'; and if ye stand out about it, the law 'll
swaller up what 's left. I hope that 's a consolash'n for the loss
o' yer steers.”
“It 's Sunday,” said Mr. Jackwood, in a low, quiet tone, after
a thoughtful pause, “an' we won't talk over business, I guess,
'fore to-morrer. But I 'll tell ye one thing, — though I set as
much by my farm as any man, I would n't mind losin' it in a
good cause, if I could be o' sarvice to a feller-critter by so doin',
an' save 'em from pirates an' man-stealers, like you. That don't
make out, though, 't I had any hand in the business you lay to
my charge, as I see. If that 'ere poor young woman is
drownded, 't an't on my conscience; an' I defy ye to prove the
fust thing!”
“That 'll be an easy matter,” replied Dickson. “I 'm used to
these cases.”
“Wal, I an't, an' I 'm glad on 't!” said Mr. Jackwood. “But
le's drop the subject for to-day. We 'll go to breakfast; then,
if you like, you can ride to meetin' with me. I 'm goin' over to
the North Village; they 've got a famous good minister there, an'
I think 't would n't do you no harm to hear him preach.”
Arrived at the house, Dickson entered, and warmed himself
and dried his clothes by the kitchen fire. His friend Jones, whom
he had expected to call for him early that morning, had not yet
made his appearance; and he was but too happy to avail himself
of the farmer's hospitality.
“I s'pose,” said he, “you won't object to lend'n' me a hoss for
a couple of hours?”
“I 'll give ye yer breakfast, and yer last night's lodgin', too,
for that matter, but you 'll haf to excuse me if I don't lend the
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hoss,” replied Mr. Jackwood. “I think too much o' both my
ponies for that.”
“D' ye fancy 't would n't be safe?” cried Dickson. “I reck'n
I 'm good for more 'n one hoss.”
“Per'aps; but I should want suthin 'sides either yer business
or your face to recommend ye, if I was goin' to trust you very
fur. Shall we read 'fore breakfast, mother?”
Mrs. Jackwood said she thought it would be as well, as the
potatoes were not quite done. The farmer accordingly took
down the big Bible from the shelf, and called the children to join
in the reading.
“I can't read this morning,” articulated Phœbe, whose eyes
were red and swollen.
“Very well; we 'll excuse ye,” replied her father. “But
don't cry any more, child; 't won't do no good. You may begin,
Bim'lech. If you 'd like to look over,” — to Mr. Dickson, —
“I 'd like to have ye. Give him your Testament, Bim'lech.”
Dickson declined the offer. But he could not easily avoid
hearing a chapter of the glorious Evangel of St. John, and the
simple, earnest prayer that followed.
The farmer's voice was tremulous with emotion, and when he
prayed that God would soften the hearts of oppressors, and pour
out his tender mercies upon all who were oppressed, Phœbe
sobbed aloud; and Dickson could see the tears run silently down
Mrs. Jackwood's face, as she knelt beside her chair. His heart
must have been of flint, not to be touched by the scene. He
glanced darkly towards the door, as if anxious to get away; but,
with knotted and flushed features, writhing in his chair, he sat
and heard the prayer to its close. The ordeal passed, he readily
accepted an invitation to breakfast.
“There 's somebody come,” said Bim, who had gone to the
door to give Rover a piece of pork he had abstracted from the
platter when his mother's back was turned.
The comer proved to be Jones. Dickson went out to meet him
and they talked some time under the stoop.
“Bim'lech,” said the farmer, “tell 'em to put their hosses under
the shed, an' come in an' have some breakfast.”
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“I would n't!” exclaimed Bim, vindictively.
“Mind!” said his father, putting down his foot.
The boy, accordingly, although with a bad grace, delivered the
message; and, after some hesitation, the men came in. Mrs. Jackwood
put on an additional plate, flanked with a knife and fork;
and they sat down and ate meat with Christians. When they had
made a hasty meal, they arose to go; Dickson offering to pay the
farmer. But Mr. Jackwood declined his money.
“Don't you never take pay, when strangers put up with ye?”
asked Dickson.
“That 's neither here nor there,” replied the farmer. “What
ye have o' me, I give ye. I neither lend nor sell to sich as you.
I 've told ye the reason why I won't lend; if ye want to know
why I won't sell, it 's 'cause your money 's arnt in a bad trade,
an' I 'd ruther have nothin' to do with 't.”
“Say, father!” cried Abimelech, after the men were gone,
“they can't git yer farm away from ye, can they?”
“You may be sartin,” said the farmer, “they will if they can.
The law 's on their side, too, I s'pose. But I an't goin' to trouble
myself 'forehand. I 've done my best, 'cordin' as I see the duty
sot afore me to do; an', with a clean conscience, I 'll wait an' see
what comes of it all.”
“I would n't let 'em have it!” exclaimed Bim; “I 'd sue 'em.”
“Bim'lech,” returned his father, “I never sued a man in my
life, an' I never was sued. But we won't talk about that now.
I 'm goin' to take your mother over to Mist' Dunbury's, an' goin'
from there to meetin'; an' you can go with me, or stay to hum
with Phœbe.” And he proceeded to lather his face, and to prepare
for Mr. Rukely's great sermon. There were no “chores”
to attend to; those that Abimelech had left undone having been
despatched by the farmer after his return home, while Dickson
still kept watch at the stack.
-- -- p732-346
XL. MR. CRUMLETT'S SPECULATIONS.
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Miss Matilda Fosdick was not so indifferent to the chances of
obtaining a husband, but she entertained a degree of matrimonial
hope from the honorable intentions of Mr. Enos Crumlett. Enos
had a consumptive mother, whom he “did n't ca'c'late would be
with him much longer,” and whom he was anxious to replace with
a good wife. “I can't think o' lettin' my farm,” he reasoned,
“an' I s'pose 't 'll be enough on 't cheaper 'n the end to git married,
than to hire a housekeeper, or board.” He had these considerations
in mind when he asked Miss Fosdick for her company;
and perhaps Miss Fosdick also had something of the sort
in view when she accepted his advances. He wanted a housekeeper;
she wanted a house to keep.
It was through Mr. Crumlett's influence that Matilda had consented
to step out of her “sphere” into the domestic service of
Mrs. Bertha Rukely. Mr. Crumlett reasoned thus: “'Tildy I
guess 'll make a perty smart kind o' gal, keep her away from
'Livia and 'Patra. Besides, I don't care about marryin' more 'n
one o' Sam Fosdick's darters 't a time; an' the sooner she breaks
with the rest on 'em, the better. Then, agin, she may as well be
arnin' a little suthin for herself, agin spring, for 't an't prob'ble
ma 'll hold out much longer 'n that, if she does so long.” So
Matilda never visited her family now, and had as little intercourse
with Olivia and Cleopatra as possible; a circumstance which,
in Bertha's mind, very much favored the project of keeping Charlotte's
presence in the house a secret. But this advantage found
an offset, perhaps, in the fact of Mr. Crumlett's visits. He was
accustomed to prosecute his courting in Mr. Rukely's kitchen;
and Sunday evening was his regular night.
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“Wal,” said Enos, pulling off his great-coat, and handing it to
Matilda, “how d'e deu these times? What 's the news?”
Matilda, hanging the coat upon a nail: “I don't hear much of
anything; do you?”
Enos sat down, and stretched out his legs by the stove.
“They ben havin' a tearin' time up the crick, — I s'pose you
heerd?”
“About Charlotte Woods?”
“Yis; queer, an't it?”
“I wan't much surprised,” said Matilda, carelessly.
“Wal, I was!” exclaimed Mr. Crumlett. “I knowed her
like a book! She wan't half so black as some white folks 't I
know; she was jest dark enough to be ra'al perty.”
“You fancy dark complexions, I see!” observed Matilda, with
a toss of her head. “I admire your taste!”
“Of course I do,” — Enos grinned, — “and that 's what makes
me like you.”
Matilda, scornfully: “You don't call me dark, I hope?”
“I don't call you nothin' else!”
“Well, if you han't got eyes! It 's the first time I was ever
called dark.”
“You 're darker 'n Charlotte Woods, — now, come!” cried Enos,
hitching towards Miss Fosdick's chair.
“I?” exclaimed Matilda. “Maybe I be,” — with sarcasm;
“you 're welcome to think so, any way! As if I cared!”
“I don't mean,” — Mr. Crumlett saw fit to qualify his assertion, —
“that is, I did n't say 't your skin is like hern —”
“Which you admired so much!” sneered Matilda.
“You an't exactly dark, but — wal, I can't express it; only
you are red, — no, not red, but kind o' red and brown,” said Mr.
Crumlett.
Matilda puckered her lips into a smirk, accompanied by peculiar
undulations of the head, indicative of contempt, and, taking
up a book, pretended to read. Mr. Crumlett hitched his chair
still nearer, and looked over the corner of the book, with a good-natured
grin. “I wish you 'd go away!” exclaimed Matilda.
“There!” said Mr. Crumlett; “that 's all I wanted! If
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you 've got sich a temper 't we can't git along together 'fore we 're
married, what 'u'd we do afterwards? We may as well break off
now as any time.” And Enos snatched his coat from the nail.
“You 're as much mistaken as you can be, if you think I was
mad!” remarked Matilda. “But, if you want to go, I 'm sure I
shan't hender you.” And she kindly offered, as usual, to help
Enos “on” with his great-coat.
“Thank ye,” said Enos; “much obleeged.” He began to button
himself up very fast, and put on his mittens. “I 'm glad
you 're so willin' to have me go. Where 's my cap?”
“Of course I 'm willing, if you 've got sick of me, and want to
break off the engagement!”
“Who said I was sick, and wanted to break off?”
“You would n't quit so, if you wan't!” said Matilda, beginning
to cry. “It 's you that 's got temper, I should think!”
“I? I han't got the least grain o' temper in the world! Look
here! I guess we 'll talk that over!”
And Mr. Crumlett pulled off a mitten. “Set down, won't ye,
while you stay?” asked the weeping Matilda.
“No, I won't set down.” Mr. Crumlett pulled off the other
mitten, and placed both in his cap. “What do ye mean about
my havin' temper?”
“I meant if you went off so, jest for what I said —”
Mr. Crumlett placed his hat on the table, and sat down, still
buttoned to the throat. “We may as well have it understood,
and part friends, for what I see. I 'm sure I han't thought o'
breakin' off; I was goin' 'cause you wanted me to.”
“Take off your coat, won't ye?”
“No, I guess not.” — Mr. Crumlett looked injured. “I 'll unbutton
it, though, while I stop.”
“You won't feel it when you go out,” said Matilda, with tearful
affection. “You 'd better take it off.”
“You beat all the gals I ever see!” exclaimed Enos. “You
can make a feller do jest what you 're a mind to! — Here it
goes!” The coat was returned to the nail in the wall, and Mr.
Crumlett seated himself, all smiles, by Matilda's side.
“I did n't know you was so well acquainted with her,” said
Matilda.
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“O, I was n't much! Who said I was?”
“You; you said you knew her like a book.”
“Did I? O, wal, all I meant was, that I 'd seen her, and eat
dinner with her. You know all about that. 'T was the day her
and Hector broke down, and I carried 'em home in my wagon. I
made fifty cents by it, — that 's the most I remember. And that
reminds me 't I made fifty cents to-day, if 't is Sunday.”
“How?” asked Matilda.
“Mr. Jackwood found a couple o' his lambs on a knoll jest
above the turnpike bridge; and he told me, if I 'd git 'em up to
my house, and keep 'em till to-morrer, he 'd gi' me half a dollar.
I han't got my money yit; but I shall make sure on 't, when he
takes the lambs away. I 'd trust him sooner 'n 'most any man I
know, any other time.”
“Why not now?”
“Gracious!” said Mr. Crumlett, “han't you heard, then? All
the talk is, 't he 'll lose his farm, sartin 's the world. The slave-hunters
are stoppin' in Huntersford a pu'pose to prosecute him.”
“That 's too bad!” exclaimed Matilda.
“Does seem kind o' tough. But, then, if I owned a slave, and
should lose 'em in that kind o' way, I should think 't wan't no
more 'n right I should git my pay for 'em. But, arter all, I 'd go
agin finin' a man like Mr. Jackwood a cent more 'n the actual
damage. Hang it all!” exclaimed Mr. Crumlett, “I don't
know but I 'd done as much for Charlotte Woods, myself! What
do ye look so for?”
“So? How?” asked Matilda, innocently.
“Kind o' so,” replied Mr. Crumlett, with a grimace, “jest as
if you knowed suthin 't you would n't tell.”
“I? What do you mean?”
“You 'd make a feller think you 'd heard suthin about Mr.
Jackwood, or Charlotte; for as often as I 've spoke of 'em, you 've
done that,” — another grimace.
Matilda put her handkerchief to her face, and chuckled behind
it, much to Mr. Crumlett's annoyance. “Wal, I an't goin' to
tease,” said Enos. — “Folks to hum to-night?”
“I 'm to home,” answered Matilda.
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“There 't is agin! — Is anybody else?”
“You know Mr. Rukely never is to home Sunday nights; he
lectures in the vestry.”
“Is Berthy to hum, then?” demanded Enos, impatiently.
“What difference does 't make to you whether she 's to home
or not?” retorted Matilda, with the same exasperating look.
Thereupon Mr. Crumlett, notwithstanding his total lack of temper,
took offence, and, after some more words, went so far as to
put on his great coat and mittens again, and button himself to the
chin. This time he pulled his cap over his ears, with a resolute
air, that frightened Matilda. He utterly refused to stay, except
on one condition; and seized hold of the door-latch, as if unwilling
to wait even for that. “Jest as you please,” he mumbled. “Tell
me or not, — I don't care!”
It is probable that Matilda intended to tell him, from the first;
for it would have cost her more forbearance than she ever exercised
in her life to keep so exciting a secret. His threat of leaving
her was enough to quiet her conscience; and, prevailing upon
Enos to sit down, she yielded, after a brief struggle, and with an
air of profound mystery imparted the story of Charlotte's safety.
“But she 's real sick!” continued Matilda. “She don't know
anything, but talks such unheard-of things! Berthy is with her
every minute o' the time; and they 've had the doctor to her twice
to-day. Don't you whisper it, for the world! I don't want even
Berthy should know I told ye, for I promised I would n't!”
“In this very house!” ejaculated Enos, crossing his legs, first
one way, then the other, then getting up, then sitting down again,
then embracing his knees with his arms, as if to hold himself
together. “Beats everything! What 'u'd them Southe'ners give?
Jingoes! 'Tilda! it 's the greatest thing I ever heard, in all my
born days!”
“Hark!” whispered Matilda. “Berthy 's coming!”
Dickson and his companions fortified themselves in the village
tavern, and appeared to take a brute pride in braving an outraged
public. With law, pistols, and the rum-drinking community, on
their side, they apprehended little personal danger, as long there
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was no occasion for the active performance of their Union-saving
functions. Whether they were waiting to receive instructions
with regard to the prosecution of Mr. Jackwood, or whether they
still entertained hopes of hearing from Charlotte, could only be
surmised. Perhaps they had both objects in view. They were
also very active in procuring information with regard to colored
people, both in the States and in Canada, evidently with the design
of seizing some fugitive supposed to have taken refuge in
that region.
One day, as Dickson was riding over the turnpike, he was
accosted by a person passing in the same direction on foot. “Ye
look kind o' lonesome, ridin' alone; p'r'aps ye would n't mind
givin' me a lift as fur as the Corners.”
“Jump aboard,” replied Dickson.
“The turnpike don't look much as it did about a week ago,”
observed the chance passenger, as he pulled the blanket over his
knees. “Though p'r'aps you wan't in these parts at the time,”—
with a glance at Dickson's face. “The water was up to a
hoss's knees all along this road, and a good deal deeper in places.
But it fell 'bout as sudden as it riz. It had n't more 'n time to
freeze over, 'fore down it went, and there wan't nothin' but a scum
of ice left on the interval. Then the snow come; and now ye
would n't know there 'd been a freshet at all. Do you belong in
these parts?”
“I 've been stoppin' a few days down here,” replied Dickson.
“Bizness, I s'pose?”
“Wal, business and pleasure combined. I wanted to see what
kind o' stuff you Yankees was made of,” — with a grin of insolent
good-nature.
“You 're from the South, I take it?”
“Wal, I be! The people in these diggin's have pooty generally
found that out, I reck'n!”
Mr. Crumlett — for the passenger was no other than our friend
Enos — felt a good deal excited, and his teeth began to chatter. —
“I guess likely ye remember the freshet, then!”
“Wal, I reck'n! Some things 't an't so easy to rub out!” said
Dickson, whipping his horse.
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“'T was dre'ful unfort'nit 'bout her gittin' drownded!” observed
Mr. Crumlett, in a friendly tone.
“I would n't have had it happen,” cried Dickson, “for twice
the wuth of her! that 's a fact! But 't an't all over with!”
“How do ye git along with Mr. Jackwood?”
“O, we 're gitt'n' along! Things is work'n'!”
“I s'pose there an't no doubt,” said Enos, “'bout her bein'
drownded — hey? You give it up as a gone case, I s'pose?”
“It 's mighty doubtful 'bout our ever hearin' of her agin, I
reck'n,” replied Dickson.
“Arter all,” remarked Mr. Crumlett, “'t would n't be nothin'
so very strange, if she was hid away some'eres right in the neighborhood.
'T an't 't all likely, I know; but s'posin' she was?”
“'T an't a supposable case, hardly; and if she was, the next
thing 'u'd be to git a clue of her. Gi' me a clue,” said Dickson,
with professional assurance, “and 't an't easy to trip me up!
The gal never 'd got away as she did, if I could have had my
way.”
Mr. Crumlett chuckled nervously. “Wal, there an't no use
talkin', if she 's drownded, — but if she only was hid away some'eres,
't would n't be a bad joke, hey? You 'd be tickled, I
guess!”
“Wal, I should, — particularly if I got suspicions of it in
time!”
“Can't help laffin'!” chuckled Mr. Crumlett; “but, arter all,
it 's no use; there an't a doubt but that she 's drownded; you
really think there an't, I s'pose?”
“I 'd give,” said Dickson, casting a shrewd glance at his companion, —
“I 'd give a hundred dollars, out o' my own pocket, jest
to have sech a clue as I spoke of.”
“A hundred dollars!” echoed Enos, quickly. “You would n't
give me a hundred dollars, now, — jest s'pose, for instance —”
“I tell you what I would do,” exclaimed Dickson, “jest for
the sake o' talk'n'. I 'd give fifty dollars, cash down, and fifty
more in case the gal was found. That 'u'd be fair enough,
would n't it?”
“Wal, yis, I s'pose so,” said Mr. Crumlett, taken with a
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general shivering. “But, since she 's drownded, there an't no use
talkin'. We 're havin' a fine spell o' weather now.”
“I can fancy your call'n' it fine,” returned Dickson. “But
I 've had enough of your Varmount winters.”
“It 's warmer where you be, hey? Do ye 'xpect to stop long
in these parts?”
“That depends altogether upon circumstances. If I could lay
hands on that gal —”
“Ha! ha! it makes me laf!” said Mr. Crumlett. “What if
I could find out suthin about her? — though 't an't possible, of
course!”
“Hold them 'ar lines a minute, if you please.” Enos took the
reins, and his companion, pulling off his driving-gloves, brought
up from the depths of his pocket a handful of gold. “Three —
six — nine, — there 's twelve half-eagles; that makes sixty dollars;
I 'll give that to any man for a sure clue to that gal's whereabouts,
if she 's livin', and in the States; and as much more if
she 's found, in consequence. Now, thar 's a chance for a speculation.”
“So there is, — or, ruther, would be,” — Mr. Crumlett's teeth
chattered harder than ever, — “but what 's the use?”
“That 's gold,” said Dickson, clinking the coin. “Sixty dollars, —
twice sixty is a hundred and forty —”
“A hundred and twenty!” interrupted Mr. Crumlett.
“Wal, we 'll call it a hundred and forty, for the sake of talk;
sixty down, and eighty on condish'n.”
“What do ye s'pose 'u'd be done with her, if she should be
found?” chattered Mr. Crumlett.
“Why,” said Dickson, “she 's got friends up here, I reck'n.
They 'd buy her, ruther 'n see her go South agin, would n't they?
All the owner wants is the wuth of his property.”
“That 's nat'ral!” said Mr. Crumlett.
“And, under the circumstances, he 'd put her 't a low figur'.
O,” cried Dickson cracking his whip, carelessly, “I 'd be responsible
there should n't be no trouble about that.”
“Do ye think so? are ye sure?” demanded Mr. Crumlett
“Hold on; I got to git out here.”
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“I 'm sorry; I was in hopes o' havin' your company cl'ar to
the village. Won't ye go no further?”
“Can't very well, — should like to, but I got an arrant over
here. — Look here!” cried Mr. Crumlett — how his teeth did
chatter! — “but never mind! I could n't find out nothin', if I
should try. So, 't an't no use talkin'. Though, by gracious! I 'm
a good mind to inquire 'round! You won't be drivin' this way
to-morrer 'bout this time, will ye?”
“I don't know but I shall,” returned Dickson; “why?”
“Wal, nothin',” said Enos. “But, then, if you 're goin' by, —
wal, I don't know, if you should turn into that 'ere road you
passed jest t' other side o' the secont house over the crick, per'aps
you 'd find me choppin' on the edge o' the woods. I don't 'xpect
to find out anything; but, if I should,” — chatter, chatter! shiver,
shiver! — “wal, on the hull, I guess 't won't be wuth while to
think about it!”
“I 'll make it wuth yer while!” And Dickson, giving Mr.
Crumlett's hand a hearty shake, left a piece of money in it.
“That 's to pay ye for your trouble, any way. Come, ride over
to the tavern, and take suthin!”
“Can't possibly!” said Enos, getting out of the sleigh.
“Wal, see ye to-morrer!” exclaimed Dickson, confidentially.
“Make it all right, ye know! Take care o' yerself, old boy!”
He drove away. Poor Crumlett! how he did shiver, as he gazed
after him! He could n't tell why he shivered, — the day was not
extremely cold, — and now he discovered that the perspiration was
starting from every pore of his skin.
“A hundred and forty dollars!” — Chatter, chatter! shiver,
shiver! again; and Mr. Crumlett wiped the cold sweat-drops
from his face. He thought he was going to have a “shake of the
ager;” but it was worse than that: he had caught the worst
kind of yellow fever, from the sight of Dickson's gold.
-- -- p732-355
XLI. CONFESSIONS.
[figure description] Page 352.[end figure description]
Charlotte raised her head feebly from the pillow, with a
troubled expression; but, perceiving Bertha, who sat watching by
the bedside, a faint, grateful smile stole over her wan features.
“O,” said she, with deep emotion, “you are always watching!
Good Bertha! dear Bertha! I should have died but for you! I
have been very sick, have I not?”
“Very sick,” replied Bertha, taking the poor girl's hands in
hers. “O, I am so thankful to see you better now!”
“I am afraid my mind is not quite right, as yet,” Charlotte
said. “Every noise startles me. I thought, just now, some persons
I feared were rushing into the room.”
“It was grandmother, who looked in, to ask how you were.”
“And Hector?” said Charlotte. “Something has happened to
him! God help me, if he does not come soon! I am still hunted;
and I lie here sick, while I should be hastening to a place of
safety! But I will not repine. — Tell me, Bertha! did I talk
much in my fever?”
“A good deal, at times,” said Bertha.
“Will you tell me all I said?”
“I did not try to remember anything, because you were delirious.”
“I wish you would tell me!” said Charlotte, with a troubled
smile.
Bertha drew near; her cheeks changed their color, and her
lips quivered; but, bending affectionately over the pillow, she
whispered something which made the sufferer start and clasp her
hand upon her heart.
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“It is true, Bertha!” faltered Charlotte.
“You are his wife!” said Bertha; and her features seemed
transfixed with pain.
“You are not glad to hear it!” said Charlotte, sadly. “You
think that one in my position — But, believe me, Bertha, it
was his LOVE! Perhaps I should not have yielded. I know I have
destroyed the peace and the pride of his family, — but, O, Bertha,
do not you hate me for it! do not! You are happy; you are
united to the man you love; and I am glad for you! And you —
in your place — do not judge me harshly, — do not, good
Bertha!”
“O, Charlotte!” Bertha cried out; “if you could look into
my heart! You have not understood me! And I have not
understood myself till now!”
“You know me now, what I am,” said Charlotte. “If you
still love me and trust me, why not open our hearts to each
other? I will show you all of mine —”
“But mine!” exclaimed Bertha, — “O, what a wayward thing
it is! You would hate me, Charlotte!”
“Hate you, dearest Bertha!”
“Yes, — for just now I hated you; I had something like death
for you in my soul! You did not know — that I — that I — loved
Hector!”
“Bertha! Bertha!” moaned Charlotte.
“What frenzy has forced me to tell you?” cried Bertha. “But
you will not hate me; you will not betray me! I must confess
myself to you, or the weight that is on my soul will kill me! I
love my husband; — for he is good, and how could I not love him?—
but not as a wife should love a husband! I never did! I believed,
I hoped I should, when we were married. But I shrink from his
near approach. I am repelled from him by every instinct and
feeling of my nature. Charlotte, tell me what to do!”
Charlotte, in her amazement and pity, could not utter a word.
“I am no longer jealous,” Bertha went on. “I felt but one
sharp, piercing pang, when you told me you were Hector's wife.
I gave him up long ago; I have schooled myself to resignation;
I pray for his happiness and yours, from the depths of my heart.”
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“I know you do!” said Charlotte. “O, Bertha! poor, dear
Bertha! what can I do for you? — Do not sob so!”
“I will not,” returned Bertha, struggling with herself. “I
have no right to lay my burdens upon you. Yet I needed to
confess myself to some one.”
“And you deemed me worthy.” Bertha kissed her friend. “O,
sister!” breathed Charlotte, “your lot is hard! But duty will
sustain you, and prayer will make you strong.”
“I do not know,” exclaimed Bertha, wildly. “I thought I
did my duty when I married. I see now how it was. I silenced
my nature; I stifled my deepest convictions; I followed the
dictates of calculation. But I thought I was doing right. And,
if I could then be so deceived, how can I ever be sure of the truth?
I dare not even pray! In the very act horrible promptings come
to me. It is as if Satan mocked me!”
“Perhaps,” said Charlotte, “this is the punishment for disobeying
your deepest convictions. The Spirit has been grieved
away. But seek it again, and it will come; it will teach you
what to do.”
“You comfort me, Charlotte! But, O, the fatal error! — I
had not the heroism to live an old maid; that is it! Mr. Rukely
was good — he was a minister — I desired a home, and a
position. And, as I could not have the one I loved, I flattered
myself I ought to marry him. I called esteem and friendship
love; I made expediency appear a duty. Do not think I have
been disappointed in my husband. He is all I expected, and more;
he is too good to me. Only — we do not belong to each other.
And, Charlotte, was it not a great sin?”
Charlotte shuddered involuntarily. A long silence followed.
“You have something to say to me of yourself,” uttered Bertha,
at length.
“Yes; but I am too weak now. To-morrow, if I am stronger —”
“To-morrow, then, dear Charlotte! — I will wait. We will
both be stronger then.” And Bertha embraced her friend, holding
her long in her arms, and kissing her fervently.
On the following day, Bertha, having an hour's leisure, came
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in and sat down by the convalescent's side. “You were to tell
me something,” she said.
“Yes, dear Bertha. But sit nearer. I want your hand in
mine.”
Having raised her friend to an easy position, and braced her up
with pillows, Bertha sat upon the side of the bed, holding her
hand, and supporting her in a half-embrace.
“It is the story of my life, Bertha. Camille is the name my
father gave me. He was a French merchant, named Antoine
Delisard. In his youth he had been attached to a young girl, —
my namesake; but both were poor, and, on a visit to Louisiana,
he became acquainted with a lady whose wealth and accomplishments
fascinated him, and they were married. It was an unhappy
union. She proved a cold and heartless woman, with nothing in
her nature to compensate him for the sacrifice of poor Camille. A
separation took place; and he was about returning to France,
when, by chance, he saw my mother. She belonged to a bankrupt
estate; she was to be sold; and he purchased her. She was then
seventeen. I think she was beautiful. She was the child of a
white father, and of a mother scarce darker than himself. She
was not wanting in education and accomplishments. Brought up
in her father's family, she had received the same advantages
with his legitimate children. My father loved her; and the
difference in their ages did not prevent her returning his attachment
with all the fervor of her nature.
“I was their only child. We lived in a pleasant part of the
city, where not more than half a dozen friends came to visit my
father in the course of the year. He seemed entirely absorbed in
his affection for my mother and me. I was his pet. I remember
how playfully he used to snatch me up in his arms, when he
returned home at night from his work. It was joyful times then!
My mother was proud and happy. Sometimes they took me with
them into the country; and I recollect that once there was a great
storm; the wind broke down trees, and tore them up by the roots,
and my father's hat flew away in a cloud of dust. He held me in
his arms, to prevent my flying away too. At first I thought it
great fun, and clapped my hands; but afterwards I cried with
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fright, while my father ran with me across a field, in a high wind,
to a house which remains as distinct a picture in my mind as if I
had seen it yesterday. A few such incidents form prominent
points in my memory of those days; the rest is smooth and quiet.
“When we were alone, my mother used to occupy herself in
teaching me to read and write. If I was indolent, she excited my
ambition by reminding me of my father, whose praise and encouragement
made my little heart beat proudly and happily. I remember
his saying to me, one day, `You will shine with the rest of
them, when we go to France.' I was sitting on his knee repeating
a lesson my mother had taught me. I looked in his face — I
think of it now as such a kind, good face! — and asked what he
meant by going to France. `You will know, one of these days,
darling!' said he, — and, kissing me, he took me in his arms and
hugged me tight. For a good many days I thought of what he
had said. I asked my mother what he meant; she told me
that France was a beautiful country away over the sea, and that
we were all going there together, as soon as my father was rich
enough, so that we could live in grand style, and spend as much
money as we pleased. She seemed elated with the idea, and of
course I thought it fine; but an old negro servant we had laughed
at us, and told us she had heard too many such stories to believe
them. That was the first time I ever saw my mother angry. She
threatened to have the old woman whipped; but she only laughed
the more, showing her hideous gums and broken teeth, which I
remember to this day.
“After that we talked a great deal about France. But we
were careful not to let the old woman hear us; and, if she entered
the room, we were silent. My mother excited my imagination
with romantic stories, repeating what my father had told her,
with a thousand exaggerations. I thought of nothing, dreamed
of nothing, but France. But one day my father came home with
a headache, and went to bed. The next I remember, the house
was filled with strangers; I was terrified, and my mother was
frantic. There was a tall, pale, severe woman, who had her
servants and doctors, and who would not let us go into the room
where he was. One day, however, my mother armed herself
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with a knife, and rushed into the room, dragging me after her.
There was a pallor and fury in her looks which frightened the
attendants away, and for some time we had sole possession of the
chamber. My father called her his brave girl; and, although he
was very sick, he pressed us in his arms, declaring that we should
not be taken from him again. But suddenly he fell back. My
mother screamed. The pale woman rushed in, and we were carried
out. I remember my mother clinging to the bed, from which
she was torn by main force, struggling and shrieking; then we
were locked up in a solitary room. I knew, from her grief and
despair, that my father was dead. I had little knowledge, however,
of the destiny that awaited us. I cried because he could not
go with us to France! I wondered if we should go without him!
“The pale woman was his wife. By law, we were a part of
his property, and she and her children were his heirs. Then we
learned what it was to be slaves! My mother had almost forgotten;
I had never known. I became the companion of slave-children,
on a plantation owned by Mrs. Delisard's father. I was
half-clad, like them; I ate their coarse food; I slept in their miserable
huts.”
“And your mother?” said Bertha.
“She was kept as a servant in the house. I did not know,
then, how much she was to be pitied. The change in her own
condition was not her hardest trial. To see me, her darling
growing up with children of an ignorant and degraded class, was
more than she could bear. One day Mrs. Delisard brought a lady
to visit the plantation. It is one of the most terrible days in my
remembrance. I do not know the immediate cause of the outburst;
but my mother lost all command of her temper, and poured
forth a volley of indignation and anger against her mistress, of
which I had a vague consciousness of being in some way the subject.
Mrs. Delisard said, `The child shall be sold!' Her paleness
frightened me more than my mother's violence. During the
scene, a young man rode up, and, throwing himself from his horse,
struck my mother with the butt of his riding-whip across the temples.
It was Mrs. Delisard's son —”
“Your brother?” ejaculated Bertha.
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“I suppose so! — My mother fell to the ground, and was carried
away insensible. I never saw her again.”
“She died!”
“O, no! she was not so happy! There was a place on the
plantation where the worst field-hands were, on extraordinary occasions,
confined for bad behavior. It was a wretched, dismal
pen, which the superstitious slaves had peopled with imaginary
horrors; and to be imprisoned there over night was looked upon
as a more dreadful and degrading punishment than whipping.
There my mother was shut up, and the great black padlock was
put upon the door. I heard Mrs. Delisard say, `to humiliate
her,' — and for years after I could not hear the word humiliate,
without associating it with all that was gloomy and terrible.”
“How long was she kept there?”
“I do not know. No person was allowed to go near her. The
slaves huddled together that night, and told over all the stories
which could be remembered or imagined in connection with the
jail. There was a tradition of an old negro who died there, one
night, years before, in consequence of a cutting-up, or flogging,
and whose ha'nt, or apparition, was sure to manifest itself whenever
there were any troubles on the plantation. One of the storytellers,
who had passed a night in the jail, declared that he heard
the old negro shelling corn on a shovel until three o'clock in the
morning. The rest related similar superstitions, frightening themselves
and each other, until they scarcely dared separate for the
night. For my part, I was glad to creep into the bunk with the
other children, and cover my eyes, for fear of seeing the ghost of
the old negro. How I trembled for my mother! I was too terrified
even to cry.
“The next morning, after the hands had gone to the field, I
was waiting anxiously to know what would be done with my
mother, or if she was still alive, when there was an inquiry made
for me, and the children whispered that `Milly was going to be
sold!'”
“Who was Milly?” inquired Bertha.
“If you had seen all eyes turned upon me, with shy and wondering
looks, you would have discovered who Milly was! That
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was the nickname of Camille. I was marched out for inspection.
The overseer of the plantation turned me around, and made me
show my arms and knees to a stranger, who was going to buy me.
I remember the man's saying that I looked sickly, and the overseer's
saying that it was `nat'ral white.' Then they walked away
tegether, to conclude the bargain. I saw the overseer point
towards the jail; and it seemed to me that he was explaining why
I was to be sold, and telling about my mother. All this time I
could say nothing but `Don't sell me! please don't have me
sold!' I was sobbing, when one of the servants came to take me
to the piazza, where Mrs. Delisard was walking with her visitor.
The lady spoke to me kindly, and asked me how I would like to
have her buy me. I said I did not want to be sold. `But you
would rather go with me than with that man, would you not?'
said the lady. `I want to go with my mother,' said I, `and I do
not want to be sold.' Then she said something aside to Mrs. Delisard's
I only heard Mrs. Delisard's reply that she was determined.
I thought it was something awful to be determined; for
I was wise enough to see that there was no mercy in her heart for
either my mother or me.
“I was sold, and carried away that day. I remember struggling
and crying to see my mother again; after which, I can
recall nothing, until I found myself in my new home. It was at
the house of the lady who had purchased me. She came and
asked me how I was, as I lay upon a bed, in a room in which I
had awaked without even knowing how I was brought there. I
begged to be taken back to my mother. It was not until years
after that I heard anything definite with regard to her fate.
Then I learned that, on coming out of the jail, she never laughed
again, or spoke, unless she was addressed. Her spirit was crushed.
She pined away, and her owners tried to sell her; but she had
become unfit for any labor; and, in the course of a few months,
she died.”
“Your own mother!” said Bertha.
“Alas, Bertha!” continued her friend, wiping her tears, “I
had already divined her fate. For a long time after I was sold,
I felt her spirit crying out for me, and refusing to be comforted.
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But at length she seemed to come to me; and one night I had
such perfect consciousness of her presence, that I firmly believed
she had been near. The next night, I felt her presence again.
She told me in a dream that she was free, and that she would be
with me always, to guard and strengthen me. By degrees the
truth revealed itself, and I knew her spirit had attained that freedom
which did not exist for her on earth.
“Like Mrs. Delisard, my new mistress was a widow; she was
gay and independent; but she had a benevolent heart, and, from
the first, she treated me with a great deal of kindness. She was
naturally impatient; but, as I became accustomed to her habits
and caprices, I could wait upon her and please her better than
any one else. I think she had a real affection for me. I could
tell you a great many anecdotes about her; but I will relate only
one or two, which make points in my own history. As I had
much leisure time, I used to amuse myself with reading such
books as I could steal from the library and return without danger
of discovery. How Mrs. Beman came to suspect the habit, I
never knew; but one day she said to me, `Milly, can you read?'
`I could read a little once,' I acknowledged, tremblingly. After
a few more such questions, which I answered evasively, she said,
`Take my advice, Milly, and do not read any more. It is a bad
practice for girls in your condition. Servants have no business
with books. Above all, do not read such stories as the Bride of
the Forest; they will only serve to put idle fancies into your
head, and make you unhappy.'
“The Bride of the Forest was the book I had been reading
that very day! I said nothing, but went away and cried. That
night Mrs. Beman called me to her, after she was in bed. `Take
this book,' said she, `and show me how well you can read.' The
book was the Bride of the Forest! I felt my cheek burn, and my
voice trembled as I read. But, after a little stammering, I got on
very well. Mrs. Beman praised me. `It is quite interesting,'
said she. `Continue; but do not try to read so fast.' I was encouraged.
I read chapter after chapter, waiting for her to tell
me to stop. At length I glanced furtively from the page, to
observe her expression. She was fast asleep. From that time,
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one of the pleasantest duties I had to perform was to read her to
sleep.
“An unfortunate occurrence put an end to this recreation.
Mrs. Beman married. She took home a handsome young husband,
several years younger than herself. The servants said
among themselves that he married her for her property, and she
him for his beauty. They liked the change; and not enough
could be said in praise of the new master. He was careless, liberal,
and indulgent. Everybody was happy but me. I found the
coarse society of the servants a poor recompense for the delicious
nights I used to spend reading to my mistress.
“But it was not long before I met with another change of fortune.
One day, my mistress called me to an account. `Milly,'
said she, `how do you like Mr. Woodbridge?' `He is a good
master,' said I; `all the servants like him.' `He is kind to
you, Milly, is he not?' `O, always!' said I. `Indeed,' said my
mistress, `he has taken a particular fancy to you, has n't he?' I
trembled, and blushed, and said I did not know. `O,' said she,
laughing, — it was a laugh I did not like, — `you know very well
whether he fancies you or not. Did he ever kiss you?' `No,'
said I, earnestly, `he never did!' `Did he ever try?' she asked,
in a quiet, significant tone, which told me that she knew everything.
`Be honest, Milly, and tell me the truth.'
“Although I had learned to lie in her service, without doing
the least violence to my conscience, I could not compose my face
to lie to her. `Yes,' said I, `he tried once — in fun.' — `And
once afterwards, in earnest — eh, Milly?' — `But I would n't let
him!' I protested, looking her full in the face. `I believe you,'
said my mistress. `He is coming,' she added, starting from her
seat. `Tell him I am in the garden.'
“She stepped into the alcove, just as Mr. Woodbridge entered
the room. `Where is your mistress, Milly?' he asked. `I don't
know, sir,' said I. `I reckon she 's in the garden.' He pulled
me by the arm, and tried to make me sit upon his knee. `You
are the queerest girl that ever was!' said he. `What 's the reason
you won't let me kiss you?' I told him that he was my mistress'
husband, and that she was very fond of him. `And so am
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I of her,' said he; `but that don't hinder my liking a pretty
young face like yours, you know. She was young once, but that
was a good while ago. Don't tell her I said so, unless you want
her to take both our heads off!'
“He was trying to kiss me again, and I was fighting him away,
when he suddenly let me go. My mistress was coming out of the
alcove. `That will do, George!' said she, smiling, with her forefinger
raised. But her cheek was pale, and there was something
bitter and vindictive in her smile. I never saw so blank a face
as his! `You may go, Milly,' — and I ran from the room. Two
or three days after, she called me to her, and, talking to me
kindly, though not with the frank good-nature with which she
used to talk to me, told me she thought it best for me to have
another mistress. `Don't cry, Milly,' said she. `You are a good
girl, and I have found a good mistress for you. It is Mrs. Graves.
She has coveted you ever since I told her, long ago, that I had a
servant to read me to sleep. Her husband is an old man; and
there will be little danger of his liking you too well.'
“All this was some consolation. But I was attached to Mrs.
Woodbridge, and could not bear the thought of leaving her. I
did not know, until afterwards, how really kind she had been.
She had sold me at a sacrifice to Mrs. Graves, in order to secure
for me a good mistress; although she might have obtained a much
higher price for me, at the hands of speculators.”
“How strange it sounds, to hear you speak of being bought and
sold!” exclaimed Bertha.
“It sounds strange to me, too, Bertha! All this part of my
life seems like a dream, as I look back upon it. Mrs. Graves
was very young. She had married when a mere child, to please
an ambitious parent; her husband was old and jealous. She had
suffered extremely before I saw her; but she had naturally a patient
temper, and a spiritual mind; and she found her consolation
in the deep realities of a religious life. I never cease to be thankful
to the kind Providence that placed me under her influence.
As her husband's jealousy shut her out from society, she made
a companion and confidant of me; and I grew up with her,
much like a younger sister. She first taught me the beauty of
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truth; and her gentle words found always such sweet echoes in
my heart, that I asked no greater privilege than to sit at her
feet, with tears of tenderness in my eyes, and listen. She used
to tell me that nobody in the world knew her, but me. I am sure
there was no one else to whom she could talk of that which was
nearest her heart. The little society she saw consisted of worldly
and superficial people, with whom she could feel no sympathy.
Her chief consolation, out of herself, was books, which I used to
read to her. But the volumes she chose were different from those
I read to Mrs. Beman. She took great delight in the Gospels;
I used often to read a passage, then together we would seek for
its interior meaning. O, Bertha! how wonderful are all those
sayings of our Saviour! I had read them before, without understanding
them. To Mrs. Graves I owed the revelation of their
spirit. The love, the wisdom, the beauty of that spirit, widened,
and deepened, and brightened, day by day, as I studied under her
instruction. Next to the Scriptures, there were a few books of
essays and philosophy, that gratified her most. Then I read
choice volumes of travels, history, poetry, and romance. So three
years passed. I was seventeen, when Richard, a nephew of Mr.
Graves, came home from Germany, where he had been studying.
He visited us often; and I soon discovered a strong sympathy
between him and his youthful aunt. She confessed to him her
aspirations and her faith; and, in return, he imparted to her the
results of his philosophical studies, with reminiscences of his
foreign tour. He was surprised to find that, with her own intuitive
perceptions, she had discerned truths which he had arrived at
only with great labor. But, with all his learning, she became his
teacher. Like me, he sat at her feet, and listened with tearful
eyes. Sometimes she spoke like one inspired, putting all his
philosophy aside; then she would ask his forgiveness, sweetly and
humbly, telling him that she knew nothing, and that it was not
herself that spoke.
“I was nearly always witness of their interviews. Sometimes
Mr. Graves was present; then his wife would tell me gently that
I could retire. If he went away, I was recalled. But this state
of things could not continue. One evening, Mr. Graves came
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suddenly upon us, when we supposed him fifty miles away. In
the morning he had given out word that he was going upon a
journey, to be absent a couple of days. He had remained in
town to watch. When he entered, Richard was on the floor;
Mrs. Graves sat upon an ottoman, holding his head in her lap.
The night was warm; the doors were all flung open; there was
no light but the glimmer of the moon, which shone through the
windows. The old man crept in like a cat. I cannot describe
the scene that ensued. Mrs. Graves, in her gentlest tones, called
me to witness her innocence. Until that moment, he had not been
aware of my presence. I hastened from the obscure corner where
I sat; but the sight of me appeared only to enrage him the more.
He knew the confidence Mrs. Graves placed in me, and believed me
a mere tool, that could be blind, deaf, and dumb, in her service,
as occasion required. Richard was driven from the house. He
would have set up a defence, but Mrs. Graves requested him to
go. She was calm and resigned, and only said, in answer to her
husband's charges, that he did his own soul injustice. Her innocence
appeared a shield from which his shafts glanced off harmless.
Unfortunately, they struck me. Some sacrifice to his rage
was necessary. Richard had gone too quietly; his wife was too
patient under the stroke. To tear her heart, he resolved that I
should go too. This was the third great blow of my life. But it
fell more heavily upon me than either my father's death or the
separation from my mother, because I was now of an age to appreciate
all my loss. Another such mistress did not exist on earth.
I was once more a slave. I was young; I was not without some
personal attractions; I was at the mercy of whoever might purchase
me. Once more I was sold. The affair was concluded
before even Mrs. Graves suspected the turn her husband's vengeance
had taken. I knew nothing of it until the morning I was
carried away. At the announcement of my fate, I fell down in
a swoon. Ah, Bertha! I can tell you nothing of the agony of
that day!”
“But it is terrible,” said Bertha, “to be subject to the caprices
of a mean and revengeful old man! His wife, could she do nothing
for you?”
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“How could she? Although her servant, I was his property.
I was torn from her arms, and placed in a close carriage, which
bore me away from her forever. My new owner accompanied me
He was a speculator, who had been for a few days at New Orleans
transacting business with Mr. Graves. He was taking me to Mobile.
I can only describe him as one of those smooth, pleasant
men, with something indefinably bad and repulsive in their natures,
from which we shrink instinctively. He tried to cheer me,
by telling me, gayly, that one good master was worth forty good
mistresses, for a handsome young girl like me. We reached Mobile
that afternoon. His wife met us, on our arrival. She was
a passionate woman, with a certain plumpness and fairness about
her, which passed with many for beauty. But she looked anything
but beautiful to me then. `For heaven's sake, doctor!'
she cried, `what have you got there?' `Only a bit of a speculation,
' said my new master, with a laugh. `I bought her for seven
hundred,' he added, in a low tone, `and if I don't get twelve for
her within as many days, I 'll give her to you. You shall have
that new shawl the day I get her off my hands.' Ah, Bertha!
you never knew what it was to be the property of a base and
selfish man! No law to protect me; no friend to whom I could
appeal; no chance or hope of escape, — what could I do? He
could not comprehend how a person in my condition should resist
him; and the longer I evaded his pursuit, the more desperate and
determined he became. At length, — it was after the lapse of
several months, — there came a change. O, Bertha! if I had the
courage to draw the dark picture of those months! — but let
them pass!
“Dr. Tanwood was frequently absent, on affairs of business or
pleasure; at which times his wife was in the habit of receiving
visitors, who rarely came when he was supposed to be at home.
I should tell you that, in the mean while, the twelve days having
long since elapsed during which I was to have been sold, he had
gone through with the mockery of giving me to his wife. She
was naturally an extravagant and luxurious woman, and the gratification
of having me to dress her, and wait upon her, and fan
her as she lolled upon her favorite lounge, had partly reconciled
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her to my presence. One day she sent me to say to a visitor, who
was waiting in the parlor, that she would be with him in two minutes, —
which meant ten. As I entered, he looked at me strangely,
as he had often done before, — for he had been frequently at the
house, — and as I was retiring, he called me back. I asked him
what he would have. `You can put away my hat,' said he. But,
as I went to take it, he held it, and looked up in my face. `What
is your name?' `Camille,' said I, — `people call me Milly.'
`Camille,' said he, `I am a northern man. There is something
I would say to you, if I dared.' I was frightened by the wild
thoughts that rushed through my brain. `You understand me,'
he said. `Yes,' I answered; `and you may dare to say anything!
' `Can you read?' `Yes.' `And write?' `Yes.' `You
have heard of the northern states?' said he. `The free states!'
I answered. `Good!' said he. `There is no need of explanations.
Go now. I will see you again.'
“I ran back trembling to my mistress. She was dressing, and
scolded me for leaving her so long alone. I assisted her, scarce
knowing what I did; but I finished the task without exciting her
suspicions, and she swept into the parlor. Presently she summoned
me, and called for water and glasses. `For Mr. Roberts,'
said she, languidly, with a wave of her fan, as I reëntered with a
salver. Mr. Roberts took a glass and handed it to her; then
taking one for himself, he dropped a little ball of paper upon the
salver. You can imagine the eagerness with which I unrolled it,
and examined its contents, the moment I was alone. There were
four lines, written with a pencil, which I will repeat, if I have
not forgotten them:
`Would ye know how young Ellen deceived the old couple?
In a swate little billet, directed to Pat,
She wrote all her sorrow, her hopes, and her trouble,
And pinned it one night in the crown of his hat.'
“It was not easy to forget those lines, Bertha! I thought I
discovered in Mr. Roberts a generous and adventurous spirit, that
might be of infinite service, if I would trust him. I stole pencil
and paper from the doctor's office, and, carrying them to the
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garret, wrote a hurried account of `poor Ellen,' who, in the despair
of her state, was ready to adopt any measures to escape from the
tyranny of the aged couple. Had the note actually fallen into
my mistress' hands, I doubt if she would have understood it. I
think she was not even aware that I could write. But it did not
fall into her hands. I secreted it in the lining of the visitor's
hat, which I had previously placed upon the hall-table. Thus
our correspondence began. When he came again, I found another
communication where I had placed mine. It was in rhyme, which
he appeared to have a talent for composing; and in it I read, with
trembling interest, the assurance that Patrick O'Rooney would
devise speedy means for the deliverance of poor Ellen.
“I had now strong hopes of escaping from my precarious situation.
It was time. Irritated by my constant evasions, the doctor
had threatened to sell me to a coarser and brutal man, whom
he brought to the house to intimidate me. `He has offered a
thousand dollars for you,' said he, `and if I can't tame you, he
shall. He has no jealous wife to stand in the way.' The menace
served to accelerate the crisis. I found Mr. Roberts resolute and
ingenious. Indeed, his extraordinary audacity alarmed me more
than once. Sometimes he came twice the same day, bringing me
messages in his hat. I wondered how Mrs. Tanwood could
avoid seeing that his visits were designed for me; but she was
infatuated, and believed that she had charmed him to that point.
“On one occasion, he brought an acquaintance, whom he introduced
to Mrs. Tanwood. Ah, Bertha! it is with strange feelings
that I recall the incidents of that night! The acquaintance
was Hector! How well I remembered him, when I saw him for
the second time at your house, there on the hill!”
“You had seen him, then!” exclaimed Bertha. “Tell
about it!”
“Indeed, there is not much to tell. I was afraid of him, and
wished him away. Mr. Roberts had been wise enough not to
call his attention to me; it seemed, however, when I met him at
your house, that my features were fixed in his memory, and that
I could not move or speak without danger of recognition. One
incident I thought surely would recur to him, at sight of me.
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Mr. Roberts brought me a small bundle that night, which I had
taken from his hat, and concealed in a barrel in the garret, during
their visit. On going away, Hector observed his friend's hat,
and spoke of this package. `Do you take me for a lackey?' cried
Mr. Roberts, with a laugh. `You certainly had a package,' said
Hector, `for I remarked it both in the street and after we came
in.' My mistress called me, to know what I had done with it.
I am good for nothing when a sudden shock comes upon me, and
coolness and self-possession are required to turn aside suspicion.
I trembled, and felt my cheek change color; but before I had
time to reply, Mr. Roberts declared that it was a joke of his
friend's; and I took advantage of the discussion which ensued,
to escape from observation.”
“What was the package?” asked Bertha.
“It contained articles destined for my disguise; I had been
unable to get them myself, and Mr. Roberts had engaged to procure
them for me. I need not tell you with what anxiety I now
counted the days, and hours, and minutes. At last, O, Bertha!
at last the night of all nights in my life was at hand! There
was so much depending upon the secrecy of my movements, and
such fatality might topple down, like an avalanche, at the touch
of the slightest accident, that I prayed continually for the guidance
of a power above my own.
“For some weeks I had been accustomed to make my bed on
the kitchen floor with the cook. She was no very pleasant companion;
she was decrepit and cross; more than that, she affected
to despise and hate me, because I was white. She suspected, however,
the reasons why I preferred her company to sleeping in a
room alone, and suffered me to occupy a corner of her dormitory.
I spread out my bed that night, and, lying down as usual, pretended
soon to be fast asleep. She was in a grumbling mood,
and talked in her worst style for over an hour; but I made no
reply; and at length, becoming weary of her muttered soliloquy,
she turned over, and became silent. About an hour later, the
doctor came home. The clock had just struck twelve. I heard
him enter softly, and take off his boots, before going up stairs.
He had reasons for not wishing to disturb his wife; and,
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notwithstanding all that had passed, he still entertained hopes of finding
me in the garret. I listened with a beating heart; and, after a
long silence, I heard his stealthy steps again on the stairs. He
came to the kitchen, and spoke to me. It was dark, and I lay still
as death, hoping that he would go away; but there was nothing
to prevent his entering the room, and he came in, on tiptoe. My
only resource was to rouse old Juno, and I shook her arm; but
her sleep was so heavy that I could not awaken her. The doctor
attempted to take me from her, and for a week after I carried
the mark of his hand upon my arm. The struggle awoke the
cook; I was saved. After the doctor was gone, she lay down
again in her corner, chuckling at his discomfiture. It was not
long before she was again asleep, and all was still in the house.
My great fear then was that he would return; I lay listening for
hours. At three o'clock, hearing no sound, I got up, and stole
softly from the kitchen. His office was on the same floor. His
wife's apartments and the parlor were on the floor above. I had
to pass these to arrive at the garret; but first I took the precaution
to open the street door. After waiting some time to ascertain
that no one was disturbed, I ascended the stairs, pausing and
listening at every step.
“Well, I reached the garret, and all was still. I then groped
my way to the barrel, where I had concealed my disguise, together
with a candle, necessary in making my toilet. I struck a light,
and proceeded to adjust my costume before a fragment of glass
stuck against the wall. I had an old and faded merino dress,
which I had arranged for the occasion. The articles Mr. Roberts
brought me I had prepared by stealth, and they were all ready to
put on. There was a wig of gray hair, and old-fashioned spectacles,
with colored glasses; in addition to which, I had an old
woman's cap, and a bonnet that shaded my face. The most difficult
thing of all was to color my complexion, to give it that
wrinkled appearance characteristic of old age. But this I had
already done once before, to give Mrs. Graves an evening's entertainment;
and had, at that time, succeeded so well, even in
deceiving the members of the house, that I felt confidence in adopting
the disguise for a more serious adventure.
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“At length all was arranged; and, looking in the glass, I was
half frightened at the image that met my view. It was no longer
myself, but a veritable old woman. So far, all was well; but, O,
Bertha, so much yet remained to be done! I had first to descend
the stairs, with a small bundle of clothes in one hand, and my
shoes in the other, pausing and listening at every step, as before.
But I will not dwell upon that; you can imagine my feelings, at
such a time. I succeeded in passing the hall, — then how glad I
was that I had taken the precaution to leave the door ajar! I
glided into the street, and put on my shoes. The city lay around
me, like a wilderness, so silent and deserted that the sound of my
own footsteps startled me. The stars were just beginning to wane
before the light of day. On the corner, where I expected to meet
my friend and guide, I encountered three or four intoxicated men,
who accosted me, and refused to let me pass, until I had answered
their tipsy questions. I dared not cry for help; for I knew not
which most to fear, them, or the city watchmen. Fortunately, at
this crisis, Mr. Roberts appeared, and rescued me from their
hands. I got away, and hastened along the street. In a little
while he rejoined me; then first I felt that I was safe; but he had
bad news to tell me, which left me little time to rejoice. He had
engaged the captain of a merchant ship, whom he had interested
in my behalf, to carry me to New York. His vessel lay down the
bay, and he was to send a boat at daybreak, to take me on board.
The evening previous, however, he had sent word, at a late hour,
that the day of sailing was postponed, — which Mr. Roberts had
not received in season to communicate to me. But he told me
not to be discouraged. `Of course,' said he, `you are not anxious
to go back.' Go back! I did not know what would tempt me to
go through again what I had that night suffered! `Well,' said
he, `the sooner you are out of the city, the better. There are
oyster-boats going down the river at all hours of the morning, and
I see no reason why one of them cannot be engaged to put you on
board the Manhattan.' We reached the river, and, walking along
the wharves, found two men preparing to push off. My companion
addressed them; but he did not like their appearance; and, for
my part, I was afraid to trust myself alone in their charge.”
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“Mr. Roberts was not going with you, then?” said Bertha.
“O, no; — but I will tell you about that. Near by, we saw
an old man and a boy, also on the point of setting out for the
oyster-banks; and Mr. Roberts proceeded to make a bargain for my
passage. `She is a poor old woman,' said he, `whose son has run
away, and she wants to catch him before he sails.' — The regret,
anxiety, joy, — O, Bertha! you can imagine what I felt as I took
leave of him, and stepped into the boat. He remained standing
upon the wharf; the old man pushed off; a light wind filled the
sail, and in a few moments the only friend I then had in the wide
world was lost to sight.
“The sun was near two hours' high when we approached the
Fleet, as it is called; and the old man pointed out to me the Manhattan,
riding at anchor in the bay. We had a good breeze; and
in a little while we sailed alongside. My heart stood still when
the old man hailed for the captain. The reply came that he was
ashore, and would not come on board until ten o'clock. I was
greatly alarmed at this; but, fortunately, I was recognized by the
mate, who was in the secret, and received on board. The old man
and his son were sent away, and I was conducted to the stateroom
secured for me. O, when the door was shut, and I was
alone, — and safe, — O, Bertha, how my full heart overflowed in
prayers and tears! I lay down in my berth; and I was so
exhausted and weary that I soon fell asleep. A rap at my door
awakened me. I was foolish enough to be frightened, imagining
that my master had come; but presently I summoned courage,
and turned back the bolt. A bronzed, bright, benevolent face
looked in upon me; it was the captain, whom I knew at once as a
friend. He assured me that the vessel would sail on the following
day, and, on hearing my story, offered to bet heavy sums that nobody
would think of looking for me on board his ship.
“I was more grateful than my words could express. The day
and night dragged slowly, but, O, I was patient, Bertha, and my
heart was full of a new joy. I was free! At last the time of
sailing arrived; what, then, was my surprise, on receiving a visit
from Mr. Roberts! I was still more surprised to learn that he
had come on board with his baggage, resolved upon making the
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voyage with me! Then, Bertha, I began to have a clearer insight
into the heart of that man. He had intended going with me, from
the first.”
“Why had he deceived you?”
“Before my escape, he had expressed, in one of his notes,
sentiments which I disliked; and I had replied that if such were
his motives in assisting me, I must decline those services which
I could not repay in the manner he seemed to anticipate. He
was not a man I could ever regard otherwise than as a friend,
and I told him so. He denied the motives I imputed to him;
but, Bertha, when we met on board the ship, I could no longer
shut my ears against a truth which had been whispered to me continually.
I had charged my heart with ingratitude and injustice,
and refused to believe what it said. Now, however, it was but too
plainly revealed. Selfishness was the mainspring of his conduct,
and all that he had done for me was marred.
“Once at sea, I abandoned my disguise, and often appeared
upon deck with no other attempt at concealment than a simple
veil thrown over my face. When off the coast of Florida, we had
fine breezes, the sea was surpassingly beautiful, and the sky was
of a clear, deep, heavenly blue, which filled my soul with wonder
and joy. There was but one cloud above my horizon. It appeared
in the form of Mr. Roberts. One day, to escape him, I
retreated to my room; but he followed me, and, by an unworthy
stratagem, succeeded in gaining admittance. We were the only
passengers, and the sole occupants of the cabin at the time; and
I was in his power. As an excuse for his violence, he had the baseness
to remind me of what I owed to him, and to charge me with
ingratitude. `It is true,' said I, `I owe you my liberty, and in
return I will give you my life.' — I said this despairingly, for I
was ready to die. He declared impetuously that I was wrong to
speak so; for it was only my love he sought. `But,' said I,
`your approach will kill me! I give you that warning.'
“I no longer held him from me; but, as he caught me in his
arms, he felt a hard substance strike him. Starting aside, he
caught the glimpse of a knife-handle, and thought I had stabbed
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him; but, as he released me, I fell back; and then he saw that
the blade was in my own breast.”
“You had stabbed yourself!”
“No, Bertha. But I had placed the knife between us. It was
one I had borrowed of the captain on some pretence; the blade
was broad and sharp; but, fortunately, the point had become
entangled in my handkerchief, in which I held it concealed. I
suffered from a deathly faintness; but I did not quite lose my
consciousness at any moment: I placed my handkerchief upon the
wound, to stop the blood, and entreated Mr. Roberts, with all my
remaining force, to have mercy upon me, and leave me. Overcome
with horror and remorse, he fell upon his knees, and prayed
to be forgiven, and to be permitted to atone for his wrong. He
hastened to bring me linen from his trunk; but I locked the door,
and would not let him return. Afterwards, when I was stronger,
I washed and dressed the wound myself, and left nature to do the
rest. I appealed to the captain for protection, and found in him
a genuine, hearty friend. As the voyage approached its termination,
he asked me what I proposed to do on my arrival at New
York. I showed him a letter which Mr. Roberts had previously
given me to a person in that city, who, he said, would assist me
in reaching Canada. `But, since he is with me,' said I, `I no
longer know what to do.'
“How well he managed, you will know, when I tell you that,
on arriving at New York, I was taken secretly from his ship, at
night, and placed on board a sloop, bound up the North River.
He had, by chance, met a skipper of his acquaintance, who was to
sail with the first wind, and who promised to land me in Albany,
free of expense. How fortune seemed to favor me, Bertha! I
was on my way to Canada, before Mr. Roberts knew I had left
the ship.
“As I was travelling alone, I had followed Captain Damon's
prudent counsel, and resumed my disguise. `An old woman,' he
said, `will get along much better among a certain class of people
than a young girl.' I had had experience enough to believe him.
He put into my hands a letter for a brother of his at Whitehall,
which he said was directly on my route, assuring me that, on its
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delivery, I would find a friend to forward me safely upon my
journey. Two days after quitting the Manhattan, I was landed
at Albany, as the skipper had promised. But he did not leave
me until he had placed me on board a boat bound for Whitehall,
and made a bargain for my passage, which I paid with money
Captain Damon had given me for the purpose. Thus far I
had played my part so well that no person, not even the skipper,
suspected that my age was less than three score.”
“I cannot conceive how you could do it!” said Bertha.
“It was not so difficult as you imagine. People do not scrutinize
old women. I pretended to have a catarrh, which obliged
me to wear my bonnet; then I dressed to disguise my form, and
wore old gloves upon my hands. I experienced more difficulty in
managing the tones of my voice than in all the rest. But I have
a respectable talent at mimicry, and succeeded even in that;
although, I fancy, people must have thought me exceedingly quiet
for an old lady. Few, I think, ever felt less ambition to talk!
“Everything happened favorably until my arrival at Whitehall,
when, to my consternation, I learned that Captain Damon's
brother had removed into the country, on account of ill-health.
As I had no means of getting to Canada without assistance, I
obtained his address, and set out on foot, the same evening, to
find him.
“I had not gone far before I ascertained that the distance was
much greater than I had suspected. I walked four miles that
night, and stopped to rest at a farm-house. I was allowed to
sleep in the barn, and invited to breakfast on the following
morning. I had no appetite; but, to guard against future
hunger, I forced myself to eat a morsel, and, thanking them
hastily, took my leave. This house proved to be that of Mr.
Jackwood's brother-in-law, in Sawney Hook; it was there I first
made the acquaintance of grandmother Rigglesty.
“I was now among the mountains, in the midst of new and
surprising scenery. I walked far, in the cool of the day; when I
became tired, I sat down on the roadside, and listened to the
singing of the birds. I cannot tell you how much I enjoyed that
morning! Hope and freedom inspired me; but hope and
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freedom did not prevent my becoming faint and weary, long before
noon. But, as I was fast approaching the house I was in search
of, I kept on, and arrived in sight of it at about one o'clock. I
was alarmed to find a number of carriages at the fence, and a
group of solemn people near the door. Presently a coffin was
brought out, and placed in a wagon; then the people began to get
into their carriages, and a procession was formed.
“I sat down upon a stone by the road, and waited for the
funeral to pass. Presently two men came out on foot, and stopped
to talk near the place where I sat. I inquired if that was Mr.
Damon's house.
“`That was Charles Damon's house,' one of them replied, `but
he has moved.' I was so disturbed at this that I could scarcely
speak, to ask where he had gone. `He has just gone down the
road,' the man said. `You will find his new house in the graveyard
just over the hill. It is a house of but one story, and that
is built under ground.'
“I was trying to collect my thoughts, and wondering what I
should do, when the men began to discuss an item of news which
frightened me so much that I quite forgot the funeral. They
spoke of the fugitive-slave law, and of some slave-hunters, who, as
I understood them, had recently arrived in town. `For my part,'
said one, `I hope they will put the law in force, and carry back
every fugitive this side of Canada. I 'll help them, if I 'm called
upon.' I waited until the men went away; then, rising to my
feet, set out to walk as fast as I could down the road. I afterwards
learned that the slave-hunters alluded to were probably
some who about that time visited a town in the State of New
York; but, in my panic, I imagined them in full pursuit of me.
I took by-roads, and travelled on and on, keeping a northerly
direction, but with no definite purpose in view, until I found
myself on a wild mountain-side, and the path I had followed
became lost in a gloomy forest. My courage failed. I had eaten
nothing since morning, and there was danger of perishing in the
woods. But, looking off upon the valley, I saw houses and farms,
and, weary as I was, I began to descend the mountain. I crossed
a steep pasture-land, full of rocks and thistles, among which I
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slipped and fell, until I was so overcome with pain and exhaustion
that sometimes I could scarce rise again to my feet. But
the valley lay before, and it seemed to me that on reaching the
meadows I would find less difficulty in proceeding, they looked so
smooth, and green, and cool! I drank at a clear brook, that
leaped plashing and singing along the mountain-side; and, feeling
slightly rested and refreshed, kept on down the slope. On
reaching the low land, however, I found the grass an unexpected
obstacle; and as I proceeded it became ranker, deeper, and
thicker, at every step, until I sank down in utter helplessness and
despair. But night was setting in, a storm was gathering and
blackening, and I made a final effort to reach an old barn that
stood not far off in the valley. I came to a stream hedged with
willows and vines, and, as I was searching for an opening in the
bushes, I discovered a bridge. I had hardly crossed, when a
dizziness seized me, and I fainted, within a dozen yards of the
barn. On recovering my consciousness, I heard a shout, and
exerted myself to answer it. It was Mr. Jackwood calling Abimelech,
who was lost in the meadow.
“I feel too weak, Bertha,” said Camille, for so we now must
call her, “to tell you more to-day. I have made a long and
tedious story. But another time you shall hear more of Mr.
Roberts —”
“And Hector,” said Bertha, — “how were you married? He
had left you once!”
“Yes, when I told him my history. But his love,” said
Camille, with a glorious smile, “his love was great as his soul!
He came back, and claimed me as his wife.”
Bertha covered her face. “Happy, happy wife! God bless
you!” and she sobbed upon Camille's bosom.
-- -- p732-380
XLII. THE WILDERNESS.
[figure description] Page 377.[end figure description]
I know not what discontent gnawed Mr. Dunbury's heart. If
the same that tortured him during his illness, and before the loss
of Camille, it had since become intensified to an insupportable
degree. By day his brow lowered with fiercest gloom. By
night he groaned and gnashed his teeth in sleep. “O, God! O,
God! O, God!” he would sometimes cry out, in his anguish.
His invalid wife was witness to these outbursts. Although
lying almost at the brink of the grave, — although her soul, hovering
'twixt life and death, seemed only to linger that it might
pray for those she loved until the end, — her heart was moved
with compassion for her husband; and, to quench the fires of his
remorse, to soothe and soften him, she would have imparted to
him the secret of Camille's rescue. But only once had she the
power to approach the subject — to mention Camille's name. He
tore himself fiercely from her. “Away!” he cried. “The fires
of hell are in me!”
One day he heard the vague rumor of a drowned body being
discovered, some miles below, at a place that had been flooded by
the recent freshet. Although scarce able as yet to ride, he
mounted his horse, and spurred with speed to the scene of the
excitement. The rumor proved well-founded. A frozen corpse
had been brought in from the interval. But it was the corpse
of a man. Mr. Dunbury recognized the lunatic, Edward Longman.
The friends of the deceased were advised of the event. Mr.
Longman and his daughter-in-law came from Canada; and the
funeral was attended in Mr. Dunbury's house.
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In the midst of the ceremony, a rider arrived upon a reeking
and foaming horse, and, flinging himself down at the gate,
appeared abruptly before the astonished company. “Hector!”
articulated Mrs. Dunbury, reaching out her arms.
He was pale and stern of look. He heeded her not. He
strode to the coffin; he gazed on the face of the dead. The
invalid, feeble as she was, rose up, white and ghost-like, from her
couch, and tottered to his side! “My son! Hector! speak to me!
This is poor Edward, who was drowned. Charlotte —”
“Ay, where is she?” said Hector's hollow voice. He turned
upon his father: his look was terrible. “At your hands I
demand my wife!”
Mr. Dunbury stood speechless; the relations looking on with
consternation. Still the invalid clung to Hector, whose soul
knew her not. The clergyman, a mild and formal man, stepped
forward.
“Have respect for the dead!”
“'T is not my dead!” said Hector. “At your hands, sir,” he
repeated, standing before his father, “I demand my wife!”
“I do not know her!” broke forth Mr. Dunbury.
“You DID NOT know her!” answered Hector. “And it were
better for your soul had your eyes never beheld her! The dove
to whom you refused shelter, the lamb you drove out to the
wolves — my wife, whom your cruelty killed — I require her life
at your hands!”
“This — this is strange language to address to me, sir!”
gasped the father.
“It IS strange language! Would to God I had never lived to
speak it, or you to hear it! O, were you NOT my father!”
“My son! my child!” uttered the invalid, “listen a moment,
I beseech you! Charlotte — you have not heard all — you have
not heard aright —”
“I have heard! My father — MY FATHER — thrust her forth!
It is the village talk. With his curse she went! Her blood is
upon his hands! My wife! my wife! my wife! O, God! control
my soul!”
Covering his face, he rushed from the room, his mother crying
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out to him, and clasping his neck. Still he knew her not, or
heard not, or heeded not. But, at one thrilling word her tongue
pronounced, he started, and gazed at her.
“Mother! did you say —”
“Lives!” she exclaimed, with exalted emotion.
“Lives! Charlotte! is it true?”—
“My son, it is heavenly true!”
“Where? speak at once!” As soon as she could gather
breath, the invalid told the tale. “O, mother!” said Hector,
with bursting joy, “the word is worth a hundred thousand
worlds! She lives!”
He sprang from her arms; he leaped upon his horse, and rode
northward with furious speed. When once more he drew rein
and flung himself from the saddle, it was at the door of Mr.
Rukely's house.
A beautiful snow-storm speckled the heavens, and whitened
all the ground. At the window of her room sat Camille, gazing
out upon the wondrous phenomenon of the northern winter.
Slowly, steadily, and one by one, the white flakes came fluttering
down; each falling and settling softly in its place, forming one
vast white robe of ermine for the earth. And she was thinking
how insignificant in itself seemed each feathery speck, yet how
necessary all to complete nature's fair device, and fulfil her wise
design. One went to ridge the rails of the olden fence; another
was lost in the infinity of the fields; another joined the busy
swarm that clustered on limb, and branch, and smallest quivering
twig, of the apple-tree; another fell by the kitchen, and was
trodden under foot. She called the snow HUMANITY, and looked
up in the cloud to find a representation of herself. She chose, by
chance, one minute speck from among the millions that darkened
the air; watched its slow increase, as it approached the earth;
saw it assume the spangled angles of a fair light flake, and sink
gently, steadily — into the well! She was wondering what it
meant; whether the well was death, or the bosom and source of
all humanity, or the heart of one, when the door of the chamber
was thrown suddenly open, and Bertha rushed in. Her speech
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was incoherent; but her looks, her confused, hurried words, were
but too full of meaning.
“I don't know who it can be!” said Bertha. “I heard the
bell ring; I listened — mother was at the door — a voice
demanded you!”
“Perhaps,” faltered Camille's pale lips, “perhaps it is a
friend! O, if it were — Hector!”
“I will know!” exclaimed Bertha, agitated betwixt hope and
fear. Camille listened, as Bertha disappeared; heard eager
voices approaching presently, and a man's tread on the stairs.
The door opened again. Bertha flew in. She was followed by —
Robert Greenwich!
Marble cold with despair, Camille sank down upon the pillows
of the arm-chair, fixing her icy looks upon the comer.
“You are discovered!” uttered Bertha. “He has come to
warn you — to save you!”
“He!” repeated Camille, with a shudder.
“Even I!” said Robert, with looks intense and haggard.
“For God's sake, waste not a moment or a word! I thought
you dead. In that thought I have suffered more than death!—
a thousand deaths! Believe me, for your own sake! I am
in the confidence of the southern agents; they are on your track;
I have but five minutes the start of them. In five minutes it
will be too late!”
“O, Camille!” said Bertha, “why do you doubt! Surely, he
is your friend!”
“If I have an enemy in the whole world,” said Camille, “it is
he! He stands in my sight for all that is false and black in
humanity!”
“How? — O, no —” began Bertha.
“I told you of Mr. Roberts,” interposed Camille, firm in her
very despair. “I told you not half! Mr. Roberts and Robert
Greenwich are the same. Tell me, is he to be trusted?”
Bertha was struck dumb with this announcement.
“Do not make me worse than I am!” said Robert; “for, as
I have wronged you, all I live for now is to make atonement.
Your refusal will be to your own ruin, and to my eternal despair.
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I have a swift horse at the door; I can take you to a place of
safety. If you are found here, nothing can save you! No
money, no influence, no law —”
“Tell us,” cried Bertha, “how she has been discovered.”
“By a bribe. Dickson fell in with Mr. Crumlett, —”
“O, Matilda!” Bertha cried out, “it is what I feared!”
“Since you required proof,” said Robert, “I have betrayed the
betrayer. How can you doubt?”
“I do not doubt,” answered Camille, faintly. “But I will stay,
and meet my fate.”
“Think of Hector!” pleaded Bertha.
“O, Hector!” — Camille's strength gave way; she wrung her
hands. — “But what can I do?”
“Escape!” And Bertha began hurriedly to wrap her in tippets
and shawls. “I know that you can trust him; I know that
he is sincere. — O, if Mr. Rukely would come!”
“Do with me as you will! My mind is weak as my frame!
But — do you go with me, Bertha!”
“Be sure I will stay by you.”
“O, sir!” and Camille turned her despairing eyes on Robert,
“if it is in your heart to deceive me now, do but look upon me —
consider what you do!”
He looked upon her, — so pale, so frail and helpless; and if
there was treachery in his heart, and had that heart been anything
but stone, it must have relented then. But neither by word nor
look did he evince any but the sincerest emotions. There was a
Bible on the stand; he seized it, and took oath thereupon to be
henceforth truth itself, in all his dealings with her whom he had
so wronged. He wished to carry Camille down stairs in his arms.
But she would not suffer him. With the help of Bertha and Mrs.
Wing, she reached the door. “And you, Bertha?”
“I had forgotten!” said Bertha.
“A moment's delay may ruin all!” said Robert.
Bertha ran for her bonnet and cloak. Camille had suffered
herself to be placed in the cutter, and wrapped in its robes. Robert
leaped in. Bertha did not appear.
“We cannot wait!” The horse sprang. Camille uttered a
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cry; she turned her feeble head, and looked back imploringly:
there stood the wondering old lady; then Bertha ran hurriedly
from the house. It was too late. The gate was passed; the
cutter flew over the ground; and the white storm settled down
between Camille and the only haven of safety she knew in the
wide world.
A rash and hasty step; in avoiding an uncertain danger, to
rush into the very face of a certain one! So thought Bertha,
after Camille was gone. And Bertha, wild with excitement, accused
herself as of some unpardonable crime. In her agitation
she ran out to find Matilda, who had gone to do an errand in the
village. She met Miss Fosdick hurrying home through the
storm.
“What is it?” cried Matilda. “I 'm sure as I ever was of
anything in my life that Charlotte Woods was in the cutter that
just passed!”
“She was!” uttered Bertha. “And you — you — Matilda —
why did you tell that she was here?”
“I, tell!” echoed Matilda. “I never did! I hope to die! I
never lisped it to a soul!”
“True, Matilda? — never to any one?”
“Never! sure as I live!”
“Not even to Enos?”
“Did n't I tell you I would n't?” But Matilda's voice faltered,
and she looked troubled.
“O, then,” said Bertha, “we have been deceived! Robert
guessed where she was, and made up the story. Run for Mr.
Rukely! He is at the conference. Make haste, Matilda!”
“Why,” cried Miss Fosdick, “who said I told Enos Crumlett?
I can't think that I ever breathed a syllable to him about it; and
if I had, he would n't gone and told.”
Bertha hurried back to the house, in greater trouble than before,
believing that she had been duped by Robert's confident air
and protestations of friendship; and that, through her, Camille
had been betrayed. A sudden change was given to the current
of her thoughts, however, when, arriving at the house, she found
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the southern agents there before her; the doors flung wide; the
old lady frightened; and Dickson furious at discovering that
once more the bird had flown.
Beyond the village, Robert pursued an unfrequented road, and,
turning into a forest, followed a winding, irregular track, among
the trees.
“Where are you taking me?” implored Camille.
“To the only spot I know where you can spend the night in
safety,” answered Robert. In safety! The word sounded hollow
as mockery in her ear; — as if there could be safety for her anywhere,
with him!
He drove on. The woods stood strangely still in the storm;
there seemed no motion but the falling of the snowy cloud, no
sound save that of hoofs and runners among the dark columns of
the forest. The road was one that had been beaten by wood-cutters;
it was rough and uneven; and Robert, who found it necessary
to proceed slowly, occupied the time in endeavoring to reassure
Camille. That he had suffered pangs of remorse on her
account, she could not doubt; but, knowing him to be a slave to
selfishness and passion, not one spark of genuine faith or hope
could she draw from his most earnest vows. As they penetrated
further and further the gloom of the woods, deeper and darker
became her despair. “O, Hector! Hector!” called her soul, in
its helplessness; “come to me! come to me!”
At length they turned into a path so narrow that the cutter
touched the bushes on each side, as they passed. They were in
the midst of a thicket that had overgrown an ancient clearing.
“Here,” said Robert, “we are beyond pursuit.”
“What is here?” uttered the shuddering fugitive.
“A refuge — a home — a protector!” — and Robert pointed
out a log-hut, which appeared suddenly to view, as they turned a
point in the tangled wild. It was a dismal spot; the hut had a
dreary, ruined, uninhabited aspect; the gloom, the storm, the savage
loneliness of the wood, which Camille's eye beheld on every
side, added terrors to her situation. She had resolved in her
heart not to leave the cutter, unless dragged from it by force;
when, to her astonishment, Robert, leaping upon the ground,
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knocked three times upon the door. After some delay, it was
slowly opened, and a chubby female face appeared, accompanied
by an uncovered head, and a short, plump figure, carelessly
attired.
“Why! is it you? Who have you got with you?” The face
struck Camille peculiarly; she had seen it somewhere; and, at
the sound of the voice, a flood of recollections rushed over her.—
“Dear me! Miss Woods!”
“I had forgotten that you were old friends,” said Robert. “So
much the better.”
“Does my husband know?” — and the chubby face turned to
Robert with a look of trepidation.
“There was no time to consult him,” said Robert.
“I 'm afraid he won't like it — I — it is so sudden!” — and, turning
to Camille again, the chubby face tried to smile. “This is a
surprise, is n't it? How do you do? How have you been? Are
you pretty well? Has your health been good since — it is quite
unexpected, finding me in such a place, is n't it? Who ever
thought you would visit me? How well you are looking!”
“She is just up from a sick bed,” said Robert. “Make way,
and place a chair.”
“Why, is she ill?” cried the excited little woman. “Who
would have thought? How feeble you do look! Excuse appearances;
we are — my husband has a fancy for rural spots, — we 're
here only temporarily, you know. How did you leave Canada?”
The interior of the hut was in keeping with the exterior; the
walls were of plastered logs, the floor of rough plank, the furniture
scanty and rude. But a blazing fire in the chimney cast a
glow of comfort upon the scene; and the chubby little woman
hastened to place an old-fashioned arm-chair before the hearth for
Camille. Having seen his companion seated, Robert went out to
take care of his horse. The door was shut and fastened. Then
Camille held eagerly upon the arm of the duchess, who was removing
her things.
“Dear Mrs. Sperkley!” said she, `I think you are my friend!
Explain this to me! It seems so strange that I should be brought
here, — that I should find you!”
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“Bless me!” cried the duchess, “you know more about it than
I do! I never was so astonished in my life! Is 't an elopement?
Excuse me. I mean, are you married?”
“You have not heard, then, that I have been pursued —
hunted —”
“Heavens, no! How? when? where? Have you passed — any
of — it?”
“Have you heard nothing? — how they came to take me —
how I escaped?”
“Not a word! How was you found out? How much was
there of it? Where did you pass it? O,” exclaimed the duchess,
turning all sorts of colors, and exhibiting signs of consternation
in every look and gesture, “my husband said 't would be so!
If ever we was found out, 't would be through him! Why did he
bring you here? We shall all be taken together! He 's the most
rashest, inconsiderit man that ever I see! Are they following
you now? Can they track you here?”
“I do not know; my mind seems all confused! Either I do
not understand you, else you do not understand me.”
“Did n't you know what kind it was when you passed it?”
“What are you saying?”
“Why!” cried the duchess, “was n't it for passing?”
“I do not know what you mean by passing. I am — I was —
they call me — a fugitive — a slave! They have come to claim
me, — to take me back!”
“You! Mercy! is that it? I thought — dear me, what have
I been talking? Then you have n't had any of it? But what
should he bring you here for?”
“He is coming; he will explain to you; I cannot,” said poor
Camille. “But, O, Mrs. Sperkley! you are a woman; you will
be my friend!”
“Wait!” said the duchess. “There 's his knock.” She
sprang to undo the fastenings of the door. At sight of Robert
entering, Camille's vision grew dark, and a few minutes later, with
but a dim consciousness of what had taken place, she found herself
lying upon a bed, in a strange apartment, with Robert bending
over her, while Mrs. Sperkley bathed her lips and temples.
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“Drink,” said Robert, holding a glass to her lips. “It will do
you good.”
“No, — leave me,” entreated Camille.
“It is a simple restorative; you need it much,” insisted
Robert.
“Perhaps; but I will not drink.”
“Go!” — Mrs. Sperkley pushed Robert away. — “I can manage
her!” And the little woman presented the draught with one
of her most confident and persuasive smiles. To her astonishment,
it was still refused. “Why, 't an't bad! Jest taste it.”
Camille glanced suspiciously at Robert's retreating figure. “I
have heard,” she whispered, “of people being drugged! O, Mrs.
Sperkley, you will be true to me! and, if I should not be all the
time in my right mind, you will not let me take any hurtful drink,—
tell me that!”
“Who ever heard of such a thing?” ejaculated the duchess.
“Look!” and she drank the potion at a breath. “It 's wine,
right from my husband's bottle. He always has the best o' wine.
You shall see me pour some for you.”
After that, Camille drank. The wine revived and warmed her.
She wished then to be left alone, and Mrs. Sperkley withdrew.
She was lying languidly upon the bed, with her eyes closed, thinking
unutterable thoughts, and searching deeply within herself for
the light of Wisdom to guide and sustain her, when the creaking
of the door, and a footstep by the bed, startled her. She looked
up, and saw Robert entering softly.
“I am sorry if I disturb you,” he said, in a low tone. “If you
can sleep, let me sit here and watch.”
“I prefer to be alone,” answered Camille, closing her eyes
again, and covering her face. He dropped upon his knees by her
side. He groaned; his frame shook; she heard the gnashing of
his teeth. “Will you leave me, sir?” she said, more firmly than
before.
“Yes, since you wish it.” But he did not move. There was a
long pause. “O, God!” he burst forth at length, “why are you
so beautiful? why are you so lovely?”
“Robert Greenwich!” she cried, starting up, “will you go?”
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“Camille,” he answered, in tones stifled by passion, “I have
sworn, and I will keep my word. But hear me one moment.
Your only safety is in me. You shall rest here until to-morrow;
but Canada must be reached; there is danger in delay. We
will go together. The service, the love, the life of a great soul,
is yours, if you will accept it. Have I not shown my devotion
to-day? Do you not think differently of me? Am I not worthy
at least to be your servant?”
“No!” said Camille. “Tempter! I will not hear you!”
“You still have hope of Hector. But he cannot save you. His
attempt to purchase you has proved abortive. No wealth could
satisfy your owner. If you are taken, you must return to slavery.
This is hard language, but it is the truth. I wish you to know
your danger, and to know me.”
“My danger is in you — I know no other! O, it is you who
have done me treacherous wrong; it is to you I owe so much
suffering! Perhaps what you tell me is true; perhaps Hector
could not save me, were he here; but, sir, rather than live your
favorite, even your wife, I would die beneath the feet of swine!
Why will you not understand me? Why will you not believe
the testimony of my soul? It is my whole nature, my life, my
very being, that rises up against you!”
Robert struggled with himself, striving, perhaps, to keep the
oath which he had not indeed taken in idle mood. But resolution
was weak. Passion was mighty. He saw Camille in his power.
The gulf of temptation opened beneath him like a hell. He
seized her hand.
“Touch me not!” she cried. “Serpent!”
And, feeble as she was, she sprang up, flying from his approach.
“Greenwich!” called the duchess, from without. Robert made
no response; she then began to knock violently, and shake the
door, which — as Camille discovered, to her dismay — had been
bolted on the inner side.
“What do you want?” demanded Robert.
“Do come out!” whispered the duchess. “There 's a sleigh
in the bush. Some men are coming to the door, and I 'm frightened
to death!”
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A shadow swept over Robert's face. “How many?”
“Three or four. They 're knocking! What shall I do?”
Robert slipped back the bolt, glided from the chamber, and
obtained a hasty glimpse at the party, through a loophole near
the outer door of the hut. The knocking was repeated.
“Shall I open?” whispered the agitated duchess.
He put her off, and hastened back to Camille. “That accursed
Dickson! They have tracked us by the snow. Shall I save
you?”
“Save me! how?” said the pallid girl.
“Say but the word, and 't is done! There 's not an instant to
lose!”
“What do you mean?”
“Look at me! You have distrusted, scorned me, spat upon
me! I 'm not the fool to serve you for such pay. Choose now
your fate!”
“How — choose?”
“Between me and slavery! Between me and perhaps a dozen
brutal masters! Speak — at once!”
The knocking at the door had become loud and violent. Robert
grasped Camille's arm, as she supported herself by the bed. Her
suffering and terror were extreme; but, in the midst of all, she
kept her bright unchanging look on his, and a resistless spiritual
power seemed poured upon her, as she spoke.
“Come a thousand evils, come slavery, come death! — I can
die, but I cannot sin!”
Dickson's party thundered at the door.
“Consider!” said Robert, with flaming eyes. “In their hands
you will be lost. Vengeance and hatred are hungry for you!
There is in this house a place of concealment, which I would defy
an army of Dicksons to discover! Once there, you are safe.
Promise me your love, and nothing shall harm you!”
“I cannot resist wrong with wrong; I cannot promise falsely!”
answered Charlotte. “Save me for justice, for mercy, — I will
thank you; but, if for your own selfishness, I shall scorn you the
more!”
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Blows shook the door of the hut, and voices called and threatened.
Mrs. Sperkley ran to and fro, beside herself with terror.
“Is this your answer?” hissed Robert.
“It is my answer!” came the firm response.
Robert rushed to the door, and threw it broadly open. “Dickson,”
said he, “I 'm glad to see you.”
“Greenwich!” said Dickson, with a ferocious look, “I 'm
glad to see you! A mighty fine trick you 've played us!”
“It 's a trick for which you 'll thank me!”
“With a vengeance!” growled Dickson. “Where 's that gal?”
“In a safe place — for you. Crumlett has flunked; he warned
her to escape. Mrs. Rukely called to me for help, as I was riding
by. I brought her here, — to keep her until word could be got to
you. If this is the way I am thanked, — there is your prey;
clutch her, and good luck to you!” And, as the human hounds,
cheered on by the stanch Oliver Dole, rushed into the chamber
of the defenceless fugitive, the traitor Robert turned his back,
and fled. He ran to a hovel in the thicket close by; there stood
his horse, where he had left him; he brought him out, leaped
into the sleigh, lashed him with his whip, and, dashing past the
house, and along the narrow, winding path, reached the road,
and returned the way he came.
The storm had ceased. Before him spread the woodland, calm
and still. Over the whited ground, beneath the snow-laden
boughs, amid the solemn trunks that stood amazed as he passed,
he urged his horse's speed with whip and rein. The snow seemed
a mantle dropped from heaven for his destruction. It had sailed
down before him, to receive the fatal print of his hoofs and runners
in the woods; but it had failed to cover his track, when he
passed on. It was the flight of guilt, of fear, of baffled rage and
shame: to quit the scenes of his unmanly acts, to fly his native
land, to leave the past and remorse forever behind him! O, that
whirlwinds would blow! that the trees would groan and roar!
that howling storms would cover his track with drifts! He
approached an opening of the wood. Beyond, above the shaggy
mountain side, glowed the subdued fire of the afternoon sun through
banks of gilded cloud, shooting mild rays athwart the forest tops,
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and tinging with faint gold the bosom of the virgin snow.
Overhead the myriad curving branches, the infinite net-work of
silver-lined boughs, the roof of ebon tracery edged with pearl,
opened, and brightened, and smiled in the blushing light. His
career seemed all the more fearful and guilty from contrast with
this beauty. Perhaps he felt the eye of Deity looking down upon
him then, or the bright heaven his sin had forfeited smiling in
pity upon his flight.
He lashed his horse, and was soon out of the wood. He had
turned down the western track before he observed a horseman
riding fast between him and the sun. He was approaching; they
met; lightning glances of recognition passed between them;
Robert whipped on more furiously than before; and the other,
wheeling short on his course, spurred after him.
The race was brief; but already the competitors had passed
the village, astonishing spectators by the unusual scene, when the
pursuer, galloping to the head of Robert's horse, grasped the rein,
and with a sudden wrench, bearing the poor animal sheer from
the track, broke his perilous speed against the road-side fence.
The shafts were splintered, the cutter overturned, the rider hurled
headlong; and Hector, wheeling again, leaped down from his
palpitating steed, just as Robert, snow-covered, bruised, bewildered,
was struggling to his feet.
-- -- p732-394
XLIII. THE LAW TAKES ITS COURSE.
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“All right!” chuckled Dickson, as his hand grasped Camille's
shoulder. “Come, my chick! I reck'n you 'll go along 'thout
any more fuss; there 's been fool'n' enough for one while.”
“No violence!” interposed Oliver Dole. “Let the law quietly
take its course; that 's all we want.”
Camille, who had fallen upon her knees by the bed, attempted
to rise, turning her suffering, bewildered looks upon the man of
law. Such gentleness and frailness, such loveliness and distress,
he had little expected to behold. His stern face contracted with
pain, as his public conscience was momentarily surprised by a ray
of human feeling that stole into his heart. With a softened look,
he extended his hand, to support her faltering step; when suddenly
she fell like one dead at his feet.
“Jones!” cried Dickson, “pass yer flask! I 'll fetch her out
of this! I 've seen sech tricks 'fore to-day.”
“What you going to do with her?” screamed the affrighted
duchess.
“Jest you stan' one side, and hold yer clatter, — that 's all I
ask of you!” And Dickson roughly administered the restorative
to his victim, holding her head upon his knee.
“I 'm astonished to find her so feeble!” exclaimed Oliver Dole.
“She ought n't to be moved till she 's stronger.”
“If she could run away, she can go with us!” growled
Dickson.
“Greenwich has give us the slip!” cried Jones. “There he
goes, by Jehu!”
“After him, Jones! Take the little sleigh. Ketch him, if
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ye die! He don't git off so, after break'n' his part o' the
barg'in!”
“Keep yer fist onto her!” cried Jones, at parting.
“Resk me, for that! I don't quit my holt, till she 's safe
under lock and bar, make sure o' that! Ah! com'n' to, a bit,
be ye? That 's right; spunk up! It 's got to come; and the
sooner it 's over, the quicker. Here, you apple-face,” — to
the duchess, — “han't she got no bunnit, nor noth'n'?”
Mrs. Sperkley brought Camille's things, and, in great trepidation,
assisted to put them on. Then the helpless form was
lifted in the arms of the brutal man, and borne to the sleigh.
“Be careful with her,” said Oliver Dole. “It 's hard business
enough, make the best on 't.”
“Don't ye s'pose I know what 's for my interest? Of course
I 'll be car'ful; I 'll handle her like an egg. Make a place on
the sleigh-bottom; we can keep her warm 'twixt our feet.”
“Good heavens, don't drop her head that way!”
“Lord, she 'll live through it, only fix her so 's 't she can
breathe!” said Dickson. “Seems to me ye 've growed mighty
chick'n-hearted, since our 'quaint'nce begun. You was fierce
enough for the business! But, since these cussed north'n doughfaces
set up sech a yell aginst us, you 've looked a mighty sight
like flunk'n'. There, she 'll go so, comf'table enough, I reck'n.
Now, driver, git out o' this bush fast as yer horses 'll carry us!”
The horses were fleet; the driver stanch, well-paid, and eager
in the hunt; and they soon reached the opening of the wood.
“Slack up, half a sec'nt!” cried Dickson. “I 's in hopes we 'd
ketch Jones and Greenwich; but let 'em go! How d' ye git on,
my gal? Pooty comf'table?”
Camille lay still and pale as death, in the position in which she
had been placed. Her eyes were closed; she did not speak; she
appeared scarce to breathe. Dickson's brows gathered.
“I don't like the looks o' that face! I reck'ned she 'd come
to, 'fore this, and scream, and take on, like they gen'ly do. I
don't fancy driv'n' through the village with her, nuther; 't would
be hard keep'n' her out o' sight; and yer north'n ab'lish'n folks
are sech cussed fools!”
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“T' other road 'll be 'bout as near,” remarked the driver.
“Then take it; and don't let next spring's grass grow under
yer runners, nuther! S'pos'n' we git her up, so 's 't she can suck
the air a little freer. I wish I 'd kep' Jones' flask! Why the devil
did n't I? That would fix her.”
Oliver's face was troubled. He bent anxiously over the helpless
captive, endeavoring to raise her to an easier position. “How
do you feel now? A little better, an't ye? You must pluck up
courage; you 're perfectly safe; you 're in the hands of the law,
and there 'll be no injustice; try to go through it bravely, — you
will, won't ye?” But only a low moan escaped her, and her head
sank powerlessly upon his arm.
“There, I like that better!” exclaimed Dickson. “'S long 's
they can make that noise, there 's hopes on 'em. O, she 'll git
through 't, somehow. They all act so. Thar 's a mighty sight o'
sham 'bout these yer white ones. They 're 'maz'n' shrewd; tough,
too, some on 'em are.”
“There 's no sham here!” said Oliver Dole.
“Wal, sham or no sham, she 's got to go! Git her safe once,
then I 'll have a doctor look to her; but I an't go'n' to run no
resks! Don't her bunnet choke her?”
Dickson's impatient fingers tore the strings. A slight shrinking
and shuddering, as his rough hand touched her throat, was the
only sign of consciousness she gave. All external things had
grown dim and shadowy around her. To Dickson's brutal speech,
to the officer's kinder words, to cruelty, humiliation, bodily pain,
she was alike insensible. Not that feeling was dead, — but one
deep, unspeakable agony absorbed all. She knew not when the
steeples and chimneys of the town appeared in view; when the
sight of the jail, with its barred windows and grim stone walls,
gladdened Dickson's ferocious eyes; nor when the commissioner's
house was reached.
A bald, hump-backed, pursy, Union-saving judge, threw open
the door of welcome to the hunters of human flesh. Then once
more she was lifted rudely; strong arms bore her from the
sleigh; behind her, doors were closed; she was in a strangelooking
apartment; — all this flitted like mist over the
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agonizing dark of her mind; and she sat listless, dumb, with death
upon her face and in her heart, while the sickening, horrid
dream went on.
She was now half conscious of human shapes thronging the
room; of eyes fixed upon her, some in stony curiosity, some in feeble
pity; of low, fierce, rapid words spoken, which seemed somehow
mixed with her fate; of a stern-visaged man at a desk, questioning
and writing; of a pale-faced, solemn clock staring upon her,
from the wall; and of many things mingled, undefined, whirling
and whirling in filmy indistinctness around her.
She had no sense of the time that elapsed. To Dickson, it
was just twenty-seven minutes, by his hunting-watch. His
brows blackened with impatience. He thrust the timepiece
back into his pocket, and dashed the sweat from his forehead.
“An't we never go'n' to git through? What yer wait'n' for
now?” The hump-backed judge sat at his desk, signing a jail order,
with a grimace of official wisdom. Oliver Dole stood to receive
the document. Dickson, furious, stamped the floor. Lawyers
and spectators pressed around. In the midst, two men supported
Camille upon her chair. Others, stationed at the doors and windows,
kept back the clamorous crowd.
“Marshal Dole!” spoke the judge's iron voice. There was a
hush of expectation, as, shaking the ink-sand from the paper, he
folded it, with a calm stroke of his fingers, and passed it over the
desk. Oliver thrust it in his breast-pocket, and with a trouble of
face that might have impeached his public conscience, turned to
his poor captive.
“Got it?” cried Dickson. “Cl'ar the way! Have yer men
on hand, marshal! If the mob wants fun, they shall have it!”
And he adjusted a pistol beneath his coat.
“Don't offer provocation!” exclaimed Oliver, huskily. “March
out peaceable, and in order. Let the girl take my arm, — 't will
look better.”
“Come!” muttered Dickson, shaking Camille's shoulder.
She started, and breathed quick, a momentary gleam of reason
flashing from her vacant eyes.
“Is it — to-night?” she uttered, like one half awake.
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“Yes, it 's to-night!” said Dickson, coarsely. “Come, ye 're
go'n' to walk a step or two, d' ye know it?”
“Am I — going?”
“Yes, my gal; you 're goin'. Can't be helped, ye know; so
cheer up, look bright, show yer pluck once!”
“Let me stay one night!” pleaded Camille, in a voice so
utterly weak and helpless, that only those immediately surrounding
her could hear.
“Have this veil over yer face!” said Dickson. “Ye don't
want to be seen look'n' babyish, ye know. Now take the marshal's
arm. I 'll hold on t' other side, so 's 't ye shan't fall. Be
accommodat'n', and 't 'll go a mighty sight easier with ye than if
ye 're contrary, ye know.” And, with a rude grasp, he attempted
to lift her to her feet.
“Shall I never see him again?” she implored, in a faint, sobbing
utterance. “Am I to be taken right away?”
“Hang it!” cried Dickson, “ye 're only go'n' to jail, ye
know. So don't be scart, my gal. You 'll be kep' there to-night, —
and it may be a day or two 'fore the judge gives his
decish'n. So spunk up; it 's got to come, ye know; 't an't no
use cavin' in.”
Thereupon, gathering some little hope, she knew not what, or
wherefore, Camille made a feeble effort to arise.
“That 's the talk!” said Dickson, clasping her with brute force.
“I got ye; ye can't fall, if ye try. Keep up your side, marshal.
Now, then, one foot right ahead o' t' other; no flinch'n'! Thar!”—
as she made a step towards the door, — “what 'd I tell ye?
Now 's our time, marshal!”
Camille stopped; her limbs grew rigid; her form bent back,
writhing, as in a mortal spasm.
“None o' that!” muttered Dickson, shaking her. “Come,
walk! Ye want me to carry ye, hey?”
She was waking. It was no more a dream. The awful meaning
of it all burst upon her. Freedom, happiness, taken forever
away! Hope, life, love, all, all gone! A fate more horrible than
a thousand deaths awaiting her! and she alone, defenceless, helpless,
delivered over to ruffians by the LAW itself! O, God! O,
God! O, God!
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With sharp agony, consciousness came. She roused, and, tearing
aside the veil, stood frenzied, casting a heart-chilling gaze around.
There was a pause, then a tumult at the door, which was broken
in; and a wild figure, with hair disordered, and eyes darting fury,
rushed into the room. Camille's voice burst in a shriek. Oliver
Dole reeled against the shattered window. Dickson was hurled
back; and a swift arm caught up the pallid girl as she was sinking
to the floor.
“She is mine!” thrilled a proud voice through the room. And
Hector, defiant, held the throbbing form upon his heart. A shudder
of awe passed through the spectators; officers and judge
recoiled before him.
“She is mine!” said Dickson, recovering himself, and clutching
Camille's arm; “by order of this court, — by the laws of the
country!”
Hector thrust him off. “She is mine,” he cried, “by the decree
of heaven, — by the one eternal Law!”
“That don't hold in our courts!” muttered Dickson. “I call
upon the marshal to do his duty!”
“Amen!” Hector turned to the court, his scorn and fury
quivering in every fibre of his frame, in every line and curve of
his lion-like face. “I call upon all to do the duty of men! There
is no power to take from me my OWN!”
“You 'll see!” spluttered Dickson. “Here 's the judge! —
here 's the marshal's force! — she 's got to go!”
“Mr. Dunbury,” spoke the judge, “you forget yourself. You
are resisting the execution of the law.”
“Ketch holt here!” roared Dickson.
Mr. Dole and his deputies pressed forward. Hector held
them off less by the might of his arm than by the terrors of
his eye.
“Hers is a human soul!” — he bore his living burden nobly
up, and a solemn power rolled through his tones. “'T is bound
to mine! And what God has joined, man cannot, SHALL NOT, put
asunder!”
“Curse his trash!” frothed Dickson. “What ye all about?
Why don't ye ketch holt?” And, clutching Camille again, he
thrust his pistol into Hector's face. “I 'll shoot ye, by —”
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The oath was gulped back, and he tumbled upon the floor like
a log. Hector held — HIS OWN! He strode with strong strides
towards the door. The officers faltered; the crowd gave way
before him; the judge's feeble remonstrance died in his throat.
Then turning, with wrath and defiance stamped upon his front,
Hector beckoned to the minion of the law. “Give that to your
master!” and his hand reached forth a paper to Oliver Dole, who
delivered it to the judge.
Dickson scrambled upon his feet, and made a furious lunge at
persons in the crowd who had seized his weapon; but it was flung
from the window. Again there was a hush, as the judge glanced
his eye over the paper's contents. Dickson stood like a baffled
wild beast, that knew not which way to turn. The judge rapped
upon his desk. There was no need. Attention was breathless.
“This paper stops all legal proceedings! The girl is free!”
The strained silence broke. A commotion swelled, bursting
into the very presence of the judge, from the crowd without. In
the midst of all stood Hector, wonderful to look upon in his
bright, manly strength, with Camille still throbbing upon his
breast.
“She is free! free!” ran from mouth to mouth through the
crowd.
“A fraud!” tore forth Dickson's infuriate speech. He
rushed to the desk. His eyes flamed upon the paper. He stood
a moment, stupefied, then smote the signature with his fist, and
broke out, huskily, “By God, it 's Tanwood's!”
Hector had turned again. Oliver Dole was but too glad to
wash his hands of their shameful work. There was no opposition
from him or his deputies. Hector strode over the threshold.
The crowd would have borne him upon their shoulders.
But there was a majesty in his look, that put them off. A
sleigh was in waiting. He stepped in; he wrapped his precious
burden to his heart; and she, who was so late a thing, a slave,
a chattel, rode out of the jubilant throng a SOUL, a WOMAN, a
WIFE LOVING AND BELOVED.
-- -- p732-401
XLIV. RETRIBUTION.
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Alone, within the compass of narrow walls, behind an irongrated
door, sat Robert Greenwich.
The faint gleam of the sunset that tinged the high, barred
windows had long since faded. The twilight gloom deepened.
What was Robert thinking, at that hour? What change had
come over him since, haughty and erect, but ghastly pale, tearing
his glossy moustache with his shaking hand, he marched through
the iron doors, under the sheriff's charge?
Darker still grew the prison. What silence! What awful
solitude! Suddenly there was a clanking of doors and jingling
of keys. The jailer, entering with a lantern, approached the prisoner's
cell.
The yellow light revealed an appalling picture. Robert was
scarcely recognizable. His visage was distorted he seemed to
have grown old a dozen years.
“Mr. Greenwich,” spoke the jailer. A fierce down-look, a
dark, despairing scowl, but no motion or word of reply. “Is
there any person you wish to send for?”
Robert looked up. His mouth was bloody, his hair torn, his
eyes haggard. “Does my father know?” By that hollow voice
one would not have guessed the speaker.
“He has been sent for. He should be here soon. Anything
else?”
“No!” The keeper hung his lantern upon a pendent chain,
in the common hall; then, walking away with his jingling keys,
the heavy prison-doors closed after him, with a dismal jar.
Two prisoners, at large in the common hall, placed a light
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wooden table beneath the swinging lamp, and, producing a well-worn
pack of cards, commenced a cheerful game of all-fours. No
other society in the jail; no sounds but their quiet conversation.
Robert shrunk back within the shadow of his cell, burying his
face in his hands, that he might neither see nor hear.
In a little while supper was brought him. The men ate at
their table, with appetite, putting aside their cards. Robert
seized his pitcher and drank plentifully, but left the food untasted;
then sat still, as before, save that now and then his choked breath
came hissing through his teeth, and the ague of despair shook the
stool on which he sat.
Once more the iron doors opened, and a visitor, entering, was
locked in the jail. He was a spare man, with a wrinkled face,
and a stern, dictatorial expression. Walking with a quick step
towards the cell to which the keeper pointed him, he gazed at the
wretched object seated within. “Son Robert!” he enunciated,
in amazed and indignant accents.
“Ha! you have come!” cried Robert, starting up.
He sprang to the grated door with infuriate looks, and quivering
hands half closed, as if, in the madness of his rage, he would
have torn the other limb from limb. The apparition was so sudden
that 'Squire Greenwich recoiled with the instinct of fear.
Robert pressed against the iron bars, glaring out upon him
savagely.
“Son Robert, what is the meaning of this?”
“It means death!” said Robert's husky voice.
Drops of sweat started upon the 'squire's astonished face.
“Son Robert, are you insane?”
The prisoner wiped the foam from his lips unconsciously, and,
after a pause, struggling with himself, appeared more calm.
“Does it seem so strange to you, to find me here?”
“Strange, son Robert? Strange?” and, for the first time in
his life, the prisoner heard a tremor of emotion in his father's
voice. “You assuredly are not guilty —”
“I 'm guilty of all! And I might have been guilty of more,
could this hand have reached you!” Robert wiped his bleeding
lips again, and thrust his forehead, with its tangled hair, against
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the bars. “My life is blasted. I have no future. My career
ends here. And I have you to thank! Do you understand?
You, sir, YOU!”
“Son Robert,” articulated the 'squire, “I do not understand;
I am overwhelmed! I could not believe my ears when that I
heard of your arrest. I cannot now believe my senses when that
I see and hear you! Is it my son Robert whom I see caged like
an enraged beast?”
“Old man!” said Robert, “hear me! It is for the last time,
so heed me! Since the earliest years I can remember, I have
had a burning hatred in my heart for you! When I was a
child, not a day passed but I said, `Some time he shall hear of
this!' That time has come. The hell that has been all my life
kindling is bursting forth.”
“Son Robert! beware! Pause before you speak. Remember
whom you address! Respect the paternal head!”
“Remember! — would I could forget! Respect! — how have I
learned to hate! I cannot recall a single kind or loving word
that ever you spoke to me. You were the tyrant — always!
You ruled with a rod of iron. My most trivial faults were punished
with cruelty. If there was any goodness in me, you
crushed it out; while every evil trait I inherited — from you —
was kept alive by you — provoked and strengthened by your despotism!
Revenge became a part of me. Because I dared not
vent it against you, I poured it upon others. That passion fired
the rest. Now you behold me here! And I tell you I have you
to thank! Take that, my parting gift, and hug it to your breast
when I am gone!”
“Me to thank! Truly, truly,” — the 'squire's agitated hands
struggled convulsively with his stifling cravat, and his broken
voice was pitiful to hear, — “truly, son Robert, you are beside
yourself! Who reared you up, from infancy, with unswerving
care? Who disciplined your youth in all wholesome exercises
of the mind? Who kept you at the Sabbath-school and at
church? Who put into your hands healthful moral treatises,
and gave you tasks from the Scriptur's to commit to memory?
Who taught you filial reverence, and respect for gray hairs?
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O, wretched young man! where are the talents intrusted to your
keeping? Where are the seeds a pious parent planted?”
“The talents have brought me here; this is the harvest of the
seeds! You did all that you boast of, and so I say I thank you;
for, by the very means you used, you made me hate you and your
lessons. I loathed the Sabbath-school, because driven to it with
a rod. I never came near a Bible but I struck or kicked it,
because of those hated tasks. I am calm now; I utter my solemn
convictions, and you know I tell truths!”
“Indeed,” groaned the 'squire, “indeed, I do not know! My
pride was in you, my son, O, my son! I longed for the time
when that we should behold you an ornament and an honor to the
respectable name of Greenwich. I labored faithfully to that end.
And is this the result?”
Sobs broke the old man's utterance. Still he struggled, as
from long habit, to maintain his dignified speech and deportment;
and it was touching to see the flood of his emotions bursting
through the wreck of his poor, shattered pride. Robert looked
on luridly.
“There may be points” — the 'squire confessed, wiping his
wrinkled brow — “wherein I have fallen somewhat short of the
highest wisdom. But, had I erred in all, I find no excuse for
you. Still, you are my son. You bear the respectable name of
Greenwich. And, whatever your faults, how glaring soever your
ingratitude to my venerable hairs, I can yet find it in my heart to
render you service.”
“You can render none. I will accept none. My hands have
plunged into crime, and I choose to meet the penalties.”
“Crime! crime! a son of 'Squire Greenwich? crime!”
“That is the word! Would you be gratified to know the
history?”
“I would know, though my heart be cleft in twain! But, I
beseech you, speak not in such bitterness and wrath.”
“Fair words, then, they shall be; I 'll be tender with your
nerves, old man! And the story shall be short, though it goes
back to times long before I left home. My vices ripened early.
But I had learned hypocrisy in so perfect a family school, that
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you knew little of the wild nights I wasted; escaping from the
house by stealth, and seizing what pleasure I could, in recompense
for your tyranny by day. When I came of age, you gave me
the liberty you could no longer restrain; I went south, and there,
in the hot-bed of vice, my nature flourished. I ended by running
away with a slave-girl, leaving more debts and sins behind
than I will stop to count. To provide myself with means, I
forged a note, and followed her to Canada, where I fell in with
a villanous speculator. He knew an ingenious rogue, who had
invented a spurious coin; and, as they proposed to set up, on a
small scale, an opposition to the legitimate mint, I was invited to
join them. I asked nothing better; and we fitted up an old house
in the woods, and established an apparatus. I have distributed
a good deal of the proceeds. In short, I was brought here for
counterfeiting. I might have escaped, but by ill-luck I fell in
first with that accursed Hector, then with the sheriff. On my
way here, I learned of my friend Sperkley's arrest, in Burlington.
His faithful housekeeper, who passes for his wife, will expect him
home in vain. Then there are the slave-catchers; they will concentrate
all their rage on me. I set them on Camille's track;
and no questions were to be asked; but I had not the virtue to be
faithful even to them. So, you see, the son of respectable
'Squire Greenwich” — what fierce sarcasm in those words! — “is
provided for. I staked everything — I have lost — and this is
the end!”
“God of mercies!” groaned the 'squire, “what do I hear!
Son Robert, my only son, the hope of my old age! — you a
double criminal — arrested — to be brought before a public court—
tried, condemned, sentenced — O, God! can all this be in
store?”
“Not quite!” said Robert, with dark significance. “'T will
be a shorter agony. Good-by; remember what I have said. I
have thrown that burden off. Now go — I would be alone.”
“But, my son,” sobbed the broken-hearted old man, “while
that I return to my dishonored and desolate home, let me at least
carry with me the consolation of knowing that you are contrite
and repentant —”
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“Carry with you my hatred and my curse!” said Robert;
“it 's all I have for you, and a good-night to you! May your
sleep be always peaceful as it will be this night!”
The keeper reäppeared; and now the prisoner shrank back
into his cell. The heart-crushed parent, shaking with the palsy
of his grief, struggled long within himself before he found voice
again to speak.
“Son Robert,” — the keeper was looking on, and it was sad to
see the flickering ghost of the poor old man's dignity rise up
once more, — “I shall see you in the morning.”
“Let me advise you to come early!” muttered Robert.
The keeper advanced. “I shall do all in my power to make
your son comfortable, 'Squire Greenwich; and if he has any commands—”
“What are these men in for?” asked Robert, designating the
card-players.
“The one in shirt-sleeves, for stealing a horse; the other, for
killing one of his children in a drunken fit.”
“Is the thing of which I am accused so much worse than
theft or murder, that, while they have the liberty of the jail, it is
necessary to keep me caged?”
“O, by no means! But, when you were brought in, it was
thought advisable, for a while —”
“You see I am calm now.”
The keeper selected a particular key from the bunch, and cheerfully
unlocked the door of the cell. The 'squire, meanwhile, had
tottered to the entrance. The two went out together. Then
Robert threw himself upon his bunk, and lay there, tossing about,
and tearing his flesh and hair by fits, until the suspended lamp
burned out, and the card-players groped their way in the dark to
their separate cells.
O, night! O, agony! O, remorse! — darkness, and woe, and the
worm that gnaweth the heart! — how mysterious, how terrible,
are ye all! Swords of flame flash all around the eden of the soul,
and the sinner, seeking to rush in with impure feet, is lightning-stricken
with their fiery tongues. Only through righteousness, in
the white robe and celestial armor of Christ, can you enter the
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blessed precincts of love and peace: and night, and agony, and
remorse, — darkness, and woe, and the worm that gnaweth the
heart, — God sends to teach the LAW.
All night Robert lay in his torment. But at the earliest glimmer
of dawn he arose, and sat upon his bed. There was now a
sort of calmness in his face, a fearful repose. And so he sat,
while the slow, cold dawn advanced, twirling and twirling his
silken cravat in his hands. At length he got up, and opened the
door of his cell.
Darkness still hovered in the jail. But from the high windows
a faint grayish light radiated upon the walls, and streamed along
the floor. Robert stepped noiselessly across the hall. He reached
the table where the card-players had sat the night before, stepped
upon it with his knotted cravat in his hand, listened for a moment
to the heavy breathing in the cells, then carefully removed the
lantern from the chain.
What stillness! what solemnity! what gloom! Suddenly there
was a crash. The table had fallen; the lantern rattled upon the
floor. The horse-stealer started from his sleep. He rose up; he
gazed listening, affrighted, in his cell. But did he hear the
struggles, the conflict of life and death, or see the dim, ghastly
figure swinging by the chain?
-- -- p732-408
XLV. CLOSING SCENES.
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Strange is this boon of existence! How sacred! how fatal!
how sweet! O, sorrow! O, love! O, despair! why have ye conspired?
Beautiful is this dear, warm flesh! The miracle of the heartbeat,
of the rushing blood, how wonderful! Sensation, how
delicious! Thought, affection, aspiration, the delirium of joy, —
thank God for all. Yet beware, O, man! O, woman! penalty
and peril hem us in; and we know not how terrible a thing it is
to profane the sanctity of the soul.
Sin, tumult, endless toil, a little laughter, many tears, agony,
longing, and the baffling search: such is man's history. O, Father!
pity thy children!
Life is a fiery furnace, and none see God save those who have
passed through the burning. Purification is born of the fire; the
faithful shall not perish; brightness, triumph, heaven, await us;
and to some there comes great peace. If there is anything for
which one should thank God, it is peace. In that still lake sleep
all life's turbulent streams. Its bosom is the mirror of God; lo,
heaven lies deep within! all around, a light, ineffably soft and
glorious, radiates and swims; and a hush, as of Sabbath stillness,
of joy, of thanks, and of worship, fills all the summer air.
Such a hush pervaded Mr. Jackwood's house. There were
words — but how gently spoken! there was laughter — but how subdued
and mellow! there were tears — but how bright and happy!
“This 'ere 's a day wuth livin' to see!” observed the farmer.
He sat upon a keg in the corner, whittling an ox-bow; but, somehow,
he could not work; his eyes now and then grew misty, and
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he would pause, holding his hands abstractedly, his countenance
beaming with the light of a deep, earnest joy. “Don't seem to
me it 's right to work; it 's kind o' like Sunday.”
“Don't le's!” said Bim, who had been set to scour the tableknives,
but who took a great deal more interest in his mother's
baking. “I got two on 'em bright, — this one 's for Charlotte,
any how! Let the rest go, — I would!”
“Come, come!” his mother spoke up, cheeringly, “work away,
or you won't have enough to set the table with. The pies 'll take
care o' themselves.”
“Make 'em good, any way!” exclaimed Bim. “Charlotte likes
lots o' sugar in 'em.”
“Bim speaks two words for himself,” chimed Phœbe's musical
voice. “Here 's a little crust left, — what shall I do with it?”
“Bake Rove a turnover,” cried Bim, “and I 'll eat it for
him!”
“Shall I, mother?”
“Law, yes; do gratify the boy! But you must do them
knives!”
“An't I?” said Bim. He was holding the dog's lips apart
with his fingers, for the purpose of inserting brick-dust, from the
scouring-board. “Rove's teeth are gittin' rusty, and I want 'em
to look white for comp'ny.”
The baking progressed finely. The big oven had been heated
for the occasion. Extraordinary cakes, extravagant pies, emulous,
puffy biscuits, — not to speak of Rover's aristocratic turnover, —
rested snugly in the corners, and bubbled, smoked, and swelled,
in the genial heat. They seemed to know, as well as anybody,
that they were no common cooking; and to feel a pride in coming
out with plump, handsome, brown faces, with dimples, where
Phœbe's fork had pricked, fit to appear before the choice company
in which they were to have the honor of being eaten.
“O, dear!” exclaimed Phœbe, “I don't know what to do! I
want to laugh and cry! I wish it was dinner-time; then I could
have an excuse to go to their room, and call them.”
“An't there somebody to the front door?” said Mr. Jackwood.
“Go and see, Bim'lech.”
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Bim went skipping along the floor, followed by Rover, barking.
Mr. Rukely entered. There were warm greetings between him
and the farmer, — questions, and earnest congratulations.
“Why, father!” said Mrs. Jackwood, with the kindliest of
smiles, and with mist in her eyes the while, “you hardly know
what you 're about, I do declare!”
In his excitement, he had offered Mr. Rukely the keg to sit
down upon. Mr. Rukely remained standing.
“Set the big chair, Phœbe!” said the farmer.
Mr. Rukely could not stop. He had called to see Hector.
“I do'no' nobody they 'll be gladder to see!” cried Mr. Jackwood.
“The way they spoke o' you 'n' your wife, — what you 'd
done for 'em, — wal, 't an't of'n anything comes over me as that
did! Go to the spare room, Phœbe, — don't be noisy, but step
light, an' jest rap kind o' gentle on the door.”
Phœbe could have asked no happier commission. To be near
Camille, to hear the tones of Hector's voice, to look upon their
faces for a moment, was delight enough for her.
“Yes, sir!” cried Mr. Jackwood, “'t was great! You should
ben there to see! You never 'd git over it, the longest day o'
your life, Mr. Rukely! I hope I an't proud; but I can't help
thinkin' 't was my sleigh 't they got right into, an' 't I drove 'em
away! I hope I an't revengeful, nuther; but I did feel a grudge
agin them kidnabbers, an' I — Wal, 't was good enough for
'em! I can't help sayin' so much, any way.”
“They was goin' to have our farm!” observed Bim, disdainfully.
“I guess they 'll let us alone,” said his father, genially. “They
sneaked out o' town las' night, like a couple o' sheep-stealers. It
'pears they tallygrafted that Cha'lotte was drownded; an' that 's
what made her owner — as he called himself — so ready to sell
out. A smart young lawyer done the business for Hector, an' got
the man to sign off for little or nothin', I guess; though I could n't
find out jest how much. That 's a terrible hard story they tell
'bout Enos Crumlett.”
“I 'm afraid it 's true,” replied the minister. “Matilda is quite
wild about it.”
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“He 'd better go to Californy, fust thing!” exclaimed Mr.
Jackwood. “He never 'll be nothin' 'round here; everybody 'll
despise him. As for that Robert Greenwich —”
“You have not heard —” said Mr. Rukely, a shadow passing
over his face.
“I heerd he was took up for counterfeitin', — an' I wan't much
surprised, nuther.”
Mr. Rukely reported, in addition, a startling piece of intelligence
that had spread through the town that morning. Astonishment
and solemnity fell upon the listeners.
“His poor father 'n' mother!” uttered Mrs. Jackwood. “Don't
mention it to Phœbe, — she 's too happy to-day.”
“What is suicide?” cried Bim.
“Hush! — 't an't nothin' you need to know 'bout!” said his
father
Phœbe reäppeared, radiant. “He 's coming right out, — and
I 'm going back to stay with Charlotte!”
A minute later, the door again opened. A thrill ran through
Mr. Rukely's ordinarily sluggish veins. The countenance that
shone upon him was in itself a life-history, a revelation. How
changed since he last saw it! Older, yet younger, and brighter;
sadder, yet immeasurably more happy; serene, majestic, yet never
so soft and tender; deeply thoughtful, deeply humble, yet smiling
with the sweet, subdued effulgence of love and peace. Such was
Hector on that memorable morning. He grasped Mr. Rukely's
hand, and they conversed a few moments in presence of the family;
then Hector led the way to Camille's chamber.
The young wife was reclining by a cheerful wood fire, on the
pillows of an easy-chair. With eyes swimming in blissful light,
she looked up; a smile of wondrous beauty and sweetness welcomed
her friend, and the hand she gave him seemed all alive with
the tremulous emotions of her heart.
Was Mr. Rukely surprised to see her blooming with promise
of fair health? Ah, then, he did not know what magic lies in
the sunshine of Love's face, — what subtle streams of life pour
down into the very springs of our being from the sympathy and
magnetic touch of those we hold most dear.
-- 409 --
[figure description] Page 409.[end figure description]
Mr. Rukely had been sent for, that morning, by Mrs. Dunbury.
He had found her greatly changed. The excitement that had
sustained her through a long and terrible trial, subsiding, had left
her extremely low. Charlotte was saved, Hector was happy; she
felt that she had nothing more to live for, and peaceful, not
reluctant, she calmly awaited the end. After what had passed,
knowing Hector's spirit, knowing Charlotte's wrongs and sufferings,
she could not hope that they would return to the house from which
a father's wrath had exiled them. But she had sent Mr. Rukely
to them, with her love and blessing.
Also, before setting out, the young minister had conversed with
Mr. Dunbury. He spoke of that interview; but, at mention of
his father, Hector shook his head, with a look of infinite sadness.
“I know no father!” he said.
“I have obtained his consent,” Mr. Rukely went on, “for you
to return home.”
“Home?” came the low echo from Hector's heart, and a heaving
emotion struggled in his face, as he looked upon Camille; —
“where the spirit is at rest, is home; hearts' love is home; I am
at home!”
“What reply shall I make to Mr. Dunbury?”
“Take to him these words!”
“And your mother?”
“O, my mother! Tell her my soul loves her; and souls that
love, though divided on earth, reünite in heaven!”
Camille wept. She joined in Hector's message to the invalid;
and, shortly after, Mr. Rukely took his leave.
It had been a comfort to learn that Mrs. Longman — Camille's
dear Canadian friend, who had come to Edward's funeral — would
remain with her relatives. No kinder hand, no warmer heart, than
hers, could have been sent to administer to the failing invalid.
Still Hector felt it as a deep wrong, Camille as a sad privation,
that they, who owed her so much love and gratitude, they, who
were dearer to her than all the world, should be so near, and yet
attend not at the pillow of the dying woman.
Three days passed, — days of hitherto inconceivable happiness,
marred by but one shade of sorrow. They still remained the
-- 410 --
[figure description] Page 410.[end figure description]
welcome occupants of the spare room in Mr. Jackwood's house.
As Camille's strength increased, Hector was beginning to think
of some quiet little home in the village, — but something said,—
“Wait!” On the afternoon of the fourth day, Corny was
announced.
“I got a letter for ye, somewheres,” said that young gentleman,
making thorough investigations in his pockets. “Hello! —
what 's this? I 'd like to know!” A worn and soiled envelope
was brought to light. “I did n't know I had that! O, I remember! —
it 's what they gi' me in the village, one day, for Mis'
Dun'b'ry, — an' I don't b'leve I ever thought on 't till this
minute!”
Hector tore the envelope, took out a slip of paper, and unfolded
it, — 't was his own telegraphic despatch from Mobile! He bit
his lips, but, without a word, passed it to Camille. Meanwhile,
Corny had produced another letter.
“That looks more like! The ol' man tol' me to bring it over.
He 's ben ra'al dumpy, lately; an' it 's about the fust time he 's
spoke for five or six days. He don't growl to me no more, as he
used to; I guess it 's 'cause he 's had some talks with Mis' Dunb'ry;
for when he comes out o' her room, his eyes look kinder
red an' watery, 's if he 'd like to cry, if he wan't a man. They
don't spec' she 'll live.”
“Camille!” said Hector, with solemn and anxious looks, “the
hour has come! We must go to our mother!”
No time was to be lost. A few minutes sufficed for all preparation.
Corny had come for them in the cutter; it was waiting
at the door. The family made haste to warm blankets, and a
foot-stove was filled, to place at Camille's feet. Their thoughtful
kindness was too much for the young wife. She pressed Mr.
Jackwood's hand to her lips, blessing him and his, from the bursting
fulness of her heart.
“If anybody should be thankful, it 's me!” declared the farmer,
brushing the tears from his honest cheeks. “Your comin' into
my house, fust and last, has ben a blessin' to me an' to all; I
can't be thankful enough for 't!”
-- 411 --
[figure description] Page 411.[end figure description]
Hector wrung the farmer's hand. Words seemed too feeble to
express what swelled and burned within his breast.
“Could you know how great my happiness in my wife, then you
might know something of my gratitude to you, her preserver!”
He placed Camille in the sleigh. Mrs. Jackwood wrapped the
blankets around her, the farmer adjusted the foot-stove to her feet
Phœbe arranged her veil, Bim stood holding the horse. A moment
after, they were gone; and loving faces, tearful eyes, watched
them as they rode out of sight.
It was the close of a very fair, calm winter's day. The forests
on the mountain tops burned faintly in the sunset glow; and the
sky all above was arched with ribs and bars of fire. But the last
tinge was fading from the clouds, and the forests grew drear and
dark, as Hector and Camille approached Mr. Dunbury's house.
Mrs. Longman received them at the porch. As she held Camille
in her arms, Hector, advancing into the hall, saw the kitchen door
open beyond, and his father pacing to and fro, with trouble written
in deep lines upon his face. The young man turned aside, pausing
a moment at the door of his mother's room, then gently lifted the
latch.
The subdued light of departing day stole into the chamber. A
calm and holy atmosphere breathed around. He entered softly,
and moved with silent steps to the bedside; then, stooping tenderly
and reverently, imprinted a kiss upon his mother's brow.
She looked up. “My dear boy!” Tears rained from Hector's
eyes. He could not speak. “And Charlotte —” murmured the
invalid.
“She is here!” He reached forth his hand. Camille advanced.
He led her to the bedside; she bent down amid the hush; her
kisses and tears fell warm upon the dying woman's hand.
“My child!” — and feebly the invalid raised both her arms to
place about her form, — “are you happy?”
“O, blest!” sobbed Charlotte, upon her bosom.
Another pause; the love and peace of the invalid's countenance
brightening and deepening. “And Hector?”
“Twice blest!” breathed Hector. “But, to see my mother
-- 412 --
[figure description] Page 412.[end figure description]
here, so feeble, and suffering so —” His voice was choked.
Camille rose up gently; they bowed together by the bed.
“My children,” said the invalid, as she looked upon them,
“this is all I have asked! I do not suffer now. My soul is
full of peace. I waited but for this hour, to fall sweetly into
the arms of Heaven, and be forever at rest. Raise my head a
little.”
With a tender touch, Hector lifted her to an easier position,
adjusting the pillows beneath her head. “Always so kind, my
boy! Give me a little water.” Camille held the glass to her
lips, while she drank. “The same gentleness and love, dear one!
Yes, Hector, I have waited but for this. Your father knows I
have not long to stay. And, as he has seen me, for these few
days past, sinking so rapidly, I have felt all the young love of his
early years come back again, and his heart has been strangely
softened! He loves you, Hector! He feels that he has been
unjust to you, — more than unjust to this dear one!” A choking
sensation broke her utterance; but she added, presently, “Will
you not forgive him?”
“O, mother!”
There was a footfall upon the floor. One entered, walking
with careful steps; crushed in spirit, his form bowed as by a
burden, his chin sunken sorrowfully upon his breast. The little
group opened. He drew near the bedside, reaching out his trembling
hands. A painful silence, then a quivering voice —
“Hector!”
The deep contrition of the look and tone ran like melting fire
into Hector's soul.
“Father!” That one word expressed all. Their hands
clasped. Forgiveness flowed from heart to heart. Then the
father, taking courage, turned, with anguish in his looks, and
extended a shaking hand to Camille.
“My daughter!”
His long remorse, his crushed and penitent pride, and the newborn
love of his soul gushing up through all, found utterance in
those half-stifled words. Filled with a wild grief, and yet wilder
joy intermixed, Camille faltered, bowed her weeping face, and
-- 413 --
[figure description] Page 413.[end figure description]
sank down at his feet. On the instant, as by quick sympathy,
Hector was kneeling by her side; one arm about her form, and
one hand clasped in hers. The father extended his quivering
palms above them, while heavy drops struggled down his unaccustomed
cheeks.
“God bless you, — God bless you — my — children!”
“Peace!” whispered the dying woman, a smile of heavenly
sweetness lighting all her face.
Peace! And with that sacred word, the writer's task should
end. Have we, then, gone through all these scenes of mirth, and
passion, and woe, to reach a tearful close? Blame not the writer.
It was scarce his choice. The characters whose fortunes he has
depicted have not been altogether fictitious; they have been real
existences to him, at least; he has laughed with them, wept with
them, and he would not part from them without tears. The narrative
has been like a stream, holding its own free course; and
who could have known, when first we embarked in its limpid ripples
and careless flow, how the waters were to accumulate, and darken,
and sweep us on? There have been bubbles plenty, eddies and
shallow falls, torrents and floods; and now let all sink to rest in
that still lake — described a little while ago — named Peace.
“But what became of Bim? Was everybody happy at last?
You have not told us! And did Phœbe get married?”
Be patient, reader, and your questions shall be answered.
Phœbe got married, of course. And she married a farmer, after
all. If ever you go to Huntersford, inquire for Mrs. Higgins, —
Phœbe married a Higgins, — and you shall find her as bright and
happy a young wife as you will see the next twelvemonth. Bim
often visits her, and brings Rover, — now a sedate and elderly
dog, — to amuse the baby. The baby's name is Camille. There
was a certain old lady who designed to have the child named
Betsy Rigglesty; and who, on paying a visit to the young
mother, and learning that her wishes had been disregarded, was
so much offended, that, after a brief stay of six weeks (during
which time she had a great deal to do with a dismal old cotton
handkerchief, on which could be faintly traced a washed-out print,
-- 414 --
[figure description] Page 414.[end figure description]
commemorating the praiseworthy conduct of a celebrated Samaritan),
she cut short her visit, and went back to Sawney Hook,
resolved never again to quit that delightful region. Phœbe bears
her absence with cheerful resignation, and still persists in calling
the child Camille.
Bim is growing up tall and manly, and his parents are as
genial and happy an old couple as ever enjoyed the blessings
of an approving conscience, and the fruits of a life of industry,
in their latter days. Bim is beginning to go and see the girls;
and he wishes Etty Greenwich was n't quite so romantic in
her notions. Etty says she shall never be married. She devotes
herself to poetry, and to the care of her white-haired father, who
has grown quite infirm of late years. Bim does not call at the
house so often as he would like to; for the sight of the old man's
quivering lips and broken smiles of affection, when Etty smooths
his cravat or combs his hair, always makes the young gentleman
cry, and that he thinks is unmanly.
Of the Rukelys there is not much to be said. Their outward
life is very even, almost monotonous; but inward trial has left its
traces in Bertha's pale face. Matilda Fosdick lived in the family
a year; when, taking pity on poor Enos, whom she had dismissed
from the list of her suitors, on account of a certain transaction
which had earned him the name of Judas Crumlett, she finally
consented to fill the place his venerable parent was expected soon
to leave vacant, and removed with him to the West, after the remains
of that lamented lady had been consigned to the tomb.
In conclusion, shall we draw a picture of Hector and Camille
entering upon their new life of labor and love, with the world's
prejudice and frowns all unknown to their serene eyes? Of the
broken father, bowed by his burden of sadness, yet redeemed by
the memory of his sainted wife, and ripening into quiet and tender
old age in the light of their affection? Of their first-born, wondrous
boy, offspring of love and beauty, thrilling their fond hearts
with his sweet prattle and melodious laughter? O, wedlock! O,
holy love! let fall the veil, and hide the painful glory of thy face,
in mercy to the longing souls and moaning hearts that have sought
thy home and rest, and found it not!
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Trowbridge, J. T. (John Townsend), 1827-1916 [1857], Neighbor Jackwood, by Paul Creyton (pseud.) (Phillips, Sampson and Company, Boston) [word count] [eaf732T].
