BEAUTY AND THE BEAST
AND THE TALES OF HOME
By
Bayard Taylor
CONTENTS:
BEAUTY
AND THE BEAST. A STORY OF OLD RUSSIA.
I.
We are about to relate a
story of mingled fact and fancy. The
facts are borrowed from the Russian author, Petjerski; the fancy is our
own. Our task will chiefly be to soften
the outlines of incidents almost too sharp and rugged for literary use, to
supply them with the necessary coloring and sentiment, and to give a coherent
and proportioned shape to the irregular fragments of an old chronicle. We know something, from other sources, of the
customs described, something of the character of the people from personal
observation, and may therefore the more freely take such liberties as we choose
with the rude, vigorous sketches of the Russian original. One who happens to have read the work of
Villebois can easily comprehend the existence of a state of society, on the
banks of the
II.
We are in Kinesma, a small
town on the Volga, between
There was trouble one day,
in the
Prince Alexis owned the
bodies of the inhabitants, (with the exception of a few merchants and
tradesmen,) and the Archimandrite Sergius owned their souls. But the shadow of the former stretched also
over other villages, far beyond the ring of the wooded horizon. The number of his serfs was ten thousand, and
his rule over them was even less disputed than theirs over their domestic
animals.
The inhabitants of the place
had noticed with dismay that the slumber-flag had not been hoisted on the
castle, although it was half an hour after the usual time. So rare a circumstance betokened sudden wrath
or disaster, on the part of Prince Alexis.
Long experience had prepared the people for anything that might happen,
and they were consequently not astonished at the singular event which presently
transpired.
The fact is, that in the
first place, the dinner had been prolonged full ten minutes beyond its
accustomed limit, owing to a discussion between the Prince, his wife, the
Princess Martha, and their son Prince Boris.
The last was to leave for
"Ugh!" Prince Alexis would cry, with a shudder of
disgust, "the whelp barks after the dam!"
A state dinner he might
give; but a festival, with dances, dramatic representations, burning
tar-barrels, and cannon,--no! He knitted
his heavy brows and drank deeply, and his fiery gray eyes shot such incessant
glances from side to side that Boris and the Princess Martha could not exchange
a single wink of silent advice. The pet
bear, Mishka, plied with strong wines, which Prince Alexis poured out for him
into a golden basin, became at last comically drunk, and in endeavoring to
execute a dance, lost his balance, and fell at full length on his back.
The Prince burst into a
yelling, shrieking fit of laughter.
Instantly the yellow-haired serfs in waiting, the Calmucks at the
hall-door, and the half-witted dwarf who crawled around the table in his tow
shirt, began laughing in chorus, as violently as they could. The Princess Martha and Prince Boris laughed also;
and while the old man's eyes were dimmed with streaming tears of mirth, quickly
exchanged nods. The sound extended all
over the castle, and was heard outside of the walls.
"Father!" said
Boris, "let us have the festival, and Mishka shall perform again. Prince Paul of
"Good, by St.
Vladimir!" exclaimed Prince Alexis.
"Thou shalt have it, my Borka![1]
Where's Simon Petrovitch? May the
Devil scorch that vagabond, if he doesn't do better than the last time! Sasha!"
[1] Little Boris.
A broad-shouldered serf
stepped forward and stood with bowed head.
"Lock up Simon
Petrovitch in the southwestern tower.
Send the tailor and the girls to him, to learn their parts. Search every one of them before they go in,
and if any one dares to carry vodki to the beast, twenty-five lashes on the
back!"
Sasha bowed again and
departed. Simon Petrovitch was the
court-poet of Kinesma. He had a
mechanical knack of preparing allegorical diversions which suited the
conventional taste of society at that time; but he had also a failing,--he was
rarely sober enough to write. Prince
Alexis, therefore, was in the habit of locking him up and placing a guard over
him, until the inspiration had done its work.
The most comely young serfs of both sexes were selected to perform the
parts, and the court-tailor arranged for them the appropriate dresses. It depended very much upon accident--that is
to say, the mood of Prince Alexis--whether Simon Petrovitch was rewarded with
stripes or rubles.
The matter thus settled, the
Prince rose from the table and walked out upon an overhanging balcony, where an
immense reclining arm-chair of stuffed leather was ready for his siesta. He preferred this indulgence in the open air;
and although the weather was rapidly growing cold, a pelisse of sables enabled
him to slumber sweetly in the face of the north wind. An attendant stood with the pelisse
outspread; another held the halyards to which was attached the great red
slumber-flag, ready to run it up and announce to all Kinesma that the noises of
the town must cease; a few seconds more, and all things would have been fixed
in their regular daily courses. The
Prince, in fact, was just straightening his shoulders to receive the sables;
his eyelids were dropping, and his eyes, sinking mechanically with them, fell
upon the river-road, at the foot of the hill.
Along this road walked a man, wearing the long cloth caftan of a
merchant.
Prince Alexis started, and
all slumber vanished out of his eyes. He
leaned forward for a moment, with a quick, eager expression; then a loud roar,
like that of an enraged wild beast, burst from his mouth. He gave a stamp that shook the balcony.
"Dog!" he cried to
the trembling attendent, "my cap! my whip!"
The sables fell upon the
floor, the cap and whip appeared in a twinkling, and the red slumber-flag was
folded up again for the first time in several years, as the Prince stormed out
of the castle. The traveller below had
heard the cry,--for it might have been heard half a mile. He seemed to have a presentiment of evil, for
he had already set off towards the town at full speed.
To explain the occurence, we
must mention one of the Prince's many peculiar habits. This was, to invite strangers or merchants of
the neighborhood to dine with him, and, after regaling them bountifully, to
take his pay in subjecting them to all sorts of outrageous tricks, with the
help of his band of willing domestics.
Now this particular merchant had been invited, and had attended; but, being
a very wide-awake, shrewd person, he saw what was coming, and dexterously
slipped away from the banquet without being perceived. The Prince vowed vengeance, on discovering
the escape, and he was not a man to forget his word.
Impelled by such opposite
passions, both parties ran with astonishing speed. The merchant was the taller, but his long
caftan, hastily ungirdled, swung behind him and dragged in the air.
The short, booted legs of
the Prince beat quicker time, and he grasped his short, heavy, leathern whip
more tightly as he saw the space diminishing.
They dashed into the town of
"Stop, scoundrel! I have a crow to pick with you!"
And the tradesmen in their
shops looked on and laughed, as well they might, being unconcerned spectators
of the fun. The fugitive, therefore,
kept straight on, notwithstanding a pond of water glittered across the farther
end of the street.
Although Prince Alexis had
gained considerably in the race, such violent exercise, after a heavy dinner,
deprived him of breath. He again
cried,--
"Stop!"
"But the merchant
answered,--
"No, Highness! You may come to me, but I will not go to
you."
"Oh, the villian!"
growled the Prince, in a hoarse whisper, for he had no more voice.
The pond cut of all further
pursuit. Hastily kicking off his loose
boots, the merchant plunged into the water, rather than encounter the princely
whip, which already began to crack and snap in fierce anticipation. Prince Alexis kicked off his boots and
followed; the pond gradually deepened, and in a minute the tall merchant stood
up to his chin in the icy water, and his short pursuer likewise but out of
striking distance. The latter coaxed and
entreated, but the victim kept his ground.
"You lie,
Highness!" he said, boldly.
"If you want me, come to me."
"Ah-h-h!" roared
the Prince, with chattering teeth, "what a stubborn rascal you are! Come here, and I give you my word that I will
not hurt you. Nay,"--seeing that
the man did not move,--"you shall dine with me as often as you please. You shall be my friend; by St. Vladimir, I
like you!"
"Make the sign of the
cross, and swear it by all the Saints," said the merchant, composedly.
With a grim smile on his
face, the Prince stepped back and shiveringly obeyed. Both then waded out, sat down upon the ground
and pulled on their boots; and presently the people of Kinesma beheld the dripping
pair walking side by side up the street, conversing in the most cordial
manner. The merchant dried his clothes
FROM WITHIN, at the castle table; a fresh keg of old
III.
The festival granted on
behalf of Prince Boris was one of the grandest ever given at the castle. In character it was a singular cross between
the old Muscovite revel and the French entertainments which were then
introduced by the Empress Elizabeth.
All the nobility, for fifty
versts around, including Prince Paul and the chief families of
"I sit on the shore and
wait for the wind,"--which was as much as to say that Sasha had little
fear of the result
The tables were spread in
the great hall, where places for one hundred chosen guests were arranged on the
floor, while the three or four hundred of minor importance were provided for in
the galleries above. By noon the whole
party were assembled. The halls and
passages of the castle were already permeated with rich and unctuous smells,
and a delicate nose might have picked out and arranged, by their finer or
coarser vapors, the dishes preparing for the upper and lower tables. One of the parasites of Prince Alexis, a
dilapidated nobleman, officiated as Grand Marshal,--an office which more than
compensated for the savage charity he received, for it was performed in
continual fear and trembling. The Prince
had felt the stick of the Great Peter upon his own back, and was ready enough
to imitate any custom of the famous monarch.
An orchestra, composed
principally of horns and brass instruments, occupied a separate gallery at one
end of the dining-hall. The guests were
assembled in the adjoining apartments, according to their rank; and when the
first loud blast of the instruments announced the beginning of the banquet, two
very differently attired and freighted processions of servants made their
appearance at the same time. Those
intended for the princely table numbered two hundred,--two for each guest. They were the handsomest young men among the
ten thousand serfs, clothed in loose white trousers and shirts of pink or lilac
silk; their soft golden hair, parted in the middle, fell upon their shoulders,
and a band of gold-thread about the brow prevented it from sweeping the dishes
they carried. They entered the
reception-room, bearing huge trays of sculptured silver, upon which were
anchovies, the finest Finnish caviar, sliced oranges, cheese, and crystal
flagons of Cognac, rum, and kummel.
There were fewer servants for the remaining guests, who were gathered in
a separate chamber, and regaled with the common black caviar, onions, bread,
and vodki. At the second blast of
trumpets, the two companies set themselves in motion and entered the
dining-hall at opposite ends. Our
business, however, is only with the principal personages, so we will allow the
common crowd quietly to mount to the galleries and satisfy their senses with
the coarser viands, while their imagination is stimulated by the sight of the
splendor and luxury below.
Prince Alexis entered first,
with a pompous, mincing gait, leading the Princess Martha by the tips of her
fingers. He wore a caftan of green
velvet laced with gold, a huge vest of crimson brocade, and breeches of yellow
satin. A wig, resembling clouds boiling
in the confluence of opposing winds, surged from his low, broad forehead, and
flowed upon his shoulders. As his small,
fiery eyes swept the hall, every servant trembled: he was as severe at the
commencement as he was reckless at the close of a banquet. The Princess Martha wore a robe of pink satin
embroidered with flowers made of small pearls, and a train and head-dress of
crimson velvet.
Her emeralds were the finest
outside of
Prince Paul of
On one side of Prince Alexis
the bear Mishka took his station. By
order of Prince Boris he had been kept from wine for several days, and his
small eyes were keener and hungrier than usual.
As he rose now and then, impatiently, and sat upon his hind legs, he
formed a curious contrast to the Prince's other supporter, the idiot, who sat
also in his tow-shirt, with a large pewter basin in his hand. It was difficult to say whether the beast was
most man or the man most beast. They
eyed each other and watched the motions of their lord with equal jealousy; and
the dismal whine of the bear found an echo in the drawling, slavering laugh of
the idiot. The Prince glanced form one
to the other; they put him in a capital humor, which was not lessened as he
perceived an expression of envy pass over the face of Prince Paul.
The dinner commenced with a
botvinia--something between a soup and a salad--of wonderful composition. It contained cucumbers, cherries, salt fish,
melons, bread, salt, pepper, and wine.
While it was being served, four huge fishermen, dressed to represent
mermen of the Volga, naked to the waist, with hair crowned with reeds, legs
finned with silver tissue from the knees downward, and preposterous scaly
tails, which dragged helplessly upon the floor, entered the hall, bearing a
broad, shallow tank of silver. In the
tank flapped and swam four superb sterlets, their ridgy backs rising out of the
water like those of alligators. Great
applause welcomed this new and classical adaptation of the old custom of
showing the LIVING fish, before cooking them, to the guests at the table. The invention was due to Simon Petrovitch,
and was (if the truth must be confessed) the result of certain carefully
measured supplies of brandy which Prince Boris himself had carried to the
imprisoned poet.
After the sterlets had
melted away to their backbones, and the roasted geese had shrunk into
drumsticks and breastplates, and here and there a guest's ears began to redden
with more rapid blood, Prince Alexis judged that the time for diversion had
arrived. He first filled up the idiot's
basin with fragments of all the dishes within his reach,--fish, stewed fruits, goose
fat, bread, boiled cabbage, and beer,--the idiot grinning with delight all the
while, and singing, "Ne uyesjai golubchik moi," (Don't go away, my
little pigeon), between the handfuls which he crammed into his mouth. The guests roared with laughter, especially
when a juggler or Calmuck stole out from under the gallery, and pretended to
have designs upon the basin. Mishka, the
bear, had also been well fed, and greedily drank ripe old
But the close of the
performance was not upon the programme.
The impatient bear, getting no nearer his goblet, hugged the man
violently with the other paw, striking his claws through the thin shirt. The dance-measure was lost; the legs of the
two tangled, and they fell to the floor, the bear undermost. With a growl of rage and disappointment, he
brought his teeth together through the man's arm, and it might have fared badly
with the latter, had not the goblet been refilled by some one and held to the
animal's nose.
Then, releasing his hold, he
sat up again, drank another bottle, and staggered out of the hall.
Now the health of Prince
Alexis was drunk,--by the guests on the floor of the hall in
Half an hour later, the
great red slumber-flag floated over the castle.
All slept,--except the serf with the wounded arm, the nervous Grand
Marshal, and Simon Petrovich with his band of dramatists, guarded by the
indefatigable Sasha. All others
slept,--and the curious crowd outside, listening to the music, stole silently
away; down in Kinesma, the mothers ceased to scold their children, and the
merchants whispered to each other in the bazaar; the captains of vessels
floating on the Volga directed their men by gestures; the mechanics laid aside
hammer and axe, and lighted their pipes.
Great silence fell upon the land, and continued unbroken so long as
Prince Alexis and his guests slept the sleep of the just and the tipsy.
By night, however, they were
all awake and busily preparing for the diversions of the evening. The ball-room was illuminated by thousands of
wax-lights, so connected with inflammable threads, that the wicks could all be
kindled in a moment. A pyramid of
tar-barrels had been erected on each side of the castle-gate, and every hill or
mound on the opposite bank of the
After the Polonaise, and a
few stately minuets, (copied from the court of Elizabeth), the company were
ushered into the theatre. The hour of
Simon Petrovitch had struck: with the inspiration smuggled to him by Prince
Boris, he had arranged a performance which he felt to be his masterpiece. Anxiety as to its reception kept him
sober. The overture had ceased, the
spectators were all in their seats, and now the curtain rose. The background was a growth of enormous,
sickly toad-stools, supposed to be clouds.
On the stage stood a girl of eighteen, (the handsomest in Kinesma), in
hoops and satin petticoat, powdered hair, patches, and high-heeled shoes. She held a fan in one hand, and a bunch of
marigolds in the other. After a deep and
graceful curtsy to the company, she came forward and said,--
"I am the goddess
Venus. I have come to
Thunder was heard, and a car
rolled upon the stage. Jupiter sat
therein, in a blue coat, yellow vest, ruffled shirt and three-cornered
hat. One hand held a bunch of
thunderbolts, which he occasionally lifted and shook; the other, a gold-headed
cane.
"Here am, I
Jupiter," said he; "what does Venus desire?"
A poetical dialogue then
followed, to the effect that the favorite of the goddess, Prince Alexis of
Kinesma, was about sending his son, Prince Boris, into the gay world, wherein
himself had already displayed all the gifts of all the divinities of
"What I asked for
Prince Alexis was for HIS sake: what I ask for the son is for the father's
sake."
Jupiter shook his
thunderbolt and called "Apollo!"
Instantly the stage was
covered with explosive and coruscating fires,--red, blue, and golden,--and amid
smoke, and glare, and fizzing noises, and strong chemical smells, Apollo
dropped down from above. He was accustomed
to heat and smoke, being the cook's assistant, and was sweated down to a weight
capable of being supported by the invisible wires. He wore a yellow caftan, and wide blue silk
trousers. His yellow hair was twisted
around and glued fast to gilded sticks, which stood out from his head in a
circle, and represented rays of light.
He first bowed to Prince Alexis, then to the guests, then to Jupiter,
then to Venus. The matter was explained
to him.
He promised to do what he
could towards favoring the world with a second generation of the beauty, grace,
intellect, and nobility of character which had already won his regard. He thought, however, that their gifts were
unnecessary, since the model was already in existence, and nothing more could
be done than to IMITATE it.
(Here there was another
meaning bow towards Prince Alexis,--a bow in which Jupiter and Venus
joined. This was the great point of the
evening, in the opinion of Simon Petrovitch.
He peeped through a hole in one of the clouds, and, seeing the delight
of Prince Alexis and the congratulations of his friends, immediately took a
large glass of
The Graces were then
summoned, and after them the Muses--all in hoops, powder, and paint. Their songs had the same burden,--intense
admiration of the father, and good-will for the son, underlaid with a delicate
doubt. The close was a chorus of all the
deities and semi-deities in praise of the old Prince, with the accompaniment of
fireworks. Apollo rose through the air
like a frog, with his blue legs and yellow arms wide apart; Jupiter's chariot
rolled off; Venus bowed herself back against a mouldy cloud; and the Muses came
forward in a bunch, with a wreath of laurel, which they placed upon the
venerated head.
Sasha was dispatched to
bring the poet, that he might receive his well-earned praise and reward. But alas for Simon Petrovitch? His legs had already doubled under him. He was awarded fifty rubles and a new caftan,
which he was not in a condition to accept until several days afterward.
The supper which followed
resembled the dinner, except that there were fewer dishes and more
bottles. When the closing course of
sweatmeats had either been consumed or transferred to the pockets of the
guests, the Princess Martha retired with the ladies. The guests of lower rank followed; and there
remained only some fifteen or twenty, who were thereupon conducted by Prince
Alexis to a smaller chamber, where he pulled off his coat, lit his pipe, and
called for brandy. The others followed
his example, and their revelry wore out the night.
Such was the festival which
preceded the departure of Prince Boris for
IV.
Before following the young
Prince and his fortunes, in the capital, we must relate two incidents which
somewhat disturbed the ordered course of life in the
It must be stated, as one
favorable trait in the character of Prince Alexis, that, however brutally he
treated his serfs, he allowed no other man to oppress them. All they had and were--their services,
bodies, lives--belonged to him; hence injustice towards them was disrespect
towards their lord. Under the fear which
his barbarity inspired lurked a brute-like attachment, kept alive by the
recognition of this quality.
One day it was reported to
him that Gregor, a merchant in the bazaar at Kinesma, had cheated the wife of
one of his serfs in the purchase of a piece of cloth. Mounting his horse, he rode at once to
Gregor's booth, called for the cloth, and sent the entire piece to the woman, in
the merchant's name, as a confessed act of reparation.
"Now, Gregor, my
child," said he, as he turned his horse's head, "have a care in
future, and play me no more dishonest tricks.
Do you hear? I shall come and
take your business in hand myself, if the like happens again."
Not ten days passed before
the like--or something fully as bad--did happen. Gregor must have been a new comer in Kinesma,
or he would not have tried the experiment.
In an hour from the time it was announced, Prince Alexis appeared in the
bazaar with a short whip under his arm.
He dismounted at the booth
with an ironical smile on his face, which chilled the very marrow in the
merchant's bones.
"Ah, Gregor, my
child," he shouted, "you have already forgotten my commands. Holy St. Nicholas, what a bad memory the boy
has! Why, he can't be trusted to do
business: I must attend to the shop
myself. Out of the way! march!"
He swung his terrible whip;
and Gregor, with his two assistants, darted under the counter, and made their
escape. The Prince then entered the
booth, took up a yard-stick, and cried out in a voice which could be heard from
one end of the town to the other,--"Ladies and gentlemen, have the
kindness to come and examine our stock of goods! We have silks and satins, and all kinds of
ladies' wear; also velvet, cloth, cotton, and linen for the gentlemen. Will your Lordships deign to choose? Here are stockings and handkerchiefs of the
finest. We understand how to measure,
your Lordships, and we sell cheap. We
give no change, and take no small money.
Whoever has no cash may have credit.
Every thing sold below cost, on account of closing up the
establishment. Ladies and gentlemen,
give us a call?"
Everybody in Kinesma flocked
to the booth, and for three hours Prince Alexis measured and sold, either for
scant cash or long credit, until the last article had been disposed of and the
shelves were empty. There was great
rejoicing in the community over the bargains made that day. When all was over, Gregor was summoned, and
the cash received paid into his hands.
"It won't take you long
to count it," said the Prince; but here is a list of debts to be
collected, which will furnish you with pleasant occupation, and enable you to
exercise your memory. Would your Worship
condescend to take dinner to-day with your humble assistant? He would esteem it a favor to be permitted to
wait upon you with whatever his poor house can supply."
Gregor gave a glance at the
whip under the Prince's arm, and begged to be excused. But the latter would take no denial, and
carried out the comedy to the end by giving the merchant the place of honor at
his table, and dismissing him with the present of a fine pup of his favorite
breed. Perhaps the animal acted as a
mnemonic symbol, for Gregor was never afterwards accused of forgetfulness.
If this trick put the Prince
in a good humor, some thing presently occurred which carried him to the
opposite extreme. While taking his
customary siesta one afternoon, a wild young fellow--one of his noble poor relations,
who "sponged" at the castle--happened to pass along a corridor
outside of the very hall where his Highness was snoring. Two ladies in waiting looked down from an
upper window. The young fellow perceived
them, and made signs to attract their attention. Having succeeded in this, he attempted, by
all sorts of antics and grimaces, to make them laugh or speak; but he failed,
for the slumber-flag waved over them, and its fear was upon them. Then, in a freak of incredible rashness, he
sang, in a loud voice, the first line of a popular ditty, and took to his
heels.
No one had ever before dared
to insult the sacred quiet. The Prince
was on his feet in a moment, and rushed into the corridor, (dropping his mantle
of sables by the way,) shouting.--
"Bring me the wretch
who sang!"
The domestics scattered
before him, for his face was terrible to look upon. Some of them had heard the voice, indeed, but
not one of them had seen the culprit, who al ready lay upon a heap of hay in
one of the stables, and appeared to be sunk in innocent sleep.
"Who was it? who was
it?" yelled the Prince, foaming at the mouth with rage, as he rushed from
chamber to chamber.
At last he halted at the top
of the great flight of steps leading into the court-yard, and repeated his demand
in a voice of thunder.
The servants, trembling,
kept at a safe distance, and some of them ventured to state that the offender
could not be discovered. The Prince
turned and entered one of the state apartments, whence came the sound of porcelain
smashed on the floor, and mirrors shivered on the walls. Whenever they heard that sound, the immates
of the castle knew that a hurricane was let loose.
They deliberated hurriedly
and anxiously. What was to be done? In his fits of blind animal rage, there was
nothing of which the Prince was not capable, and the fit could be allayed only
by finding a victim. No one, however,
was willing to be a Curtius for the others, and meanwhile the storm was
increasing from minute to minute. Some
of the more active and shrewd of the household pitched upon the leader of the
band, a simple-minded, good-natured serf, named Waska. They entreated him to take upon himself the
crime of having sung, offering to have his punishment mitigated in every
possible way. He was proof against their
tears, but not against the money which they finally offered, in order to avert
the storm. The agreement was made,
although Waska both scratched his head and shook it, as he reflected upon the
probable result.
The Prince, after his work
of destruction, again appeared upon the steps, and with hoarse voice and
flashing eyes, began to announce that every soul in the castle should receive a
hundred lashes, when a noise was heard in the court, and amid cries of
"Here he is!" "We've got him, Highness!" the poor Waska,
bound hand and foot, was brought forward.
They placed him at the bottom of the steps. The Prince descended until the two stood face
to face. The others looked on from
courtyard, door, and window. A pause
ensued, during which no one dared to breathe.
At last Prince Alexis spoke,
in a loud and terrible voice--
"It was you who sang
it?"
"Yes, your Highness, it
was I," Waska replied, in a scarcely audible tone, dropping his head and
mechanically drawing his shoulders together, as if shrinking from the coming
blow.
It was full three minutes
before the Prince again spoke. He still
held the whip in his hand, his eyes fixed and the muscles of his face
rigid. All at once the spell seemed to dissolve:
his hand fell, and he said in his ordinary voice--
"You sing remarkably
well. Go, now: you shall have ten rubles
and an embroidered caftan for your singing."
But any one would have made
a great mistake who dared to awaken Prince Alexis a second time in the same
manner.
V.
Prince Boris, in
Athough but
three-and-twenty, he would never know the rich, vital glow with which youth
rushes to clasp all forms of sensation.
He had seen, almost daily,
in his father's castle, excess in its most excessive development. It had grown to be repulsive, and he knew not
how to fill the void in his life. With a
single spark of genius, and a little more culture, he might have become a
passable author or artist; but he was doomed to be one of those deaf and dumb
natures that see the movements of the lips of others, yet have no conception of
sound. No wonder his savage old father
looked upon him with contempt, for even his vices were without strength or
character.
The dark winter days passed
by, one by one, and the first week of Lent had already arrived to subdue the
glittering festivities of the court, when the only genuine adventure of the
season happened to the young Prince. For
adventures, in the conventional sense of the word, he was not distinguished;
whatever came to him must come by its own force, or the force of destiny.
One raw, gloomy evening, as
dusk was setting in, he saw a female figure in a droschky, which was about
turning from the great Morskoi into the Gorokhovaya (Pea) Street. He noticed, listlessly, that the lady was
dressed in black, closely veiled, and appeared to be urging the istvostchik (driver)
to make better speed. The latter cut his
horse sharply: it sprang forward, just at the turning, and the droschky,
striking a lamp-post was instantly overturned.
The lady, hurled with great force upon the solidly frozen snow, lay
motionless, which the driver observing, he righted the sled and drove off at
full speed, without looking behind him.
It was not inhumanity, but fear of the knout that hurried him away.
Prince Boris looked up and
down the Morskoi, but perceived no one near at hand. He then knelt upon the snow, lifted the
lady's head to his knee, and threw back her veil. A face so lovely, in spite of its deadly
pallor, he had never before seen. Never
had he even imagined so perfect an oval, such a sweet, fair forehead, such
delicately pencilled brows, so fine and straight a nose, such wonderful beauty
of mouth and chin. It was fortunate that
she was not very severely stunned, for Prince Boris was not only ignorant of
the usual modes of restoration in such cases, but he totally forgot their
necessity, in his rapt contemplation of the lady's face. Presently she opened her eyes, and they
dwelt, expressionless, but bewildering in their darkness and depth, upon his
own, while her consciousness of things slowly returned.
She strove to rise, and
Boris gently lifted and supported her.
She would have withdrawn from his helping arm, but was still too weak
from the shock. He, also, was confused
and (strange to say) embarrassed; but he had self-possession enough to shout,
"Davei!" (Here!) at random.
The call was answered from the
"Where?" asked the
istvostchik.
Boris was about to answer
"Anywhere!" but the lady whispered in a voice of silver sweetness,
the name of a remote street, near the
As the Prince wrapped the
ends of his sable pelisse about her, he noticed that her furs were of the
common foxskin worn by the middle classes.
They, with her heavy boots and the threadbare cloth of her garments, by
no means justified his first suspicion,--that she was a grande dame, engaged in
some romantic "adventure." She
was not more than nineteen or twenty years of age, and he felt--without knowing
what it was--the atmosphere of sweet, womanly purity and innocence which
surrounded her. The shyness of a lost
boyhood surprised him.
By the time they had reached
the Litenie, she had fully recovered her consciousness and a portion of her
strength. She drew away from him as much
as the narrow sled would allow.
"You have been very
kind, sir, and I thank you," she said; "but I am now able to go home
without your further assistance."
"By no means,
lady!" said the Prince. "The
streets are rough, and here are no lamps.
If a second accident were to happen, you would be helpless. Will you not allow me to protect you?"
She looked him in the
face. In the dusky light, she saw not
the peevish, weary features of the worldling, but only the imploring softness
of his eyes, the full and perfect honesty of his present emotion. She made no further objection; perhaps she
was glad that she could trust the elegant stranger.
Boris, never before at a
loss for words, even in the presence of the Empress, was astonished to find how
awkward were his attempts at conversation.
She was presently the more self-possessed of the two, and nothing was
ever so sweet to his ears as the few commonplace remarks she uttered. In spite of the darkness and the chilly air,
the sled seemed to fly like lightning.
Before he supposed they had made half the way, she gave a sign to the
istvostchik, and they drew up before a plain house of squared logs.
The two lower windows were
lighted, and the dark figure of an old man, with a skull-cap upon his head, was
framed in one of them. It vanished as
the sled stopped; the door was thrown open and the man came forth hurriedly,
followed by a Russian nurse with a lantern.
"Helena, my child, art
thou come at last? What has befallen
thee?"
He would evidently have said
more, but the sight of Prince Boris caused him to pause, while a quick shade of
suspicion and alarm passed over his face.
The Prince stepped forward, instantly relieved of his unaccustomed
timidity, and rapidly described the accident.
The old nurse Katinka, had meanwhile assisted the lovely
The old man turned to
follow, shivering in the night-air.
Suddenly recollecting himself, he begged the Prince to enter and take
some refreshments, but with the air and tone of a man who hopes that his
invitation will not be accepted. If such
was really his hope, he was disappointed; for Boris instantly commanded the
istvostchik to wait for him, and entered the humble dwelling.
The apartment into which he
was ushered was spacious, and plainly, yet not shabbily furnished. A violoncello and clavichord, with several
portfolios of music, and scattered sheets of ruled paper, proclaimed the
profession or the taste of the occupant.
Having excused himself a moment to look after his daughter's condition,
the old man, on his return, found Boris
turning over the leaves of a musical work.
"You see my
profession," he said. "I teach
music?"
"Do you not
compose?" asked the Prince.
"That was once my
ambition. I was a pupil of Sebastian
Bach.
But--circumstances--necessity--brought me here. Other lives changed the direction of mine. It was right!"
"You mean your
daughter's?" the Prince gently suggested.
"Hers and her
mother's. Our story was well known in
Further conversation was
interrupted by the entrance of
In spite of the singular
delight which her presence occasioned him, he was careful not to prolong his
visit beyond the limits of strict etiquette.
His name, Boris Alexeivitch, only revealed to his guests the name of his
father, without his rank; and when he stated that he was employed in one of the
Departments, (which was true in a measure, for he was a staff officer,) they
could only look upon him as being, at best, a member of some family whose
recent elevation to the nobility did not release them from the necessity of
Government service. Of course he
employed the usual pretext of wishing to study music, and either by that or
some other stratagem managed to leave matters in such a shape that a second
visit could not occasion surprise.
As the sled glided homewards
over the crackling snow, he was obliged to confess the existence of a new and
powerful excitement. Was it the chance
of an adventure, such as certain of his comrades were continually seeking? He thought not; no, decidedly not. Was it--could it be--love? He really could not tell; he had not the
slightset idea what love was like.
VI.
It was something at least,
that the plastic and not un-virtuous nature of the young man was directed
towards a definite object. The elements
out of which he was made, although somewhat diluted, were active enough to make
him uncomfortable, so long as they remained in a confused state. He had very little power of introversion, but
he was sensible that his temperament was changing,--that he grew more cheerful
and contented with life,--that a chasm somewhere was filling up,--just in
proportion as his acquaintance with the old music-master and his daughter
became more familiar. His visits were
made so brief, were so adroitly timed and accounted for by circumstances, that
by the close of Lent he could feel justified in making the Easter call of a
friend, and claim its attendant privileges, without fear of being repulsed.
That Easter call was an era
in his life. At the risk of his wealth
and rank being suspected, he dressed himself in new and rich garments, and
hurried away towards the Smolnoi. The
old nurse, Katinka, in her scarlet gown, opened the door for him, and was the
first to say, "Christ is arisen!"
What could he do but give her the usual kiss? Formerly he had kissed hundreds of serfs, men
and women, on the sacred anniversary, with a passive good-will. But Katinka's kiss seemed bitter, and he
secretly rubbed his mouth after it. The
music-master came next: grisly though he might be, he was the St. Peter who
stood at the gate of heaven. Then
entered
That night Prince Boris
wrote a long letter to his "chere maman," in piquantly misspelt
French, giving her the gossip of the court, and such family news as she usually
craved. The purport of the letter,
however, was only disclosed in the final paragraph, and then in so negative a
way that it is doubtful whether the Princess Martha fully understood it.
"Poing de mariajes pour
moix!" he wrote,--but we will drop the original,--"I don't think of
such a thing yet. Pashkoff dropped a
hint, the other day, but I kept my eyes shut.
Perhaps you remember her?--fat, thick lips, and crooked teeth. Natalie D---- said to me, "Have you ever
been in love, Prince?" HAVE I,
MAMAN? I did not know what answer to
make. What is love? How does one feel, when one has it? They laugh at it here, and of course I should
not wish to do what is laughable. Give
me a hint: forewarned is forearmed, you know,"--etc., etc.
Perhaps the Princess Martha
DID suspect something; perhaps some word in her son's letter touched a secret
spot far back in her memory, and renewed a dim, if not very intelligible,
pain. She answered his question at
length, in the style of the popular French romances of that day. She had much to say of dew and roses,
turtledoves and the arrows of Cupid.
"Ask thyself," she
wrote, "whether felicity comes with her presence, and distraction with her
absence,--whether her eyes make the morning brighter for thee, and her tears
fall upon thy heart like molten lava,--whether heaven would be black and dismal
without her company, and the flames of hell turn into roses under her
feet."
It was very evident that the
good Princess Martha had never felt--nay, did not comprehend--a passion such as
she described.
Prince Boris, however, whose
veneration for his mother was unbounded, took her words literally, and applied
the questions to himself. Although he
found it difficult, in good faith and sincerity, to answer all of them
affirmatively (he was puzzled, for instance, to know the sensation of molten
lava falling upon the heart), yet the general conclusion was inevitable:
Instead of returning to
Kinesma for the summer, as had been arranged, he determined to remain in
"Perhaps the brat will
make a man of himself, after all."
It was not many weeks, in
fact, before the expected petition came to hand. The Princess Martha had also foreseen it, and
instructed her son how to attack his father's weak side. The latter was furiously jealous of certain
other noblemen of nearly equal wealth, who were with him at the court of Peter
the Great, as their sons now were at that of
There was cursing at the
castle when the letter arrived. Many
serfs felt the sting of the short whip, the slumber-flag was hoisted five
minutes later than usual, and the consumption of
Before midsummer he was
"Whatever you are,
Boris, I will be faithful to you."
VII.
Leaving Boris to discover
the exact form and substance of the passion of love, we will return for a time
to the
Whether the Princess Martha
conjectured what had transpired in
When Mishka, the dissipated
bear already described, bit off one of the ears of Basil, a hunter belonging to
the castle, and Basil drew his knife and plunged it into Mishka's heart, Prince
Alexis punished the hunter by cutting off his other ear, and sending him away
to a distant estate. A serf, detected in
eating a few of the pickled cherries intended for the Prince's botvinia, was
placed in a cask, and pickled cherries packed around him up to the chin. There he was kept until almost flayed by the
acid. It was ordered that these two delinquents
should never afterwards be called by any other names than "Crop-Ear"
and "Cherry."
But the Prince's severest
joke, which, strange to say, in no wise lessened his popularity among the
serfs, occurred a month or two later.
One of his leading passions was the chase,--especially the chase in his
own forests, with from one to two hundred men, and no one to dispute his
Lordship. On such occasions, a huge
barrel of wine, mounted upon a sled, always accompanied the crowd, and the
quantity which the hunters received depended upon the satisfaction of Prince
Alexis with the game they collected.
Winter had set in early and
suddenly, and one day, as the Prince and his retainers emerged from the forest
with their forenoon's spoil, and found themselves on the bank of the
They were scattered over a
slope gently falling from the dark, dense fir-forest towards the
Some began to amuse
themselves by flinging the clean-picked bones of deer and hare along the glassy
ice of the
"Oh, by St. Nicholas
the Miracle-Worker, I'll give you better sport than that, ye knaves! Here's the very place for a reisak,--do you
hear me children?--a reisak! Could there
be better ice? and then the rocks to jump from!
Come, children, come! Waska,
Ivan, Daniel, you dogs, over with you!"
Now the reisak was a gymnastic
performance peculiar to old
Waska, Ivan, Daniel, and a
number of others, sprang to the brink of the rocks and looked over. The wall was not quite perpendicular, some
large fragments having fallen from above and lodged along the base. It would therefore require a bold leap to
clear the rocks and strike the smooth ice.
They hesitated,--and no wonder.
Prince Alexis howled with
rage and disappointment.
"The Devil take you,
for a pack of whimpering hounds!" he cried. "Holy Saints! they are afraid to make a
reisak!"
Ivan crossed himself and
sprang. He cleared the rocks, but,
instead of bursting through the ice with his head, fell at full length upon his
back.
"O knave!" yelled
the Prince,--"not to know where his head is! Thinks it's his back! Give him fifteen stripes."
Which was instantly done.
The second attempt was
partially successful. One of the hunters
broke through the ice, head foremost, going down, but he failed to come up
again; so the feat was only half performed.
The Prince became more
furiously excited.
"This is the way I'm
treated!" he cried. "He
forgets all about finishing the reisak, and goes to chasing sterlet! May the carps eat him up for an ungrateful
vagabond! Here, you beggars!"
(addressing the poor relations,) "take your turn, and let me see whether
you are men."
Only one of the frightened
parasites had the courage to obey. On
reaching the brink, he shut his eyes in mortal fear, and made a leap at
random. The next moment he lay on the
edge of the ice with one leg broken against a fragment of rock.
This capped the climax of
the Prince's wrath. He fell into a state
bordering on despair, tore his hair, gnashed his teeth, and wept bitterly.
"They will be the death
of me!" was his lament. "Not a
man among them! It wasn't so in the old
times. Such beautiful reisaks as I have
seen! But the people are becoming
women,--hares,--chickens,--skunks!
Villains, will you force me to kill you?
You have dishonored and disgraced me; I am ashamed to look my neighbors
in the face. Was ever a man so
treated?"
The serfs hung down their
heads, feeling somehow responsible for their master's misery. Some of them wept, out of a stupid sympathy
with his tears.
All at once he sprang down
from the cask, crying in a gay, triumphant tone,--
"I have it! Bring me Crop-Ear. He's the fellow for a reisak,--he can make
three, one after another."
One of the boldest ventured
to suggest that Crop-Ear had been sent away in disgrace to another of the
Prince's estates.
"Bring him here, I
say? Take horses, and don't draw rein
going or coming. I will not stir from
this spot until Crop-Ear comes."
With these words, he mounted
the barrel, and recommenced ladling out the wine. Huge fires were made, for the night was
falling, and the cold had become intense.
Fresh game was skewered and set to broil, and the tragic interlude of
the revel was soon forgotten.
Towards midnight the sound
of hoofs was heard, and the messengers arrived with Crop-Ear. But, although the latter had lost his ears,
he was not inclined to split his head.
The ice, meanwhile, had become so strong that a cannon-ball would have
made no impression upon it. Crop-Ear
simply threw down a stone heavier than himself, and, as it bounced and slid
along the solid floor, said to Prince Alexis,--
"Am I to go back,
Highness, or stay here?"
"Here, my son. Thou'rt a man. Come hither to me."
Taking the serf's head in
his hands, he kissed him on both cheeks.
Then he rode homeward through the dark, iron woods, seated astride on
the barrel, and steadying himself with his arms around Crop-Ear's and Waska's
necks.
VIII.
The health of the Princess
Martha, always delicate, now began to fail rapidly. She was less and less able to endure her
husband's savage humors, and lived almost exclusively in her own
apartments. She never mentioned the name
of Boris in his presence, for it was sure to throw him into a paroxysm of
fury. Floating rumors in regard to the
young Prince had reached him from the capital, and nothing would convince him
that his wife was not cognizant of her son's doings. The poor Princess clung to her boy as to all
that was left her of life, and tried to prop her failing strength with the hope
of his speedy return. She was now too
helpless to thwart his wishes in any way; but she dreaded, more than death, the
terrible SOMETHING which would surely take place between father and son if her
conjectures should prove to be true.
One day, in the early part
of November, she received a letter from Boris, announcing his marriage. She had barely strength and presence of mind
enough to conceal the paper in her bosom before sinking in a swoon. By some means or other the young Prince had
succeeded in overcoming all the obstacles to such a step: probably the favor of
the Empress was courted, in order to obtain her consent. The money he had received, he wrote, would be
sufficient to maintain them for a few months, though not in a style befitting
their rank. He was proud and happy; the
Princess Helena would be the reigning beauty of the court, when he should
present her, but he desired the sanction of his parents to the marriage, before
taking his place in society. He would
write immediately to his father, and hoped, that, if the news brought a storm,
Mishka might be on hand to divert its force, as on a former occasion.
Under the weight of this
imminent secret, the Princess Martha could neither eat nor sleep. Her body wasted to a shadow; at every noise
in the castle, she started and listened in terror, fearing that the news had
arrived.
Prince Boris, no doubt,
found his courage fail him when he set about writing the promised letter; for a
fortnight elapsed before it made its appearance. Prince Alexis received it on his return from
the chase. He read it hastily through,
uttered a prolonged roar like that of a wounded bull, and rushed into the
castle. The sound of breaking furniture,
of crashing porcelain and shivered glass, came from the state apartments: the
domestics fell on their knees and prayed; the Princess, who heard the noise and
knew what it portended, became almost insensible from fright.
One of the upper servants
entered a chamber as the Prince was in the act of demolishing a splendid
malachite table, which had escaped all his previous attacks. He was immediately greeted with a cry of,--
"Send the Princess to
me!"
"Her Highness is not
able to leave her chamber," the man replied.
How it happened he could
never afterwards describe but he found himself lying in a corner of the
room. When he arose, there seemed to be
a singular cavity in his mouth: his upper front teeth were wanting.
We will not narrate what
took place in the chamber of the Princess.
The nerves of the
unfortunate woman had been so wrought upon by her fears, that her husband's
brutal rage, familiar to her from long experience, now possessed a new and
alarming significance. His threats were
terrible to hear; she fell into convulsions, and before morning her tormented
life was at an end.
There was now something else
to think of, and the smashing of porcelain and cracking of whips came to an
end. The Archimandrite was summoned, and
preparations, both religious and secular, were made for a funeral worthy the
rank of the deceased. Thousands flocked
to Kinesma; and when the immense procession moved away from the castle,
although very few of the persons had ever known or cared in the least, for the
Princess Martha, all, without exception, shed profuse tears. Yes, there was one exception,--one bare, dry
rock, rising alone out of the universal deluge,--Prince Alexis himself, who
walked behind the coffin, his eyes fixed and his features rigid as stone. They remarked that his face was haggard, and
that the fiery tinge on his cheeks and nose had faded into livid purple. The only sign of emotion which he gave was a
convulsive shudder, which from time to time passed over his whole body.
Three archimandrites
(abbots)and one hundred priests headed the solemn funeral procession from the
castle to the church on the opposite hill.
There the mass for the dead was chanted, the responses being sung by a
choir of silvery boyish voices. All the
appointments were of the costliest character.
Not only all those within the church, but the thousands outside, spared
not their tears, but wept until the fountains were exhausted. Notice was given, at the close of the
services, that "baked meats" would be furnished to the multitude, and
that all beggars who came to Kinesma would be charitably fed for the space of
six weeks. Thus, by her death, the
amiable Princess Martha was enabled to dispense more charity than had been
permitted to her life.
At the funeral banquet which
followed, Prince Alexis placed the Abbot Sergius at his right hand, and
conversed with him in the most edifying manner upon the necessity of leading a
pure and godly life. His remarks upon
the duty of a Christian, upon brotherly love, humility, and self-sacrifice,
brought tears into the eyes of the listening priests. He expressed his conviction that the departed
Princess, by the piety of her life, had attained unto salvation,--and added,
that his own life had now no further value unless he should devote it to
religious exercises.
"Can you not give me a
place in your monastery?" he asked, turning to the Abbot. "I will endow it with a gift of forty
thousand rubles, for the privilege of occupying a monk's cell."
"Pray, do not decide
too hastily, Highness," the Abbot replied.
"You have yet a son."
"What!" yelled
Prince Alexis, with flashing eyes, every trace of humility and renunciation
vanishing like smoke,--"what!
Borka? The infamous wretch who
has ruined me, killed his mother, and brought disgrace upon our name? Do you know that he has married a wench of no
family and without a farthing,--who would be honored, if I should allow her to
feed my hogs? Live for HIM? live for
HIM? Ah-R-R-R!"
This outbreak terminated in
a sound between a snarl and a bellow.
The priests turned pale, but the Abbot devoutly remarked--
"Encompassed by
sorrows, Prince, you should humbly submit to the will of the Lord."
"Submit to Borka?"
the Prince scornfully laughed. "I
know what I'll do. There's time enough
yet for a wife and another child,--ay,--a dozen children! I can have my pick in the province; and if I
couldn't I'd sooner take Masha, the goose-girl, than leave Borka the hope of
stepping into my shoes. Beggars they
shall be,--beggars!"
What further he might have
said was interrupted by the priests rising to chant the Blajennon uspennie
(blessed be the dead),--after which, the trisna, a drink composed of mead,
wine, and rum, was emptied to the health of the departed soul. Every one stood during this ceremony, except
Prince Alexis, who fell suddenly prostrate before the consecrated pictures, and
sobbed so passionately that the tears of the guests flowed for the third
time. There he lay until night; for
whenever any one dared to touch him, he struck out furiously with fists and
feet. Finally he fell asleep on the
floor, and the servants then bore him to his sleeping apartment.
For several days afterward
his grief continued to be so violent that the occupants of the castle were
obliged to keep out of his way. The whip
was never out of his hand, and he used it very recklessly, not always selecting
the right person. The parasitic poor
relations found their situation so uncomfortable, that they decided, one and
all, to detach themselves from the tree upon which they fed and fattened, even
at the risk of withering on a barren soil.
Night and morning the serfs prayed upon their knees, with many tears and
groans, that the Saints might send consolation, in any form, to their desperate
lord.
The Saints graciously heard
and answered the prayer. Word came that
a huge bear had been seen in the forest stretching towards Juriewetz. The sorrowing Prince pricked up his ears,
threw down his whip, and ordered a chase.
Sasha, the broad-shouldered, the cunning, the ready, the untiring
companion of his master, secretly ordered a cask of vodki to follow the crowd
of hunters and serfs. There was a
steel-bright sky, a low, yellow sun, and a brisk easterly wind from the heights
of the Ural. As the crisp snow began to
crunch under the Prince's sled, his followers saw the old expression come back
to his face. With song and halloo and
blast of horns, they swept away into the forest.
The great bear was tracked,
and after a long and exciting chase, fell by the hand of Prince Alexis
himself. Halt was made in an open space
in the forest, logs were piled together and kindled on the snow, and just at
the right moment (which no one knew better than Sasha) the cask of vodki rolled
into its place. When the serfs saw the
Prince mount astride of it, with his ladle in his hand, they burst into shouts
of extravagant joy. "Slava
Bogu!" (Glory be to God!) came
fervently from the bearded lips of those hard, rough, obedient children. They tumbled headlong over each other, in
their efforts to drink first from the ladle, to clasp the knees or kiss the
hands of the restored Prince. And the
dawn was glimmering against the eastern stars, as they took the way to the
castle, making the ghostly fir-woods ring with shout and choric song.
Nevertheless, Prince Alexis
was no longer the same man; his giant strength and furious appetite were
broken. He was ever ready, as formerly,
for the chase and the drinking-bout; but his jovial mood no longer grew into a
crisis which only utter physical exhaustion or the stupidity of drunkenness
could overcome. Frequently, while
astride the cask, his shouts of laughter would suddenly cease, the ladle would
drop from his hand, and he would sit motionless, staring into vacancy for five
minutes at a time. Then the serfs, too,
became silent, and stood still, awaiting a change. The gloomy mood passed away as suddenly. He would start, look about him, and say, in a
melancholy voice,--
"Have I frightened you,
my children? It seems to me that I am
getting old. Ah, yes, we must all die,
one day. But we need not think about it,
until the time comes. The Devil take me
for putting it into my head! Why, how
now? can't you sing, children?"
Then he would strike up some
ditty which they all knew: a hundred voices joined in the strain, and the hills
once more rang with revelry.
Since the day when the
Princess Martha was buried, the Prince had not again spoken of marriage. No one, of course, dared to mention the name
of Boris in his presence.
IX.
The young Prince had, in
reality, become the happy husband of
The Princess Martha, under
some presentiment of her approaching death, had intrusted one of the ladies in
attendance upon her with the secret of her son's marriage, in addition to a
tender maternal message, and such presents of money and jewelry as she was able
to procure without her husband's knowledge.
These presents reached Boris very opportunely; for, although
The slender hoard of the old
music-master, with a few thousand rubles from Prince Boris, sufficed for his
modest maintenance. Being now free from
the charge of his daughter, he determined to visit
"Shall we go to
"No, my Boris,"
she answered; "we will go to Kinesma."
"But--
"Yes, my Boris. The last letter from your--our cousin Nadejda
convinces me that the step must be taken.
Prince Alexis has grown much older since your mother's death; he is
lonely and unhappy. He may not welcome
us, but he will surely suffer us to come to him; and we must then begin the
work of reconciliation. Reflect, my
Boris, that you have keenly wounded him in the tenderest part,--his pride,--and
you must therefore cast away your own pride, and humbly and respectfully, as
becomes a son, solicit his pardon."
"Yes," said he,
hesitatingly, "you are right. But I
know his violence and recklessness, as you do not. For myself, alone, I am willing to meet him;
yet I fear for your sake. Would you not
tremble to encounter a maddened and brutal mujik?--then how much more to meet
Alexis Pavlovitch of Kinesma!"
"I do not and shall not
tremble," she replied. "It is
not your marriage that has estranged your father, but your marriage with
ME. Having been, unconsciously, the
cause of the trouble, I shall deliberately, and as a sacred duty, attempt to
remove it. Let us go to Kinesma, as
humble, penitent children, and cast ourselves upon your father's mercy. At the worst, he can but reject us; and you
will have given me the consolation of knowing that I have tried, as your wife,
to annul the sacrifice you have made for my sake."
"Be it so, then!"
cried Boris, with a mingled feeling of relief and anxiety.
He was not unwilling that
the attempt should be made, especially since it was his wife's desire; but he
knew his father too well to anticipate immediate success. All threatening POSSIBILITIES suggested
themselves to his mind; all forms of insult and outrage which he had seen
perpetrated at Kinesma filled his memory.
The suspense became at last worse than any probable reality. He wrote to his father, announcing a speedy
visit from himself and his wife; and two days afterwards the pair left
X.
When Prince Alexis received
his son's letter, an expression of fierce, cruel delight crept over his face,
and there remained, horribly illuminating its haggard features. The orders given for swimming horses in the
Sasha, we may be sure, was
busy with his devil's work that night.
The next morning the stewards and agents of Prince Alexis, in castle,
village, and field, were summoned to his presence.
"Hark ye!" said
he; "Borka and his trumpery wife send me word that they will be here
to-morrow. See to it that every man,
woman, and child, for ten versts out on the Moskovskoi road, knows of their
coming. Let it be known that whoever
uncovers his head before them shall uncover his back for a hundred lashes. Whomsoever they greet may bark like a dog,
meeouw like a cat, or bray like an ass, as much as he chooses; but if he speaks
a decent word, his tongue shall be silenced with stripes. Whoever shall insult them has my pardon in
advance. Oh, let them come!--ay, let
them come! Come they may: but how they
go away again"----
The Prince Alexis suddenly
stopped, shook his head, and walked up and down the hall, muttering to
himself. His eyes were bloodshot, and
sparkled with a strange light. What the stewards
had heard was plain enough; but that something more terrible than insult was
yet held in reserve they did not doubt.
It was safe, therefore, not only to fulfil, but to exceed, the letter of
their instructions. Before night the
whole population were acquainted with their duties; and an unusual mood of
expectancy, not unmixed with brutish glee, fell upon Kinesma.
By the middle of the next
forenoon, Boris and his wife, seated in the open kibitka, drawn by post-horses,
reached the boundaries of the estate, a few versts from the village. They were both silent and slightly pale at
first, but now began to exchange mechanical remarks, to divert each other's
thoughts from the coming reception.
"Here are the fields of
Kinesma at last!" exclaimed Prince Boris.
"We shall see the church and castle from the top of that hill in
the distance. And there is Peter, my
playmate, herding the cattle!
Peter! Good-day, brotherkin!"
Peter looked, saw the
carriage close upon him, and, after a moment of hesitation, let his arms drop
stiffly by his sides, and began howling like a mastiff by moonlight.
"That was done by
order," said he, with a bitter smile.
"The old bear stretches his claws out. Dare you try his hug?"
"I do not fear,"
she answered, her face was calm.
Every serf they passed
obeyed the order of Prince Alexis according to his own idea of disrespect. One turned his back; another made
contemptuous grimaces and noises; another sang a vulgar song; another spat upon
the ground or held his nostrils. Nowhere
was a cap raised, or the stealthy welcome of a friendly glance given.
The Princess Helena met
these insults with a calm, proud indifference.
Boris felt them more keenly; for the fields and hills were prospectively
his property, and so also were the brutish peasants. It was a form of chastisement which he had
never before experienced, and knew not how to resist. The affront of an entire community was an
offence against which he felt himself to be helpless.
As they approached the town,
the demonstrations of insolence were redoubled.
About two hundred boys, between the ages of ten and fourteen, awaited
them on the hill below the church, forming themselves into files on either side
of the road. These imps had been
instructed to stick out their tongues in derision, and howl, as the carriage
passed between them. At the entrance of
the long main street of Kinesma, they were obliged to pass under a mock triumphal
arch, hung with dead dogs and drowned cats; and from this point the reception
assumed an outrageous character. Howls,
hootings, and hisses were heard on all sides; bouquets of nettles and vile
weeds were flung to them; even wreaths of spoiled fish dropped from the
windows. The women were the most eager
and uproarious in this carnival of insult: they beat their saucepans, threw
pails of dirty water upon the horses, pelted the coachman with rotten cabbages,
and filled the air with screeching and foul words.
It was impossible to pass
through this ordeal with indifference.
Boris, finding that his kindly greetings were thrown away,--that even
his old acquaintances in the bazaar howled like the rest,--sat with head bowed
and despair in his heart. The beautiful
eyes of
As the kibitka slowly
climbed the hill on its way to the castle-gate, Prince Alexis, who had heard
and enjoyed the noises in the village from a balcony on the western tower, made
his appearance on the head of the steps which led from the court-yard to the
state apartments. The dreaded whip was
in his hand; his eyes seemed about to start from their sockets, in their wild,
eager, hungry gaze; the veins stood out like cords on his forehead; and his
lips, twitching involuntarily, revealed the glare of his set teeth. A frightened hush filled the castle. Some of the domestics were on their knees;
others watching, pale and breathless, from the windows: for all felt that a
greater storm than they had ever experienced was about to burst. Sasha and the castle-steward had taken the
wise precaution to summon a physician and a priest, provided with the utensils for
extreme unction. Both of these persons
had been smuggled in through a rear entrance, and were kept concealed until
their services should be required.
The noise of wheels was
heard outside the gate, which stood invitingly open. Prince Alexis clutched his whip with iron
fingers, and unconsciously took the attitude of a wild beast about to spring
from its ambush. Now the hard clatter of
hoofs and the rumbling, of wheels echoed from the archway, and the kibitka
rolled into the courtyard. It stopped
near the foot of the grand staircase.
Boris, who sat upon the farther side, rose to alight, in order to hand
down his wife; but no sooner had he made a movement than Prince Alexis, with
lifted whip and face flashing fire, rushed down the steps.
Prince Alexis had already
reached the last step, and but a few feet separated them. He stopped as if struck by lightning,--his
body still retaining, in every limb, the impress of motion. The whip was in his uplifted fist; one foot
was on the pavement of the court, and the other upon the edge of the last step;
his head was bent forward, his mouth open, and his eyes fastened upon the
Princess Helena's face.
She, too, stood motionless,
a form of simple and perfect grace, and met his gaze with soft, imploring, yet
courageous and trustful eyes. The women
who watched the scene from the galleries above always declared that an
invisible saint stood beside her in that moment, and surrounded her with a
dazzling glory. The few moments during
which the suspense of a hundred hearts hung upon those encountering eyes seemed
an eternity.
Prince Alexis did not move,
but he began to tremble from head to foot.
His fingers relaxed, and the whip fell ringing upon the pavement. The wild fire of his eyes changed from wrath
into an ecstasy as intense, and a piercing cry of mingled wonder, admiration
and delight burst from his throat. At
that cry Boris rushed forward and knelt at his feet.
The sight of that sweet
face, so near his own, tamed the last lurking ferocity of the beast. His tears burst forth in a shower; he lifted
and embraced the Princess, kissing her brow, her cheeks, her chin, and her
hands, calling her his darling daughter, his little white dove, his lambkin.
"And, father, my Boris,
too!" said she.
The pure liquid voice sent
thrills of exquisite delight through his whole frame. He embraced and blessed Boris, and then,
throwing an arm around each, held them to his breast, and wept passionately
upon their heads. By this time the whole
castle overflowed with weeping. Tears
fell from every window and gallery; they hissed upon the hot saucepans of the
cooks; they moistened the oats in the manger; they took the starch out of the
ladies' ruffles, and weakened the wine in the goblets of the guests. Insult was changed into tenderness in a
moment. Those who had barked or stuck
out their tongues at Boris rushed up to kiss his boots; a thousand terms of
endearment were showered upon him.
Still clasping his children
to his breast, Prince Alexis mounted the steps with them. At the top he turned, cleared his throat,
husky from sobbing, and shouted--
"A feast! a feast for
all Kinesma! Let there be rivers of
vodki, wine and hydromel! Proclaim it
everywhere that my dear son Boris and my dear daughter Helena have arrived, and
whoever fails to welcome them to Kinesma shall be punished with a hundred
stripes! Off, ye scoundrels, ye
vagabonds, and spread the news!"
It was not an hour before
the whole sweep of the circling hills resounded with the clang of bells, the
blare of horns, and the songs and shouts of the rejoicing multitude. The triumphal arch of unsavory animals was
whirled into the
XI.
In the castle a superb
banquet was improvised. Music, guests,
and rare dishes were brought together with wonderful speed, and the choicest
wines of the cellar were drawn upon. Prince
Boris, bewildered by this sudden and incredible change in his fortunes, sat at
his father's right hand, while the Princess filled, but with much more beauty
and dignity, the ancient place of the Princess Martha. The golden dishes were set before her, and
the famous family emeralds--in accordance with the command of Prince
Alexis--gleamed among her dark hair and flashed around her milk-white
throat. Her beauty was of a kind so rare
in
The guests noticed a change
in the character of the entertainment.
The idiot, in his tow shirt, had been crammed to repletion in the
kitchen, and was now asleep in the stable.
Razboi, the new bear,--the successor of the slaughtered Mishka,--was
chained up out of hearing. The jugglers,
tumblers, and Calmucks still occupied their old place under the gallery, but
their performances were of a highly decorous character. At the least-sign of a relapse into certain
old tricks, more grotesque than refined, the brows of Prince Alexis would grow
dark, and a sharp glance at Sasha was sufficient to correct the indiscretion. Every one found this natural enough; for they
were equally impressed with the elegance and purity of the young wife. After the healths had been drunk and the
slumber-flag was raised over the castle, Boris led her into the splendid
apartments of his mother,--now her own,--and knelt at her feet.
"Have I done my part,
my Boris?" she asked.
"You are an
angel!" he cried. "It was a
miracle! My life was not worth a copek,
and I feared for yours. If it will only
last!--if it will only last!"
"It WILL," said
she. " You have taken me from
poverty, and given me rank, wealth, and a proud place in the world: let it be
my work to keep the peace which God has permitted me to establish between you
and your father!"
The change in the old
Prince, in fact, was more radical than any one who knew his former ways of life
would have considered possible. He
stormed and swore occasionally, flourished his whip to some purpose, and rode
home from the chase, not outside of a brandy cask, as once, but with too much of
its contents inside of him: but these mild excesses were comparative
virtues. His accesses of blind rage
seemed to be at an end. A powerful,
unaccustomed feeling of content subdued his strong nature, and left its impress
on his voice and features. He joked and
sang with his "children," but not with the wild recklessness of the
days of reisaks and indiscriminate floggings.
Both his exactions and his favors diminished in quantity. Week after week passed by, and there was no
sign of any return to his savage courses.
Nothing annoyed him so much
as a reference to his former way of life, in the presence of the Princess
Helena. If her gentle, questioning eyes
happened to rest on him at such times, something very like a blush rose into
his face, and the babbler was silenced with a terribly significant look. It was enough for her to say, when he
threatened an act of cruelty and injustice, "Father, is that
right?" He confusedly retracted his
orders, rather than bear the sorrow of her face.
The promise of another event
added to his happiness:
That night Prince Alexis lay
down in the corridor, outside of
The christening was on a
magnificent scale. Prince Paul of
Prince Alexis was never
tired of gazing at his grandson and namesake.
"He has more of his
mother than of Boris," he would say.
"So much the better! Strong
dark eyes, like the Great Peter,--and what a goodly leg for a babe! Ha! he makes a tight little fist already,--fit
to handle a whip,--or" (seeing the expression of
XII.
Alas! the proud predictions
of Prince Alexis, and the protection of the sacred amulet, were alike
unavailing. The babe sickened, wasted
away, and died in less than two months after its birth. There was great and genuine sorrow among the
serfs of Kinesma. Each had received a
shining ruble of silver at the christening; and, moreover, they were now
beginning to appreciate the milder regime of their lord, which this blow might
suddenly terminate. Sorrow, in such
natures as his, exasperates instead of chastening: they knew him well enough to
recognize the danger.
At first the old man's grief
appeared to be of a stubborn, harmless nature.
As soon as the funeral ceremonies were over he betook himself to his
bed, and there lay for two days and nights, without eating a morsel of
food. The poor Princess Helena, almost
prostrated by the blow, mourned alone, or with Boris, in her own
apartments. Her influence, no longer kept
alive by her constant presence, as formerly, began to decline. When the old Prince aroused somewhat from his
stupor, it was not meat that he demanded, but drink; and he drank to angry
excess. Day after day the habit resumed
its ancient sway, and the whip and the wild-beast yell returned with it. The serfs even began to tremble as they never
had done, so long as his vices were simply those of a strong man; for now a
fiendish element seemed to be slowly creeping in. He became horribly profane: they shuddered
when he cursed the venerable Metropolitan of Moscow, declaring that the old
sinner had deliberately killed his grandson, by sending to him, instead of the
true cross of the Saviour, a piece of the tree to which the impenitent thief
was nailed.
Boris would have spared his
wife the knowledge of this miserable relapse, in her present sorrow, but the
information soon reached her in other ways.
She saw the necessity of regaining, by a powerful effort, what she had
lost. She therefore took her accustomed
place at the table, and resumed her inspection of household matters. Prince Alexis, as if determined to cast off
the yoke which her beauty and gentleness had laid upon him, avoided looking at
her face or speaking to her, as much as possible: when he did so, his manner
was cold and unfriendly. During her few
days of sad retirement he had brought back the bear Razboi and the idiot to his
table, and vodki was habitually poured out to him and his favorite serfs in such
a measure that the nights became hideous with drunken tumult.
The Princess Helena felt
that her beauty no longer possessed the potency of its first surprise. It must now be a contest of nature with
nature, spiritual with animal power. The
struggle would be perilous, she foresaw, but she did not shrink; she rather
sought the earliest occasion to provoke it.
That occasion came. Some slight disappointment brought on one of
the old paroxysms of rage, and the ox-like bellow of Prince Alexis rang through
the castle. Boris was absent, but
"Father!" she
cried, in an earnest, piteous tone, "what is it you do?"
"Away, witch!" he
yelled. "I am the master in
Kinesma, not thou! Away, or--"
The fierceness with which he
swung and cracked the whip was more threatening than any words. Perhaps she grew a shade paler, perhaps her
hands were tightly clasped in order that they might not tremble; but she did
not flinch from the encounter. She moved
a step nearer, fixed her gaze upon his flashing eyes, and said, in a low, firm
voice--
"It is true, father,
you are master here. It is easy to rule
over those poor, submissive slaves. But
you are not master over yourself; you are lashed and trampled upon by evil
passions, and as much a slave as any of these.
Be not weak, my father, but strong!"
An expression of
bewilderment came into his face. No such
words had ever before been addressed to him, and he knew not how to reply to
them. The Princess Helena followed up
the effect--she was not sure that it was an advantage--by an appeal to the
simple, childish nature which she believed to exist under his ferocious
exterior. For a minute it seemed as if
she were about to re-establish her ascendancy: then the stubborn resistance of
the beast returned.
Among the portraits in the
hall was one of the deceased Princess Martha.
Pointing to this,
"See, my father! here
are the features of your sainted wife!
Think that she looks down from her place among the blessed, sees you,
listens to your words, prays that your hard heart may be softened! Remember her last farewell to you on earth,
her hope of meeting you--"
A cry of savage wrath
checked her. Stretching one huge, bony
hand, as if to close her lips, trembling with rage and pain, livid and
convulsed in every feature of his face, Prince Alexis reversed the whip in his
right hand, and weighed its thick, heavy butt for one crashing, fatal
blow. Life and death were evenly
balanced. For an instant the Princess
became deadly pale, and a sickening fear shot through her heart. She could not understand the effect of her
words: her mind was paralyzed, and what followed came without her conscious
volition.
Not retreating a step, not
removing her eyes from the terrible picture before her, she suddenly opened her
lips and sang. Her voice of exquisite
purity, power, and sweetness, filled the old hall and overflowed it, throbbing
in scarcely weakened vibrations through court-yard and castle. The melody was a prayer--the cry of a
tortured heart for pardon and repose; and she sang it with almost supernatural
expression. Every sound in the castle
was hushed: the serfs outside knelt and uncovered their heads.
The Princess could never
afterwards describe, or more than dimly recall, the exaltation of that
moment. She sang in an inspired trance:
from the utterance of the first note the horror of the imminent fate sank out
of sight. Her eyes were fixed upon the
convulsed face, but she beheld it not: all the concentrated forces of her life
flowed into the music. She remembered,
however, that Prince Alexis looked alternately from her face to the portrait of
his wife; that he at last shuddered and grew pale; and that, when with the
closing note her own strength suddenly dissolved, he groaned and fell upon the
floor.
She sat down beside him, and
took his head upon her lap. For a long
time he was silent, only shivering as if in fever.
"Father!" she
finally whispered, "let me take you away!"
He sat up on the floor and
looked around; but as his eyes encountered the portrait, he gave a loud howl
and covered his face with his hands.
"She turns her
head!" he cried. "Take her
away,--she follows me with her eyes!
Paint her head black, and cover it up!"
With some difficulty he was
borne to his bed, but he would not rest until assured that his orders had been
obeyed, and the painting covered for the time with a coat of lamp-black. A low, prolonged attack of fever followed,
during which the presence of
But, even after his
recovery, he was still too weak and dependent on his children's attentions to
carry out this resolution. He banished
from the castle all those of his poor relations who were unable to drink vodki
in moderation; he kept careful watch over his serfs, and those who became
intoxicated (unless they concealed the fact in the stables and outhouses) were
severely punished: all excess disappeared, and a reign of peace and gentleness
descended upon Kinesma.
In another year another
Alexis was born, and lived, and soon grew strong enough to give his grandfather
the greatest satisfaction he had ever known in his life, by tugging at his gray
locks, and digging the small fingers into his tamed and merry eyes. Many years after Prince Alexis was dead the
serfs used to relate how they had seen him, in the bright summer afternoons,
asleep in his armchair on the balcony, with the rosy babe asleep on his bosom,
and the slumber-flag waving over both.
Legends of the Prince's
hunts, reisaks, and brutal revels are still current along the
It would have required an
intimate familiarity with the habitual demeanor of the people of Londongrove to
detect in them an access of interest (we dare not say excitement), of whatever
kind. Expression with them was pitched
to so low a key that its changes might be compared to the slight variations in
the drabs and grays in which they were clothed.
Yet that there was a moderate, decorously subdued curiosity present in
the minds of many of them on one of the First-days of the Ninth-month, in the
year 1815, was as clearly apparent to a resident of the neighborhood as are the
indications of a fire or a riot to the member of a city mob.
The agitations of the war
which had so recently come to an end had hardly touched this quiet and peaceful
community. They had stoutly "borne
their testimony," and faced the question where it could not be evaded; and
although the dashing
It was the pleasant custom
of the community to arrive at the meeting-house some fifteen or twenty minutes
before the usual time of meeting, and exchange quiet and kindly greetings
before taking their places on the plain benches inside. As most of the families had lived during the
week on the solitude of their farms, they liked to see their neighbors' faces,
and resolve, as it were, their sense of isolation into the common atmosphere,
before yielding to the assumed abstraction of their worship. In this preliminary meeting, also, the sexes
were divided, but rather from habit than any prescribed rule. They were already in the vestibule of the
sanctuary; their voices were subdued and their manner touched with a kind of
reverence.
If the Londongrove Friends
gathered together a few minutes earlier on that September First-day; if the
younger members looked more frequently towards one of the gates leading into
the meeting-house yard than towards the other; and if Abraham Bradbury was the
centre of a larger circle of neighbors than Simon Pennock (although both sat side
by side on the highest seat of the gallery),--the cause of these slight
deviations from the ordinary behavior of the gathering was generally
known. Abraham's son had died the
previous Sixth-month, leaving a widow incapable of taking charge of his farm on
the Street Road, which was therefore offered for rent. It was not always easy to obtain a
satisfactory tenant in those days, and Abraham was not more relieved than
surprised on receiving an application from an unexpected quarter. A strange Friend, of stately appearance,
called upon him, bearing a letter from William Warner, in
In this circumstance, it is
true, there was nothing strange, and the interest of the people sprang from
some other particulars which had transpired.
The new-comer, Henry Donnelly by name, had offered, in place of the
usual security, to pay the rent annually in advance; his speech and manner were
not, in all respects, those of Friends, and he acknowledged that he was of
Irish birth; and moreover, some who had passed the wagons bearing his household
goods had been struck by the peculiar patterns of the furniture piled upon
them. Abraham Bradbury had of course
been present at the arrival, and the Friends upon the adjoining farms had
kindly given their assistance, although it was a busy time of the year. While, therefore, no one suspected that the
farmer could possibly accept a tenant of doubtful character, a general
sentiment of curious expectancy went forth to meet the Donnelly family.
Even the venerable Simon
Pennock, who lived in the opposite part of the township, was not wholly free
from the prevalent feeling.
"Abraham," he said, approaching his colleague, "I suppose
thee has satisfied thyself that the strange Friend is of good repute."
Abraham was assuredly
satisfied of one thing--that the three hundred silver dollars in his antiquated
secretary at home were good and lawful coin.
We will not say that this fact disposed him to charity, but will only
testify that he answered thus:
"I don't think we have
any right to question the certificate from
Here he turned to greet a
tall, fresh-faced youth, who had quietly joined the group at the men's end of
the meeting-house. He was nineteen,
blue-eyed, and rosy, and a little embarrassed by the grave, scrutinizing, yet
not unfriendly eyes fixed upon him.
"Simon, this is Henry's
oldest son, De Courcy," said Abraham.
Simon took the youth's hand,
saying, "Where did thee get thy outlandish name?"
The young man colored,
hesitated, and then said, in a low, firm voice, "It was my grandfather's
name."
One of the heavy carriages
of the place and period, new and shiny, in spite of its sober colors, rolled
into the yard. Abraham Bradbury and De
Courcy Donnelly set forth side by side, to meet it.
Out of it descended a tall,
broad-shouldered figure--a man in the prime of life, whose ripe, aggressive vitality
gave his rigid Quaker garb the air of a military undress. His blue eyes seemed to laugh above the
measured accents of his plain speech, and the close crop of his hair could not
hide its tendency to curl. A bearing
expressive of energy and the habit of command was not unusual in the sect,
strengthening, but not changing, its habitual mask; yet in Henry Donnelly this
bearing suggested--one could scarcely explain why--a different experience. Dress and speech, in him, expressed
condescension rather than fraternal equality.
He carefully assisted his
wife to alight, and De Courcy led the horse to the hitching-shed. Susan Donnelly was a still blooming woman of
forty; her dress, of the plainest color, was yet of the richest texture; and her
round, gentle, almost timid face looked forth like a girl's from the shadow of
her scoop bonnet. While she was greeting
Abraham Bradbury, the two daughters, Sylvia and Alice, who had been standing
shyly by themselves on the edge of the group of women, came forward. The latter was a model of the demure Quaker
maiden; but Abraham experienced as much surprise as was possible to his nature
on observing Sylvia's costume. A
light-blue dress, a dark-blue cloak, a hat with ribbons, and hair in
curls--what Friend of good standing ever allowed his daughter thus to array
herself in the fashion of the world?
Henry read the question in
Abraham's face, and preferred not to answer it at that moment. Saying, "Thee must make me acquainted
with the rest of our brethren," he led the way back to the men's end. When he had been presented to the older
members, it was time for them to assemble in meeting.
The people were again
quietly startled when Henry Donnelly deliberately mounted to the third and
highest bench facing them, and sat down beside Abraham and Simon. These two retained, possibly with some little
inward exertion, the composure of their faces, and the strange Friend became
like unto them. His hands were clasped
firmly in his lap; his full, decided lips were set together, and his eyes gazed
into vacancy from under the broad brim.
De Courcy had removed his hat on entering the house, but, meeting his
father's eyes, replaced it suddenly, with a slight blush.
When Simon Pennock and Ruth
Treadwell had spoken the thoughts which had come to them in the stillness, the
strange Friend arose. Slowly, with
frequent pauses, as if waiting for the guidance of the Spirit, and with that
inward voice which falls so naturally into the measure of a chant, he urged
upon his hearers the necessity of seeking the Light and walking therein. He did not always employ the customary
phrases, but neither did he seem to speak the lower language of logic and
reason; while his tones were so full and mellow that they gave, with every
slowly modulated sentence, a fresh satisfaction to the ear. Even his broad a's and the strong roll of his
r's verified the rumor of his foreign birth, did not detract from the authority
of his words. The doubts which had
preceded him somehow melted away in his presence, and he came forth, after the
meeting had been dissolved by the shaking of hands, an accepted tenant of the
high seat.
That evening, the family
were alone in their new home. The plain
rush-bottomed chairs and sober carpet, in contrast with the dark, solid mahogany
table, and the silver branched candle-stick which stood upon it, hinted of
former wealth and present loss; and something of the same contrast was
reflected in the habits of the inmates.
While the father, seated in a stately arm-chair, read aloud to his wife
and children, Sylvia's eyes rested on a guitar-case in the corner, and her
fingers absently adjusted themselves to the imaginary frets. De Courcy twisted his neck as if the straight
collar of his coat were a bad fit, and Henry, the youngest boy, nodded drowsily
from time to time.
"There, my lads and
lasses!" said Henry Donnelly, as he closed the book, "now we're plain
farmers at last,--and the plainer the better, since it must be. There's only one thing wanting--"
He paused; and Sylvia,
looking up with a bright, arch determination, answered: "It's too late now, father,--they have
seen me as one of the world's people, as I meant they should. When it is once settled as something not to
be helped, it will give us no trouble."
"Faith, Sylvia!"
exclaimed De Courcy, "I almost wish I had kept you company."
"Don't be impatient, my
boy," said the mother, gently.
"Think of the vexations we have had, and what a rest this life will
be!"
"Think, also," the
father added, "that I have the heaviest work to do, and that thou'lt reap
the most of what may come of it. Don't
carry the old life to a land where it's out of place. We must be what we seem to be, every one of
us!"
"So we will!" said
Sylvia, rising from her seat,--" I, as well as the rest. It was what I said in the beginning, you--no,
THEE knows, father. Somebody must be
interpreter when the time comes; somebody must remember while the rest of you
are forgetting. Oh, I shall be talked
about, and set upon, and called hard names; it won't be so easy. Stay where you are, De Courcy; that coat will
fit sooner than you think."
Her brother lifted his
shoulders and made a grimace. "I've
an unlucky name, it seems," said he.
"The old fellow--I mean Friend Simon--pronounced it outlandish. Couldn't I change it to Ezra or
Adonijah?"
"Boy, boy--"
"Don't be alarmed,
father. It will soon be as Sylvia says;
thee's right, and mother is right. I'll
let Sylvia keep my memory, and start fresh from here. We must into the field to-morrow, Hal and
I. There's no need of a collar at the
plough-tail."
They went to rest, and on
the morrow not only the boys, but their father were in the field. Shrewd, quick, and strong, they made
available what they knew of farming operations, and disguised much of their
ignorance, while they learned. Henry
Donnelly's first public appearance had made a strong public impression in his
favor, which the voice of the older Friends soon stamped as a settled
opinion. His sons did their share, by
the amiable, yielding temper they exhibited, in accommodating themselves to the
manners and ways of the people. The
graces which came from a better education, possibly, more refined associations,
gave them an attraction, which was none the less felt because it was not
understood, to the simple-minded young men who worked with the hired hands in
their fathers' fields. If the Donnelly
family had not been accustomed, in former days, to sit at the same table with
laborers in shirt-sleeves, and be addressed by the latter in fraternal phrase,
no little awkwardnesses or hesitations betrayed the fact. They were anxious to make their
naturalization complete, and it soon became so.
The "strange
Friend" was now known in Londongrove by the familiar name of
"Henry." He was a constant
attendant at meeting, not only on First-days, but also on Fourth-days, and
whenever he spoke his words were listened to with the reverence due to one who
was truly led towards the Light. This
respect kept at bay the curiosity that might still have lingered in some minds
concerning his antecedent life. It was
known that he answered Simon Pennock, who had ventured to approach him with a
direct question, in these words:
"Thee knows, Friend
Simon, that sometimes a seal is put upon our mouths for a wise purpose. I have learned not to value the outer life
except in so far as it is made the manifestation of the inner life, and I only
date my own from the time when I was brought to a knowledge of the truth. It is not pleasant to me to look upon what
went before; but a season may come when it shall be lawful for me to declare
all things--nay, when it shall be put upon me as a duty.
Thee must suffer me to wait
the call."
After this there was nothing
more to be said. The family was on terms
of quiet intimacy with the neighbors; and even Sylvia, in spite of her defiant
eyes and worldly ways, became popular among the young men and maidens. She touched her beloved guitar with a skill
which seemed marvellous to the latter; and when it was known that her refusal
to enter the sect arose from her fondness for the prohibited instrument, she
found many apologists among them. She
was not set upon, and called hard names, as she had anticipated. It is true that her father, when appealed to
by the elders, shook his head and said, "It is a cross to us!"--but
he had been known to remain in the room while she sang "Full high in
Kilbride," and the keen light which arose in his eyes was neither that of
sorrow nor anger.
At the end of their first
year of residence the farm presented evidences of much more orderly and
intelligent management than at first, although the adjoining neighbors were of
the opinion that the Donnellys had hardly made their living out of it. Friend Henry, nevertheless, was ready with
the advance rent, and his bills were promptly paid. He was close at a bargain, which was
considered rather a merit than otherwise,--and almost painfully exact in
observing the strict letter of it, when made.
As time passed by, and the
family became a permanent part and parcel of the remote community, wearing its
peaceful color and breathing its untroubled atmosphere, nothing occurred to
disturb the esteem and respect which its members enjoyed. From time to time the postmaster at the
corner delivered to Henry Donnelly a letter from
In five or six years, when
De Courcy had grown to be a hale, handsome man of twenty-four, and as capable
of conducting a farm as any to the township born, certain aberrations from the
strict line of discipline began to be rumored.
He rode a gallant horse, dressed a little more elegantly than his
membership prescribed, and his unusually high, straight collar took a knack of
falling over. Moreover, he was
frequently seen to ride up the Street Road, in the direction of Fagg's Manor,
towards those valleys where the brick Presbyterian church displaces the
whitewashed Quaker meeting-house.
Had Henry Donnelly not
occupied so high a seat, and exercised such an acknowledged authority in the
sect, he might sooner have received counsel, or proffers of sympathy, as the
case might be; but he heard nothing until the rumors of De Courcy's excursions
took a more definite form.
But one day, Abraham
Bradbury, after discussing some Monthly-Meeting matters, suddenly asked: "Is this true that I hear, Henry,--that
thy son De Courcy keeps company with one of the Alison girls?"
"Who says that?"
Henry asked, in a sharp voice.
"Why, it's the common
talk! Surely, thee's heard of it
before?"
"No!"
Henry set his lips together
in a manner which Abraham understood.
Considering that he had fully performed his duty, he said no more.
That evening, Sylvia, who
had been gently thrumming to herself at the window, began singing "Bonnie
Peggie Alison." Her father looked
at De Courcy, who caught his glance, then lowered his eyes, and turned to leave
the room.
"Stop, De Courcy,"
said the former; "I've heard a piece of news about thee to-day, which I
want thee to make clear."
"Shall I go,
father?" asked Sylvia.
"No; thee may stay to
give De Courcy his memory. I think he is
beginning to need it. I've learned which
way he rides on Seventh-day evenings."
"Father, I am old
enough to choose my way," said De Courcy.
"But no such ways NOW,
boy! Has thee clean forgotten? This was among the things upon which we
agreed, and you all promised to keep watch and guard over yourselves. I had my misgivings then, but for five years
I've trusted you, and now, when the time of probation is so nearly over--"
He hesitated, and De Courcy,
plucking up courage, spoke again. With a
strong effort the young man threw off
the yoke of a self-taught restraint, and asserted his true nature. "Has O'Neil written?" he asked.
"Not yet."
"Then, father," he
continued, "I prefer the certainty of my present life to the uncertainty
of the old. I will not dissolve my
connection with the Friends by a shock which might give thee trouble; but I
will slowly work away from them. Notice
will be taken of my ways; there will be family visitations, warnings, and the
usual routine of discipline, so that when I marry Margaret Alison, nobody will
be surprised at my being read out of meeting.
I shall soon be twenty-five, father, and this thing has gone on about as
long as I can bear it. I must decide to
be either a man or a milksop."
The color rose to Henry
Donnelly's cheeks, and his eyes flashed, but he showed no signs of anger. He moved to De Courcy's side and laid his
hand upon his shoulder.
"Patience, my
boy!" he said. "It's the old
blood, and I might have known it would proclaim itself. Suppose I were to shut my eyes to thy
ridings, and thy merry-makings, and thy worldly company. So far I might go; but the girl is no mate
for thee. If O'Neil is alive, we are
sure to hear from him soon; and in three years, at the utmost, if the Lord
favors us, the end will come. How far
has it gone with thy courting? Surely,
surely, not too far to withdraw, at least under the plea of my
prohibition?"
De Courcy blushed, but
firmly met his father's eyes. "I
have spoken to her," he replied, "and it is not the custom of our
family to break plighted faith."
"Thou art our cross,
not Sylvia. Go thy ways now. I will endeavor to seek for guidance."
"Sylvia," said the
father, when De Courcy had left the room, "what is to be the end of
this?"
"Unless we hear from
O'Neil, father, I am afraid it cannot be prevented. De Courcy has been changing for a year past;
I am only surprised that you did not sooner notice it. What I said in jest has become serious truth;
he has already half forgotten. We might
have expected, in the beginning, that one of two things would happen: either he
would become a plodding Quaker farmer or take to his present courses. Which would be worse, when this life is
over,--if that time ever comes?"
Sylvia sighed, and there was
a weariness in her voice which did not escape her father's ear. He walked up and down the room with a
troubled air. She sat down, took the
guitar upon her lap, and began to sing the verse, commencing, "
"Eh, lass!" said
Henry, slipping his arm around his wife's waist, "art thou tired yet? Have I been trying thy patience, as I have
that of the children? Have there been
longings kept from me, little rebellions crushed, battles fought that I
supposed were over?"
"Not by me,
Henry," was her cheerful answer.
"I have never have been happier than in these quiet ways with
thee. I've been thinking, what if
something has happened, and the letters cease to come? And it has seemed to me--now that the boys
are as good farmers as any, and
"No!" he answered
emphatically. "The talk with De
Courcy has set my quiet Quaker blood in motion.
The boy is more than half right; I am sure Sylvia thinks so too. What could I expect? He has no birthright, and didn't begin his
task, as I did, after the bravery of youth was over. It took six generations to establish the
serenity and content of our brethren here, and the dress we wear don't give us
the nature. De Courcy is tired of the
masquerade, and Sylvia is tired of seeing it.
Thou, my little Susan, who wert so timid at first, puttest us all to
shame now!"
"I think I was meant
for it,--
No outward change in Henry
Donnelly's demeanor betrayed this or any other disturbance at home. There were repeated consultations between the
father and son, but they led to no satisfactory conclusion. De Courcy was sincerely attached to the
pretty Presbyterian maiden, and found livelier society in her brothers and
cousins than among the grave, awkward Quaker youths of Londongrove.
With the occasional freedom
from restraint there awoke in him a desire for independence--a thirst for the
suppressed license of youth. His new
acquaintances were accustomed to a rigid domestic regime, but of a different
character, and they met on a common ground of rebellion. Their aberrations, it is true, were not of a
very formidable character, and need not have been guarded but for the severe
conventionalities of both sects. An
occasional fox-chase, horse-race, or a "stag party" at some outlying
tavern, formed the sum of their dissipation; they sang, danced reels, and
sometimes ran into little excesses through the stimulating sense of the trespass
they were committing.
By and by reports of certain
of these performances were brought to the notice of the Londongrove Friends,
and, with the consent of Henry Donnelly himself, De Courcy received a visit of
warning and remonstrance. He had foreseen
the probability of such a visit and was prepared. He denied none of the charges brought against
him, and accepted the grave counsel offered, simply stating that his nature was
not yet purified and chastened; he was aware he was not walking in the Light;
he believed it to be a troubled season through which he must needs pass. His frankness, as he was shrewd enough to
guess, was a scource of perplexity to the elders; it prevented them from
excommunicating him without further probation, while it left him free to
indulge in further recreations.
Some months passed away, and
the absence from which Henry Donnelly always returned with a good supply of
ready money did not take place. The
knowledge of farming which his sons had acquired now came into play. It was necessary to exercise both skill and
thrift in order to keep up the liberal footing upon which the family had lived;
for each member of it was too proud to allow the community to suspect the
change in their circumstances. De
Courcy, retained more than ever at home, and bound to steady labor, was man
enough to subdue his impatient spirit for the time; but he secretly determined
that with the first change for the better he would follow the fate he had
chosen for himself.
Late in the fall came the
opportunity for which he had longed. One
evening he brought home a letter, in the well-known handwriting. His father opened and read it in silence.
"Well, father?" he
said.
"A former letter was
lost, it seems. This should have come in
the spring; it is only the missing sum."
"Does O'Neil fix any
time?"
"No; but he hopes to
make a better report next year."
"Then, father,"
said De Courcy, "it is useless for me to wait longer; I am satisfied as it
is. I should not have given up Margaret
in any case; but now, since thee can live with Henry's help, I shall claim
her."
"MUST it be, De
Courcy?"
"It must."
But it was not to be. A day or two afterwards the young man, on his
mettled horse, set off up the Street Road, feeling at last that the fortune and
the freedom of his life were approaching.
He had become, in habits and in feelings, one of the people, and the
relinquishment of the hope in which his father still indulged brought him a
firmer courage, a more settled content.
His sweetheart's family was in good circumstances; but, had she been
poor, he felt confident of his power to make and secure for her a farmer's
home. To the past--whatever it might
have been--he said farewell, and went carolling some cheerful ditty, to look
upon the face of his future.
That night a country wagon
slowly drove up to Henry Donnelly's door.
The three men who accompanied it hesitated before they knocked, and,
when the door was opened, looked at each other with pale, sad faces, before either
spoke. No cries followed the few words
that were said, but silently, swiftly, a room was made ready, while the men
lifted from the straw and carried up stairs an unconscious figure, the arms of
which hung down with a horrible significance as they moved. He was not dead, for the heart beat feebly
and slowly; but all efforts to restore his consciousness were in vain. There was concussion of the brain the
physician said. He had been thrown from
his horse, probably alighting upon his head, as there were neither fractures
nor external wounds. All that night and
next day the tenderest, the most unwearied care was exerted to call back the
flickering gleam of life. The shock had
been too great; his deadly torpor deepened into death.
In their time of trial and
sorrow the family received the fullest sympathy, the kindliest help, from the
whole neighborhood. They had never
before so fully appreciated the fraternal character of the society whereof they
were members. The plain, plodding people
living on the adjoining farms became virtually their relatives and
fellow-mourners. All the external
offices demanded by the sad occasion were performed for them, and other eyes
than their own shed tears of honest grief over De Courcy's coffin. All came to the funeral, and even Simon
Pennock, in the plain yet touching words which he spoke beside the grave,
forgot the young man's wandering from the Light, in the recollection of his
frank, generous, truthful nature.
If the Donnellys had
sometimes found the practical equality of life in Londongrove a little repellent
they were now gratefully moved by the delicate and refined ways in which the
sympathy of the people sought to express itself. The better qualities of human nature always
develop a temporary good-breeding.
Wherever any of the family went, they saw the reflection of their own
sorrow; and a new spirit informed to their eyes the quiet pastoral landscapes.
In their life at home there
was little change. Abraham Bradbury had
insisted on sending his favorite grandson, Joel, a youth of twenty-two, to take
De Courcy's place for a few months. He
was a shy quiet creature, with large brown eyes like a fawn's, and young Henry
Donnelly and he became friends at once.
It was believed that he would inherit the farm at his grandfather's
death; but he was as subservient to Friend Donnelly's wishes in regard to the
farming operations as if the latter held the fee of the property. His coming did not fill the terrible gap
which De Courcy's death had made, but seemed to make it less constantly and
painfully evident.
Susan Donnelly soon remarked
a change, which she could neither clearly define nor explain to herself, both
in her husband and in their daughter Sylvia.
The former, although in public he preserved the same grave, stately
face,--its lines, perhaps, a little more deeply marked,--seemed to be devoured
by an internal unrest. His dreams were
of the old times: words and names long unused came from his lips as he slept by
her side. Although he bore his grief
with more strength than she had hoped, he grew nervous and
excitable,--sometimes unreasonably petulant, sometimes gay to a pitch which
impressed her with pain. When the spring
came around, and the mysterious correspondence again failed, as in the previous
year, his uneasiness increased. He took
his place on the high seat on First-days, as usual, but spoke no more.
Sylvia, on the other hand,
seemed to have wholly lost her proud, impatient character. She went to meeting much more frequently than
formerly, busied herself more actively about household matters, and ceased to
speak of the uncertain contingency which had been so constantly present in her
thoughts. In fact, she and her father
had changed places. She was now the one
who preached patience, who held before them all the bright side of their lot,
who brought Margaret Alison to the house and justified her dead brother's heart
to his father's, and who repeated to the latter, in his restless moods,
"De Courcy foresaw the truth, and we must all in the end decide as he
did."
"Can THEE do it,
Sylvia?" her father would ask.
"I believe I have done
it already," she said. "If it
seems difficult, pray consider how much later I begin my work. I have had all your memories in charge, and now
I must not only forget for myself, but for you as well."
Indeed, as the spring and
summer months came and went, Sylvia evidently grew stronger in her
determination. The fret of her idle
force was allayed, and her content increased as she saw and performed the
possible duties of her life. Perhaps her
father might have caught something of her spirit, but for his anxiety in regard
to the suspended correspondence. He
wearied himself in guesses, which all ended in the simple fact that, to escape
embarrassment, the rent must again be saved from the earnings of the farm.
The harvests that year were
bountiful; wheat, barley, and oats stood thick and heavy in the fields. No one showed more careful thrift or more
cheerful industry than young Joel Bradbury, and the family felt that much of
the fortune of their harvest was owing to him.
On the first day after the
crops had been securely housed, all went to meeting, except Sylvia. In the walled graveyard the sod was already
green over De Courcy's unmarked mound, but
It was a sultry forenoon,
and the windows and doors of the building were open. The humming of insects was heard in the
silence, and broken lights and shadows of the poplar-leaves were sprinkled upon
the steps and sills. Outside there were
glimpses of quiet groves and orchards, and blue fragments of sky,--no more
semblance of life in the external landscape than there was in the silent
meeting within. Some quarter of an hour
before the shaking of hands took place, the hoofs of a horse were heard in the
meeting-house yard--the noise of a smart trot on the turf, suddenly arrested.
The boys pricked up their
ears at this unusual sound, and stole glances at each other when they imagined
themselves unseen by the awful faces in the gallery. Presently those nearest the door saw a
broader shadow fall over those flickering upon the stone. A red face appeared for a moment, and was
then drawn back out of sight. The shadow
advanced and receded, in a state of peculiar restlessness. Sometimes the end of a riding-whip was
visible, sometimes the corner of a coarse gray coat. The boys who noticed these apparitions were
burning with impatience, but they dared not leave their seats until Abraham
Bradbury had reached his hand to Henry Donnelly.
Then they rushed out. The mysterious personage was still beside the
door, leaning against the wall. He was a
short, thick-set man of fifty, with red hair, round gray eyes, a broad pug
nose, and projecting mouth. He wore a
heavy gray coat, despite the heat, and a waistcoat with many brass buttons;
also corduroy breeches and riding boots.
When they appeared, he started forward with open mouth and eyes, and
stared wildly in their faces. They
gathered around the poplar-trunks, and waited with some uneasiness to see what
would follow.
Slowly and gravely, with the
half-broken ban of silence still hanging over them, the people issued from the
house. The strange man stood, leaning
forward, and seemed to devour each, in turn, with his eager eyes. After the young men came the fathers of
families, and lastly the old men from the gallery seats. Last of these came Henry Donnelly. In the meantime, all had seen and wondered at
the waiting figure; its attitude was too intense and self-forgetting to be
misinterpreted. The greetings and
remarks were suspended until the people had seen for whom the man waited, and
why.
Henry Donnelly had no sooner
set his foot upon the door-step than, with something between a shout and a
howl, the stranger darted forward, seized his hand, and fell upon one knee,
crying: "O my lord! my lord! Glory be to God that I've found ye at
last!"
If these words burst like a
bomb on the ears of the people, what was their consternation when Henry
Donnelly exclaimed, "The Divel!
Jack O'Neil, can that be you?"
"It's me, meself, my
lord! When we heard the letters went
wrong last year, I said `I'll trust no such good news to their blasted
mail-posts: I'll go meself and carry it
to his lordship,--if it is t'other side o' the say. Him and my lady and all the children went,
and sure I can go too. And as I was the
one that went with you from
"All clear, Jack? All mine again?"
"You may believe it, my
lord! And money in the chest
beside. But where's my lady, bless her
sweet face! Among yon women, belike, and
you'll help me to find her, for it's herself must have the news next, and then
the young master--"
With that word Henry
Donnelly awoke to a sense of time and place.
He found himself within a ring of staring, wondering, scandalized
eyes. He met them boldly, with a proud,
though rather grim smile, took hold of O'Neil's arm and led him towards the
women's end of the house, where the sight of Susan in her scoop bonnet so moved
the servant's heart that he melted into tears.
Both husband and wife were eager to get home and hear O'Neil's news in
private; so they set out at once in their plain carriage, followed by the
latter on horseback. As for the Friends,
they went home in a state of bewilderment.
Alice Donnelly, with her
brother Henry and Joel Bradbury, returned on foot. The two former remembered O'Neil, and,
although they had not witnessed his first interview with their father, they
knew enough of the family history to surmise his errand. Joel was silent and troubled.
"
"Yes," she
answered, and said no more.
They took a foot-path across
the fields, and reached the farm-house at the same time with the first
party. As they opened the door Sylvia
descended the staircase dressed in a rich shimmering brocade, with a necklace
of amethysts around her throat. To their
eyes, so long accustomed to the absence of positive color, she was completely
dazzling. There was a new color on her
cheeks, and her eyes seemed larger and brighter. She made a stately courtesy, and held open
the parlor door.
"Welcome, Lord Henry
Dunleigh, of
Her father kissed her on the
forehead. "Now give us back our
memories, Sylvia!" he said, exultingly.
Susan Donnelly sank into a
chair, overcome by the mixed emotions of the moment.
"Come in, my faithful
Jack! Unpack thy portmanteau of news, for
I see thou art bursting to show it; let us have every thing from the
beginning. Wife, it's a little too much
for thee, coming so unexpectedly. Set
out the wine,
The decanter was placed upon
the table. O'Neil filled a tumbler to
the brim, lifted it high, made two or three hoarse efforts to speak, and then
walked away to the window, where he drank in silence. This little incident touched the family more
than the announcement of their good fortune.
Henry Donnelly's feverish exultation subsided: he sat down with a grave,
thoughtful face, while his wife wept quietly beside him. Sylvia stood waiting with an abstracted air;
O'Neil's story was long, and
frequently interrupted. He had been Lord
Dunleigh's steward in better days, as his father had been to the old lord, and
was bound to the family by the closest ties of interest and affection. When the estates became so encumbered that
either an immediate change or a catastrophe was inevitable, he had been taken
into his master's confidence concerning the plan which had first been proposed
in jest, and afterwards adopted in earnest.
The family must leave
How Lord Dunleigh obtained
admission into the sect as plain Henry Donnelly is a matter of conjecture with
the Londongrove Friends. The deception
which had been practised upon them--although it was perhaps less complete than
they imagined--left a soreness of feeling behind it. The matter was hushed up after the departure
of the family, and one might now live for years in the neighborhood without
hearing the story. How the shrewd plan
was carried out by Lord Dunleigh and his family, we have already learned. O'Neil, left on the estate, in the north of
"Let us go at
once!" said Sylvia, when he had concluded his tale. "No more masquerading,--I never knew
until to-day how much I have hated it! I
will not say that your plan was not a sensible one, father; but I wish it might
have been carried out with more honor to ourselves. Since De Courcy's death I have begun to
appreciate our neighbors: I was resigned
to become one of these people had our luck gone the other way. Will they give us any credit for goodness and
truth, I wonder? Yes, in mother's case,
and
"Then," her father
exclaimed, "it IS time that we should return, and without delay. But thee wrongs us somewhat, Sylvia: it has
not all been masquerading. We have
become the servants, rather than the masters, of our own parts, and shall live
a painful and divided life until we get back in our old place. I fear me it will always be divided for thee,
wife, and Alice and Henry. If I am
subdued by the element which I only meant to asssume, how much more deeply must
it have wrought in your natures! Yes,
Sylvia is right, we must get away at once.
To-morrow we must leave Londongrove forever!"
He had scarcely spoken, when
a new surprise fell upon the family.
Joel Bradbury arose and walked forward, as if thrust by an emotion so
powerful that it transformed his whole being.
He seemed to forget every thing but Alice Donnelly's presence. His soft brown eyes were fixed on her face
with an expression of unutterable tenderness and longing. He caught her by the hands. "Alice, O, Alice!" burst from his
lips; "you are not going to leave me?"
The flush in the girl's
sweet face faded into a deadly paleness.
A moan came from her lips; her head dropped, and she would have fallen,
swooning, from the chair had not Joel knelt at her feet and caught her upon his
breast.
For a moment there was
silence in the room.
Presently, Sylvia, all her
haughtiness gone, knelt beside the young man, and took her sister from his
arms. "Joel, my poor, dear
friend," she said, "I am sorry that the last, worst mischief we have
done must fall upon you."
Joel covered his face with
his hands, and convulsively uttered the words, "MUST she go?"
Then Henry Donnelly--or,
rather, Lord Dunleigh, as we must now call him--took the young man's hand. He was profoundly moved; his strong voice
trembled, and his words came slowly.
"I will not appeal to thy heart, Joel," he said, "for it
would not hear me now.
But thou hast heard all our
story, and knowest that we must leave these parts, never to return. We belong to another station and another mode
of life than yours, and it must come to us as a good fortune that our time of
probation is at an end. Bethink thee,
could we leave our darling Alice behind us, parted as if by the grave? Nay, could we rob her of the life to which
she is born--of her share in our lives?
On the other hand, could we take thee with us into relations where thee
would always be a stranger, and in which a nature like thine has no place? This is a case where duty speaks clearly,
though so hard, so very hard, to follow."
He spoke tenderly, but
inflexibly, and Joel felt that his fate was pronounced. When Alice had somewhat revived, and was
taken to another room, he stumbled blindly out of the house, made his way to
the barn, and there flung himself upon the harvest-sheaves which, three days
before, he had bound with such a timid, delicious hope working in his arm.
The day which brought such
great fortune had thus a sad and troubled termination. It was proposed that the family should start
for
They went, and they never
came again. An account of the great
festival at
His head is gray, and his
face deeply wrinkled; but when he lifts the shy lids of his soft brown eyes, I
fancy I can see in their tremulous depths the lingering memory of his love for
Alice Dunleigh.
If there ever was a man
crushed out of all courage, all self-reliance, all comfort in life, it was
Jacob Flint. Why this should have been,
neither he nor any one else could have explained; but so it was. On the day that he first went to school, his
shy, frightened face marked him as fair game for the rougher and stronger boys,
and they subjected him to all those exquisite refinements of torture which boys
seem to get by the direct inspiration of the Devil. There was no form of their bullying meanness
or the cowardice of their brutal strength which he did not experience. He was born under a fading or falling
star,--the inheritor of some anxious or unhappy mood of his parents, which gave
its fast color to the threads out of which his innocent being was woven.
Even the good people of the
neighborhood, never accustomed to look below the externals of appearance and
manner, saw in his shrinking face and awkward motions only the signs of a
cringing, abject soul.
"You'll be no more of a
man than Jake Flint!" was the reproach which many a farmer addressed to
his dilatory boy; and thus the parents, one and all, came to repeat the sins of
the children.
If, therefore, at school and
"before folks," Jacob's position was always uncomfortable and
depressing, it was little more cheering at home. His parents, as all the neighbors believed,
had been unhappily married, and, though the mother died in his early childhood,
his father remained a moody, unsocial man, who rarely left his farm except on
the 1st of April every year, when he went to the county town for the purpose of
paying the interest upon a mortgage. The
farm lay in a hollow between two hills, separated from the road by a thick
wood, and the chimneys of the lonely old house looked in vain for a
neighbor-smoke when they began to grow warm of a morning.
Beyond the barn and under
the northern hill there was a log tenant-house, in which dwelt a negro couple,
who, in the course of years had become fixtures on the place and almost
partners in it. Harry, the man, was the
medium by which Samuel Flint kept up his necessary intercourse with the world
beyond the valley; he took the horses to the blacksmith, the grain to the mill,
the turkeys to market, and through his hands passed all the incomings and
outgoings of the farm, except the annual interest on the mortgage. Sally, his wife, took care of the household,
which, indeed, was a light and comfortable task, since the table was well
supplied for her own sake, and there was no sharp eye to criticise her
sweeping, dusting, and bed-making. The
place had a forlorn, tumble-down aspect, quite in keeping with its lonely
situation; but perhaps this very circumstance flattered the mood of its silent,
melancholy owner and his unhappy son.
In all the neighborhood
there was but one person with whom Jacob felt completely at ease--but one who
never joined in the general habit of making his name the butt of ridicule or
contempt. This was Mrs. Ann Pardon, the
hearty, active wife of Farmer Robert Pardon, who lived nearly a mile farther
down the brook. Jacob had won her
good-will by some neighborly services, something so trifling, indeed, that the
thought of a favor conferred never entered his mind. Ann Pardon saw that it did not; she detected
a streak of most unconscious goodness under his uncouth, embarrassed ways, and
she determined to cultivate it. No
little tact was required, however, to coax the wild, forlorn creature into so
much confidence as she desired to establish; but tact is a native quality of
the heart no less than a social acquirement, and so she did the very thing
necessary without thinking much about it.
Robert Pardon discovered by
and by that Jacob was a steady, faithful hand in the harvest-field at
husking-time, or whenever any extra labor was required, and Jacob's father made
no objection to his earning a penny in this way; and so he fell into the habit
of spending his Saturday evenings at the Pardon farm-house, at first to talk
over matters of work, and finally because it had become a welcome relief from
his dreary life at home.
Now it happened that on a
Saturday in the beginning of haying-time, the village tailor sent home by Harry
a new suit of light summer clothes, for which Jacob had been measured a month
before. After supper he tried them on,
the day's work being over, and Sally's admiration was so loud and emphatic that
he felt himself growing red even to the small of his back.
"Now, don't go for to
take 'em off, Mr. Jake," said she.
"I spec' you're gwine down to Pardon's, and so you jist keep 'em on
to show 'em all how nice you KIN look."
The same thought had already
entered Jacob's mind. Poor fellow! It was the highest form of pleasure of which
he had ever allowed himself to conceive.
If he had been called upon to pass through the village on first assuming
the new clothes, every stitch would have pricked him as if the needle remained
in it; but a quiet walk down the brookside, by the pleasant path through the
thickets and over the fragrant meadows, with a consciousness of his own
neatness and freshness at every step, and with kind Ann Pardon's commendation
at the close, and the flattering curiosity of the children,--the only ones who
never made fun of him,--all that was a delightful prospect. He could never, NEVER forget himself, as he
had seen other young fellows do; but to remember himself agreeably was
certainly the next best thing.
Jacob was already a
well-grown man of twenty-three, and would have made a good enough appearance
but for the stoop in his shoulders, and the drooping, uneasy way in which he
carried his head. Many a time when he
was alone in the fields or woods he had straightened himself, and looked
courageously at the buts of the oak-trees or in the very eyes of the
indifferent oxen; but, when a human face drew near, some spring in his neck
seemed to snap, some buckle around his shoulders to be drawn three holes tighter,
and he found himself in the old posture.
The ever-present thought of this weakness was the only drop of
bitterness in his cup, as he followed the lonely path through the thickets.
Some spirit in the sweet,
delicious freshness of the air, some voice in the mellow babble of the stream,
leaping in and out of sight between the alders, some smile of light, lingering
on the rising corn-fields beyond the meadow and the melting purple of a distant
hill, reached to the seclusion of his heart.
He was soothed and cheered; his head lifted itself in the presentiment
of a future less lonely than the past, and the everlasting trouble vanished
from his eyes.
Suddenly, at a turn of the
path, two mowers from the meadow, with their scythes upon their shoulders, came
upon him. He had not heard their feet on
the deep turf. His chest relaxed, and
his head began to sink; then, with the most desperate effort in his life, he
lifted it again, and, darting a rapid side glance at the men, hastened by. They could not understand the mixed defiance
and supplication of his face; to them he only looked "queer."
"Been committin' a
murder, have you?" asked one of them, grinning.
"Startin' off on his
journey, I guess," said the other.
The next instant they were
gone, and Jacob, with set teeth and clinched hands, smothered something that
would have been a howl if he had given it voice. Sharp lines of pain were marked on his face,
and, for the first time, the idea of resistance took fierce and bitter
possession of his heart. But the mood
was too unusual to last; presently he shook his head, and walked on towards
Pardon's farm-house.
Ann wore a smart gingham
dress, and her first exclamation was:
"Why, Jake! how nice you look.
And so you know all about it, too?"
"About what?"
"I see you don't,"
said she. "I was too fast; but it
makes no difference. I know you are
willing to lend me a helping hand."
"Oh, to be sure,"
Jacob answered.
"And not mind a little
company?"
Jacob's face suddenly
clouded; but he said, though with an effort:
"No--not much--if I can be of any help."
"It's rather a joke,
after all," Ann Pardon continued, speaking rapidly; "they meant a
surprise, a few of the young people; but sister Becky found a way to send me
word, or I might have been caught like Meribah Johnson last week, in the middle
of my work; eight or ten, she said, but more may drop in: and it's moonlight
and warm, so they'll be mostly under the trees; and Robert won't be home till
late, and I DO want help in carrying chairs, and getting up some ice, and
handing around; and, though I know you don't care for merry makings, you CAN
help me out, you see--
"
Here she paused. Jacob looked perplexed, but said nothing.
"Becky will help what
she can, and while I'm in the kitchen she'll have an eye to things
outside," she said.
Jacob's head was down again,
and, moreover, turned on one side, but his ear betrayed the mounting
blood. Finally he answered, in a quick,
husky voice: "Well, I'll do what I
can. What's first?"
Thereupon he began to carry
some benches from the veranda to a grassy bank beside the sycamore-tree. Ann Pardon wisely said no more of the coming
surprise-party, but kept him so employed that, as the visitors arrived by twos
and threes, the merriment was in full play almost before he was aware of
it. Moreover, the night was a protecting
presence: the moonlight poured splendidly upon the open turf beyond the
sycamore, but every lilac-bush or trellis of woodbine made a nook of shade,
wherein he could pause a moment and take courage for his duties. Becky Morton, Ann Pardon's youngest sister,
frightened him a little every time she came to consult about the arrangement of
seats or the distribution of refreshments; but it was a delightful, fascinating
fear, such as he had never felt before in his life. He knew Becky, but he had never seen her in
white and pink, with floating tresses, until now. In fact, he had hardly looked at her fairly,
but now, as she glided into the moonlight and he paused in the shadow, his eyes
took note of her exceeding beauty. Some
sweet, confusing influence, he knew not what, passed into his blood.
The young men had brought a
fiddler from the village, and it was not long before most of the company were
treading the measures of reels or cotillons on the grass. How merry and happy they all were! How freely and unembarrassedly they moved and
talked! By and by all became involved in
the dance, and Jacob, left alone and unnoticed, drew nearer and nearer to the
gay and beautiful life from which he was expelled.
With a long-drawn scream of
the fiddle the dance came to an end, and the dancers, laughing, chattering,
panting, and fanning themselves, broke into groups and scattered over the
enclosure before the house. Jacob was
surrounded before he could escape.
Becky, with two lively girls in her wake, came up to him and said: "Oh Mr. Flint, why don't you
dance?"
If he had stopped to
consider, he would no doubt have replied very differently. But a hundred questions, stirred by what he
had seen, were clamoring for light, and they threw the desperate impulse to his
lips.
"If I COULD dance,
would you dance with me?"
The two lively girls heard
the words, and looked at Becky with roguish faces.
"Oh yes, take him for
your next partner!" cried one.
"I will," said
Becky, "after he comes back from his journey."
Then all three laughed. Jacob leaned against the tree, his eyes fixed
on the ground.
"Is it a bargain?"
asked one of the girls.
"No," said he, and
walked rapidly away.
He went to the house, and,
finding that Robert had arrived, took his hat, and left by the rear door. There was a grassy alley between the orchard
and garden, from which it was divided by a high hawthorn hedge. He had scarcely taken three paces on his way
to the meadow, when the sound of the voice he had last heard, on the other side
of the hedge, arrested his feet.
"Becky, I think you
rather hurt Jake Flint," said the girl.
"Hardly," answered
Becky; "he's used to that."
"Not if he likes you;
and you might go further and fare worse."
"Well, I MUST
say!" Becky exclaimed, with a laugh; "you'd like to see me stuck in
that hollow, out of your way!"
"It's a good farm, I've
heard," said the other.
"Yes, and covered with
as much as it'll bear!"
Here the girls were called
away to the dance. Jacob slowly walked
up the dewy meadow, the sounds of fiddling, singing, and laughter growing
fainter behind him.
"My journey!" he
repeated to himself,--" my journey! why shouldn't I start on it now? Start off, and never come back?"
It was a very little thing, after
all, which annoyed him, but the mention of it always touched a sore nerve of
his nature. A dozen years before, when a
boy at school, he had made a temporary friendship with another boy of his age,
and had one day said to the latter, in the warmth of his first generous
confidence: "When I am a little
older, I shall make a great journey, and come back rich, and buy Whitney's
place!"
Now, Whitney's place, with
its stately old brick mansion, its avenue of silver firs, and its two hundred
acres of clean, warm-lying land, was the finest, the most aristocratic property
in all the neighborhood, and the boy-friend could not resist the temptation of
repeating Jacob's grand design, for the endless amusement of the school. The betrayal hurt Jacob more keenly than the
ridicule. It left a wound that never
ceased to rankle; yet, with the inconceivable perversity of unthinking natures,
precisely this joke (as the people supposed it to be) had been perpetuated,
until "Jake Flint's Journey" was a synonyme for any absurd or
extravagant expectation. Perhaps no one
imagined how much pain he was keeping alive; for almost any other man than
Jacob would have joined in the laugh against himself and thus good-naturedly
buried the joke in time. "He's used
to that," the people said, like Becky Morton, and they really supposed
there was nothing unkind in the remark!
After Jacob had passed the
thickets and entered the lonely hollow in which his father's house lay, his
pace became slower and slower.
He looked at the shabby old
building, just touched by the moonlight behind the swaying shadows of the
weeping-willow, stopped, looked again, and finally seated himself on a stump
beside the path.
"If I knew what to
do!" he said to himself, rocking backwards and forwards, with his hands
clasped over his knees,--"if I knew what to do!"
The spiritual tension of the
evening reached its climax: he could bear no more. With a strong bodily shudder his tears burst
forth, and the passion of his weeping filled him from head to foot. How long he wept he knew not; it seemed as if
the hot fountains would never run dry.
Suddenly and startlingly a hand fell upon his shoulder.
"Boy, what does this
mean?"
It was his father who stood
before him.
Jacob looked up like some
shy animal brought to bay, his eyes full of a feeling mixed of fierceness and
terror; but he said nothing.
His father seated himself on
one of the roots of the old stump, laid one hand upon Jacob's knee, and said
with an unusual gentleness of manner, "I'd like to know what it is that
troubles you so much."
After a pause, Jacob
suddenly burst forth with: "Is
there any reason why I should tell you?
Do you care any more for me than the rest of 'em?"
"I didn't know as you
wanted me to care for you particularly," said the father, almost
deprecatingly. "I always thought
you had friends of your own age."
"Friends? Devils!" exclaimed Jacob. "Oh, what have I done--what is there so
dreadful about me that I should always be laughed at, and despised, and
trampled upon? You are a great deal
older than I am, father: what do you see in me?
Tell me what it is, and how to get over it!"
The eyes of the two men
met. Jacob saw his father's face grow
pale in the moonlight, while he pressed his hand involuntarily upon his heart,
as if struggling with some physical pain.
At last he spoke, but his words were strange and incoherent.
"I couldn't
sleep," he said; "I got up again and came out o' doors.
The white ox had broken down
the fence at the corner, and would soon have been in the cornfield. I thought it was that, maybe, but still
your--your mother would come into my head.
I was coming down the edge of the wood when I saw you, and I don't know
why it was that you seemed so different, all at once--"
Here he paused, and was
silent for a minute. Then he said, in a
grave, commanding tone: "Just let
me know the whole story. I have that
much right yet."
Jacob related the history of
the evening, somewhat awkwardly and confusedly, it is true; but his father's
brief, pointed questions kept him to the narrative, and forced him to explain
the full significance of the expressions he repeated. At the mention of "Whitney's
place," a singular expression of malice touched the old man's face.
"Do you love Becky
Morton?" he asked bluntly, when all had been told.
"I don't know,"
Jacob stammered; "I think not; because when I seem to like her most, I
feel afraid of her."
"It's lucky that you're
not sure of it!" exclaimed the old man with energy; "because you
should never have her."
"No," said Jacob,
with a mournful acquiescence, "I can never have her, or any other
one."
"But you shall--and
will I when I help you. It's true I've
not seemed to care much about you, and I suppose you're free to think as you
like; but this I say: I'll not stand by
and see you spit upon! `Covered with as
much as it'll bear!' THAT'S a piece o'
luck anyhow. If we're poor, your wife
must take your poverty with you, or she don't come into MY doors. But first of all you must make your
journey!"
"My journey!"
repeated Jacob.
"Weren't you thinking
of it this night, before you took your seat on that stump? A little more, and you'd have gone clean off,
I reckon."
Jacob was silent, and hung
his head.
"Never mind! I've no right to think hard of it. In a week we'll have finished our haying, and
then it's a fortnight to wheat; but, for that matter, Harry and I can manage
the wheat by ourselves. You may take a
month, two months, if any thing comes of it.
Under a month I don't mean that you shall come back. I'll give you twenty dollars for a start; if
you want more you must earn it on the road, any way you please. And, mark you, Jacob! since you ARE poor,
don't let anybody suppose you are rich.
For my part, I shall not expect you to buy Whitney's place; all I ask is
that you'll tell me, fair and square, just what things and what people you've
got acquainted with. Get to bed now--the
matter's settled; I will have it so."
They rose and walked across
the meadow to the house. Jacob had quite
forgotten the events of the evening in the new prospect suddenly opened to him,
which filled him with a wonderful confusion of fear and desire. His father said nothing more. They entered the lonely house together at
midnight, and went to their beds; but Jacob slept very little.
Six days afterwards he left
home, on a sparkling June morning, with a small bundle tied in a yellow silk
handkerchief under his arm. His father
had furnished him with the promised money, but had positively refused to tell
him what road he should take, or what plan of action he should adopt. The only stipulation was that his absence
from home should not be less than a month.
After he had passed the wood
and reached the highway which followed the course of the brook, he paused to
consider which course to take. Southward
the road led past Pardon's, and he longed to see his only friends once more
before encountering untried hazards; but the village was beyond, and he had no
courage to walk through its one long street with a bundle, denoting a journey,
under his arm. Northward he would have
to pass the mill and blacksmith's shop at the cross-roads. Then he remembered that he might easily wade
the stream at a point where it was shallow, and keep in the shelter of the
woods on the opposite hill until he struck the road farther on, and in that
direction two or three miles would take him into a neighborhood where he was
not known.
Once in the woods, an
exquisite sense of freedom came upon him.
There was nothing mocking in the soft, graceful stir of the expanded
foliage, in the twittering of the unfrightened birds, or the scampering of the
squirrels, over the rustling carpet of dead leaves. He lay down upon the moss under a spreading
beech-tree and tried to think; but the thoughts would not come. He could not even clearly recall the keen
troubles and mortifications he had endured: all things were so peaceful and
beautiful that a portion of their peace and beauty fell upon men and invested
them with a more kindly character.
Towards noon Jacob found
himself beyond the limited geography of his life. The first man he encountered was a stranger,
who greeted him with a hearty and respectful "How do you do, sir?"
"Perhaps," thought
Jacob, "I am not so very different from other people, if I only thought so
myself."
At noon, he stopped at a
farm-house by the roadside to get a drink of water. A pleasant woman, who came from the door at
that moment with a pitcher, allowed him to lower the bucket and haul it up
dripping with precious coolness. She
looked upon him with good-will, for he had allowed her to see his eyes, and
something in their honest, appealing expression went to her heart.
"We're going to have
dinner in five minutes," said she; "won't you stay and have
something?"
Jacob stayed and brake bread
with the plain, hospitable family. Their
kindly attention to him during the meal gave him the lacking nerve; for a
moment he resolved to offer his services to the farmer, but he presently saw
that they were not really needed, and, besides, the place was still too near
home.
Towards night he reached an
old country tavern, lording it over an incipient village of six houses. The landlord and hostler were inspecting a
drooping-looking horse in front of the stables.
Now, if there was any thing which Jacob understood, to the extent of his
limited experience, it was horse nature.
He drew near, listened to the views of the two men, examined the animal
with his eyes, and was ready to answer, "Yes, I guess so," when the
landlord said, "Perhaps, sir, you can tell what is the matter with
him."
His prompt detection of the
ailment, and prescription of a remedy which in an hour showed its good effects,
installed him in the landlord's best graces.
The latter said, "Well, it shall cost you nothing to-night,"
as he led the way to the supper-room.
When Jacob went to bed he was surprised on reflecting that he had not
only been talking for a full hour in the bar-room, but had been looking people
in the face.
Resisting an offer of good
wages if he would stay and help look after the stables, he set forward the next
morning with a new and most delightful confidence in himself. The knowledge that now nobody knew him as
"Jake Flint" quite removed his tortured self-consciousness. When he met a person who was glum and
ungracious of speech, he saw, nevertheless, that he was not its special
object. He was sometimes asked
questions, to be sure, which a little embarrassed him, but he soon hit upon
answers which were sufficiently true without betraying his purpose.
Wandering sometimes to the
right and sometimes to the left, he slowly made his way into the land, until,
on the afternoon of the fourth day after leaving home, he found himself in a
rougher region--a rocky, hilly tract, with small and not very flourishing farms
in the valleys. Here the season appeared
to be more backward than in the open country; the hay harvest was not yet over.
Jacob's taste for scenery
was not particularly cultivated, but something in the loneliness and quiet of
the farms reminded him of his own home; and he looked at one house after
another, deliberating with himself whether it would not be a good place to
spend the remainder of his month of probation.
He seemed to be very far from home--about forty miles, in fact,--and was
beginning to feel a little tired of wandering.
Finally the road climbed a
low pass of the hills, and dropped into a valley on the opposite side. There was but one house in view--a two-story
building of logs and plaster, with a garden and orchard on the hillside in the
rear. A large meadow stretched in front,
and when the whole of it lay clear before him, as the road issued from a wood,
his eye was caught by an unusual harvest picture.
Directly before him, a
woman, whose face was concealed by a huge, flapping sun-bonnet, was seated upon
a mowing machine, guiding a span of horses around the great tract of thick
grass which was still uncut. A little
distance off, a boy and girl were raking the drier swaths together, and a
hay-cart, drawn by oxen and driven by a man, was just entering the meadow from
the side next the barn.
Jacob hung his bundle upon a
stake, threw his coat and waistcoat over the rail, and, resting his chin on his
shirted arms, leaned on the fence, and watched the hay-makers. As the woman came down the nearer side she appeared
to notice him, for her head was turned from time to time in his direction. When she had made the round, she stopped the
horses at the corner, sprang lightly from her seat and called to the man, who,
leaving his team, met her half-way. They
were nearly a furlong distant, but Jacob was quite sure that she pointed to
him, and that the man looked in the same direction. Presently she set off across the meadow,
directly towards him.
When within a few paces of
the fence, she stopped, threw back the flaps of her sun-bonnet, and said,
"Good day to you!" Jacob was
so amazed to see a bright, fresh, girlish face, that he stared at her with all
his eyes, forgetting to drop his head. Indeed,
he could not have done so, for his chin was propped upon the top rail of the
fence.
"You are a stranger, I
see," she added.
"Yes, in these
parts," he replied.
"Looking for
work?"
He hardly knew what answer
to make, so he said, at a venture, "That's as it happens." Then he colored a little, for the words
seemed foolish to his ears.
"Time's precious,"
said the girl, "so I'll tell you at once we want help. Our hay MUST be got in while the fine weather
lasts."
"I'll help you!"
Jacob exclaimed, taking his arms from the rail, and looking as willing as he
felt.
"I'm so glad! But I must tell you, at first, that we're not
rich, and the hands are asking a great deal now. How much do you expect?"
"Whatever you
please?" said he, climbing the fence.
"No, that's not our way
of doing business. What do you say to a
dollar a day, and found?"
"All right!" and
with the words he was already at her side, taking long strides over the elastic
turf.
"I will go on with my
mowing," said she, when they reached the horses, "and you can rake
and load with my father. What name shall
I call you by?"
"Everybody calls me
Jake."
"`Jake!' Jacob is
better. Well, Jacob, I hope you'll give
us all the help you can."
With a nod and a light laugh
she sprang upon the machine. There was a
sweet throb in Jacob's heart, which, if he could have expressed it, would have
been a triumphant shout of "I'm not afraid of her! I'm not afraid of her!"
The farmer was a kindly,
depressed man, with whose quiet ways Jacob instantly felt himself at home. They worked steadily until sunset, when the
girl, detaching her horses from the machine, mounted one of them and led the
other to the barn. At the supper-table,
the farmer's wife said: "Susan, you
must be very tired."
"Not now, mother!"
she cheerily answered. "I was, I
think, but after I picked up Jacob I felt sure we should get our hay in."
"It was a good
thing," said the farmer; "Jacob don't need to be told how to
work."
Poor Jacob! He was so happy he could have cried. He sat and listened, and blushed a little,
with a smile on his face which it was a pleasure to see. The honest people did not seem to regard him
in the least as a stranger; they discussed their family interests and troubles
and hopes before him, and in a little while it seemed as if he had known them
always.
How faithfully he
worked! How glad and tired he felt when
night came, and the hay-mow was filled, and the great stacks grew beside the
barn! But ah! the haying came to an end,
and on the last evening, at supper, everybody was constrained and silent. Even Susan looked grave and thoughtful.
"Jacob," said the
farmer, finally, "I wish we could keep you until wheat harvest; but you
know we are poor, and can't afford it.
Perhaps you could--"
He hesitated; but Jacob,
catching at the chance and obeying his own unselfish impulse, cried: "Oh, yes, I can; I'll be satisfied with
my board, till the wheat's ripe."
Susan looked at him quickly,
with a bright, speaking face.
"It's hardly fair to you," said the farmer.
"But I like to be here
so much!" Jacob cried. "I
like--all of you!"
"We DO seem to suit,"
said the farmer, "like as one family.
And that reminds me, we've not heard your family name yet."
"
"Jacob FLINT!"
exclaimed the farmer's wife, with sudden agitation.
Jacob was scared and
troubled. They had heard of him, he
thought, and who knew what ridiculous stories?
Susan noticed an anxiety on his face which she could not understand, but
she unknowingly came to his relief.
"Why, mother," she
asked, "do you know Jacob's family?"
"No, I think not,"
said her mother, "only somebody of the name, long ago."
His offer, however, was
gratefully accepted. The bright, hot
summer days came and went, but no flower of July ever opened as rapidly and
richly and warmly as his chilled, retarded nature. New thoughts and instincts came with every morning's
sun, and new conclusions were reached with every evening's twilight. Yet as the wheat harvest drew towards the
end, he felt that he must leave the place.
The month of absence had gone by, he scarce knew how. He was free to return home, and, though he
might offer to bridge over the gap between wheat and oats, as he had already
done between hay and wheat, he imagined the family might hesitate to accept
such an offer. Moreover, this life at
Susan's side was fast growing to be a pain, unless he could assure himself that
it would be so forever.
They were in the
wheat-field, busy with the last sheaves; she raking and he binding. The farmer and younger children had gone to
the barn with a load. Jacob was working
silently and steadily, but when they had reached the end of a row, he stopped,
wiped his wet brow, and suddenly said, "Susan, I suppose to-day finishes
my work here."
"Yes," she
answered very slowly.
"And yet I'm very sorry
to go."
"I--WE don't want you
to go, if we could help it."
Jacob appeared to struggle
with himself. He attempted to
speak. "If I could--" he
brought out, and then paused.
"Susan, would you be glad if I came back?"
His eyes implored her to
read his meaning. No doubt she read it
correctly, for her face flushed, her eyelids fell, and she barely murmured,
"Yes, Jacob."
"Then I'll come!"
he cried; "I'll come and help you with the oats. Don't talk of pay! Only tell me I'll be welcome! Susan, don't you believe I'll keep my
word?"
"I do indeed,"
said she, looking him firmly in the face.
That was all that was said
at the time; but the two understood each other tolerably well.
On the afternoon of the
second day, Jacob saw again the lonely house of his father. His journey was made, yet, if any of the
neighbors had seen him, they would never have believed that he had come back
rich.
Samuel Flint turned away to
hide a peculiar smile when he saw his son; but little was said until late that
evening, after Harry and Sally had left.
Then he required and received an exact account of Jacob's experience
during his absence. After hearing the
story to the end, he said, "And so you love this Susan Meadows?"
"I'd--I'd do any thing
to be with her."
"Are you afraid of
her?"
"No!" Jacob
uttered the word so emphatically that it rang through the house.
"Ah, well!" said
the old man, lifting his eyes, and speaking in the air, "all the harm may
be mended yet. But there must be another
test." Then he was silent for some
time.
"I have it!" he
finally exclaimed. "Jacob, you must
go back for the oats harvest. You must
ask Susan to be your wife, and ask her parents to let you have her. But,--pay attention to my words!--you must
tell her that you are a poor, hired man on this place, and that she can be
engaged as housekeeper. Don't speak of
me as your father, but as the owner of the farm. Bring her here in that belief, and let me see
how honest and willing she is. I can
easily arrange matters with Harry and Sally while you are away; and I'll only
ask you to keep up the appearance of the thing for a month or so."
"But,
father,"--Jacob began.
"Not a word! Are you not willing to do that much for the
sake of having her all your life, and this farm after me? Suppose it is covered with a mortgage, if she
is all you say, you two can work it off.
Not a word more! It is no lie,
after all, that you will tell her."
"I am afraid,"
said Jacob, "that she could not leave her home now. She is too useful there, and the family is so
poor."
"Tell them that both
your wages, for the first year, shall go to them. It'll be my business to rake and scrape the
money together somehow. Say, too, that
the housekeeper's place can't be kept for her--must be filled at once. Push matters like a man, if you mean to be a
complete one, and bring her here, if she carries no more with her than the
clothes on her back!"
During the following days
Jacob had time to familiarize his mind with this startling proposal. He knew his father's stubborn will too well
to suppose that it could be changed; but the inevitable soon converted itself
into the possible and desirable. The
sweet face of Susan as she had stood before him in the wheat-field was
continually present to his eyes, and ere long, he began to place her, in his
thoughts, in the old rooms at home, in the garden, among the thickets by the
brook, and in Ann Pardon's pleasant parlor.
Enough; his father's plan became his own long before the time was out.
On his second journey
everybody seemed to be an old acquaintance and an intimate friend. It was evening as he approached the Meadows
farm, but the younger children recognized him in the dusk, and their cry of,
"Oh, here's Jacob!" brought out the farmer and his wife and Susan,
with the heartiest of welcomes. They had
all missed him, they said--even the horses and oxen had looked for him, and
they were wondering how they should get the oats harvested without him.
Jacob looked at Susan as the
farmer said this, and her eyes seemed to answer, "I said nothing, but I
knew you would come." Then, first,
he felt sufficient courage for the task before him.
He rose the next morning,
before any one was stirring, and waited until she should come down stairs. The sun had not risen when she appeared, with
a milk-pail in each hand, walking unsuspectingly to the cow-yard. He waylaid her, took the pails in his hand
and said in nervous haste, "Susan, will you be my wife?"
She stopped as if she had
received a sudden blow; then a shy, sweet consent seemed to run through her
heart. "O Jacob!" was all she
could say.
"But you will, Susan?"
he urged; and then (neither of them exactly knew how it happened) all at once
his arms were around her, and they had kissed each other.
"Susan," he said,
presently, "I am a poor man--only a farm hand, and must work for my
living. You could look for a better
husband."
"I could never find a
better than you, Jacob."
"Would you work with
me, too, at the same place?"
"You know I am not
afraid of work," she answered, "and I could never want any other lot
than yours."
Then he told her the story
which his father had prompted. Her face
grew bright and happy as she listened, and he saw how from her very heart she
accepted the humble fortune. Only the
thought of her parents threw a cloud over the new and astonishing vision. Jacob, however, grew bolder as he saw
fulfilment of his hope so near. They
took the pails and seated themselves beside neighbor cows, one raising
objections or misgivings which the other manfully combated. Jacob's earnestness unconsciously ran into
his hands, as he discovered when the impatient cow began to snort and kick.
The harvesting of the oats
was not commenced that morning. The
children were sent away, and there was a council of four persons held in the
parlor. The result of mutual protestations
and much weeping was, that the farmer and his wife agreed to receive Jacob as a
son-in-law; the offer of the wages was four times refused by them, and then
accepted; and the chance of their being able to live and labor together was
finally decided to be too fortunate to let slip. When the shock and surprise was over all
gradually became cheerful, and, as the matter was more calmly discussed, the
first conjectured difficulties somehow resolved themselves into trifles.
It was the simplest and
quietest wedding,--at home, on an August morning. Farmer Meadows then drove the bridal pair
half-way on their journey, to the old country tavern, where a fresh conveyance
had been engaged for them. The same
evening they reached the farm-house in the valley, and Jacob's happy mood gave
place to an anxious uncertainty as he remembered the period of deception upon
which Susan was entering. He keenly
watched his father's face when they arrived, and was a little relieved when he
saw that his wife had made a good first impression.
"So, this is my new
housekeeper," said the old man.
"I hope you will suit me as well as your husband does."
"I'll do my best,
sir," said she; "but you must have patience with me for a few days,
until I know your ways and wishes."
"Mr. Flint," said
Sally, "shall I get supper ready?" Susan looked up in astonishment at
hearing the name.
"Yes," the old man
remarked, "we both have the same name.
The fact is, Jacob and I are a sort of relations."
Jacob, in spite of his new
happiness, continued ill at ease, although he could not help seeing how his
father brightened under Susan's genial influence, how satisfied he was with her
quick, neat, exact ways and the cheerfulness with which she fulfilled her
duties. At the end of a week, the old man
counted out the wages agreed upon for both, and his delight culminated at the
frank simplicity with which Susan took what she supposed she had fairly earned.
"Jacob," he
whispered when she had left the room, "keep quiet one more week, and then
I'll let her know."
He had scarcely spoken, when
Susan burst into the room again, crying, "Jacob, they are coming, they
have come!"
"Who?"
"Father and mother; and
we didn't expect them, you know, for a week yet."
All three went to the door
as the visitors made their appearance on the veranda. Two of the party stood as if thunderstruck,
and two exclamations came together:
"Samuel Flint!"
"Lucy Wheeler!"
There was a moment's
silence; then the farmer's wife, with a visible effort to compose herself,
said, "Lucy Meadows, now."
The tears came into Samuel
Flint's eyes. "Let us shake hands,
Lucy," he said: "my son has married your daughter."
All but Jacob were freshly
startled at these words. The two shook
hands, and then Samuel, turning to Susan's father, said: "And this is your husband, Lucy. I am glad to make his acquaintance."
"Your father,
Jacob!" Susan cried; "what does it all mean?"
Jacob's face grew red, and
the old habit of hanging his head nearly came back upon him. He knew not what to say, and looked wistfully
at his father.
"Come into the house
and sit down," said the latter.
"I think we shall all feel better when we have quietly and
comfortably talked the matter over."
They went into the quaint,
old-fashioned parlor, which had already been transformed by Susan's care, so
that much of its shabbiness was hidden.
When all were seated, and Samuel Flint perceived that none of the others
knew what to say, he took a resolution which, for a man of his mood and habit
of life, required some courage.
"Three of us here are
old people," he began, "and the two young ones love each other. It was so long ago, Lucy, that it cannot be
laid to my blame if I speak of it now.
Your husband, I see, has an honest heart, and will not misunderstand
either of us. The same thing often turns
up in life; it is one of those secrets that everybody knows, and that everybody
talks about except the persons concerned.
When I was a young man, Lucy, I loved you truly, and I faithfully meant
to make you my wife."
"I thought so too, for
a while," said she, very calmly.
Farmer Meadows looked at his
wife, and no face was ever more beautiful than his, with that expression of
generous pity shining through it.
"You know how I
acted," Samuel Flint continued, "but our children must also know that
I broke off from you without giving any reason.
A woman came between us and
made all the mischief. I was considered
rich then, and she wanted to secure my money for her daughter. I was an innocent and unsuspecting young man,
who believed that everybody else was as good as myself; and the woman never
rested until she had turned me from my first love, and fastened me for life to
another. Little by little I discovered
the truth; I kept the knowledge of the injury to myself; I quickly got rid of
the money which had so cursed me, and brought my wife to this, the loneliest
and dreariest place in the neighborhood, where I forced upon her a life of
poverty. I thought it was a just
revenge, but I was unjust. She really
loved me: she was, if not quite without blame in the matter, ignorant of the
worst that had been done (I learned all that too late), and she never
complained, though the change in me slowly wore out her life. I know now that I was cruel; but at the same
time I punished myself, and was innocently punishing my son. But to HIM there was one way to make
amends. `I will help him to a wife,' I
said, `who will gladly take poverty with him and for his sake.' I forced him, against his will, to say that
he was a hired hand on this place, and that Susan must be content to be a hired
housekeeper. Now that I know Susan, I
see that this proof might have been left out; but I guess it has done no
harm. The place is not so heavily
mortgaged as people think, and it will be Jacob's after I am gone. And now forgive me, all of you,--Lucy first,
for she has most cause; Jacob next; and Susan,--that will be easier; and you,
Friend Meadows, if what I have said has been hard for you to hear."
The farmer stood up like a
man, took Samuel's hand and his wife's, and said, in a broken voice: "Lucy, I ask you, too, to forgive him,
and I ask you both to be good friends to each other."
Susan, dissolved in tears,
kissed all of them in turn; but the happiest heart there was Jacob's.
It was now easy for him to
confide to his wife the complete story of his troubles, and to find his growing
self-reliance strengthened by her quick, intelligent sympathy. The Pardons were better friends than ever,
and the fact, which at first created great astonishment in the neighborhood,
that Jacob Flint had really gone upon a journey and brought home a handsome
wife, began to change the attitude of the people towards him. The old place was no longer so lonely; the
nearest neighbors began to drop in and insist on return visits. Now that Jacob kept his head up, and they got
a fair view of his face, they discovered that he was not lacking, after all, in
sense or social qualities.
In October, the Whitney
place, which had been leased for several years, was advertised to be sold at
public sale. The owner had gone to the
city and become a successful merchant, had outlived his local attachments, and
now took advantage of a rise in real estate to disburden himself of a property
which he could not profitably control.
Everybody from far and wide
attended the sale, and, when Jacob Flint and his father arrived, everybody said
to the former: "Of course you've
come to buy, Jacob." But each man
laughed at his own smartness, and considered the remark original with himself.
Jacob was no longer
annoyed. He laughed, too, and answered: "I'm afraid I can't do that; but I've
kept half my word, which is more than most men do."
"Jake's no fool, after
all," was whispered behind him.
The bidding commenced, at
first very spirited, and then gradually slacking off, as the price mounted
above the means of the neighboring farmers.
The chief aspirant was a stranger, a well-dressed man with a lawyer's
air, whom nobody knew. After the usual
long pauses and passionate exhortations, the hammer fell, and the auctioneer,
turning to the stranger, asked, "What name?"
"Jacob Flint!"
There was a general cry of
surprise. All looked at Jacob, whose
eyes and mouth showed that he was as dumbfoundered as the rest.
The stranger walked coolly
through the midst of the crowd to Samuel Flint, and said, "When shall I
have the papers drawn up?"
"As soon as you
can," the old man replied; then seizing Jacob by the arm, with the words,
"Let's go home now!" he hurried him on.
The explanation soon leaked
out. Samuel Flint had not thrown away
his wealth, but had put it out of his own hands. It was given privately to trustees, to be
held for his son, and returned when the latter should have married with his
father's consent. There was more than
enough to buy the Whitney place.
Jacob and Susan are happy in
their stately home, and good as they are happy.
If any person in the neighborhood ever makes use of the phrase
"Jacob Flint's Journey," he intends thereby to symbolize the good
fortune which sometimes follows honesty, reticence, and shrewdness.
I had been reading, as is my
wont from time to time, one of the many volumes of "The New Pitaval,"
that singular record of human crime and human cunning, and also of the
inevitable fatality which, in every case, leaves a gate open for detection. Were it not for the latter fact, indeed, one
would turn with loathing from such endless chronicles of wickedness. Yet these may be safely contemplated, when
one has discovered the incredible fatuity of crime, the certain weak mesh in a
network of devilish texture; or is it rather the agency of a power outside of
man, a subtile protecting principle, which allows the operation of the evil
element only that the latter may finally betray itself? Whatever explanation we may choose, the fact
is there, like a tonic medicine distilled from poisonous plants, to brace our
faith in the ascendancy of Good in the government of the world.
Laying aside the book, I
fell into a speculation concerning the mixture of the two elements in man's
nature. The life of an individual is
usually, it seemed to me, a series of RESULTS, the processes leading to which
are not often visible, or observed when they are so. Each act is the precipitation of a number of
mixed influences, more or less unconsciously felt; the qualities of good and
evil are so blended therein that they defy the keenest moral analysis; and how
shall we, then, pretend to judge of any one?
Perhaps the surest indication of evil (I further reflected) is that it
always tries to conceal itself, and the strongest incitement to good is that
evil cannot be concealed. The crime, or
the vice, or even the self-acknowledged weakness, becomes a part of the
individual consciousness; it cannot be forgotten or outgrown. It follows a life through all experiences and
to the uttermost ends of the earth, pressing towards the light with a terrible,
demoniac power. There are noteless
lives, of course--lives that accept obscurity, mechanically run their narrow
round of circumstance, and are lost; but when a life endeavors to lose itself,--to
hide some conscious guilt or failure,--can it succeed? Is it not thereby lifted above the level of
common experience, compelling attention to itself by the very endeavor to
escape it?
I turned these questions
over in my mind, without approaching, or indeed expecting, any solution,--since
I knew, from habit, the labyrinths into which they would certainly lead
me,--when a visitor was announced. It
was one of the directors of our county almshouse, who came on an errand to
which he attached no great importance. I
owed the visit, apparently, to the circumstance that my home lay in his way,
and he could at once relieve his conscience of a very trifling pressure and his
pocket of a small package, by calling upon me.
His story was told in a few words; the package was placed upon my table,
and I was again left to my meditations.
Two or three days before, a
man who had the appearance of a "tramp" had been observed by the
people of a small village in the neighborhood.
He stopped and looked at the houses in a vacant way, walked back and
forth once or twice as if uncertain which of the cross-roads to take, and
presently went on without begging or even speaking to any one. Towards sunset a farmer, on his way to the
village store, found him sitting at the roadside, his head resting against a
fence-post. The man's face was so worn
and exhausted that the farmer kindly stopped and addressed him; but he gave no
other reply than a shake of the head.
The farmer thereupon lifted
him into his light country-wagon, the man offering no resistance, and drove to
the tavern, where, his exhaustion being so evident, a glass of whiskey was
administered to him. He afterwards spoke
a few words in German, which no one understood.
At the almshouse, to which he was transported the same evening, he
refused to answer the customary questions, although he appeared to understand
them. The physician was obliged to use a
slight degree of force in administering nourishment and medicine, but neither
was of any avail. The man died within
twenty-four hours after being received.
His pockets were empty, but two small leathern wallets were found under
his pillow; and these formed the package which the director left in my charge. They were full of papers in a foreign
language, he said, and he supposed I might be able to ascertain the stranger's
name and home from them.
I took up the wallets, which
were worn and greasy from long service, opened them, and saw that they were
filled with scraps, fragments, and folded pieces of paper, nearly every one of
which had been carried for a long time loose in the pocket. Some were written in pen and ink, and some in
pencil, but all were equally brown, worn, and unsavory in appearance. In turning them over, however, my eye was
caught by some slips in the Russian character, and three or four notes in
French; the rest were German. I laid
aside "Pitaval" at once, emptied all the leathern pockets carefully,
and set about examining the pile of material.
I first ran rapidly through
the papers to ascertain the dead man's name, but it was nowhere to be
found. There were half a dozen letters,
written on sheets folded and addressed in the fashion which prevailed before
envelopes were invented; but the name was cut out of the address in every
case. There was an official permit to
embark on board a
The evidence, however, that
he had endeavored to hide his life, had been revealed by my first superficial
examination; and here, I reflected, was a singular opportunity to test both his
degree of success and my own power of constructing a coherent history out of
the detached fragments. Unpromising as
is the matter, said I, let me see whether he can conceal his secret from even
such unpractised eyes as mine.
I went through the papers
again, read each one rapidly, and arranged them in separate files, according to
the character of their contents. Then I
rearranged these latter in the order of time, so far as it was indicated; and
afterwards commenced the work of picking out and threading together whatever
facts might be noted. The first thing I
ascertained, or rather conjectured, was that the man's life might be divided
into three very distinct phases, the first ending in Breslau, the second in
Poland, and the third and final one in America.
Thereupon I once again rearranged the material, and attacked that which
related to the first phase.
It consisted of the
following papers: Three letters, in a
female hand, commencing "My dear brother," and terminating with
"Thy loving sister, Elise;" part of a diploma from a gymnasium, or
high school, certifying that [here the name was cut out] had successfully
passed his examination, and was competent to teach,--and here again, whether by
accident or design, the paper was torn off; a note, apparently to a jeweller,
ordering a certain gold ring to be delivered to "Otto," and signed
" B. V. H.;" a receipt from the package-post for a box forwarded to
Warsaw, to the address of Count Ladislas Kasincsky; and finally a washing-list,
at the bottom of which was written, in pencil, in a trembling hand: "May God protect thee! But do not stay away so very long."
In the second collection,
relating to
The papers belonging to the
American phase, so far as they were to be identified by dates, or by some
internal evidence, were fewer, but even more enigmatical in character. The principal one was a list of addresses in
The date of the diploma
given by the gymnasium at Breslau was June 27, 1855, and the first date in
I assumed, at the start,
that the name which had been so carefully cut out of all the documents was the
man's own. The "Elise" of the
letters was therefore his sister. The
first two letters related merely to "mother's health," and similar
details, from which it was impossible to extract any thing, except that the
sister was in some kind of service. The
second letter closed with: "I have
enough work to do, but I keep well.
Forget thy disappointment so far as _I_ am concerned, for I never
expected any thing; I don't know why, but I never did."
Here was a disappointment,
at least, to begin with. I made a note
of it opposite the date, on my blank programme, and took up the next
letter. It was written in November,
1861, and contained a passage which keenly excited my curiosity. It ran thus:
"Do, pray, be more careful of thy money. It may be all as thou sayest, and inevitable,
but I dare not mention the thing to mother, and five thalers is all I can spare
out of my own wages. As for thy other
request, I have granted it, as thou seest, but it makes me a little
anxious. What is the joke? And how can it serve thee? That is what I do not understand, and I have
plagued myself not a little to guess."
Among the Polish memoranda
was this: "Sept. 1 to Dec. 1, 200
rubles," which I assumed to represent a salary. This would give him eight hundred a year, at
least twelve times the amount which his sister--who must either have been cook
or housekeeper, since she spoke of going to market for the family--could have
received. His application to her for
money, and the manner of her reference to it, indicated some imprudence or
irregularity on his part. What the
"other request" was, I could not guess; but as I was turning and
twisting the worn leaf in some perplexity, I made a sudden discovery. One side of the bottom edge had been very
slightly doubled over in folding, and as I smoothed it out, I noticed some
diminutive letters in the crease. The
paper had been worn nearly through, but I made out the words: "Write very soon, dear Otto!"
This was the name in the
order for the gold ring, signed "B. V. H."--a link, indeed, but a
fresh puzzle. Knowing the stubborn
prejudices of caste in Germany, and above all in Eastern Prussia and Silesia, I
should have been compelled to accept "Otto," whose sister was in
service, as himself the servant of "B. V. H.," but for the tenderly
respectful letter of "Amelie de----," declining the marriage offer
for her sister. I re-read this letter
very carefully, to determine whether it was really intended for
"Otto." It ran thus:
"DEAR FRIEND,--I will
not say that your letter was entirely unexpected, either to Helmine or
myself. I should, perhaps, have less
faith in the sincerity of your attachment if you had not already involuntarily betrayed
it. When I say that although I detected
the inclination of your heart some weeks ago, and that I also saw it was
becoming evident to my sister, yet I refrained from mentioning the subject at
all until she came to me last evening with your letter in her hand,--when I say
this, you will understand that I have acted towards you with the respect and
sympathy which I profoundly feel.
Helmine fully shares this feeling, and her poor heart is too painfully
moved to allow her to reply. Do I not
say, in saying this, what her reply must be?
But, though her heart cannot respond to your love, she hopes you will
always believe her a friend to whom your proffered devotion was an honor, and
will be--if you will subdue it to her deserts--a grateful thing to remember. We shall remain in
The more light I seemed to
obtain, the more inexplicable the circumstances became. The diploma and the note of salary were
grounds for supposing that "Otto" occupied the position of tutor in a
noble Polish family. There was the
receipt for a box addressed to Count Ladislas Kasincsky, and I temporarily
added his family name to the writer of the French letter, assuming her to be
his wife. "Jean" appeared to
be a servant, and "Henri" I set down as the son whom Otto was
instructing in the castle or family seat in the country, while the parents were
in warsaw. Plausible, so far; but the
letter was not such a one as a countess would have written to her son's tutor,
under similar circumstances. It was
addressed to a social equal, apparently to a man younger than herself, and for
whom--supposing him to have been a tutor, secretary, or something of the kind--she
must have felt a special sympathy. Her
mention of "the papers" and "your secret" must refer to
circumstances which would explain the mystery.
"So long as you choose to WEAR it," she had written: then it
was certainly a secret connected with his personal history.
Further, it appeared that
"Jean" was sent to him with "an order." What could this be, but one of the nine
orders for money which lay before my eyes?
I examined the dates of the latter, and lo! there was one written upon
the same day as the lady's letter. The
sums drawn by these orders amounted in all to four thousand two hundred
rubles. But how should a tutor or
secretary be in possession of his employer's money? Still, this might be accounted for; it would
imply great trust on the part of the latter, but no more than one man
frequently reposes in another. Yet, if
it were so, one of the memoranda confronted me with a conflicting fact: "Dinner with Jean, 58 rubles." The unusual amount--nearly fifty
dollars--indicated an act of the most reckless dissipation, and in company with
a servant, if "Jean," as I could scarcely doubt, acted in that
character. I finally decided to assume
both these conjectures as true, and apply them to the remaining testimony.
I first took up the leaf
which had been torn out of a small journal or pocket note-book, as was
manifested by the red edge on three sides.
It was scribbled over with brief notes in pencil, written at different
times. Many of them were merely mnemonic
signs; but the recurrence of the letters J and Y seemed to point to
transactions with "Jean," and the drawer of the various sums of
money. The letter Y reminded me that I
had been too hasty in giving the name of Kasincsky to the noble family; indeed,
the name upon the post-office receipt might have no connection with the matter
I was trying to investigate.
Suddenly I noticed a
"Ky" among the mnemonic signs, and the suspicion flashed across my
mind that Count Kasincsky had signed the order with the last letter of his
family name! To assume this, however,
suggested a secret reason for doing so; and I began to think that I had already
secrets enough on hand.
The leaf was much rubbed and
worn, and it was not without considerable trouble that I deciphered the
following (omitting the unintelligible signs):
"Oct. 30 (Nov.
12)--talk with Y; 20--Jean. Consider.
"Nov. 15--with
J--H--hope.
"Dec. 1--Told the
C. No knowledge of S--therefore
safe. Uncertain of---- C to
"Dec. 27--All for
naught! All for naught!
"Jan. 19,
'63--Sick. What is to be the end? Threats.
No tidings of Y. Walked the
streets all day. At night as usual.
"March 1--News. The C. and H. left yesterday. No more to hope. Let it come, then!"
These broken words warmed my
imagination powerfully. Looking at them
in the light of my conjecture, I was satisfied that "Otto" was
involved in some crime, or dangerous secret, of which "Jean" was
either the instigator or the accomplice.
"Y.," or Count Kasincsky,--and I was more than ever inclined
to connect the two,---also had his mystery, which might, or might not, be
identical with the first. By comparing
dates, I found that the entry made December 27 was three days later than the
date of the letter of "Amelie de----"; and the exclamation "All
for naught!" certainly referred to the disappointment it contained. I now guessed the "H." in the
second entry to mean "Helmine."
The two last suggested a removal to
I took up the torn half of a
note, which, after the first inspection, I had laid aside as a hopeless
puzzle. A closer examination revealed
several things which failed to impress me at the outset. It was written in a strong and rather awkward
masculine hand; several words were underscored, two misspelled, and I felt--I
scarcely knew why--that it was written in a spirit of mingled contempt and
defiance. Let me give the fragment just
as it lay before me:
"ARON!
It is quite time be
done. Who knows is not his home by this
CONCERN FOR THE that they are well off, sian officers are cide at once, my
risau, or I must t TEN DAYS DELAY money can be divi-tier, and you may ever you
please. untess goes, and she will know who you time, unless you carry friend or
not decide, ann Helm."
Here, I felt sure, was the
clue to much of the mystery. The first
thing that struck me was the appearance of a new name. I looked at it again, ran through in my mind
all possible German names, and found that it could only be
"Johann,"--and in the same instant I recalled the frequent habit of
the Prussian and Polish nobility of calling their German valets by French
names. This, then, was "Jean!" The address was certainly "Baron,"
and why thrice underscored, unless in contemptuous satire? Light began to break upon the matter at
last. "Otto" had been playing
the part, perhaps assuming the name, of a nobleman, seduced to the deception by
his passion for the Countess' sister, Helmine.
This explained the reference to "the papers," and "the
secret," and would account for the respectful and sympathetic tone of the
Countess' letter. But behind this there
was certainly another secret, in which "Y." (whoever he might be) was
concerned, and which related to money.
The close of the note, which I filled out to read, "Your friend or
not, as you may decide," conveyed a threat, and, to judge from the halves
of lines immediately preceding it, the threat referred to the money, as well as
to the betrayal of an assumed character.
Here, just as the story
began to appear in faint outline, my discoveries stopped for a while. I ascertained the breadth of the original
note by a part of the middle-crease which remained, filled out the torn part with
blank paper, completed the divided words in the same character of manuscript)
and endeavored to guess the remainder, but no clairvoyant power of divination
came to my aid. I turned over the
letters again, remarking the neatness with which the addresses had been cut
off, and wondering why the man had not destroyed the letters and other
memoranda entirely, if he wished to hide a possible crime. The fact that they were not destroyed showed
the hold which his past life had had upon him even to his dying hour. Weak and vain, as I had already suspected him
to be,--wanting in all manly fibre, and of the very material which a keen,
energetic villain would mould to his needs,--I felt that his love for his
sister and for "Helmine," and other associations connected with his life
in Germany and Poland, had made him cling to these worn records.
I know not what gave me the
suspicion that he had not even found the heart to destroy the exscinded names;
perhaps the care with which they had been removed; perhaps, in two instances,
the circumstance of their taking words out of the body of the letters with
them. But the suspicion came, and led to
a re-examination of the leathern wallets.
I could scarcely believe my eyes, when feeling something rustle faintly
as I pressed the thin lining of an inner pocket, I drew forth three or four
small pellets of paper, and unrolling them, found the lost addresses! I fitted them to the vacant places, and found
that the first letters of the sister in Breslau had been forwarded to
"Otto Lindenschmidt," while the letter to
I warmed with this success,
which exactly tallied with the previous discoveries, and returned again to the
Polish memoranda The words "[Rus]sian officers" in "Jean's"
note led me to notice that it had been written towards the close of the last
insurrection in Poland--a circumstance which I immediately coupled with some
things in the note and on the leaf of the journal. "No tidings of Y" might indicate that
Count Kasincsky had been concerned in the rebellion, and had fled, or been
taken prisoner. Had he left a large
amount of funds in the hands of the supposed Otto von Herisau, which were drawn
from time to time by orders, the form of which had been previously agreed
upon? Then, when he had disappeared,
might it not have been the remaining funds which Jean urged Otto to divide with
him, while the latter, misled and entangled in deception rather than naturally
dishonest, held back from such a step? I
could hardly doubt so much, and it now required but a slight effort of the
imagination to complete the torn note.
The next letter of the
sister was addressed to
It was nevertheless singular
that Otto should be without money, so soon after the appropriation of Count
Kasincsky's funds. If the "20"
in the first memorandum on the leaf meant "twenty thousand rubles,"
as I conjectured, and but four thousand two hundred were drawn by the Count
previous to his flight or imprisonment, Otto's half of the remainder would
amount to nearly eight thousand rubles; and it was, therefore, not easy to
account for his delay in Leipzig, and his destitute condition.
Before examining the
fragments relating to the American phase of his life,--which illustrated his
previous history only by occasional revelations of his moods and feelings,--I
made one more effort to guess the cause of his having assumed the name of
"Von Herisau." The initials
signed to the order for the ring ("B. V. H.") certainly stood for the
same family name; and the possession of papers belonging to one of the family
was an additional evidence that Otto had either been in the service of, or was
related to, some Von Herisau. Perhaps a
sentence in one of the sister's letters--"Forget thy disappointment so far
as _I_ am concerned, for I never expected any thing"--referred to
something of the kind. On the whole,
service seemed more likely than kinship; but in that case the papers must have
been stolen.
I had endeavored, from the
start, to keep my sympathies out of the investigation, lest they should lead me
to misinterpret the broken evidence, and thus defeat my object. It must have been the Countess' letter, and
the brief, almost stenographic, signs of anxiety and unhappiness on the leaf of
the journal, that first beguiled me into a commiseration, which the simple
devotion and self-sacrifice of the poor, toiling sister failed to
neutralize. However, I detected the
feeling at this stage of the examination, and turned to the American records,
in order to get rid of it.
The principal paper was the
list of addresses of which I have spoken.
I looked over it in vain, to find some indication of its purpose; yet it
had been carefully made out and much used.
There was no name of a person upon it,--only numbers and streets, one
hundred and thirty-eight in all.
Finally, I took these, one by one, to ascertain if any of the houses
were known to me, and found three, out of the whole number, to be the residences
of persons whom I knew. One was a German
gentleman, and the other two were Americans who had visited
The meaning of the list of
addresses was now plain. My nascent
commiseration for the man was not only checked, but I was in danger of changing
my role from that of culprit's counsel to that of prosecuting attorney.
When I took up again the
fragment of the first draught of a letter commencing, "Dog and
villain!" and applied it to the words "Jean" or "Johann
Helm," the few lines which could be deciphered became full of meaning. "Don't think," it began, "that
I have forgotten you, or the trick you played me! If I was drunk or drugged the last night, I
know how it happened, for all that. I
left, but I shall go back. And if you
make use of "(here some words were entirely obliterated) . . . . "is
true. He gave me the ring, and
meant" . . . . This was all I could
make out. The other papers showed only
scattered memoranda, of money, or appointments, or addresses, with the exception
of the diary in pencil.
I read the letter
attentively, and at first with very little idea of its meaning. Many of the words were abbreviated, and there
were some arbitrary signs. It ran over a
period of about four months, terminating six weeks before the man's death. He had been wandering about the country
during this period, sleeping in woods and barns, and living principally upon
milk. The condition of his pulse and
other physical functions was scrupulously set down, with an occasional remark
of "good" or "bad."
The conclusion was at last forced upon me that he had been endeavoring
to commit suicide by a slow course of starvation and exposure. Either as the cause or the result of this
attempt, I read, in the final notes, signs of an aberration of mind. This also explained the singular demeanor of
the man when found, and his refusal to take medicine or nourishment. He had selected a long way to accomplish his
purpose, but had reached the end at last.
The confused material had
now taken shape; the dead man, despite his will, had confessed to me his name
and the chief events of his life. It now
remained--looking at each event as the result of a long chain of causes--to
deduce from them the elements of his individual character, and then fill up the
inevitable gaps in the story from the probabilities of the operation of those
elements. This was not so much a mere
venture as the reader may suppose, because the two actions of the mind test
each other. If they cannot, thus working
towards a point and back again, actually discover what WAS, they may at least
fix upon a very probable MIGHT HAVE BEEN.
A person accustomed to
detective work would have obtained my little stock of facts with much less
trouble, and would, almost instinctively, have filled the blanks as he went
along. Being an apprentice in such
matters, I had handled the materials awkwardly.
I will not here retrace my own mental zigzags between character and act,
but simply repeat the story as I finally settled and accepted it.
Otto Lindenschmidt was the
child of poor parents in or near
The boy and his humble
relatives, dazzled by this opportunity, began secretly to consider the favor as
almost equivalent to his adoption as a son.
(The Baron had once been married, but his wife and only child had long
been dead.) The old man, of course, came
to look upon the growing intelligence of the youth as his own work: vanity and
affection became inextricably blended in his heart, and when the cursus was
over, he took him home as the companion of his lonely life. After two or three years, during which the
young man was acquiring habits of idleness and indulgence, supposing his future
secure, the Baron died,--perhaps too suddenly to make full provision for him,
perhaps after having kept up the appearance of wealth on a life-annuity, but,
in any case, leaving very little, if any, property to Otto. In his disappointment, the latter retained
certain family papers which the Baron had intrusted to his keeping. The ring was a gift, and he wore it in
remembrance of his benefactor.
Wandering about,
Micawber-like, in hopes that something might turn up, he reached Posen, and
there either met or heard of the Polish Count, Ladislas Kasincsky, who was
seeking a tutor for his only son. His
accomplishments, and perhaps, also, a certain aristocratic grace of manner
unconsciously caught from the Baron von Herisau, speedily won for him the favor
of the Count and Countess Kasincsky, and emboldened him to hope for the hand of
the Countess' sister, Helmine ----, to whom he was no doubt sincerely
attached. Here Johann Helm, or
"Jean," a confidential servant of the Count, who looked upon the new
tutor as a rival, yet adroitly flattered his vanity for the purpose of
misleading and displacing him, appears upon the stage. "Jean" first detected Otto's
passion; "Jean," at an epicurean dinner, wormed out of Otto the
secret of the Herisau documents, and perhaps suggested the part which the latter
afterwards played.
This "Jean" seemed
to me to have been the evil agency in the miserable history which
followed. After Helmine's rejection of
Otto's suit, and the flight or captivity of Count Kasincsky, leaving a large
sum of money in Otto's hands, it would be easy for "Jean," by mingled
persuasions and threats, to move the latter to flight, after dividing the money
still remaining in his hands. After the
theft, and the partition, which took place beyond the Polish frontier,
"Jean" in turn, stole his accomplice's share, together with the Von
Herisau documents.
Exile and a year's
experience of organized mendicancy did the rest.
Otto Lindenschmidt was one
of those natures which possess no moral elasticity--which have neither the
power nor the comprehension of atonement.
The first real, unmitigated guilt--whether great or small--breaks them
down hopelessly. He expected no chance
of self-redemption, and he found none.
His life in
My task was done. I had tracked this weak, vain, erring, hunted
soul to its last refuge, and the knowledge bequeathed to me but a single
duty. His sins were balanced by his temptations;
his vanity and weakness had revenged themselves; and there only remained to
tell the simple, faithful sister that her sacrifices were no longer
required. I burned the evidences of
guilt, despair and suicide, and sent the other papers, with a letter relating
the time and circumstances of Otto Lindenschmidt's death, to the civil
authorities of
This, I supposed, was the
end of the history, so far as my connection with it was concerned. But one cannot track a secret with impunity;
the fatality connected with the act and the actor clings even to the knowledge
of the act. I had opened my door a
little, in order to look out upon the life of another, but in doing so a ghost
had entered in, and was not to be dislodged until I had done its service.
In the summer of 1867 I was
in
"Have you
noticed," some one asked, "how much attention the Baron von Herisau
is paying her?"
I whirled round and
exclaimed, in a breath, "The Baron von Herisau!"
"Yes," said my
friend; "do you know him?"
I was glad that three
crashing, tremendous chords came from the orchestra just then, giving me time
to collect myself before I replied:
"I am not sure whether it is the same person: I knew a Baron von Herisau long ago: how old
is the gentleman here?"
"About thirty-five, I
should think," my friend answered.
"Ah, then it can't be
the same person," said I: "still, if he should happen to pass near
us, will you point him out to me?"
It was an hour later, and we
were all hotly discussing the question of Lessing's obligations to English
literature, when one of the gentlemen at the table said: "There goes the Baron von Herisau: is it
perhaps your friend, sir?"
I turned and saw a tall man,
with prominent nose, opaque black eyes, and black mustache, walking beside a
pretty, insipid girl. Behind the pair
went an elderly couple, overdressed and snobbish in appearance. A carriage, with servants in livery, waited
in the open space below the terrace, and having received the two couples,
whirled swiftly away towards Altenstein.
Had I been more of a
philosopher I should have wasted no second thought on the Baron von Herisau. But the Nemesis of the knowledge which I had
throttled poor Otto Lindenschmidt's ghost to obtain had come upon me at last,
and there was no rest for me until I had discovered who and what was the Baron. The list of guests which the landlord gave me
whetted my curiosity to a painful degree; for on it I found the entry: "Aug. 15.--Otto V. Herisau, Rentier,
It was quite dark when the
carriage returned. I watched the company
into the supper-room, and then, whisking in behind them, secured a place at the
nearest table. I had an hour of quiet,
stealthy observation before my
My seat was beside the Baron
von Herisau, with whom I exchanged the usual commonplaces after an
introduction. His manner was cold and
taciturn, I thought, and there was something forced in the smile which
accompanied his replies to the remarks of the coarse old lady, who continually
referred to the "Herr Baron" as authority upon every possible
subject. I noticed, however, that he
cast a sudden, sharp glance at me, when I was presented to the company as an
American.
The man's neighborhood
disturbed me. I was obliged to let the
conversation run in the channels already selected, and stupid enough I found
them. I was considering whether I should
not give a signal to my friend and withdraw, when the Baron stretched his hand
across the table for a bottle of Affenthaler, and I caught sight of a massive
gold ring on his middle finger.
Instantly I remembered the ring which "B. V. H." had given to
Otto Lindenschmidt, and I said to myself, "That is it!" The inference followed like lightning that it
was "Johann Helm" who sat beside me, and not a Baron von Herisau!
That evening my friend and I
had a long, absorbing conversation in my room.
I told him the whole story, which came back vividly to memory, and
learned, in return, that the reputed Baron was supposed to be wealthy, that the
old gentleman was a Bremen merchant or banker, known to be rich, that neither
was considered by those who had met them to be particularly intelligent or
refined, and that the wooing of the daughter had already become so marked as to
be a general subject of gossip. My
friend was inclined to think my conjecture correct, and willingly co-operated
with me in a plan to test the matter. We
had no considerable sympathy with the snobbish parents, whose servility to a title
was so apparent; but the daughter seemed to be an innocent and amiable
creature, however silly, and we determined to spare her the shame of an open
scandal.
If our scheme should seem a
little melodramatic, it must not be forgotten that my friend was an
author. The next morning, as the Baron
came up the terrace after his visit to the spring, I stepped forward and
greeted him politely, after which I said:
"I see by the strangers' list that you are from
"Because," said I,
"I am thinking of making a visit to
"Certainly!" he
interrupted me, "and I should be very glad to give it, if I had ever
visited
"At least," I
continued, "you can advise me upon one point; but excuse me, shall we not
sit down a moment yonder? As my question
relates to money, I should not wish to be overheard."
I pointed out a retired
spot, just before reaching which we were joined by my friend, who suddenly
stepped out from behind a clump of lilacs.
The Baron and he saluted each other.
"Now," said I to
the former, "I can ask your advice, Mr. Johann Helm!"
He was not an adept, after
all. His astonishment and confusion were
brief, to be sure, but they betrayed him so completely that his after-impulse
to assume a haughty, offensive air only made us smile.
"If I had a message to
you from Otto Lindenschmidt, what then?" I asked.
He turned pale, and
presently stammered out, "He--he is dead!"
"Now," said my
friend, "it is quite time to drop the mask before us. You see we know you, and we know your
history. Not from Otto Lindenschmidt
alone; Count Ladislas Kasincsky--"
"What! Has he come back from
Our object, however, was to
ascertain through him the complete facts of Otto Lindenschmidt's history, and
then to banish him from Liebenstein. We
allowed him to suppose for awhile that we were acting under the authority of
persons concerned, in order to make the best possible use of his demoralized
mood, for we knew it would not last long.
My guesses were very nearly
correct. Otto Lindenschmidt had been
educated by an old Baron, Bernhard von Herisau, on account of his resemblance
in person to a dead son, whose name had also been Otto.
He could not have adopted
the plebeian youth, at least to the extent of giving him an old and haughty
name, but this the latter nevertheless expected, up to the time of the Baron's
death. He had inherited a little
property from his benefactor, but soon ran through it. "He was a light-headed fellow,"
said Johann Helm, "but he knew how to get the confidence of the old
Junkers. If he hadn't been so cowardly
and fidgety, he might have made himself a career."
The Polish episode differed
so little from my interpretation that I need not repeat Helm's version. He denied having stolen Otto's share of the
money, but could not help admitting his possession of the Von Herisau papers,
among which were the certificates of birth and baptism of the old Baron's son,
Otto. It seems that he had been fearful
of Lindenschmidt's return from
We let him go, after
exacting a solemn pledge that he would betake himself at once to
Otto Lindenschmidt's life,
therefore, could not hide itself. Can
any life?
When John Vincent, after
waiting twelve years, married Phebe Etheridge, the whole neighborhood
experienced that sense of relief and satisfaction which follows the triumph of
the right. Not that the fact of a true
love is ever generally recognized and respected when it is first discovered;
for there is a perverse quality in American human nature which will not accept
the existence of any fine, unselfish passion, until it has been tested and
established beyond peradventure. There
were two views of the case when John Vincent's love for Phebe, and old Reuben
Etheridge's hard prohibition of the match, first became known to the
community. The girls and boys, and some
of the matrons, ranged themselves at once on the side of the lovers, but a large
majority of the older men and a few of the younger supported the tyrannical
father.
Reuben Etheridge was rich,
and, in addition to what his daughter would naturally inherit from him, she
already possessed more than her lover, at the time of their betrothal. This in the eyes of one class was a
sufficient reason for the father's hostility.
When low natures live (as they almost invariably do) wholly in the
present, they neither take tenderness from the past nor warning from the
possibilities of the future. It is the
exceptional men and women who remember their youth. So, these lovers received a nearly equal
amount of sympathy and condemnation; and only slowly, partly through their
quiet fidelity and patience, and partly through the improvement in John
Vincent's worldly circumstances, was the balance changed. Old Reuben remained an unflinching despot to
the last: if any relenting softness touched his heart, he sternly concealed it;
and such inference as could be drawn from the fact that he, certainly knowing
what would follow his death, bequeathed his daughter her proper share of his
goods, was all that could be taken for consent.
They were married: John, a
grave man in middle age, weather-beaten and worn by years of hard work and
self-denial, yet not beyond the restoration of a milder second youth; and Phebe
a sad, weary woman, whose warmth of longing had been exhausted, from whom youth
and its uncalculating surrenders of hope and feeling had gone forever. They began their wedded life under the shadow
of the death out of which it grew; and when, after a ceremony in which neither
bridesmaid nor groomsman stood by their side, they united their divided homes,
it seemed to their neighbors that a separated husband and wife had come
together again, not that the relation was new to either.
John Vincent loved his wife
with the tenderness of an innocent man, but all his tenderness could not avail
to lift the weight of settled melancholy which had gathered upon her. Disappointment, waiting, yearning, indulgence
in long lament and self-pity, the morbid cultivation of unhappy fancies--all
this had wrought its work upon her, and it was too late to effect a cure. In the night she awoke to weep at his side,
because of the years when she had awakened to weep alone; by day she kept up
her old habit of foreboding, although the evening steadily refuted the morning;
and there were times when, without any apparent cause, she would fall into a
dark, despairing mood which her husband's greatest care and cunning could only slowly
dispel.
Two or three years passed,
and new life came to the Vincent farm.
One day, between midnight and dawn, the family pair was doubled; the cry
of twin sons was heard in the hushed house.
The father restrained his happy wonder in his concern for the imperilled
life of the mother; he guessed that she had anticipated death, and she now hung
by a thread so slight that her simple will might snap it. But her will, fortunately, was as faint as
her consciousness; she gradually drifted out of danger, taking her returning
strength with a passive acquiescence rather than with joy. She was hardly paler than her wont, but the
lurking shadow seemed to have vanished from her eyes, and John Vincent felt
that her features had assumed a new expression, the faintly perceptible stamp
of some spiritual change.
It was a happy day for him
when, propped against his breast and gently held by his warm, strong arm, the
twin boys were first brought to be laid upon her lap. Two staring, dark-faced creatures, with
restless fists and feet, they were alike in every least feature of their
grotesque animality. Phebe placed a hand
under the head of each, and looked at them for a long time in silence.
"Why is this?" she
said, at last, taking hold of a narrow pink ribbon, which was tied around the
wrist of one.
"He's the oldest,
sure," the nurse answered.
"Only by fifteen minutes or so, but it generally makes a difference
when twins come to be named; and you may see with your own eyes that there's no
telling of 'em apart otherways."
"Take off the ribbon,
then," said Phebe quietly; "_I_ know them."
"Why, ma'am, it's
always done, where they're so like! And
I'll never be able to tell which is which; for they sleep and wake and feed by
the same clock. And you might mistake,
after all, in giving 'em names--"
"There is no oldest or
youngest, John; they are two and yet one: this is mine, and this is
yours."
"I see no difference at
all, Phebe," said John; "and how can we divide them?"
"We will not
divide," she answered; "I only meant it as a sign."
She smiled, for the first
time in many days. He was glad of heart,
but did not understand her. "What
shall we call them?" he asked.
"Elias and Reuben, after our fathers?"
"No, John; their names
must be David and Jonathan."
And so they were
called. And they grew, not less, but
more alike, in passing through the stages of babyhood. The ribbon of the older one had been removed,
and the nurse would have been distracted, but for Phebe's almost miraculous
instinct. The former comforted herself
with the hope that teething would bring a variation to the two identical
mouths; but no! they teethed as one child.
John, after desperate attempts, which always failed in spite of the
headaches they gave him, postponed the idea of distinguishing one from the
other, until they should be old enough to develop some dissimilarity of speech,
or gait, or habit. All trouble might
have been avoided, had Phebe consented to the least variation in their dresses;
but herein she was mildly immovable.
"Not yet," was her
set reply to her husband; and one day, when he manifested a little annoyance at
her persistence, she turned to him, holding a child on each knee, and said with
a gravity which silenced him thenceforth:
"John, can you not see that our burden has passed into them? Is there no meaning in this--that two
children who are one in body and face and nature, should be given to us at our
time of life, after such long disappointment and trouble? Our lives were held apart; theirs were united
before they were born, and I dare not turn them in different directions. Perhaps I do not know all that the Lord
intended to say to us, in sending them; but His hand is here!"
"I was only thinking of
their good," John meekly answered.
"If they are spared to grow up, there must be some way of knowing
one from the other."
"THEY will not need it,
and I, too, think only of them. They
have taken the cross from my heart, and I will lay none on theirs. I am reconciled to my life through them, John;
you have been very patient and good with me, and I will yield to you in all
things but in this. I do not think I
shall live to see them as men grown; yet, while we are together, I feel clearly
what it is right to do. Can you not,
just once, have a little faith without knowledge, John?"
"I'll try, Phebe,"
he said. "Any way, I'll grant that
the boys belong to you more than to me."
Phebe Vincent's character
had verily changed. Her attacks of
semi-hysterical despondency never returned; her gloomy prophecies ceased. She was still grave, and the trouble of so
many years never wholly vanished from her face; but she performed every duty of
her life with at least a quiet willingness, and her home became the abode of
peace; for passive content wears longer than demonstrative happiness.
David and Jonathan grew as
one boy: the taste and temper of one was repeated in the other, even as the
voice and features. Sleeping or waking,
grieved or joyous, well or ill, they lived a single life, and it seemed so
natural for one to answer to the other's name, that they probably would have
themselves confused their own identities, but for their mother's unerring
knowledge. Perhaps unconsciously guided
by her, perhaps through the voluntary action of their own natures, each quietly
took the other's place when called upon, even to the sharing of praise or blame
at school, the friendships and quarrels of the playground. They were healthy and happy lads, and John
Vincent was accustomed to say to his neighbors, "They're no more trouble
than one would be; and yet they're four hands instead of two."
Phebe died when they were
fourteen, saying to them, with almost her latest breath, "Be one,
always!" Before her husband could
decide whether to change her plan of domestic education, they were passing out of
boyhood, changing in voice, stature, and character with a continued likeness
which bewildered and almost terrified him.
He procured garments of different colors, but they were accustomed to
wear each article in common, and the result was only a mixture of tints for
both. They were sent to different
schools, to be returned the next day, equally pale, suffering, and incapable of
study. Whatever device was employed,
they evaded it by a mutual instinct which rendered all external measures
unavailing. To John Vincent's mind their
resemblance was an accidental misfortune, which had been confirmed through
their mother's fancy. He felt that they
were bound by some deep, mysterious tie, which, inasmuch as it might interfere
with all practical aspects of life, ought to be gradually weakened. Two bodies, to him, implied two distinct men,
and it was wrong to permit a mutual dependence which prevented either from
exercising his own separate will and judgment.
But, while he was planning
and pondering, the boys became young men, and he was an old man. Old, and prematurely broken; for he had
worked much, borne much, and his large frame held only a moderate measure of
vital force. A great weariness fell upon
him, and his powers began to give way, at first slowly, but then with
accelerated failure. He saw the end
coming, long before his sons suspected it; his doubt, for their sakes, was the
only thing which made it unwelcome. It
was "upon his mind" (as his Quaker neighbors would say) to speak to
them of the future, and at last the proper moment came.
It was a stormy November
evening. Wind and rain whirled and drove
among the trees outside, but the sitting-room of the old farm-house was bright
and warm. David and Jonathan, at the
table, with their arms over each other's backs and their brown locks mixed
together, read from the same book: their father sat in the ancient
rocking-chair before the fire, with his feet upon a stool. The housekeeper and hired man had gone to
bed, and all was still in the house.
John waited until he heard
the volume closed, and then spoke.
"Boys," he said,
"let me have a bit of talk with you.
I don't seem to get over my ailments rightly,--never will, maybe. A man must think of things while there's time,
and say them when they HAVE to be said.
I don't know as there's any particular hurry in my case; only, we never
can tell, from one day to another. When
I die, every thing will belong to you two, share and share alike, either to buy
another farm with the money out, or divide this: I won't tie you up in any way. But two of you will need two farms for two
families; for you won't have to wait twelve years, like your mother and
me."
"We don't want another
farm, father!" said David and Jonathan together.
"I know you don't think
so, now. A wife seemed far enough off
from me when I was your age. You've
always been satisfied to be with each other, but that can't last. It was partly your mother's notion; I
remember her saying that our burden had passed into you. I never quite understood what she meant, but
I suppose it must rather be the opposite of what WE had to bear."
The twins listened with
breathless attention while their father, suddenly stirred by the past, told
them the story of his long betrothal.
"And now," he
exclaimed, in conclusion, "it may be putting wild ideas into your two
heads, but I must say it! THAT was where
I did wrong--wrong to her and to me,--in waiting! I had no right to spoil the best of our
lives; I ought to have gone boldly, in broad day, to her father's house, taken
her by the hand, and led her forth to be my wife. Boys, if either of you comes to love a woman
truly, and she to love you, and there is no reason why God (I don't say man)
should put you asunder, do as I ought to have done, not as I did! And, maybe, this advice is the best legacy I
can leave you."
"But, father,"
said David, speaking for both, "we have never thought of marrying."
"Likely enough,"
their father answered; "we hardly ever think of what surely comes. But to me, looking back, it's plain. And this is the reason why I want you to make
me a promise, and as solemn as if I was on my death-bed. Maybe I shall be, soon."
Tears gathered in the eyes
of the twins. "What is it,
father?" they both said.
"Nothing at all to any
other two boys, but I don't know how YOU'll take it. What if I was to ask you to live apart for a
while?"
"Oh father!" both
cried. They leaned together, cheek
pressing cheek, and hand clasping hand, growing white and trembling. John Vincent, gazing into the fire, did not
see their faces, or his purpose might have been shaken.
"I don't say NOW,"
he went on. "After a while,
when--well, when I'm dead. And I only
mean a beginning, to help you toward what HAS to be. Only a month; I don't want to seem hard to
you; but that's little, in all conscience.
Give me your word: say, `For mother's sake!'"
There was a long pause. Then David and Jonathan said, in low,
faltering voices, "For mother's sake, I promise."
"Remember that you were
only boys to her. She might have made all
this seem easier, for women have reasons for things no man can answer. Mind, within a year after I'm gone!"
He rose and tottered out of
the room.
The twins looked at each
other: David said, "Must we?"
and Jonathan, "How can we?"
Then they both thought, "It may be a long while yet." Here was a present comfort, and each seemed
to hold it firmly in holding the hand of the other, as they fell asleep side by
side.
The trial was nearer than
they imagined. Their father died before
the winter was over; the farm and other property was theirs, and they might
have allowed life to solve its mysteries as it rolled onwards, but for their
promise to the dead. This must be
fulfilled, and then--one thing was certain; they would never again separate.
"The sooner the
better," said David. "It shall
be the visit to our uncle and cousins in
"It is less than
death," Jonathan answered, "and why should it seem to be more? We must think of father and mother, and all
those twelve years; now I know what the burden was."
"And we have never
really borne any part of it! Father must
have been right in forcing us to promise."
Every day the discussion was
resumed, and always with the same termination.
Familiarity with the inevitable step gave them increase of courage; yet,
when the moment had come and gone, when, speeding on opposite trains, the hills
and valleys multiplied between them with terrible velocity, a pang like death
cut to the heart of each, and the divided life became a chill, oppressive
dream.
During the separation no
letters passed between them. When the
neighbors asked Jonathan for news of his brother, he always replied, "He
is well," and avoided further speech with such evidence of pain that they
spared him. An hour before the month
drew to an end, he walked forth alone, taking the road to the nearest railway
station. A stranger who passed him at
the entrance of a thick wood, three miles from home, was thunderstruck on
meeting the same person shortly after, entering the wood from the other side;
but the farmers in the near fields saw two figures issuing from the shade, hand
in hand.
Each knew the other's month,
before they slept, and the last thing Jonathan said, with his head on David's
shoulder, was, "You must know our neighbors, the Bradleys, and especially
Ruth." In the morning, as they
dressed, taking each other's garments at random, as of old, Jonathan again
said, "I have never seen a girl that I like so well as Ruth Bradley. Do you remember what father said about loving
and marrying? It comes into my mind
whenever I see Ruth; but she has no sister."
"But we need not both
marry," David replied, "that might part us, and this will not. It is for always now."
"For always,
David."
Two or three days later
Jonathan said, as he started on an errand to the village: "I shall stop at the Bradleys this
evening, so you must walk across and meet me there."
When David approached the
house, a slender, girlish figure, with her back towards him, was stooping over
a bush of great crimson roses, cautiously clipping a blossom here and
there. At the click of the gate-latch she
started and turned towards him. Her
light gingham bonnet, falling back, disclosed a long oval face, fair and
delicate, sweet brown eyes, and brown hair laid smoothly over the temples. A soft flush rose suddenly to her cheeks, and
he felt that his own were burning.
"Oh Jonathan!" she
exclaimed, transferring the roses to her left hand, and extending her right, as
she came forward.
He was too accustomed to the
name to recognize her mistake at once, and the word "Ruth!" came
naturally to his lips.
"I should know your
brother David has come," she then said; "even if I had not heard
so. You look so bright. How glad I am!"
"Is he not here?"
David asked.
"No; but there he is
now, surely!" She turned towards
the lane, where Jonathan was dismounting.
"Why, it is yourself over again, Jonathan!"
As they approached, a glance
passed between the twins, and a secret transfer of the riding-whip to David set
their identity right with Ruth, whose manner toward the latter innocently
became shy with all its friendliness, while her frank, familiar speech was
given to Jonathan, as was fitting. But
David also took the latter to himself, and when they left, Ruth had apparently
forgotten that there was any difference in the length of their acquaintance.
On their way homewards David
said: "Father was right. We must marry, like others, and Ruth is the
wife for us,--I mean for you, Jonathan.
Yes, we must learn to say MINE and YOURS, after all, when we speak of
her."
"Even she cannot
separate us, it seems," Jonathan answered.
"We must give her some sign, and that will also be a sign for
others. It will seem strange to divide
ourselves; we can never learn it properly; rather let us not think of
marriage."
"We cannot help
thinking of it; she stands in mother's place now, as we in father's."
Then both became silent and
thoughtful. They felt that something
threatened to disturb what seemed to be the only possible life for them, yet
were unable to distinguish its features, and therefore powerless to resist
it. The same instinct which had been
born of their wonderful spiritual likeness told them that Ruth Bradley already
loved Jonathan: the duty was established, and they must conform their lives to
it. There was, however, this slight
difference between their natures--that David was generally the first to utter
the thought which came to the minds of both.
So when he said, "We shall learn what to do when the need
comes," it was a postponement of all foreboding. They drifted contentedly towards the coming
change.
The days went by, and their
visits to Ruth Bradley were continued.
Sometimes Jonathan went alone, but they were usually together, and the
tie which united the three became dearer and sweeter as it was more closely
drawn. Ruth learned to distinguish
between the two when they were before her: at least she said so, and they were
willing to believe it. But she was
hardly aware how nearly alike was the happy warmth in her bosom produced by
either pair of dark gray eyes and the soft half-smile which played around
either mouth. To them she seemed to be
drawn within the mystic circle which separated them from others--she, alone;
and they no longer imagined a life in which she should not share.
Then the inevitable step was
taken. Jonathan declared his love, and
was answered. Alas! he almost forgot
David that late summer evening, as they sat in the moonlight, and over and over
again assured each other how dear they had grown. He felt the trouble in David's heart when
they met.
"Ruth is ours, and I
bring her kiss to you," he said, pressing his lips to David's; but the
arms flung around him trembled, and David whispered, "Now the change
begins."
"Oh, this cannot be our
burden!" Jonathan cried, with all the rapture still warm in his heart.
"If it is, it will be
light, or heavy, or none at all, as we shall bear it," David answered,
with a smile of infinite tenderness.
For several days he allowed
Jonathan to visit the Bradley farm alone, saying that it must be so on Ruth's
account. Her love, he declared, must
give her the fine instinct which only their mother had ever possessed, and he
must allow it time to be confirmed.
Jonathan, however, insisted that Ruth already possessed it; that she was
beginning to wonder at his absence, and to fear that she would not be entirely
welcome to the home which must always be equally his.
David yielded at once.
"You must go
alone," said Jonathan, "to satisfy yourself that she knows us at
last."
Ruth came forth from the
house as he drew near. Her face beamed;
she laid her hands upon his shoulders and kissed him. "Now you cannot doubt me, Ruth!" he
said, gently.
"Doubt you,
Jonathan!" she exclaimed with a fond reproach in her eyes. "But you look troubled; is any thing the
matter?"
"I was thinking of my
brother," said David, in a low tone.
"Tell me what it
is," she said, drawing him into the little arbor of woodbine near the
gate. They took seats side by side on
the rustic bench. "He thinks I may
come between you: is it not that?" she asked. Only one thing was clear to David's mind--that
she would surely speak more frankly and freely of him to the supposed Jonathan
than to his real self. This once he
would permit the illusion.
"Not more than must
be," he answered. "He knew all
from the very beginning. But we have
been like one person in two bodies, and any change seems to divide us."
"I feel as you
do," said Ruth. "I would never
consent to be your wife, if I could really divide you. I love you both too well for that."
"Do you love me?"
he asked, entirely forgetting his representative part.
Again the reproachful look,
which faded away as she met his eyes.
She fell upon his breast, and gave him kisses which were answered with
equal tenderness. Suddenly he covered his
face with his hands, and burst into a passion of tears.
"Jonathan! Oh Jonathan!" she cried, weeping with
alarm and sympathetic pain.
It was long before he could
speak; but at last, turning away his head, he faltered, "I am David!"
There was a long silence.
When he looked up she was
sitting with her hands rigidly clasped in her lap: her face was very pale.
"There it is,
Ruth," he said; "we are one heart and one soul. Could he love, and not I? You cannot decide between us, for one is the
other. If I had known you first,
Jonathan would be now in my place. What
follows, then?"
"No marriage," she
whispered.
"No!" he answered;
"we brothers must learn to be two men instead of one. You will partly take my place with Jonathan;
I must live with half my life, unless I can find, somewhere in the world, your
other half."
"I cannot part you,
David!"
"Something stronger
than you or me parts us, Ruth. If it
were death, we should bow to God's will: well, it can no more be got away from
than death or judgment. Say no more: the
pattern of all this was drawn long before we were born, and we cannot do any
thing but work it out."
He rose and stood before
her. "Remember this, Ruth," he
said; "it is no blame in us to love each other. Jonathan will see the truth in my face when
we meet, and I speak for him also. You
will not see me again until your wedding-day, and then no more afterwards--but,
yes! ONCE, in some far-off time, when you shall know me to be David, and still
give me the kiss you gave to-day."
"Ah, after death!"
she thought: "I have parted them
forever." She was about to rise,
but fell upon the seat again, fainting.
At the same moment Jonathan appeared at David's side.
No word was said. They bore her forth and supported her between
them until the fresh breeze had restored her to consciousness. Her first glance rested on the brother's
hands, clasping; then, looking from one to the other, she saw that the cheeks
of both were wet.
"Now, leave me,"
she said, "but come to-morrow, Jonathan!" Even then she turned from one to the other,
with a painful, touching uncertainty, and stretched out both hands to them in
farewell.
How that poor twin heart
struggled with itself is only known to God.
All human voices, and as they believed, also the Divine Voice, commanded
the division of their interwoven life.
Submission would have seemed easier, could they have taken up equal and
similar burdens; but David was unable to deny that his pack was
overweighted. For the first time, their
thoughts began to diverge.
At last David said: "For mother's sake, Jonathan, as we promised. She always called you HER child. And for Ruth's sake, and father's last
advice: they all tell me what I must do."
It was like the struggle
between will and desire, in the same nature, and none the less fierce or
prolonged because the softer quality foresaw its ultimate surrender. Long after he felt the step to be inevitable,
Jonathan sought to postpone it, but he was borne by all combined influences
nearer and nearer to the time.
And now the wedding-day
came. David was to leave home the same
evening, after the family dinner under his father's roof. In the morning he said to Jonathan: "I shall not write until I feel that I
have become other than now, but I shall always be here, in you, as you will be
in me, everywhere. Whenever you want me,
I shall know it; and I think I shall know when to return."
The hearts of all the people
went out towards them as they stood together in the little village church. Both were calm, but very pale and abstracted
in their expression, yet their marvellous likeness was still unchanged. Ruth's eyes were cast down so they could not
be seen; she trembled visibly, and her voice was scarcely audible when she
spoke the vow. It was only known in the
neighborhood that David was going to make another journey. The truth could hardly have been guessed by
persons whose ideas follow the narrow round of their own experiences; had it
been, there would probably have been more condemnation than sympathy. But in a vague way the presence of some
deeper element was felt--the falling of a shadow, although the outstretched
wing was unseen. Far above them, and
above the shadow, watched the Infinite Pity, which was not denied to three
hearts that day.
It was a long time, more
than a year, and Ruth was lulling her first child on her bosom, before a letter
came from David. He had wandered
westwards, purchased some lands on the outer line of settlement, and appeared
to be leading a wild and lonely life. "I
know now," he wrote, "just how much there is to bear, and how to bear
it. Strange men come between us, but you
are not far off when I am alone on these plains. There is a place where I can always meet you,
and I know that you have found it,--under the big ash-tree by the barn. I think I am nearly always there about
sundown, and on moonshiny nights, because we are then nearest together; and I
never sleep without leaving you half my blanket. When I first begin to wake I always feel your
breath, so we are never really parted for long.
I do not know that I can change much; it is not easy; it is like making
up your mind to have different colored eyes and hair, and I can only get
sunburnt and wear a full beard. But we
are hardly as unhappy as we feared to be; mother came the other night, in a
dream, and took us on her knees. Oh,
come to me, Jonathan, but for one day!
No, you will not find me; I am going across the Plains!"
And Jonathan and Ruth? They loved each other tenderly; no external
trouble visited them; their home was peaceful and pure; and yet, every room and
stairway and chair was haunted by a sorrowful ghost. As a neighbor said after visiting them,
"There seemed to be something lost."
Ruth saw how constantly and how unconsciously Jonathan turned to see his
own every feeling reflected in the missing eyes; how his hand sought another,
even while its fellow pressed hers; how half-spoken words, day and night, died
upon his lips, because they could not reach the twin-ear. She knew not how it came, but her own nature
took upon itself the same habit. She
felt that she received a less measure of love than she gave--not from Jonathan,
in whose whole, warm, transparent heart no other woman had ever looked, but
something of her own passed beyond him and never returned. To both their life was like one of those
conjurer's cups, seemingly filled with red wine, which is held from the lips by
the false crystal hollow.
Neither spoke of this:
neither dared to speak. The years
dragged out their slow length, with rare and brief messages from David. Three children were in the house, and still
peace and plenty laid their signs upon its lintels. But at last Ruth, who had been growing
thinner and paler ever since the birth of her first boy, became seriously
ill. Consumption was hers by
inheritance, and it now manifested itself in a form which too surely foretold
the result. After the physician had
gone, leaving his fatal verdict behind him, she called to Jonathan, who,
bewildered by his grief, sank down on his knees at her bedside and sobbed upon
her breast.
"Don't grieve,"
she said; "this is my share of the burden.
If I have taken too much from you and David, now comes the
atonement. Many things have grown clear
to me. David was right when he said that
there was no blame. But my time is even
less than the doctor thinks: where is David?
Can you not bid him come?"
"I can only call him
with my heart," he answered.
"And will he hear me now, after nearly seven years?"
"Call, then!" she
eagerly cried. "Call with all the
strength of your love for him and for me, and I believe he will hear you!"
The sun was just
setting. Jonathan went to the great
ash-tree, behind the barn, fell upon his knees, and covered his face, and the
sense of an exceeding bitter cry filled his heart. All the suppressed and baffled longing, the
want, the hunger, the unremitting pain of years, came upon him and were crowded
into the single prayer, "Come, David, or I die!" Before the twilight faded, while he was still
kneeling, an arm came upon his shoulder, and the faint touch of another cheek
upon his own. It was hardly for the
space of a thought, but he knew the sign.
"David will come!"
he said to Ruth.
From that day all was
changed. The cloud of coming death which
hung over the house was transmuted into fleecy gold. All the lost life came back to Jonathan's face,
all the unrestful sweetness of Ruth's brightened into a serene beatitude. Months had passed since David had been heard
from; they knew not how to reach him without many delays; yet neither dreamed
of doubting his coming.
Two weeks passed, three, and
there was neither word nor sign.
Jonathan and Ruth thought, "He is near," and one day a
singular unrest fell upon the former.
Ruth saw it, but said nothing until night came, when she sent Jonathan
from her bedside with the words, "Go and meet him?"
An hour afterwards she heard
double steps on the stone walk in front of the house. They came slowly to the door; it opened; she
heard them along the hall and ascending the stairs; then the chamber-lamp
showed her the two faces, bright with a single, unutterable joy.
One brother paused at the
foot of the bed; the other drew near and bent over her. She clasped her thin hands around his neck,
kissed him fondly, and cried, "Dear, dear David!"
"Dear Ruth," he
said, "I came as soon as I could. I
was far away, among wild mountains, when I felt that Jonathan was calling
me. I knew that I must return, never to
leave you more, and there was still a little work to finish. Now we shall all live again!"
"Yes," said
Jonathan, coming to her other side, "try to live, Ruth!"
Her voice came clear,
strong, and full of authority. "I DO live, as never before. I shall take all my life with me when I go to
wait for one soul, as I shall find it there!
Our love unites, not divides, from this hour!"
The few weeks still left to her
were a season of almost superhuman peace.
She faded slowly and painlessly, taking the equal love of the
twin-hearts, and giving an equal tenderness and gratitude. Then first she saw the mysterious need which
united them, the fulness and joy wherewith each completed himself in the
other. All the imperfect past was
enlightened, and the end, even that now so near, was very good.
Every afternoon they carried
her down to a cushioned chair on the veranda, where she could enjoy the quiet
of the sunny landscape, the presence of the brothers seated at her feet, and
the sports of her children on the grass.
Thus, one day, while David and Jonathan held her hands and waited for
her to wake from a happy sleep, she went before them, and, ere they guessed the
truth, she was waiting for their one soul in the undiscovered land.
And Jonathan's children, now
growing into manhood and girlhood, also call David "father." The marks left by their divided lives have
long since vanished from their faces; the middle-aged men, whose hairs are
turning gray, still walk hand in hand, still sleep upon the same pillow, still
have their common wardrobe, as when they were boys. They talk of "our Ruth" with no
sadness, for they believe that death will make them one, when, at the same moment,
he summons both. And we who know them,
to whom they have confided the touching mystery of their nature, believe so
too.
Bridgeport! Change cars for the Naugatuck Railroad!"
shouted the conductor of the New York and Boston Express Train, on the evening
of May 27th, 1858. Indeed, he does it
every night (Sundays excepted), for that matter; but as this story refers
especially to Mr. J. Edward Johnson, who was a passenger on that train, on the
aforesaid evening, I make special mention of the fact. Mr. Johnson, carpet-bag in hand, jumped upon
the platform, entered the office, purchased a ticket for Waterbury, and was
soon whirling in the Naugatuck train towards his destination.
On reaching Waterbury, in
the soft spring twilight, Mr. Johnson walked up and down in front of the
station, curiously scanning the faces of the assembled crowd. Presently he noticed a gentleman who was
performing the same operation upon the faces of the alighting passengers. Throwing himself directly in the way of the
latter, the two exchanged a steady gaze.
"Is your name
Billings?" "Is your name
Johnson?" were simultaneous questions, followed by the simultaneous
exclamations--"Ned!"
"Enos!"
Then there was a crushing
grasp of hands, repeated after a pause, in testimony of ancient friendship, and
Mr. Billings, returning to practical life, asked--
"Is that all your
baggage? Come, I have a buggy here: Eunice has heard the whistle, and she'll be
impatient to welcome you."
The impatience of Eunice
(Mrs. Billings, of course,) was not of long duration, for in five minutes
thereafter she stood at the door of her husband's chocolate-colored villa,
receiving his friend.
While these three persons
are comfortably seated at the tea-table, enjoying their waffles, cold tongue,
and canned peaches, and asking and answering questions helter-skelter in the
delightful confusion of reunion after long separation, let us briefly inform
the reader who and what they are.
Mr. Enos Billings, then, was
part owner of a manufactory of metal buttons, forty years old, of middling
height, ordinarily quiet and rather shy, but with a large share of latent
warmth and enthusiasm in his nature. His
hair was brown, slightly streaked with gray, his eyes a soft, dark hazel, forehead
square, eyebrows straight, nose of no very marked character, and a mouth
moderately full, with a tendency to twitch a little at the corners. His voice was undertoned, but mellow and
agreeable.
Mrs. Eunice Billings, of
nearly equal age, was a good specimen of the wide-awake New-England woman. Her face had a piquant smartness of
expression, which might have been refined into a sharp edge, but for her
natural hearty good-humor. Her head was
smoothly formed, her face a full oval, her hair and eyes blond and blue in a
strong light, but brown and steel-gray at other times, and her complexion of
that ripe fairness into which a ruddier color will sometimes fade. Her form, neither plump nor square, had yet a
firm, elastic compactness, and her slightest movement conveyed a certain
impression of decision and self-reliance.
As for J. Edward Johnson, it
is enough to say that he was a tall, thin gentleman of forty-five, with an
aquiline nose, narrow face, and military whiskers, which swooped upwards and
met under his nose in a glossy black mustache.
His complexion was dark, from the bronzing of fifteen summers in New
Orleans. He was a member of a wholesale
hardware firm in that city, and had now revisited his native North for the
first time since his departure. A year
before, some letters relating to invoices of metal buttons signed,
"Foster, Kirkup, & Co., per Enos Billings," had accidentally
revealed to him the whereabouts of the old friend of his youth, with whom we
now find him domiciled. The first thing
he did, after attending to some necessary business matters in New York, was to
take the train for Waterbury.
"Enos," said he,
as he stretched out his hand for the third cup of tea (which he had taken only
for the purpose of prolonging the pleasant table-chat), "I wonder which of
us is most changed."
"You, of course,"
said Mr. Billings, "with your brown face and big mustache. Your own brother wouldn't have known you if
he had seen you last, as I did, with smooth cheeks and hair of unmerciful length. Why, not even your voice is the same!"
"That is easily
accounted for," replied Mr. Johnson.
"But in your case, Enos, I am puzzled to find where the difference
lies. Your features seem to be but
little changed, now that I can examine them at leisure; yet it is not the same
face. But, really, I never looked at you
for so long a time, in those days. I beg
pardon; you used to be so--so remarkably shy."
Mr. Billings blushed
slightly, and seemed at a loss what to answer.
His wife, however, burst
into a merry laugh, exclaiming--
"Oh, that was before
the days of the A. C!"
He, catching the infection,
laughed also; in fact Mr. Johnson laughed, but without knowing why.
"The `A. C.'!"
said Mr. Billings. "Bless me,
Eunice! how long it is since we have talked of that summer! I had almost forgotten that there ever was an
A. C."
"Enos, COULD you ever
forget Abel Mallory and the beer?--or that scene between Hollins and
Shelldrake?--or" (here SHE blushed the least bit) "your own fit of
candor?" And she laughed again,
more heartily than ever.
"What a precious lot of
fools, to be sure!" exclaimed her husband.
Mr. Johnson, meanwhile,
though enjoying the cheerful humor of his hosts, was not a little puzzled with
regard to its cause.
"What is the A.
C.?" he ventured to ask.
Mr. and Mrs. Billings looked
at each other, and smiled without replying.
"Really, Ned,"
said the former, finally, "the answer to your question involves the whole
story."
"Then why not tell him
the whole story, Enos?" remarked his wife.
"You know I've never
told it yet, and it's rather a hard thing to do, seeing that I'm one of the
heroes of the farce--for it wasn't even genteel comedy, Ned," said Mr.
Billings. "However," he
continued, "absurd as the story may seem, it's the only key to the change in
my life, and I must run the risk of being laughed at."
"I'll help you through,
Enos," said his wife, encouragingly; "and besides, my role in the
farce was no better than yours. Let us
resuscitate, for to-night only, the constitution of the A. C."
"Upon my word, a
capital idea! But we shall have to
initiate Ned."
Mr. Johnson merrily
agreeing, he was blindfolded and conducted into another room. A heavy arm-chair, rolling on casters, struck
his legs in the rear, and he sank into it with lamb-like resignation.
"Open your mouth!"
was the command, given with mock solemnity.
He obeyed.
"Now shut it!"
And his lips closed upon a
cigar, while at the same time the handkerchief was whisked away from his
eyes. He found himself in Mr. Billing's
library.
"Your nose betrays your
taste, Mr. Johnson," said the lady, "and I am not hard-hearted enough
to deprive you of the indulgence. Here
are matches."
"Well," said he,
acting upon the hint, "if the remainder of the ceremonies are equally
agreeable, I should like to be a permanent member of your order."
By this time Mr. and Mrs.
Billings, having between them lighted the lamp, stirred up the coal in the
grate, closed the doors, and taken possession of comfortable chairs, the latter
proclaimed--
"The Chapter (isn't
that what you call it?) will now be held!"
"Was it in '43 when you
left home, Ned?" asked Mr. B.
"Yes."
"Well, the A. C.
culminated in '45. You remember
something of the society of Norridgeport, the last winter you were there? Abel Mallory, for instance?"
"Let me think a
moment," said Mr. Johnson reflectively.
"Really, it seems like looking back a hundred years. Mallory--wasn't that the sentimental young
man, with wispy hair, a tallowy skin, and big, sweaty hands, who used to be
spouting Carlyle on the `reading evenings' at Shelldrake's? Yes, to be sure; and there was Hollins, with
his clerical face and infidel talk,--and Pauline Ringtop, who used to say, `The
Beautiful is the Good.' I can still hear
her shrill voice, singing, `Would that _I_ were beautiful, would that _I_ were
fair!'"
There was a hearty chorus of
laughter at poor Miss Ringtop's expense.
It harmed no one, however; for the tar-weed was already thick over her
Californian grave.
"Oh, I see," said
Mr. Billings, "you still remember the absurdities of those days. In fact, I think you partially saw through
them then. But I was younger, and far
from being so clear-headed, and I looked upon those evenings at Shelldrake's as
being equal, at least, to the symposia of Plato. Something in Mallory always repelled me. I detested the sight of his thick nose, with
the flaring nostrils, and his coarse, half-formed lips, of the bluish color of
raw corned-beef. But I looked upon these
feelings as unreasonable prejudices, and strove to conquer them, seeing the
admiration which he received from others.
He was an oracle on the subject of `Nature.' Having eaten nothing for two years, except
Graham bread, vegetables without salt, and fruits, fresh or dried, he
considered himself to have attained an antediluvian purity of health--or that
he would attain it, so soon as two pimples on his left temple should have
healed. These pimples he looked upon as
the last feeble stand made by the pernicious juices left from the meat he had
formerly eaten and the coffee he had drunk.
His theory was, that through a body so purged and purified none but true
and natural impulses could find access to the soul. Such, indeed, was the theory we all
held. A Return to Nature was the near
Millennium, the dawn of which we already beheld in the sky. To be sure there was a difference in our
individual views as to how this should be achieved, but we were all agreed as
to what the result should be.
"I can laugh over those
days now, Ned; but they were really happy while they lasted. We were the salt of the earth; we were lifted
above those grovelling instincts which we saw manifested in the lives of
others. Each contributed his share of
gas to inflate the painted balloon to which we all clung, in the expectation
that it would presently soar with us to the stars. But it only went up over the out-houses,
dodged backwards and forwards two or three times, and finally flopped down with
us into a swamp."
"And that balloon was
the A. C.?" suggested Mr. Johnson.
"As President of this
Chapter, I prohibit questions," said Eunice. "And, Enos, don't send up your balloon
until the proper time. Don't anticipate
the programme, or the performance will be spoiled."
"I had almost forgotten
that Ned is so much in the dark," her obedient husband answered. "You can have but a slight notion,"
he continued, turning to his friend, "of the extent to which this
sentimental, or transcendental, element in the little circle at Shelldrake's
increased after you left Norridgeport.
We read the `Dial,' and Emerson; we believed in Alcott as the `purple
Plato' of modern times; we took psychological works out of the library, and
would listen for hours to Hollins while he read Schelling or Fichte, and then
go home with a misty impression of having imbibed infinite wisdom. It was, perhaps, a natural, though very
eccentric rebound from the hard, practical, unimaginative New-England mind
which surrounded us; yet I look back upon it with a kind of wonder.
I was then, as you know,
unformed mentally, and might have been so still, but for the experiences of the
A. C."
Mr. Johnson shifted his
position, a little impatiently. Eunice
looked at him with laughing eyes, and shook her finger with a mock threat.
"Shelldrake,"
continued Mr. Billings, without noticing this by-play, "was a man of more
pretence than real cultivation, as I afterwards discovered. He was in good circumstances, and always glad
to receive us at his house, as this made him, virtually, the chief of our tribe,
and the outlay for refreshments involved only the apples from his own orchard
and water from his well. There was an
entire absence of conventionality at our meetings, and this, conpared with the
somewhat stiff society of the village, was really an attraction. There was a mystic bond of union in our
ideas: we discussed life, love, religion, and the future state, not only with
the utmost candor, but with a warmth of feeling which, in many of us, was
genuine. Even I (and you know how
painfully shy and bashful I was) felt myself more at home there than in my
father's house; and if I didn't talk much, I had a pleasant feeling of being in
harmony with those who did.
"Well, 'twas in the
early part of '45--I think in April,--when we were all gathered together,
discussing, as usual, the possibility of leading a life in accordance with
Nature. Abel Mallory was there, and
Hollins, and Miss Ringtop, and Faith Levis, with her knitting,--and also Eunice
Hazleton, a lady whom you have never seen, but you may take my wife at her
representative--"
"Stick to the
programme, Enos," interrupted Mrs. Billings.
"Eunice Hazleton,
then. I wish I could recollect some of
the speeches made on that occasion. Abel
had but one pimple on his temple (there was a purple spot where the other had
been), and was estimating that in two or three months more he would be a true,
unspoiled man. His complexion,
nevertheless, was more clammy and whey-like than ever.
"`Yes,' said he, `I
also am an Arcadian! This false dual
existence which I have been leading will soon be merged in the unity of
Nature. Our lives must conform to her
sacred law. Why can't we strip off these
hollow Shams,' (he made great use of that word,) `and be our true selves, pure,
perfect, and divine?'
"Miss Ringtop heaved a
sigh, and repeated a stanza from her favorite poet:
"`Ah, when wrecked are
my desires On the everlasting Never, And my heart with all its fires Out
forever, In the cradle of Creation Finds the soul resuscitation!
"Shelldrake, however,
turning to his wife, said--
"`Elviry, how many
up-stairs rooms is there in that house down on the Sound?'
"`Four,--besides three
small ones under the roof. Why, what
made you think of that, Jesse?' said she.
"`I've got an idea,
while Abel's been talking,' he answered.
`We've taken a house for the summer, down the other side of Bridgeport,
right on the water, where there's good fishing and a fine view of the
Sound. Now, there's room enough for all
of us--at least all that can make it suit to go. Abel, you and Enos, and Pauline and Eunice
might fix matters so that we could all take the place in partnership, and pass
the summer together, living a true and beautiful life in the bosom of
Nature. There we shall be perfectly free
and untrammelled by the chains which still hang around us in Norridgeport. You know how often we have wanted to be set
on some island in the Pacific Ocean, where we could build up a true society,
right from the start. Now, here's a
chance to try the experiment for a few months, anyhow.'
"Eunice clapped her
hands (yes, you did!) and cried out--
"`Splendid! Arcadian!
I'll give up my school for the summer.'
"Miss Ringtop gave her
opinion in another quotation:
"`The rainbow hues of the Ideal Condense to gems, and form
the Real!'
"Abel Mallory, of
course, did not need to have the proposal repeated. He was ready for any thing which promised
indulgence, and the indulgence of his sentimental tastes. I will do the fellow the justice to say that
he was not a hypocrite. He firmly
believed both in himself and his ideas--especially the former. He pushed both hands through the long wisps
of his drab-colored hair, and threw his head back until his wide nostrils
resembled a double door to his brain.
"`Oh Nature!' he said,
`you have found your lost children! We
shall obey your neglected laws! we shall hearken to your divine whispers I we
shall bring you back from your ignominious exile, and place you on your
ancestral throne!'
"`Let us do it!' was
the general cry.
"A sudden enthusiasm
fired us, and we grasped each other's hands in the hearty impulse of the
moment. My own private intention to make
a summer trip to the White Mountains had been relinquished the moment I heard
Eunice give in her adhesion. I may as well
confess, at once, that I was desperately in love, and afraid to speak to her.
"By the time Mrs.
Sheldrake brought in the apples and water we were discussing the plan as a
settled thing. Hollins had an engagement
to deliver Temperance lectures in Ohio during the summer, but decided to postpone
his departure until August, so that he might, at least, spend two months with
us. Faith Levis couldn't go--at which, I
think, we were all secretly glad. Some
three or four others were in the same case, and the company was finally
arranged to consist of the Shelldrakes, Hollins, Mallory, Eunice, Miss Ringtop,
and myself. We did not give much
thought, either to the preparations in advance, or to our mode of life when
settled there. We were to live near to
Nature: that was the main thing.
"`What shall we call
the place?' asked Eunice.
"`Arcadia!' said Abel
Mallory, rolling up his large green eyes.
"`Then,' said Hollins,
`let us constitute ourselves the Arcadian Club!'"
"Aha!" interrupted
Mr. Johnson, "I see! The A.
C.!"
"Yes, you can see the
A. C. now," said Mrs. Billings; "but to understand it fully, you
should have had a share in those Arcadian experiences."
"I am all the more
interested in hearing them described. Go
on, Enos."
"The proposition was
adopted. We called ourselves The
Arcadian Club; but in order to avoid gossip, and the usual ridicule, to which
we were all more or less sensitive, in case our plan should become generally
known, it was agreed that the initials only should be used. Besides, there was an agreeable air of
mystery about it: we thought of Delphi, and Eleusis, and Samothrace: we should
discover that Truth which the dim eyes of worldly men and women were unable to
see, and the day of disclosure would be the day of Triumph. In one sense we were truly Arcadians: no
suspicion of impropriety, I verily believe, entered any of our minds. In our aspirations after what we called a
truer life there was no material taint.
We were fools, if you choose, but as far as possible from being sinners. Besides, the characters of Mr. and Mrs.
Shelldrake, who naturally became the heads of our proposed community were
sufficient to preserve us from slander or suspicion, if even our designs had
been publicly announced.
"I won't bore you with
an account of our preparations. In fact,
there was very little to be done. Mr.
Shelldrake succeeded in hiring the house, with most of its furniture, so that
but a few articles had to be supplied.
My trunk contained more books than boots, more blank paper than linen.
"`Two shirts will be
enough,' said Abel: `you can wash one of them any day, and dry it in the sun.'
"The supplies consisted
mostly of flour, potatoes, and sugar.
There was a vegetable-garden in good condition, Mr. Shelldrake said,
which would be our principal dependence.
"`Besides, the clams!'
I exclaimed unthinkingly.
"`Oh, yes!' said
Eunice, `we can have chowder-parties: that will be delightful!'
"`Clams! chowder! oh,
worse than flesh!' groaned Abel. `Will
you reverence Nature by outraging her first laws?'
"I had made a great
mistake, and felt very foolish. Eunice
and I looked at each other, for the first time."
"Speak for yourself
only, Enos," gently interpolated his wife.
"It was a lovely
afternoon in the beginning of June when we first approached Arcadia. We had taken two double teams at Bridgeport,
and drove slowly forward to our destination, followed by a cart containing our
trunks and a few household articles. It
was a bright, balmy day: the wheat-fields were rich and green, the clover
showed faint streaks of ruby mist along slopes leaning southward, and the meadows
were yellow with buttercups. Now and
then we caught glimpses of the Sound, and, far beyond it, the dim Long Island
shore. Every old white farmhouse, with
its gray-walled garden, its clumps of lilacs, viburnums, and early roses,
offered us a picture of pastoral simplicity and repose. We passed them, one by one, in the happiest
mood, enjoying the earth around us, the sky above, and ourselves most of all.
"The scenery, however,
gradually became more rough and broken.
Knobs of gray gneiss, crowned by mournful cedars, intrenched upon the
arable land, and the dark-blue gleam of water appeared through the trees. Our road, which had been approaching the
Sound, now skirted the head of a deep, irregular inlet, beyond which extended a
beautiful promontory, thickly studded with cedars, and with scattering groups
of elm, oak and maple trees. Towards the
end of the promontory stood a house, with white walls shining against the blue
line of the Sound.
"`There is Arcadia, at
last!' exclaimed Mr. Shelldrake.
"A general outcry of
delight greeted the announcement. And,
indeed, the loveliness of the picture surpassed our most poetic
anticipations. The low sun was throwing
exquisite lights across the point, painting the slopes of grass of golden
green, and giving a pearly softness to the gray rocks. In the back-ground was drawn the far-off
water-line, over which a few specks of sail glimmered against the sky. Miss Ringtop, who, with Eunice, Mallory, and
myself, occupied one carriage, expressed her `gushing' feelings in the usual
manner:
"`Where the turf is
softest, greenest, Doth an angel thrust me on,--Where the landscape lies
serenest, In the journey of the sun!'
"`Don't, Pauline!' said
Eunice; `I never like to hear poetry flourished in the face of Nature. This landscape surpasses any poem in the
world. Let us enjoy the best thing we
have, rather than the next best.'
"`Ah, yes!' sighed Miss
Ringtop, `'tis true!
"`They sing to the ear;
this sings to the eye!'
"Thenceforward, to the
house, all was childish joy and jubilee.
All minor personal repugnances were smoothed over in the general
exultation. Even Abel Mallory became
agreeable; and Hollins, sitting beside Mrs. Shelldrake on the back seat of the
foremost carriage, shouted to us, in boyish lightness of heart.
"Passing the head of
the inlet, we left the country-road, and entered, through a gate in the
tottering stone wall, on our summer domain.
A track, open to the field on one side, led us past a clump of deciduous
trees, between pastures broken by cedared knolls of rock, down the centre of
the peninsula, to the house. It was
quite an old frame-building, two stories high, with a gambrel roof and tall
chimneys. Two slim Lombardy poplars and
a broad-leaved catalpa shaded the southern side, and a kitchen-garden, divided
in the centre by a double row of untrimmed currant-bushes, flanked it on the
east. For flowers, there were masses of
blue flags and coarse tawny-red lilies, besides a huge trumpet-vine which swung
its pendent arms from one of the gables.
In front of the house a natural lawn of mingled turf and rock sloped
steeply down to the water, which was not more than two hundred yards
distant. To the west was another and
broader inlet of the Sound, out of which our Arcadian promontory rose bluff and
bold, crowned with a thick fringe of pines.
It was really a lovely spot which Shelldrake had chosen--so secluded,
while almost surrounded by the winged and moving life of the Sound, so simple,
so pastoral and home-like. No one
doubted the success of our experiment, for that evening at least.
"Perkins Brown,
Shelldrake's boy-of-all-work, awaited us at the door. He had been sent on two or three days in
advance, to take charge of the house, and seemed to have had enough of
hermit-life, for he hailed us with a wild whoop, throwing his straw hat
half-way up one of the poplars. Perkins
was a boy of fifteen, the child of poor parents, who were satisfied to get him
off their hands, regardless as to what humanitarian theories might be tested
upon him. As the Arcadian Club
recognized no such thing as caste, he was always admitted to our meetings, and
understood just enough of our conversation to excite a silly ambition in his
slow mind. His animal nature was
predominant, and this led him to be deceitful.
At that time, however, we all looked upon him as a proper young
Arcadian, and hoped that he would develop into a second Abel Mallory.
"After our effects had
been deposited on the stoop, and the carriages had driven away, we proceeded to
apportion the rooms, and take possession.
On the first floor there were three rooms, two of which would serve us
as dining and drawing rooms, leaving the third for the Shelldrakes. As neither Eunice and Miss Ringtop, nor
Hollins and Abel showed any disposition to room together, I quietly gave up to
them the four rooms in the second story, and installed myself in one of the
attic chambers. Here I could hear the
music of the rain close above my head, and through the little gable window, as I
lay in bed, watch the colors of the morning gradually steal over the distant
shores. The end was, we were all
satisfied.
"`Now for our first
meal in Arcadia!' was the next cry. Mrs.
Shelldrake, like a prudent housekeeper, marched off to the kitchen, where
Perkins had already kindled a fire. We
looked in at the door, but thought it best to allow her undisputed sway in such
a narrow realm. Eunice was unpacking
some loaves of bread and paper bags of crackers; and Miss Ringtop, smiling
through her ropy curls, as much as to say, `You see, _I_ also can perform the
coarser tasks of life!' occupied herself with plates and cups. We men, therefore, walked out to the garden,
which we found in a promising condition.
The usual vegetables had been planted and were growing finely, for the
season was yet scarcely warm enough for the weeds to make much headway. Radishes, young onions, and lettuce formed
our contribution to the table. The
Shelldrakes, I should explain, had not yet advanced to the antediluvian point,
in diet: nor, indeed, had either Eunice or myself. We acknowledged the fascination of tea, we
saw a very mitigated evil in milk and butter, and we were conscious of stifled
longings after the abomination of meat.
Only Mallory, Hollins, and Miss Ringtop had reached that loftiest round
on the ladder of progress where the material nature loosens the last fetter of
the spiritual. They looked down upon us,
and we meekly admitted their right to do so.
"Our board, that
evening, was really tempting. The
absence of meat was compensated to us by the crisp and racy onions, and I
craved only a little salt, which had been interdicted, as a most pernicious
substance. I sat at one corner of the
table, beside Perkins Brown, who took an opportunity, while the others were
engaged in conversation, to jog my elbow gently. As I turned towards him, he said nothing, but
dropped his eyes significantly. The
little rascal had the lid of a blacking-box, filled with salt, upon his knee,
and was privately seasoning his onions and radishes.
I blushed at the thought of
my hypocrisy, but the onions were so much better that I couldn't help dipping
into the lid with him.
"`Oh,' said Eunice, `we
must send for some oil and vinegar! This
lettuce is very nice.'
"`Oil and vinegar?'
exclaimed Abel.
"`Why, yes,' said she,
innocently: `they are both vegetable substances.'
"Abel at first looked
rather foolish, but quickly recovering himself, said--
"`All vegetable
substances are not proper for food: you would not taste the poison-oak, or sit
under the upas-tree of Java.'
"`Well, Abel,' Eunice
rejoined, `how are we to distinguish what is best for us? How are we to know WHAT vegetables to choose,
or what animal and mineral substances to avoid?'
"`I will tell you,' he
answered, with a lofty air. `See here!'
pointing to his temple, where the second pimple--either from the change of air,
or because, in the excitement of the last few days, he had forgotten it--was
actually healed. `My blood is at last
pure. The struggle between the natural
and the unnatural is over, and I am beyond the depraved influences of my former
taste. My instincts are now, therefore,
entirely pure also. What is good for man
to eat, that I shall have a natural desire to eat: what is bad will be
naturally repelled. How does the cow
distinguish between the wholesome and the poisonous herbs of the meadow? And is man less than a cow, that he cannot
cultivate his instincts to an equal point?
Let me walk through the woods and I can tell you every berry and root
which God designed for food, though I know not its name, and have never seen it
before. I shall make use of my time,
during our sojourn here, to test, by my purified instinct, every substance,
animal, mineral, and vegetable, upon which the human race subsists, and to
create a catalogue of the True Food of Man!'
"Abel was eloquent on
this theme, and he silenced not only Eunice, but the rest of us. Indeed, as we were all half infected with the
same delusions, it was not easy to answer his sophistries.
"After supper was over,
the prospect of cleaning the dishes and putting things in order was not so
agreeable; but Mrs. Shelldrake and Perkins undertook the work, and we did not
think it necessary to interfere with them.
Half an hour afterwards, when the full moon had risen, we took our
chairs upon the sloop, to enjoy the calm, silver night, the soft sea-air, and
our summer's residence in anticipatory talk.
"`My friends,' said
Hollins (and HIS hobby, as you may remember, Ned, was the organization of
Society, rather than those reforms which apply directly to the
Individual),--`my friends, I think we are sufficiently advanced in progressive
ideas to establish our little Arcadian community upon what I consider the true
basis: not Law, nor Custom, but the uncorrupted impulses of our nature. What Abel said in regard to dietetic reform
is true; but that alone will not regenerate the race. We must rise superior to those conventional
ideas of Duty whereby Life is warped and crippled. Life must not be a prison, where each one
must come and go, work, eat, and sleep, as the jailer commands. Labor must not be a necessity, but a
spontaneous joy. 'Tis true, but little
labor is required of us here: let us, therefore, have no set tasks, no fixed
rules, but each one work, rest, eat, sleep, talk or be silent, as his own nature
prompts.'
"Perkins, sitting on
the steps, gave a suppressed chuckle, which I think no one heard but
myself. I was vexed with his levity,
but, nevertheless, gave him a warning nudge with my toe, in payment for the
surreptitious salt.
"`That's just the
notion I had, when I first talked of our coming here,' said Shelldrake. `Here we're alone and unhindered; and if the
plan shouldn't happen to work well (I don't see why it shouldn't though), no
harm will be done. I've had a deal of
hard work in my life, and I've been badgered and bullied so much by your
strait-laced professors, that I'm glad to get away from the world for a spell,
and talk and do rationally, without being laughed at.'
"`Yes,' answered
Hollins, `and if we succeed, as I feel we shall, for I think I know the hearts
of all of us here, this may be the commencement of a new EEpoch for the
world. We may become the turning-point
between two dispensations: behind us every thing false and unnatural, before us
every thing true, beautiful, and good.'
"`Ah,' sighed Miss
Ringtop, `it reminds me of Gamaliel J. Gawthrop's beautiful lines:
"`Unrobed man is lying
hoary In the distance, gray and dead; There no wreaths of godless glory To his
mist-like tresses wed, And the foot-fall of the Ages Reigns supreme, with
noiseless tread.'
"`I am willing to try
the experiment,' said I, on being appealed to by Hollins; `but don't you think
we had better observe some kind of order, even in yielding every thing to
impulse? Shouldn't there be, at least, a
platform, as the politicians call it--an agreement by which we shall all be
bound, and which we can afterwards exhibit as the basis of our success?'
"He meditated a few
moments, and then answered--
"`I think not. It resembles too much the thing we are trying
to overthrow. Can you bind a man's
belief by making him sign certain articles of Faith? No: his thought will be free, in spite of it;
and I would have Action--Life--as free as Thought. Our platform--to adopt your image--has but
one plank: Truth. Let each only be true to himself: BE himself,
ACT himself, or herself with the uttermost candor. We can all agree upon that.'
"The agreement was
accordingly made. And certainly no
happier or more hopeful human beings went to bed in all New England that night.
"I arose with the sun,
went into the garden, and commenced weeding, intending to do my quota of work
before breakfast, and then devote the day to reading and conversation. I was presently joined by Shelldrake and
Mallory, and between us we finished the onions and radishes, stuck the peas,
and cleaned the alleys. Perkins, after
milking the cow and turning her out to pasture, assisted Mrs. Shelldrake in the
kitchen. At breakfast we were joined by
Hollins, who made no excuse for his easy morning habits; nor was one
expected. I may as well tell you now,
though, that his natural instincts never led him to work. After a week, when a second crop of weeds was
coming on, Mallory fell off also, and thenceforth Shelldrake and myself had the
entire charge of the garden. Perkins did
the rougher work, and was always on hand when he was wanted. Very soon, however, I noticed that he was in
the habit of disappearing for two or three hours in the afternoon.
"Our meals preserved
the same Spartan simplicity. Eunice, however,
carried her point in regard to the salad; for Abel, after tasting and finding
it very palatable, decided that oil and vinegar might be classed in the
catalogue of True Food. Indeed, his long
abstinence from piquant flavors gave him such an appetite for it that our
supply of lettuce was soon exhausted. An
embarrassing accident also favored us with the use of salt. Perkins happening to move his knee at the
moment I was dipping an onion into the blacking-box lid, our supply was knocked
upon the floor. He picked it up, and we
both hoped the accident might pass unnoticed.
But Abel, stretching his long neck across the corner of the table,
caught a glimpse of what was going on.
"`What's that?' he
asked.
"`Oh, it's--it's only,'
said I, seeking for a synonyme, `only chloride of sodium!'
"`Chloride of sodium!
what do you do with it?'
"`Eat it with onions,'
said I, boldly: `it's a chemical substance, but I believe it is found in some
plants.'
"Eunice, who knew
something of chemistry (she taught a class, though you wouldn't think it), grew
red with suppressed fun, but the others were as ignorant as Abel Mallory
himself.
"`Let me taste it,'
said he, stretching out an onion.
"I handed him the
box-lid, which still contained a portion of its contents. He dipped the onion, bit off a piece, and
chewed it gravely.
"`Why,' said he,
turning to me, `it's very much like salt.'
"Perkins burst into a
spluttering yell, which discharged an onion-top he had just put between his
teeth across the table; Eunice and I gave way at the same moment; and the
others, catching the joke, joined us.
But while we were laughing, Abel was finishing his onion, and the result
was that Salt was added to the True Food, and thereafter appeared regularly on
the table.
"The forenoons we
usually spent in reading and writing, each in his or her chamber. (Oh, the journals, Ned!--but you shall not
see mine.) After a midday meal,--I
cannot call it dinner,--we sat upon the stoop, listening while one of us read
aloud, or strolled down the shores on either side, or, when the sun was not too
warm, got into a boat, and rowed or floated lazily around the promontory.
"One afternoon, as I
was sauntering off, past the garden, towards the eastern inlet, I noticed
Perkins slipping along behind the cedar knobs, towards the little woodland at
the end of our domain. Curious to find
out the cause of his mysterious disappearances, I followed cautiously. From the edge of the wood I saw him enter a
little gap between the rocks, which led down to the water. Presently a thread of blue smoke stole
up. Quietly creeping along, I got upon
the nearer bluff and looked down. There
was a sort of hearth built up at the base of the rock, with a brisk little fire
burning upon it, but Perkins had disappeared.
I stretched myself out upon the moss, in the shade, and waited. In about half an hour up came Perkins, with a
large fish in one hand and a lump of clay in the other. I now understood the mystery. He carefully imbedded the fish in a thin
layer of clay, placed it on the coals, and then went down to the shore to wash
his hands. On his return he found me
watching the fire.
"`Ho, ho, Mr. Enos!'
said he, `you've found me out; But you won't say nothin'. Gosh! you like it as well I do. Look 'ee there!'--breaking open the clay,
from which arose `a steam of rich distilled perfumes,'--`and, I say, I've got
the box-lid with that 'ere stuff in it,--ho! ho!'--and the scamp roared again.
"Out of a hole in the
rock he brought salt and the end of a loaf, and between us we finished the
fish. Before long, I got into the habit
of disappearing in the afternoon.
"Now and then we took
walks, alone or collectively, to the nearest village, or even to Bridgeport,
for the papers or a late book. The few
purchases we required were made at such times, and sent down in a cart, or, if
not too heavy, carried by Perkins in a basket.
I noticed that Abel, whenever we had occasion to visit a grocery, would
go sniffing around, alternately attracted or repelled by the various articles:
now turning away with a shudder from a ham,--now inhaling, with a fearful
delight and uncertainty, the odor of smoked herrings. `I think herrings must feed on sea-weed,'
said he, `there is such a vegetable attraction about them.' After his violent vegetarian harangues,
however, he hesitated about adding them to his catalogue.
"But, one day, as we
were passing through the village, he was reminded by the sign of `WARTER
CRACKERS' in the window of an obscure grocery that he required a supply of
these articles, and we therefore entered.
There was a splendid Rhode Island cheese on the counter, from which the
shop-mistress was just cutting a slice for a customer. Abel leaned over it, inhaling the rich,
pungent fragrance.
"`Enos,' said he to me,
between his sniffs, `this impresses me like flowers--like marigolds. It must be--really--yes, the vegetable
element is predominant. My instinct
towards it is so strong that I cannot be mistaken. May I taste it, ma'am?'
"The woman sliced off a
thin corner, and presented it to him on the knife.
"`Delicious!' he
exclaimed; `I am right,--this is the True Food.
Give me two pounds--and the crackers, ma'am.'
"I turned away, quite
as much disgusted as amused with this charlatanism. And yet I verily believe the fellow was sincere--self-deluded
only. I had by this time lost my faith
in him, though not in the great Arcadian principles. On reaching home, after an hour's walk, I
found our household in unusual commotion.
Abel was writhing in intense pain: he had eaten the whole two pounds of
cheese, on his way home! His stomach, so
weakened by years of unhealthy abstinence from true nourishment, was now
terribly tortured by this sudden stimulus.
Mrs. Shelldrake, fortunately, had some mustard among her stores, and
could therefore administer a timely emetic.
His life was saved, but he was very ill for two or three days. Hollins did not fail to take advantage of
this circumstance to overthrow the authority which Abel had gradually acquired
on the subject of food. He was so
arrogant in his nature that he could not tolerate the same quality in another,
even where their views coincided.
"By this time several
weeks had passed away. It was the
beginning of July, and the long summer heats had come. I was driven out of my attic during the
middle hours of the day, and the others found it pleasanter on the doubly
shaded stoop than in their chambers. We
were thus thrown more together than usual--a circumstance which made our life
more monotonous to the others, as I could see; but to myself, who could at last
talk to Eunice, and who was happy at the very sight of her, this `heated term'
seemed borrowed from Elysium.
I read aloud, and the sound
of my own voice gave me confidence; many passages suggested discussions, in
which I took a part; and you may judge, Ned, how fast I got on, from the fact
that I ventured to tell Eunice of my fish-bakes with Perkins, and invite her to
join them. After that, she also often
disappeared from sight for an hour or two in the afternoon."
----"Oh, Mr. Johnson,"
interrupted Mrs. Billings, "it wasn't for
the fish!"
"Of course not,"
said her husband; "it was for my sake."
"No, you need not think
it was for you. Enos," she added,
perceiving the feminine dilemma into which she had been led, "all this is
not necessary to the story."
"Stop!" he
answered. "The A. C. has been
revived for this night only. Do you
remember our platform, or rather no-platform?
I must follow my impulses, and say whatever comes uppermost."
"Right, Enos,"
said Mr. Johnson; "I, as temporary Arcadian, take the same ground. My instinct tells me that you, Mrs. Billings,
must permit the confession."
She submitted with a good
grace, and her husband continued:
"I said that our lazy
life during the hot weather had become a little monotonous. The Arcadian plan had worked tolerably well,
on the whole, for there was very little for any one to do--Mrs. Shelldrake and
Perkins Brown excepted. Our
conversation, however, lacked spirit and variety. We were, perhaps unconsciously, a little
tired of hearing and assenting to the same sentiments. But one evening, about this time, Hollins
struck upon a variation, the consequences of which he little foresaw. We had been reading one of Bulwer's works
(the weather was too hot for Psychology), and came upon this paragraph, or
something like it:
"`Ah, Behind the
Veil! We see the summer smile of the
Earth--enamelled meadow and limpid stream,--but what hides she in her sunless
heart? Caverns of serpents, or grottoes
of priceless gems?
Youth, whose soul sits on
thy countenance, thyself wearing no mask, strive not to lift the masks of
others! Be content with what thou seest;
and wait until Time and Experience shall teach thee to find jealousy behind the
sweet smile, and hatred under the honeyed word!'
"This seemed to us a
dark and bitter reflection; but one or another of us recalled some illustration
of human hypocrisy, and the evidences, by the simple fact of repetition,
gradually led to a division of opinion--Hollins, Shelldrake, and Miss Ringtop
on the dark side, and the rest of us on the bright. The last, however, contented herself with
quoting from her favorite poet, Gamaliel J. Gawthrop:
"`I look beyond thy
brow's concealment! I see thy spirit's dark revealment! Thy inner self betrayed
I see: Thy coward, craven, shivering ME!'
"`We think we know one
another,' exclaimed Hollins; `but do we?
We see the faults of others, their weaknesses, their disagreeable
qualities, and we keep silent. How much
we should gain, were candor as universal as concealment! Then each one, seeing himself as others see
him, would truly know himself. How much
misunderstanding might be avoided--how much hidden shame be removed--hopeless,
because unspoken, love made glad--honest admiration cheer its object--uttered
sympathy mitigate misfortune--in short, how much brighter and happier the world
would become if each one expressed, everywhere and at all times, his true and
entire feeling! Why, even Evil would
lose half its power!'
"There seemed to be so
much practical wisdom in these views that we were all dazzled and
half-convinced at the start. So, when
Hollins, turning towards me, as he continued, exclaimed--`Come, why should not
this candor be adopted in our Arcadia?
Will any one--will you, Enos--commence at once by telling me now--to my
face--my principal faults?' I answered
after a moment's reflection--`You have a great deal of intellectual arrogance,
and you are, physically, very indolent'
"He did not flinch from
the self-invited test, though he looked a little surprised.
"`Well put,' said he,
`though I do not say that you are entirely correct. Now, what are my merits?'
"`You are
clear-sighted,' I answered, `an earnest seeker after truth, and courageous in
the avowal of your thoughts.'
"This restored the
balance, and we soon began to confess our own private faults and
weaknesses. Though the confessions did
not go very deep,--no one betraying anything we did not all know already,--yet
they were sufficient to strength Hollins in his new idea, and it was
unanimously resolved that Candor should thenceforth be the main charm of our
Arcadian life. It was the very thing _I_
wanted, in order to make a certain communication to Eunice; but I should
probably never have reached the point, had not the same candor been exercised towards
me, from a quarter where I least expected it.
"The next day, Abel,
who had resumed his researches after the True Food, came home to supper with a
healthier color than I had before seen on his face.
"`Do you know,' said
he, looking shyly at Hollins, `that I begin to think Beer must be a natural
beverage? There was an auction in the
village to-day, as I passed through, and I stopped at a cake-stand to get a
glass of water, as it was very hot.
There was no water--only beer: so I thought I would try a glass, simply
as an experiment. Really, the flavor was
very agreeable. And it occurred to me,
on the way home, that all the elements contained in beer are vegetable. Besides, fermentation is a natural
process. I think the question has never
been properly tested before.'
"`But the alcohol!'
exclaimed Hollins.
"`I could not
distinguish any, either by taste or smell.
I know that chemical analysis is said to show it; but may not the
alcohol be created, somehow, during the analysis?'
"`Abel,' said Hollins,
in a fresh burst of candor, `you will never be a Reformer, until you possess
some of the commonest elements of knowledge.'
"The rest of us were
much diverted: it was a pleasant relief to our monotonous amiability.
"Abel, however, had a
stubborn streak in his character. The
next day he sent Perkins Brown to Bridgeport for a dozen bottles of
`Beer.' Perkins, either intentionally or
by mistake, (I always suspected the former,) brought pint-bottles of Scotch
ale, which he placed in the coolest part of the cellar. The evening happened to be exceedingly hot
and sultry, and, as we were all fanning ourselves and talking languidly, Abel
bethought him of his beer. In his
thirst, he drank the contents of the first bottle, almost at a single draught.
"`The effect of beer,'
said he, `depends, I think, on the commixture of the nourishing principle of
the grain with the cooling properties of the water. Perhaps, hereafter, a liquid food of the same
character may be invented, which shall save us from mastication and all the
diseases of the teeth.'
"Hollins and
Shelldrake, at his invitation, divided a bottle between them, and he took a
second. The potent beverage was not long
in acting on a brain so unaccustomed to its influence. He grew unusually talkative and sentimental,
in a few minutes.
"`Oh, sing, somebody!'
he sighed in a hoarse rapture: `the night was made for Song.'
"Miss Ringtop, nothing
loath, immediately commenced, `When stars are in the quiet skies;' but scarcely
had she finished the first verse before Abel interrupted her.
"`Candor's the order of
the day, isn't it?' he asked.
"`Yes!' `Yes!' two or
three answered.
"`Well then,' said he,
`candidly, Pauline, you've got the darn'dest squeaky voice'--
"Miss Ringtop gave a
faint little scream of horror.
"`Oh, never mind!' he
continued. `We act according to impulse,
don't we? And I've the impulse to swear;
and it's right. Let Nature have her
way. Listen! Damn, damn, damn, damn! I never knew it was so easy. Why, there's a pleasure in it! Try it, Pauline! try it on me!'
"`Oh-ooh!' was all Miss
Ringtop could utter.
"`Abel! Abel!'
exclaimed Hollins, `the beer has got into your head.'
"`No, it isn't
Beer,--it's Candor!' said Abel. `It's
your own proposal, Hollins. Suppose it's
evil to swear: isn't it better I should express it, and be done with it, than
keep it bottled up to ferment in my mind?
Oh, you're a precious, consistent old humbug, you are!'
"And therewith he
jumped off the stoop, and went dancing awkwardly down towards the water, singing
in a most unmelodious voice, `'Tis home where'er the heart is.'
"`Oh, he may fall into
the water!' exclaimed Eunice, in alarm.
"`He's not fool enough
to do that,' said Shelldrake. `His head
is a little light, that's all. The air
will cool him down presently.'
But she arose and followed
him, not satisfied with this assurance.
Miss Ringtop sat rigidly still.
She would have received with composure the news of his drowning.
"As Eunice's white
dress disappeared among the cedars crowning the shore, I sprang up and ran
after her. I knew that Abel was not
intoxicated, but simply excited, and I had no fear on his account: I obeyed an
involuntary impulse. On approaching the
water, I heard their voices--hers in friendly persuasion, his in sentimental
entreaty,--then the sound of oars in the row-locks. Looking out from the last clump of cedars, I
saw them seated in the boat, Eunice at the stern, while Abel, facing her, just
dipped an oar now and then to keep from drifting with the tide. She had found him already in the boat, which
was loosely chained to a stone. Stepping
on one of the forward thwarts in her eagerness to persuade him to return, he
sprang past her, jerked away the chain, and pushed off before she could
escape. She would have fallen, but he
caught her and placed her in the stern, and then seated himself at the
oars. She must have been somewhat
alarmed, but there was only indignation in her voice. All this had transpired before my arrival,
and the first words I heard bound me to the spot and kept me silent.
"`Abel, what does this
mean?' she asked
"`It means
Fate--Destiny!' he exclaimed, rather wildly.
`Ah, Eunice, ask the night, and the moon,--ask the impulse which told
you to follow me! Let us be candid like
the old Arcadians we imitate. Eunice, we
know that we love each other: why should we conceal it any longer? The Angel of Love comes down from the stars
on his azure wings, and whispers to our hearts.
Let us confess to each other! The
female heart should not be timid, in this pure and beautiful atmosphere of Love
which we breathe. Come, Eunice! we are
alone: let your heart speak to me!'
"Ned, if you've ever
been in love, (we'll talk of that after a while,) you will easily understand
what tortures I endured, in thus hearing him speak. That HE should love Eunice! It was a profanation to her, an outrage to
me. Yet the assurance with which he
spoke! COULD she love this conceited,
ridiculous, repulsive fellow, after all?
I almost gasped for breath, as I clinched the prickly boughs of the
cedars in my hands, and set my teeth, waiting to hear her answer.
"`I will not hear such
language! Take me back to the shore!'
she said, in very short, decided tones.
"`Oh, Eunice,' he
groaned, (and now, I think he was perfectly sober,) `don't you love me,
indeed? _I_ love you,--from my heart I
do: yes, I love you. Tell me how you
feel towards me.'
"`Abel,' said she,
earnestly, `I feel towards you only as a friend; and if you wish me to retain a
friendly interest in you, you must never again talk in this manner. I do not love you, and I never shall. Let me go back to the house.'
"His head dropped upon
his breast, but he rowed back to the shore, drew the bow upon the rocks, and
assisted her to land. Then, sitting
down, he groaned forth--
"`Oh, Eunice, you have
broken my heart!' and putting his big hands to his face, began to cry.
"She turned, placed one
hand on his shoulder, and said in a calm, but kind tone--
"`I am very sorry,
Abel, but I cannot help it.'
"I slipped aside, that
she might not see me, and we returned by separate paths.
"I slept very little
that night. The conviction which I
chased away from my mind as often as it returned, that our Arcadian experiment
was taking a ridiculous and at the same time impracticable development, became
clearer and stronger. I felt sure that
our little community could not hold together much longer without an
explosion. I had a presentiment that
Eunice shared my impressions. My
feelings towards her had reached that crisis where a declaration was
imperative: but how to make it? It was a
terrible struggle between my shyness and my affection. There was another circumstance in connection
with this subject, which troubled me not a little. Miss Ringtop evidently sought my company, and
made me, as much as possible, the recipient of her sentimental
outpourings. I was not bold enough to
repel her--indeed I had none of that tact which is so useful in such
emergencies,--and she seemed to misinterpret my submission. Not only was her conversation pointedly
directed to me, but she looked at me, when singing, (especially, `Thou, thou,
reign'st in this bosom!') in a way that made me feel very uncomfortable. What if Eunice should suspect an attachment
towards her, on my part. What if--oh,
horror!--I had unconsciously said or done something to impress Miss Ringtop
herself with the same conviction? I
shuddered as the thought crossed my mind.
One thing was very certain: this suspense was not to be endured much
longer.
"We had an unusually
silent breakfast the next morning. Abel
scarcely spoke, which the others attributed to
a natural feeling of shame, after his display of the previous
evening. Hollins and Shelldrake
discussed Temperance, with a special view to his edification, and Miss Ringtop
favored us with several quotations about `the maddening bowl,'--but he paid no
attention to them. Eunice was pale and
thoughtful. I had no doubt in my mind,
that she was already contemplating a removal from Arcadia. Perkins, whose perceptive faculties were by
no means dull, whispered to me, `Shan't I bring up some porgies for supper?'
but I shook my head. I was busy with
other thoughts, and did not join him in the wood, that day.
"The forenoon was
overcast, with frequent showers. Each
one occupied his or her room until dinner-time, when we met again with
something of the old geniality. There
was an evident effort to restore our former flow of good feeling. Abel's experience with the beer was freely
discussed. He insisted strongly that he
had not been laboring under its effects, and proposed a mutual test. He, Shelldrake, and Hollins were to drink it
in equal measures, and compare observations as to their physical
sensations. The others agreed,--quite
willingly, I thought,--but I refused. I
had determined to make a desperate attempt at candor, and Abel's fate was fresh
before my eyes.
"My nervous agitation
increased during the day, and after sunset, fearing lest I should betray my
excitement in some way, I walked down to the end of the promontory, and took a seat
on the rocks. The sky had cleared, and
the air was deliciously cool and sweet.
The Sound was spread out before me like a sea, for the Long Island shore
was veiled in a silvery mist. My mind
was soothed and calmed by the influences of the scene, until the moon
arose. Moonlight, you know, disturbs--at
least, when one is in love. (Ah, Ned, I
see you understand it!) I felt
blissfully miserable, ready to cry with joy at the knowledge that I loved, and
with fear and vexation at my cowardice, at the same time.
"Suddenly I heard a
rustling beside me. Every nerve in my
body tingled, and I turned my head, with a beating and expectant heart. Pshaw!
It was Miss Ringtop, who spread her blue dress on the rock beside me,
and shook back her long curls, and sighed, as she gazed at the silver path of
the moon on the water.
"`Oh, how delicious!'
she cried. `How it seems to set the
spirit free, and we wander off on the wings of Fancy to other spheres!'
"`Yes,' said I, `It is
very beautiful, but sad, when one is alone.'
"I was thinking of
Eunice.
"`How inadequate,' she
continued, `is language to express the emotions which such a scene calls up in
the bosom! Poetry alone is the voice of
the spiritual world, and we, who are not poets, must borrow the language of the
gifted sons of Song. Oh, Enos, I WISH
you were a poet! But you FEEL poetry, I
know you do. I have seen it in your
eyes, when I quoted the burning lines of Adeliza Kelley, or the soul-breathings
of Gamaliel J. Gawthrop. In HIM,
particularly, I find the voice of my own nature. Do you know his `Night-Whispers?' How it embodies the feelings of such a scene
as this!
"Star-drooping bowers
bending down the spaces, And moonlit glories sweep star-footed on; And pale,
sweet rivers, in their shining races, Are ever gliding through the moonlit
places, With silver ripples on their tranced faces, And forests clasp their
dusky hands, with low and sullen moan!'
"`Ah!' she continued,
as I made no reply, `this is an hour for the soul to unveil its most secret chambers! Do you not think, Enos, that love rises
superior to all conventionalities? that those whose souls are in unison should
be allowed to reveal themselves to each other, regardless of the world's
opinions?'
"`Yes!' said I,
earnestly.
"`Enos, do you understand
me?' she asked, in a tender voice--almost a whisper.
"`Yes,' said I, with a
blushing confidence of my own passion.
"`Then,' she whispered,
`our hearts are wholly in unison. I know
you are true, Enos. I know your noble
nature, and I will never doubt you. This
is indeed happiness!'
"And therewith she laid
her head on my shoulder, and sighed--
"`Life remits his
tortures cruel, Love illumes his fairest fuel, When the hearts that once were
dual Meet as one, in sweet renewal!'
"`Miss Ringtop!' I
cried, starting away from her, in alarm, `you don't mean that--that--'
"I could not finish the
sentence.
"`Yes, Enos, DEAR Enos!
henceforth we belong to each other.'
"The painful
embarrassment I felt, as her true meaning shot through my mind, surpassed
anything I had imagined, or experienced in anticipation, when planning how I
should declare myself to Eunice. Miss
Ringtop was at least ten years older than I, far from handsome (but you
remember her face,) and so affectedly sentimental, that I, sentimental as I was
then, was sick of hearing her talk. Her
hallucination was so monstrous, and gave me such a shock of desperate alarm,
that I spoke, on the impulse of the moment, with great energy, without
regarding how her feelings might be wounded.
"`You mistake!' I
exclaimed. `I didn't mean that,--I
didn't understand you. Don't talk to me
that way,--don't look at me in that way, Miss Ringtop! We were never meant for each other--I
wasn't----You're so much older--I mean different. It can't be--no, it can never be! Let us go back to the house: the night is
cold.'
"I rose hastily to my
feet. She murmured something,--what, I
did not stay to hear,--but, plunging through the cedars, was hurrying with all
speed to the house, when, half-way up the lawn, beside one of the rocky knobs,
I met Eunice, who was apparently on her way to join us.
In my excited mood, after
the ordeal through which I had passed, everything seemed easy. My usual timidity was blown to the four
winds. I went directly to her, took her
hand, and said--
"`Eunice, the others
are driving me mad with their candor; will you let me be candid, too?'
"`I think you are
always candid, Enos,' she answered.
"Even then, if I had
hesitated, I should have been lost. But
I went on, without pausing--
"`Eunice, I love you--I
have loved you since we first met. I
came here that I might be near you; but I must leave you forever, and to-night,
unless you can trust your life in my keeping.
God help me, since we have been together I have lost my faith in almost
everything but you. Pardon me, if I am
impetuous--different from what I have seemed.
I have struggled so hard to speak!
I have been a coward, Eunice, because of my love. But now I have spoken, from my heart of
hearts. Look at me: I can bear it now. Read the truth in my eyes, before you
answer.'
"I felt her hand
tremble while I spoke. As she turned
towards me her face, which had been averted, the moon shone full upon it, and I
saw that tears were upon her cheeks. What
was said--whether anything was said--I cannot tell. I felt the blessed fact, and that was
enough. That was the dawning of the true
Arcadia."
Mrs. Billings, who had been
silent during this recital, took her husband's hand and smiled. Mr. Johnson felt a dull pang about the region
of his heart. If he had a secret,
however, I do not feel justified in betraying it.
"It was late," Mr.
Billings continued, "before we returned to the house. I had a special dread of again encountering
Miss Ringtop, but she was wandering up and down the bluff, under the pines,
singing, `The dream is past.' There was
a sound of loud voices, as we approached the stoop. Hollins, Shelldrake and his wife, and Abel
Mallory were sitting together near the door.
Perkins Brown, as usual, was crouched on the lowest step, with one leg
over the other, and rubbing the top of his boot with a vigor which betrayed to
me some secret mirth. He looked up at me
from under his straw hat with the grin of a malicious Puck, glanced towards the
group, and made a curious gesture with his thumb. There were several empty pint-bottles on the
stoop.
"`Now, are you sure you
can bear the test?' we heard Hollins ask, as we approached.
"`Bear it? Why to be sure!' replied Shelldrake; `if I
couldn't bear it, or if YOU couldn't, your theory's done for. Try! I
can stand it as long as you can.'
"`Well, then,' said
Hollins, `I think you are a very ordinary man.
I derive no intellectual benefit from my intercourse with you, but your
house is convenient to me. I'm under no
obligations for your hospitality, however, because my company is an advantage
to you. Indeed if I were treated
according to my deserts, you couldn't do enough for me.'
"Mrs. Shelldrake was up
in arms.
"`Indeed,' she
exclaimed, `I think you get as good as you deserve, and more too.'
"`Elvira,' said he,
with a benevolent condescension, `I have no doubt you think so, for your mind
belongs to the lowest and most material sphere.
You have your place in Nature, and you fill it; but it is not for you to
judge of intelligences which move only on the upper planes.'
"`Hollins,' said
Shelldrake, `Elviry's a good wife and a sensible woman, and I won't allow you
to turn up your nose at her.'
"`I am not surprised,'
he answered, `that you should fail to stand the test. I didn't expect it.'
"`Let me try it on
YOU!' cried Shelldrake. `You, now, have
some intellect,--I don't deny that,--but not so much, by a long shot, as you
think you have. Besides that, you're
awfully selfish in your opinions. You
won't admit that anybody can be right who differs from you. You've sponged on me for a long time; but I
suppose I've learned something from you, so we'll call it even. I think, however, that what you call acting
according to impulse is simply an excuse to cover your own laziness.'
"`Gosh! that's it!'
interrupted Perkins, jumping up; then, recollecting himself, he sank down on
the steps again, and shook with a suppressed `Ho! ho! ho!'
"Hollins, however, drew
himself up with an exasperated air.
"`Shelldrake,' said he,
`I pity you. I always knew your
ignorance, but I thought you honest in your human character. I never suspected you of envy and
malice. However, the true Reformer must
expect to be misunderstood and misrepresented by meaner minds. That love which I bear to all creatures
teaches me to forgive you. Without such
love, all plans of progress must fail.
Is it not so, Abel?'
"Shelldrake could only
ejaculate the words, `Pity!' `Forgive?' in his most contemptuous tone; while
Mrs. Shelldrake, rocking violently in her chair, gave utterance to that
peculiar clucking, `TS, TS, TS, TS,' whereby certain women express emotions too
deep for words.
"Abel, roused by
Hollins's question, answered, with a sudden energy--
"`Love! there is no
love in the world. Where will you find
it? Tell me, and I'll go there. Love!
I'd like to see it! If all human
hearts were like mine, we might have an Arcadia; but most men have no hearts. The world is a miserable, hollow, deceitful
shell of vanity and hypocrisy. No: let
us give up. We were born before our
time: this age is not worthy of us.'
"Hollins stared at the
speaker in utter amazement. Shelldrake
gave a long whistle, and finally gasped out--
"`Well, what next?'
"None of us were
prepared for such a sudden and complete wreck of our Arcadian scheme. The foundations had been sapped before, it is
true; but we had not perceived it; and now, in two short days, the whole
edifice tumbled about our ears. Though
it was inevitable, we felt a shock of sorrow, and a silence fell upon us. Only that scamp of a Perkins Brown, chuckling
and rubbing his boot, really rejoiced. I
could have kicked him.
"We all went to bed,
feeling that the charm of our Arcadian life was over. I was so full of the new happiness of love
that I was scarcely conscious of regret.
I seemed to have leaped at once into responsible manhood, and a glad
rush of courage filled me at the knowledge that my own heart was a better
oracle than those--now so shamefully overthrown--on whom I had so long
implicitly relied. In the first
revulsion of feeling, I was perhaps unjust to my associates. I see now, more clearly, the causes of those
vagaries, which originated in a genuine aspiration, and failed from an
ignorance of the true nature of Man, quite as much as from the egotism of the
individuals. Other attempts at
reorganizing Society were made about the same time by men of culture and
experience, but in the A. C. we had neither.
Our leaders had caught a few half-truths, which, in their minds, were
speedily warped into errors. I can laugh
over the absurdities I helped to perpetrate, but I must confess that the
experiences of those few weeks went far towards making a man of me."
"Did the A. C. break up
at once?" asked Mr. Johnson.
"Not precisely; though
Eunice and I left the house within two days, as we had agreed. We were not married immediately,
however. Three long years--years of hope
and mutual encouragement--passed away before that happy consummation. Before our departure, Hollins had fallen into
his old manner, convinced, apparently, that Candor must be postponed to a
better age of the world. But the quarrel
rankled in Shelldrake's mind, and especially in that of his wife. I could see by her looks and little fidgety
ways that his further stay would be very uncomfortable. Abel Mallory, finding himself gaining in
weight and improving in color, had no thought of returning. The day previous, as I afterwards learned, he
had discovered Perkins Brown's secret kitchen in the woods.
"`Golly!' said that
youth, in describing the circumstance to me, `I had to ketch TWO porgies that
day.'
"Miss Ringtop, who must
have suspected the new relation between Eunice and myself, was for the most
part rigidly silent. If she quoted, it
was from the darkest and dreariest utterances of her favorite Gamaliel.
"What happened after
our departure I learned from Perkins, on the return of the Shelldrakes to
Norridgeport, in September. Mrs.
Shelldrake stoutly persisted in refusing to make Hollins's bed, or to wash his
shirts. Her brain was dull, to be sure;
but she was therefore all the more stubborn in her resentment. He bore this state of things for about a
week, when his engagements to lecture in Ohio suddenly called him away. Abel and Miss Ringtop were left to wander
about the promontory in company, and to exchange lamentations on the hollowness
of human hopes or the pleasures of despair.
Whether it was owing to that attraction of sex which would make any man
and any woman, thrown together on a desert island, finally become mates, or
whether she skilfully ministered to Abel's sentimental vanity, I will not
undertake to decide: but the fact is, they were actually betrothed, on leaving
Arcadia. I think he would willingly have
retreated, after his return to the world; but that was not so easy. Miss Ringtop held him with an inexorable
clutch. They were not married, however,
until just before his departure for California, whither she afterwards followed
him. She died in less than a year, and
left him free."
"And what became of the
other Arcadians?" asked Mr. Johnson.
"The Shelldrakes are
still living in Norridgeport. They have
become Spiritualists, I understand, and cultivate Mediums. Hollins, when I last heard of him, was a
Deputy-Surveyor in the New York Custom-House.
Perkins Brown is our butcher here in Waterbury, and he often asks
me--`Do you take chloride of soda on your beefsteaks?' He is as fat as a prize ox, and the father of
five children."
"Enos!" exclaimed
Mrs. Billings, looking at the clock, "it's nearly midnight! Mr. Johnson must be very tired, after such a
long story.
The Chapter of the A. C. is
hereby closed!"
I.
The mild May afternoon was
drawing to a close, as Friend Eli Mitch-
enor reached the top of the
long hill, and halted a few minutes, to allow his horse time to recover
breath. He also heaved a sigh of
satisfaction, as he saw again the green, undulating valley of the Neshaminy,
with its dazzling squares of young wheat, its brown patches of corn-land, its
snowy masses of blooming orchard, and the huge, fountain like jets of weeping
willow, half concealing the gray stone fronts of the farm-houses. He had been absent from home only six days,
but the time seemed almost as long to him as a three years' cruise to a New
Bedford whaleman. The peaceful seclusion
and pastoral beauty of the scene did not consciously appeal to his senses; but
he quietly noted how much the wheat had grown during his absence, that the oats
were up and looking well, that Friend Comly's meadow had been ploughed, and
Friend Martin had built his half of the line-fence along the top of the
hill-field. If any smothered delight in
the loveliness of the spring-time found a hiding-place anywhere in the
well-ordered chambers of his heart, it never relaxed or softened the straight, inflexible
lines of his face. As easily could his
collarless drab coat and waistcoat have flushed with a sudden gleam of purple
or crimson.
Eli Mitchenor was at peace
with himself and the world--that is, so much of the world as he
acknowledged. Beyond the community of
his own sect, and a few personal friends who were privileged to live on its
borders, he neither knew nor cared to know much more of the human race than if
it belonged to a planet farther from the sun.
In the discipline of the Friends he was perfect; he was privileged to
sit on the high seats, with the elders of the Society; and the travelling
brethren from other States, who visited Bucks County, invariably blessed his
house with a family-meeting. His farm
was one of the best on the banks of the Neshaminy, and he also enjoyed the
annual interest of a few thousand dollars, carefully secured by mortgages on
real estate. His wife, Abigail, kept
even pace with him in the consideration she enjoyed within the limits of the
sect; and his two children, Moses and Asenath, vindicated the paternal training
by the strictest sobriety of dress and conduct.
Moses wore the plain coat, even when his ways led him among "the
world's people;" and Asenath had never been known to wear, or to express a
desire for, a ribbon of a brighter tint than brown or fawn-color. Friend Mitchenor had thus gradually ripened
to his sixtieth year in an atmosphere of life utterly placid and serene, and
looked forward with confidence to the final change, as a translation into a deeper
calm, a serener quiet, a prosperous eternity of mild voices, subdued colors,
and suppressed emotions.
He was returning home, in
his own old-fashioned "chair," with its heavy square canopy and huge
curved springs, from the Yearly Meeting of the Hicksite Friends, in
Philadelphia. The large bay farm-horse,
slow and grave in his demeanor, wore his plain harness with an air which made
him seem, among his fellow-horses, the counterpart of his master among men. He would no more have thought of kicking than
the latter would of swearing a huge oath.
Even now, when the top of the hill was gained, and he knew that he was
within a mile of the stable which had been his home since colthood, he showed
no undue haste or impatience, but waited quietly, until Friend Mitchenor, by a
well-known jerk of the lines, gave him the signal to go on. Obedient to the motion, he thereupon set
forward once more, jogging soberly down the eastern slope of the hill,--across
the covered bridge, where, in spite of the tempting level of the
hollow-sounding floor, he was as careful to abstain from trotting as if he had
read the warning notice,--along the wooded edge of the green meadow, where
several cows of his acquaintance were grazing,--and finally, wheeling around at
the proper angle, halted squarely in front of the gate which gave entrance to
the private lane.
The old stone house in
front, the spring-house in a green little hollow just below it, the walled
garden, with its clumps of box and lilac, and the vast barn on the left, all joining
in expressing a silent welcome to their owner, as he drove up the lane. Moses, a man of twenty-five, left his work in
the garden, and walked forward in his shirt-sleeves.
"Well, father, how does
thee do?" was his quiet greeting, as they shook hands.
"How's mother, by this
time?" asked Eli.
"Oh, thee needn't have
been concerned," said the son.
"There she is. Go in: I'll tend to the horse."
Abigail and her daughter
appeared on the piazza. The mother was a
woman of fifty, thin and delicate in frame, but with a smooth, placid beauty of
countenance which had survived her youth.
She was dressed in a simple dove-colored gown, with book-muslin cap and
handkerchief, so scrupulously arranged that one might have associated with her
for six months without ever discovering a spot on the former, or an uneven fold
in the latter. Asenath, who followed,
was almost as plainly attired, her dress being a dark-blue calico, while a
white pasteboard sun-bonnet, with broad cape, covered her head.
"Well, Abigail, how art
thou?" said Eli, quietly giving his hand to his wife.
"I'm glad to see thee
back," was her simple welcome.
No doubt they had kissed
each other as lovers, but Asenath had witnessed this manifestation of affection
but once in her life--after the burial of a younger sister. The fact impressed her with a peculiar sense
of sanctity and solemnity: it was a caress wrung forth by a season of
tribulation, and therefore was too earnest to be profaned to the uses of joy. So far, therefore, from expecting a paternal
embrace, she would have felt, had it been given, like the doomed daughter of
the Gileadite, consecrated to sacrifice.
Both she and her mother were
anxious to hear the proceedings of the meeting, and to receive personal news of
the many friends whom Eli had seen; but they asked few questions until the
supper-table was ready and Moses had come in from the barn. The old man enjoyed talking, but it must be
in his own way and at his own good time.
They must wait until the communicative spirit should move him. With the first cup of coffee the inspiration
came. Hovering at first over indifferent
details, he gradually approached those of more importance,--told of the addresses
which had been made, the points of discipline discussed, the testimony borne,
and the appearance and genealogy of any new Friends who had taken a prominent
part therein. Finally, at the close of
his relation, he said--
"Abigail, there is one
thing I must talk to thee about. Friend
Speakman's partner,--perhaps thee's heard of him, Richard Hilton,--has a son
who is weakly. He's two or three years
younger than Moses. His mother was
consumptive, and they're afraid he takes after her. His father wants to send him into the country
for the summer--to some place where he'll have good air, and quiet, and
moderate exercise, and Friend Speakman spoke of us. I thought I'd mention it to thee, and if thee
thinks well of it, we can send word down next week, when Josiah Comly
goes"
"What does THEE
think?" asked his wife, after a pause
"He's a very quiet,
steady young man, Friend Speakman says, and would be very little trouble to
thee. I thought perhaps his board would
buy the new yoke of oxen we must have in the fall, and the price of the fat
ones might go to help set up Moses. But
it's for thee to decide."
"I suppose we could
take him," said Abigail, seeing that the decision was virtually made
already; "there's the corner room, which we don't often use. Only, if he should get worse on our
hands--"
"Friend Speakman says
there's no danger. He is only
weak-breasted, as yet, and clerking isn't good for him. I saw the young man at the store. If his looks don't belie him, he's
well-behaved and orderly."
So it was settled that
Richard Hilton the younger was to be an inmate of Friend Mitchenor's house
during the summer.
II.
At the end of ten days he
came.
In the under-sized, earnest,
dark-haired and dark-eyed young man of three-and-twenty, Abigail Mitchenor at
once felt a motherly interest. Having
received him as a temporary member of the family, she considered him entitled
to the same watchful care as if he were in reality an invalid son. The ice over an hereditary Quaker nature is
but a thin crust, if one knows how to break it; and in Richard Hilton's case,
it was already broken before his arrival.
His only embarrassment, in fact, arose from the difficulty which he
naturally experienced in adapting himself to the speech and address of the
Mitchenor family. The greetings of old
Eli, grave, yet kindly, of Abigail, quaintly familiar and tender, of Moses,
cordial and slightly condescending, and finally of Asenath, simple and natural
to a degree which impressed him like a new revelation in woman, at once
indicated to him his position among them.
His city manners, he felt, instinctively, must be unlearned, or at least
laid aside for a time. Yet it was not
easy for him to assume, at such short notice, those of his hosts. Happening to address Asenath as "Miss
Mitchenor," Eli turned to him with a rebuking face.
"We do not use
compliments, Richard," said he; "my daughter's name is Asenath.
"I beg pardon. I will try to accustom myself to your ways,
since you have been so kind as to take me for a while," apologized Richard
Hilton.
"Thee's under no
obligation to us," said Friend Mitchenor, in his strict sense of justice;
"thee pays for what thee gets."
The finer feminine instinct
of Abigail led her to interpose.
"We'll not expect too
much of thee, at first, Richard," she remarked, with a kind expression of
face, which had the effect of a smile: "but our ways are plain and easily
learned. Thee knows, perhaps, that we're
no respecters of persons."
It was some days, however,
before the young man could overcome his natural hesitation at the familiarity
implied by these new forms of speech.
"Friend Mitchenor" and "Moses" were not difficult to
learn, but it seemed a want of respect to address as "Abigail" a
woman of such sweet and serene dignity as the mother, and he was fain to avoid
either extreme by calling her, with her cheerful permission, "Aunt
Mitchenor." On the other hand, his
own modest and unobtrusive nature soon won the confidence and cordial regard of
the family. He occasionally busied
himself in the garden, by way of exercise, or accompanied Moses to the
corn-field or the woodland on the hill, but was careful never to interfere at
inopportune times, and willing to learn silently, by the simple process of
looking on.
One afternoon, as he was
idly sitting on the stone wall which separated the garden from the lane,
Asenath, attired in a new gown of chocolate-colored calico, with a
double-handled willow work-basket on her arm, issued from the house. As she approached him, she paused and said--
"The time seems to hang
heavy on thy hands, Richard. If thee's
strong enough to walk to the village and back, it might do thee more good than
sitting still."
Richard Hilton at once
jumped down from the wall.
"Certainly I am able to
go," said he, "if you will allow it."
"Haven't I asked
thee?" was her quiet reply.
"Let me carry your
basket," he said, suddenly, after they had walked, side by side, some
distance down the lane.
"Indeed, I shall not
let thee do that. I'm only going for the
mail, and some little things at the store, that make no weight at all. Thee mustn't think I'm like the young women
in the city, who, I'm told, if they buy a spool of Cotton, must have it sent
home to them. Besides, thee mustn't
over-exert thy strength."
Richard Hilton laughed
merrily at the gravity with which she uttered the last sentence.
"Why, Miss--Asenath, I
mean--what am I good for; if I have not strength enough to carry a
basket?"
"Thee's a man, I know,
and I think a man would almost as lief be thought wicked as weak. Thee can't help being weakly-inclined, and
it's only right that thee should be careful of thyself. There's surely nothing in that that thee need
be ashamed of."
While thus speaking, Asenath
moderated her walk, in order, unconsciously to her companion, to restrain his
steps.
"Oh, there are the
dog's-tooth violets in blossom?" she exclaimed, pointing to a shady spot
beside the brook; "does thee know them?"
Richard immediately gathered
and brought to her a handful of the nodding yellow bells, trembling above their
large, cool, spotted leaves.
"How beautiful they
are!" said he; "but I should never have taken them for violets."
"They are
misnamed," she answered. "The
flower is an Erythronium; but I am accustomed to the common name, and like
it. Did thee ever study botany?"
"Not at all. I can tell a geranium, when I see it, and I
know a heliotrope by the smell. I could
never mistake a red cabbage for a rose, and I can recognize a hollyhock or a
sunflower at a considerable distance.
The wild flowers are all strangers to me; I wish I knew something about
them."
"If thee's fond of
flowers, it would be very easy to learn.
I think a study of this kind would pleasantly occupy thy mind. Why couldn't thee try? I would be very willing to teach thee what
little I know. It's not much, indeed,
but all thee wants is a start. See, I
will show thee how simple the principles are."
Taking one of the flowers
from the bunch, Asenath, as they slowly walked forward, proceeded to dissect
it, explained the mysteries of stamens and pistils, pollen, petals, and calyx,
and, by the time they had reached the village, had succeeded in giving him a
general idea of the Linnaean system of classification. His mind took hold of the subject with a
prompt and profound interest. It was a new
and wonderful world which suddenly opened before him. How surprised he was to learn that there were
signs by which a poisonous herb could be detected from a wholesome one, that
cedars and pine-trees blossomed, that the gray lichens on the rocks belonged to
the vegetable kingdom! His respect for
Asenath's knowledge thrust quite out of sight the restraint which her youth and
sex had imposed upon him. She was
teacher, equal, friend; and the simple candid manner which was the natural
expression of her dignity and purity thoroughly harmonized with this relation.
Although, in reality, two or
three years younger than he, Asenath had a gravity of demeanor, a calm
self-possession, a deliberate balance of mind, and a repose of the emotional
nature, which he had never before observed, except in much older women. She had had, as he could well imagine, no
romping girlhood, no season of careless, light-hearted dalliance with opening
life, no violent alternation even of the usual griefs and joys of youth. The social calm in which she had expanded had
developed her nature as gently and securely as a sea-flower is unfolded below
the reach of tides and storms.
She would have been very
much surprised if any one had called her handsome: yet her face had a mild,
unobtrusive beauty which seemed to grow and deepen from day to day. Of a longer oval than the Greek standard, it
was yet as harmonious in outline; the nose was fine and straight, the dark-blue
eyes steady and untroubled, and the lips calmly, but not too firmly
closed. Her brown hair, parted over a high
white forehead, was smoothly laid across the temples, drawn behind the ears,
and twisted into a simple knot. The
white cape and sun-bonnet gave her face a nun-like character, which set her
apart, in the thoughts of "the world's people" whom she met, as one
sanctified for some holy work. She might
have gone around the world, repelling every rude word, every bold glance, by
the protecting atmosphere of purity and truth which inclosed her.
The days went by, each
bringing some new blossom to adorn and illustrate the joint studies of the
young man and maiden. For Richard Hilton
had soon mastered the elements of botany, as taught by Priscilla
Wakefield,--the only source of Asenath's knowledge,--and entered, with her,
upon the text-book of Gray, a copy of which he procured from Philadelphia. Yet, though he had overtaken her in his
knowledge of the technicalities of the science, her practical acquaintance with
plants and their habits left her still his superior. Day by day, exploring the meadows, the woods,
and the clearings, he brought home his discoveries to enjoy her aid in
classifying and assigning them to their true places. Asenath had generally an hour or two of
leisure from domestic duties in the afternoons, or after the early supper of
summer was over; and sometimes, on "Seventh-days," she would be his
guide to some locality where the rarer plants were known to exist. The parents saw this community of interest
and exploration without a thought of misgiving.
They trusted their daughter as themselves; or, if any possible fear had
flitted across their hearts, it was allayed by the absorbing delight with which
Richard Hilton pursued his study. An
earnest discussion as to whether a certain leaf was ovate or lanceolate,
whether a certain plant belonged to the species scandens or canadensis, was, in
their eyes, convincing proof that the young brains were touched, and therefore
NOT the young hearts.
But love, symbolized by a
rose-bud, is emphatically a botanical emotion.
A sweet, tender perception of beauty, such as this study requires, or
develops, is at once the most subtile and certain chain of communication
between impressible natures. Richard
Hilton, feeling that his years were numbered, had given up, in despair, his
boyish dreams, even before he understood them: his fate seemed to preclude the
possibility of love. But, as he gained a
little strength from the genial season, the pure country air, and the release
from gloomy thoughts which his rambles afforded, the end was farther removed,
and a future--though brief, perhaps, still a FUTURE--began to glimmer before
him. If this could be his life,--an
endless summer, with a search for new plants every morning, and their
classification every evening, with Asenath's help on the shady portico of
Friend Mitchenor's house,--he could forget his doom, and enjoy the blessing of
life unthinkingly.
The azaleas succeeded to the
anemones, the orchis and trillium followed, then the yellow gerardias and the
feathery purple pogonias, and finally the growing gleam of the golden-rods
along the wood-side and the red umbels of the tall eupatoriums in the meadow
announced the close of summer. One
evening, as Richard, in displaying his collection, brought to view the
blood-red leaf of a gum-tree, Asenath exclaimed--
"Ah, there is the
sign! It is early, this year."
"What sign?" he
asked.
"That the summer is
over. We shall soon have frosty nights,
and then nothing will be left for us except the asters and gentians and
golden-rods."
Was the time indeed so
near? A few more weeks, and this
Arcadian life would close. He must go
back to the city, to its rectilinear streets, its close brick walls, its
artificial, constrained existence. How
could he give up the peace, the contentment, the hope he had enjoyed through
the summer? The question suddenly took a
more definite form in his mind: How
could he give up Asenath? Yes--the
quiet, unsuspecting girl, sitting beside him, with her lap full of the
September blooms he had gathered, was thenceforth a part of his inmost
life. Pure and beautiful as she was,
almost sacred in his regard, his heart dared to say--"I need her and claim
her!"
"Thee looks pale
to-night, Richard," said Abigail, as they took their seats at the
supper-table. "I hope thee has not
taken cold."
III.
"Will thee go along,
Richard? I know where the rudbeckias
grow," said Asenath, on the following "Seventh-day" afternoon.
They crossed the meadows,
and followed the course of the stream, under its canopy of magnificent ash and
plane trees, into a brake between the hills.
It was an almost impenetrable thicket, spangled with tall autumnal
flowers. The eupatoriums, with their
purple crowns, stood like young trees, with an undergrowth of aster and blue
spikes of lobelia, tangled in a golden mesh of dodder. A strong, mature odor, mixed alike of leaves and
flowers, and very different from the faint, elusive sweetness of spring, filled
the air. The creek, with a few faded
leaves dropped upon its bosom, and films of gossamer streaming from its bushy
fringe, gurgled over the pebbles in its bed.
Here and there, on its banks, shone the deep yellow stars of the flower
they sought.
Richard Hilton walked as in
a dream, mechanically plucking a stem of rudbeckia, only to toss it, presently,
into the water.
"Why, Richard! what's
thee doing?" cried Asenath; "thee has thrown away the very best
specimen."
"Let it go," he
answered, sadly. "I am afraid
everything else is thrown away."
"What does thee
mean?" she asked, with a look of surprised and anxious inquiry.
"Don't ask me,
Asenath. Or--yes, I WILL tell you. I must say it to you now, or never
afterwards. Do you know what a happy
life I've been leading since I came here?--that I've learned what life is, as
if I'd never known it before? I want to
live, Asenath,--and do you know why?"
"I hope thee will live,
Richard," she said, gently and tenderly, her deep-blue eyes dim with the
mist of unshed tears.
"But, Asenath, how am I
to live without you? But you can't
understand that, because you do not know what you are to me. No, you never guessed that all this while
I've been loving you more and more, until now I have no other idea of death
than not to see you, not to love you, not to share your life!"
"Oh, Richard!"
"I knew you would be
shocked, Asenath. I meant to have kept
this to myself. You never dreamed of it,
and I had no right to disturb the peace of your heart. The truth is told now,--and I cannot take it
back, if I wished. But if you cannot
love, you can forgive me for loving you--forgive me now and every day of my
life."
He uttered these words with
a passionate tenderness, standing on the edge of the stream, and gazing into
its waters. His slight frame trembled
with the violence of his emotion.
Asenath, who had become very pale as he commenced to speak, gradually
flushed over neck and brow as she listened.
Her head drooped, the gathered flowers fell from her hands, and she hid
her face. For a few minutes no sound was
heard but the liquid gurgling of the water, and the whistle of a bird in the
thicket beside them. Richard Hilton at
last turned, and, in a voice of hesitating entreaty, pronounced her name--
"Asenath!"
She took away her hands, and
slowly lifted her face. She was pale,
but her eyes met his with a frank, appealing, tender expression, which caused
his heart to stand still a moment. He
read no reproach, no faintest thought of blame; but--was it pity?--was it
pardon?--or----
"We stand before God,
Richard," said she, in a low, sweet, solemn tone. "He knows that I do not need to forgive
thee. If thee requires it, I also
require His forgiveness for myself."
Though a deeper blush now
came to cheek and brow, she met his gaze with the bravery of a pure and
innocent heart. Richard, stunned with
the sudden and unexpected bliss, strove to take the full consciousness of it into
a being which seemed too narrow to contain it.
His first impulse was to rush forward, clasp her passionately in his
arms, and hold her in the embrace which encircled, for him, the boundless
promise of life; but she stood there, defenceless, save in her holy truth and
trust, and his heart bowed down and gave her reverence.
"Asenath," said
he, at last, "I never dared to hope for this. God bless you for those words! Can you trust me?--can you indeed love
me?"
"I can trust thee,--I
DO love thee!"
They clasped each other's
hands in one long, clinging pressure. No
kiss was given, but side by side they walked slowly up the dewy meadows, in
happy and hallowed silence. Asenath's
face became troubled as the old farmhouse appeared through the trees.
"Father and mother must
know of this, Richard," said she.
"I am afraid it may be a cross to them."
The same fear had already
visited his own mind, but he answered, cheerfully--
"I hope not. I think I have taken a new lease of life, and
shall soon be strong enough to satisfy them.
Besides, my father is in prosperous business."
"It is not that,"
she answered; "but thee is not one of us."
It was growing dusk when
they reached the house. In the dim
candle-light Asenath's paleness was not remarked; and Richard's silence was attributed
to fatigue.
The next morning the whole
family attended meeting at the neighboring Quaker meeting-house, in the
preparation for which, and the various special occupations of their
"First-day" mornings, the unsuspecting parents overlooked that inevitable
change in the faces of the lovers which they must otherwise have observed. After dinner, as Eli was taking a quiet walk
in the garden, Richard Hilton approached him.
"Friend
Mitchenor," said he, "I should like to have some talk with
thee."
"What is it,
Richard?" asked the old man, breaking off some pods from a seedling
radish, and rubbing them in the palm of his hand.
"I hope, Friend
Mitchenor," said the young man, scarcely knowing how to approach so
important a crisis in his life, "I hope thee has been satisfied with my
conduct since I came to live with thee, and has no fault to find with me as a
man."
"Well," exclaimed
Eli, turning around and looking up, sharply, "does thee want a testimony
from me? I've nothing, that I know of,
to say against thee."
"If I were sincerely
attached to thy daughter, Friend Mitchenor, and she returned the attachment,
could thee trust her happiness in my hands?"
"What!" cried Eli,
straightening himself and glaring upon the speaker, with a face too amazed to
express any other feeling.
"Can you confide
Asenath's happiness to my care? I love
her with my whole heart and soul, and the fortune of my life depends on your
answer."
The straight lines in the
old man's face seemed to grow deeper and more rigid, and his eyes shone with
the chill glitter of steel. Richard, not
daring to say a word more, awaited his reply in intense agitation.
"So!" he exclaimed
at last, "this is the way thee's repaid me! I didn't expect THIS from thee! Has thee spoken to her?"
"I have."
"Thee has, has
thee? And I suppose thee's persuaded her
to think as thee does. Thee'd better
never have come here. When I want to lose
my daughter, and can't find anybody else for her, I'll let thee know."
"What have you against
me, Friend Mitchenor?" Richard sadly asked, forgetting, in his excitement,
the Quaker speech he had learned.
"Thee needn't use
compliments now! Asenath shall be a
Friend while _I_ live; thy fine clothes and merry-makings and vanities are not
for her. Thee belongs to the world, and
thee may choose one of the world's women."
"Never!" protested
Richard; but Friend Mitchenor was already ascending the garden-steps on his way
to the house.
The young man, utterly
overwhelmed, wandered to the nearest grove and threw himself on the
ground. Thus, in a miserable chaos of
emotion, unable to grasp any fixed thought, the hours passed away. Towards evening, he heard a footstep
approaching, and sprang up. It was
Moses.
The latter was engaged, with
the consent of his parents and expected to "pass meeting" in a few
weeks. He knew what had happened, and
felt a sincere sympathy for Richard, for whom he had a cordial regard. His face was very grave, but kind.
"Thee'd better come in,
Richard," said he; "the evenings are damp, and I v'e brought thy
overcoat. I know everything, and I feel
that it must be a great cross for thee.
But thee won't be alone in bearing it."
"Do you think there is
no hope of your father relenting?" he asked, in a tone of despondency
which anticipated the answer.
"Father's very hard to
move," said Moses; "and when mother and Asenath can't prevail on him,
nobody else need try. I'm afraid thee
must make up thy mind to the trial. I'm
sorry to say it, Richard, but I think thee'd better go back to town."
"I'll go to-morrow,--go
and die!" he muttered hoarsely, as he followed Moses to the house.
Abigail, as she saw his
haggard face, wept quietly. She pressed
his hand tenderly, but said nothing. Eli
was stern and cold as an Iceland rock.
Asenath did not make her appearance.
At supper, the old man and his son exchanged a few words about the
farm-work to be done on the morrow, but nothing else was said. Richard soon left the room and went up to his
chamber to spend his last, his only unhappy night at the farm. A yearning, pitying look from Abigail
accompanied him.
"Try and not think hard
of us!" was her farewell the next morning, as he stepped into the old
chair, in which Moses was to convey him to the village where he should meet the
Doylestown stage. So, without a word of
comfort from Asenath's lips, without even a last look at her beloved face, he
was taken away.
IV.
True and firm and
self-reliant as was the nature of Asenath Mitchenor, the thought of resistance
to her father's will never crossed her mind.
It was fixed that she must renounce all intercourse with Richard Hilton;
it was even sternly forbidden her to see him again during the few hours he
remained in the house; but the sacred love, thus rudely dragged to the light
and outraged, was still her own. She
would take it back into the keeping of her heart, and if a day should ever come
when he would be free to return and demand it of her, he would find it there,
unwithered, with all the unbreathed perfume hoarded in its folded leaves. If that day came not, she would at the last
give it back to God, saying, "Father, here is Thy most precious gift,
bestow it as Thou wilt."
As her life had never before
been agitated by any strong emotion, so it was not outwardly agitated now. The placid waters of her soul did not heave
and toss before those winds of passion and sorrow: they lay in dull, leaden
calm, under a cold and sunless sky. What
struggles with herself she underwent no one ever knew. After Richard Hilton's departure, she never
mentioned his name, or referred, in any way, to the summer's companionship with
him. She performed her household duties,
if not cheerfully, at least as punctually and carefully as before; and her
father congratulated himself that the unfortunate attachment had struck no
deeper root. Abigail's finer sight,
however, was not deceived by this external resignation. She noted the faint shadows under the eyes,
the increased whiteness of the temples, the unconscious traces of pain which
sometimes played about the dimpled corners of the mouth, and watched her
daughter with a silent, tender solicitude.
The wedding of Moses was a
severe test of Asenath's strength, but she stood the trial nobly, performing
all the duties required by her position with such sweet composure that many of
the older female Friends remarked to Abigail, "How womanly Asenath has
grown!" Eli Mitchenor noted, with
peculiar satisfaction, that the eyes of the young Friends--some of them of
great promise in the sect, and well endowed with worldly goods--followed her
admiringly.
"It will not be
long," he thought, "before she is consoled."
Fortune seemed to favor his
plans, and justify his harsh treatment of Richard Hilton. There were unfavorable accounts of the young
man's conduct. His father had died
during the winter, and he was represented as having become very reckless and
dissipated. These reports at last
assumed such a definite form that Friend Mitchenor brought them to the notice
of his family.
"I met Josiah Comly in
the road," said he, one day at dinner.
"He's just come from Philadelphia, and brings bad news of Richard
Hilton. He's taken to drink, and is
spending in wickedness the money his father left him. His friends have a great concern about him,
but it seems he's not to be reclaimed."
Abigail looked imploringly
at her husband, but he either disregarded or failed to understand her
look. Asenath, who had grown very pale,
steadily met her father's gaze, and said, in a tone which he had never yet
heard from her lips--
"Father, will thee
please never mention Richard Hilton's name when I am by?"
The words were those of
entreaty, but the voice was that of authority.
The old man was silenced by a new and unexpected power in his daughter's
heart: he suddenly felt that she was not a girl, as heretofore, but a woman,
whom he might persuade, but could no longer compel.
"It shall be as thee
wishes, Asenath," he said; "we had best forget him."
Of their friends, however,
she could not expect this reserve, and she was doomed to hear stories of
Richard which clouded and embittered her thoughts of him. And a still severer trial was in store. She accompanied her father, in obedience to
his wish, and against her own desire, to the Yearly Meeting in
Philadelphia. It has passed into a
proverb that the Friends, on these occasions, always bring rain with them; and
the period of her visit was no exception to the rule. The showery days of "Yearly Meeting
Week" glided by, until the last, and she looked forward with relief to the
morrow's return to Bucks County, glad to have escaped a meeting with Richard
Hilton, which might have confirmed her fears and could but have given her pain
in any case.
As she and her father joined
each other, outside the meeting-house, at the close of the afternoon meeting, a
light rain was falling. She took his
arm, under the capacious umbrella, and they were soon alone in the wet streets,
on their way to the house of the Friends who entertained them. At a crossing, where the water pouring down
the gutter towards the Delaware, caused them to halt a man, plashing through
the flood, staggered towards them.
Without an umbrella, with dripping, disordered clothes, yet with a hot,
flushed face, around which the long black hair hung wildly, he approached,
singing to himself with maudlin voice a song that would have been sweet and
tender in a lover's mouth. Friend
Mitchenor drew to one side, lest his spotless drab should be brushed by the
unclean reveller; but the latter, looking up, stopped suddenly face to face with
them.
"Asenath!" he
cried, in a voice whose anguish pierced through the confusion of his senses,
and struck down into the sober quick of his soul.
"Richard!" she
breathed, rather than spoke, in a low, terrified voice.
It was indeed Richard Hilton
who stood before her, or rather--as she afterwards thought, in recalling the
interview--the body of Richard Hilton possessed by an evil spirit. His cheeks burned with a more than hectic
red, his eyes were wild and bloodshot, and though the recognition had suddenly
sobered him, an impatient, reckless devil seemed to lurk under the set mask of
his features.
"Here I am,
Asenath," he said at length, hoarsely.
"I said it was death, didn't I?
Well, it's worse than death, I suppose; but what matter? You can't be more lost to me now than you
were already. This is THY doing, Friend
Eli," he continued, turning to the old man, with a sneering emphasis on
the "THY." "I hope thee's
satisfied with thy work!"
Here he burst into a bitter,
mocking laugh, which it chilled Asenath's blood to hear.
The old man turned
pale. "Come away, child!" said
he, tugging at her arm. But she stood
firm, strengthened for the moment by a solemn feeling of duty which trampled
down her pain.
"Richard," she
said, with the music of an immeasurable sorrow in her voice, "oh, Richard,
what has thee done? Where the Lord
commands resignation, thee has been rebellious; where he chasteneth to purify,
thee turns blindly to sin. I had not
expected this of thee, Richard; I thought thy regard for me was of the kind
which would have helped and uplifted thee,--not through me, as an unworthy
object, but through the hopes and the pure desires of thy own heart. I expected that thee would so act as to
justify what I felt towards thee, not to make my affection a reproach,--oh,
Richard, not to cast over my heart the shadow of thy sin!"
The wretched young man
supported himself against the post of an awning, buried his face in his hands,
and wept passionately. Once or twice he
essayed to speak, but his voice was choked by sobs, and, after a look from the
streaming eyes which Asenath could scarcely bear to meet, he again covered his
face. A stranger, coming down the
street, paused out of curiosity.
"Come, come!" cried Eli, once more, eager to escape from the
scene. His daughter stood still, and the
man slowly passed on.
Asenath could not thus leave
her lost lover, in his despairing grief.
She again turned to him, her own tears flowing fast and free.
"I do not judge thee,
Richard, but the words that passed between us give me a right to speak to
thee. It was hard to lose sight of thee
then, but it is still harder for me to see thee now. If the sorrow and pity I feel could save
thee, I would be willing never to know any other feelings. I would still do anything for thee except
that which thee cannot ask, as thee now is, and I could not give. Thee has made the gulf between us so wide
that it cannot be crossed. But I can now
weep for thee and pray for thee as a fellow-creature whose soul is still
precious in the sight of the Lord. Fare
thee well!"
He seized the hand she
extended, bowed down, and showered mingled tears and kisses upon it. Then, with a wild sob in his throat, he
started up and rushed down the street, through the fast-falling rain. The father and daughter walked home in
silence. Eli had heard every word that
was spoken, and felt that a spirit whose utterances he dared not question had
visited Asenath's tongue.
She, as year after year went
by, regained the peace and patience which give a sober cheerfulness to
life. The pangs of her heart grew dull
and transient; but there were two pictures in her memory which never blurred in
outline or faded in color: one, the brake of autumn flowers under the bright
autumnal sky, with bird and stream making accordant music to the new voice of
love; the other a rainy street, with a lost, reckless man leaning against an
awning-post, and staring in her face with eyes whose unutterable woe, when she
dared to recall it, darkened the beauty of the earth, and almost shook her
trust in the providence of God.
V.
Year after year passed by,
but not without bringing change to the Mitchenor family. Moses had moved to Chester County soon after
his marriage, and had a good farm of his own.
At the end of ten years Abigail died; and the old man, who had not only
lost his savings by an unlucky investment, but was obliged to mortgage his
farm, finally determined to sell it and join his son. He was getting too old to manage it properly,
impatient under the unaccustomed pressure of debt, and depressed by the loss of
the wife to whom, without any outward show of tenderness, he was, in truth,
tenderly attached. He missed her more
keenly in the places where she had lived and moved than in a neighborhood
without the memory of her presence. The
pang with which he parted from his home was weakened by the greater pang which
had preceded it.
It was a harder trial to
Asenath. She shrank from the encounter
with new faces, and the necessity of creating new associations. There was a quiet satisfaction in the
ordered, monotonous round of her life, which might be the same elsewhere, but
here alone was the nook which held all the morning sunshine she had ever
known. Here still lingered the halo of
the sweet departed summer,--here still grew the familiar wild-flowers which THE
FIRST Richard Hilton had gathered. This
was the Paradise in which the Adam of her heart had dwelt, before his
fall. Her resignation and submission
entitled her to keep those pure and perfect memories, though she was scarcely
conscious of their true charm. She did
not dare to express to herself, in words, that one everlasting joy of woman's
heart, through all trials and sorrows--"I have loved, I have been
beloved."
On the last
"First-day" before their departure, she walked down the meadows to
the lonely brake between the hills. It
was the early spring, and the black buds of the ash had just begun to
swell. The maples were dusted with
crimson bloom, and the downy catkins of the swamp-willow dropped upon the
stream and floated past her, as once the autumn leaves. In the edges of the thickets peeped forth the
blue, scentless violet, the fairy cups of the anemone, and the pink-veined
bells of the miskodeed. The tall blooms
through which the lovers walked still slept in the chilly earth; but the sky
above her was mild and blue, and the remembrance of the day came back to her
with a delicate, pungent sweetness, like the perfume of the trailing arbutus in
the air around her. In a sheltered,
sunny nook, she found a single erythronium, lured forth in advance of its
proper season, and gathered it as a relic of the spot, which she might keep
without blame. As she stooped to pluck
it, her own face looked up at her out of a little pool filled by the spring
rains. Seen against the reflected sky,
it shone with a soft radiance, and the earnest eyes met hers, as if it were her
young self, evoked from the past, to bid her farewell. "Farewell!" she whispered, taking
leave at once, as she believed, of youth and the memory of love.
During those years she had
more than once been sought in marriage, but had steadily, though kindly,
refused. Once, when the suitor was a man
whose character and position made the union very desirable in Eli Mitchenor's
eyes, he ventured to use his paternal influence. Asenath's gentle resistance was overborne by
his arbitrary force of will, and her protestations were of no avail.
"Father," she
finally said, in the tone which he had once heard and still remembered, `thee
can take away, but thee cannot give."
He never mentioned the
subject again.
Richard Hilton passed out of
her knowledge shortly after her meeting with him in Philadelphia. She heard, indeed, that his headlong career
of dissipation was not arrested,--that his friends had given him up as hopelessly
ruined,--and, finally, that he had left the city. After that, all reports ceased. He was either dead, or reclaimed and leading
a better life, somewhere far away. Dead,
she believed--almost hoped; for in that case might he not now be enjoying the
ineffable rest and peace which she trusted might be her portion? It was better to think of him as a purified
spirit, waiting to meet her in a holier communion, than to know that he was
still bearing the burden of a soiled and blighted life. In any case, her own future was plain and
clear. It was simply a prolongation of
the present--an alternation of seed-time and harvest, filled with humble duties
and cares, until the Master should bid her lay down her load and follow Him.
Friend Mitchenor bought a
small cottage adjacent to his son's farm, in a community which consisted mostly
of Friends, and not far from the large old meeting-house in which the Quarterly
Meetings were held. He at once took his
place on the upper seat, among the elders, most of whom he knew already, from
having met them, year after year, in Philadelphia. The charge of a few acres of ground gave him
sufficient occupation; the money left to him after the sale of his farm was
enough to support him comfortably; and a late Indian summer of contentment
seemed now to have come to the old man.
He was done with the earnest business of life. Moses was gradually taking his place, as
father and Friend; and Asenath would be reasonably provided for at his
death. As his bodily energies decayed,
his imperious temper softened, his mind became more accessible to liberal
influences, and he even cultivated a cordial friendship with a neighboring
farmer who was one of "the world's people." Thus, at seventy-five he was really younger,
because tenderer of heart and more considerate, than he had been at sixty.
Asenath was now a woman of
thirty-five, and suitors had ceased to approach her. Much of her beauty still remained, but her
face had become thin and wasted, and the inevitable lines were beginning to
form around her eyes. Her dress was
plainer than ever, and she wore the scoop-bonnet of drab silk, in which no
woman can seem beautiful, unless she be very old. She was calm and grave in her demeanor, save
that her perfect goodness and benevolence shone through and warmed her
presence; but, when earnestly interested, she had been known to speak her mind
so clearly and forcibly that it was generally surmised among the Friends that
she possessed "a gift," which might, in time, raise her to honor
among them. To the children of Moses she
was a good genius, and a word from "Aunt 'Senath" oftentimes
prevailed when the authority of the parents was disregarded. In them she found a new source of happiness;
and when her old home on the Neshaminy had been removed a little farther into
the past, so that she no longer looked, with every morning's sun, for some
familiar feature of its scenery, her submission brightened into a cheerful
content with life.
It was summer, and
Quarterly-Meeting Day had arrived. There
had been rumors of the expected presence of "Friends from a
distance," and not only those of the district, but most of the neighbors
who were not connected with the sect, attended.
By the by-road, through the woods, it was not more than half a mile from
Friend Mitchenor's cottage to the meeting-house, and Asenath, leaving her
father to be taken by Moses in his carriage, set out on foot. It was a sparkling, breezy day, and the
forest was full of life. Squirrels chased
each other along the branches of the oaks, and the air was filled with fragrant
odors of hickory-leaves, sweet fern, and spice-wood. Picking up a flower here and there, Asenath
walked onward, rejoicing alike in shade and sunshine, grateful for all the
consoling beauty which the earth offers to a lonely heart. That serene content which she had learned to
call happiness had filled her being until the dark canopy was lifted and the
waters took back their transparency under a cloudless sky.
Passing around to the
"women's side" of the meeting-house, she mingled with her friends, who
were exchanging information concerning the expected visitors. Micajah Morrill had not arrived, they said,
but Ruth Baxter had spent the last night at Friend Way's, and would certainly
be there. Besides, there were Friend
Chandler, from Nine Partners, and Friend Carter, from Maryland: they had been
seen on the ground. Friend Carter was
said to have a wonderful gift,--Mercy Jackson had heard him once, in
Baltimore. The Friends there had been a
little exercised about him, because they thought he was too much inclined to
"the newness," but it was known that the Spirit had often manifestly
led him. Friend Chandler had visited
Yearly Meeting once, they believed. He
was an old man, and had been a personal friend of Elias Hicks.
At the appointed hour they entered
the house. After the subdued rustling
which ensued upon taking their seats, there was an interval of silence, shorter
than usual, because it was evident that many persons would feel the promptings
of the Spirit. Friend Chandler spoke
first, and was followed by Ruth Baxter, a frail little woman, with a voice of
exceeding power. The not unmelodious
chant in which she delivered her admonitions rang out, at times, like the peal
of a trumpet. Fixing her eyes on
vacancy, with her hands on the wooden rail before her, and her body slightly
swaying to and fro, her voice soared far aloft at the commencement of every
sentence, gradually dropping, through a melodious scale of tone, to the
close. She resembled an inspired
prophetess, an aged Deborah, crying aloud in the valleys of Israel.
The last speaker was Friend
Carter, a small man, not more than forty years of age. His face was thin and intense in its
expression, his hair gray at the temples, and his dark eye almost too restless
for a child of "the stillness and the quietness." His voice, though not loud, was clear and
penetrating, with an earnest, sympathetic quality, which arrested, not the ear
alone, but the serious attention of the auditor. His delivery was but slightly marked by the
peculiar rhythm of the Quaker preachers; and this fact, perhaps, increased the
effect of his words, through the contrast with those who preceded him.
His discourse was an
eloquent vindication of the law of kindness, as the highest and purest
manifestation of true Christian doctrine.
The paternal relation of God
to man was the basis of that religion which appealed directly to the heart: so
the fraternity of each man with his fellow was its practical application. God pardons the repentant sinner: we can also
pardon, where we are offended; we can pity, where we cannot pardon. Both the good and the bad principles generate
their like in others. Force begets
force; anger excites a corresponding anger; but kindness awakens the slumbering
emotions even of an evil heart. Love may
not always be answered by an equal love, but it has never yet created
hatred. The testimony which Friends bear
against war, he said, is but a general assertion, which has no value except in
so far as they manifest the principle of peace in their daily lives--in the
exercise of pity, of charity, of forbearance, and Christian love.
The words of the speaker
sank deeply into the hearts of his hearers.
There was an intense hush, as if in truth the Spirit had moved him to
speak, and every sentence was armed with a sacred authority. Asenath Mitchenor looked at him, over the low
partition which divided her and her sisters from the men's side, absorbed in
his rapt earnestness and truth. She
forgot that other hearers were present: he spake to her alone. A strange spell seemed to seize upon her
faculties and chain them at his feet: had he beckoned to her, she would have
arisen and walked to his side.
Friend Carter warmed and
deepened as he went on. "I feel
moved to-day," he said,--"moved, I know not why, but I hope for some
wise purpose,--to relate to you an instance of Divine and human kindness which
has come directly to my own knowledge. A
young man of delicate constitution, whose lungs were thought to be seriously
affected, was sent to the house of a Friend in the country, in order to try the
effect of air and exercise."
Asenath almost ceased to
breathe, in the intensity with which she gazed and listened. Clasping her hands tightly in her lap to
prevent them from trembling, and steadying herself against the back of the
seat, she heard the story of her love for Richard Hilton told by the lips of a
stranger!--not merely of his dismissal from the house, but of that meeting in
the street, at which only she and her father were present! Nay, more, she heard her own words repeated,
she heard Richard's passionate outburst of remorse described in language that
brought his living face before her! She
gasped for breath--his face WAS before her!
The features, sharpened by despairing grief, which her memory recalled,
had almost anticipated the harder lines which fifteen years had made, and which
now, with a terrible shock and choking leap of the heart, she recognized. Her senses faded, and she would have fallen
from her seat but for the support of the partition against which she
leaned. Fortunately, the women near her
were too much occupied with the narrative to notice her condition. Many of them wept silently, with their
handkerchiefs pressed over their mouths.
The first shock of
death-like faintness passed away, and she clung to the speaker's voice, as if
its sound alone could give her strength to sit still and listen further.
"Deserted by his
friends, unable to stay his feet on the evil path," he continued,
"the young man left his home and went to a city in another State. But here it was easier to find associates in
evil than tender hearts that might help him back to good. He was tired of life, and the hope of a
speedier death hardened him in his courses.
But, my friends, Death never comes to those who wickedly seek him. The Lord withholds destruction from the hands
that are madly outstretched to grasp it, and forces His pity and forgiveness on
the unwilling soul. Finding that it was
the principle of LIFE which grew stronger within him, the young man at last
meditated an awful crime. The thought of
self-destruction haunted him day and night.
He lingered around the wharves, gazing into the deep waters, and was
restrained from the deed only by the memory of the last loving voice he had
heard. One gloomy evening, when even
this memory had faded, and he awaited the approaching darkness to make his
design secure, a hand was laid on his arm.
A man in the simple garb of the Friends stood beside him, and a face
which reflected the kindness of the Divine Father looked upon him. `My child,' said he, `I am drawn to thee by
the great trouble of thy mind. Shall I
tell thee what it is thee meditates?' The
young man shook his head. `I will be
silent, then, but I will save thee. I
know the human heart, and its trials and weaknesses, and it may be put into my
mouth to give thee strength.' He took
the young man's hand, as if he had been a little child, and led him to his
home. He heard the sad story, from
beginning to end; and the young man wept upon his breast, to hear no word of
reproach, but only the largest and tenderest pity bestowed upon him. They knelt down, side by side, at midnight;
and the Friend's right hand was upon his head while they prayed.
"The young man was
rescued from his evil ways, to acknowledge still further the boundless mercy of
Providence. The dissipation wherein he
had recklessly sought death was, for him, a marvellous restoration to
life. His lungs had become sound and
free from the tendency to disease. The
measure of his forgiveness was almost more than he could bear. He bore his cross thenceforward with a joyful
resignation, and was mercifully drawn nearer and nearer to the Truth, until, in
the fulness of his convictions, he entered into the brotherhood of the Friends.
"I have been powerfully
moved to tell you this story."
Friend Carter concluded, "from a feeling that it may be needed,
here, at this time, to influence some heart trembling in the balance. Who is there among you, my friends, that may
not snatch a brand from the burning! Oh,
believe that pity and charity are the most effectual weapons given into the
hands of us imperfect mortals, and leave the awful attribute of wrath in the
hands of the Lord!"
He sat down, and dead
silence ensued. Tears of emotion stood
in the eyes of the hearers, men as well as women, and tears of gratitude and
thanksgiving gushed warmly from those of Asenath. An ineffable peace and joy descended upon her
heart.
When the meeting broke up,
Friend Mitchenor, who had not recognized Richard Hilton, but had heard the
story with feelings which he endeavored in vain to control, approached the
preacher.
"The Lord spoke to me
this day through thy lips," said he; "will thee come to one side, and
hear me a minute?"
"Eli Mitchenor!"
exclaimed Friend Carter; "Eli! I
knew not thee was here! Doesn't thee
know me?"
The old man stared in
astonishment. "It seems like a face
I ought to know," he said, "but I can't place thee." They withdrew to the shade of one of the poplars. Friend Carter turned again, much moved, and,
grasping the old man's hands in his own, exclaimed--
"Friend Mitchenor, I
was called upon to-day to speak of myself.
I am--or, rather, I WAS--the Richard Hilton whom thee knew."
Friend Mitchenor's face
flushed with mingled emotions of shame and joy, and his grasp on the preacher's
hands tightened.
"But thee calls thyself
Carter?" he finally said.
"Soon after I was
saved," was the reply, "an aunt on the mother's side died, and left
her property to me, on condition that I should take her name. I was tired of my own then, and to give it up
seemed only like losing my former self; but I should like to have it back again
now."
"Wonderful are the ways
of the Lord, and past finding out!" said the old man. "Come home with me, Richard,--come for
my sake, for there is a concern on my mind until all is clear between us. Or, stay,--will thee walk home with Asenath,
while I go with Moses?"
"Asenath?"
"Yes. There she goes, through the gate. Thee can easily overtake her. I 'm coming, Moses!"--and he hurried
away to his son's carriage, which was approaching.
Asenath felt that it would
be impossible for her to meet Richard Hilton there. She knew not why his name had been changed;
he had not betrayed his identity with the young man of his story; he evidently
did not wish it to be known, and an unexpected meeting with her might surprise
him into an involuntary revelation of the fact.
It was enough for her that a saviour had arisen, and her lost Adam was
redeemed,--that a holier light than the autumn sun's now rested, and would
forever rest, on the one landscape of her youth. Her eyes shone with the pure brightness of
girlhood, a soft warmth colored her cheek and smoothed away the coming lines of
her brow, and her step was light and elastic as in the old time.
Eager to escape from the
crowd, she crossed the highway, dusty with its string of returning carriages,
and entered the secluded lane. The
breeze had died away, the air was full of insect-sounds, and the warm light of
the sinking sun fell upon the woods and meadows. Nature seemed penetrated with a sympathy with
her own inner peace.
But the crown of the
benignant day was yet to come. A quick
footstep followed her, and ere long a voice, near at hand, called her by name.
She stopped, turned, and for
a moment they stood silent, face to face.
"I knew thee,
Richard!" at last she said, in a trembling voice; "may the Lord bless
thee!"
Tears were in the eyes of
both.
"He has blessed
me," Richard answered, in a reverent tone; "and this is His last and
sweetest mercy. Asenath, let me hear
that thee forgives me."
"I have forgiven thee
long ago, Richard--forgiven, but not forgotten."
The hush of sunset was on
the forest, as they walked onward, side by side, exchanging their mutual
histories. Not a leaf stirred in the
crowns of the tall trees, and the dusk, creeping along between their stems,
brought with it a richer woodland odor.
Their voices were low and subdued, as if an angel of God were hovering
in the shadows, and listening, or God Himself looked down upon them from the
violet sky.
At last Richard stopped.
"Asenath," said
he, "does thee remember that spot on the banks of the creek, where the
rudbeckias grew?"
"I remember it,"
she answered, a girlish blush rising to her face.
"If I were to say to
thee now what I said to thee there, what would be thy answer?"
Her words came brokenly.
"I would say to thee,
Richard,--`I can trust thee,--I DO love thee!'"
"Look at me,
Asenath."
Her eyes, beaming with a
clearer light than even then when she first confessed, were lifted to his. She placed her hands gently upon his
shoulders, and bent her head upon his breast.
He tenderly lifted it again, and, for the first time, her virgin lips
knew the kiss of man.
I.
It was a day of unusual
excitement at the Rambo farm-house. On
the farm, it is true, all things were in their accustomed order, and all
growths did their accustomed credit to the season. The fences were in good repair; the cattle
were healthy and gave promise of the normal increase, and the young corn was
neither strangled with weeds nor assassinated by cut-worms. Old John Rambo was gradually allowing his
son, Henry, to manage in his stead, and the latter shrewdly permitted his father
to believe that he exercised the ancient authority. Leonard Clare, the strong young fellow who
had been taken from that shiftless adventurer, his father, when a mere child,
and brought up almost as one of the family, and who had worked as a joiner's apprentice
during the previous six months, had come back for the harvest work; so the
Rambos were forehanded, and probably as well satisfied as it is possible for
Pennsylvania farmers to be.
In the house, also, Mrs.
Priscilla Rambo was not severely haunted by the spectre of any neglected
duty. The simple regular routine of the
household could not be changed under her charge; each thing had its appropriate
order of performance, must be done, and WAS done. If the season were backward, at the time
appointed for whitewashing or soap-making, so much the worse for the season; if
the unhatched goslings were slain by thunder, she laid the blame on the
thunder. And if--but no, it is quite
impossible to suppose that, outside of those two inevitable, fearful house-cleaning
weeks in each year, there could have been any disorder in the cold prim,
varnish-odored best rooms, sacred to company.
It was Miss Betty Rambo,
whose pulse beat some ten strokes faster than its wont, as she sat down with
the rest to their early country dinner.
Whether her brother Henry's participated in the accelerated movement
could not be guessed from his demeanor.
She glanced at him now and then, with bright eyes and flushed cheeks,
eager to speak yet shrinking from the half magisterial air which was beginning
to supplant his old familiar banter.
Henry was changing with his new responsibility, as she admitted to
herself with a sort of dismay; he had the airs of an independent farmer, and
she remained only a farmer's daughter,--without any acknowledged rights, until
she should acquire them all, at a single blow, by marriage.
Nevertheless, he must have
felt what was in her mind; for, as he cut out the quarter of a dried apple pie,
he said carelessly:
"I must go down to the
Lion, this afternoon. There's a fresh
drove of Maryland cattle just come."
"Oh Harry!" cried
Betty, in real distress.
"I know," he
answered; "but as Miss Bartram is going to stay two weeks, she'll
keep. She's not like a drove, that's
here one day, and away the next.
Besides, it is precious little good I shall have of her society, until
you two have used up all your secrets and small talk. I know how it is with girls. Leonard will drive over to meet the
train."
"Won't I do on a
pinch?" Leonard asked.
"Oh, to be sure,"
said Betty, a little embarrassed, "only Alice--Miss Bartram--might expect
Harry, because her brother came for me when I went up."
"If that's all, make
yourself easy, Bet," Henry answered, as he rose from the table. "There's a mighty difference between
here and there. Unless you mean to turn
us into a town family while she stays--high quality, eh?"
"Go along to your
cattle! there's not much quality, high or low, where you are."
Betty was indignant; but the
annoyance exhausted itself healthfully while she was clearing away the dishes
and restoring the room to its order, so that when Leonard drove up to the gate
with the lumbering, old-fashioned carriage two hours afterwards, she came forth
calm, cheerful, fresh as a pink in her pink muslin, and entirely the good,
sensible country-girl she was.
Two or three years before,
she and Miss Alice Bartram, daughter of the distinguished lawyer in the city,
had been room-mates at the Nereid Seminary for Young Ladies. Each liked the other for the contrast to her
own self; both were honest, good and lovable, but Betty had the stronger nerves
and a practical sense which seemed to be admirable courage in the eyes of Miss
Alice, whose instincts were more delicate, whose tastes were fine and high, and
who could not conceive of life without certain luxurious accessories. A very cordial friendship sprang up between
them,--not the effusive girl-love, with its iterative kisses, tears, and flow
of loosened hair, but springing from the respect inspired by sound and positive
qualities.
The winter before, Betty had
been invited to visit her friend in the city, and had passed a very excited and
delightful week in the stately Bartram mansion.
If she were at first a little fluttered by the manners of the new world,
she was intelligent enough to carry her own nature frankly through it, instead
of endeavoring to assume its character.
Thus her little awkwardnesses became originalities, and she was almost
popular in the lofty circle when she withdrew from it. It was therefore, perhaps, slightly
inconsistent in Betty, that she was not quite sure how Miss Bartram would
accept the reverse side of this social experience. She imagined it easier to look down and make
allowances, as a host, than as a guest; she could not understand that the charm
of the change might be fully equal.
It was lovely weather, as
they drove up the sweet, ever-changing curves of the Brandywine valley. The woods fairly laughed in the clear
sunlight, and the soft, incessant, shifting breezes. Leonard, in his best clothes, and with a
smoother gloss on his brown hair, sang to himself as he urged the strong-boned
horses into a trot along the levels; and Betty finally felt so quietly happy
that she forgot to be nervous. When they
reached the station they walked up and down the long platform together, until
the train from the city thundered up, and painfully restrained its speed. Then Betty, catching sight of a fawn-colored
travelling dress issuing from the ladies' car, caught hold of Leonard's arm,
and cried: "There she is!"
Miss Bartram heard the
words, and looked down with a bright, glad expression on her face. It was not her beauty that made Leonard's
heart suddenly stop beating; for she was not considered a beauty, in
society. It was something rarer than
perfect beauty, yet even more difficult to describe,--a serene, unconscious
grace, a pure, lofty maturity of womanhood, such as our souls bow down to in
the Santa Barbara of Palma Vecchio. Her
features were not "faultlessly regular," but they were informed with
the finer harmonies of her character. She
was a woman, at whose feet a noble man might kneel, lay his forehead on her
knee, confess his sins, and be pardoned.
She stepped down to the
platform, and Betty's arms were about her.
After a double embrace she gently disengaged herself, turned to Leonard,
gave him her hand, and said, with a smile which was delightfully frank and
cordial: "I will not wait for
Betty's introduction, Mr. Rambo. She has
talked to me so much of her brother Harry, that I quite know you already."
Leonard could neither withdraw
his eyes nor his hand. It was like a
double burst of warmth and sunshine, in which his breast seemed to expand, his
stature to grow, and his whole nature to throb with some new and wonderful
force. A faint color came into Miss
Bartram's cheeks, as they stood thus, for a moment, face to face. She seemed to be waiting for him to speak,
but of this he never thought; had any words come to his mind, his tongue could
not have uttered them.
"It is not Harry,"
Betty explained, striving to hide her embarrassment. "This is Leonard Clare, who lives with
us."
"Then I do not know you
so well as I thought," Miss Bartram said to him; "it is the beginning
of a new acquaintance, after all."
"There isn't no harm
done," Leonard answered, and instantly feeling the awkwardness of the
words, blushed so painfully that Miss Bartram felt the inadequacy of her social
tact to relieve so manifest a case of distress.
But she did, instinctively, what was really best: she gave Leonard the
check for her trunk, divided her satchels with Betty, and walked to the
carriage.
He did not sing, as he drove
homewards down the valley. Seated on the
trunk, in front, he quietly governed the horses, while the two girls, on the
seat behind him, talked constantly and gaily.
Only the rich, steady tones of Miss Bartram's voice WOULD make their way
into his ears, and every light, careless sentence printed itself upon his
memory. They came to him as if from some
inaccessible planet. Poor fellow! he was
not the first to feel "the desire of the moth for the star."
When they reached the Rambo
farm-house, it was necessary that he should give his hand to help her down from
the clumsy carriage. He held it but a
moment; yet in that moment a gentle pulse throbbed upon his hard palm, and he
mechanically set his teeth, to keep down the impulse which made him wild to
hold it there forever. "Thank you,
Mr. Clare!" said Miss Bartram, and passed into the house. When he followed presently, shouldering her
trunk into the upper best-room, and kneeling upon the floor to unbuckle the
straps, she found herself wondering:
"Is this a knightly service, or the menial duty of a porter? Can a man be both sensitive and ignorant,
chivalrous and vulgar?"
The question was not so
easily decided, though no one guessed how much Miss Bartram pondered it, during
the succeeding days. She insisted, from
the first, that her coming should make no change in the habits of the
household; she rose in the cool, dewy summer dawns, dined at noon in the old
brown room beside the kitchen, and only differed from the Rambos in sitting at
her moonlit window, and breathing the subtle odors of a myriad leaves, long
after Betty was sleeping the sleep of health.
It was strange how
frequently the strong, not very graceful figure of Leonard Clare marched
through these reveries. She occasionally
spoke to him at the common table, or as she passed the borders of the
hay-field, where he and Henry were at work: but his words to her were always
few and constrained. What was there in
his eyes that haunted her? Not merely a
most reverent admiration of her pure womanly refinement, although she read that
also; not a fear of disparagement, such as his awkward speech implied, but
something which seemed to seek agonizingly for another language than that of the
lips,--something which appealed to her from equal ground, and asked for an
answer.
One evening she met him in
the lane, as she returned from the meadow.
She carried a bunch of flowers, with delicate blue and lilac bells, and
asked him the name.
"Them's Brandywine
cowslips," he answered; "I never heard no other name.
"May I correct
you?" she said, gently, and with a smile which she meant to be
playful. "I suppose the main thing
is to speak one's thought, but there are neat and orderly ways, and there are
careless ways." Thereupon she
pointed out the inaccuracies of his answer, he standing beside her, silent and
attentive. When she ceased, he did not
immediately reply.
"You will take it in
good part, will you not?" she continued.
"I hope I have not offended you."
"No!" he
exclaimed, firmly, lifting his head, and looking at her. The inscrutable expression in his dark gray
eyes was stronger than before, and all his features were more clearly drawn. He reminded her of a picture of Adam which
she had once seen: there was the same rather low forehead, straight, even
brows, full yet strong mouth, and that broader form of chin which repeats and
balances the character of the forehead.
He was not positively handsome, but from head to foot he expressed a fresh,
sound quality of manhood.
Another question flashed
across Miss Bartram's mind: Is life long
enough to transform this clay into marble?
Here is a man in form, and with all the dignity of the perfect masculine
nature: shall the broad, free intelligence, the grace and sweetness, the taste
and refinement, which the best culture gives, never be his also? If not, woman must be content with faulty
representations of her ideal.
So musing, she walked on to
the farm-house. Leonard had picked up
one of the blossoms she had let fall, and appeared to be curiously examining
it. If he had apologized for his want of
grammar, or promised to reform it, her interest in him might have diminished;
but his silence, his simple, natural obedience to some powerful inner force,
whatever it was, helped to strengthen that phantom of him in her mind, which
was now beginning to be a serious trouble.
Once again, the day before
she left the Rambo farmhouse to return to the city, she came upon him,
alone. She had wandered off to the
Brandywine, to gather ferns at a rocky point where some choice varieties were
to be found. There were a few charming
clumps, half-way up a slaty cliff, which it did not seem possible to scale, and
she was standing at the base, looking up in vain longing, when a voice, almost
at her ear, said:
"Which ones do you
want?"
Afterwards, she wondered
that she did not start at the voice.
Leonard had come up the road from one of the lower fields: he wore
neither coat nor waistcoat, and his shirt, open at the throat, showed the firm,
beautiful white of the flesh below the strong tan of his neck. Miss Bartram noticed the sinewy strength and
elasticity of his form, yet when she looked again at the ferns, she shook her head,
and answered:
"None, since I cannot
have them."
Without saying a word, he
took off his shoes, and commenced climbing the nearly perpendicular face of the
cliff. He had done it before, many a
time; but Miss Bartram, although she was familiar with such exploits from the
pages of many novels, had never seen the reality, and it quite took away her
breath.
When he descended with the
ferns in his hand, she said: "It
was a great risk; I wish I had not wanted them."
"It was no risk for
me," he answered.
"What can I send you in
return?" she asked, as they walked forwards. "I am going home to-morrow."
"Betty told me,"
Leonard said; "please, wait one minute."
He stepped down to the bank
of the stream, washed his hands carefully in the clear water, and came back to
her, holding them, dripping, at his sides.
"I am very
ignorant," he then continued,--"ignorant and rough. You are good, to want to send me something,
but I want nothing. Miss Bartram, you
are very good."
He paused; but with all her
tact and social experience, she did not know what to say.
"Would you do one
little thing for me--not for the ferns, that was nothing--no more than you do,
without thinking, for all your friends?"
"Oh, surely!" she
said.
"Might I--might
I--now,--there'll be no chance tomorrow,--shake hands with you?"
The words seemed to be
forced from him by the strength of a fierce will. Both stopped, involuntarily.
"It's quite dry, you
see," said he, offering his hand.
Her own sank upon it, palm to palm, and the fingers softly closed over
each, as if with the passion and sweetness of a kiss. Miss Bartram's heart came to her eyes, and
read, at last, the question in Leonard's.
It was: "I as man, and you,
as woman, are equals; will you give me time to reach you?" What her eyes replied she knew not. A mighty influence drew her on, and a mighty
doubt and dread restrained her. One
said: "Here is your lover, your
husband, your cherished partner, left by fate below your station, yet whom you
may lift to your side! Shall man, alone,
crown the humble maiden,--stoop to love, and, loving, ennoble? Be you the queen, and love him by the royal
right of womanhood!" But the other
sternly whispered: "How shall your
fine and delicate fibres be knit into this coarse texture? Ignorance, which years cannot wash away,--low
instincts, what do YOU know?--all the servile side of life, which is turned
from you,--what madness to choose this, because some current of earthly
magnetism sets along your nerves? He
loves you: what of that? You are a
higher being to him, and he stupidly adores you. Think,--yes, DARE to think of all the prosaic
realities of life, shared with him!"
Miss Bartram felt herself
growing dizzy. Behind the impulse which
bade her cast herself upon his breast swept such a hot wave of shame and pain
that her face burned, and she dropped her eyelids to shut out the sight of his
face. But, for one endless second, the
sweeter voice spoke through their clasped hands. Perhaps he kissed hers; she did not know; she
only heard herself murmur:
"Good-bye! Pray go on; I will rest here."
She sat down upon a bank by
the roadside, turned away her head, and closed her eyes. It was long before the tumult in her nature
subsided. If she reflected, with a sense
of relief, "nothing was said," the thought immediately followed,
"but all is known." It was
impossible,--yes, clearly impossible; and then came such a wild longing, such
an assertion of the right and truth and justice of love, as made her seem a
miserable coward, the veriest slave of conventionalities.
Out of this struggle dawned
self-knowledge, and the strength which is born of it. When she returned to the house, she was pale
and weary, but capable of responding to Betty Rambo's constant cheerfulness. The next day she left for the city, without
having seen Leonard Clare again.
II.
Henry Rambo married, and
brought a new mistress to the farm-house.
Betty married, and migrated to a new home in another part of the
State. Leonard Clare went back to his
trade, and returned no more in harvest-time.
So the pleasant farm by the Brandywine, having served its purpose as a
background, will be seen no more in this history.
Miss Bartram's inmost life,
as a woman, was no longer the same. The
point of view from which she had beheld the world was shifted, and she was
obliged to remodel all her feelings and ideas to conform to it. But the process was gradual, and no one stood
near enough to her to remark it. She was
occasionally suspected of that "eccentricity" which, in a woman of
five-and-twenty, is looked upon as the first symptom of a tendency to
old-maidenhood, but which is really the sign of an earnest heart struggling
with the questions of life. In the
society of cities, most men give only the shallow, flashy surface of their
natures to the young women they meet, and Miss Bartram, after that revelation
of the dumb strength of an ignorant man, sometimes grew very impatient of the
platitudes and affectations which came to her clad in elegant words, and
accompanied by irreproachable manners.
She had various suitors; for
that sense of grace and repose and sweet feminine power, which hung around her
like an atmosphere, attracted good and true men towards her. To some, indeed, she gave that noble,
untroubled friendship which is always possible between the best of the two
sexes, and when she was compelled to deny the more intimate appeal, it was done
with such frank sorrow, such delicate tenderness, that she never lost the
friend in losing the lover. But, as one
year after another went by, and the younger members of her family fell off into
their separate domestic orbits, she began to shrink a little at the perspective
of a lonely life, growing lonelier as it receded from the Present.
By this time, Leonard Clare
had become almost a dream to her. She
had neither seen him nor heard of him since he let go her hand on that
memorable evening beside the stream. He
was a strange, bewildering chance, a cypher concealing a secret which she could
not intelligently read. Why should she
keep the memory of that power which was, perhaps, some unconscious quality of
his nature (no, it was not so! something deeper than reason cried:), or long
since forgotten, if felt, by him?
The man whom she most
esteemed came back to her. She knew the
ripeness and harmony of his intellect, the nobility of his character, and the
generosity of a feeling which would be satisfied with only a partial
return. She felt sure, also, that she
should never possess a sentiment nearer to love than that which pleaded his
cause in her heart. But her hand lay
quiet in his, her pulses were calm when he spoke, and his face, manly and true
as it was, never invaded her dreams. All
questioning was vain; her heart gave no solution of the riddle. Perhaps her own want was common to all lives:
then she was cherishing a selfish ideal, and rejecting the positive good
offered to her hands.
After long hesitation she
yielded. The predictions of society came
to naught; instead of becoming an "eccentric" spinster, Miss Bartram
was announced to be the affianced bride of Mr. Lawrie. A few weeks and months rolled around, and
when the wedding-day came, she almost hailed it as the port of refuge, where
she should find a placid and peaceful life.
They were married by an aged
clergyman, a relative of the bridegroom.
The cross-street where his chapel stood, fronting a Methodist
church--both of the simplest form of that architecture fondly supposed to be
Gothic,--was quite blocked up by the carriages of the party. The pews were crowded with elegant guests,
the altar was decorated with flowers, and the ceremony lacked nothing of its
usual solemn beauty. The bride was pale,
but strikingly calm and self-possessed, and when she moved towards the door as
Mrs. Lawrie, on her husband's arm, many matrons, recalling their own
experience, marvelled at her unflurried dignity.
Just as they passed out the
door, and the bridal carriage was summoned, a singular thing happened. Another bridal carriage drew up from the
opposite side, and a newly wedded pair came forth from the portal of the Methodist
church. Both parties stopped, face to
face, divided only by the narrow street.
Mrs. Lawrie first noticed the flushed cheeks of the other bride, her
white dress, rather showy than elegant, and the heavy gold ornaments she
wore. Then she turned to the bridegroom. He was tall and well-formed, dressed like a
gentleman, but like one who is not yet unconscious of his dress, and had the
air of a man accustomed to exercise some authority.
She saw his face, and
instantly all other faces disappeared.
From the opposite brink of a tremendous gulf she looked into his eyes,
and their blended ray of love and despair pierced her to the heart.
There was a roaring in her
ears, followed a long sighing sound, like that of the wind on some homeless
waste; she leaned more heavily on her husband's arm, leaned against his
shoulder, slid slowly down into his supporting clasp, and knew no more.
"She's paying for her
mock composure, after all," said the matrons.
"It must have been a
great effort."
III.
Ten years afterwards, Mrs.
Lawrie went on board a steamer at Southampton, bound for New York. She was travelling alone, having been called
suddenly from Europe by the approaching death of her aged father. For two or three days after sailing, the
thick, rainy spring weather kept all below, except a few hardy gentlemen who
crowded together on the lee of the smoke-stack, and kept up a stubborn
cheerfulness on a very small capital of comfort. There were few cabin-passengers on board, but
the usual crowd of emigrants in the steerage.
Mrs. Lawrie's face had grown
calmer and colder during these years.
There was yet no gray in her hair, no wrinkles about her clear eyes;
each feature appeared to be the same, but the pale, monotonous color which had
replaced the warm bloom of her youth, gave them a different character. The gracious dignity of her manner, the
mellow tones of her voice, still expressed her unchanging goodness, yet those
who met her were sure to feel, in some inexplicable way, that to be good is not
always to be happy. Perhaps, indeed, her
manner was older than her face and form: she still attracted the interest of
men, but with a certain doubt and reserve.
Certain it is that when she
made her appearance on deck, glad of the blue sky and sunshine, and threw back
her hood to feel the freshness of the sea air, all eyes followed her movements,
except those of a forlorn individual, who, muffled in his cloak and apparently
sea-sick, lay upon one of the benches.
The captain presently joined her, and the gentlemen saw that she was bright
and perfectly self-possessed in conversation: some of them immediately resolved
to achieve an acquaintance. The dull,
passive existence of the beginning of every voyage, seemed to be now at an end. It was time for the little society of the
vessel to awake, stir itself, and organize a life of its own, for the few
remaining days.
That night, as Mrs. Lawrie
was sleeping in her berth, she suddenly awoke with a singular feeling of dread
and suspense. She listened silently, but
for some time distinguished none other than the small sounds of night on
shipboard--the indistinct orders, the dragging of ropes, the creaking of
timbers, the dull, regular jar of the engine, and the shuffling noise of feet
overhead. But, ere long, she seemed to
catch faint, distant sounds, that seemed like cries; then came hurry and
confusion on deck; then voices in the cabin, one of which said: "they
never can get it under, at this rate!"
She rose, dressed herself
hastily, and made her way through pale and excited stewards, and the bewildered
passengers who were beginning to rush from their staterooms, to the deck. In the wild tumult which prevailed, she might
have been thrown down and trampled under foot, had not a strong arm seized her
around the waist, and borne her towards the stern, where there were but few
persons.
"Wait here!" said
a voice, and her protector plunged into the crowd.
She saw, instantly, the
terrible fate which had fallen upon the vessel.
The bow was shrouded in whirls of smoke, through which dull red flashes
began to show themselves; and all the length and breadth of the deck was filled
with a screaming, struggling, fighting mass of desperate human beings. She saw the captain, officers, and a few of
the crew working in vain against the disorder: she saw the boats filled before
they were lowered, and heard the shrieks as they were capsized; she saw spars
and planks and benches cast overboard, and maddened men plunging after them;
and then, like the sudden opening of the mouth of Hell, the relentless, triumphant
fire burst through the forward deck and shot up to the foreyard.
She was leaning against the
mizen shrouds, between the coils of rope.
Nobody appeared to notice her, although the quarter-deck was fast
filling with persons driven back by the fire, yet still shrinking from the
terror and uncertainty of the sea. She
thought: "It is but death--why
should I fear? The waves are at hand, to
save me from all suffering." And
the collective horror of hundreds of beings did not so overwhelm her as she had
both fancied and feared; the tragedy of each individual life was lost in the
confusion, and was she not a sharer in their doom?
Suddenly, a man stood before
her with a cork life-preserver in his hands, and buckled it around her
securely, under the arms. He was panting
and almost exhausted, yet he strove to make his voice firm, and even cheerful,
as he said:
"We fought the cowardly
devils as long as there was any hope.
Two boats are off, and two capsized; in ten minutes more every soul must
take to the water. Trust to me, and I
will save you or die with you!"
"What else can I
do?" she answered.
With a few powerful strokes
of an axe, he broke off the top of the pilot-house, bound two or three planks
to it with ropes, and dragged the mass to the bulwarks.
"The minute this
goes," he then said to her, "you go after it, and I follow. Keep still when you rise to the
surface."
She left the shrouds, took
hold of the planks at his side, and they heaved the rude raft into the
sea. In an instant she was seized and
whirled over the side; she instinctively held her breath, felt a shock, felt
herself swallowed up in an awful, fathomless coldness, and then found herself
floating below the huge towering hull which slowly drifted away.
In another moment there was
one at her side. "Lay your hand on
my shoulder," he said; and when she did so, swam for the raft, which they
soon reached. While she supported
herself by one of the planks he so arranged and bound together the pieces of
timber that in a short time they could climb upon them and rest, not much
washed by the waves. The ship drifted
further and further, casting a faint, though awful, glare over the sea, until
the light was suddenly extinguished, as the hull sank.
The dawn was in the sky by
this time, and as it broadened they could see faint specks here and there,
where others, like themselves, clung to drifting spars. Mrs. Lawrie shuddered with cold and the
reaction from an excitement which had been far more powerful than she knew at
the time.
Her preserver then took off
his coat, wrapped it around her, and produced a pocket-flask, saying;
"this will support us the longest; it is all I could find, or bring with
me."
She sat, leaning against his
shoulder, though partly turned away from him: all she could say was: "you
are very good."
After awhile he spoke, and
his voice seemed changed to her ears.
"You must be thinking of Mr. Lawrie. It will, indeed, be terrible for him to hear
of the disaster, before knowing that you are saved."
"God has spared him
that distress," she answered.
"Mr. Lawrie died, a year ago."
She felt a start in the
strong frame upon which she leaned.
After a few minutes of silence, he slowly shifted his position towards
her, yet still without facing her, and said, almost in a whisper:
"You have said that I
am very good. Will you put your hand in
mine?"
She stretched hers eagerly
and gratefully towards him. What had
happened? Through all the numbness of
her blood, there sprang a strange new warmth from his strong palm, and a pulse,
which she had almost forgotten as a dream of the past, began to beat through
her frame. She turned around all
a-tremble, and saw his face in the glow of the coming day.
"Leonard Clare!"
she cried.
"Then you have not
forgotten me?"
"Could one forget, when
the other remembers?"
The words came involuntarily
from her lips. She felt what they
implied, the moment afterwards, and said no more. But he kept her hand in his.
"Mrs. Lawrie," he
began, after another silence, "we are hanging by a hair on the edge of
life, but I shall gladly let that hair break, since I may tell you now, purely
and in the hearing of God, how I have tried to rise to you out of the low place
in which you found me. At first you
seemed too far; but you yourself led me the first step of the way, and I have
steadily kept my eyes on you, and followed it.
When I had learned my trade, I came to the city. No labor was too hard for me, no study too
difficult. I was becoming a new man, I
saw all that was still lacking, and how to reach it, and I watched you,
unknown, at a distance. Then I heard of
your engagement: you were lost, and something of which I had begun to dream,
became insanity. I determined to trample
it out of my life. The daughter of the
master-builder, whose first assistant I was, had always favored me in her
society; and I soon persuaded her to love me.
I fancied, too, that I loved her as most married men seemed to love
their wives; the union would advance me to a partnership in her father's
business, and my fortune would then be secured.
You know what happened; but you do not know how the sight of your face
planted the old madness again in my life, and made me a miserable husband, a
miserable man of wealth, almost a scoffer at the knowledge I had acquired for
your sake.
"When my wife died,
taking an only child with her, there was nothing left to me except the
mechanical ambition to make myself, without you, what I imagined I might have
become, through you. I have studied and
travelled, lived alone and in society, until your world seemed to be almost
mine: but you were not there!"
The sun had risen, while
they sat, rocking on their frail support.
Her hand still lay in his, and her head rested on his shoulder. Every word he spoke sank into her heart with a
solemn sweetness, in which her whole nature was silent and satisfied. Why should she speak? He knew all.
Yes, it seemed that he
knew. His arm stole around her, and her
head was drawn from his shoulder to the warm breadth of his breast.
Something hard pressed her
cheek, and she lifted her hand to move it aside. He drew forth a flat medallion case; and to
the unconscious question in her face, such a sad, tender smile came to his
lips, that she could not repress a sudden pain.
Was it the miniature of his dead wife?
He opened the case, and
showed her, under the glass, a faded, pressed flower.
"What is it?" she
asked.
"The Brandywine cowslip
you dropped, when you spoke to me in the lane.
Then it was that you showed me the first step of the way."
She laid her head again upon
his bosom. Hour after hour they sat, and
the light swells of the sea heaved them aimlessly to and fro, and the sun
burned them, and the spray drenched their limbs. At last Leonard Clare roused himself and
looked around: he felt numb and faint, and he saw, also, that her strength was
rapidly failing.
"We cannot live much
longer, I fear," he said, clasping her closely in his arms. "Kiss me once, darling, and then we will
die."
She clung to him and kissed
him.
"There is life, not
death, in your lips!" he cried.
"Oh, God, if we should live!"
He rose painfully to his
feet, stood, tottering? on the raft, and looked across the waves. Presently he began to tremble, then to sob
like a child, and at last spoke, through his tears:
"A sail! a sail!--and
heading towards us!"
Mr. Editor,--If you ever
read the "Burroak Banner" (which you will find among your exchanges,
as the editor publishes your prospectus for six weeks every year, and sends no
bill to you) my name will not be that of a stranger. Let me throw aside all affectation of
humility, and say that I hope it is already and not unfavorably familiar to
you. I am informed by those who claim to
know that the manuscripts of obscure writers are passed over by you editors
without examination--in short, that I must first have a name, if I hope to make
one. The fact that an article of three
hundred and seventy-five pages, which I sent, successively, to the "North
American Review," the "Catholic World," and the
"Radical," was in each case returned to me with MY knot on the tape
by which it was tied, convinces me that such is indeed the case. A few years ago I should not have meekly
submitted to treatment like this; but late experiences have taught me the
vanity of many womanly dreams.
You are acquainted with the
part I took (I am SURE you must have seen it in the "Burroak Banner"
eight years ago) in creating that public sentiment in our favor which invested
us with all the civil and political rights of men. How the editors of the
"Revolution," to which I subscribe, and the conventions in favor of
the equal rights of women, recently held in Boston and other cities, have
failed to notice our noble struggle, is a circumstance for which I will not try
to account. I will only say--and it is a
hint which SOME PERSONS will understand--that there are other forms of jealousy
than those which spring from love.
It is, indeed, incredible
that so little is known, outside the State of Atlantic, of the experiment--I
mean the achievement--of the last eight years.
While the war lasted, we did not complain that our work was ignored; but
now that our sisters in other States are acting as if in complete
unconsciousness of what WE have done--now that we need their aid and they need
ours (but in different ways), it is time that somebody should speak. Were Selina Whiston living, I should leave
the task to her pen; she never recovered from the shock and mortification of
her experiences in the State Legislature, in '64--but I will not anticipate the
history. Of all the band of female
iconoclasts, as the Hon. Mr. Screed called us in jest--it was no jest
afterwards, HIS image being the first to go down--of all, I say, "some are
married, and some are dead," and there is really no one left so familiar
with the circumstances as I am, and equally competent to give a report of them.
Mr. Spelter (the editor of
the "Burroak Banner") suggests that I must be brief, if I wish my
words to reach the ears of the millions for whom they are designed; and I shall
do my best to be so. If I were not
obliged to begin at the very beginning, and if the interests of Atlantic had
not been swallowed up, like those of other little States, in the whirlpool of
national politics, I should have much less to say. But if Mr. George Fenian Brain and Mrs. Candy
Station do not choose to inform the public of either the course or the results
of our struggle, am I to blame? If I
could have attended the convention in Boston, and had been allowed to
speak--and I am sure the distinguished Chairwoman would have given me a
chance--it would have been the best way, no doubt, to set our case before the
world.
I must first tell you how it
was that we succeeded in forcing the men to accept our claims, so much in
advance of other States. We were
indebted for it chiefly to the skill and adroitness of Selina Whiston. The matter had been agitated, it is true, for
some years before, and as early as 1856, a bill, drawn up by Mrs. Whiston
herself, had been introduced into the Legislature, where it received three
votes. Moreover, we had held meetings in
almost every election precinct in the State, and our Annual Fair (to raise
funds) at Gaston, while the Legislature was in session, was always very
brilliant and successful. So the people
were not entirely unprepared.
Although our State had gone
for Fremont in 1856, by a small majority, the Democrats afterwards elected
their Governor; and both parties, therefore, had hopes of success in 1860. The canvass began early, and was very
animated. Mrs. Whiston had already
inaugurated the custom of attending political meetings, and occasionally
putting a question to the stump orator--no matter of which party; of sometimes,
indeed, taking the stump herself, after the others had exhausted their wind. She was very witty, as you know, and her
stories were so good and so capitally told, that neither Democrat nor
Republican thought of leaving the ground while she was upon the stand.
Now, it happened that our
Congressional District was one of the closest.
It happened, also, that our candidate (I am a Republican, and so is Mr.
Strongitharm) was rather favorably inclined to the woman's cause. It happened, thirdly--and this is the
seemingly insignificant pivot upon which we whirled into triumph--that he, Mr.
Wrangle, and the opposing candidate, Mr. Tumbrill, had arranged to hold a joint
meeting at Burroak. This meeting took
place on a magnificent day, just after the oats-harvest; and everybody, for
twenty miles around, was there. Mrs.
Whiston, together with Sarah Pincher, Olympia Knapp, and several other
prominent advocates of our cause, met at my house in the morning; and we all
agreed that it was time to strike a blow.
The rest of us magnanimously decided to take no part in the concerted
plan, though very eager to do so. Selina
Whiston declared that she must have the field to herself; and when she said
that, we knew she meant it.
It was generally known that
she was on the ground. In fact, she
spent most of the time while Messrs. Wrangle and Tumbrill were speaking, in
walking about through the crowds--so after an hour apiece for the gentlemen,
and then fifteen minutes apiece for a rejoinder, and the Star Spangled Banner
from the band, for both sides, we were not a bit surprised to hear a few cries
of "Whiston!" from the audience.
Immediately we saw the compact gray bonnet and brown serge dress (she
knew what would go through a crowd without tearing!) splitting the wedge of
people on the steps leading to the platform.
I noticed that the two Congressional candidates looked at each other and
smiled, in spite of the venomous charges they had just been making.
Well--I won't attempt to
report her speech, though it was her most splendid effort (as people WILL say,
when it was no effort to her at all).
But the substance of it was this: after setting forth woman's wrongs and
man's tyranny, and taxation without representation, and an equal chance, and
fair-play, and a struggle for life (which you know all about from the other
conventions), she turned squarely around to the two candidates arid said:
"Now to the practical
application. You, Mr. Wrangle, and you,
Mr. Tumbrill, want to be elected to Congress.
The district is a close one: you have both counted the votes in advance
(oh, I know your secrets!) and there isn't a difference of a hundred in your
estimates. A very little will turn the
scale either way. Perhaps a woman's
influence--perhaps my voice--might do it.
But I will give you an equal chance.
So much power is left to woman, despite what you withhold, that we, the
women of Putnam, Shinnebaug, and Rancocus counties, are able to decide which of
you shall be elected. Either of you
would give a great deal to have a majority of the intelligent women of the
District on your side: it would already be equivalent to success. Now, to show that we understand the political
business from which you have excluded us--to prove that we are capable of
imitating the noble example of MEN--we offer to sell our influence, as they
their votes, to the highest bidder!"
There was great shouting and
cheering among the people at this, but the two candidates, somehow or other,
didn't seem much amused.
"I stand here,"
she continued, "in the interest of my struggling sisters, and with
authority to act for them. Which of you
will bid the most--not in offices or material advantages, as is the way of your
parties, but in the way of help to the Woman's Cause? Which of you will here publicly pledge
himself to say a word for us, from now until election-day, whenever he appears
upon the stump?"
There was repeated cheering,
and cries of "Got 'em there!"
(Men are so vulgar).
I pause for a reply. Shall they not answer me?" she
continued, turning to the audience.
"Then there were
tremendous cries of "Yes! yes! Wrangle! Tumbrill!"
Mr. Wrangle looked at Mr.
Tumbrill, and made a motion with his head, signifying that he should
speak. Then Mr. Tumbrill looked at Mr.
Wrangle, and made a motion that HE should speak. The people saw all this, and laughed and
shouted as if they would never finish.
Mr. Wrangle, on second
thoughts (this is my private surmise), saw that boldness would just then be
popular; so he stepped forward.
"Do I understand,"
he said, "that my fair and eloquent friend demands perfect political and
civil equality for her sex?"
"I do!" exclaimed
Selina Whiston, in her firmest manner.
"Let me be more
explicit," he continued. "You
mean precisely the same rights, the same duties, the same obligations, the same
responsibilities?"
She repeated the phrases
over after him, affirmatively, with an emphasis which I never heard surpassed.
"Pardon me once
more," said Mr. Wrangle; "the right to vote, to hold office, to
practise law, theology, medicine, to take part in all municipal affairs, to sit
on juries, to be called upon to aid in the execution of the law, to aid in
suppressing disturbances, enforcing public order, and performing military
duty?"
Here there were loud cheers
from the audience; and a good many voices cried out: "Got her there!" (Men are so very vulgar.)
Mrs. Whiston looked troubled
for a moment, but she saw that a moment's hesitation would be fatal to our
scheme, so she brought out her words as if each one were a maul-blow on the
butt-end of a wedge:
"All--that--we--demand!"
"Then," said Mr.
Wrangle, "I bid my support in exchange for the women's! Just what the speaker demands, without
exception or modification--equal privileges, rights, duties and obligations,
without regard to the question of sex!
Is that broad enough?"
I was all in a tremble when
it came to that. Somehow Mr. Wrangle's
acceptance of the bid did not inspire me, although it promised so much. I had anticipated opposition,
dissatisfaction, tumult. So had Mrs.
Whiston, and I could see, and the crowd could see, that she was not greatly
elated.
Mr. Wrangle made a very
significant bow to Mr. Tumbrill, and then sat down. There were cries of "Tumbrill!" and
that gentleman--none of us, of course, believing him sincere, for we knew his
private views--came forward and made exactly the same pledge. I will do both parties the justice to say
that they faithfully kept their word; nay, it was generally thought the
repetition of their brief pleas for woman, at some fifty meetings before
election came, had gradually conducted them to the belief that they were
expressing their own personal sentiments.
The mechanical echo in public thus developed into an opinion in
private. My own political experience has
since demonstrated to me that this is a phenomenon very common among men.
The impulse generated at
that meeting gradually spread all over the State. We--the leaders of the Women's Movement--did
not rest until we had exacted the same pledge from all the candidates of both
parties; and the nearer it drew towards election-day, the more prominence was
given, in the public meetings, to the illustration and discussion of the
subject. Our State went for Lincoln by a
majority of 2763 (as you will find by consulting the "Tribune
Almanac"), and Mr. Wrangle was elected to Congress, having received a
hundred and forty-two more votes than his opponent. Mr. Tumbrill has always attributed his defeat
to his want of courage in not taking up at once the glove which Selina Whiston
threw down.
I think I have said enough
to make it clear how the State of Atlantic came to be the first to grant equal
civil and political rights to women.
When the Legislature of 1860-'61 met at Gaston, we estimated that we
might count upon fifty-three out of the seventy-one Republican Senators and
Assemblymen, and on thirty-four out of the sixty-five Democrats. This would give a majority of twenty-eight in
the House, and ten in the Senate. Should
the bill pass, there was still a possibility that it might be vetoed by the
Governor, of whom we did not feel sure.
We therefore arranged that our Annual Fair should be held a fortnight
later than usual, and that the proceeds (a circumstance known only to the
managers) should be devoted to a series of choice suppers, at which we
entertained, not only the Governor and our friends in both Houses, but also,
like true Christians, our legislatorial enemies. Olympia Knapp, who, you know, is so very
beautiful, presided at these entertainments.
She put forth all her splendid powers, and with more effect than any of
us suspected. On the day before the bill
reached its third reading, the Governor made her an offer of marriage. She came to the managers in great agitation,
and laid the matter before them, stating that she was overwhelmed with surprise
(though Sarah Pincher always maintained that she wasn't in the least), and asking
their advice. We discussed the question
for four hours, and finally decided that the interests of the cause would
oblige her to accept the Governor's hand.
"Oh, I am so glad!" cried Olympia, "for I accepted him at
once." It was a brave, a noble deed!
Now, I would ask those who
assert that women are incapable of conducting the business of politics, to say
whether any set of men, of either party, could have played their cards more
skilfully? Even after the campaign was
over we might have failed, had it not been for the suppers. We owed this idea, like the first, to the
immortal Selina Whiston. A lucky
accident--as momentous in its way as the fall of an apple to Newton, or the
flying of a kite to Dr. Franklin--gave her the secret principle by which the
politics of men are directed. Her house
in Whittletown was the half of a double frame building, and the rear-end of the
other part was the private office of--but no, I will not mention the name--a
lawyer and a politician. He was known as
a "wirepuller," and the other wire-pullers of his party used to meet
in his office and discuss matters. Mrs.
Whiston always asserted that there was a mouse-hole through the partition; but
she had energy enough to have made a hole herself, for the sake of the cause.
She never would tell us all
she overheard. "It is enough,"
she would say, "that I know how the thing is done."
I remember that we were all
considerably startled when she first gave us an outline of her plan. On my saying that I trusted the dissemination
of our principles would soon bring us a great adhesion, she burst out with:
"Principles! Why if we trust to principles, we shall never
succeed! We must rely upon INFLUENCES,
as the men do; we must fight them with their own weapons, and even then we are
at a disadvantage, because we cannot very well make use of whiskey and
cigars."
We yielded, because we had
grown accustomed to be guided by her; and, moreover, we had seen, time and
again, how she could succeed--as, for instance, in the Nelson divorce case (but
I don't suppose you ever heard of that), when the matter seemed nigh hopeless
to all of us. The history of 1860 and
the following winter proves that in her the world has lost a stateswoman. Mr. Wrangle and Governor Battle have both
said to me that they never knew a measure to be so splendidly engineered both
before the public and in the State Legislature.
After the bill had been
passed, and signed by the Governor, and so had become a law, and the grand
Women's Jubilee had been held at Gaston, the excitement subsided. It would be nearly a year to the next State
election, and none of the women seemed to care for the local and municipal
elections in the spring. Besides, there
was a good deal of anxiety among them in regard to the bill, which was drawn up
in almost the exact terms used by Mr. Wrangle at the political meeting. In fact, we always have suspected that he
wrote it. The word "male" was
simply omitted from all laws.
"Nothing is changed," said Mrs. Whiston, quoting Charles X.,
"there are only 201,758 more citizens in Atlantic!"
This was in January, 1861,
you must remember; and the shadow of the coming war began to fall over us. Had the passage of our bill been postponed a
fortnight it would have been postponed indefinitely, for other and (for the
men) more powerful excitements followed one upon the other. Even our jubilee was thinly attended, and all
but two of the members on whom we relied for speeches failed us. Governor Battle, who was to have presided,
was at Washington, and Olympia, already his wife, accompanied him. (I may add that she has never since taken any
active part with us. They have been in
Europe for the last three years.)
Most of the women--here in
Burroak, at least--expressed a feeling of disappointment that there was no
palpable change in their lot, no sense of extended liberty, such as they
imagined would come to transform them into brighter and better creatures. They supposed that they would at once gain in
importance in the eyes of the men; but the men were now so preoccupied by the
events at the South that they seemed to have forgotten our political
value. Speaking for myself, as a good
Union woman, I felt that I must lay aside, for a time, the interests of my sex. Once, it is true, I proposed to accompany Mr.
Strongitharm to a party caucus at the Wrangle House; but he so suddenly
discovered that he had business in another part of the town, that I withdrew my
proposition.
As the summer passed over,
and the first and second call for volunteers had been met, and more than met,
by the patriotic men of the State (how we blessed them!) we began to take
courage, and to feel, that if our new civil position brought us no very
tangible enjoyment, at least it imposed upon us no very irksome duties.
The first practical effect
of the new law came to light at the August term of our County Court. The names of seven women appeared on the list
of jurors, but only three of them answered to their names. One, the wife of a poor farmer, was excused
by the Judge, as there was no one to look after six small children in her
absence; another was a tailoress, with a quantity of work on hand, some of
which she proposed bringing with her into Court, in order to save time; but as
this could not be allowed, she made so much trouble that she was also finally
let off. Only one, therefore, remained
to serve; fortunately for the credit of our sex, she was both able and willing
to do so; and we afterward made a subscription, and presented her with a silver
fish-knife, on account of her having tired out eleven jurymen, and brought in a
verdict of $5,000 damages against a young man whom she convicted of
seduction. She told me that no one would
ever know what she endured during those three days; but the morals of our
county have been better ever since.
Mr. Spelter told me that his
State exchanges showed that there had been difficulties of the same kind in all
the other counties. In Mendip (the
county-town of which is Whittletown, Mrs. Whiston's home) the immediate result
had been the decision, on the part of the Commissioners, to build an addition
at the rear of the Court-House, with large, commodious and well-furnished
jury-rooms, so arranged that a comfortable privacy was secured to the
jury-women. I did my best to have the
same improvement adopted here, but, alas! I have not the ability of Selina
Whiston in such matters, and there is nothing to this day but the one vile,
miserable room, properly furnished in no particular except spittoons.
The nominating Conventions
were held in August, also, and we were therefore called upon to move at once,
in order to secure our fair share. Much
valuable time had been lost in discussing a question of policy, namely, whether
we should attach ourselves to the two parties already in existence, according
to our individual inclinations, or whether we should form a third party for
ourselves. We finally accepted the
former proposition, and I think wisely; for the most of us were so ignorant of
political tricks and devices, that we still needed to learn from the men, and
we could not afford to draw upon us the hostility of both parties, in the very
infancy of our movement.
Never in my life did I have
such a task, as in drumming up a few women to attend the primary township
meeting for the election of delegates. It
was impossible to make them comprehend its importance. Even after I had done my best to explain the
technicalities of male politics, and fancied that I had made some impression,
the answer would be: "Well, I'd go,
I'm sure, just to oblige you, but then there's the tomatoes to be
canned"--or, "I'm so behindhand with my darning and
patching"--or, "John'll be sure to go, and there's no need of two
from the same house"--and so on, until I was mightily discouraged. There were just nine of us, all told, to about
a hundred men. I won't deny that our
situation that night, at the Wrangle House, was awkward and not entirely
agreeable. To be sure the landlord gave
us the parlor, and most of the men came in, now and then, to speak to us; but
they managed the principal matters all by themselves, in the bar-room, which
was such a mess of smoke and stale liquor smells, that it turned my stomach
when I ventured in for two minutes.
I don't think we should have
accomplished much, but for a 'cute idea of Mrs. Wilbur, the tinman's wife. She went to the leaders, and threatened them
that the women's vote should be cast in a body for the Democratic candidates,
unless we were considered in making up the ticket. THAT helped: the delegates were properly
instructed, and the County Convention afterward nominated two men and one woman
as candidates for the Assembly. That
woman was--as I need hardly say, for the world knows it--myself. I had not solicited the honor, and therefore
could not refuse, especially as my daughter Melissa was then old enough to keep
house in my absence. No woman had
applied for the nomination for Sheriff, but there were seventeen
schoolmistresses anxious for the office of County Treasurer. The only other nomination given to the women,
however, was that of Director (or rather, Directress) of the Poor, which was
conferred on Mrs. Bassett, wife of a clergyman.
Mr. Strongitharm insisted
that I should, in some wise, prepare myself for my new duties, by reading
various political works, and I conscientiously tried to do so--but, dear me! it
was much more of a task than I supposed.
We had all read the debate on our bill, of course; but I always skipped
the dry, stupid stuff about the tariff, and finance, and stay laws and
exemption laws, and railroad company squabbles; and for the life of me I can't
see, to this day, what connection there is between these things and Women's
Rights. But, as I said, I did my best,
with the help of Webster's Dictionary; although the further I went the less I
liked it.
As election-day drew nearer,
our prospects looked brighter. The
Republican ticket, under the editorial head of the "Burroak Banner,"
with my name and Mrs. Bassett's among the men's, was such an evidence, that
many women, notably opposed to the cause, said:
"We didn't want the right, but since we have it, we shall make use
of it." This was exactly what Mrs.
Whiston had foretold. We estimated
that--taking the County tickets all over the State--we had about one-twentieth
of the Republican, and one-fiftieth of the Democratic, nominations. This was far from being our due, but still it
was a good beginning.
My husband insisted that I
should go very early to the polls. I
could scarcely restrain a tear of emotion as I gave my first ballot into the
hands of the judges. There were not a
dozen persons present, and the act did not produce the sensation which I
expected. One man cried out: "Three cheers for our
Assemblywoman!" and they gave them; and I thereupon returned home in the
best spirits. I devoted the rest of the
day to relieving poorer women, who could not have spared the time to vote, if I
had not, meanwhile, looked after their children. The last was Nancy Black, the shoemaker's
wife in our street, who kept me waiting upon her till it was quite dark. When she finally came, the skirt of her dress
was ripped nearly off, her hair was down and her comb broken; but she was
triumphant, for Sam Black was with her, and SOBER." The first time since we were married, Mrs. Strongitharm!"
she cried. Then she whispered to me, as
I was leaving: "And I've killed HIS
vote, anyhow!"
When the count was made, our
party was far ahead. Up to this time, I
think, the men of both parties had believed that only a few women, here and
there, would avail themselves of their new right--but they were roundly
mistaken. Although only ten per cent. of
the female voters went to the polls, yet three-fourths of them voted the
Republican ticket, which increased the majority of that party, in the State, about
eleven thousand.
It was amazing what an
effect followed this result. The whole
country would have rung with it, had we not been in the midst of war. Mr. Wrangle declared that he had always been
an earnest advocate of the women's cause.
Governor Battle, in his next message, congratulated the State on the
signal success of the experiment, and the Democratic masses, smarting under
their defeat, cursed their leaders for not having been sharp enough to
conciliate the new element. The leaders
themselves said nothing, and in a few weeks the rank and file recovered their
cheerfulness. Even Mrs. Whiston, with
all her experience, was a little puzzled by this change of mood. Alas! she was far from guessing the correct explanation.
It was a great comfort to me
that Mrs. Whiston was also elected to the Legislature. My husband had just then established his
manufactory of patent self-scouring knife-blades (now so celebrated), and could
not leave; so I was obliged to go up to Gaston all alone, when the session
commenced. There were but four of us Assemblywomen,
and although the men treated us with great courtesy, I was that nervous that I
seemed to detect either commiseration or satire everywhere. Before I had even taken my seat, I was
addressed by fifteen or twenty different gentlemen, either great capitalists,
or great engineers, or distinguished lawyers, all interested in various schemes
for developing the resources of our State by new railroads, canals or
ferries. I then began to comprehend the
grandeur of the Legislator's office. My
voice could assist in making possible these magnificent improvements, and I
promised it to all. Mr. Filch, President
of the Shinnebaug and Great Western Consolidated Line, was so delighted with my
appreciation of his plan for reducing the freight on grain from Nebraska, that
he must have written extravagant accounts of me to his wife; for she sent me,
at Christmas, one of the loveliest shawls I ever beheld.
I had frequently made short
addresses at our public meetings, and was considered to have my share of
self-possession; but I never could accustom myself to the keen, disturbing,
irritating atmosphere of the Legislature.
Everybody seemed wide-awake and aggressive, instead of pleasantly
receptive; there were so many "points of order," and what not; such
complete disregard, among the members, of each other's feelings; and,
finally--a thing I could never understand, indeed--such inconsistency and lack
of principle in the intercourse of the two parties. How could I feel assured of their sincerity,
when I saw the very men chatting and laughing together, in the lobbies, ten
minutes after they had been facing each other like angry lions in the debate?
Mrs. Whiston, also, had her
trials of the same character. Nothing
ever annoyed her so much as a little blunder she made, the week after the
opening of the session. I have not yet
mentioned that there was already a universal dissatisfaction among the women,
on account of their being liable to military service. The war seemed to have hardly begun, as yet,
and conscription was already talked about; the women, therefore, clamored for
an exemption on account of sex. Although
we all felt that this was a retrograde movement, the pressure was so great that
we yielded. Mrs. Whiston, reluctant at
first, no sooner made up her mind that the thing must be done, than she
furthered it with all her might. After
several attempts to introduce a bill, which were always cut off by some
"point of order," she unhappily lost her usual patience.
I don't know that I can
exactly explain how it happened, for what the men call "parliamentary
tactics" always made me fidgetty.
But the "previous question" turned up (as it always seemed to
me to do, at the wrong time), and cut her off before she had spoken ten words.
"Mr. Speaker!" she
protested; "there is no question, previous to this, which needs the
consideration of the house! This is
first in importance, and demands your immediate--"
"Order! order!"
came from all parts of the house.
"I am in order--the
right is always in order!" she exclaimed, getting more and more
excited. "We women are not going to
be contented with the mere show of our rights on this floor; we demand the
substance--"
And so she was going on,
when there arose the most fearful tumult.
The upshot of it was, that the speaker ordered the sergeant-at-arms to
remove Mrs. Whiston; one of the members, more considerate, walked across the
floor to her, and tried to explain in what manner she was violating the rules;
and in another minute she sat down, so white, rigid and silent that it made me
shake in my shoes to look at her.
"I have made a great
blunder," she said to me, that evening; "and it may set us back a
little; but I shall recover my ground."
Which she did, I assure you. She
cultivated the acquaintance of the leaders of both parties, studied their
tactics, and quietly waited for a good opportunity to bring in her bill. At first, we thought it would pass; but one
of the male members presently came out with a speech, which dashed our hopes to
nothing. He simply took the ground that
there must be absolute equality in citizenship; that every privilege was
balanced by a duty, every trust accompanied with its responsibility. He had no objection to women possessing equal
rights with men--but to give them all civil rights and exempt them from the
most important obligation of service, would be, he said, to create a privileged
class--a female aristocracy. It was
contrary to the spirit of our institutions.
The women had complained of taxation without representation; did they
now claim the latter without the former?
The people never look more
than half-way into a subject, and so this speech was immensely popular. I will not give Mrs. Whiston's admirable
reply; for Mr. Spelter informs me that you will not accept an article, if it should
make more than seventy or eighty printed pages.
It is enough that our bill was "killed," as the men say (a
brutal word); and the women of the State laid the blame of the failure upon us. You may imagine that we suffered under this
injustice; but worse was to come.
As I said before, a great
many things came up in the Legislature which I did not understand--and, to be
candid, did not care to understand. But
I was obliged to vote, nevertheless, and in this extremity I depended pretty
much on Mrs. Whiston's counsel. We could
not well go to the private nightly confabs of the members--indeed, they did not
invite us; and when it came to the issue of State bonds, bank charters, and
such like, I felt as if I were blundering along in the dark.
One day, I received, to my
immense astonishment, a hundred and more letters, all from the northern part of
our county. I opened them, one after the
other, and--well, it is beyond my power to tell you what varieties of
indignation and abuse fell upon me. It
seems that I had voted against the bill to charter the Mendip Extension
Railroad Co. I had been obliged to vote
for or against so many things, that it was impossible to recollect them
all. However, I procured the printed
journal, and, sure enough! there, among the nays, was
"Strongitharm." It was not a
week after that--and I was still suffering in mind and body--when the
newspapers in the interest of the Rancocus and Great Western Consolidated
accused me (not by name, but the same thing--you know how they do it) of being
guilty of taking bribes. Mr. Filch, of
the Shinnebaug Consolidated had explained to me so beautifully the superior
advantages of his line, that the Directors of the other company took their
revenge in this vile, abominable way.
That was only the beginning
of my trouble. What with these slanders
and longing for the quiet of our dear old home at Burroak, I was almost sick;
yet the Legislature sat on, and sat on, until I was nearly desperate. Then one morning came a despatch from my
husband: "Melissa is drafted--come
home!" How I made the journey I
can't tell; I was in an agony of apprehension, and when Mr. Strongitharm and
Melissa both met me at the Burroak Station, well and smiling, I fell into a
hysterical fit of laughing and crying, for the first time in my life.
Billy Brandon, who was
engaged to Melissa, came forward and took her place like a man; he fought none
the worse, let me tell you, because he represented a woman, and (I may as well
say it now) he came home a Captain, without a left arm--but Melissa seems to
have three arms for his sake.
You have no idea what a
confusion and lamentation there was all over the State. A good many women were drafted, and those who
could neither get substitutes for love nor money, were marched to Gaston, where
the recruiting Colonel was considerate enough to give them a separate
camp. In a week, however, the word came
from Washington that the Army Regulations of the United States did not admit of
their being received; and they came home blessing Mr. Stanton. This was the end of drafting women in our
State.
Nevertheless, the excitement
created by the draft did not subside at once.
It was seized upon by the Democratic leaders, as part of a plan already
concocted, which they then proceeded to set in operation. It succeeded only too well, and I don't know
when we shall ever see the end of it.
We had more friends among
the Republicans at the start, because all the original Abolitionists in the
State came into that party in 1860. Our
success had been so rapid and unforeseen that the Democrats continued their
opposition even after female suffrage was an accomplished fact; but the leaders
were shrewd enough to see that another such election as the last would ruin
their party in the State. So their
trains were quietly laid, and the match was not applied until all Atlantic was
ringing with the protestations of the unwilling conscripts and the laments of
their families. Then came, like three
claps of thunder in one, sympathy for the women, acquiescence in their rights,
and invitations to them, everywhere, to take part in the Democratic caucuses
and conventions. Most of the prominent
women of the State were deluded for a time by this manifestation, and acted
with the party for the sake of the sex.
I had no idea, however, what
the practical result of this movement would be, until, a few weeks before
election, I was calling upon Mrs. Buckwalter, and happened to express my belief
that we Republicans were going to carry the State again, by a large majority.
"I am very glad of
it," said she, with an expression of great relief, "because then my
vote will not be needed."
"Why!" I
exclaimed; "you won't decline to vote, surely?"
"Worse than that,"
she answered, "I am afraid I shall have to vote with the other side."
Now as I knew her to be a
good Republican, I could scarcely believe my ears. She blushed, I must admit, when she saw my
astonished face.
"I'm so used to
Bridget, you know," she continued, "and good girls are so very hard
to find, nowadays. She has as good as
said that she won't stay a day later than election, if I don't vote for HER
candidate; and what am I to do?"
"Do without!" I
said shortly, getting up in my indignation.
"Yes, that's very well
for you, with your wonderful PHYSIQUE," said Mrs. Buckwalter, quietly,
"but think of me with my neuralgia, and the pain in my back! It would be a dreadful blow, if I should lose
Bridget."
Well--what with torch-light
processions, and meetings on both sides, Burroak was in such a state of
excitement when election came, that most of the ladies of my acquaintance were
almost afraid to go to the polls. I
tried to get them out during the first hours after sunrise, when I went myself,
but in vain. Even that early, I heard
things that made me shudder. Those who
came later, went home resolved to give up their rights rather than undergo a
second experience of rowdyism. But it
was a jubilee for the servant girls.
Mrs. Buckwalter didn't gain much by her apostasy, for Bridget came home
singing "The Wearing of the Green," and let fall a whole tray full of
the best china before she could be got to bed.
Burroak, which, the year
before, had a Republican majority of three hundred, now went for the Democrats
by more than five hundred. The same
party carried the State, electing their Governor by near twenty thousand. The Republicans would now have gladly
repealed the bill giving us equal rights, but they were in a minority, and the
Democrats refused to co-operate. Mrs.
Whiston, who still remained loyal to our side, collected information from all
parts of the State, from which it appeared that four-fifths of all the female
citizens had voted the Democratic ticket.
In New Lisbon, our great manufacturing city, with its population of
nearly one hundred thousand, the party gained three thousand votes, while the
accessions to the Republican ranks were only about four hundred.
Mrs. Whiston barely escaped
being defeated; her majority was reduced from seven hundred to
forty-three. Eleven Democratic
Assemblywomen and four Senatoresses were chosen, however, so that she had the
consolation of knowing that her sex had gained, although her party had
lost. She was still in good
spirits: "It will all right itself
in time," she said.
You will readily guess,
after what I have related, that I was not only not re-elected to the
Legislature, but that I was not even a candidate. I could have born the outrageous attacks of
the opposite party; but the treatment I had received from my own
"constituents" (I shall always hate the word) gave me a new
revelation of the actual character of political life. I have not mentioned half the worries and
annoyances to which I was subjected--the endless, endless letters and
applications for office, or for my influence in some way--the abuse and threats
when I could not possibly do what was desired--the exhibitions of selfishness
and disregard of all great and noble principles--and finally, the shameless
advances which were made by what men call "the lobby," to secure my
vote for this, that, and the other thing.
Why, it fairly made my hair
stand on end to hear the stories which the pleasant men, whom I thought so
grandly interested in schemes for "the material development of the
country," told about each other. Mrs.
Filch's shawl began to burn my shoulders before I had worn it a half a dozen
times. (I have since given it to
Melissa, as a wedding-present).
Before the next session was
half over, I was doubly glad of being safe at home. Mrs. Whiston supposed that the increased
female representation would give her more support, and indeed it seemed so, at
first. But after her speech on the
Bounty bill, only two of the fifteen Democratic women would even speak to her,
and all hope of concord of action in the interests of women was at an end. We read the debates, and my blood fairly
boiled when I found what taunts and sneers, and epithets she was forced to
endure. I wondered how she could sit
still under them.
To make her position worse,
the adjoining seat was occupied by an Irishwoman, who had been elected by the
votes of the laborers on the new Albemarle Extension, in the neighborhood of
which she kept a grocery store. Nelly
Kirkpatrick was a great, red-haired giant of a woman, very illiterate, but with
some native wit, and good-hearted enough, I am told, when she was in her right
mind. She always followed the lead of
Mr. Gorham (whose name, you see, came before hers in the call), and a look from
him was generally sufficient to quiet her when she was inclined to be noisy.
When the resolutions
declaring the war a failure were introduced, the party excitement ran higher
than ever. The "lunch-room"
(as they called it--I never went there but once, the title having deceived me)
in the basement-story of the State House was crowded during the discussion, and
every time Nelly Kirkpatrick came up, her face was a shade deeper red. Mr. Gorham's nods and winks were of no
avail--speak she would, and speak she did, not so very incoherently, after all,
but very abusively. To be sure, you
would never have guessed it, if you had read the quiet and dignified report in
the papers on her side, the next day.
THEN Mrs. Whiston's patience
broke down. "Mr. Speaker," she
exclaimed, starting to her feet, "I protest against this House being
compelled to listen to such a tirade as has just been delivered. Are we to be disgraced before the
world--"
"Oh, hoo! Disgraced, is it?" yelled Nelly
Kirkpatrick, violently interrupting her, "and me as dacent a woman as ever
she was, or ever will be! Disgraced,
hey? Oh, I'll larn her what it is to
blaggard her betters!"
And before anybody could
imagine what was coming, she pounced upon Mrs. Whiston, with one jerk ripped
off her skirt (it was silk, not serge, this time), seized her by the hair, and
gave her head such a twist backwards, that the chignon not only came off in her
hands, but as her victim opened her mouth too widely in the struggle, the
springs of her false teeth were sprung the wrong way, and the entire set flew
out and rattled upon the floor.
Of course there were cries
of "Order! Order!" and the
nearest members--Mr. Gorham among the first--rushed in; but the mischief was
done. Mrs. Whiston had always urged upon
our minds the necessity of not only being dressed according to the popular fashion,
but also as elegantly and becomingly as possible. "If we adopt the Bloomers," she
said, "we shall never get our rights, while the world stands. Where it is necessary to influence men, we
must be wholly and truly WOMEN, not semi-sexed nondescripts; we must employ
every charm Nature gives us and Fashion adds, not hide them under a forked
extinguisher!" I give her very
words to show you her way of looking at things.
Well, now imagine this elegant woman, looking not a day over forty,
though she was--but no, I have no right to tell it,--imagine her, I say, with
only her scanty natural hair hanging over her ears, her mouth dreadfully fallen
in, her skirt torn off, all in open day, before the eyes of a hundred and fifty
members (and I am told they laughed immensely, in spite of the scandal that it
was), and, if you are human beings, you will feel that she must have been
wounded to the very heart.
There was a motion made to
expel Nelly Kirkpatrick, and perhaps it might have succeeded--but the railroad
hands, all over the State, made a heroine of her, and her party was afraid of
losing five or six thousand votes; so only a mild censure was pronounced. But there was no end to the caricatures, and
songs, and all sorts of ribaldry, about the occurrence; and even our party said
that, although Mrs. Whiston was really and truly a martyr, yet the circumstance
was an immense damage to THEM. When she
heard THAT, I believe it killed her. She
resigned her seat, went home, never appeared again in public, and died within a
year. "My dear friend," she
wrote to me, not a month before her death, "I have been trying all my life
to get a thorough knowledge of the masculine nature, but my woman's plummet
will not reach to the bottom of that chaotic pit of selfishness and principle,
expedience and firmness for the right, brutality and tenderness, gullibility
and devilish shrewdness, which I have tried to sound. Only one thing is clear--we women cannot do
without what we have sometimes, alas! sneered at as THE CHIVELRY OF THE SEX. The question of our rights is as clear to me
as ever; but we must find a plan to get them without being forced to share, or
even to SEE, all that men do in their political lives. We have only beheld some Principle riding
aloft, not the mud through which her chariot wheels are dragged. The ways must be swept before we can walk in
them--but how and by whom shall this be done?"
For my part, _I_ can't say,
and I wish somebody would tell me.
Well--after seeing our
State, which we used to be proud of, delivered over for two years to the
control of a party whose policy was so repugnant to all our feelings of
loyalty, we endeavored to procure, at least a qualification of intelligence for
voters. Of course, we didn't get it: the
exclusion from suffrage of all who were unable to read and write might have
turned the scales again, and given us the State. After our boys came back from the war, we
might have succeeded--but their votes were over-balanced by those of the
servant-girls, every one of whom turned out, making a whole holiday of the
election.
I thought, last fall, that
my Maria, who is German, would have voted with us. I stayed at home and did the work myself, on
purpose that she might hear the oration of Carl Schurz; but old Hammer, who
keeps the lager-beer saloon in the upper end of Burroak, gave a supper and a
dance to all the German girls and their beaux, after the meeting, and so
managed to secure nine out of ten of their votes for Seymour. Maria proposed going away a week before
election, up into Decatur County, where, she said, some relations, just arrived
from Bavaria, had settled. I was obliged
to let her go, or lose her altogether, but I was comforted by the thought that
if her vote were lost for Grant, at least it could not be given to Seymour. After the election was over, and Decatur
County, which we had always managed to carry hitherto, went against us, the
whole matter was explained. About five
hundred girls, we were informed, had been COLONIZED in private families, as
extra help, for a fortnight, and of course Maria was one of them. (I have looked at the addresses of her
letters, ever since, and not one has she sent to Decatur). A committee has been appointed, and a report
made on the election frauds in our State, and we shall see, I suppose, whether
any help comes of it.
Now, you mustn't think, from
all this, that I am an apostate from the principle of Women's Rights. No, indeed!
All the trouble we have had, as I think will be evident to the millions
who read my words, comes from THE MEN.
They have not only made politics their monopoly, but they have fashioned
it into a tremendous, elaborate system, in which there is precious little of
either principle or honesty. We can and
we MUST "run the machine" (to use another of their vulgar
expressions) with them, until we get a chance to knock off the useless wheels
and thingumbobs, and scour the whole concern, inside and out. Perhaps the men themselves would like to do
this, if they only knew how: men have so little talent for cleaning-up. But when it comes to making a litter, they're
at home, let me tell you!
Meanwhile, in our State,
things are about as bad as they can be.
The women are drawn for juries, the same as ever, but (except in
Whittletown, where they have a separate room,) no respectable woman goes, and
the fines come heavy on some of us. The
demoralization among our help is so bad, that we are going to try Co-operative
Housekeeping. If that don't succeed, I
shall get brother Samuel, who lives in California, to send me two Chinamen, one
for cook and chamber-boy, and one as nurse for Melissa. I console myself with thinking that the end
of it all must be good, since the principle is right: but, dear me! I had no idea that I should be called upon to
go through such tribulation.
Now the reason I write--and
I suppose I must hurry to the end, or you will be out of all patience--is to
beg, and insist, and implore my sisters in other States to lose no more time,
but at once to coax, or melt, or threaten the men into accepting their claims. We are now so isolated in our rights that we
are obliged to bear more than our proper share of the burden. When the States around us shall be so far
advanced, there will be a chance for new stateswomen to spring up, and fill
Mrs. Whiston's place, and we shall then, I firmly believe, devise a plan to
cleanse the great Augean stable of politics by turning into it the river of
female honesty and intelligence and morality.
But they must do this, somehow or other, without letting the river be
tainted by the heaps of pestilent offal it must sweep away. As Lord Bacon says (in that play falsely
attributed to Shakespeare)--"Ay, there's the rub!"
If you were to ask me, NOW,
what effect the right of suffrage, office, and all the duties of men has had
upon the morals of the women of our State, I should be puzzled what to
say. It is something like this--if you
put a chemical purifying agent into a bucket of muddy water, the water gets
clearer, to be sure, but the chemical substance takes up some of the impurity. Perhaps that's rather too strong a
comparison; but if you say that men are worse than women, as most people do,
then of course we improve them by closer political intercourse, and lose a
little ourselves in the process. I leave
you to decide the relative loss and gain.
To tell you the truth, this is a feature of the question which I would
rather not discuss; and I see, by the reports of the recent Conventions, that
all the champions of our sex feel the same way.
Well, since I must come to
an end somewhere, let it be here. To
quote Lord Bacon again, take my "round, unvarnished tale," and
perhaps the world will yet acknowledge that some good has been done by Yours
truly, JANE STRONGITHARM.
THE END